A Killer Edition

by Lorna Barrett

  Tricia was about to check out when the cashier suggested she buy a twenty-pound bag of soil in which to plant her flowers. While waiting for someone to fetch the dirt, Tricia realized she had no gardening gloves, nor a trowel, and two more items were added to her purchases.

  Tricia parked her Lexus in the alley behind Haven’t Got a Clue and unloaded her car, thankful her home included a dumbwaiter. No way did she want to haul a heavy sack of dirt up a flight of stairs. Still, everything needed to be brought into the store first—and that still meant steps. After parking everything on the landing behind the shop, she moved her car to the municipal parking lot and hoofed it back to Haven’t Got a Clue.

  Tricia unlocked the back door and began to haul everything into the shop, and soon Mr. Everett showed up. “Let me give you a hand with that, Ms. Miles.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Everett.”

  “Getting into gardening?”

  “I thought it would look nice to have some flowers to spruce up my balcony—and I bought a few herbs for cooking, too.”

  Pixie appeared as they were hauling in the last of the supplies. “Holy cow—did you rob a nursery?”

  “I’ve offered to help Ms. Miles with her purchases. Would that be all right?” Mr. Everett asked Pixie.

  “Sure. I can hold the fort. Holler if you need me.”

  It took four trips in the dumbwaiter before everything had safely landed on the second floor, and Mr. Everett climbed the stairs to join Tricia to move everything to the balcony.

  “Would you like some help planting the flowers?” Mr. Everett asked.

  “Oh, no. I don’t want Pixie to think I’m monopolizing your time.”

  A small smile crossed the old man’s lips. “Ms. Miles, it is you who are paying me, and I would be pleased to help.”

  “Thank you. But I only have one pair of gardening gloves.”

  “Afterward, I will avail myself of soap and water.”

  Tricia laughed. “I guess you’re right—I just don’t like the thought of dirt under my fingernails.”

  “Perhaps when you have more gardening experience, you won’t even notice it.”

  Again Tricia laughed. “I’ll bet you’re right.”

  They started right to work, and soon the flower boxes were installed and filled with potting soil, and then they started to plant, with the spikes going in first.

  “What made you decide to start a new hobby now?” Mr. Everett inquired.

  “I guess it was visiting Joyce Widman’s garden on Monday.” Tricia paused, staring down at the peach-colored pansy she held in one hand. “They say gardening is a metaphor for life. Vera Olson’s death keeps preying on my mind. I guess . . . I needed a little ray of happiness.” She proffered the little flower, which seemed to sport a face. “I’m going to enjoy taking care of these little guys for the next few months.”

  Mr. Everett nodded. “Ms. Olson’s death was unfortunate.”

  Tricia really wasn’t interested in going through it all again and decided to change the subject. “I stopped at the Pets-A-Plenty shelter earlier. They were terribly short-handed and I helped them out for an hour or so.”

  Mr. Everett patted the dirt around one of the purple pansies. “They will need to bolster their ranks if they are to build the new, much bigger facility.”

  Tricia nodded. “What’s your opinion of the place?”

  Mr. Everett shrugged. “We found them very helpful when we adopted our cats.”

  “Did you notice anything . . . funny?”

  “Funny as in unusual?” he asked.

  Tricia nodded.

  Mr. Everett shook his head. “I must admit we limited ourselves to the cat house, as we were only interested in adopting felines. Why do you ask?”

  “I had a conversation with one of the volunteers.” Tricia didn’t want to go into details. “As a potential board member, she wanted me to be aware of some things she thought were a little abnormal.”

  Mr. Everett’s brows furrowed. “Is it something you feel you should pursue?”

  “If they accept me as a board member, I certainly would.”

  He nodded. “With your extensive work experience in guiding such an endeavor, you would be a tremendous asset to the charity.”

  “I like to think so. But I’m afraid it doesn’t look good.”

  “And why is that?”

  Tricia shrugged and went back to her planting. “The director has taken a dislike to me. I’m not sure I can overcome that hurdle.”

  “They would be very foolish not to take you on.”

  Tricia managed a smile. “Thank you.”

  Tricia’s ringtone sounded and she quickly peeled off her gloves to answer the call. “All hands on deck,” Pixie said excitedly. “A couple of buses just rolled down Main Street.”

  “We’ll be right down.” Tricia tapped the end-call icon. “We’re about to be hit with customers.”

  “And we’ve finished just in time,” Mr. Everett said, patting the dirt around the last of the begonias.

  While Tricia quickly watered her new flowers, Mr. Everett washed his hands in the kitchen sink and then they headed down the stairs to greet their customers.

  Tricia was practically giddy to jump in and run the register for the next two hours, which seemed to speed by incredibly fast. All too soon the last of the book buyers walked out the door, bags filled with tomes, and Tricia and her employees sat down in the nook to take a breather.

  “Look at the time,” Pixie said, her gaze moving from the clock to Tricia. It was already after five. Less than an hour to go before the store closed for the day. “And didn’t that feel good?”

  “I thank heaven above for every bus that brings us customers,” Tricia said.

  “They sure scarfed up the coffee and goodies we had, too.”

  “Well, that’s what it’s there for. Hopefully, it makes them happy enough to buy more books.”

  “They sure bought a lot today. You need to start thinking about finding some new stock,” Pixie said.

  “I did look at what we have on hand and came to the same conclusion. I’ll make some calls and go online to see what I can come up with. We want to have plenty of books available for the rest of the summer.” Pixie nodded. “What’s your take on stocking more Nancy Drew mysteries?” Tricia asked.

  “Definitely. We’ve got older ladies who want to revisit the series and try to collect every book—and not only that but introduce the series to their grandkids. We can definitely move them, the Hardy Boys books, and Trixie Belden, too.”

  “Great idea.”

  Pixie got up. “I’ll start cleaning up the beverage station if you want to scoop up the cash and receipts and get it ready for tomorrow’s bank deposit.”

  Tricia stood, too. “Good idea.”

  With most of the day’s receipts in hand, Tricia went down to her basement office and got everything ready for the bank and then locked the zippered bank bag in the back of her desk. She glanced at the clock and decided she had enough time to do a quick Google search on Monterey Bioresources.

  The website she turned up was tidy and easy to navigate. Bully for them. At the top of the site was a slideshow of happy pets—a Labrador retriever with a ball in its mouth, guinea pigs, ferrets, pink pigs, all happy and healthy. But as Tricia dug into the site she found that Cori at the shelter had been wrong about the company. They didn’t do direct experimentation on animals; they just raised them to be experimented on by any company that would pay the price. One of their featured canines was beagles—Vera Olson’s favorite dogs.

  Tricia paged through the company’s mission statement, their history, and the benefits of animal research—not convinced.

  Companies within the medical and pharmaceutical industries had strong words of praise for Monterey Bioresources, but the whole idea of raising puppies and
piglets for research sickened her.

  But then, didn’t it also make her a hypocrite to feel that way? The agricultural industry raised pigs, cows, and chickens for slaughter—and unless she instantly became a vegetarian, she had no right to condemn a company whose products might help find cures for cancer and other diseases.

  A glance at the time listed at the bottom of her computer screen reminded Tricia she had better get back to her store, for it was just about time to close.

  Mr. Everett dusted the shelves while Pixie stood behind the cash desk, the yellowed pages of an open book in front of her. “We didn’t have any more customers.”

  “And we’re not likely to. Why don’t you two head on home? I’ve got a martini waiting for me next door.”

  “I wouldn’t want to keep you from it,” Pixie said, and laced a bookmark between the pages before closing her current read. Mr. Everett divested himself of his apron and Pixie grabbed her purse while Tricia withdrew her keys from her slacks pocket and closed the blinds on the big display window, turned off the lights, and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

  “Good night, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

  “Thank you for helping me plant my flowers.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Pixie called, and the two employees headed out the door and off toward the municipal parking lot.

  Tricia locked up and walked over to the Cookery, where she found Angelica cleaning out the cash drawer while June gathered her purse, getting ready to leave.

  “Hello,” Angelica greeted her sister. “We had a wonderful sales day. How about you?”

  “I’m not complaining. Sorry I didn’t call to cancel our lunch.”

  “Don’t worry—I was too busy to eat, too. Why don’t you head on upstairs? Everything’s ready. I’m just going to lock up and then I’ll come and join you.”

  “Righto. Good night, June.”

  “And to you, too.”

  Tricia headed for the stairs and Angelica’s apartment above. As usual, Sarge was in seventh heaven to see his Auntie Tricia and nearly did a backflip in anticipation of the biscuits he knew were to come. “Calm down already!”

  As Angelica had said, their martinis and glasses were chilling in the fridge, along with a plate filled with what looked like melba rounds, cream cheese, plump pink shrimp, and some kind of jam wrapped in plastic. She got them out, too. She was just about to pour the martinis when Angelica made an appearance.

  “What a day. I am so ready for that drink.” Angelica stashed the bank bag with cash in a drawer and washed her hands. “Want to sit outside again?”

  “Yes. I might even kick off my shoes, too.”

  “Well, let’s not waste time.” Angelica grabbed the tray with the drinks and Tricia carried the plate of goodies as they made their way onto the balcony. Once outside, Angelica set the tray down and looked in Tricia’s direction—then did a double take. “Hey, there are flowers on your balcony.”

  “Aren’t they pretty? I stopped at the garden center and bought them, and then Mr. Everett helped me plant them.”

  “He’s such an angel.”

  They took their seats and Tricia pointed to the plate of appetizers. “What are these things?”

  “Shrimp pepper poppers, and they couldn’t be easier to make, either,” Angelica said. “Take a melba round, toss on a little cream cheese—you can use the reduced-fat kind if you’re so inclined; I wasn’t—put on a boiled shrimp and a little dab of that wonderful pepper jam I sell in the shop, and voilà! Easiest appetizer in the world and it actually tastes good.”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” Tricia said, taking her seat. She gazed out over the fence in the alley. The world seemed at peace, and she did kick off her shoes while Angelica poured the drinks, handing one to her. “Cheers.”

  They took their first sips.

  “So how was your day?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia looked at Sarge, who sat by her chair looking hopeful, and then remembered the pictures of beagles on the Monterey Bioresources web pages and decided she wasn’t going to mention it to Angelica. “Uh—not bad. I ran into that new lady cop, Officer Pearson, at the grocery store this morning.”

  “And?” Angelica asked.

  “She wasn’t exactly happy to see me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know how to describe it. She seemed uncomfortable that I called to her and then about the subject of our brief conversation.”

  “Seeing you out of context probably made her feel like a fish out of water.”

  “She was the one out of context. She was dressed in civvies and it took me a few moments to remember where I’d seen her and who she was.”

  “And what did you talk about?”

  “Joyce, of course. Or rather—she wouldn’t talk about Joyce’s situation.”

  “That’s not really surprising, is it?”

  “No. But it seemed odd that she seemed to feel uncomfortable about it.”

  “If she patronizes Joyce’s store, that’s really not all that surprising, is it? On the reverse side, I know I would hate to think any of my customers could be up to no good.”

  “Yeah,” Tricia agreed. “But something wasn’t right about the encounter.”

  “Like what?”

  Tricia sighed. “I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “How long has she been with the police department anyway?”

  “Two or three months.”

  “Does Grant ever do anything for his new hires?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Take them around to introduce them to the merchants along Main Street?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Unlike today, I’m so rarely at the Cookery anymore that I wouldn’t know. But I would think it would be a good idea to have a cop on the beat—if only for PR value.”

  “The force is too small to waste manpower for that.”

  “I don’t know. They say that cops on the beat—who know the locals—could stop crime before it happened. I wonder if that should be mentioned at the next Board of Selectmen meeting.”

  “I’ll let you be the one to introduce the subject.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “What’s going on with the day spa?”

  “I do wish you’d come over and see all the changes I’ve made. After all, you’ll be using their services, too.”

  “You assume.”

  “Oh, come on. Why drive to another town when you can just walk down the street to get your roots done or have a manicure. You’ll be in and out in an hour instead of wasting all that time traveling.”

  “I suppose,” Tricia said neutrally.

  “What else is new?”

  “Pixie has informed me that we’re running low on stock.”

  “You mean you hadn’t noticed yourself?”

  “I did, but with all this baking I’ve been doing, I haven’t had a chance to pursue it. I’d better make it my business to do so pretty quick.”

  “You need to diversify. I mean, there are only so many copies of vintage mysteries out there.”

  “And the old pulp paperbacks crumble so easily,” Tricia agreed.

  “The truth is, my stock of vintage cookbooks is running low, too. I hate to admit it, but sometimes I actually miss Frannie. She used to stop at yard sales and find all sorts of interesting books, cookie cutters, and bowls we could sell in the shop for a tidy markup.”

  Tricia knew that was the only reason her sister would miss her former store manager.

  “I’ve got a lot of time on my hands these days. I may even start going to yard sales to see what I can find.”

  “I’d love to go with you, but I’m so busy,” Angelica lamented.

  “You put in a seven
-day workweek. I’m sure you could take a couple of hours off every Saturday—at least for the rest of the summer. We should make a plan to go thrifting. I’m sure Pixie could give us some helpful pointers.”

  “Great idea.”

  “Two pairs of eyes are better when searching for older mysteries and cookbooks, too. We both have a pretty good idea of what the other sells.”

  “You’re right.” Angelica drained the last of her martini and popped one olive into her mouth and chewed. Sarge gave a little woof! “Darling boy, your mommy hasn’t forgotten you. Come inside and she’ll give you a nice treat before she makes another pitcher of drinks.” She got up and turned to Tricia. “Did you want more pepper poppers?”

  Tricia shook her head, gazing down at Sarge and seeing the look of absolute adoration he gave his mistress, and then again thought about the dogs raised at Monterey Bioresources for a miserable life in a metal cage with no hope for love and companionship. The thought made her cringe. She stood, too. “Can I help you make those drinks?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  So the three of them—two women and a dog—went inside to continue happy hour.

  But how bitter a thought it was to know that the dogs raised for experimentation would never know what it meant to walk in the sunshine or feel real grass beneath their paws.

  FOURTEEN

  Donna showed up exactly at nine o’clock the next morning, and Tricia led her to the kitchen in her apartment above Haven’t Got a Clue. She’d prepared by baking a dozen cupcakes and two eight-inch yellow cake layers and by purchasing an array of tubs of commercially prepared frosting. She also had a bag of confectioners’ sugar on hand in case the prepared stuff proved too soft to pipe. In addition, she made sure she had every tip available for cake decorating, plus a gross of disposable piping bags, too. A fresh pot of coffee was brewing, and she had set out her teapot with an assortment of tea bags—plus two different kinds of colas in the fridge in case Donna had a preference.