Tricia blinked. “No what?”
“Don’t give Sarge any biscuits. He’s being punished.”
“For what? For greeting me like he has hundreds of times before?”
Angelica didn’t answer.
Tricia studied her sister’s ultra-rigid posture and the taut lines around her mouth. “What’s wrong, Ange? Can I help?”
“Of course you can help,” Angelica snapped. “I got a very disturbing call from Antonio earlier today. You should tell him everything you know about Marshall and his background. You should have done that when you visited him this morning. What’s wrong is you giving your loyalty to a complete stranger instead of Antonio.”
Tricia had had nearly a dozen conversations with Becca since she’d arrived more than a week before. “She’s no longer a complete stranger.”
“Becca is not a nice woman,” Angelica remarked. “You’ve said so yourself. And she showed her true colors when she disparaged Ginny, who was doing you a favor by practicing with her on the tennis court.”
“Becca has her faults,” Tricia conceded, “but she asked me not to talk about Marshall to others—and especially not the press. I promised her I wouldn’t.”
“You told me,” Angelica countered.
“And it was in confidence. Are you going to betray that trust?”
Angelica pursed her lips and said nothing.
A prickly feeling along her spine caused Tricia to shudder. Was it a sense of déjà vu? When they were younger, she and Angelica had never gotten along. Tricia always wondered if it was because Angelica had had to share the limelight of their parents’ affections with the interloper five years her junior. But then, it was apparent that their mother doted on Angelica and merely tolerated Tricia, for reasons she had only recently become aware of.
“Angelica, please answer my question,” Tricia implored.
Long moments passed before Angelica answered. “I haven’t decided.”
Tricia swallowed hard. It had taken nearly seven years for the sisters to build a close, loving relationship that was cemented by trust. Suddenly it felt like an earthquake had just shaken away all that they’d built.
Tricia wasn’t sure what to say next, but she wasn’t about to issue an ultimatum.
The sisters stood staring at each other for long moments.
Tricia forced a smile and softened her voice. “Why don’t we pour a couple of martinis and talk about this more?”
Angelica remained as rigid as a statue. “I didn’t make any.”
“Oh, well, I could—”
“I don’t think so,” Angelica said curtly.
“Don’t think what?”
“That we need to have a drink. In fact, I’m beginning to think we drink far too much.”
Maybe that was true. But happy hour had become a part of their lives—the best part, where the sisters could let down their hair and discuss their lives. And if they drank only tea, it would still be the best part of Tricia’s day.
“Why are you so upset with me?”
“Upset? I’m not upset,” Angelica said tartly.
“Then why are you speaking to me in that tone?”
“What tone?” Angelica asked, and Tricia knew from experience that this was no time to try to reason with her sister.
“Maybe I should come back tomorrow.”
“I don’t think so,” Angelica said once again.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, I don’t think you should come for dinner tomorrow, either.”
“How about Monday?” Tricia asked. Now she was getting irked.
Angelica just glared at her.
Tricia was glad she hadn’t taken off her coat. She turned, headed toward the door of the apartment, and closed it behind her.
Never had she heard such a hollow sound.
THIRTY
Tricia spent a rather lonely evening restlessly pacing her apartment. She thought what she and her sister shared had become an unbreakable bond. Now . . . she doubted every confidence they’d shared, the times when she had depended on her sister to build her up when she’d been down.
She’d come to depend on her sister’s opinions and advice. And what shocked her most was that Angelica, who had leaned toward fairness, had suddenly reversed her stance and seemed hell-bent on defending Antonio no matter what. Then again, just the evening before, Angelica had declared that all she’d wanted most of her adult life was to be a mother to the child she’d given up at such an early age. But was she now taking that desire to an unhealthy—at least for Tricia—degree?
And she’d cried. Cried because there were times when Angelica had defended her—especially the year before when they’d met their parents for lunch in Bermuda. Angelica had stood up to their formidable mother and had pleaded Tricia’s case, even if Tricia had wanted to crawl under the table and hide.
If her sister would reject her for abiding by her sense of morality, then what they had shared had been a sham all along.
That hurt. More than hurt, it was devastating.
The only thing Tricia could think of to soothe her soul was to bake, and even that had been a gift from Angelica. Tricia had finally been able to channel that part of her grandmother’s soul, but if it hadn’t been for Angelica, Tricia was sure she never would have embraced that calling.
And it was, yet again, thumbprint cookies she made, because Mr. Everett would be working the next day. They were his favorites, and he was one of her favorite people. If he gave her even the slightest of smiles because of them, it would make her day.
Tricia wasn’t much of a TV viewer, preferring to get her news from USA Today and the Nashua Telegraph’s online editions, but that evening she turned on one of the Nashua TV station’s news programs for background noise as the cookies cooled. It was then she heard the news.
“An arrest has been made in two murders that occurred in the past two weeks in Stoneham. Louise Jameson has been charged with the deaths of her husband, local dentist Mark Jameson, and Marshall Cambridge, owner of the Armchair Tourist,” the dark-haired female anchor reported. “We have few details at this time, but will keep you posted as the story develops.”
Tricia found herself standing before her TV with her mouth gaping.
Louise Jameson arrested? It didn’t make sense—at least in Marshall’s case. What could her motive be? She’d turned him down—not the other way round. She’d chosen her marriage to Mark over Marshall. If Mark held the copyright on her photos, she had at least expected him to bankroll her wedding venue project. It was possible he’d pulled out of that agreement and she could have killed him in a fit of rage, but Tricia hadn’t gotten the impression Louise was a killer.
Then again, she hadn’t thought Frannie Armstrong capable of killing, or Henry Dawson. Much as she disliked Bob Kelly, she was shocked that even he had committed murder. Did she tend to look for the best in people instead of their worst traits?
Tricia listened to the weather report before turning off the set. She didn’t want to hear any more disturbing news.
After the cookies had cooled and were safely ensconced in a plastic container, Tricia fed Miss Marple and took to her bed to read . . . not that she took in even one tenth of the words she scanned. Her mind kept going back to the hurtful conversation with Angelica. Okay, she could see why Angelica would side with Antonio—her only child, and one she couldn’t (or rather, wouldn’t) acknowledge to the world at large as her own—but it hurt just the same.
And Tricia had never known Antonio to be anything but strong. That during his first foray into journalism he’d resorted to squealing to his mother about his encounter with Tricia was not an indication of any kind of journalistic integrity. If he couldn’t see that, then he had no business trying to establish himself as a member of that profession.
Eventually, Tricia drifted off to sleep, but disturbing dreams of being hounded and judged kept visiting her in the night.
She awoke in the dark and way too early.
It would be a very
long day.
* * *
* * *
Haven’t Got a Clue didn’t open until noon on Sundays, which gave Tricia way too long with time on her hands and not much to think about except the rift with her sister and the possibility that Louise Jameson might have killed Marshall and her husband.
Tricia set off for her usual walk but ended up traveling far beyond her customary route. By the time she returned to her shop, it was nearly twelve and she estimated she’d covered ten miles, making her glad she always wore sensible shoes.
Grace dropped off Mr. Everett five minutes before Haven’t Got a Clue’s opening and he entered the shop with his homemade pie in hand. “Good morning, Ms. Miles.”
“Good morning,” Tricia said, forcing some cheer she didn’t feel into her voice. “Looks like your pie came out beautifully.”
Mr. Everett peeled back the plastic wrap to reveal that instead of crimping the bottom crust, he had cut out tiny maple leaves for the edge, each perfectly brown with a shiny egg-wash glaze.
“I think it turned out well,” he said, which was unusual, as he seldom accepted praise, let alone gave it to himself. “I hope the rest of our friends will enjoy it.”
One thing was for sure, Tricia wasn’t going to get a slice. She wasn’t about to voice that fact.
“Could you store it in your refrigerator until this evening? I wouldn’t want it to spoil.”
“Of course.”
As he was about to hand the pie over, Tricia’s cell phone rang. She looked at the screen and saw it was Becca calling. “I’d better take this,” she said, and answered the call. “Hi, Becca, can you hold on for a minute? I’ve got to take something from the shop up to my apartment.”
“Fine,” Becca said testily.
Tricia stuck the phone in her slacks pocket and took the pie. “I’ll be back down in a few minutes,” she told Mr. Everett, who nodded. They headed for the back of the shop, where Mr. Everett hung up his coat and Tricia climbed the stairs to her home. She placed the pie in the fridge and retrieved her phone.
“What’s up?” she asked Becca.
“I wondered what you thought of Louise Jameson’s arrest.”
Tricia sighed. “I don’t know what to think.”
“I’ve got a theory.”
“Do tell,” Tricia said, and leaned against her kitchen island.
“I think she killed them both.”
“Based on what?”
“Gene told me she was bitter that her husband wove her business into his scheme to tie whatever profits she made from her studio into his financial empire—same with the wedding venue.”
So Tricia hadn’t been the only one to notice it.
“But why would she want to kill Gene, her lover?”
“I haven’t exactly figured that out,” Becca admitted. “I really don’t know much about the bitch.” Her description of Louise could be applied to herself. “Maybe she was jealous of you.”
Ha!
“The cops are sure a man named Joshua Greenwell was at the wheel of the truck that killed Gene.”
“Who she could have hired,” Becca pointed out. “The cops must have found a connection or else they wouldn’t have arrested her.”
Tricia wasn’t so sure.
* * *
* * *
After a good day of sales, it was time to close Haven’t Got a Clue. Tricia hadn’t mentioned the rift among her, Angelica, and Antonio, and she’d been dreading having to tell Mr. Everett that there was a change of plans for that evening. He so looked forward to the whole makeshift family being together, and it wasn’t going to happen on that day.
At 4:59, Mr. Everett grabbed his coat from a peg at the back of the store. “And we’re off to have another wonderful evening with our little family,” he said gleefully.
“Uh, not tonight, I’m afraid,” Tricia said, and forced a grin. “I have a lot of paperwork I need to catch up on and if I don’t scour the Internet for some deals, we’ll be low on stock during the holiday crunch.”
Mr. Everett frowned. “But surely you can take an hour or so for camaraderie and a wonderful meal.”
Tricia’s throat constricted even as she forced yet another smile. “Not tonight,” she reiterated.
“But I made the pumpkin pie especially for you,” he insisted.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“But what will you have for your dinner?”
“I have plenty of food in my larder,” she lied. She hadn’t hit the grocery store in almost two weeks. The milk in her fridge was on the cusp of souring. She might have to—shudder!—resort to adding some of the nondairy whitener she kept in the beverage station for her store’s customers.
“Does your sister know you won’t be attending dinner?” Mr. Everett asked.
“Oh, yes,” Tricia answered blithely. “We discussed it.” No lie there.
“Well, all right, then,” Mr. Everett said, but still looked doubtful. “Shall I save you a piece of pie?”
Tricia patted her stomach. “I could stand to lose a few pounds, but I know everyone else will enjoy it. You can tell me how much on Tuesday.”
Mr. Everett studied Tricia’s face and she could tell he wasn’t accepting her obvious line of bull. “Well, if you say so,” he reluctantly said.
Tricia forced a smile. “Now, go and have a wonderful time. And I’ll see you on Tuesday.”
Mr. Everett took possession of his beautiful pie and nodded. “I will see you then.”
Smiling, Tricia watched him go. When the door closed behind him, she let out a sigh, looked around her empty store, and fought the urge to cry.
THIRTY-ONE
That evening, Tricia moped around her apartment, wondering what the family was having for dinner. Wondering how the conversation was evolving and how Angelica had explained her absence.
Tricia scrambled a couple of eggs, drank a mug of cocoa, and went to bed early with a good book. It was times like that she noticed how deadly quiet her apartment was. She didn’t feel comfortable calling anyone to vent her frustration. She counted Angelica and Ginny as her closest friends. Pixie was a good listener, but although Tricia was quite fond of her, their relationship just wasn’t the same.
After a fitful night of sleep, morning eventually arrived, and Tricia dragged herself out of bed, forcing herself to go through her usual routine. Instead of her accustomed route, she power walked other streets, trying not to think about what was eating at her mind and emotions.
Back at Haven’t Got a Clue, she put some change in the till, made coffee, and stared at the clock, daring it to be opening time.
Pixie arrived five minutes early, in high spirits. That day she’d donned what Tricia thought of as her Katharine Hepburn outfit. A black, long-sleeved blouse, high-waisted tan slacks, and her hair in a topknot.
“We’re going to have a wonderful day!” Pixie declared as she poured herself a cup of coffee at the beverage station.
“We sure will,” Tricia said, forcing cheer she did not feel into her voice.
The little bell over the door rang and the women turned, expecting their first customers of the day. Instead, it was a sad-faced Mr. Everett who entered Haven’t Got a Clue.
“Mr. E, what are you doing here on your day off? Come to hang out?” Pixie asked brightly.
“Er, no. I came to see Ms. Miles,” he said sheepishly, and looked down at a business-sized envelope he held in his hands.
Tricia stepped closer. “Is everything all right?”
“Er, well, no.” The old man hesitated. “I missed you last night at . . .” But then Mr. Everett didn’t finish the sentence.
“I missed you, too,” Tricia said.
Mr. Everett looked to be on the verge of tears. He thrust the envelope he held toward her. “It’s with great sorrow that I must tender my immediate resignation.”
Tricia blinked. “What?”
“It’s not what I would wish to do under other circumstances, but you see, Grace . . .” But then
he didn’t elaborate.
Tricia understood only too well.
Grace had no other family. The Miles-Barberos had accepted her and Mr. Everett into their family. Little Sofia thought of Grace as her other nonna. If Grace had to choose sides, and obviously she had, she would choose the warm embrace of Antonio, Ginny, and—most of all—that golden child all of them loved so much.
Tricia fingered the envelope and nodded slowly. “I understand. But I want you to know that you will always be my friend. And if you ever wish to come back to Haven’t Got a Clue, I will welcome you with open arms.”
Mr. Everett’s eyes brimmed with tears. He swallowed several times and nodded. But then he turned and headed for the door, closing it behind him without a backward glance.
Pixie let out a breath that was almost a sob. “I don’t get it. What’s going on? Why . . . ?” But then she couldn’t seem to finish the sentence.
“It seems I’m caught in the middle of a family feud,” Tricia said simply. “And unfortunately I’m on the losing side.”
“But why?”
Tricia shrugged, and it took a few long hard moments before she could speak again. “These things happen.”
“But not to you guys. You’re special.”
Not anymore, Tricia thought sadly. Not anymore.
Tricia braved a smile. “I’m sure things will straighten out in a day or two,” she said, although she wasn’t at all convinced.
* * *
* * *
As lunchtime approached, Tricia realized she didn’t have much in the way of groceries. No way was she going to cross the street to go to Booked for Lunch, and she noticed that Pixie had patronized the Bookshelf Diner for her midday meal.
Instead, she decided to head to the grocery store in Milford. She’d stock her cupboards and hunker down. If nothing else, Miss Marple would be pleased to have her cat mom home during her midday and evening meals. And perhaps things would be ironed out and maybe in a few weeks she could slide back into her evenings with Angelica.
Except . . . how could she? Tricia now knew where she stood. Without saying it aloud, Angelica’s meaning hadn’t been lost: When push came to shove, she had her own family. She really didn’t need Tricia.
Booktown Mystery 15 - A Deadly Deletion Page 23