“And what was that?”
Angelica swallowed, and her mouth trembled. When she spoke, her voice cracked. “To be Antonio’s mother. It took far, far too long before I made it happen. I kept thinking—I need a man in my life. Well, being with Bob Kelly finally proved me wrong. The only man I need in my life right now is Antonio . . . and hopefully a new grandson.”
“You wouldn’t want another granddaughter?”
“Of course I would. It would just be nice to have one of each. You know, to carry on the family name.”
“The Miles name stops with us,” Tricia muttered.
“And maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Angelica groused. “But we’ll leave a proud legacy, and I can’t say that of Daddy.”
Another con man Tricia had loved . . . still did. But the less said about the sisters’ parents, the better.
Tricia polished off the rest of her drink. “I’m starved. Let’s have our sub with our next drink. It’s too bad we don’t have a bag of potato chips.”
“Who says we don’t?” Angelica said.
Tricia smiled.
Her evening was looking just a little bit brighter.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Tricia woke up to a gloomy day, which was destined to have a detrimental effect on sales in her shop. Leaf peepers were deterred by gray skies, wet weather, and the muted colors as the saturated leaves dropped from the branches in droves and stuck to the roads as though with glue. The one bright spot was that she’d get to spend the day with Mr. Everett while Pixie worked her magic on the locals with her acrylic nail designs at Booked for Beauty.
After showering and dressing, Tricia headed down to Haven’t Got a Clue to make sure the shop was ready for any customers who braved the inclement weather. She was about to start the coffee when her cell phone rang. It was Becca calling.
“Hi, Becca. Long time, no hear from,” Tricia said, her mood buoyant despite the outside conditions.
“What do you know about some joker named Barbero?” she asked angrily.
Uh-oh.
“Uh, he’s a friend. He’s just taken over the Stoneham Weekly News, in fact. Why?”
“Because he just accosted me in the Bookshelf Diner.”
“Accosted you? That doesn’t sound like Antonio.”
“Yeah, well, there I was eating my egg-white omelet and he came up to my table. I figured he might be a fan or someone wanting an autograph. Instead, he said he was writing an obit for that pitiful little rag Gene almost stuck me with and he said he’d heard about me from his wife. Who the hell is that?”
Tricia cringed. She’d dragged her feet on writing Marshall’s death notice and had promised to have it to Antonio the day before. but it had slipped her mind with everything else she’d gone through since the night Marshall had been killed. And her growing annoyance with the dead man had caused what positive feelings she had for him to dissipate. “Uh, his wife? That would be Ginny,” she answered sheepishly.
“Did you have her rat on me?”
“What do you mean ‘rat’? Half the village knows you’re here and who you were—uh, are,” Tricia quickly amended. “What was he asking you about?”
“He wanted to know how I could be Marshall’s ex-wife when my Wikipedia entry lists Gene Chandler as my ex-husband. He wanted to know when Marshall and I were married.”
Tricia’s head drooped. “I did warn you just the other night that it was bound to come out. What did you tell him?”
“That it was none of his damn business! But he kept pestering me with questions and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Tricia sighed. “He is a journalist, and that’s what journalists do.”
Becca snorted a laugh. “Oh, please!”
“No, really. Antonio took journalism in college.”
“What college? Hokey Pokey University?” Becca retorted.
“I’m not exactly sure. But his stepmother told me about his degree.”
“And who’s that?”
“Nigela Ricita.”
Becca was quiet for a moment. She knew Nigela’s outstanding reputation in the village and that she owned or rented a good deal of the properties or businesses in the area. “Isn’t everything about this whole village all just a little incestuous?”
“ ‘Nepotism’ might be a better word,” Tricia corrected, “but only because the people Nigela hires have the qualifications for the jobs they hold.”
Good grief. Was keeping Angelica’s secret as bad as the truths Marshall kept from her? But then, Angelica wasn’t a felon. Her motivations were all altruistic—or at least the majority of them were.
“I thought you were supposed to be writing Gene’s obit for the paper—and not mentioning anything about his past,” Becca accused.
Tricia cringed. Yes, she had said she would do it.
“Look, I’m sorry you’re upset, but what do you want me to do about it?”
“Tell that man to never bother me again!”
“By the time the story comes out, Marshall will have been dead nearly three weeks,” Tricia pointed out. “Even Mark Jameson’s death will be a week old by then.”
“Yes, but what if some of the bigger news outlets pick up the story?”
That really would be a coup for Antonio, unlikely as it was to happen.
“I don’t think you should worry about it.”
“Says you, who has never been the subject of such bad press.”
Not to the extent Becca had experienced. But Russ Smith had printed a number of unflattering stories about Tricia in the Stoneham Weekly News that were just as searchable on the World Wide Web.
“So, you won’t help your friend?”
Tricia blinked in confusion. “Friend?”
“Me!” Becca wailed so loud Tricia had to back the phone away from her ear.
Friendly enemy, possibly. Acquaintance was probably the most charitable term Tricia could think of.
“I’ll . . . I’ll speak to him,” Tricia said. “But I can’t make any promises. The content of the Stoneham Weekly News is up to its editor, and that’s Antonio. And you know that once a reporter gets his or her teeth in a story, they’re as tenacious as a terrier.”
“Don’t I know it. I’ve had more bad press than I care to remember.”
Tricia idly wondered if, thanks to her interest in tennis, Angelica would remember. Of course, all Tricia had to do was hit the Internet and do a little research and all those tales would be available in a split second. But she’d ask her sister just the same.
“I’d better go,” Becca said. “I only hope I can get Chief Baker to let me back into Gene’s storage unit. I’m not paying that company another dime to hold on to whatever junk he collected.”
They’d been able to see only piles of stacked cartons with no idea what was in any of them. Knowing Marshall, he’d probably made an inventory. Heaven only knew where it would be. Most likely on his personal or store computer. Did Becca have access to his passwords? Probably not. Tricia didn’t bother to mention it.
“Talk to you later,” she said.
“Sure thing.”
Tricia set her phone down. She supposed she could take a few minutes to pop over to the newspaper that morning. It opened at eight. She still had more than an hour to kill before Haven’t Got a Clue opened.
Grabbing her jacket, Tricia left her store and started north up the sidewalk. Crossing the street at the light, she made her way up Main Street. Booked for Beauty was packed with customers getting cuts and color jobs, and as she looked in the big display window, Tricia could see Pixie at her nail station busy working on a twentysomething’s manicure. She happened to look up and waved cheerfully. Tricia waved back. Pixie gave her a quick thumbs-up and went back to work, and Tricia continued on to the Stoneham Weekly News.
As expected, Patti was behind the counter, sitting before a computer screen, but Ginger was nowhere to be found. Tricia pushed through the door and an annoying buzzer sounded. She much preferred the tinkle of th
e little bell that rang when her shop door opened.
Patti looked up. “Hey, Tricia, what brings you here today? Ready to place another ad?”
“I was hoping I might speak to Antonio. Is he in?”
The door to the inner sanctum opened and a smiling Antonio entered the reception area. “Tricia! I thought I heard a familiar voice.” He waved his hand in a grand gesture. “Welcome to my new home.”
Tricia winced at the description. As far as she knew, the Barbero family was still hunkered down in the suite at the Sheer Comfort Inn and might be for weeks.
“Won’t you come in and sit?” Antonio invited her.
“I’d love to,” Tricia said, and sidled around the counter to go back to Antonio’s office.
The décor had changed since Russ Smith’s departure. For one thing, it was tidy and the desktop was clear of clutter, and all evidence of the destruction Russ’s son, Russell, had inflicted had been erased. The room still needed a fresh coat of paint, but Antonio would probably take care of that in due time.
Tricia took the guest chair and gave Antonio a smile. “How did you like your first full week working on the Stoneham Weekly News?”
Antonio leaned back into the chair and grinned. “Magnifico! This is what I was born to do.”
“I’m so glad you’re getting to finally fulfill your life’s dream. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you with the paragraph on Marshall’s death. I could tinker with it tonight and get it to you by tomorrow morning.”
“It is not necessary. I have been working on it,” Antonio said, sounding confident. Perhaps a little too confident.
“Um, yes. So I heard. In fact, I got a call from Becca Chandler this morning and she was more than a little upset that you tracked her down at the Bookshelf Diner. In fact, she said you accosted her.”
Antonio frowned. “Do you believe I am capable of accosting a lady?”
“No, of course not. That was her perception. But I’m asking you to please drop an in-depth article on Marshall.”
“Tricia, there appears to be a much bigger story here,” Antonio insisted.
She sighed. “But there’s no good end to it.”
“You say that, but how do you know it?” Antonio persisted, his voice rising just a bit.
“Because I’m privy to most of that story,” she admitted, deliberately lowering her voice.
“But not all,” he said.
“No.”
Antonio suddenly stood and straightened to his full—towering—height and shook his head. “I will not drop this. I have my journalistic reputation to uphold.”
Tricia’s eyes widened. A reputation to uphold? Antonio didn’t even have a single issue of that nasty little rag under his belt. Tricia had never been fond of the village’s weekly newspaper, and now her negative feelings toward it were only intensifying.
“Will you tell me what you know about Marshall—if that was his name?” Antonio asked bluntly.
“Becca asked me not to.”
“So, your loyalty is to a complete stranger instead of your own blood?” Antonio accused.
“No,” Tricia said, growing frustrated. “But I gave her my word. That’s a solemn oath. I hope you understand that.”
“No, I do not. In Italia, family is everything,” Antonio insisted. “Those who turn against their family are”—he seemed to struggle to find the right word—“traitors!”
“What are you saying?” Tricia asked, her insides tightening.
“Rejecting that connection is tantamount to blasphemy.”
Tricia didn’t agree, but it was apparent that trying to convince him of her argument was fruitless.
“I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”
“That I will not do,” he said adamantly. Why was he so angry? “I think you should leave now, Tricia.”
“Antonio,” she protested.
He pointed toward the door, his face twisted with fury.
For a moment, Tricia just stared at him. Then she got up, opened the door, and walked out of the office.
“See you later, Tricia,” Patti called cheerfully, but Tricia didn’t acknowledge her salutation as she exited the building.
She walked away, feeling shaken. She’d never exchanged a cross word with Antonio in the four years since they’d first met. She found herself walking slowly back toward her store, still unsure what had transpired between them and wondering how they were ever going to get past that awkward moment.
Perhaps Angelica would have some words of comfort to offer her that afternoon when they met for lunch.
At least, Tricia sure hoped she would.
TWENTY-NINE
As always, Mr. Everett arrived for work just a little early, and as cheerful as ever. Tricia put on a brave face, greeting him in kind, but her nerves were still shot. Now all she had to do was get through the day without letting it bother her . . . too much.
Once they’d shared their usual cup of coffee, Mr. Everett picked up his lamb’s-wool duster and started his workday. Meanwhile, Tricia checked online for news of updates on Mark Jameson’s death. Other than a brief paragraph from one of the TV news websites, there was no further information. Tricia scowled and considered her encounter with Baker the day before. She was grateful it had been Becca and not she who had tested his patience. She wanted so badly to pick Baker’s brain and wring him for information, but what excuse could she make?
She thought about it for a few moments before she pulled out her cell phone and called the chief.
“What is it now, Tricia,” Baker answered, sounding bored.
“I was wondering if you wanted me to come in this afternoon to make my official statement.”
“We’re shorthanded. It can wait until Monday morning.”
“Oh. Okay. Did you learn anything from the video from the storage unit’s camera system?”
“Nope. The system was down. It looks like sabotage.”
“What?”
“Yeah, they’ve had a number of units broken into of late. The system went down Wednesday evening and hadn’t yet been repaired.”
“How convenient,” Tricia said.
“Very,” Baker agreed. “These break-ins are sometimes an inside job, but the manager said he hadn’t had any employee problems. Could’ve been kids just trying to find some stuff to pawn.”
“Chief,” someone called out from a distance. “We’ve got the warrant.”
“Is that for Marshall’s or Mark’s killer?” Tricia asked, suddenly alert.
“I’ve gotta go,” Baker said without answering. “We’ll talk soon.” Without a good-bye, Baker ended the call.
Tricia stared at her now-silent phone. Had Baker just gotten the warrant to make an arrest for the two murders? She’d find out—but not quickly enough.
She wondered how Louise had taken her husband’s death. Was she distraught or relieved? Would she now be free to own her work, or had Jameson set up his business so that she’d never gain control of her rightful intellectual property? As his wife, it was likely she’d inherit his entire estate . . . unless he’d set things up to exclude her. Louise hadn’t given Tricia the impression she was in a loving relationship, but she had rebuffed Marshall in favor of staying with her dentist husband. It sure sounded unpalatable to Tricia.
Another tour bus, filled to the brim with tourists, arrived, and Tricia and Mr. Everett easily handled the shoppers who crowded into the store. Tricia heard her phone ping but was too busy ringing up sales to check her message until a midday lull when Mr. Everett had gone to lunch.
Very busy, can’t meet at BFL, said Angelica’s terse text.
Tricia didn’t have time to reply since the door to the shop opened, letting in another three customers, one of whom asked for immediate assistance. She’d just have to ask Angelica about the rift with Antonio at happy hour after closing.
When Mr. Everett returned, Tricia headed to her apartment, opened a can of soup, and made herself a quick lunch. She’d barely managed to f
inish when Mr. Everett called to ask for assistance. My, how Tricia loved leaf-peeping season and the crowds of tourists who descended on the village.
Considering they’d had several buses earlier in the week, with good sales, Saturday had been the best day and Tricia felt considerably cheered. She and Mr. Everett got the store ready for the next day’s sales before grabbing their coats to leave.
“Have you decided what you’re going to bring to our family dinner for dessert tomorrow?” Tricia asked.
“Since last week you consulted me for a favorite, I thought I might ask the same of you.”
“How thoughtful of you.” Tricia chewed her lip and thought about it. “How about a pie?”
“What kind?”
“Anything.”
Mr. Everett nodded sagely. “I thought I might like to try to make a pumpkin pie. From scratch. Grace picked up a cooking pumpkin at the store the other day for just such an experiment.”
“Then it sounds like it was meant to be.”
“Would you like whipped or ice cream with that?” Mr. Everett asked.
“Why don’t you surprise me?”
Mr. Everett nodded, trying to suppress a smile. “I shall do so.”
Tricia locked the door and the two of them started off. “See you tomorrow!” Tricia said as they parted in front of the Cookery. June had already left for the day and so Tricia let herself into Angelica’s shop and headed for the upstairs apartment.
When Sarge enthusiastically greeted Tricia as she entered, Angelica was quick to reprimand him. “Hush! Go to your bed, Sarge,” she said sternly.
The little dog was used to being told to quiet down, but Tricia had never heard her sister say the words quite so sternly. Sarge looked at her with wide, frightened brown eyes and almost seemed to cringe, but he was too well trained to disobey a direct order and padded over to his bed, where he immediately hunkered down, looking completely demoralized.
Tricia stepped up to the counter to get a couple of biscuits from the lead crystal jar on the counter when Angelica spoke again. “No.”
Booktown Mystery 15 - A Deadly Deletion Page 22