“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Angelica asked.
“Nothing much.”
“Uh-huh.” Angelica lifted the frill pick from her drink and plucked one of the olives from it.
“Maybe I will give Grant a call, but not tonight. I’ll wait until he’s on duty tomorrow. The man deserves a few hours off from the job.”
Angelica nodded and returned the pick with its remaining olive to her empty glass. “Looks like we’re ready for a refill. And when I get back, we can toast tomorrow’s tour of the school.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Angelica went inside, pulling the sliding glass door shut behind her.
Tricia leaned back in her chair and took in the quiet churchyard beyond. She needed another reason besides Joyce’s defense to call Baker. As she studied the solemn tombstones decorating the lawn beyond, she had it. She’d ask if he had information on what was to happen to Vera’s remains. Was someone planning a service? Elizabeth had said the woman did have some family in the area. Surely someone would be taking care of it.
Tricia picked up her phone and listened to Joyce’s message.
“Tricia? It’s me. Have you had an opportunity to talk to Chief Baker? He called me twice today. Why doesn’t he leave me alone and try to find Vera’s actual killer? Call me, will you?”
The call ended.
No, Tricia would not call. She’d do as she’d told Angelica and text her later in the evening. Much later.
ELEVEN
It was just after eight the following morning when Tricia found herself ready for the school tour, and with almost an hour to spare. She picked up her cell phone to call Chief Baker but instead decided to text Marshall.
Where’ve you been?
Seconds later he replied. Busy. Drink tonight around 8:30 at TD-EP?
See you there.
Satisfied at the prospect of seeing her current lover, Tricia turned her attention to her ex. She decided to avoid official channels and call Baker on his personal number. She had no desire to fence with his annoying receptionist, Polly, who seemed to find great pleasure in denying Tricia access to her onetime paramour.
Baker answered on the second ring. “Yes, Tricia.” He sounded bored.
“Good morning, Grant. I thought I’d give you a quick call to—”
“To squeeze me for information on Vera Olson’s death.”
“Well, kind of. I’ve had a few days to think about what I saw that day and wasn’t sure if I’d mentioned everything to you.”
“Go on.”
She told him everything she’d told Marshall days before. She still hadn’t figured out what had bothered her about the crime scene. Well, it would eventually come to her. She hoped.
“Thank you, Tricia. You’re a good citizen.”
If she were a dog, he might have patted her on the head.
“Was there anything else?”
“I was just wondering if Vera’s next of kin had arranged for a funeral or some kind of memorial service.”
“The body was released to a funeral home in Merrimack. That’s all I know.”
Funeral homes in southern New Hampshire weren’t on every corner. Tricia would do an online search to see if any of the homes had posted an obituary.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And what about the rest?”
“The rest?” Tricia asked innocently.
“Yeah. Isn’t about now when you make a heartfelt plea on your friend’s behalf?”
“Joyce Widman?”
“Yes.”
Tricia hesitated. “Joyce and I aren’t really friends. More acquaintances,” she said, which was the absolute truth.
“Then what were you doing at her home at the time when Vera Olson’s body was found?”
“As I told you, I went to her store to buy some books—”
“You don’t read romance novels,” he stated.
“I do read romantic suspense. I cut my reading teeth on them.” Well, sort of. During her teenage years, she’d ripped through them as fast as she could take them out of the local library, even if she was more interested in the suspense and skipped a lot of the romance. “Anyway, she invited me to go and see her garden and give me some veggies, as well as a few pointers.”
“Why would you need pointers? You’ve never shown an interest in gardening.”
Tricia sighed. They’d already been over this. “Now that I’m cooking on a regular basis, I’m interested in growing my own herbs.”
“Uh-huh.”
The silence lingered. Tricia wasn’t about to get into an argument with the man.
“By the way, I heard you were going to participate in the Bake-Off,” Baker said.
“I am. Why’d you mention it?”
“It so happens I’ve been asked to be a judge in both the professional and amateur divisions,” he said, sounding just a little smug.
“You have?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m always on the lookout for community outreach opportunities. Our PR rep said this would be a great example. Besides, I know a good cupcake when I taste one.”
“I’m sure you do,” Tricia said, trying to sound a little happier about the idea—even if she didn’t feel that way. She wanted to win and it wouldn’t hurt if the judges were on her side. She wasn’t sure she could count on Baker in that respect.
Then again, was she just channeling her sister, who thought Good Food Channel Chef Andrews might look upon her baking efforts more kindly because of a supposed “relationship”? If anything, Tricia’s relationship with Grant Baker remained strained—even if they’d both moved on. An air of tension always seemed to surround them when they spoke—even when it wasn’t in face-to-face conversations. If there was any unfinished business on his end, he should have voiced it a long time ago.
But she wasn’t about to go there now.
“I hope my entry will please all the judges,” she said neutrally.
“We’ll see.”
There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.
“I’d better get going. I have an appointment within the hour. Thanks for taking my call.”
“Don’t I always?”
Yes, and maybe that should have surprised her more than it did.
* * *
* * *
A cement cornerstone at the edge of the big brick building testified that Stoneham High School had been built in 1952, just about the time that prosperity in the village had started its steep decline. And while a lot of money had been poured into the building, it still looked like a midcentury relic. New security measures had been instituted, so there was no way just anyone could enter the building during the academic year. But the school had let out for the summer, and Tricia was pleased when she was able to open one of the big plate-glass doors. The lights were out in the main hall as they entered the quiet building, but they took note of a sign that said OFFICE with an arrow pointing right and headed down the hall.
“Gosh, I haven’t been inside a school since I was in school,” Angelica whispered. “And never a public school.” The only other sound was the tap of the heels of her stilettos echoing off the metal locker doors.
“Didn’t you ever visit any of Antonio’s schools in Italy?”
“I paid for him to go to them. I never actually saw any of them,” she muttered.
They continued down the cool, empty hall until they passed another darkened side corridor.
“What do you think is down there?” Angelica asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Let’s take a look.”
“Whatever for?”
“Because we may never get the opportunity again.”
Tricia shook her head but found herself following Angelica’s lead. Closed double doors to the left proved
to be one of the two entrances from that corridor to the gymnasium.
“Remember those horrible little yellow outfits they used to make us wear at Groveland Academy for PE?” Angelica asked.
Tricia’s gym uniform had been too big for her thin frame, and a group of nasty girls had made sure Tricia was aware of just how unflattering it looked on her—for every single PE class during her four years at the school. It was a relief to go off to college to be spared that biweekly bullying.
“The pool can’t be far away. I wonder how big it is,” Angelica asked, and started off down the hall once more.
“You’re going to get us in trouble,” Tricia said in a harsh whisper.
“What are they going to do? Give us detention?” Angelica stopped at a big white door with a blue-painted sign that said POOL ENTRANCE. Tricia was surprised when Angelica yanked on the handle and the door actually opened. Angelica marched right in and Tricia dutifully followed. The sign on the door to the right said BOYS’ LOCKER ROOM. Angelica walked right past it to another big steel door with a thin vertical window and yanked that open.
Tricia had been expecting to be assailed with the stench of chlorine, but there was no hint of it in the air—and she soon found out why.
“I wonder why the pool has no water,” Angelica said, and walked toward the large empty expanse. According to the numbers painted on the side of the far end, it was twelve feet deep when filled.
Tricia shrugged. “Maybe they don’t want to have to maintain it for three months while school’s out. They could save a lot on chemicals.”
“Yeah. I read somewhere that an Olympic-sized swimming pool takes something like six hundred thousand gallons of water.”
“And this pool is nowhere near that size. Still, I wouldn’t want to have to fill it by the teaspoon,” Tricia commented. “Maybe it’s closed for repairs. I mean, school just ended last week. They had to be using it right up until then.”
“I guess.” Angelica sighed. “I wish I still had a pool—and a pool boy.”
“You had a pool boy?”
“Well, sort of. He came to clean the pool twice a week.” She smiled. “That was back when I could wear a bikini. I’d slather myself in suntan oil and lie there on my chaise listening to the water lap as he scraped the bottom of the pool for stray leaves and dead critters.”
“Critters?”
“Of course. The thing was a death pit for insects, the odd mouse, and sometimes a bird. Oh, and frogs. They can swim, but eventually they get tired and end up in the skimmers, and that’s why you need a pool boy, because no way was I going to deal with dead critters.”
Well, that was more information than Tricia needed. She looked at her watch. “We ought to get to the principal’s office. We’re going to be late one minute from now.”
Angelica did an about-face and led the way back to the corridor, where they retraced their steps until they were once again in the main hall. Another hundred feet or so and they arrived at the school’s main office. A casually dressed woman sat at a steel-and-Formica desk before a computer screen. “Can I help you?”
“Hello, I’m Angelica Miles, and this is my sister, Tricia. We have an appointment to see Principal Randall.”
“Yes, I saw it on her calendar. I’ll let her know you’re here.” She picked up the phone on her desk and made a call. “Mrs. Randall will be out in a moment. Please have a seat.”
The sisters glanced at the uncomfortable-looking plastic-and-metal chairs, which were probably devised to make recalcitrant teens feel as uncomfortable as possible while waiting for an audience with the principal.
“No, thanks. I think I’ll stand,” Tricia said.
Angelica wore three-inch heels. She sat.
The secretary began tapping on her computer keyboard and Tricia wandered over to a bulletin board, with its calendar of the upcoming school year, posters for a fund-raiser at a chain restaurant up on the highway, and coupons from L.L.Bean for sweatshirts with the school’s logo. High school seemed to have happened eons ago for Tricia.
Finally, the office door to the right opened and Mrs. Randall entered. Her dark hair streaked with gray, the school’s principal looked stereotypically stern, and Tricia instantly felt guilty, remembering the looks Pixie and Mr. Everett had given her the day before when she’d told them of her plans to visit the school before the Bake-Off. “Ms. Miles?” the woman asked. Even her voice sounded grim.
“Yes,” the sisters said in unison.
Angelica practically jumped to her feet. “I’m Angelica Miles, and this is my sister, Tricia.”
Mrs. Randall offered her hand to both of them. “I was surprised to hear from Elizabeth Blake on your behalf,” she told Tricia, and her tone implied she wasn’t happy at receiving the call. Tricia gave what she hoped was a sincere smile, but Mrs. Randall’s steely gray principal’s eyes seemed to pierce right through her. “Please step into my office,” the woman said gravely. Tricia had never been called into a principal’s office before and found she’d broken out in a cold sweat.
Once seated in the same uncomfortable chairs before Mrs. Randall’s tidy desk, Angelica became all business.
“As you probably already know, I own Booked for Lunch, the little retro café in the village, as well as my bookstore, the Cookery. I’m very interested in your culinary program and the possibility of offering a scholarship to your students.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Principal Randall said, but her tone said otherwise.
“I’m happy I was allowed to accompany my sister on a tour of your facilities.”
Mrs. Randall looked skeptical. “Are you participating in the Bake-Off, too?”
“Why, yes,” Angelica said.
The principal’s eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to get a leg up on your competition, as well?”
Angelica straightened in her chair, a look of utter horror crossing her features. “Mrs. Randall, I certainly hope you’re not accusing my sister and me of trying anything underhanded. Yes, we bake, but we have just as much of a chance of winning as our competition, and I don’t see how seeing the home economics room could possibly give us an edge.”
“I beg your pardon, Ms. Miles, but in the last couple of days, I’ve been contacted by all but one of the competitors—from both the amateur and professional ranks. I must say you are the only one who has tried to bribe the school.”
Tricia gasped and Angelica’s eyes grew so wide Tricia worried they might pop out.
“I assure you, Mrs. Randall, that I have every intention of establishing the scholarship. I have dedicated my life to cookery—as evidenced by my bookshop, my restaurant, and the bed-and-breakfast I co-own, and I’m offended that you’ve intimated a lack of character and untoward motives on my behalf.”
Mrs. Randall merely shrugged. No doubt she’d heard enough tall tales from teens to write a book. “I promised Ms. Blake you’d get your tour—she called in a favor—so let’s get on with it.”
Mrs. Randall rose and the sisters unhappily followed the principal down the long hallway, up a flight of stairs, and down another corridor, finally pausing in front of a large wooden door. Mrs. Randall took out a key and unlocked it. She turned the handle and opened it inward. “Be my guest,” she said, and held out a hand, allowing Tricia and Angelica to enter the darkened room.
They stepped inside and saw cabinets in the shadows. Mrs. Randall reached out and flipped a series of switches until the room was bathed in light.
“Wow,” Tricia said, a little unnerved. “This is like stepping back into the nineteen fifties.”
The room was divided into an instruction area with desks and a chalkboard and two kitchenettes painted a sickly green and equipped with older white appliances. Tricia noted that the stoves were all electric—Angelica was not going to like that—but the room did possess a certain retro charm. Tricia could picture girls dres
sed in poodle skirts with saddle shoes giggling as they mixed cake batter, pouring it into prepared pans, sliding the pans into the oven, and then, after they were baked, pulling them out to cool and decorate. For some girls, this would be the only cooking instruction they’d receive. Tricia knew the feeling. Until recently, she hadn’t had any interest in cooking; she left that to her sister, who had excelled at it. Thanks to their grandmother, who taught Angelica everything she knew about cookery, Ange had proved to be a natural.
“Well, what do you think?” Tricia asked her sister.
Angelica forced a smile. “It’s just darling,” she said. “I wish we’d had something like this at our high school when we were growing up. Nobody I knew even cared about cooking. When I mentioned how much I liked to bake, my best friend, Mary Jane, looked at me as if I’d grown another head.”
“But the stoves,” Tricia said. “They’re electric.”
Angelica sported a sly smile. “Nothing I can’t handle. How about you?”
Tricia smiled. “Anything you can do, I can do better.”
“Well,” Angelica said, “at least you didn’t burst into song.”
Mrs. Randall looked at them, her expression not unlike Angelica’s friend Mary Jane’s. “I assure you, every contestant will have the same restraints.”
“Do you mind if we look through the drawers and cabinets to familiarize ourselves with the equipment?” Tricia asked.
“It won’t do you any good. The room will be thoroughly cleaned and rearranged before the Bake-Off. Each contestant will have an opportunity to familiarize themselves with their work area before the competition begins.”
That sounded reasonable.
Angelica’s stilettos clicked as she walked around one of the kitchenettes. Her fingers brushed across the worn Formica counter. “I wonder what this kitchenette could tell us if only it could speak.”
“Hopefully, ‘good luck,’” Tricia said.
“That’s not what I meant,” Angelica said. “Think of all the young women who passed through here. Doesn’t it make you wonder what happened to them? Where did they end up? What did they do? How did their lives play out?”
A Killer Edition Page 10