“I missed you at lunch,” Angelica said by way of a greeting as she stirred the awaiting pitcher of martinis.
“I’m sorry, Ange. I just needed some time,” Tricia said, and draped her jacket on the back of one of the kitchen island’s stools. “Do you need help with that?”
Angelica shook her head. “Thank goodness for my little knee scooter. I should have been using it more. But the good news is, I can put a little weight on that foot. Hopefully, I’ll be back in the pink in no time.”
“And to think you’ll have to go through all that suffering again when you have the other foot done.”
“Oh, no,” Angelica said fiercely. “I’ve given it some thought and—much as I hate to admit it—stilettos are just not that important to me anymore.”
Tricia blinked. “What brought on that revelation?”
Angelica retrieved the chilled glasses from the fridge. “I’ve been stuck here at home for weeks on end. I could have been doing so many useful things—but instead, my foot is killing me. I’ve had time to think about just how frivolous—and painful—those heels are. It was difficult, but I boxed them all up and will give them to the thrift shop on the highway. They serve the homeless. If they can make a few bucks off the shoes to help feed or clothe somebody, all the better. And I ordered myself five pairs of flats online. They should arrive in a couple of days. I figure I should get used to wearing them as soon as possible.”
Wow. She really was making a lifestyle change. “Good for you, Ange.”
“I made some sausage rolls. They should be ready just about—” Ping! The stove timer went off. “Now.”
“I’ll get them and bring the drinks out to the living room. You go sit down—take a load off that foot.”
“With pleasure.”
Tricia set the sausage rolls on a plate and ferried them and the stemmed glasses to the big coffee table. After the sisters had settled in, Tricia grabbed her glass. “If anyone deserves a martini, especially after the day I’ve had—it’s me,” Tricia said.
Angelica raised her glass. “I imagine Antonio will pop open a bottle of wine,” she said sadly. “It’s too bad Ginny’s pregnant. I’m sure she needs a glass or four about now. We should drink to Antonio’s new job and to Marshall.”
Tricia raised her glass. “To Antonio and Eugene Chandler.”
“Who’s that?”
“It was Marshall’s real name.”
Angelica blinked. “Run that by me again.”
Tricia took a sip of her drink. No doubt about it, Angelica made one damn fine martini.
Tricia started with Kirby’s visit and the news that Marshall had been part of the Witness Protection Program.
“Oh, well, then it’s no wonder he was killed.”
“Ange,” Tricia admonished.
“I’m sorry, dear, but we all know there are loose lips and they do, indeed, sink ships—or at least can cost lives. If I was that Kirby fellow, I’d be looking within my own organization to chase down the leak.”
“From what I understand, the program has been very successful—as long as those in it adhere to the rules.”
“And you don’t think Marshall did?”
“I don’t know. Somehow, someone must have tracked him down.”
Angelica looked pensive. “Maybe it was a good thing you didn’t want to marry him.”
“I never said that.”
“Of course you did—from the moment you didn’t accept his proposal. Anyway, someone might have come after you, too.”
Tricia hadn’t told Angelica about the truck in the alley. It would have just worried her.
And Tricia wasn’t really worried about being targeted anyway. Marshall had never told her about his past life so she didn’t have any information to pass on.
Then again, if someone had tried to run her down, maybe they thought she might know or have something of Marshall’s that could still be incriminating.
Suddenly Tricia didn’t feel quite so glib about her safety.
Angelica shook her head. “Well, with the day you’ve had, it’s no wonder you needed to skip lunch for time to think. Did it do any good?”
Tricia shrugged and reached for another sausage roll. “At least I have a clean apartment. What happened in your world today?”
Angelica shrugged. “Just business as usual.”
“I suppose now you’re planning to buy the Armchair Tourist,” Tricia said, and drained her glass.
Angelica shook her head. “Not interested. Although I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on that building.”
“To buy or lease?”
“I’m not interested in leasing it. But if I could buy it, I’d knock down the wall on the first floor and expand Booked for Lunch’s square footage.”
“You’ve already cut into the Bookshelf Diner’s clientele. Is it fair to be so cutthroat?”
“Who’s being cutthroat? It’s the customers who’ll make the ultimate judgment on where to eat. Besides, I only do lunch. The Bookshelf is open from six in the morning until nine at night. They’re not suffering.”
“Could you justify that kind of investment?”
Angelica seemed to muddle over the question. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’d have to give it some careful thought—and, of course, consult Antonio.” She looked thoughtful. “Maybe we’d just launch a completely different restaurant. There is only one fine-dining venue in the village.” Yes, and she owned that, too. But then she shook her head. “No, I think I’d stick with the lunch crowd. The bulk of Booked for Lunch’s customers are outsiders. Local support isn’t as great as I’d like.”
“What can you do about it?”
“I’ll have to give that some thought, too.”
“Maybe take out advertising in the Stoneham Weekly News once again.”
Angelica offered a half smile. “That would help. Maybe I’ll offer a discount coupon. It could be a test for Antonio to measure the paper’s local reach.”
“Now you’re talking.”
Angelica pulled the last olive from her frill pick, chewed, and swallowed. “Time for a refill.”
Tricia got up and did the honors. When she returned, Angelica once again raised her glass. “Now what do we drink to?”
“World peace,” Tricia said, thinking of a scene from Groundhog Day.
“I’d settle for peace in Stoneham,” Angelica muttered, and took her first sip. She looked thoughtful. “Do you think we drink too much?”
“Of course we do,” Tricia said, taking a sip. “Isn’t that what all unhappy people do?”
“No. And speak for yourself. I have plenty in life to be happy about. In fact, I imbibe to celebrate. You’re just unhappy because of Marshall’s death and the fact that you didn’t love him.”
Tricia winced. Angelica could be the epitome of tact . . . except when she was being tactless. Still, Tricia could forgive her because she was absolutely right.
Tricia did feel guilty. And she also felt torn. If she’d accepted Marshall’s proposal she’d be living a life built on lies. No, she’d been right to trust her gut feelings. Something about the man had always been just a little off, and now, finally, she knew why.
* * *
* * *
Despite the sparkling-clean apartment and the crisp clean sheets on her bed, Tricia ended up reading until well past two that night and then slept only until six the next morning. She got up and, still in her pajamas and robe, baked the cookies from the dough she’d prepared the day before. She chose strawberry jam for the filling. Mr. Everett would be pleased.
After showering and dressing, Tricia applied her makeup, relying far too heavily on the tube of concealer for the dark circles under her eyes. She breakfasted on a couple of cookies with a cup of coffee while Miss Marple savored her tuna-and-egg surprise, before grabbing the container of cookies and heading down to the shop half an hour before opening. And it was a good thing, too, because no sooner had she raised the blinds on the front display window when Mary Fairchild walked
past and paused at Tricia’s store entrance, wildly gesturing for attention. Tricia unlocked the door and Mary, looking efficient with a clipboard in hand, and ready for autumn in a granny-square, hand-crocheted poncho of blue and gold, charged into Haven’t Got a Clue.
“Hey, Mare, what can I do for you?” Tricia asked.
“I’m here on official business,” Mary said gravely. “But first, I heard about poor Marshall. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Tricia said solemnly.
“Is it true you two were going to tie the knot?”
“We hadn’t firmed up any plans,” Tricia hedged, not exactly lying, but not telling the truth, either. “What brings you to Haven’t Got a Clue today?”
“I’ve volunteered for the recruitment committee for the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce.”
Tricia sighed. She knew where this was going to go.
“I’m very flattered, but—”
“About what?” Mary asked, sounding puzzled.
“About being asked to step in to—”
Mary waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, we weren’t going to ask you to run for president—just to be a part of the recruitment process.”
Tricia frowned. But just a week earlier Mary had told Tricia if she decided to run for Russ Smith’s job as Chamber head, she would have Mary’s backing. What had changed in the last seven or eight days?
“Oh.” Tricia couldn’t think of another response. “Uh, what’s your criteria for finding a replacement?”
“Someone with an open mind, for one. Someone who won’t mind cleaning up the mess Russ Smith left behind. Someone willing to spend the next three to five years rebuilding everything we lost.”
That was a pretty tall order.
“Who else is on the committee?”
“Dan Reed from the Bookshelf Diner, for one.”
“I didn’t realize he’d rejoined the Chamber.” The man hadn’t forgiven Angelica for opening Booked for Lunch, and when she’d become Chamber president, Reed had quit out of principle. He must have been the only new member during Russ’s tenure as Chamber chief.
“He may not want to work with me,” Tricia offered.
“Oh, he’s fine with it. As long as you aren’t the one being recruited.”
Lovely.
“Anyone else?”
“I’ll be talking to Terry McDonald next. But in addition to finding someone to take Russ’s place, we need someone who will sweet-talk our old members to rejoin. You could be that person,” Mary said, looking hopeful.
Tricia considered the offer. Now that Marshall wasn’t going to be in her life, she’d have more free time on her hands. She supposed she could make a few phone calls and perhaps visits to former Chamber members. It might make her feel useful. She hated how all Angelica’s—and her own—hard work for the Chamber had been undone in just under a year.
“Well, what do you think?” Mary asked.
“How much time do I have to think it over?” Tricia asked.
Mary glanced at her watch. “A minute.”
She had to be joking. Tricia asked.
“No, I need an answer right away. I’ve only got twenty-five minutes before I have to open By Hook or By Book. We want to get the ball rolling ASAP.”
Nothing like putting Tricia on the spot. “Well, I guess I could help out for—”
“That’s great!” Mary said, and immediately headed for the door. “I’ll be in contact.” And with that, she practically flew out the door.
Tricia, feeling distinctly unloved, watched Mary scurry to the All Heroes comic-book store next door to talk to Terry, its owner.
Tricia wandered over to the reader’s nook and sat down on one of the upholstered chairs, resting her elbow on her knee and her chin on her clenched fist. Miss Marple jumped up on the big square coffee table and said, “Yow!”
“Indeed,” Tricia told her cat. “Did you hear what Mary said? They don’t want me—who has experience working for the Chamber—to be its leader.”
“Yow!”
“I know! It’s ridiculous.”
Of course, she’d been ready to reject an offer to run, but now Tricia felt insulted that the powers that be—whoever they might be—had rejected her out of hand. Was she a glutton for punishment to have agreed to work to find a replacement for Russ Smith—someone, anyone, who was not her?
Maybe. Just maybe.
FIVE
Mr. Everett was the first to report to work that morning, arriving with fresh bagels from the Coffee Bean for himself, Tricia (poppy seed, her favorite), and Pixie.
“You’re such a dear,” Tricia said, “always thinking of ways to spoil me—and Pixie,” she amended.
Mr. Everett blushed. “I wish I could take away your pain. But as I can’t, I thought . . .”
“You thought you’d say how much you care with breakfast, and I thank you for it.” And especially after the ego-dashing visit with Mary. “Why don’t you hang up your coat and I’ll get everything ready. Pixie should be here any minute.”
And as if on cue, Pixie arrived just a little breathless—as though she’d run the last block—arriving one minute before the store’s official opening. That was okay with Tricia. The first hour after opening was usually slow—even during leaf-peeping season. They could afford to spend the time chatting and sipping coffee. Tricia could never be called a cruel taskmaster.
“Hey, Pixie. Look what Mr. Everett brought us.”
Pixie smiled, her gold canine tooth gleaming. “How does he always know when I run late and don’t catch breakfast?”
“It’s a gift,” Tricia agreed with a laugh.
The trio was settled in the reader’s nook, enjoying their bagels and chatting, when the shop door opened and the bell over it rang.
A tall, attractive woman with short-cropped blonde hair, who looked to be in her early forties, entered Haven’t Got a Clue. Her athletic build was not disguised by the navy tracksuit she wore. Her shoes were the kind some paid hundreds of dollars for, and when she stepped forward, she had a noticeable limp.
“Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue,” Pixie called cheerfully, leaping to her feet. “Can I help you find a book?”
“Uh, no, thanks. I’m looking for Tricia Miles.”
Tricia stood and stepped forward. “I’m Tricia. How may I help you?”
The woman gave Tricia a thorough once-over before speaking. “I’m Becca Chandler.”
For a moment, the name meant nothing to her, but then Tricia remembered her conversation with Kirby the day before.
“Chandler? Are you any relation to Eugene Chandler?”
“I’m his ex-wife.”
Tricia blinked. Marshall had described his so-called deceased spouse as a jogger. In that outfit, this woman fit the bill.
“How . . . how may I help you?”
“I just wanted to meet the woman Gene chose to take my place.”
Tricia took in Pixie’s confused expression. She hadn’t shared Marshall’s secret with either of her employees.
“Uh, why don’t we take this conversation to my office,” Tricia suggested, feeling decidedly rattled.
Becca shrugged. “Fine with me.”
“This shouldn’t take long,” Tricia told Pixie and Mr. Everett.
“Take your time,” Pixie said with a wave of her hand but didn’t immediately return to the reader’s nook.
Tricia led the way down to her office, which seemed like it was becoming a habit when visitors arrived.
Once downstairs, Becca took in the space. “Wow. Great light for a room with none of the natural kind.”
“Yes, well, I took that into account during the design phase. Won’t you have a seat?” she said, waving a hand toward the visitor’s chair, à la Vanna White.
Becca took the guest chair Kirby had occupied just the day before. “So, you told him no,” Becca said matter-of-factly.
Tricia blinked, startled at her visitor’s blunt question. “I didn’t. I didn’t give him an an
swer.”
Again Becca shrugged.
“I’m surprised to see you here. I thought once someone went underground with the Witness Protection Program, they cut all ties with their old life.”
“They’re supposed to,” Becca said nonchalantly. “Gene got lonely.”
“But you were divorced,” Tricia reminded the woman.
Becca drew back. “That didn’t mean we were enemies. Gene thought long and hard about turning state’s evidence against Martin Bailey—for a couple of years. There was no way I was going to give up my career—everything I’d worked for—to live in some corner of East Podunk and become an unassuming nobody.”
Tricia frowned. “You mean like me?”
Becca shook her head. “From what I understand, you once ran a powerful nonprofit in Manhattan. What made you want to give that up to come here?” With the hint of a sneer she looked around the basement office/storeroom.
Tricia took a calming breath before answering. “I thought the pace would be a lot slower.”
“And is your life quiet and peaceful?” Becca asked pointedly.
How much had Marshall—er, Gene—told her?
“Not exactly.”
Again Becca nodded.
“You seem to know a lot about me, whereas I know nothing about you,” Tricia ventured.
Becca blinked incredulously. “You don’t recognize my name?”
“I’m sorry, but . . . no.”
“Rebecca Dickson-Chandler,” the woman said pointedly. When Tricia didn’t react, she clarified her response. “The tennis player,” she said as though to avoid calling Tricia a complete dunce.
Tricia’s eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, yes. The two-time US Open women’s singles champion.”
“Three-time,” Becca corrected, “among other just as prestigious titles.”
“And what are you doing here in Stoneham?” Tricia almost added the word slumming to the question, but held her tongue.
“Once the marshals contacted Gene’s attorney, he immediately contacted me. I’m the executrix of his estate. He never changed that when he went underground.” Becca pulled out her phone and tapped the photo gallery icon. She turned it and flipped through a number of pictures Tricia readily recognized as the Armchair Tourist and the Stoneham Weekly News. Something about them seemed off, but she wasn’t quite sure why. “Although,” Becca continued, “from what I gather, we dodged a bullet—if you’ll pardon the rather bad analogy—when it came to that little newspaper. It turns out the owner hadn’t cashed the check, so we’re off the hook.”
Booktown Mystery 15 - A Deadly Deletion Page 4