“Oh, your favorite subject,” Angelica said, and rolled her eyes. “What’s going on with her since she bolted for the West Coast looking for fame and fortune?”
“It seems that Russ wants Fiona to take charge of little Russell.”
“But she’s got her own family in Canada.”
“Yes, and quite a few writing contracts she has to fulfill. She loves the boy, but—”
“She’s not the kid’s mother, and he’s a handful,” Angelica said.
“Exactly. I visited the Patisserie this morning and spoke with the new manager.”
“Roger’s a nice guy, but he doesn’t make bread as good as Nikki does.”
“Or cookies.” She explained about the oatmeal cookie fiasco. “I assured him the business would make it through the long winter months, but after tasting his wares, I’m not so sure.”
“That’s too bad. Nikki may not have a winning personality, but she is a damn good baker.”
“Anyway,” Tricia continued, “Fiona wants me to speak to the women who work for Russ at his weekly rag.”
“Is that a good idea? I mean, won’t he look at it as interference?”
“I’m sure he will, but poor Fiona sounded so desperate, I feel like I should at least try.”
“But you didn’t get a chance today?”
Tricia shook her head.
Angelica sipped her drink. “I know Nikki went through a personality change when she started dating Russ—”
“From which she has never recovered,” Tricia cut in.
“—but I don’t get why she left little Russell behind. Two years ago she was desperate to stay home with that baby, and now she’s just walked away. She’s going to find it was the biggest mistake of her life. It was for me,” Angelica muttered sullenly.
“When you left Antonio, you made sure he was well taken care of. You didn’t abandon him financially, and you saw him as often as you could.”
“But I still walked away. He’s forgiven me, but I’ll never forgive myself,” she said bitterly.
Tricia reached over and touched her sister’s hand, noticing the tears brimming in her eyes. “Hey, all’s well that ends well,” she said, invoking that old saw.
Angelica nodded. “I guess you’re right.” She took another sip of her drink. “What are the odds Patti or that other one—I can never remember her name—are likely to speak to you about little Russell? I never got the impression they were all that fond of Russ.”
“A job’s a job—and they surely want to keep theirs—but you’re probably right.”
Angelica nodded. “When will you try to talk to them?”
“The office is open tomorrow morning, and since the Chamber’s hours have been slashed to half a day a week so as not to interfere with Russ’s regular business, I’m not likely to run into him.”
Angelica shook her head. “It’s shocking. The Chamber’s office hours should be scheduled for when businesspeople can interact with them. When I was its president, I had office hours five days a week—plus I fielded calls on weekends if necessary.”
“You were a spectacular president, and it’s painful to see how Russ has destroyed the organization you worked so hard to build.”
“When his tenure is up, it’s going to take years for the next president to rebuild trust,” Angelica said, still shaking her head.
“I think I’ll go over to the newspaper as soon as Mr. Everett comes in to work tomorrow,” Tricia said. “Since we’re between the summer tourist season and the leaf peepers, it should be pretty quiet in my shop.”
“Which is why I was determined to diversify. Already, the day spa’s local appeal is helping to float the rest of the Angelica Miles fleet.”
“And how about Nigela Ricita Associates?”
“A completely different set of books, and that part of my empire is doing fantastically well.” Of course, Antonio dealt with most of the day-to-day problems in that arena.
“Any word on Susan Morris?”
“She was a naval officer.”
“Get out!”
“That’s what she told Marshall when she interviewed for the assistant manager’s job at the Armchair Tourist. And that earring I found in her car was of an anchor.”
“I hate to think of how many of our veterans are down on their luck and living hard,” Angelica lamented. “And poor Susan among them.”
“And now murdered. Pixie didn’t know she was a vet, which seems rather odd, as they were close enough for Susan to accept a pair of Pixie’s shoes.”
“Not surprising. I’m sure Pixie doesn’t go around introducing herself as an ex-prostitute, either.”
“That was a long—” Tricia broke off. Actually, it wasn’t such a long time ago.
“It could have been decades since Susan was in the service. She probably no longer identified as a sailor—if that’s what she was—either.”
Tricia nodded. “Well, let’s drink a toast to poor Susan. Rest in peace.”
Angelica raised her glass, and they both polished off the last of their drinks.
“It gets too damp to sit out here for too long,” Angelica said, and gave a shiver. “Let’s go in, and while you pour another drink, I’ll haul out dinner. Tommy at the café made us a big julienne salad and sent over a pot of soup, too.”
“I’m all for that,” Tricia agreed.
She helped Angelica to her feet and then collected their glasses. As she turned, she glanced down at the dumpster that sat behind her building and a shiver ran up her back. It wasn’t just the encroaching dampness that made her feel cold to her bones.
NINE
Saturday morning arrived, and Mr. Everett was as punctual as ever. Since winning the amateur division of the Great Booktown Bake-Off three months before, he’d gained confidence in his baking ability and often arrived with a plastic container filled with his favorite thumbprint cookies. Tricia had completely forgotten she’d promised to bake something and was glad he’d come through with the treats.
“What kind of jam did you use this time?” Tricia asked.
“Gooseberry. It’s tangy—with just the right amount of snap.”
Tricia poured coffee for them both and sampled one of the cookies. “Oh, my—that’s good.”
Mr. Everett beamed.
They chatted for a few minutes as they got the store ready to open and finished their coffee. Tricia rinsed her cup in the store’s washroom before announcing her intention of visiting the Stoneham Weekly News, although she didn’t share why she was visiting.
“I won’t be long,” she promised.
“Take your time. I can handle anything that comes up, although I would like to spend some time downstairs in the office to update the inventory at some point today.”
“An excellent idea,” Tricia agreed, and grabbed her cell phone. “Give me a call if we get an influx of customers.”
“Will do,” Mr. Everett promised as Tricia hurried out the door.
The air was cool, but the forecast called for bright skies until late in the afternoon, with rain later on. Although Tricia felt unsure about her visit to the village’s weekly paper, she was determined to enjoy the walk to get there.
Patti Perkins, Russ’s receptionist, stringer, and all-around Jill-of-all-trades, sat behind her desk with a cup of coffee, staring at her computer screen, when Tricia entered the offices of the News. The desk across the way was empty, with no sign of an inhabitant. What was surprising was that Russ’s office door was open but blocked with a baby gate. Penned inside was a whining little Russell, who appeared to be throwing plastic blocks against the walls.
“Hey, Patti,” Tricia called.
“Tricia,” Patti said, and smiled. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. We don’t see much of you these days.”
“Well, we both know the reason for that,” she said
conspiratorially. “Where’s your coworker?”
Patti’s smile was short-lived. “She switched to part-time, and it wasn’t her idea.”
“Why’s that?”
“Ad revenue is way down since we lost the Nigela Ricita account.”
Angelica had made good on her threat after Russ had tried to smear Tricia’s good name just three months before.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tricia said, for Patti’s coworker’s sake—not Russ’s.
“If you’re looking for Russ—”
“I wasn’t.” Tricia nodded toward the office beyond. “Have you added part-time babysitting to your other office duties?”
Patti glowered. “It wasn’t by choice.” Little Russell’s whining grew louder. “Russ says he can’t get anything done if he takes the kid to the Chamber office.”
Obviously, there was no love lost between Patti and little Russell.
“I raised my own kids and I resent having to take care of someone else’s—especially for no extra pay,” Patti groused.
“But?” Tricia asked.
“I need this job,” Patti grumbled. A plastic block came sailing through the air, landing on Patti’s desk. She tossed it back into the office to the sound of amused giggles from its inhabitant. “What can I do for you?” Patti asked Tricia.
“I came to speak to you on behalf of Russ’s mother-in-law.”
Patti’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What for?”
“Russ is pressuring her to take little Russell off his hands.”
Another block arced through the doorway, this time missing its target.
“And why did she want you to speak to me?”
“To see if you could reason with Russ.”
Patti laughed. “I’ve been working for him for eight years, and in all that time I haven’t had much luck with that. Why can’t she take the kid? She’s his grandmother.”
“Fiona is a working mom herself, with two teens and a national book tour on the horizon. She’s legally bound to finish and deliver the novels she’d contracted for, and she can’t very well do that with a toddler underfoot—not to mention she lives outside of the US.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”
“Would you be willing to speak to Russ on her behalf?”
“Hey!” little Russell called. “Hey! Hey!”
Patti let out a sigh, ignoring the boy. “And reap Russ’s wrath?” She shook her head. “Uh-uh.”
Tricia couldn’t say she blamed the woman.
Patti leaned forward. “But I will tell you this—and you didn’t hear it from me: if she doesn’t take the kid, Russ is considering putting that little boy into foster care.”
Tricia’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”
Patti shook her head. “Will his grandmother suddenly decide to take the boy on when she hears that?”
Tricia sighed, feeling sorry for the child no one seemed to want. “I have no idea.”
“And good luck to the foster family that gets him. That boy is an absolute terror.”
“Maybe he just needs love,” Tricia suggested.
“Hey—I want a cookie!” Russell called.
“That and some stability,” Patti agreed.
Tricia looked down and saw a mock-up of the next edition of the Stoneham Weekly News sitting on a stack of papers on Patti’s desk. The headline read “Homeless Woman Strangled and Dumped.” Russ’s flair for attention-grabbing headlines was on full display. “Looks like Susan Morris’s death is the top story in Monday’s edition.”
Patti shook her head. “Sad for the poor old lady. And after what she went through in the military.”
That statement spiked Tricia’s attention. “Oh?”
“Yep, we cover it all in our next issue.”
Tricia reached toward the edited copy, but Patti was quick to move it out of her reach. “Russ would skin me alive if he thought I let you see the story. You can read all about it on Monday.”
Two whole days? Where had the paper gotten the story on Susan—and what was it?
“Can you give me a hint about its content?” Tricia asked, idly noticing that it had gotten awfully quiet in Russ’s office.
Patti shook her head. “I’m just surprised the Nashua Telegraph and the Union Leader haven’t reported it. It’s been a long time since Russ had a scoop.”
And no doubt he’d be preening like a peacock over it. And how had Russ found out about whatever trouble had befallen Susan during her time in the military? By talking to Department of Defense personnel, or just plain searching the Internet?
If nothing else, she could try the latter.
“Anything else I can do for you?” Patti asked before a crash from the next room made her jump. She pursed her lips. “I told Russ his office isn’t kidproof. If that boy has broken the computer or printer—”
Little Russell began to wail, and Patti got up from her desk.
“I’ll see you later,” Tricia called, and headed for the door, feeling sorry for the little boy and his reluctant babysitter.
* * *
* * *
Mr. Everett was waiting on a customer when Tricia arrived back at Haven’t Got a Clue. She bagged the goods while he rang up the sale.
The little bell above the door jingled cheerfully as he bade his customer, “Come back soon!”
“That was a good sale,” Tricia commented.
“They’re all good,” Mr. Everett said happily. He always looked at the sunny side of life.
“I need to do some computer research in the office. Do you mind if I do it now?”
“Not at all. I shall hold the fort. And if no one comes in, I’ll sneak in a little reading.”
“Sneak all you want,” Tricia said, patted his back, and headed for the store’s office.
After slipping into her office chair, Tricia started the computer and brought up her browser. But instead of Googling Susan Morris, she typed in her own name and that of her store: she hadn’t thought to do it in quite a while. As expected, her recent TV interview was the first result of her search. She clicked on the link and it took her to the video. The clip was brief, only about ninety seconds long, and as others had remarked, she looked pretty good and her store came across even better.
She was still smiling when she typed in Susan Morris’s name, but her good mood was short-lived when her screen was flooded. The name Susan Morris wasn’t at all unique, as evidenced by the number of Facebook profiles that popped up. Tricia scrolled through the pictures of the women, but as she had no idea what Susan Morris the murder victim looked like, it was worse than futile. Since she knew that Susan had been an officer in the Navy, she tried adding various ranks before the name. Another washout.
Tricia stared at the blinking cursor on her screen. What if Susan had once been known under another name? Goodness knows, Angelica had changed her surname with each of her four marriages, returning to her maiden name only after her last—and what she had declared final—divorce. She was in no rush to return to the altar.
Tricia bit her lip and thought about what Baker had told her days before. Susan had a daughter named Kimberly something—a double name beginning with an R. Kimberly Rattler? Rudner? No, Radnor. Radnor-Herbert. Had Radnor been Susan’s maiden or married name?
With nothing left to lose, Tricia typed in Susan Radnor. Another load of Facebook page profiles appeared. But when she tried typing in Ensign Susan Radnor—bingo! Up came a scandal that Tricia hadn’t thought about since she’d been a kid in school: Tailhook. But even so, she only vaguely remembered what it was about, and the subject chilled her soul: sexual assault in the military.
Susan’s name had been only briefly mentioned in the Wikipedia article that covered Tricia’s screen. She clicked a link to a different entry and sat transfixed as she read about th
e Tailhook Symposium, what was meant to be a debriefing for Operation Desert Storm naval and marine aviation officers that took place at the Las Vegas Hilton back in 1991. How drunken naval and marine officers camped out in a narrow third-floor hallway, luring female naval officers—and even some civilians—into what was called “the gauntlet,” where eighty-three women and seven men were sexually assaulted. Some of the women had been fondled, while others had had their clothes torn off and were manhandled as though in a mosh pit. The men weren’t treated as badly. A pinch on the butt was what most of them experienced.
According to the article, Ensign Susan Radnor had testified against several higher-ranking officers and was said to have been retaliated against when said superiors were refused advancement in rank or were simply forced to resign their commissions—but none of the officers were named in the article. And it wasn’t just the officers perpetrating the assaults who ended up with their careers in ruins. Fourteen admirals and the secretary of the navy were made to pay as well. The sad thing was, that scandal didn’t put a dent in the ongoing problem of sexual assault in the military—something that goes on to this day.
After reporting the incident and not finding justice in the military, the loudest whistle-blower, Lieutenant Paula Coughlin, went public with her story and resigned her commission after suffering abuse and retaliation for telling the truth about what happened in that crowded hallway. It was the end of her career and her ability to find gainful employment in the private sector as well. She settled out of court with the Tailhook Association and sued the hotel for neglecting to provide better security.
The article didn’t mention Susan’s outcome. Had she sued or had she, too, been branded a pariah for daring to come forward and testify?
And was it likely that that long-ago scandal was the reason Susan Radnor Morris was murdered? If so, the officer or officers implicated had waited an awfully long time to retaliate against the woman. Did Russ Smith intend to imply that in his coverage of the murder? Or, despite her past, had Susan simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time?
Tricia wondered if Russ had dug up any real dirt on the murder. He wasn’t a favorite among the villagers and had no friends—that she knew of—among the ranks of the Stoneham police force, either. But if one could believe his bragging, Russ had once been an ace reporter before buying his own weekly newspaper where he could be his own boss and call his own shots. Who could he have spoken with in Stoneham who would have known about Susan’s life before she became a fixture in the village, albeit one who mostly coasted below the radar? Were there other homeless vets in the area? Could Susan have been a member of Alcohol or Narcotics Anonymous? Drug or alcohol addiction was a devastating side effect for members of the volunteer military who had been forced into seemingly endless rounds of deployment. But Susan’s time in the military had been decades before. Had she suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder after what she’d experienced during the Tailhook incident and the months—and years—of economic and personal isolation afterward?
Handbook for Homicide Page 9