A Deadly Deletion

by Lorna Barrett

  “Even better for me. I don’t have to reheat it.”

  They chatted about the real estate’s office décor, Tricia’s calls to Chamber members, and Angelica’s ideas for Ginny’s and Antonio’s new-and-improved home. But Tricia’s thoughts kept returning to Louise Jameson and what she might have meant to Marshall.

  She wasn’t sure she really wanted to know.

  TWELVE

  It seemed as though the sun had taken a vacation as Tricia woke up to yet another morning of gloomy skies. At least the weather app on her phone told her the good news that the afternoon would bring intermittent sunshine, which would definitely be welcome.

  After dressing in wool slacks, a turtleneck, and the Aran sweater she’d bought in Ireland the month before, Tricia started off on her morning walk, grateful she’d dressed warmly. She hadn’t gone far before she was surprised to see the flashing open sign behind the big glass window at the Stoneham Weekly News. Peering through the glass, she saw Patti Perkins sitting at her desk behind the reception counter and waved before entering. “You guys are already up and running again?”

  Patti grinned. “You bet. Although we won’t be putting out an edition for another week or two. We’ve got to beef up our advertising first—get some money coming in. Mr. Barbero—Antonio”—she corrected herself—“says that although we’re a branch of Nigela Ricita Associates, we have to pull our own weight. We can’t do that without advertisers.”

  “Then let me be the first to buy an ad.”

  “Thanks, Tricia. The SWN team all thank you.”

  “When will Ginger be back at work?”

  “Starting Monday. She’ll hit the phone and make some personal visits to our former advertisers, while Antonio does some schmoozing with clients he dealt with when he worked at the Brookview Inn.”

  “Is he working today?” Ginny had mentioned he’d be watching Sofia.

  Patti shook her head. “He was supposed to have coffee with a graphic designer who’s done work for the big boss’s event planner”—which would be Ginny—“but it’s been postponed until Monday. Isn’t it terrible what happened to his house?”

  “Yes, it is,” Tricia agreed.

  “I can’t wait to see the new masthead. Both Ginger and I are going to be trained on a couple of graphics programs so that our ads won’t look so amateurish.”

  “I can’t believe Antonio would use such a description.”

  Patti giggled. “He didn’t, but I can read between the lines.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Ecstatic. I’ve worked here for the better part of a decade and the only training I ever received was from Russ—if that’s what you could call it. I’m going to take some bookkeeping classes, too. Ginger’s excited that she might get to work full-time.”

  “That’s great. I’m so happy to hear that things are about to improve.”

  “It’s been a tough couple of weeks, but it seems like it was all just a bad dream.”

  Tricia wished she could feel the same way.

  “Now, let’s talk about that ad,” Patti said eagerly.

  * * *

  * * *

  Though Tricia had never been a fan of the local weekly rag, she was determined to do her part to make Antonio’s dream job pay off for him. She hadn’t had an opportunity to talk to him about his role in the Nigela Ricita Associates empire, but taking care of the Stoneham Weekly News had to be quite a comedown. She wondered if she ought to bring up the subject the next day when the family got together for their weekly dinner.

  Tricia made her usual circuit around the village but made one detour. She passed the Stoneham Horticultural Society, which took up most of the block, and sure enough, a small building across the street housed the Jameson Photography Studio. It was just after ten when she stepped up to the shop’s front windows, where white lace sheers gave the interior some semblance of privacy, but Tricia could see that the lights were on inside and she decided to pop in to check it—and its proprietress—out. A little bell rang as she opened the door.

  “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 succeeding, 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?”