A Killer Edition

by Lorna Barrett

  They walked toward each other and met on the open floor; he gave her a quick kiss on the lips and then clasped her hand and led her to one of the open booths on the side of the room, where they sat opposite each other. “Didn’t you get a drink?” she asked, looking around the room, but nobody seemed to be focused on them.

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “I hope you haven’t been here long.”

  “Maybe five minutes. But I’d be willing to wait a lot longer if I had to.”

  Tricia couldn’t help but smile, but Marshall’s expression sobered. “I heard about what happened earlier today. I’m guessing you could use a good stiff drink.”

  “Oh, believe me, I’ve already had two.”

  “Angelica does take good care of you. Was it too bad?”

  “A little gruesome. It’s not every day you see someone with a pitchfork through them.”

  Marshall winced. “Sorry about that.”

  “I’m sure Vera Olson was even sorrier.”

  “I don’t suppose you want to talk about it.”

  “Not now, and especially not here. I need a little time.” He nodded, but she also knew that he knew that she had already discussed it in detail with her sister. True-crime buff that he was, Marshall would just have to be patient if he wanted to hear the same story.

  “I don’t suppose you knew Vera?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I met her just a few days ago. She came into my shop looking for a book on whale watching in New England’s waters. I asked if she was going on vacation and she told me to mind my damn business.”

  Tricia couldn’t help but feel amused. “Good old Vera, spreading joy wherever she went.”

  “Not on that day,” Marshall said.

  Bev the waitress arrived at their table. “What can I get you two? The usual?”

  Marshall adopted his best English accent. “Of course, dearest Bev, and some crisps for dear Tricia, too, please. Pip-pip, cheerio, and all that rot.”

  Bev giggled. “You crack me up, Marshall.”

  “It’s my way with women, darling.”

  Again, Bev giggled. “If I was only ten years younger.”

  Tricia made as though to get up from her seat. “Would you two like to be alone?”

  “We’ll have to meet in secret some other time,” Marshall told Bev, and waggled his eyebrows.

  Bev blushed and looked away. “I’ll go get your drinks.”

  Marshall rested an elbow on the table, his chin on his cupped hand, and gazed into Tricia’s eyes, giving her one of his enigmatic smiles. “Let’s get drunk and go back to my place and fool around.”

  She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a smile but simply said, “I thought that was a given.”

  “Before we do, what would you like to talk about?” Marshall asked.

  “Something innocuous.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like tomorrow I’m going to enter the Great Booktown Bake-Off.”

  “Really?” Marshall asked, although he didn’t sound at all surprised.

  “Pixie thinks I can win.”

  “And can you?”

  “I’d sure like to try. Being a runner-up wouldn’t hurt. I’d like to give Angelica a run for her money. She seems to think she will win the amateur prize.”

  “And just what is the prize?”

  “I have no idea—at least when it comes to the amateur division. The winner of the professional division gets a shot on celebrity chef Larry Andrews’s TV show.”

  “Who do you think will win that?”

  “I’d be happy for any of the contestants.” But that wasn’t exactly true. Nikki Brimfield-Smith and Tricia were no longer friends, although it wasn’t by Tricia’s choice. The woman was a skilled French-trained pastry chef. She was also younger than Tricia by at least a decade and very pretty, just the kind of person who would positively glow under hot klieg lights. She might even be ruthless enough to scheme her way into a TV show of her own—should she win, of course.

  “Did I mention I was one of the sponsors of the amateur division?” Marshall said.

  Tricia raised an eyebrow. ‘‘No.”

  “I’m rather surprised you didn’t step up to the plate,” he said.

  “I don’t think it would look good if one of the contestants offered to help underwrite the event.”

  “Then it sounds like you’ve been contemplating entering all along.”

  Tricia frowned. “Well . . . maybe.”

  Marshall shook his head. “Then why wait ’til the last minute to sign up?”

  Tricia shrugged. “I guess I’ve been preoccupied. I’ve got a lot going on,” she lied. The truth was she had far too little going on, which was good in one way. It would give her more time to prepare for the competition.

  “What does your sponsorship entail?” she asked.

  “Giving the Booktown Ladies Charitable Society a big fat check to defray costs.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe flyers, posters, postage—stuff like that. They’re supposed to plug my shop in return.”

  “Would you personally consider sponsoring me in the contest?”

  “How much is this going to cost me?”

  “I don’t know how many contestants there are. It could be ten or twenty dollars.”

  “And I can write this off?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, I’ll be your sponsor.”

  Tricia gave him what she hoped was a warm smile. “Thanks.”

  Bev arrived with their drinks, setting them down on white paper cocktail napkins. “I’ll be right back with your crisps,” she said, and giggled again.

  They watched her go; then Marshall raised his glass. “To your success in the Great Bake-Off.”

  Tricia raised her glass, too. “Thank you.” To best Angelica, she was going to need all the luck and good wishes she could get.

  FOUR

  Sometimes you’re just not in the mood. And after Tricia had arrived at Marshall’s apartment in the building that also housed his bookshop and travel sundries business, the Armchair Tourist, she realized that, after the day she’d had, making love was the last thing on her mind. But she also knew that despite her previous assertion, maybe what she really needed to do was talk about Vera Olson’s death. Since Marshall was a true-crime fan, he was probably the best sounding board she’d get—besides Angelica, of course.

  Marshall poured hot water into two cups and stirred until the cocoa powder had completely dissolved. “Are you sure you want to have cocoa after a martini?”

  Tricia nodded. “It’s a comfort thing. My grandmother used to make me cocoa when I was upset. Have you got any cookies?”

  “Fig bars.”

  “I haven’t had one since . . .” Had Tricia ever had a fig bar?

  Marshall retrieved an already opened package and set several of the cookies on a plate. “Let’s go sit in the living room.” He picked up one of the cups and the plate and led the way. Tricia grabbed her cup and followed.

  They sat in adjacent chairs, and Tricia kicked off her shoes, drawing her legs onto the seat. Marshall pushed the plate toward her and she picked up one of the bars, taking a sniff. “Oh, my, it almost smells like perfume.” She inhaled deeply. Absolutely intoxicating.

  “I heard a little about the situation. That there was an argument between the dead woman and Joyce Widman earlier in the day.”

  “Yes. And I was there.”

  He nodded. “Now, what is it about Vera Olson’s death that’s got you spooked?” he asked.

  “Besides seeing the woman with a pitchfork in her belly?”

  “You’ve seen worse.”

  Unfortunately, he was right, but she also knew that he wasn’t being callous about her reaction.


  “There was very little blood.”

  “So she was already dead before she was run through.”

  Tricia nodded. “The grass was pretty much undisturbed, which had to mean that she wasn’t dragged to the spot where she was dumped.”

  “Were there any other signs of trauma on the body?” Marshall asked, and picked up his cup.

  “Possible bruises on her neck.”

  “So strangulation?”

  Tricia nodded.

  “Did she and the woman who owned the house have a recurring problem?” he asked.

  Tricia nodded. “Joyce and I really didn’t talk much about Vera before we went into her backyard. After seeing the tree, I can understand why the woman was upset. The people who cut it really butchered it. But it’s odd. During their hot discussion this morning at Joyce’s shop, it sounded like Vera would have been okay with the limb coming down if it had happened under other circumstances,” she said, and took a bite of her cookie, surprised by the crunch of seeds but not put off by the texture.

  “What do you mean?”

  Tricia chewed and swallowed. “Vera said to Joyce, ‘I specifically asked you to wait.’ Wait for what?”

  “Why did Joyce have the limb cut today of all days?”

  “She wanted her vegetable garden to get full sunlight and the tree gave too much shade. The limb they took down had to be eighteen inches or more in diameter, and it must have hung pretty low, too.”

  “Then it could’ve been an obstacle for whoever had to cut the grass—Joyce or someone she hired.”

  “It was probably Joyce. She has a shed full of gardening tools. It was her pitchfork that was run through Vera. Her vegetable patch took out quite a swath in the middle of the yard.”

  Marshall nodded and grabbed a cookie for himself. Tricia caught him studying her, his expression enigmatic. “What?”

  He shrugged. “I can tell by the set of your mouth that something else is bothering you. What is it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure I saw something in that yard that was of significance, but I don’t know what it could be.”

  “Don’t try to think about it. That way, it might come to you when you least expect it.”

  Tricia sipped her cocoa and nodded. Then yawned.

  “It looks like someone needs to crash.”

  “It’s been a long day,” Tricia admitted.

  “Come to bed with me. I’ll hold you all night—make you feel safe.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll hold me until you nod off, and then you’ll roll over and I’ll be on my own.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s the way it usually works,” she said mildly.

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded.

  He looked chagrined. “Well, at least I don’t snore.”

  “That you know of,” she said pointedly.

  Marshall scowled but then seemed to realize she was teasing him. “Can I at least walk you home?”

  “That I would enjoy. And if you don’t mind, maybe you could even hold my hand.”

  He gave her another of those thrill-inducing smiles, which almost made her change her mind. “I wouldn’t mind in the least.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Not only had Marshall walked Tricia to the door of her store, but he’d also given her a pleasant kiss that promised more at a future date. She saw that he waited until she switched off the last of the lights before he started for home and had been grateful for his patient company.

  Still, it wasn’t at all surprising that Tricia didn’t sleep well that night. Restless dreams with frightening themes caused her to wake up several times and were frustrating because, while she couldn’t remember them, she’d been terribly upset, which was silly. She knew the genesis of those nightmares—Vera Olson’s death.

  She’d finally fallen back to sleep around five and hadn’t awoken until nearly eight. After coffee, and a light breakfast for her and her cat, she was ready for her daily exercise. That day she chose to take a walk around the village, without Angelica’s dog, Sarge.

  She left Haven’t Got a Clue, locked the door, and headed north. The Patisserie was already open and was crowded with customers, with Nikki herself behind the counter bagging bagels, scones, and doughnuts. Tricia bypassed the shop but soon stopped when she saw the lights were on in Joyce Widman’s Have a Heart bookstore. Joyce stood behind the cash desk looking like she hadn’t slept much the previous night, either.

  Although the sign on the window said CLOSED, Tricia knocked on the jamb to get Joyce’s attention. Joyce got off of her stool and came around the desk to open the door.

  “My, you’re at work early today,” Tricia said.

  Joyce sighed. “Right now, home is not my favorite place. I can’t bear to look out the back window to see my garden.”

  “I’m so sorry you’re going through this,” Tricia said.

  Joyce merely shrugged.

  “When I saw the lights on, I thought I’d ask how you’re doing.”

  “Not well,” Joyce admitted, which was evident by the weariness in her voice.

  “If you’d like someone to talk to . . .” Tricia left the sentence hanging.

  “Actually, I would.”

  “Our stores don’t open for at least another hour. Why don’t you come over to my place for coffee.”

  Joyce looked around her empty shop. “Actually, I would like to escape to somewhere quiet.”

  “Then let’s go. I’ve got an almost bottomless coffeepot.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” Joyce said, relief coloring her tone. She turned off the lights, then locked the store, and the two women walked briskly toward Haven’t Got a Clue.

  Once they’d reached the apartment, Joyce settled on one of the stools at the kitchen island while Tricia made a fresh pot of coffee. “Thanks for inviting me. I couldn’t muster the energy to make anything for breakfast this morning.”

  Tricia hit the switch on the maker and took out a couple of pretty floral bone china mugs she’d received as a housewarming gift from her former assistant and now niece-in-law, Ginny Wilson-Barbero. She set one in front of Joyce and pushed the tray of cream and sugar closer to her. “Sorry I don’t have muffins, but I’ve got some snickerdoodles. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”

  “That sounds great. Did you make them yourself?”

  Tricia nodded. “I’ve been doing a lot of baking lately.”

  “Did you sign up for the Bake-Off?”

  “It’s on my list of things to do this morning. How about you?”

  “I signed up, but now I’m not sure I want to compete. I mean, it would just draw more attention to me and what happened to Vera.”

  That wasn’t a subject they needed to harp on—that is, unless Joyce wanted to talk about it.

  Joyce sighed. “Thanks for sending Roger Livingston to the station last evening. I don’t think I needed him, but it felt good to have someone with me who was on my side.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have gone with you.”

  Joyce shook her head. “I don’t think Chief Baker would have appreciated it. He sure likes to ask the same questions over and over again. It was almost as though he was trying to trip me up.”

  “That’s exactly what he was doing,” Tricia said.

  “I’m sure he’ll be hounding me in the days to come—but I sure would like to put this behind me. As it is, I’m not sure I ever want to go in my backyard again.”

  It was time for Tricia to steer the conversation to another subject, but then she found she didn’t need to, as Joyce started another topic.

  “When I think of how my life has changed these past few years, I have to say that—except for yesterday—I don’t have any regrets.”

  Tricia’s main regret was that Christopher had been murdered,
but there wasn’t anything she could have done to change that—or how she still felt about the loss.

  “I was one of the first booksellers to answer the ad to relocate to Stoneham,” Joyce recalled.

  Tricia had heard the story before, but she wasn’t about to interrupt Joyce, who seemed to need to talk. “That had to be a big leap of faith for you.”

  “Yes. Especially since I’d only been in business for a year and was fresh off a divorce,” Joyce admitted. “But I was looking for a new start. And for the most part, I’ve been very happy here in Stoneham—at least professionally.”

  “And what part of your life wasn’t so happy?” Tricia asked.

  “Being Vera’s neighbor.”

  Tricia wasn’t sure if they should return to that subject, but then Joyce continued.

  “You saw that gate in my side yard that opens to Vera’s property. It was there when I bought the house. I just assumed that Frannie and Vera—or maybe even whoever lived there before Frannie—had been good friends. But the truth was it made me feel uncomfortable. Especially when I caught Vera in my yard pinching my herbs last month.”

  “She stole them?” Tricia asked, surprised.

  Joyce nodded. “It took me a little while to catch on. I set up a stakeout and caught Vera in the act just after dawn. That very day, I visited the hardware store in Milford and bought a couple of bolts to seal the door between our properties. Vera never apologized, and since then she’s been downright hostile toward me and tried to make my living there as unpleasant as possible.”

  “That’s terrible,” Tricia said. “Did she have problems with other neighbors?”

  “Of course, but she turned her wrath against me, trying to turn everyone on the street against me.”

  “And how has that gone?”

  Joyce managed a small smile. “Thankfully, not all that well.” She broke a piece off of her cookie and ate it. “Wow, these are good.”

  “Thanks. They were one of Angelica’s favorites when we were growing up.” Tricia’s mother had discouraged her from eating sweets, but she had recently learned just how much she savored the taste.