“How many does this make?” asked Grant Baker, Stoneham’s chief of police and Tricia’s former boyfriend, staring at the sheet-covered corpse still lying on her living room floor.

Tricia glared at him but made no comment.

Baker turned to one of his officers. “Have you spoken to all the witnesses?”

“No, Chief. There were at least twenty or thirty people at the party.”

“Party?” Baker whirled to face Tricia. “How come I wasn’t invited?”

“Do you think you could have helped a man suffering from anaphylactic shock?”

“Maybe.”

“Angelica was a hero—or rather a heroine,” Ginny said emphatically. “She desperately tried to save him.”

Angelica sat on one of the upholstered chairs clutching a wineglass. She’d had several since her ordeal and Tricia had made up her mind to cut her off if she asked for another refill.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Baker reminded her.

“Why would I invite you?”

“Because I thought we were friends.”

Their friendship, like their failed relationship, had ended several years before. And, besides, Baker now had a lady companion. Was Tricia supposed to have invited her as well?

Again, she made no comment.

“So what likely caused the man’s death?” Baker asked the room at large.

“Obviously an allergic reaction to something he ingested,” Angelica said, sounding weary.

“Who made the food?” Baker asked.

“I did,” Tricia said. “Well, most of it.”

Baker blinked. “You cooked?”

Tricia frowned. “Yes.”

“Since when do you cook?”

“Since none of your business.” She didn’t like his tone; the fact that it irked her made her dislike her reciprocal timbre even more.

Baker looked back to the shrouded body. “So you poisoned the poor guy.”

“I did not.”

“Well, he’s dead.” Baker walked around the body. “What’s your relationship with the deceased?”

“I had none. I never met the man until he walked through my door a couple of hours ago. He was Frannie Armstrong’s date.”

“Where is she?”

“In my bedroom, lying down. His death was a terrible shock.”

“I’ll bet,” Baker grated. “So what killed the guy?”

“I have no idea.”

“A stuffed mushroom,” Angelica volunteered. “It was the last tray of them. I walked around the room offering them to everyone.”

“And nobody else got sick?”

Tricia shook her head.

“What was in them?”

She shrugged. “It’s a pretty standard recipe. I got it out of Angelica’s first cookbook.”

“A national bestseller,” Angelica piped up.

Baker scowled, ignoring her. “Can you let me have it? I’ll give it to the medical examiner and he can test the stomach contents. We’ll try to contact the deceased’s doctor to see what his allergies may have been.”

That seemed reasonable. “Do you want me to scan it right now?”

“We can just rip it from the book.”

“No, you will not!”

Baker started at her tone.

“I consider it sacrilege to desecrate a book in that manner.”

“Then get it to me by morning, will you?”

Tricia nodded and glanced in the direction of the body. “Will my visitor be leaving soon?”

“In good time,” Baker answered, which was no answer at all.

And what about Frannie up in Tricia’s bedroom? Would she be so disconsolate that she’d want to stay the night? Tricia certainly hoped not, but neither could she kick the poor woman out.

“Are there any mushrooms left?” Baker asked Angelica.

She shook her head. “No. The dead guy—sorry, I don’t know his name—took the last one.”

Baker frowned, then shook his head. “Then it sounds pretty open and shut. The guy just had an allergic reaction.”

Did he actually sound disappointed? A man was dead. A person who had lived a life, loved family and friends, and come into Tricia’s home a stranger, would be leaving in a body bag. She felt terrible about that. If only he had mentioned his food allergies, she would have been able to dissuade him from eating the mushrooms. Wasn’t it the obligation of a person with severe—potentially fatal— allergies to do?

Was she trying to talk herself out of the guilt she felt? Maybe. But she did feel terrible that a guest had eaten something fatal while in her home. Meanwhile, the police technicians went to work in the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” Tricia demanded.

“They’re bagging evidence.”

“But they’re going through my cupboards and fridge—they’re taking my staples and my serving dishes!”

“You’ll get them back…eventually. It’s just a precaution in case things aren’t what they seem.”

“What do you mean?” Tricia demanded.

“Just what I said.”