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out for her.
    The door to the back alley was closed. Tricia opened it and stepped onto the concrete pad. It was obvious no Dumpster had yet been delivered. Nestled close to the building were two large gray, bulging ninety-five-gallon trash carts. Sticking out of one of them was a pair of jeans-clad legs, with a worn pair of pink Crocs on the feet.

THREE
    Yet another white-and-gold Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Department car pulled up outside Booked for Lunch. A tall, sandy-haired man got out of the driver’s side, then stooped down to grab his flat-brimmed Mounties hat, settled it on his head, and marched purposefully toward the café. Distracted, Tricia watched him as he paused outside the entrance and then spoke to one of the other deputies for several minutes. By the number of bars on his uniform sleeve, he outranked all the other officials on the scene. Finally, the deputy pointed at the café.
    The newcomer nodded his thanks, opened the café’s door, and stepped inside. He bypassed everyone else, making a beeline for Tricia. “I’m Captain Grant Baker, and I’ll be handling this investigation. I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances, Ms. Miles.”
    “Where’s Sheriff Adams?” Tricia asked.
    “Busy, I’m afraid. I hope you won’t mind dealing with me.”
    Tricia found herself drawn to Baker’s green eyes. Her ex-husband, Christopher, had green eyes. That relationship hadn’t worked out, and—
    Tricia shook her head to rid herself of the flood of memories that threatened to engulf her.
    “No. Not at all,” she found herself saying. Any time she didn’t have to deal with Sheriff Wendy Adams was worth celebrating. They’d had run-ins before, and those experiences were not ranked among those Tricia cherished.
    Baker glanced around Booked for Lunch, his gaze settling on Angelica, who perched on the end of one of the booths’ bench seats; a high-heeled shoe discarded on the floor, she was massaging her left foot as she conversed with another deputy. “I understand this isn’t your first encounter with the law here in Stoneham,” Baker said to Tricia.
    She frowned. “Uh, no.”
    He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Are you okay, ma’am? You look a little pale. Would you like to sit down?”
    “No, thank you.” Tricia studied his kind face, and her frown deepened. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
    His eyes narrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
    “Sheriff Adams—”
    “Ah.” He nodded. “The sheriff explained there’d been some conflict between the two of you. That’s why she suggested I handle this investigation.”
    “Maybe I should sit down,” Tricia breathed. She’d never expected Sheriff Adams to cut her any slack. Then again, Baker could be trying to lull her into a false sense of security. He might be playing good cop in contrast to Sheriff Adams’s bad cop routine.
    Captain Baker ushered Tricia to one of the stools at the counter. “I know you’ve already told your story several times to the other deputies, but would you indulge me as well?”
    Polite, too.
    Tricia nodded and sobered. “Pammy Fredericks—”
    “The deceased,” Deputy Placer supplied.
    “—was my friend. Sort of.” Tricia shivered as she glanced over her shoulder to the café’s back door, which had been wedged open, letting in drafts of cold air. Thankfully, the garbage cart was no longer visible. The image of Pammy’s legs sticking out of it . . . Tricia shuddered involuntarily.
    “Can you explain that ‘sort of’ comment?” Baker asked, not unkindly.
    “We were roommates at Dartmouth and sort of kept in touch over the years.”
    “I take it you were no longer friends as of this afternoon.”
    Tricia’s insides squirmed. “Until this morning, Pammy had been my houseguest for the past two weeks.”
    “And what changed that?” Baker asked patiently.
    “I . . . asked her to leave,” she said, her voice growing softer. “I didn’t really throw her out. I