A Perilous Plot

ONE

"I hate this place."

Tricia Miles glanced at her older-by-five-years sister, Angelica, who sat beside her in the Baker Funeral Home's comfortable family room. Luckily, Mr. Baker-the home's owner and head mortician-had left them, taking with him the urn containing the earthly remains of their father, John.

The sisters decided to commemorate the anniversary of their father's birth by celebrating his life with mourning jewelry. It wasn't Tricia's idea, but she didn't find it morbid. Well, at least, not too morbid. Angelica had chosen a hummingbird charm, while Tricia had selected a dragonfly-both creatures that flew free.

Six months had passed quicker than Tricia could have imagined. Back in October-and out of the blue-their mother had shown up with the urn. They still weren't clear what malady had taken their father's life. Sheila Miles had been pretty vague about the details. And then she'd checked out of Stoneham's Brookview Inn early the next morning, leaving the quaint New Hampshire village without a word.

Tricia's relationship with her mother had always been rocky. Three years before, it seemed that Sheila had a change of heart. She even spoke about the four of them attending family therapy, but that never happened. Months went by. Angelica tried to keep in touch, but Sheila and John went back to traveling to their various homes-and in different countries-and their usual communications blackouts. Also, as in the past, they resumed their previous roles. Sheila wearing the pants, John being browbeaten, Angelica the favored child, and Tricia persona non grata.

She was used to that.

Upon Sheila's disappearance, Angelica hadn't had any luck tracking her down, either. With all the business deals and projects she juggled, it wasn't at the top of her list of things to do. Dealing with their parents was just one task too many.

Finding their mother wasn't on any of Tricia's lists. For most of Tricia's life, she and her mother had been at odds-not Tricia's fault. Tricia's twin brother was a SIDS baby. Sheila had never forgiven Tricia for the sin of surviving infancy when Patrick hadn't. Three years before, they'd come to a sort of understanding, but it hadn't lasted long. They hadn't spoken in over a year before Sheila's abrupt arrival and equally fast departure. They'd barely spoken the evening Sheila dropped in on one of the weekly dinners with Tricia's chosen family. Those people included Angelica's son, Antonio Barbero; his wife (and Tricia's former employee), Ginny; and their two children, Sofia and baby Will; as well as Tricia's current employee, Mr. Everett, an older gentleman; and his wife, Grace. Last but not least, Tricia's current beau, David Price. She'd introduced the young man-twenty years younger than Tricia-as her friend. David could have taken offense at the apparent slight, but she'd previously filled him in on the complicated relationship she and Sheila shared. No doubt he wasn't keen to be a victim of Sheila's acid tongue. David was about to graduate with a master's degree in library science and currently worked at the Stoneham Library as its children's librarian, a job he loved. He also had a love for antiques and fine china, and he and Angelica had bonded over that.

"How are you going to wear your charm?" Angelica asked.

Tricia shrugged. "I bought a chain, but then I thought I might add it to the bracelet I've had since junior high."

"I bought a silver chain. I'm going to wear it twenty-four/seven."

Good for you, Tricia thought. She intended to add the charm to her bracelet and place it in the back of her jewelry box. She might wear it once or twice a year.

Maybe.

The sound of someone clearing his throat caused the sisters to look up. Mr. Baker stood at the doorway, looking even more somber than usual.

Tricia stood, but Mr. Baker waved to her to retake her seat and entered the room, placing the urn on the coffee table before taking a seat on the couch opposite the sisters.

Angelica gave her sister a side-eye. No other form of communication was necessary to convey what she was thinking: something about the urn wasn't on the up-and-up.

Sheila Miles had always kept her husband on a short leash, and it became apparent why three years before when the sisters learned (through bitter experience) that their beloved father was an experienced con artist. They'd grown up in privilege, but it was their mother's inherited money that paid the bills, not what their father earned. In fact, Tricia never really knew what kind of job her father worked-or if he worked at all.

"Is something wrong?" Tricia asked innocently, dreading the answer.

"Well, yes." Mr. Baker seemed reluctant to explain.

"And?" Angelica queried.

Mr. Baker chewed his lip, apparently choosing his words carefully before speaking.

"Some kind of fraud appears to have been perpetrated."

"Oh, God, now what?" Angelica grumbled.

"It pains me to be the purveyor of unwelcome news, but the urn did not contain human remains," the old gent said solemnly.

"What kind of remains does it hold?" Angelica asked sourly, glaring at the offending piece of porcelain.

"Not remains but . . . kitty litter."

"Kitty litter?" Tricia asked, shocked.

"Uh, yes, of the clay variety."

"I have a cat. I know what kitty litter is," Tricia said. And then she remembered hearing that unscrupulous funeral directors had sometimes passed off cat litter as cremains while leaving the bodies left in their care to decompose in sheds and other inappropriate places.

"We don't know who . . . who did the work," Angelica said in a tone Tricia knew well. Do. Not. Cross.

"Yes, containers usually have some kind of documentation to certify the cremation. Do you have such paperwork?"

"No," Angelica said, her voice almost a growl. "Our mother gave us the urn-telling us our father had passed. She didn't share much more about the circumstances of his passing."

"That's quite unfortunate," Mr. Baker said gravely. "However, that isn't the only anomaly."

Tricia raised an eyebrow. Angelica's expression seemed to convey two messages: Now what?-and-Of course!

"There was something else in the urn," Mr. Baker said.

The sisters waited expectantly as Mr. Baker reached into his suit coat pocket and withdrew a dusty plastic object. As though reluctant to place it in their hands, he set it on the table, beside the urn.

Again, the sisters exchanged glances. It was apparent that Angelica had no intention of touching the item, even though it hadn't been covered with cremains. It was up to Tricia to do so.

And she did.

The item was sealed in several layers of plastic, as well as a layer of Bubble Wrap. Tricia could have extricated it a lot faster if she'd had more than just the nail file she'd retrieved from her purse.

With every second that passed, Angelica seemed to get more and more frustrated. Finally, Tricia extracted the item.

"A watch?" Angelica grumbled.

"Not just any watch," Tricia said. "It's a Rolex."

Angelica shook her head. "It's probably fake-or stolen," she grated.

Mr. Baker raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.

"Well," Tricia said, standing, "I guess we won't be needing your services today, Mr. Baker. What do we owe you?"

"No charge. I'm only sorry I couldn't fulfill your wish to add cremains to the charms." He reached into his other pocket and withdrew a folded envelope, presumably containing the sterling silver trinkets. "Please let me know if I can be of service in the future."

"We'll do that," Angelica said, and stood. "I just hope it won't be too soon."

"As do I," Baker said gravely. Tricia idly wondered if his voice had atrophied from speaking softly for so many years.

The sisters left the home and walked in silence to Angelica's car. Getting in, they sat staring at the empty parking lot for long seconds before Angelica spoke.

"So, do you think Daddy's actually dead? Had he fooled mother into thinking he was dead? Or this time, was it Mother who pulled a scam on us?"

Tricia sighed. "Well, if Daddy did want to fake his own death, he hasn't resurfaced to ask us-you-for money. Yet," she muttered.

"Why do I feel like we have to wait for the other shoe to drop?" Angelica griped.

"It's been this way ever since Mother and Daddy left Rio and came back to the US."

"Maybe they should have stayed in Brazil." Angelica placed her hands on the steering wheel, gripping it tightly. "What do we do next?"

"One of them is bound to surface-eventually. I might take on the task of looking for Mother," Tricia said. "But first, I'll see if I can track down more information-like try to locate a death certificate."

"That could be a rabbit hole you'll never escape from. Our parents have at least four homes scattered around the globe. In what jurisdiction would you look?" Angelica asked.

Tricia shook her head.

"Or . . . we could do what we should have done when Mother disappeared from Stoneham back in the fall," Angelica suggested.

Tricia's heart sank. "Oh, no-please don't suggest we-"

"-call Aunt Bunny?" Angelica finished. "Why not?"

"Because I can't stand the woman. I never could," Tricia asserted.

"She always liked you. She's just a little off-kilter. I'm sure she's outgrown that by now," Angelica said, her tone flippant at best.

Tricia gave her sister the evil eye. "If you invite her here, she's your problem. I refuse to deal with her."

"She's not that bad," Angelica insisted.

"Oh, yes, she is. She causes almost as much trouble as Daddy. I don't understand why Mother ever put up with her."

Of course, Aunt Bunny wasn't their aunt by blood, but Sheila's lifelong friend. Because of her name, Tricia had always thought of the woman as a dumb bunny-and a bit of a flake.

Angelica gripped the wheel once again. "Isn't it strange that, instead of thinking a mistake had been made at a funeral home, we immediately assume something underhanded is going on with our parents?"

"Nope," Tricia said succinctly. She withdrew the heavy, man's watch from her purse. "If I'm not mistaken, each Rolex has a serial number. Call me suspicious, but I'll bet it isn't registered to Daddy."

"He could have bought it used but, as I said, it's more likely a phony," Angelica declared.

Tricia lowered her gaze. "Mother would never stand for Daddy wearing a phony watch. I'll bet it's the real thing, and I intend to find out. Today."

Angelica shrugged. "Go for it. And if it is hot?"

"Then I'll be paying Chief McDonald a visit." And PDQ. "One way or another, there's some kind of fraud going on."

And Tricia was determined to get to the bottom of it.

TWO

•The associate at the Milford Diamond Exchange wanted to be helpful but wasn't all that much. He did at least confirm that the Rolex was the genuine article, was worth at least ten grand, and did Tricia want to sell it?

No, she did not.

She asked about the serial number. Yes, it could be looked up online, but it wasn't a service they offered to customers.

Her next stop was the Stoneham Police Department, where she hoped to speak to Chief McDonald.

As always, Polly Burgess sat behind the receptionist's desk. Dour, white-haired, and what some called fluffy (Tricia wasn't about to label the woman as overweight), but always well-groomed. They'd started out on the wrong foot when Polly came to work for the former chief of police, and it was McDonald's threat of unemployment that had Polly interacting with the public in a more pleasant manner. Polly had, therefore, adopted a saccharine-sweet demeanor that Tricia found increasingly annoying. But they hadn't had to interact for nearly six months, which was probably a welcome relief for both women.

"The chief is in," Polly said brightly. "Let me just call and ask if he has time to see you."

"Thank you," Tricia said, and listened as Polly lifted the phone and announced her presence.

"You can go right in," Polly said, and smiled, but there was a shadow of something in her gaze. Tricia thought she'd observed the same look back in the fall. A sadness . . . or something else. She didn't feel comfortable asking.

Tricia knocked and waited for McDonald to call, "Come in," before she turned the door's handle and entered.

McDonald stood. "What can I do for you today, Tricia? Don't say you've found another body."

Tricia was used to such quips. Since her arrival in Stoneham, New Hampshire-also known as Booktown because of all the used bookstores that had saved the once-failing village-she'd become known as the village jinx due to the excessive number of corpses she stumbled upon.

"It's personal," Tricia said, taking one of the seats before his desk.

Ian's usual expression was perturbed-at least it was whenever Tricia came to see him at his office. That it wasn't going to involve a death seemed to please the chief.

"Well," Tricia amended, "I don't think anyone's dead. In fact, someone I thought was dead might well be alive."

McDonald's brow furrowed. "Go on."

Tricia explained about her mother's sudden appearance with the urn and a sketchy tale of her father's death and then what Baker had found inside the urn. And then she pulled out the watch, handing it to him. "I visited a jewelry shop in Milford, but they wouldn't tell me who the watch originally belonged to."

"You don't think it was your father's?"

Tricia thought about how she'd answer the question. No, because her father was a known con man. Had McDonald's predecessor chronicled the misadventures her father had perpetrated when he'd last visited the village? If not, should she tell him about those illicit deeds?

Tricia decided on the truth. "As much as I love my father, I'm also ashamed that he's been proven to be less than honest in his word and dealings."

McDonald pushed back in his office chair. "That's a rather bold statement."

"Sadly, it's the truth. No one wants to admit that their gene pool has been tainted by crimes-and for the most part, petty ones."

Tricia's cheeks felt hot with embarrassment as McDonald scrutinized her face.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I'll have Polly search our site's archives to find out whatever my predecessor chronicled about your father."

"Please don't," Tricia said. It wasn't a plea, just a request.

"And why's that?" McDonald asked.

Tricia let out a weary sigh. "Polly already hates me. I don't want to give her another reason to do so."

"She doesn't hate you," McDonald said.

Tricia gave him the fish eye, and the chief looked away. "Just what is Polly's problem?" she asked.