“How long does it take before a stiff goes stiff?” Angelica asked.
“Usually about two hours.”
Angelica gave an involuntary shudder. “I don’t like to think about it.”
“Nobody does.”
Angelica sipped her drink. “Let’s not talk about death. We’re alive, we’re on my balcony drinking martinis—let’s talk about something fun, like the Bake-Off.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Have you lined up any sponsors yet?”
“Just Marshall.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“It hasn’t been my top priority,” Tricia admitted—although she really ought to make it so.
Angelica leaned back in her chaise. “I wonder if we can find out who our competition is. Do we know anybody on the Booktown Ladies Charitable Society’s board—or even just a member?”
Tricia shook her head. “Just Adelaide Newberry—but we’re barely acquaintances. It’s not an organization I ever thought about joining—although I understand they do good work.”
“With all my businesses, I haven’t got time for it, either, but I’m happy to support their efforts, and this Bake-Off could be wildly successful.”
“Not from what the temp at the Chamber office said. Apparently, they expected a lot more applicants.”
“If the Chamber had been behind it, it would have taken off,” Angelica said, and shook her head.
“Even so, maybe it’s better this way. I’m looking forward to seeing the high school’s kitchen. I assume it’ll be pretty much like that of the Brookview Inn,” Tricia said.
“You’ve got it wrong. The Bake-Off won’t take place in the school kitchen; it’ll be held in the two home ec rooms. They’ve got four mini kitchens that were mothballed back in the nineteen nineties. Apparently, they’ve been using them as storerooms. Thanks to the Good Food Channel and other home-oriented networks, there’s been a tremendous interest in cooking and food prep. Grace was telling me that a number of students lobbied to have cooking classes brought back to the curriculum.”
“I was never offered a cooking class in high school.” The truth was Tricia hadn’t been interested.
“Of course, I didn’t need classes,” Angelica bragged. “I was already working my way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking when I was fourteen.”
Tricia remembered some of the disasters from those recipes but decided not to mention them. Angelica was only allowed to cook when their grandmother was in residence—and usually, their parents were off gallivanting around the globe. Their mother, Sheila, thought the domestic arts were beneath contempt. She always had hired help, but Grandma Miles had taught the girls how to make a bed with hospital corners, the proper way to iron a skirt, dress, or blouse, and how to do laundry—tasks that had come in handy when Tricia had gone away to college and later when she’d married. But cooking skills had eluded her—mostly because she hadn’t been properly motivated . . . until the last couple of years. Now she understood the joy Angelica experienced when she made people happy by feeding them food she’d taken the time to prepare.
“I’ve never visited any of the Stoneham schools,” Angelica said thoughtfully and sipped her martini, which was nearly finished. “I’d like to know what those home ec rooms look like. I wonder if there’s a way to get a peek before the competition begins.”
“School’s out for the summer. They’re not going to let us poke around and have a look,” Tricia protested.
“Why not? We’re taxpayers—and believe me, with all my properties, I’m paying through the nose.”
Tricia couldn’t argue with that logic, but it didn’t mean it would get them anywhere. “Maybe you could bluff and say you’d give a cooking scholarship or something.”
Angelica looked thoughtful. “That’s a great idea—except for the bluffing part. I really would give a scholarship to some budding chef wannabe to go to a great school like the Culinary Institute of America. But who would we make the offer to? I don’t know anybody on the school board.”
Tricia didn’t, either—but she could find out. “It seems to me that Mr. Everett told me he was once on the school board—this was back when he owned his grocery store.”
“Then maybe he can get us an in.”
“I’ll ask,” Tricia said. “Maybe we could dig up some dirt on Vera Olson while we’re there. I understand she was on the school board for ten years.”
“Yes, but that was more than five years ago.”
“Somebody at the school might remember her. I mean—once you met her, she wasn’t easy to forget,” Angelica said. Tricia nodded. She lifted the dome on the cheese and crackers and assembled a snack. “So, if Mr. E poops out, who do we know that can get us into the school? This is where Frannie would have been helpful.”
“You can visit her in jail and ask, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want to assist you in your quest.”
Angelica frowned and took another sip of her drink. She glanced at the crackers and cheese and then looked away. “I think I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Have another drink. I’m sure it will come back,” Tricia said, and polished off the rest of her own.
Angelica stood.
“But before you go, I’ve got a question. I ran into the Dexter twins outside of the Cookery. They were wondering if you’ve set up a signing with Larry Andrews and—”
“Still no word. I really don’t want to get stuck with several dozen of his cookbooks if Antonio can’t make this happen.”
“Just return them for credit.”
“No,” Angelica said vehemently. “I know from personal experience how devastating that can be to an author’s royalty statement. I’ll eat the cost even if I have to give them all away as Christmas presents.”
Tricia was sure she wouldn’t welcome several copies of the same book as a gift. Well, perhaps if they were all by vintage and esteemed mystery authors and had different dust jackets from various editions she could make an exception.
Angelica collected their glasses, deposited them on the tray, and went back inside to prepare another round, leaving the cheese and crackers. Tricia lifted the dome and made herself a snack. As she nibbled, she pondered what she’d relayed to her sister.
Vera had not been dead long before she’d been found. Joyce would have had the opportunity—but not necessarily a motive—to kill her. And she certainly wouldn’t have killed Vera knowing Tricia was about to arrive. She’d have at least tried to dump the body back in Vera’s yard. Joyce wasn’t a big woman, but if she’d been able to maneuver Vera’s body onto a wheelbarrow, she could have moved it. Or would that have left a track across the grass and through the gate into Vera’s yard?
Tricia didn’t want to speculate further. She wanted to believe in her friend’s innocence. And yet, Joyce wasn’t really a friend. They spoke to each other on the street and, in the past, at Chamber of Commerce meetings. But they’d never gone out to lunch or shared confidences about their lives. They were acquaintances, nothing more.
And yet, that didn’t mean Tricia wanted to believe that Joyce was capable of murder, either.
Still, Tricia was sure she’d seen something amiss in Joyce’s yard. Too bad she couldn’t identify what that something was.
NINE
Since it was part of Pixie’s new responsibilities to open and close Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia found herself taking her early brisk morning walk, returning home, showering, and then lazing around until just after ten, when she would make an appearance. But that morning she decided to try another cupcake recipe. Inspired by one of the videos she’d watched the day before, she searched for and found a recipe online that called for cold coffee and decided to make mocha-chocolate delights. As she measured out the cake flour, she noted that she would soon need to make a trip to the grocery store to replenish her supplies.
&nbs
p; The cupcakes had cooked and cooled and were frosted just before it was time for Pixie and Mr. Everett to start their workday, so Tricia put them on a pretty plate, took them down to the shop, and had made the coffee just prior to their arrival.
Pixie was the first inside the door. “Coffee, coffee, coffee!” she called with what sounded like gratitude. “It smells wonderful. And more cupcakes. Another experiment?”
“Yes. And I want an honest review after you’ve tasted one.”
“I haven’t lied to you yet. They’ve all been great.”
The door opened, the bell tinkling cheerfully once again, and Mr. Everett entered. “Good morning, ladies. Ah, more cupcakes. And what flavor have we today?” he asked as he headed for the back of the shop to retrieve his hunter green apron.
“Chocolate mocha.”
Pixie was already pouring the coffee into their personalized mugs. “Sounds heavenly.”
When Mr. Everett returned, the three of them took their cups, cupcakes, and napkins to the reader’s nook, where Miss Marple joined them.
“You know you don’t like cupcakes,” Tricia told her cat.
Miss Marple protested with a strident “Yow!”
The humans settled back to enjoy their treat. Pixie took a huge bite and wiped the icing from around her mouth. She swallowed. “Good grief, that’s fantastic. Is this the recipe you’re using in the Bake-Off?”
“I was kind of shying away from chocolate. I figure everybody else will choose that.”
“Not necessarily,” Mr. Everett said. “They may feel the same as you, and then the judges wouldn’t have any chocolate.”
“He’s got a point,” Pixie said, and took another bite.
Tricia nodded and bit into her cupcake. It really was good!
“I take it the frosting is a buttercream derivative,” Mr. Everett said, holding up his cupcake and scrutinizing it.
“Yes. I love the fact that the buttery goodness isn’t overshadowed by the chocolate and coffee flavors.”
“Do you prefer it over a cream-cheese-based icing?”
Tricia shook her head. “I like them equally well.”
“Me, too,” Pixie agreed, and took another bite of her cupcake.
Tricia was more interested in talking about a different subject.
“Mr. Everett, do you know anybody on the current school board?”
Mr. Everett took another bite of his cupcake, chewed, and looked thoughtful. “I can’t say as I do. It’s been many years since I was a member.”
Tricia let out a weary breath and nodded.
“But Grace does,” he said helpfully. “Our foundation gave a substantial donation to the school district for improvements to their library. She worked with several people and oversaw the installation of new computers and software for their media center, as well as other areas that needed upgrades.”
“That was very generous of you.”
Mr. Everett shrugged. Tricia believed he must be the humblest man she’d ever met.
“I’ll give Grace a call and see what I can do about introducing you to someone.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“May I use your office phone to make the call?”
“Of course.”
Mr. Everett nodded, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and rose, then headed for the back of the shop and the stairs to the basement.
“So what’s with the school board?” Pixie asked.
“It seems Vera Olson was a member some years back.”
“Ha! You’re sleuthing again.”
“I’m just worried about Joyce,” Tricia said. “If I could find out anything that can help her, of course I want to do so.” And then a flush of guilt ran through her. That didn’t necessarily mean going to Chief Baker as a character witness and pleading Joyce’s case. Not without some kind of evidence at least. All the more reason to talk to people who knew Vera well.
Tricia and Pixie had finished their cupcakes and were enjoying a second cup of coffee before the hoped-for onslaught of book buyers arrived, when Mr. Everett reappeared. “Good news, Ms. Miles. Grace is having lunch today at the Brookview Inn with a Ms. Blake, a former school board member who served along with the late Vera Olson.”
Tricia tensed. Had she been that transparent about her motives?
“I’m assuming you wanted to speak with someone about her,” Mr. Everett said as though sensing her sudden apprehension.
“Well, yes. But it’s only because—”
Mr. Everett shook his head. “It’s understandable that you’d be curious about the woman. You did, after all, find her body.”
That sounded a lot better than being called nosy.
“That’s very kind of Grace to invite me, but—”
“It was she who initiated the invitation. I am merely the bearer of news.”
Tricia thought about it. Yup, nosy about covered it.
“What time am I to meet her?”
“Noon.”
“I’ll give Grace a call to let her know I’ll be coming.”
“No need. I already assured her you would.”
“Thank you, Mr. Everett.”
The three of them looked at one another. “Time to get to work,” Pixie said, sounding like the store’s manager. That was fine for her and Mr. Everett. Tricia didn’t have a damn thing to do.
* * *
* * *
Returning to her apartment, Tricia texted Angelica, telling her she was having lunch with Grace, and received a text in return.
Not to worry. Having lunch with my new manager, Randy. Dinner at my place tonight.
That was a given.
When lunchtime approached, Tricia changed into a pretty summery dress and brought along a white sweater. The air-conditioning at the Brookview Inn was very efficient and she wasn’t in the mood to catch a chill.
She arrived a few minutes early and paused at the entrance to the inn’s dining room, giving it a once-over. Grace sat alone at a table near the window and had obviously been on the lookout for one of her tablemates. She waved, gesturing for Tricia to join her.
Tricia crossed the expansive room and paused to give Grace a quick hug before she sat down, setting her purse on the floor beside her. “It was awfully sweet of you to invite me to join you and your friend for lunch.”
“She’s not really a friend,” Grace admitted. “More an acquaintance. We’ll be discussing foundation business. But when William mentioned Vera Olson, I figured you might like to speak with Elizabeth.”
“I hope you don’t think I was angling for any kind of—”
“Of course not, dear. You’re just as curious as a cat. But unlike inquisitive felines, I don’t want you to allow yourself to fall into harm’s way. I do so worry about you when you undertake these little adventures.”
Adventures? Tricia had never thought of her sleuthing forays as adventures.
Grace looked up and signaled one of the waiters. “Would you like to start with something to drink, my dear?”
“Oh, I—”
“I’m going to have one. As you know, dear William is a bit of a teetotaler. He doesn’t begrudge me a sherry now and then, but he’s not into spirits.”
“Well . . .”
The waiter arrived. “Ladies, what can I get you?”
Grace nodded in Tricia’s direction.
“A dry gin martini. Up, with olives.”
“And you?” he asked Grace.
“The same.”
Tricia blinked in surprise.
The waiter nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
“I must admit I’m a little startled by your choice.”
Grace smiled and shook her head wistfully. “So many times I’ve seen you and Angelica enjoy your martinis and longed for one myself.”
“The secret life of Grace Harris-Everett?” Tricia asked.
“No one is an open book,” Grace said, and smiled.
Tricia nodded. “Should we have waited for Elizabeth?”
“She only drinks coffee.” Grace looked up. “Ah, and here she is now.”
Tricia turned to see a handsome woman of about sixty, wearing a white linen suit and pumps. What was startling about her was her jet-black hair in a long pageboy cut. But it wasn’t the style Tricia found startling so much as the thick layer of lacquer that seemed to form a kind of helmet around her head. Tricia was sure even hurricane winds wouldn’t muss that do. Elizabeth carried a dark briefcase, which was in stark contrast to the rest of her ensemble.
“Hello, Grace. And who have we here?” Elizabeth asked as she took the seat to Tricia’s right.
“Elizabeth Blake, this is my dear friend Tricia Miles.”
Elizabeth offered her hand. “My pleasure.”
Tricia shook and nodded.
“Elizabeth is vice president of Intervention, an organization that helps children who age out of the foster care system.”
“It’s very important work,” Elizabeth said sincerely. “These young adults are often given a little spot of cash and a good-bye wave, with little to no resources, and no skills to help them navigate in the adult world.”
“That’s very sad,” Tricia agreed.
“The Everett Foundation has been very generous to our organization in the past, and we hope it will support us again this year.”
Elizabeth made to open her briefcase, but Grace patted the air over the table to forestall a presentation. “I’d prefer to read your report at my leisure. But I can assure you that William and I both believe in the work you do and will, of course, support your efforts for another year.”
“You’re very generous.”
Grace ducked her head modestly.
The waiter arrived with a tray and two large martini glasses. He set them on the table before Grace and Tricia. “May I get you something?” he asked Elizabeth.
“Coffee, thank you.”
Grace gave Tricia a conspiratorial smile as though to say, “I told you so.”
A Killer Edition Page 8