Sarge knew the way. He and Tricia had traced the same trajectory literally hundreds of times. In fact, Tricia was sure she and Sarge had covered much more of Stoneham on foot than the dog had done with his actual owner. He was a delight to walk, for his first owner had trained him well. And, of course, Angelica insisted on wearing shoes known to damage one’s Achilles tendons and were hardly walk-worthy, so it wasn’t a surprise that she and Sarge made far shorter inroads when it came to walking the streets of Stoneham.
Tricia knew that the majority of residents of Pine Avenue were retirees, so the odds were in her favor that she might encounter one or more of them on any given afternoon. So many of the residents were gardeners, often out weeding and watering, that there was a good possibility that some of them might speak to her. And because she and Sarge had become part of the scenery, she had at least a nodding acquaintance with quite a number of the street’s residents.
As she turned onto Pine Avenue, Tricia was disappointed to see that there didn’t appear to be anyone out tending their yards. Of course, it was afternoon and the people on the east side of the street wouldn’t want to be outside with the summer sun beating down on them. Those on the west side would be in shadows. She crossed the road so that she would be closer to those who might be out, but it seemed as though in the future she might have to change tacks and take Sarge for a walk in the morning, before the heat of the day—when temperatures were better suited to taking care of lawns and gardens.
Her gaze strayed to Joyce’s house. Unlike the day before, all the blinds were down and the drapes were drawn, giving the house a rather forlorn appearance. Next door, Vera’s house looked as it had—curtains open and red begonias blooming, as though to look cheerful and welcoming for its owner, who had left the area in a body bag and wouldn’t be returning.
Sarge tugged on the leash to remind Tricia that they were on a serious walk, not a casual stroll. She quickened her pace.
Up the street, a woman strode down her driveway, stopping in front of her mailbox. As Tricia approached, she could hear the sound of a dog barking and saw the head of some kind of terrier through the home’s screen door. She’d spoken to the same woman after Carol Talbot’s death but couldn’t remember her name, but she was sure the woman would remember Sarge.
“Hello,” Tricia called cheerfully.
The woman collected her mail and closed the box’s door. “Hi.” She bent down. “And hello, Sarge!” Nobody ever forgot Sarge. The woman let him sniff her hand, and then petted him. “It’s been a while.” Her own dog started barking furiously at his owner’s betrayal.
“Oh, be quiet, Bruno!”
Why was it people with small dogs gave them such fierce names? Of course, Angelica hadn’t named her dog. When she’d adopted the little guy, she’d kept the name Sarge’s first owner had given him.
“Beautiful day. And this is such a quiet street. Not like Main Street, where I live,” Tricia said, hoping it would be the perfect conversational opening.
“It wasn’t quiet yesterday—not with all those cop cars and emergency vehicles.”
“I heard what happened to Vera Olson,” Tricia said, and sighed. No need to mention she’d helped find the dead woman. “I suppose the whole neighborhood will mourn her loss.”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh?”
“She was the neighborhood PITA.”
“Pita?”
“Pain in the . . . rear end.”
“Why was that?”
“She was an animal rights zealot. Mind you, I love animals. I’ve got Bruno, a cat, three goldfish, and I’m pet sitting my granddaughter’s guinea pig while the family is on vacation. But Vera thought of herself as a member of the pet police. She berated dog owners who tied their dogs up—even if they were in the yard gardening and watching their pets, called the cops when she felt dogs barked too much—even if it was noon. She often captured cats in Havahart traps because she said they were killing the neighborhood songbirds.”
“What did she do with the cats?” Tricia asked, horrified at Vera’s actions and thankful her own cat was strictly an indoor pet.
“She would put up ‘Lost cat’ signs and take them to Pets-A-Plenty, but if no one claimed them after a week, they’d go up for adoption. I suppose Vera truly believed she was acting in the cats’ best interests taking them away from careless owners.”
Catching people’s pets via a trap in itself was enough to make Vera the neighborhood bad guy.
Tricia looked back toward Vera’s attractive house with its gardens and charming birdhouses and felt a pang of pity and regret for the woman. She obviously wanted to do the right thing by animals, both wild and tame, but she could have gone about it in a more judicious manner.
“Some people might say Vera deserved what she got,” the woman continued, “but I’m nervous. There have been too many deaths on this street. We’re putting the house up for sale as soon as we can get it ready.”
“Where will you go?”
“Milford—or maybe Merrimack. Not too far, but away from here. I’m not leaving this part of the state and away from my grandbabies, but I don’t want them coming to my house to visit anymore—not until we live somewhere safer.”
Tricia nodded and felt bad that Stoneham had gained a reputation as the death capital of southern New Hampshire.
“That’s too bad when there are other wonderful things about Stoneham, like the upcoming Bake-Off, the new day spa, and the Wine and Jazz Festival next month.”
“That’s for the tourists, and I can do without all of them.” The woman bent down and petted Sarge’s fluffy little head once more. “It was nice to see you again, Sarge.” The dog’s tail wagged so hard Tricia was afraid it might fly right off.
“It was nice speaking with you, too. Have a nice evening,” Tricia said.
“You, too,” the woman said, and started back up her driveway.
Tricia started down the street once more. Despite the fact that no one else was outside their home, she decided to carry on for another block so as not to cheat Sarge out of his walk, and ten minutes later they approached Stoneham’s only traffic light. Sarge sat at the curb and he and Tricia waited for the signal to change. Once it did, they started across the street. Joyce must have seen them, for as they approached the other side of the street, she practically burst from the door to her shop.
“Tricia!”
“Hi, Joyce. What’s up?”
“I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you.”
“Sure, anything.”
“Could you talk to Chief Baker on my behalf?”
Uh-oh.
“It seems he believes Vera’s conversation with me yesterday morning drove me to snap. You witnessed it. Surely you can convince him that if anyone was angry enough to kill, it would have been Vera.”
“Why do you think I’d have any influence over him?”
“Well, you used to go out with the guy. You still seem to be on friendly terms with him.”
Friendly? Not so much. Civil? Of course.
“I’m not sure that would do any good. He isn’t the one who makes a determination when it comes to listening to character witnesses. That’s up to the district attorney.”
Joyce’s eyes widened in what Tricia could only interpret as fear. “But I’ve done nothing wrong. Just because I had an unbalanced neighbor doesn’t mean I had a reason to kill her.”
“I’m sure you’ll be exonerated.”
“Isn’t DA Paul Anderson running for office again this fall? I’ve read enough romantic suspense novels to know what that can mean. He’ll try to win a case—or at least push it as close to trial as possible—to assure his constituents he can put a suspect in jail.”
“It won’t come to that,” Tricia said, trying to sound reassuring, but if she was honest with herself, she wasn’t at all sure what Joyce fea
red might not come to fruition.
* * *
* * *
Tricia returned Sarge to Angelica’s apartment, leaving him with a couple of dog biscuits and one of his favorite tug toys.
As she was leaving the Cookery, she ran into the Dexter twins, Stoneham’s elderly identical sisters. That day, they were wearing matching cherry-striped shorts and shirts, white socks, and brown leather sandals, and clutching little red-and-white matching checked pocketbooks, with big red sunglasses settled on their noses, and red visors perched on their heads, punctuating their fluffy white coiffures.
“Tricia!” Muriel shrieked . . . or was it Midge? “We haven’t seen you in ages!”
“Not since the cruise,” her sister agreed.
“Hi, ladies. What have you been up to?”
“Well, after the Authors at Sea excursion, we decided to spend the rest of the winter in Florida.”
“Clearwater. Love that Gulf Coast!” Midge said.
“Where we played . . .” They turned, grabbed each other’s hands and squealed, “Golf!” and then laughed hysterically.
“We went to three comic book conventions, and then last summer, another two.”
“There’s one coming up in Vegas in a few weeks. We aren’t going to miss that because”—and then the sisters chanted in unison—“what goes on in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” and they laughed uproariously.
Once their giggles had subsided, Tricia asked, “What are you doing in the village today?”
“We came to see if Angelica is going to have a signing for Larry Andrews.”
“I don’t believe she has heard for sure if he can make it.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Midge said. “We love watching him on TV—”
“Even in reruns,” Muriel added, and sighed. “That man makes my heart flutter.”
“Mine, too,” Midge agreed.
“And we haven’t got his latest cookbook, so we decided to buy a copy and try to get him to sign it for us.”
“If not at the Cookery, then at the high school the day of the Bake-Off.”
“We’re his biggest fans,” Midge put in.
“Do you ladies do a lot of cooking?” Tricia asked.
“Not a hope,” Muriel said, and laughed. “But we’re very good when it comes to calling for takeout.”
“The best!” her sister agreed, and they both broke into giggles once again.
“I entered the amateur division of the Bake-Off just this morning,” Tricia said.
“You did?” Midge asked, sounding shocked.
“But didn’t you kill someone with your cooking last fall?”
“Oh, yes,” Midge agreed. “We read about it in the Stoneham Weekly News.”
Good old Russ had never run a follow-up to the story reporting on the real killer’s identity and the fallout from the arrest.
“I did not kill anyone. A man had an allergic reaction to something that was added to one of my—”
“Poisoned mushrooms, wasn’t it?”
“Mushroom, singular,” Tricia stated, and sighed. It was best to keep any conversation with the sisters short. “Well, I don’t want to hold you up.”
“It was divine to see you again,” Muriel said.
“Don’t bake any poisoned cupcakes,” Midge added.
Somehow Tricia managed to not only smile but not to throttle the old ladies. “Good-bye.” She stepped aside to let the twins enter the Cookery but hesitated before entering her own store. She still had a few hours to kill before happy hour with Angelica but had no real work to do. Then again, there were always baking videos to watch on YouTube. . . . Yes, that’s what she’d do.
The little bell over the door rang cheerfully as Tricia entered. Since there were no customers, Mr. Everett and Pixie sat in the reader’s nook, with books open on their laps. They looked up as Tricia entered.
“Did you have a nice walk with Sarge?” Pixie asked.
“Yes. And I just ran into the Dexter twins outside the Cookery.”
“That’s always a joy,” Pixie said sarcastically.
“And now I’ve got some work to do down in the office. Feel free to call me if you need me.”
“Certainly,” Mr. Everett said.
Tricia gave her employees a smile and, with her head held high, started for the stairs to her basement office. It wasn’t until she started down the steps that her posture drooped.
Killing time. Well, it was better than killing people, and someone had killed Vera Olson. And despite her little trip around the dead woman’s neighborhood, Tricia hadn’t learned much that was new about the woman.
Except . . .
As Tricia settled in her chair in front of her computer she thought about what she’d seen when she’d looked at Vera’s house. Something about that home was important. Now, if she could just figure out what that something was.
EIGHT
True to her word, Angelica led Tricia to the newly installed balcony when she arrived at Angelica’s place for dinner that evening. At this time of day, the balcony, which overlooked the alley behind their stores, was bathed in shadows, and a light breeze caused the herbs in their colorful pots to sway.
The view wasn’t as uninteresting as one might have assumed. A wooden fence that was in pretty good repair lined the east side of the alley for a good three blocks. Behind it, on the next street over, was a big stone church that dated back to Stoneham founder Hiram Stone’s days. Its grounds took up the majority of the block behind Haven’t Got a Clue and the Cookery and were carefully maintained by its ever-dwindling congregation.
Along with the sweating martini pitcher and glasses, Angelica had included a plate with a domed lid, under which was an assortment of crackers and what Tricia knew to be extra-sharp cheddar.
Tricia took one of the comfortable seats and stretched out her legs while Angelica poured their drinks.
“This is nice,” Tricia declared, and closed her eyes in bliss. “I wish I had thought about making my balcony more entertainment-friendly.”
“Well, your mistake led to my improved design,” Angelica said. “Here.”
Tricia opened her eyes and sat up straight, taking the glass. “Cheers.”
They clinked glasses.
Today, Angelica’s nails were a bright pink.
“Another manicure?” Tricia asked.
“I have to know the quality of the work of anyone I hire at the day spa.”
“Still not going to tell me the name?”
“It’ll be a surprise,” Angelica said, and took a sip of her drink. “Besides hiring two nail techs, I’ve been interviewing people for the manager position, and I chose someone this afternoon. He starts tomorrow.”
“He?”
“I’m an equal opportunity employer,” Angelica said with conviction. “His name is Randy Ellison and he’s been cutting hair for almost twenty years, has all sorts of managerial experience, and comes with excellent references.”
“Why did he leave his last job?”
“His mother lives in Wilton and is in declining health, and he wants to be nearer to her.”
“He sounds like a good son.”
“Tomorrow morning we’ll be interviewing stylists and drawing up a supply list. We’re also going to have two chairs for freelancers. They might bring in nail and massage customers.”
“You’re hiring a masseuse?”
“But of course. And I intend to be her first customer.”
Tricia sipped her martini. She should have expected anything Angelica undertook to be top-notch.
“Did anything interesting happen at your little meeting today?” Angelica asked.
Little meeting?
“You mean despite the fact that Toby Kingston pulled a fast one and changed the time without informing me?”
“Tha
t horrible man!”
“He also told the board he’d received a call that I couldn’t make it.”
“What is wrong with that man?”
Tricia shrugged. “I was there for the last ten minutes. I’ll get a copy of the minutes via e-mail—unless old Toby told Bonnie Connor not to send them to me. Anyway, after they adjourned, I found out Vera Olson was a beloved volunteer at Pets-A-Plenty.”
“Do tell.”
“And that cheapskate Toby only allotted twenty-five bucks for flowers for her wake and/or funeral.”
“Surely nothing’s been scheduled yet.”
“That may well be.”
“Is that it?” Angelica asked.
“I took Sarge on a walk—”
“You mean a spy run,” Angelica corrected.
Tricia ignored the remark. “And I spoke with one of Vera’s neighbors. It seems Vera made a pest of herself. The woman intimated Vera acted like the neighborhood pet police, reporting on barking dogs and even catching cats that roamed the block—often putting them up for adoption at the shelter.”
“But that’s terrible.”
“That was Vera. Anyway, as we were heading for home, Sarge and I ran into Joyce outside her store. Or rather, she made a point to run into us.”
“What for?”
“To ask me to speak to Grant on her behalf—to convince him that she’s innocent of killing Vera.”
“Oh, sure—like he’s going to listen to you,” Angelica said, and took another swig of her drink.
“I’m afraid I feel the same way,” Tricia admitted. “And I’m a little disconcerted that she’d even ask. Innocent people don’t do that . . . do they?”
“Now you’re doubting her?”
“Well, I don’t know how long she’d been at her house before I got there yesterday. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in, so Vera hadn’t been dead for too long.”
“You hadn’t mentioned that before.”
“I guess it hadn’t occurred to me until just now.”
A Killer Edition Page 7