Handbook for Homicide

by Lorna Barrett

  “I’ll tell Angelica you said so. And as the chief isn’t a fan of Angelica, I’ll bet he doesn’t want to patronize one of her businesses.” Tricia thought about that statement. Did that mean the former detective didn’t know Angelica owned the Brookview—where his wedding and reception were to be held—in her Nigela Ricita guise? Marshall had never asked Tricia about it, and she hadn’t volunteered that information, either.

  As they’d discussed earlier, they filled the Volaré’s gas tank at the station on the outskirts of Stoneham, but as it was raining hard once again, they didn’t bother to wash the car. It was almost twelve thirty when Tricia and Marshall arrived at the diner and found seats near the back of the restaurant, with Tricia taking the west side of the booth so that she could easily spot Baker should he come in. The diner didn’t serve alcohol, so Tricia settled for a cup of coffee, while Marshall went for plain water. They ordered, and in no time their lunches arrived: a chef’s salad for Tricia and a club sandwich for her escort.

  They were midway through their meal when—just as Pixie had indicated—Baker came through the door and headed for the back of the restaurant, slowing when he caught sight of her. For a moment Tricia wondered if he’d do an about-face, but he continued and merely gave her a nod as he passed.

  Marshall eyed Tricia critically. “Can you at least wait until we finish our meal before you run over to Chiefie?”

  Tricia’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Why do I hear a note of sarcasm in your voice?”

  Marshall frowned. “I seem to bump into your ex-lovers at an alarming rate,” he muttered.

  “What do you mean by that?” Tricia asked. It was her turn to be annoyed.

  “Nothing,” he mumbled, and took the last bite of his sandwich.

  Tricia stabbed the lettuce and grape tomatoes in the bowl as if to punish them and polished off the last of her salad before she reached for her now tepid coffee. She signaled Hildy, the waitress, who topped up her mug.

  “Can you bring the check when you get a chance?” Marshall asked.

  “No dessert or coffee for you, sir?”

  Marshall shook his head.

  They didn’t speak but watched as Hildy went back to the coffee urns, took out her receipt pad, and wrote up the bill, then came by the table once again. “I can take this when you’re ready or you can pay at the register.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hildy went to check on some of her other customers, and Marshall folded his napkin before reaching for the slip of paper. “I’ve left Ava alone most of the morning and I have another appointment this afternoon, so I’d better run.”

  “Thanks for taking me to the camp this morning.”

  “You’re welcome.” He leaned in closer. “When am I going to see you again?”

  “Call me,” she said, giving him what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

  Marshall’s gaze seemed to stray to his right for a moment, then he picked up her hand and kissed the top of it. After his remark of minutes earlier, Tricia wondered if that gesture was meant as a token of affection to her or a message to the chief: that he’d missed out on something great by never committing himself to Tricia? She liked to flatter herself with the thought but then wondered what Marshall had meant about bumping into her lovers. Besides the chief, the only other person she’d dated in Stoneham was Russ Smith, and that had been a disaster of a relationship.

  “Maybe I’ll call later tonight,” he said.

  “Well, if you do, I’ll be sure to answer the phone.”

  Marshall sidled out of the booth, stood, took a few bills out of his wallet, and set them on the table for a tip. “Until later.”

  Tricia watched as Marshall paid the bill, gave him a smile and a wave, and waited until he’d left the diner and was out of sight before she got up and hightailed it to the back of the diner. Baker was already chowing down on an open-face beef-and-gravy sandwich with fries.

  “Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked.

  Baker’s mouth was full, so he grunted assent and nodded toward the other side of the booth. Tricia sat and waited for him to swallow before speaking.

  “Thanks again for helping me out on Saturday night.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She didn’t want to jump right into the painful part of the conversation and opened with an innocuous question. “How are the wedding plans going?”

  Baker scowled, his brow furrowing. “Why do you care?”

  Tricia’s expression mirrored his own. “I was just making small talk.”

  Baker turned his attention back to his sandwich. “What are you really here for? As if I didn’t know.”

  Tricia sighed. So he’d reverted back to his usual grumpy self.

  “With everything that happened at my store, I didn’t have an opportunity on Saturday night to ask how the investigation into Susan Morris’s death is going.”

  Baker wiped his mouth with his napkin. “We’re making progress,” he said guardedly.

  “Is my assistant, Pixie, still on your list of suspects?” Tricia demanded.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Oh, come on, Grant. You know she’s no killer and she hasn’t stepped out of line since she came to work for me three years ago. She’s married, has a home and a stable life. She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that.”

  “Says you.”

  “Yes, says me.”

  Baker cut another piece of his sandwich, chewed, and swallowed before speaking again. “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No, she isn’t a suspect.”

  “Well, you might have let her know that.”

  “I’m not in the habit of announcing my findings to those whom I might suspect of committing a crime.”

  “And there’s a reason why people like Pixie distrust those in uniform.”

  “Did you stop by just to annoy me?” Baker asked.

  “No, as a matter of fact. I might have some information you can use in your investigation.”

  Baker rolled his eyes.

  “This morning Marshall and I went to Merrimack to talk to a group of homeless people.”

  “What were you doing there?” he snapped.

  “Delivering food. I spoke with Libby Hirt at the Stoneham Food Shelf, and she suggested it would be a way of helping people in need.”

  “And to interrogate them, no doubt,” Baker muttered.

  “We did not interrogate anyone. In fact, I only asked one question: did anyone know Susan Morris?”

  “Yeah, and how’d that go?” Baker asked with disdain.

  “They all said no. But that wasn’t true.”

  Baker raised an eyebrow. Now she had his attention. “And?”

  She sighed. “The other day when I was poking around in Susan’s car, I found an earring jammed into the edge of the glove compartment.”

  “And?” he said again.

  “It was a scratched silver anchor. One of the men at the homeless encampment was wearing its mate.”

  Baker’s gaze sharpened. “How do you know it was Susan’s earring?”

  “Oh, come on, Grant, how many people go around wearing anchor-shaped earrings?”

  “Probably thousands.”

  “In one small village?”

  “You just said you went to Merrimack—and Susan Morris hung around Stoneham. That makes the probability of it being Susan Morris’s other earring plummet.”

  Tricia said nothing.

  “What made you take it from her car—which, I might add, was tampering with evidence.”

  “Evidence you and your men missed,” she countered.

  His piercing gaze remained riveted on her face.

  Tricia shrugged. “I don’t know why I grabbed it. Maybe because it no longer had an owner or a mate. I guess I felt sorry
for it.”

  Baker raised an eyebrow. “Sorry for an earring?”

  Tricia didn’t dignify his question with an answer.

  “Why didn’t you give it to me last Thursday?” he asked.

  “I didn’t think it could have any significance.”

  Baker frowned. “What else?”

  “That’s it.”

  Baker cut another bite of his sandwich. The gravy had begun to congeal, not looking at all appetizing. Again Baker chewed and swallowed before speaking. “You will turn over the earring so that I can investigate this. Not that it will go anywhere,” he griped.

  Oh, no?

  “I’d be happy to give it to you. It could be the key to solving Susan’s murder.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up.” He grabbed one of his fries, dunked it into the little paper cup filled with ketchup, and chomped on it. “What was the name of the guy wearing the earring?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Hairy and grubby.”

  “Come on, Tricia, you can do better than that.”

  Tricia sighed. “He had salt-and-pepper gray hair, a week or two of stubble, and wore muddy jeans and a gray hoodie.”

  “That describes half the guys in the camp.”

  So he had been to Merrimack to ask questions . . .

  “He’s the only one wearing a silver anchor earring,” she reminded him.

  Baker stared at her for long seconds, then turned back to his lunch. “I’ll be over to your shop after I finish here.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you,” she said, and wriggled out of the booth. She said no more and walked out of the diner without a backward look.

  * * *

  * * *

  Mr. Everett was nowhere in sight, and an older gentleman stood at the cash desk paying for a nice stack of books when Tricia reentered her store. Pixie waited on him, and the two were deep in conversation on the merits of the Travis McGee series by John MacDonald. Tricia was eager to speak to Pixie alone and forced herself to be patient as she hung up her jacket in the back of the shop. She was going to hang around but decided she’d better retrieve the earring so that Baker could take it and leave as soon as possible. Even with good news, Pixie was always nervous when in the presence of any police officer.

  Tricia retreated to her apartment, plucked the lone earring from her jewelry box, and placed it in a plastic snack bag before returning to her store.

  The gentleman customer had left the shop, and Pixie was looking out the big display window toward the north where the police station was located.

  “I’ve got good news,” Tricia said by way of a greeting. “I did as you suggested and had lunch at the Bookshelf Diner, where I just happened to bump into Chief Baker.”

  “And?” Pixie asked, sounding hopeful.

  “You are not a suspect in Susan Morris’s murder.”

  For a moment Tricia thought Pixie might collapse from relief as she sagged against the big glass display case. “Oh, thank everything that’s holy.”

  “I never had a doubt,” Tricia told her.

  “Yeah, well . . . I’m sure you, and probably Angelica, Grace, and Mr. E, were the only ones.”

  “Nonsense,” Tricia chided her. “But I want to warn you that Chief Baker will be here in a matter of minutes and I will completely understand it if you want to retreat to the office to avoid seeing him.”

  Pixie straightened in umbrage. “And let him think I’m afraid of him? Not a chance.”

  Tricia smiled. “You go, girl.”

  Pixie ducked her head in what seemed like embarrassment, but her lips curled into a smile.

  The bell over the shop door jingled, and Chief Baker entered Haven’t Got a Clue, adopting the usual cop swagger. Despite their tense conversation not ten minutes before, Tricia knew that wasn’t the real Grant Baker. She’d known his much softer side in years past. And those green eyes of his . . .

  Tricia gave herself a shake. It was better not to remember those times. It was far better to remember why they had broken up in the first place.

  “You got here fast,” she said in greeting, and didn’t bother with any more chitchat, simply handing him the snack bag with the earring inside.

  Baker shook his head. “You should have given this to me the night you found it.”

  Tricia sighed. “Well, you’ve got it now. Will you let me know what the guy wearing the other one says?”

  “I’m conducting a murder investigation, not running a gossip mill.”

  “Fine,” Tricia said flatly, and turned toward the cash desk. “See you later, Chief,” she called over her shoulder, then faced Pixie. “So, how was business while I was out?”

  Pixie’s gaze jumped between her boss and the cop, who was still standing near the doorway.

  “Not bad for a rainy day in September. We really should think about restocking the bargain shelves in the back.”

  Tricia heard the door open and the bell ring, then the door slam shut, but didn’t acknowledge Baker’s departure. “Maybe we can get on that this afternoon.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Pixie said, craning her neck to look out the big display window. “So, what’s with the earring?”

  Tricia shrugged. “I found it in Susan’s car.”

  “What were you doing in Susan’s car?”

  “Um, folding her clothes.”

  “Uh-huh. Was the earring in a pocket or something?”

  “Uh, no,” Tricia answered quickly. Pixie seemed to be waiting for her to say something more, but Tricia changed the subject.

  “Is there anything else about Susan you’ve remembered?”

  “I’ve racked my brains, but . . . no. Remember, we weren’t really friends. You, Angelica, and your Sunday dinner group are the only people I can truly call friends. I mean, there’s no way I can hang out with the people from the old days . . . if you catch my drift.”

  Tricia knew that stipulation had been a part of Pixie’s parole requirements. “Don’t you and Fred have mutual friends?”

  Pixie shook her head. “He plays cards with some guys on Saturday nights, but they aren’t the chummy, invite-you-over-for-dinner kinda people. And they smoke. I’m a really bad ex-smoker. Since I gave it up, I can’t stand the smell on my clothes and hair. And if someone tosses a butt on our driveway, I have a conniption.”

  “That’s funny. I’d say that makes you a good ex-smoker.”

  “I certainly saved a lot of money since I quit.”

  Tricia nodded.

  “Why does Susan’s death bother you so much?” Pixie asked. “Just because she was found behind your store?”

  Tricia shook her head. “It seemed like she had a terrible life.”

  “Oh, but she didn’t. She was happy . . . at least, that’s the impression she gave me. She felt she had a safe place to live and everything she needed, and I’m sure she was even more pleased when she got that job at the new candy store. Is it true they let you eat as much as you want until you’re sick of it and never want to touch the stuff again?”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “Then hiring a person like me would be a big mistake. I could live on chocolate alone.” Pixie clasped her hands dramatically and practically swooned.

  Tricia laughed, but before she could say anything, her cell phone rang. Withdrawing it from her pocket, she glanced at the number and the laughter died on her lips.

  Fiona Sample was calling.

  FIFTEEN

  Tricia looked up from her phone and turned to face Pixie. “Sorry, but I need to take this call downstairs.”

  “Not a problem,” Pixie said, and Tricia hit the call icon. “Hi, Fiona,” she said as she retreated toward the back of the shop and the stairs to the basement.

  “I hope I’m not calling
at a bad time.”

  “Not at all. It’s been raining, and we’re in between seasons here, so things are slow. What’s up?” she asked, knowing what was coming.

  “I was hoping you’d had a chance to talk to Russ’s employees.”

  Tricia hit the bottom of the stairs, turning on the lights to the office as she entered. “As a matter of fact, I have. And I’m afraid I don’t have good news.”

  “Oh, dear. I was afraid of that. What did they say?”

  Tricia took the seat in front of the desk and computer. “I only spoke to one of them—Patti, his second-in-command—and she made it clear she didn’t want to get into the middle of what looks like a sticky situation.”

  “But I thought Russ had two employees.”

  “One’s been cut to part-time because ad revenue is down.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised by that. These days Russ seems to be alienating just about everybody he speaks to.”

  “He’s certainly done a lot of damage at the Chamber of Commerce. But I’m afraid that’s not the worst of it.”

  Tricia heard Fiona sigh. “You’d better get it over with and give it to me straight.”

  “It looks like Russ is ready to put his son in foster care.”

  “Oh, no! You can’t be serious!” Fiona cried.

  “That’s what Patti told me.”

  “Nikki would never stand for that.”

  “Have you been able to contact her?” Tricia asked.

  “No. And that manager she hired to look after the Patisserie was rude to me the last time I called to ask for her number. Have you met him?”

  “Yes, and I can tell you that he hasn’t got the culinary chops Nikki has. His cookies were dreadful, and the bread he’s selling isn’t much better.”

  “Do you think he’s trying to run down the business so he can get it from Nikki for a bargain?”

  “I suppose that’s possible. There certainly aren’t lines out the door like there were back in the summer when Nikki was still in charge, but then, until the leaves start turning in earnest, he can’t depend on tourists, just local customers.”

  Fiona was quiet for a few moments. “Since we last talked, I decided to hire someone to track Nikki down.”