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Minnesota, and Michigan. I read about it on the Internet," Frannie said, her voice filled with disapproval. "I'm willing to put up with a little inconvenience—cleaning off the sidewalks—if it'll save just one of those beautiful birds."
       Tricia was not fond of the job, but when she thought about it, she felt the same way.
       "Is the Chamber actually considering killing the geese?"
       "It's an option."
       "Who told you this?"
       "Bob. Bob Kelly."
       The phone rang. "Break time over," Frannie said, and stepped across the room to the reception desk. She picked up the receiver. "Stoneham Chamber of Commerce, Frannie speaking. How may I help you?"
       Tricia gave a brief wave before she closed the door behind her. Sure enough, she was going to have to step carefully in the wake of the geese.
       The early April sunshine held no warmth, and Tricia pulled up her collar against the wind. Since she was supposed to have lunch with Deborah today, she could ask her about Kimberly Peters. In the meantime, Angelica would be hopping mad if she didn't show up with flour, walnuts, and chocolate and peanut butter chips within the next half hour.
       Reluctantly, Tricia headed for the municipal parking lot and her car. Preoccupied with the search for her keys in her purse, she didn't spot the WRBS van parked at the edge of the lot until it was too late. A brunette in a camel hair coat and calf-high black boots, clutching a microphone, made a beeline for Tricia.
       Panicked, Tricia dropped her keys, fumbled to pick them up, and stood, finding herself looking into the lens of a video camera.
       "Tricia Miles?" asked the brunette. "Portia McAlister, WRBS News. I understand you found the body of bestselling author Zoë Carter in your store's washroom last night."
       "Uh . . . uh . . ." Mesmerized by the camera, Tricia couldn't think.
       "She was strangled with your bungee cord."
    "I'm—I'm not sure."
    "About what?" Portia pressed.
       "If it actually was my bungee cord." She turned, pressed the button on her key ring and the car's doors unlocked. "I really have to go." Good sense—and Sheriff Adams's order not to talk to the press—clicked in. "I've got no more comments."
       "She was found on the toilet. What was the state of the body? Was she fully clothed? Had she been sexually assaulted?"
       Appalled by the question, Tricia slid into the car, slammed the door, buckled up, and started the engine. The cameraman swung around to block her exit.
       Tricia pressed a control, and her window opened by two or three inches. "Please," she implored, "I have to be somewhere."
       The microphone plunged toward her again. "Where are you going? Will you be talking to a lawyer?"
       A lawyer? She hadn't done anything that warranted talking to a lawyer!
       Tricia jammed the gearshift into drive, letting the car move forward a few inches. The cameraman didn't budge. She honked the horn furiously, edged forward a few more inches. What if he didn't move? If she hit him, then she'd have reason to speak to a lawyer.
       "This is harassment. If you don't leave me alone, I'll call the sheriff!"
       "Back off, Mark," the reporter said, and the cameraman immediately obliged, lowering his camera. "We'll speak again, Ms. Miles," Portia said as Tricia pulled away.
       It sounded like a threat.

f o u r

    The ten-minute drive to Milford helped calm Tricia's frayed nerves, and she steered directly for the biggest grocery store in town—the better to find bitter chocolate, she figured. Angelica's list of ingredients was long and varied, and Tricia had doubts she'd find everything her sister wanted.
       Once inside the store, Tricia pushed her shopping cart down the various aisles until she found the baking section. She paused, scanning the bags of flour, and frowned. She didn't bake, hadn't even attempted it since she was a Girl Scout too many years ago. Should she buy all-purpose