“Start wearing slacks,” Tricia advised. “When do you ditch that boot?”
“If I’m lucky, in a week. But then I will have to wear a brace.”
“Slacks!” Tricia sang.
“I got my stitches out yesterday. Do you want to have a look?”
Tricia stifled a groan. Why was it that surgery patients always seemed to want to show off their scars? “Why not?” she said, and helped Angelica take off the boot and remove the compression anklet. Angelica’s foot was still swollen, but not as badly as Tricia had imagined. The puckered skin from the incision was only about two inches long. Tricia wasn’t grossed out. She’d read about far more graphic, sometimes horrific injuries in some of the books she carried in her own store.
“It looks like it’s healing nicely.”
“I’m supposed to start physical therapy soon. Any chance you could take me? I’d hate to keep imposing on Mr. Everett and everyone else.”
But imposing on Tricia was okay? Then again, what were sisters for?
“I’m sure I can be away from my store for an hour or so.”
“Oh, good. The surgeon ran me through it, and . . . um, I know some people have an aversion when it comes to feet, but I’m not sure I’m going to be able to reach down and do the exercises myself. I looked at a video online, and you need to grasp your foot with both hands.”
“Could you settle your foot on your opposite knee and do it?”
“I guess,” Angelica said, not sounding at all sure.
Tricia sighed. “I suppose I could learn.”
“Oh, you are the best sister in the world.”
Yes, she was.
Angelica guided Tricia through the process of rewrapping her foot and securing the boot, and then Tricia took out the bottle of hand sanitizer she kept in her purse, rubbing a dollop around her hands and fingers. She could tell from Angelica’s expression that she wanted to talk about something that had nothing to do with bunions or Susan Morris’s death.
“Why don’t you tell me all about your vacation,” Angelica urged.
Tricia wasn’t sure she wanted to discuss that subject but was saved when a knock on the door caused the sisters to look up, and Antonio reentered with a round tray with two martinis. Since the restaurant was between shifts, he’d probably made the drinks himself. He was a pretty good bartender, so she had no worries the martinis would be too weak or too strong.
Antonio set white cocktail napkins embossed with the inn’s name on the table between the chairs, then set down the glasses. “The sous-chef can whip you up just about anything you’d like,” he said, his slight Italian accent acting as a soothing balm.
“What would you like?” Angelica asked Tricia.
Tricia thought about the poor woman in the kitchen, who was trying to get everything ready for the dinner service. She probably didn’t relish the idea of cooking a couple of meals when she needed to put together her mise en place. “I’m really not very hungry. How about some salad greens with a little protein . . . maybe a hard-boiled egg?”
“Are you sure?” Antonio asked.
“And maybe a roll?”
He gave her a reassuring smile before turning to Angelica. “And you, Mama?”
“I’ll have the same, thank you.”
Antonio nodded. “I will be back soon.” He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Tricia reached for her glass, took a sip, and sank back in her chair, kicking off her shoes. “I needed this.”
“I’ll bet,” Angelica said and picked up her glass. She took a sip. “You were just about to tell me all about your trip to Ireland.”
No, she wasn’t, but Tricia supposed her sister wasn’t going to let go of the topic.
“It’s a beautiful country. Very green.”
“I could have learned that from a postcard,” Angelica deadpanned.
“It probably wouldn’t have reached you for another two weeks.”
Angelica waited.
Tricia sat up straighter and took another sip. “The tour was very successful. Everybody seemed to have a wonderful time. There was a lot of singing on the bus. Several couples joined up for dinners and such, and we were all on a first-name basis long before we landed in Boston, with many people vowing to keep in touch.” It wouldn’t happen, but she had appreciated the camaraderie—especially since it felt like she’d been traveling as a single and not with Marshall. And that was the problem. Of course, she’d predicted it would happen. But Marshall so wanted her to be a part of his big, new adventure, and she’d felt the need to escape Stoneham and her rather humdrum life if only for a fortnight. But did she really want to tell Angelica all that?
“Was there time for romance?” Angelica asked, her eyes widening in anticipation.
Tricia’s glare just might have scorched. “No.”
Angelica frowned. “Did you bring back any souvenirs?”
“Just for Sofia.” Sofia was Antonio’s toddler daughter. “Why? Did you want a bottle of Irish whiskey? I can get you one of those at the liquor store if you’d like.”
Angelica sighed. “No. I prefer gin or wine and you know it.” She frowned before going back to her previous topic. “So you and Marshall didn’t make any plans for the future?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know . . . perhaps talk about an upcoming trip.”
“I don’t think we’ll be doing that.”
“Making plans or maybe changing your living arrangements?” she asked hopefully.
“Neither.”
“Are you angry with him?”
“No,” Tricia admitted. “I knew when I agreed to accompany him to Ireland what it would be like. I only hoped I’d be wrong.”
“And you weren’t.”
“It’s difficult being right all the time,” Tricia admitted with a wry smile.
Angelica frowned. “Are you two through?”
“I honestly don’t know. But I wouldn’t mind a little breathing room, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Marshall felt the same way. He’s already got a lot of plans for the future that don’t include being in Stoneham.”
“Do you think he’d sell the Armchair Tourist and move away from here?”
“He likes to travel—a lot more than I do.” Tricia sipped her martini. “Can’t we talk about something else? Like why you didn’t mention to me that someone tried to break into my store while I was gone?”
Angelica eased farther back in the chair. “With everything that’s been going on, I almost forgot about it. I tried to talk to Chief Baker, but you know he won’t give me the time of day. I was able to speak to one of the officers at the station, though, and he said no other businesses along Main Street had reported anything suspicious.”
Tricia frowned. “Then it sounds like Haven’t Got a Clue was singled out.”
“But why?” Angelica asked.
“I have no idea.” Tricia pondered that thought for a while. What could she possibly have that anyone could want? She had some rather nice jewelry, some of it gold, but nothing of any great value. She had a TV and computers in her home and the store’s office, but so did every other business in the village.
“On a more cheerful note,” Angelica began, “the cable company ran the story on you and your store.”
“So Pixie said. Was it any good?”
“Marvelous! You’re so poised in front of a camera. You could’ve been a news anchor.”
Tricia doubted that, but she had done a lot of public speaking during her days as head of a big nonprofit agency in Manhattan. “I’ll have to do an Internet search to find the clip.”
“I would have recorded it for you, but I never knew when it would air.”
Tricia frowned. The cable news channel had a habit of recycling its content on the hour. Angelica had probably just been too b
usy to think about that, and Tricia decided not to bring the fact to her attention. Instead, the sisters sipped their drinks.
“I don’t suppose you want to talk about the dead woman Pixie found in your dumpster,” Angelica suggested.
Tricia did her best not to roll her eyes. “That’s another topic I’m not all that interested in discussing.”
“But you need to in case they find out the worst happened.”
“You mean that she was murdered?”
Angelica nodded.
“That hasn’t been established. As Susan Morris was a woman of limited means, she might have just been dumpster diving, looking for something to eat or salvage, and got stuck in the trash, unable to extricate herself.” At least, that’s what Tricia hoped had happened.
“And if she was murdered?” Angelica asked.
Tricia drained her glass. That conclusion hadn’t escaped her.
“Then Pixie might have a lot to worry about.”
* * *
* * *
After weeks of heavy meals, Tricia thoroughly enjoyed her light repast, although Angelica did indulge in a fat slice of German chocolate cake after her salad. “Everybody knows chocolate is good for healing surgical wounds,” she’d said straight-faced. Tricia held her tongue.
The sisters returned to Main Street, and after Tricia made sure Angelica had made it safely up the stairs to her apartment, she headed back to Haven’t Got a Clue. It was later than she realized when she walked back through the door—past five o’clock—and the store would be closing in less than forty-five minutes. Now that Tricia had returned from her so-called vacation, Mr. Everett had gone back to his regular hours. They’d changed, since Pixie was no longer working Saturdays. He worked the same number of hours, but now he helped Tricia take care of the store on the weekends while Pixie indulged her creative side, crafting fancy acrylic nail designs, and did a Saturday shift at Angelica’s Booked for Beauty Day Spa.
Pixie stood behind the cash desk with a paperback edition of Murder After Hours spread out before her, but her expression was rather blank, as though she hadn’t been absorbing what she’d been reading.
“Pixie?” Tricia asked.
Pixie seemed to shake herself. “Oh, you’re back. I didn’t hear the bell.”
“Is everything okay?”
Pixie let out a weary sigh. “I . . . uh . . . I’m worried about what Chief Baker is going to do.”
Tricia had an inkling of where this conversation was likely to go. “And?”
“What if he decides to arrest me for Susan’s death?” The poor woman sounded panicked.
“Did you kill her?”
“Of course not. But just Google the phrase ‘chronic recidivist.’ What it won’t tell you is how many ex-cons have been railroaded back to prison for stuff they didn’t do.”
Tricia’s gut tightened. “Why would you think Chief Baker would accuse you—and I mean besides the fact that you’ve previously served jail time?”
“After you left, I got to thinking about how both of us reacted to Susan’s death. I mean, neither of us was exactly rending our clothes in grief.”
She had that right. “I never met the woman, and I have a classic case of jet lag,” Tricia said defensively.
“Yeah, but I don’t have that kind of alibi.”
“I’m sure you don’t need an alibi. It’s obvious that Susan had been dead for a while. And nobody in their right mind would dump a body at their place of work.”
“Yeah, but cops—and especially district attorneys—don’t put that kind of thought into things. They like cases wrapped up fast and neat—and often don’t care if they’ve got the right person.”
There were plenty of examples of that in fact and in mystery fiction.
“I should’ve played dumb. I should’ve pretended I was more upset,” Pixie said.
“Why weren’t you upset?” Tricia asked.
Pixie shrugged. “I guess I kind of figured that something bad would eventually happen to Susan. Not that she hadn’t figured out how to be safe living like she did, but because she was so nice, so trusting. People take advantage of a person like that.”
Plenty of people had taken advantage of Pixie’s good nature.
“I hate to say it, but we’ll just have to wait and see. And it goes without saying that I—and Angelica and the rest of our little family—will have your back.”
Pixie’s smile was tight. “Thanks, Tricia. I never had anybody willing to stick up for me the way you and Angelica have.”
Tricia offered her friend a wan smile. “You’ve had a long day,” she said kindly.
“Shorter than yours,” Pixie pointed out.
That was true. “It seems like the store is pretty dead—no pun intended—so why don’t we close up for the day? Go home to Fred. Put your feet up and have an adult beverage—or maybe three or four.”
“That sounds like heaven about now.” Pixie looked down at her book. “And maybe I should take a lesson from Dame Christie’s Miss Marple and start asking questions around the village—you know, about Susan. I’ve got to find out what the chief knows about her—if only to protect myself.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. He might think you’re trying to interfere with the investigation.”
“Then how about you? You’ve solved more than your fair share of murders.”
“We don’t know that Susan Morris was murdered,” Tricia insisted.
“Not until the autopsy comes back,” Pixie muttered.
“I think it’s prudent for you to show as little interest in the investigation as possible.”
“Then will you ask some questions on my behalf?” Pixie asked.
“Of course. I have a personal stake in what happened to the poor woman. She either died in my dumpster or was put in there.”
“Thanks, Tricia. You’ll find out the truth. You always do.”
Not always. And sometimes the truth was more fleeting than time itself.
THREE
After being awake for more than twenty-four hours, Tricia slept like the dead. In fact, it was only Miss Marple pawing at her nose that finally interrupted her much-needed slumber. The clock said it was almost eight, and Tricia realized she’d slept for more than twelve hours. The good news was that rest had done her good and she felt like she needed to get back into her regular routine. The bad news came when she stepped on her scale and realized she had gained at least five pounds while on the trip. She’d packed loose, comfortable clothing so the gain hadn’t been so noticeable. And she hadn’t overindulged—at least, not much. It was a lack of exercise that had caused the gain, she told herself after getting dressed.
Tricia paused at the bottom of her stairs, looking at the shiny new lock on the store’s back door, a feeling of unease crawling through her. She’d almost forgotten about the attempted break-in. But it had happened days before, and the new fortifications had so far held. Unless something else happened, she wasn’t going to dwell on it.
Much.
But she also decided she needed to fortify the dumbwaiter and address it that day for sure.
Grabbing her jacket, Tricia left her home and business and headed out the front door for her daily brisk walk.
Not a lot had changed during Tricia’s two-week absence. The summer flowers along Main Street had been switched from pastel petunias to yellow, gold, and orange chrysanthemums. There was a delightful chill in the air, and she and the others she saw and met along the way were wearing light jackets, sweats, or sweaters. And as she passed the Sweet As Can Be candy shop, she noticed a sign in the window that said NOW HIRING.
Tricia had met the shop’s owner, Donna North, some three months before while training for the Great Booktown Bake-Off. Donna had taught her the basics of cake decorating, and it was with Angelica’s help that Donna had achieved a long
-held dream of opening her confectionery just the month before. Tricia knew Donna had hired at least one part-time person to work the counter while she made her hand-dipped candies in the commercial kitchen in the back. Had she lost that person so soon?
The lights were on in the shop, and Tricia saw Donna stocking one of the refrigerated cases. She knocked on the door, and the weary-looking proprietress looked up. Tricia waved, and Donna shut the case’s sliding glass door and approached the shop’s entrance.
“Back from your trip to Ireland?” Donna inquired as Tricia entered and inhaled the intoxicating aroma of chocolate.
Did everybody know about her vacation?
“Yes, just yesterday.”
“Then you must have missed the TV interview you did before you left.”
“Yes, I did.
“Nobody recorded it for you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“That’s too bad. It was good. You and your store came off looking great.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
“What brings you to Sweet As Can Be so early in the day?”
“I saw your sign in the window.”
Donna gave a mirthless laugh. “Are you looking for work?”
“Not a chance. What happened to your helper?”
“She’s dead,” Donna said flatly, and her eyes glistened. “I heard it on the radio.”
For a moment Tricia didn’t understand—and then she remembered the events of the day before. “Susan Morris worked for you?”
Donna nodded. “I don’t know how I’ll replace her. She picked up the job so fast, and the customers all loved her.”
“I didn’t even know Susan worked for you.”
“Did you know her?”
“No. But my assistant manager, Pixie, was an acquaintance.”
“What’s worse is the news report said they’re treating her death as a possible homicide.”
Tricia’s heart sank. Once Pixie heard that, her paranoia was sure to escalate. “I’m so sorry.”
“I heard that someone in the village had died, and when Susan didn’t show up for work yesterday, I tried calling her. She was no slacker. I even thought about going to her home to see if she was sick or something, but when I looked at her job application, I saw she’d listed her address as a PO box.”
Handbook for Homicide Page 3