“I meant to empty that right after the mail came,” Pixie said, and made a grab for it.
“I can do it.”
“No, get that cup of coffee. You deserve it,” Pixie encouraged.
Yes, Tricia did. So, while Pixie took the bin to the back of the building and unlocked to the door to the alley, Tricia pulled out one of the ceramic cups reserved for her and her staff and poured the coffee, doctoring it with just a little milk. Pixie had obviously stopped at either the Patisserie or the Coffee Bean and had bought some of Mr. Everett’s favorite thumbprint cookies, and she placed a couple on a paper napkin, then took it and the cup to the reader’s nook. But before she could sit down to enjoy her treat, the back door opened, and Pixie stood there for a long moment.
“Uh, Tricia. Could you come outside for a minute?”
Tricia heaved a sigh. Now what? She wrapped the cookies in the napkin and placed a magazine over the top so as not to tempt Miss Marple, who was sitting in Sphinx fashion, and headed for the back of the shop.
As she neared her friend and employee, she noted that Pixie’s face had paled, which was something of a feat, considering how much makeup she habitually wore. “Is something wrong?”
“Um, maybe. I kind of want your opinion on something.”
Tricia took the lead and exited the store. As soon as her foot hit the first step to the alley, her nose was assaulted with an overpowering odor. “What is that?” she asked.
Pixie didn’t answer and instead said, “Um . . . I was about to toss the trash into the dumpster when I saw . . .”
Maybe it was the jet lag, but Tricia didn’t immediately catch her drift. Had someone tossed a dead rat or a raccoon into the store’s dumpster?
Tricia trundled down the stairs and looked into the grimy metal container. The smell was unpleasant, and she was about to turn away, when she noticed the shoe. But it wasn’t just a scuffed-up penny loafer; it was a scuffed-up penny loafer that enveloped a sock-covered foot.
* * *
* * *
Stoneham’s police chief, Grant Baker, turned his stern gaze on Tricia. “How long did it take after your return home before you found your latest stiff?”
“Hey,” Pixie protested. “Have some respect. That’s a dead lady you’re talking about.”
Baker ignored her and continued to stare at Tricia. Mr. Everett had returned from the bank and stood a discreet distance from the trio, looking quite upset, but Tricia had to attend to Baker before she could reassure her friend and employee.
“For once, it wasn’t me who found a corpse. It was Pixie,” Tricia said, feeling just a little irritated.
Baker turned his attention to Pixie. “And?”
“Well, I was taking out the trash when I smelled that awful smell,” she said rather sheepishly.
“And did you know what it was?”
“Yeah. I’ve smelled that stink before.”
“And what was the occasion?” Baker asked, his tone just a tad threatening.
“When I was an EMT. More than once we were called out to a crime scene only to find a sti—” She stopped herself. “A deceased person.” She shook her head. “That poor lady. Stuffed in a dumpster.”
“How do you know she didn’t just crawl in there and die?” Baker demanded. “And how do you know it’s a woman?”
“It was obviously a woman’s shoe,” Tricia said flatly.
She looked out the back door, where a couple of officers were unwinding a roll of yellow crime scene tape.
“Do you have any idea who the deceased is?”
Tricia shook her head and glanced at Pixie, who seemed to squirm. Baker’s gaze swiveled her way, too.
“Um, maybe.”
Baker raised an eyebrow.
“I kind of recognized the shoe,” she admitted.
“And why was that?” Baker asked.
“Because . . . because it used to be mine.”
“Really?” Tricia asked, surprised.
“I think the dead person might be Susan Morris.”
Baker frowned. Tricia didn’t recognize the name.
“Why was she wearing your shoes?” the chief asked.
“Because I gave ’em to her. Susan and me were kind of acquaintances.”
“What does ‘kind of’ mean?” Baker pressed.
“I would see her at the laundromat in Milford sometimes—this was before me and Fred got our house here in the village—and we talked.”
“What else do you know about her?” Baker asked, and Tricia found herself leaning in to listen.
“She lived in her car.”
“She what?” Tricia asked, taken aback.
“It was no big deal—at least, not to Susan.”
“Why would she have to live in her car?” Tricia asked.
“Because she couldn’t afford an apartment. But she did okay. She paid her car insurance, had a PO box for her mail, and stowed everything she needed in her car.”
Tricia thought of all the stuff she owned—or, rather, how much it owned her—and couldn’t imagine a life without a clean bed, food in the fridge, and a real roof over her head. “How could she survive living like that?”
Pixie shrugged, as though the question didn’t have much merit. “It’s just what you do when you’re broke. I lived in my car for six months between stints in the big house,” she admitted.
Tricia cringed inwardly. Pixie had a criminal record longer than both of her arms. Did she really need to remind Baker of that when she’d just found a dead body? Her crimes were not violent in nature. The former lady of the night was no doubt going to be in Baker’s sights as the prime suspect in the death. That’s just the way cops roll. Tricia looked in Baker’s direction. He didn’t seem surprised by Pixie’s revelation.
“Did you know this woman lived in her car?” Tricia asked Baker.
“Yeah, but we tried to keep her out of the village once the sun set. It sets a bad example. We don’t want others taking up residence just anywhere. I’d even asked the board of selectmen to enact a policy, but it hasn’t come up for a vote yet.”
“Did you do anything to help her? Perhaps suggest she try to get help from Social Services?”
“That’s not my job.”
“Well, maybe it ought to be. Then perhaps a homeless person wouldn’t have ended up dead behind my store.” Tricia turned back to Pixie. “Tell me, how did this poor woman stay . . . fresh?”
“She had a membership at the gym in Milford. You can do most of your business there. Of course, she also had a bucket in her car for—”
Baker cleared his throat. “When was the last time you saw the deceased?”
“Obviously less than an hour ago.”
“I mean alive,” Baker said flatly.
“See or talk to?” Pixie asked.
“Both.”
Pixie looked thoughtful. “Lately I’ve seen her walking around the village during the day. She’d wave to me from the sidewalk and I’d wave back. Talk to? Maybe a month or so ago.”
“And exactly where was that?”
Pixie’s eyes narrowed, and when she spoke next, her voice was flat. “The grocery store in Milford. It was in the produce section. In front of the heads of lettuce.”
“Pixie . . .” Tricia warned.
Pixie blinked innocently—that is, until she caught sight of Baker’s annoyed expression and lowered her gaze.
“I wonder if Ms. Morris’s death might have anything to do with the attempted break-in of my store over the weekend,” Tricia speculated aloud.
Baker turned his ire on her. “No.”
“How can you say that?”
“Just because you read a lot of mysteries—”
“And police procedurals,” Tricia broke in.
“—doesn’t mean you know what you�
�re talking about when it comes to real crime.”
Tricia folded her arms across her chest. When it came to solving crimes, so far her record was unblemished. Still, she refrained from pointing that out. Since she’d ended her relationship with the chief several years before, the two of them hadn’t exactly been friends. Oh, he could be friendly—if he thought she had information he might need—but those times seemed to be coming with less frequency.
“How long do you think it will be before the medical examiner comes to remove the body?” Tricia asked.
“It depends on how busy she is and what other cases her office is handling.”
Tricia sighed. Bad as she felt for poor Susan Morris, the idea of her body further decaying from the heat of the day in the grimy old dumpster was going to be unpleasant for everyone, including the poor officers who were assigned to the scene—although, looking out the back door, she noted that two of them now wore masks. They’d come prepared and had no doubt dabbed a little Vicks VapoRub on them to help cover the odor.
“Since the crime scene isn’t technically in my store, can we continue doing business?”
“That’s rather cold of you, isn’t it, Tricia?” Baker asked, his eyes narrowing.
Tricia sighed. “I didn’t know the woman. I’ve been away for two weeks and I’m jet-lagged. I haven’t had a decent meal in over twenty hours. I’d like nothing more than to—” Tricia’s ringtone sounded. She retrieved her phone from her slacks pocket and checked the number. Angelica. She ignored it. “You haven’t answered my question, Chief.”
Baker frowned. “I suppose so. But keep this back door shut and locked. I don’t want any gawkers interfering with our investigation—and that includes the two of you,” he said none too kindly.
Tricia’s phone pinged. A text message from Angelica.
What’s going on behind your store?
Tricia ignored it. “Thank you.” She gestured toward the back exit, and the chief left the building. Tricia closed and locked the door, noting that there were several flies making circuits around the store. Mr. Everett was at the ready with a fly swatter and began to chase after them, with Miss Marple joining in the game and following him around the shop.
“I guess it’s a good thing business has been slow today,” Pixie said at last.
Tricia nodded.
Pixie sighed. “Poor Susan. She could never seem to catch a break.”
“Did she have any family?”
Pixie nodded. “A daughter.”
“And she let her mother live in her car?” Tricia asked, aghast.
Pixie shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t know. And not everybody cares about their family like you and Angelica do—especially letting people like me and Mr. E into your lives.”
That was true. Tricia’s own mother was a prime example.
“Speaking of Angelica, I’ve ignored a call and a text. I’d better get back to her before she comes charging ov—” But Tricia didn’t get to finish the sentence, because her sister actually did charge through the door. Perhaps charge wasn’t the word: hobbled was more accurate because of the crutches that supported her.
“Tricia! Why are you ignoring me?” she called, distraught.
“No ‘Hello, welcome home’?” Then the sight of the crutches sank in and she saw Angelica’s right foot encased in a bulky boot. “What happened to your foot?”
But Angelica didn’t answer and tottered over to stand in front of her sister, dumped one of her crutches, threw her free arm around Tricia, and pulled her into an awkward hug. “Welcome home.” She pulled back. “Now, what’s going on? June texted me and said there were police cruisers behind your door, as well as crime tape. Don’t tell me you’ve found yet another body?”
“I didn’t.”
Pixie waved a hand, looking sheepish. “Um, this time it was me.”
TWO
The Brookview Inn’s private dining room’s elegant décor and the soft but cheerful classical music issuing from cunningly concealed speakers worked its magic, and for the first time in what seemed like days, Tricia actually felt herself relax . . . just a little. She brushed past the brocade-upholstered wingback chair to gaze out the room’s window, which overlooked the inn’s grassy frontage. Already a few leaves had fallen. It would be winter before she knew it.
Tricia had planned to retreat to her apartment, eat something simple, and maybe take a nap, but Chief Baker insisted that she stick around her shop until Susan Morris’s body had been removed from the premises. By then it was nearly three o’clock, and she was dismayed to find that the county’s tech team had emptied everything from the big, rusty dumpster. They’d been dressed in protective hooded bunny-suit coveralls and respirators—enough gear to protect them from the plague. Tricia only hoped that by the time she came back to her store they would have returned everything they deemed actual garbage back inside the dumpster for the trash men to pick up the next day.
Angelica had stuck around, too, taking up residence in the reader’s nook, but the sisters hadn’t had much time to catch up on things. Once she was cleared to leave, Tricia retrieved her car and drove the two of them to the Brookview for an early supper.
The Brookview’s kitchen was officially closed until the dinner hour, but no one said no to Angelica. The fact that she owned the place, albeit not all that widely known, had a lot to do with it. Her son, Antonio Barbero, who managed the inn, had personally led his mother and Tricia to the private dining room and promised that their standard order of martinis would be delivered momentarily. Of course, not many people knew about their relationship, either—and that was just the way Angelica wanted it.
Tricia stood by the opened window that overlooked the inn’s neat front garden. It still looked pretty, even though the official first day of fall was only days away. A movement to her right caused her to turn. Angelica sat on one of the upholstered wingback chairs with her right leg elevated on a small stool that didn’t match the décor, probably something Antonio had found and had left in the room to accommodate his mother. Tricia noticed her sister’s worried gaze upon her.
“I met her, you know.”
Tricia blinked. “What?”
“Susan Morris. I met her at the day spa when we were hiring.” She meant her latest business venture—this under her own name and not the Nigela Ricita Associates umbrella, which Antonio helped manage.
“What job was she interested in?”
“Anything she could get. She had no cosmetology experience, but she knew we’d have laundry and need cleaning services, but Randy had already contracted for those jobs. In retrospect, I guess maybe she was looking for a free place to shower.” Tricia had already told her about Susan’s living arrangement.
“Maybe,” Tricia said as her gaze fell to her shoes—shoes she’d put on at the hotel in Dublin what seemed like way too many hours before.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Angelica said.
“I feel like . . . like I should be more upset about that poor woman’s death. She probably died right outside my shop, and I asked Grant if we could continue doing business for the day. He told me I was cold.”
“You look tired. Really tired. And why not? How long has it been since you’ve slept?”
“A day . . . probably longer. I don’t think I could even calculate it.”
“Once you’ve had something to eat, I’ll take you home and tuck you in. Well, I would if I could. Up and down the stairs once a day is about all I can manage right now. In fact, I’m not supposed to do stairs if I can help it.”
“What with everything going on at the shop, you haven’t told me what happened to your foot.”
Angelica lowered her head and her voice. “Bunion surgery.”
“Surgery?” Tricia repeated, just a little shrilly. It all made sense. Angelica had been caught wearing sneakers more than once during the summer, and she’d begun to
wear shorter heels. Since the sisters had been reunited some six years before, Angelica usually towered over Tricia because of her footwear.
“Why didn’t you tell me? You know I would have canceled my trip to Ireland to take care of you.”
“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you. I wanted you to have fun and relax.”
“You were hoping I’d have a wonderful time with Marshall and maybe get engaged?” Tricia asked accusingly.
“I don’t know about that. I mean, if you did, who would I spend happy hour with?”
Tricia managed a smile.
“You need to decompress from your trip. And, honestly, Antonio and Ginny have been so helpful. And June has been a dear, too.”
“Did you swear Pixie and Mr. Everett to secrecy, too?”
“Of course. And they’ve been angels. Mr. Everett has been taking Sarge for walks, and Grace came over with a lovely bouquet and a casserole, too. And I’ve got a little knee scooter so I can stand for a while and not put pressure on my foot, so I’m good to go. Antonio even brought over a transport chair from the Brookview, although Sofia has had more fun playing with it than I’ve actually used it.”
“How long are you liable to be laid up?”
“Well, that’s a good question. Anywhere from six weeks to six months.”
“Six months?” Tricia repeated in disbelief.
“The surgical part is six to eight weeks, but the swelling might not go down for four to six months. And before that, I’ll be scheduled for the other foot. And worse—worst of all—I won’t be able to wear heels until probably next summer.”
“If you ask me, heels are what got you into this situation.”
“But my stilettos make me look—and more importantly, feel—beautiful. Now I’ll be ugly and have to wear flats.”
“Hey, I wear flats,” Tricia protested, “and I resent being called ugly!”
“I didn’t say you were ugly. But one can’t show off one’s shapely legs in flats.”
Handbook for Homicide Page 2