“Be right there,” called a female voice from the back of the building.
Tricia closed the door and looked around what must have once been the front parlor of the vintage shotgun house. Several roll-down screens were suspended from the ceiling. Carpet-covered benches of varying heights could probably seat four or five, and a shelving unit held hats, scarves, silk florals, and other props. Framed portraits of brides and grooms silhouetted by a setting sun graced the walls, while an antique oak lectern held a massive book of photographs—apparently a showcase for the owner’s work. The room wasn’t big, and Tricia’s makeshift family numbered seven in all. Could they all squeeze into the space, or would it be better to have the photograph taken at Angelica’s place?
A woman, who Tricia assumed was Louise Jameson, emerged from the back room with a large mug of steaming coffee in hand. She was blonde, lithe, and attractive, maybe five or more years younger than Tricia, with a simple gold band covering the ring finger of her left hand. “Hi. Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m Tricia Miles.”
At the sound of her name, Louise’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
Tricia waited, but when Louise didn’t elaborate, she started again. “I own the mystery bookshop up on Main Street.”
“How . . . how nice.”
“Are you Louise? I understand you take group portraits.”
“Among other subjects,” Louise said rather evasively.
“My sister and our family would like to have a group shot made. Is this something you’d be interested in doing?”
“I’m always interested in taking photos—the more the merrier,” she said, and gave a nervous laugh. “When did you want to schedule it?”
“I’d need to discuss it with our family, but I was hoping it could be on a weekend when most of us don’t have to work.”
Louise shook her head. “I don’t usually work in the studio on weekends, but I’m sure we could arrange something. Would you have another date in mind?”
Tricia shook her head. “I was just walking by when I saw your sign and thought I’d pop in and talk to you and maybe get your rates.”
“How did you hear about me?” Louise asked, her tone colored with suspicion.
“Karen Johnson at NR Realty. She told me about your studio. I had no idea we even had a photographer here in Stoneham.”
“Then I sure need to get out more,” Louise joked halfheartedly.
“Is this your main studio?”
“Uh, I have another room in the back, but most of my portraits are taken right here.”
Tricia nodded. “Do you have a rate sheet?”
Louise placed her coffee cup on her prop shelf and reached for a brochure housed in a tall, rectangular crystal vase. She handed the trifold leaflet to Tricia. “My number’s on the last panel. You can call during business hours to make an appointment. If I’m out on an assignment, voice mail will pick up or my assistant can schedule a sitting.”
“Fine. Oh, and there are seven in our family—the youngest is a toddler.”
“Young or old, it doesn’t matter to me,” Louise said.
“That’s good to know. Do you only do portraits here, or will you come to one of our homes?”
“I prefer my studio. I’ve got the proper lighting. After all, I don’t use a cell phone for my work,” Louise said rather defensively.
Tricia wasn’t sure how to react to that statement, so she said nothing. Instead, she forced a smile. “Great. We’ll be in touch next week. Thanks for speaking with me.”
“Anytime,” Louise said brightly, but her eyes belied her words.
Tricia’s visit had rattled her. If nothing else, she would need to speak to Louise about Marshall at another time. But for now, she would have to be patient.
“I’ll look forward to your call,” Louise said.
With a smile and a wave, Tricia exited the studio.
As she retraced her steps, heading toward Main Street, Tricia again wondered if Louise and Marshall could have been lovers. He liked accomplished women—if she could include herself in that description—and by the looks of the photos she’d seen in the studio, Louise had photographic chops. But if she was mourning Marshall’s loss, she sure didn’t show it.
And you’ve been accused of the same thing, Tricia reminded herself.
But she did mourn him. What she felt was deep, and painful, but quite confusing as well.
Somehow, Tricia had a feeling it would take some time to get over Marshall Cambridge.
THIRTEEN
It was close to ten thirty when Tricia entered Haven’t Got a Clue, where the heavenly aroma of coffee permeated the air.
“Good morning, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett greeted her from the front cash desk. Before him stood a mug filled with the fresh brew and an open book. Miss Marple was curled in a ball beside it.
“It sure smells good in here.” A shiver shook her and Tricia rubbed her hands together. “Doesn’t it feel colder than it should be for this time of year?”
“The weatherman says it should be in the low sixties by three this afternoon.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Tricia said, and headed for the beverage station. “What are you reading today?”
“Rex Stout’s Champagne for One.”
Tricia nodded. “I haven’t read that in a while. I’ll have to do so again—and soon.” She chose a mug from the shelf under the coffeemaker. “Thanks for opening the store this morning. I’m afraid I’ve got another favor to ask of you.”
“I’m always willing to do whatever I can do to help,” Mr. Everett offered her.
“I’m having lunch with Ginny today.”
“On Saturday?” he asked, surprised.
“Did you hear about the fire?”
Mr. Everett nodded. “We spoke yesterday. She was quite upset. I asked if she needed anything, but she assured me that she, Antonio, and Sofia were well taken care of. Grace was particularly upset to hear the news. She went and visited Ginny at the inn.”
“I’m sure Ginny appreciated her concern.”
“We think of her as the granddaughter neither of us ever had.”
Tricia nodded.
“Yes. She specifically asked and I didn’t want to disappoint her. We’re set to meet at twelve thirty at Booked for Lunch. She wants to talk. I have a feeling she means vent over what happened to their lives since the fire.”
“We’re at a loss as to what we can do to help.”
“To paraphrase the Beatles, all they need is love.”
“That we can give them,” he said, which was a rare admission from the deeply private man.
“I might be more than an hour. What will you do about your lunch hour?”
“There are several options along Main Street. I’m sure I can find something for sustenance once you return.”
“I could bring you a sandwich or whatever you want from the café. That is, if you wouldn’t mind eating in the office downstairs,” she said, and filled one of the ceramic mugs from the shelf under the station.
“Mind? I’d enjoy it. It would give me a chance to catch up on my reading.”
Tricia allowed her staff to read anytime there weren’t customers in the store, so his glee at the offer was hardly a perk. But Mr. Everett’s eyes sparkled with delight at the prospect and she didn’t contradict him.
“Great.”
The shop door opened and an older man and woman entered, decked out in matching rainwear.
“Good morning,” Mr. Everett greeted them, “and welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. Please let either Ms. Miles or myself know if you have any questions or would like a recommendation.”
“Thanks,” the woman said as she and her companion ventured deeper into the store. “We’ll have a look and let you know.”
Tricia set her coffee cup on the table beside the beverage station and chose some jaunty music to brighten up the dark morning. In no time, she was tapping her foot in time with the beat and trying, but not succeedin
g, to banish troubling thoughts from her mind. It would take more than caffeine and the Clancy Brothers to do that.
* * *
* * *
As Tricia had promised, she arrived at Booked for Lunch exactly at twelve thirty, but to her surprise, Ginny had actually arrived early. “I think this must be a first,” Tricia said brightly.
At the sound of her voice, Ginny looked up, her eyes brimming with tears, and then leapt to her feet to give Tricia an all-encompassing hug, hanging on tightly. Tricia patted her back, holding on for long seconds before pulling back.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better,” Ginny said honestly, and braved a smile. The women took their seats. “Thank you so much for coming,” she said, her voice tight with emotion.
Ginny already had a cup of half-drunk coffee sitting in front of her. She let out a weary sigh. “Ever since the fire, I’ve found it really hard to concentrate.”
Tricia offered her a sympathetic smile. “Losing just about everything you own will do that to a person.”
“Not that the big boss”—their code phrase for Angelica under her Nigela Ricita name—“will pressure me to return to work, but I want to be back at my desk on Monday. I need some semblance of order in my life. But I’m also reevaluating everything about that life. Antonio and I have been putting too much of our energy and time into our work lives. We’ve got a great daughter and we’re going to have another baby in the spring. I love my job, but I love Sofia more. I wasn’t thrilled when I found out I was pregnant again”—just weeks before—“but now I see it as a blessing. I need my family. My husband, my children, and you guys, too, of course.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.”
“I feel like I need to hold you, Angelica, Grace, and Mr. Everett tightly and try and keep you all safe.”
“You can’t do that. Nobody can,” Tricia advised.
“I know . . . but I can’t stop thinking about how fragile life is. You know that . . . losing Christopher and now Marshall.”
Boy, did she ever. But those losses didn’t have equal value. She’d known Christopher for fifteen years—had been married to him for a decade—and Marshall for a little over a year. Still, it would take time to get over Marshall’s loss, too. If nothing else, he’d been her friend. And though rationally she knew why he hadn’t told her his true history, she’d always feel a little hurt that Marshall probably would never have told her the truth about his past.
And yet, if they’d married, would he still have kept Becca in his life? Had she been the one he’d wanted but gave up for what he’d deemed a greater good, or was Baker right when he’d said Marshall had turned state’s evidence only to save his own neck? She’d probably never know.
“Yeah,” Tricia admitted.
“I’m a horrible person,” Ginny said with regret. “The minute I heard what happened to Marshall, I should have done more than just send you a text.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tricia said. In fact, she hadn’t even noticed. What did that say about her level of grief? Should she be offended? Actually, she wasn’t. Because the outside world had no clue about how close she was or wasn’t to Marshall. As Angelica had pointed out, Tricia didn’t even need the fingers on one hand to count the times Marshall had attended the Sunday family dinners. And despite her affection for Ginny, she wasn’t about to share the depth of her feelings about her loss.
Tricia decided to change the subject.
“I was surprised—really, shocked—when Angelica told me that Antonio wanted to take over the Stoneham Weekly News.”
“No more than me,” Ginny admitted. “But we talked it over in depth. He’s not giving up as much command of Nigela Ricita Associates as you might think. He loves the idea of directing a newspaper—rinky-dink as it might be—but he intends to offload a lot of the day-to-day responsibilities to the women who’ve been keeping it alive despite Russ Smith’s bad management.”
Tricia smiled. “I’m glad to hear that. I spoke with Patti Perkins this morning, and she and Ginger are ecstatic that they’ll be able to contribute more to the paper.”
“And finally get paid according to their abilities,” Ginny added. “Antonio intends to write one big story a week while monitoring other NR Associates projects as well, but hopefully he should also have more downtime, too. We’ll need that once the new baby comes.” Ginny gave herself a shake. “We should probably order lunch. I wish I had more of an appetite.”
“You’re eating for two now,” Tricia teased.
Ginny almost laughed. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“Why don’t we live dangerously and start with dessert?” Tricia suggested.
“I happened to notice there was a Boston cream pie under the cake dome on the counter,” Ginny said with a nod in that direction.
“I’ll bet Tommy made it this morning. He’s a pretty darn good pastry chef.”
Ginny nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose I could wash it down with a chocolate milkshake—a small one. I don’t want to get too crazy.”
“And I could go for a vanilla one myself,” Tricia admitted. She looked up and signaled Molly, the waitress, who started toward them, already peeling back the last page from her order pad.
“What can I get you ladies?”
“A terrible indulgence in every way,” Tricia said.
“Isn’t that the best kind?” Molly asked with a laugh.
“You bet,” Tricia said, giving Ginny a heartfelt smile.
Ginny nodded.
As Molly walked away, Tricia turned back to Ginny. “Angelica sees your rebuilding plans as a blank canvas. How would you fill it?”
Ginny actually smiled. “Well, now that you mention it . . .”
FOURTEEN
Tricia and Mr. Everett spent a pleasant afternoon together made better still by an influx of customers who’d traveled to southern New Hampshire in search of pretty fall colors and had stumbled across such a quaint little village. They gushed about their visits to other merchants along Main Street and of their pleasure at discovering such a gem of a place.
Listening to them made Tricia feel proud of her adopted home and the small part she played to make it appealing. Better still, she was happy to hear the effusive praise for Angelica’s contributions under her own name and that of her Nigela Ricita brand that had transformed the tired little village of used bookstores into the travel destination it had become—and in such a short span of time.
Inspired by those testimonials, Tricia was determined to look for sparks of joy in what had become such a dark time.
As they began preparations to close for the day, Tricia turned to Mr. Everett. “I’m in charge of dessert for our family dinner tomorrow. Is there anything you’d like me to make?”
Mr. Everett’s gaze dipped. “When I was a small boy, my favorite fall treat was apple crisp. My mother made it often from the apples that grew in our own backyard. Such happy, happy memories,” he said with a wistful smile. “Would that be something the others might enjoy?”
Tricia smiled. “I’m betting everyone will. I’ll need to get some apples, but I’ve got everything else I need to make it.”
“May I contribute the apples?”
“Of course. Then it would be our contribution to dinner.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Your sister is so generous she rarely lets us pitch in.”
“Would you like to do more?”
“We would.”
“Then I’ll mention it to her.”
“Please don’t let her think we’re ungrateful,” Mr. Everett clarified.
“Not at all. What would you like to bring next week?”
Mr. Everett looked thoughtful. “I could make the dessert.”
“What would you make?”
Mr. Everett flashed a smile. “A surprise.”
Tricia positively grinned. “Go for it!”
* * *
* * *
That evening, after yet another exuberant greeting from Sar
ge, the first thing Tricia noticed upon entering Angelica’s apartment was that she was wearing pink-sequined sneakers. “Congratulations on the fancy new footwear.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Angelica said lightly, and held out the foot that the day before had been encased in a heavy, ugly boot. “They were delivered this afternoon. Do you like them?”
“They bring me joy,” she said, and laughed.
“À la Marie Kondo?”
“Sort of. But instead of judging things for joy, I’m going to look for the good.”
“Oh, so a combination of Marie and Pollyanna?”
“It beats being miserable.”
Angelica smiled. “I got a pair for Sofia, too. I thought we’d look like twins.” Angelica frowned. “I wonder if I should have gotten a pair for Ginny, too. She could use a smile.”
“Why don’t you ask her tomorrow?”
“Good idea.”
“I take it your foot feels okay to wear something other than that clunky boot?”
“They might be pushing it,” Angelica admitted, “but they’ve done wonders for my spirit. Now help me with the snacks and drinks so I can get off my feet and sit on my butt.”
Tricia hung up her jacket and collected the glasses and the evening’s treat, which was some kind of white dip with pretzels.
“What have we here?” Tricia asked.
“Beer dip.”
Tricia wrinkled her nose. She really wasn’t much of a beer drinker. Neither was her sister. She said so.
“But Tommy at the café is. He made it for us. It couldn’t be easier, either. Cream cheese, beer, salad dressing mix, and cheese. Taste it. You’re going to love it.”
Tricia picked up a pretzel, dipped it lightly into the bowl, and took a bite. “Whoa! That is good.”
“Let’s sit down and pig out,” Angelica said with a giggle.
Booktown Mystery 15 - A Deadly Deletion Page 11