“Because of that earring?”
Curtis shook his head. “No, a tattoo.”
“What else?”
“He’s only dropped a few hints about his past, but he did say something happened and he was given a dishonorable discharge.”
Tricia frowned. “He wasn’t, by any chance, involved in the Tailhook scandal, was he?”
Curtis looked at her, taken aback, and then shook his head. “He was just a punk-ass sailor. Although whatever happened was back in the nineties.”
Had Susan recognized King from another point in her naval career, or was there a chance he had been at the Tailhook Symposium? The officers involved had been pilots. King had served on an aircraft carrier. Could he have gone there in some minor capacity and been swooped up in the scandal? Could King have been one of the men who’d assaulted Susan all those years before? If so, was it possible she’d confronted him? A lot of officers had lost their commissions—but no one was ever criminally prosecuted. Still, the outcome had been life changing for everyone who’d been at that Las Vegas hotel back in the early nineties, and none for the better.
Tricia looked at her watch. “So, how about I give you a call in the morning to let you know what time I’ll pick you up and what you can expect?”
“Okay.”
“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She turned for her car.
“Hey, lady—Tricia,” Curtis amended. “Thanks.”
“Thank me if you get the job,” she said. and got in her car.
Curtis stood in the muddy grass while Tricia turned the car around on the dirt track and started off. She didn’t wave, figuring the other men in the camp would just heckle Curtis. However, she did look in her rearview mirror to see him just standing there—grinning.
* * *
* * *
After returning to Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia retreated to her basement office and called Antonio. They set up an appointment for the following morning for Curtis to interview with him at eleven o’clock. Tricia figured she could pick Curtis up around eight thirty, get him some new clothes and a shave and haircut, and make it to the Brookview in plenty of time. Afterward, Angelica could either take an Uber or catch a ride back to her apartment with a staffer, or else Tricia could ask Pixie or Mr. Everett to give Angelica a lift while Tricia took Curtis back to the homeless camp. She knew neither would mind in the least.
With that settled, she went back upstairs to her store.
An influx of shoppers visited Haven’t Got a Clue on that sunny September afternoon, and Tricia found herself helping customers, ringing up sales, and hauling boxes for restocking from the basement. She began eyeing the clock as the hands moved toward five o’clock. Just another hour before the store closed.
In years past she’d hosted a Tuesday night book club, but interest had waned and it had fallen by the wayside. She missed it. As she hadn’t had a book signing in months, Tricia wondered if she should start putting out the word that she was booking authors for the holiday season. She thought about heading back to the basement to make a list of authors who’d previously visited her store, when her cell phone rang. Angelica was calling.
“Hi, Ange, what’s up?”
“I’ve been invited out to dinner!” she said with delight.
“By whom?”
“Ginny. They want my advice on redecorating their little house in the woods.”
“How do they have time to cook with their killer work schedules?”
“Brookview Catering saves the day once again!”
“What kind of redecorating are they thinking about?”
“Possibly adding an addition to the house. You know what that might mean?” Angelica hinted gleefully.
Oh, dear. Were they facing an addition to their family at a time when Ginny wasn’t certain she wanted another child?
“I assume Antonio is going to pick you up.”
“Yes. In fact, he’ll be here within the next ten minutes, unless he gets caught at work.”
“I’m sure you could pull some strings to set him free,” Tricia said.
“Maybe. What will you do about dinner?” Angelica asked.
“Don’t worry about me. I have the other half of my club wrap from lunch. I’ve got food, a bottle of wine, and a stack of books in my to-be-read pile. I’ll be fine.”
“You are a big girl now,” Angelica agreed. “I don’t know what time I’ll be home: Sofia goes to bed early, and that’s when the three of us can have an in-depth chat. If I see your light on when I return, I’ll call you tonight. If not, first thing in the morning.”
“Okay. Have a good time.”
Angelica sighed. “That remains to be seen. And don’t worry about Sarge. Antonio has promised to take him out before he leaves.”
“Okay. Good night.”
They ended the call.
“Anything wrong, Ms. Miles?” Mr. Everett asked with Pixie right behind him, both looking concerned.
“Not at all. But it looks like I won’t be around the shop much tomorrow.”
“What’s up?” Pixie asked.
“One of the homeless men near Merrimack is a retired vet—”
“There are lots of those around,” Pixie muttered before Tricia could finish.
“His expertise is in food service management. I’ve finagled an interview for him with Antonio for tomorrow morning, but he needs a little spit and polish before he’s presentable.”
“It’s commendable of you to take an interest in the welfare of one of our former servicemen,” Mr. Everett said.
“Why did you decide to help him of all people?” Pixie asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe because he reminds me of you?”
“Me?” Pixie asked, startled.
“Yes. Thanks to his years in the Army, he seems to have authority over the homeless men, but I think he’s capable of a lot more than sitting around a fire pit in the rain. Look what having a purpose did for you, Pixie. You’ve got a stable job, a husband, and a home.”
“Ya got me there. I never thought I’d have a real job, let alone a husband and a house. And, of course, you guys.” She gave Mr. Everett a gentle punch to his shoulder, which made him blush. “Well, I wish that guy all the luck in the world,” she added.
“As do I. You must tell us how the interview goes,” Mr. Everett chimed in.
“I will.”
The shop door opened, the tinkling bell drawing Tricia’s attention, although it wasn’t a customer who crossed the threshold but Nikki Brimfield, her son straddled over her left hip.
“Nikki! I thought you were in California,” Tricia blurted.
“I flew in last night,” she said, setting the little boy down but keeping a firm hold of his hand, for which Tricia was grateful. The kid was rambunctious, to say the least, and Tricia could picture him pulling the covers off the paperbacks or chewing on the hardcovers.
Nikki turned to Pixie and Mr. Everett. “Could you give us a few minutes?”
“Oh, sure,” Pixie said. “We’ve got things to do down in the office, don’t we, Mr. E?”
“Uh, yes. It was very nice seeing you again, Nikki.”
“And you.”
Nikki watched as Tricia’s employees escaped to the back of the shop and around the corner to the stairs before she spoke again. “I hear I have you to thank for my return.” Her tone was neutral, and Tricia wasn’t quite sure what to make of the statement.
“I—”
“My mother tracked me down. She said you told her Russ was going to put our son in foster care.”
Wow—that detective Fiona had hired sure worked fast.
“That’s what I heard,” Tricia said, deciding not to name her source. “Is that true?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Nikki looked down at the fidgeting boy, and
her lips trembled. “If I hadn’t turned up, Russ was going to surrender him by the weekend. He’s sure in a hurry to get on with his life.”
Tricia could have accused Nikki of the same thing, thanks to her flight to California, but chose not to mention it.
“I understand you’re still tripping over bodies,” Nikki said rather snidely.
“My assistant, Pixie, found Susan Morris, not me.”
“Yeah, but somehow you’re always involved in these things.”
Again Tricia decided not to comment.
“I thought after I turned her in to the cops, they would’ve run her out of town, but I guess she just got a warning.”
“You turned her in to the police?” Tricia asked.
“For parking in the municipal lot and sleeping in her car, among other things,” she said sourly. “The board of selectmen ought to make a law to take care of people like her. Let one person do it, and the village will be overrun with scum.”
Wow. Talk about a lack of compassion.
“How did you find out Susan was living in her car?” Tricia asked.
“I happened to drive into the lot one evening back in June and saw slits of light from where she hadn’t done a good job of blocking her windows. The cops made her leave that night, but I guess they had no problem with her parking there during the day, more’s the pity.”
“She had a job, you know.”
“Yeah, I heard—at the new candy store.” Nikki shrugged, sounding uninterested. Same old Nikki. “Anyway,” Nikki continued. “I came by to say thank you for looking out for my baby boy.”
Then again . . .
“I suppose you’ll be taking him back to California.”
“Yes. I’ve got an apartment, and I’m a finalist in the Divine Desserts Competition. I’m going to win, and when I do, they’ll offer me a shot at my own prime-time show, along with a book deal and a national tour.”
“Congratulations,” Tricia said, her voice flat. If Nikki couldn’t muster a modicum of warmth, Tricia was content to do likewise. “How long will you be staying in the area?”
“We’re leaving on the red-eye from Boston tonight. I packed up everything I thought he would need and am having it shipped. It was only a few boxes. He can have all new toys when he gets to his new room. Isn’t that right, Rusty?”
“Rusty?” Tricia asked. She’d only heard the boy called little Russell.
“As of today, his name is Rusty. I think it suits him, don’t you?”
Tricia eyed the boy, whose gaze was fixed on Miss Marple, who had retreated to the top of one of the bookshelves. She’d had her tail pulled enough by Sofia and wasn’t amused by the game. “Yes. He looks like a Rusty.” Tricia changed the subject. “I suppose you’ll be heading straight to Boston from here.”
“Not quite. I still have one more task to do.”
“And what’s that?”
“Fire Roger Sykes. I’ve heard nothing but complaints about his baking. Mother thinks he’s trying to ruin the business to get it for a cheaper price.”
“But I understood you had already made a deal to sell him the Patisserie.”
“He’s been telling people that, but our deal was for him to run it on a month-by-month basis. My lawyer added a clause that I could terminate the arrangement at any time, and I’m grateful he insisted on it.”
“Do you have anyone in mind to run it?”
“Steve Fenton. He worked for me for a couple of years before he went out on disability. He’s better now and jumped at the chance to keep the shop going until I can figure out what I want to do next. He’ll do right by me—and my hard-won customers.”
“Did you know Russ is selling the News?”
“I had a conversation with Patti in his office. Apparently she doesn’t feel any special loyalty to Russ now that her livelihood is in jeopardy.”
“Well, I’m glad everything seems to be working out for you.”
Nikki’s smarmy smile was back. “Yes, I’m entitled to a part of the paper’s selling price. I’m very pleased.”
“Will Russ have a shot at the Patisserie?”
Nikki’s eyes narrowed. “Not a chance. I saw to that when we first got married. It’s mine free and clear.”
Nikki seemed to have all angles covered.
Tricia straightened. It was time to bring this conversation to a close. “Well, I hope you have a smooth flight.”
“Thanks. But before I go, I want to . . .” Nikki pursed her lips, hesitating. “I want to apologize to you. I see now that you never had any interest in Russ, and I can’t for the life of me think why I was ever jealous of you.”
Tricia couldn’t think of anything to say on that account, either, and merely gave Nikki the barest hint of a shrug.
Rusty pulled at his mother’s hand. “Wanna go for a ride in the car.”
“Yes, honey. We’re going now.”
“Good luck with the show—and your career,” Tricia said.
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Nikki said. “I’m no loser—in business or in life,” she said with deadly assurance. “Good-bye, Tricia.”
“Good-bye.”
“Come on, Rusty,” Nikki said, picking up the boy and settling him on her hip once more.
“Who’s Rusty?” the boy asked.
Nikki started for the door, and Tricia waved to the little guy, who giggled and waved back. And then they were gone.
Well, that was an unexpected turn of events, Tricia thought, shook her head, and headed for the back of the store. She turned the corner and found her employees sitting on the top step of the stairs to the basement. “Did you hear what Nikki had to say?” she asked.
“Um, a little,” Pixie admitted.
Mr. Everett eyed Pixie with surprise but then turned to Tricia. “I assure you, Ms. Miles, I wasn’t eavesdropping.” He pointed to his left ear. “My hearing isn’t as good as it used to be.”
“Well, Nikki’s visit, and what she told me, won’t be a secret by tomorrow.” Tricia filled them in on the pertinent information.
“I’m glad she’s giving that Sykes guy the boot. His baked goods are terrible,” Pixie said.
“And Steve Fenton will do a fine job. He worked in the bakery department of my grocery store the last few years it was open,” Mr. Everett added.
“That’s good to hear,” Tricia said. She looked at the clock. It was already fifteen minutes until closing, and as they hadn’t had a customer in over an hour, she decided to pack it in for the day. She bade her employees a good night, locked the store, set the security system, and turned off all the lights.
Heading up the stairs to her apartment with Miss Marple scampering up ahead of her, Tricia reflected that it had been a very long day with far too much activity. She was glad for the opportunity to finally sit down and relax. The only thing pending was news from Angelica and her dinner with Antonio and Ginny.
Then again, maybe she’d turn out the lights so that Angelica wouldn’t call that evening.
Tricia wasn’t sure she could take any more traumatic news that day.
TWENTY
Despite the events of the day, Tricia found herself feeling restless as she rattled around her way-too-quiet apartment, missing her usual happy hour conversation with her sister. She couldn’t help thinking about what was going on at the Wilson-Barbero house and changed her mind, deciding she might as well leave her lights on and accept Angelica’s call filling her in on all the evening’s details.
She sat at her kitchen’s breakfast bar, poured herself a glass of wine, and dined on her leftover wrap before she settled into her personal reader’s nook in her master suite with the intention of finishing False Scent, and she had another book at the ready to pick up as soon as she did.
But then her cell phone rang, rousing a sleeping Miss Marple, who’d taken up residence
at the end of the chaise. Tricia immediately recognized the number and punched the call acceptance icon. “Marshall—what’s up?”
“I’m standing in front of your door with a bottle of chilled Dom Pérignon, and there’s nobody I’d rather share it with.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Why don’t you let me in and I’ll let you in on my big announcement.”
Trivia’s heart sank. The last time Marshall had been this excited, he’d embarked on the whole fantasy of being a tour guide. Still, she tried to instill a note of cheer in her voice. “I’ll be right down.” She stabbed the end call icon on her phone and headed downstairs, making sure to turn out the bedroom light before she did.
Sure enough, Marshall stood behind the door with a sappy smile plastered across his features. “Come in.” Tricia beckoned.
But before she could turn away, he grabbed her arm, pulling her against him for a kiss—and a very nice kiss it was. “Not here,” she laughed, taking his arm and tugging him inside the darkened shop. “Follow me.”
Hand in hand, they made their way through the store and to the stairs that lead to Tricia’s apartment, where Miss Marple sat waiting with what could only be described as an annoyed expression. After all, her beauty nap had been interrupted.
Marshall closed the door to the stairs behind him and followed Tricia into the kitchen to grab a couple of wineglasses.
“Are you going to keep me in suspense?” she asked.
“Only until I pour the wine.”
Tricia bent down, resting her elbows on the island’s marble top, her chin cupped in her hands, watching him wrestle with the bottle’s stopper. “Just a hint?” she wheedled. “The suspense is killing me.”
“Well, I don’t want you to die,” he said as the cork went flying and the champagne fizzed out the top of the bottle. He grabbed a glass, pouring it in, then grabbed the other, doing the same. Once the bubbles died down, he topped off both glasses, handing one to Tricia. “A toast,” he said and raised his glass. “To the new owner of the Stoneham Weekly News.”
Handbook for Homicide Page 19