A Killer Edition
Page 14
Their entrées arrived with a bowl of brown rice and Tricia looked at the fried chicken feet, tried not to grimace, and wondered where the rest of the chickens had gone. Sweet-and-sour chicken? Sesame chicken? Chicken egg foo yung—or maybe all of them?
“It smells good,” she said truthfully if not enthusiastically. But was she actually going to be able to eat a chicken’s foot?
“Why don’t you just try one? I won’t ask you to eat any more.”
“Well, okay.”
Tricia took the serving spoon and fished out one of the uninviting feet, putting it on her plate. Marshall took a much bigger helping, along with some of the stir-fry. “Well, dig in,” he said.
Screwing up her courage, Tricia picked up her fork and cut off a tiny piece of the meat and put it in her mouth. The taste was actually pretty good. She took another larger bite. Not bad at all. Picking up the serving spoon, she helped herself to two more of the feet, a scoop of the stir-fry, and a little rice.
Marshall seemed pleased by her acceptance and dug into his meal, continuing his recitation right where he’d left off.
By the time Tricia had had her fill, she leaned back in the booth. “I have to admit, that was superb.”
“Not bad,” Marshall agreed. “I tried making the chicken feet myself, but it’s just too time-consuming. It’s much easier to come here when I get the urge for them.”
Tricia was about to laugh when she looked up and saw Joyce Widman enter the restaurant. She was about to wave her over to say hello when Joyce was joined by someone else: Officer Cindy Pearson, who was not in uniform. Tricia instinctively ducked down as the hostess took the couple to a booth on the opposite side of the room, and Tricia was pretty sure they hadn’t seen her.
“That’s odd,” she whispered.
“Yeah, it isn’t often my date tries to take a powder,” Marshall said in his best Bogie impersonation.
“No. Joyce Widman and Officer Pearson just came in together.”
“What’s so odd about two people coming to a restaurant to eat?”
“Because Cindy Pearson is a cop. The one who took Joyce in for questioning the day of Vera Olson’s murder.”
“So? Didn’t you tell me that this officer was also a customer at the romance store?”
“Yes.”
“So, maybe they’ve struck up a friendship. I’ve done that myself.”
“Or maybe they were friends before the murder,” Tricia said.
“Why would that be a problem?”
“As far as I know, neither of them mentioned it to Chief Baker.”
“That you know of,” Marshall pointed out. He shook his head. “My dear Tricia, you’ve read far too many mysteries. You can’t help yourself from trying to find criminal intent where there is none.”
“I’m not looking for criminal intent. I just think it’s a little unusual.”
She didn’t have a chance to elaborate, for the waitress arrived with the check. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Do you want the leftovers?” Marshall asked.
Tricia shook her head.
“Could I have a take-home box?”
The waitress nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
Tricia’s mind was still whirling with possibilities as Marshall dipped into his wallet and extracted a number of bills, leaving them on the table.
The waitress arrived with the box and Marshall filled it and then placed it in the plastic bag that had accompanied it. “Tonight’s supper is taken care of.”
They got up to leave. As Tricia passed the second aisle of booths, she glanced over to the table where Joyce and Officer Pearson sat.
For some reason, she wasn’t surprised to see that their eyes were locked and they were holding hands.
SIXTEEN
The ride back to Stoneham was quiet—at least on Tricia’s end. She barely listened as Marshall talked about the possibilities of an alliance with Milford Travel, and Tricia didn’t confide her suspicions about a possible relationship between Joyce and Cindy Pearson.
When Joyce had arrived in Stoneham six or so years before, she said she’d been fresh off a divorce. She’d never given Tricia any details about why she and her former spouse had parted, but Tricia was sure Joyce had been married to a man. Could the reason for their enforced separation have been that Joyce had fallen in love with another woman? And if Joyce was now interested in women, why did she sell, and presumably read, romance novels that dealt with male-female relationships?
Of course, Tricia was aware that sometimes women who’d had bad experiences with men called it quits on the opposite sex. One of her former female co-workers who had partnered with another woman had once confided to her that while she was in love with her new companion, she wasn’t all that thrilled with the sexual side of the relationship. There was more to life than just sex, she’d opined.
Then again, maybe Joyce was bisexual.
And what were the ramifications of a relationship between a possible murder suspect and someone in the police department who was investigating the crime? Sure, there was a serious conflict of interest on Cindy Pearson’s part. The fact that the women were meeting in a town outside of Stoneham meant they hadn’t wanted to be seen by friends or colleagues. Had all their trysts been away from prying eyes—and wagging tongues—in Stoneham?
Tricia was so preoccupied, she didn’t notice that the car had stopped and the engine had been turned off until Marshall touched her arm. “Hey, are you okay?”
It was then Tricia realized they had returned to the Stoneham municipal parking lot.
“I’m sorry. I was lost in thought.”
“I’ll say. Is there anything you want to talk about?”
Not to him. What preoccupied Tricia’s mind was something that required girl talk. Or more precisely, sister talk.
“Not right now.”
Marshall shrugged, picked up his container of leftovers, and opened the driver’s-side door. Tricia got out and the two of them started toward the main drag’s sidewalk. Along the way, Marshall reached for Tricia’s hand. It soon became sticky with perspiration, but she didn’t let go and neither did Marshall, that is, until they stopped in front of her store’s door.
“Thank you for lunch. It was . . . illuminating.” And in more ways than one.
“I’m happy you were so open to trying something new. Next time, I hope you’ll give the snake soup a chance.”
Tricia wrinkled her nose. “Maybe not.”
Marshall laughed, leaned forward, and kissed the tip of Tricia’s nose.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“I need to get ready for the Bake-Off.”
“So no drink at the Dog-Eared Page and . . .” He raised an eyebrow and let the sentence trail off.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you around eight?”
She smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
This time he gave her a proper but not a passionate kiss. Tricia didn’t want tongues wagging about her, either.
* * *
* * *
“Hey, Tricia,” Pixie called cheerfully as Tricia came through the door of Haven’t Got a Clue. “What’s new?”
“Have you ever had Chinese chicken feet?”
“Oh, yeah. They’re de-lish! Me and Fred order ’em all the time from this little dive in Merrimack.”
Did everybody know about the secret Chinese menu except Tricia? “Yes, so I discovered.”
“Good for you! What else is new?”
Tricia knew Pixie meant in the romance department, but that wasn’t a subject she was likely to get into—and neither was what she’d seen when leaving the restaurant. “Not much. But the day is still young.”
“You got it.”
“I’m going down to the office t
o do a little work. Call me if you need me.”
“Will do.”
Pixie’s gaze dipped back to the open book on the counter and Tricia headed for the stairs to the basement. Settling in her office chair, she awakened her computer and did a quick Google search on Officer Cynthia Pearson of the Stoneham Police Department. As she’d assumed she would, all she found was a brief mention from a press release that had been posted on the Stoneham PD website. But she not only picked up a middle initial but that the officer was originally from the Boston area, which helped her in her next search. Then again, the only entry that popped up was from a Classmates.com yearbook entry. Apparently, Officer Pearson had once been a track-and-field star at Brookline High School in Massachusetts. Her senior picture didn’t look all that different from what she looked like today. Tricia frowned.
On impulse, Tricia decided to Google herself and found more than twenty entries that harked back to her years at the nonprofit in Manhattan, as well as pictures and short articles on Haven’t Got a Clue. Unfortunately, there were too many newspaper and TV entries that mentioned her in conjunction with some of the deaths that had occurred in Stoneham.
She clicked the little x in the corner of her screen. She didn’t need to be reminded of those occasions.
Tricia leaned back in her chair. A fat lot of good her search for Officer Pearson had been. What had she really learned? The woman’s middle initial, that she used to run fast (or did she jump high?), and that she wasn’t a local.
If Cindy Pearson was new to the village, probably not that many people knew her. This is where the long tentacles of Frannie Armstrong’s spy network would have been useful. Pixie listened to gossip, but she didn’t often repeat what she heard. Still, was it really gossip to ask a question about the woman? Tricia decided to find out and headed back up the stairs to the shop.
Pixie was speaking with a customer, giving a bit of a speech about author Dashiell Hammett’s most famous sleuth, Sam Spade. Pixie really did have a flair for the dramatic, and, of course, she was dressed as though she could have been a dame the famed detective might have been attracted to. She would have made a wonderful docent in some kind of a mystery-oriented museum.
Tricia waited behind the register, and when the woman came up with her purchases, she rang up the sale while Pixie continued to chat. Since there were no other customers in the store, this took another ten minutes, since neither Pixie nor the customer seemed to be in a hurry to end the conversation. At last, the woman left the store.
“That was a pretty good sale,” Pixie commented, sounding pleased.
“You have a way of getting people to part with their credit cards.”
“All in a good cause,” she said, grinning. Then she scrutinized Tricia’s face. “What’s on your mind?”
“My mind?”
“Yeah.”
Not much got past Pixie.
“I’ve been thinking about the new lady cop in town.”
“Officer Pearson?”
Tricia nodded.
Pixie scowled. “I try to stay away from cops—probably from being arrested so many times. But I think it’s good they hired at least one woman. Course, they can be just as mean as men, and some of them can rough you up just as bad.”
Oh, dear. Tricia hadn’t considered how the subject of the new policewoman might affect Pixie.
Pixie seemed to notice Tricia’s hesitation. “You were saying?”
“Uh, I’ve met her a few times.”
“And?”
Tricia shrugged. “She seems . . . nice.”
Pixie nodded and seemed to be considering her next question. “You miss Frannie, don’t you?”
“The woman tried to kill me,” Tricia said gravely.
“Yeah, but she sure knew what was going on here in Stoneham at every minute of the day.”
“Yeah,” Tricia ruefully admitted.
Pixie’s mouth drooped. “I thought she and I were friends. We went to tag sales together, remember?”
Tricia nodded.
“I was horrified when she changed, and especially when I found out she was trying to hurt you and Angelica. And threatening Antonio and Ginny’s daughter Sofia was just deplorable.” Pixie shook her head, her eyes filling with tears, and for long moments there was only silence in the shop. Finally, Pixie spoke again. “I’m not Frannie. I’m not like her at all.”
“No, you’re not,” Tricia said, giving her employee—and more important, her friend—a sincere smile.
SEVENTEEN
After she’d locked her own store, Tricia walked ten steps north, took out her keys, and unlocked the door to the Cookery. Locking it behind her, she headed up to Angelica’s apartment—knowing she’d be greeted with a wagging tail and happy barking. She wasn’t disappointed.
“Good evening,” Angelica said as Tricia gave Sarge his treat and then set the bag from the Coffee Bean on the island. The accouterments for martinis sat on the counter, but Angelica hadn’t yet started to make them. “Shall we go outside again?”
“Maybe for our second drink,” Tricia suggested.
Angelica’s eyes widened. “Oooh. You want to talk secrets.”
“Maybe not secrets—but subjects not intended for eavesdroppers.”
“Well, I’m all ears,” Angelica said, and took the chilled glasses from the freezer and the pitcher of martinis from the fridge, and poured their drinks. That night, she also had a plate with cucumber pinwheels. Just four—two each—and just enough.
“Here or the living room?”
“Here is fine,” Tricia said, pushed the bag aside, and sat down on the closest stool at the kitchen island.
Angelica handed her a glass. “Cheers.”
They drank and Angelica took another stool. “So, how was your lunch with Marshall?”
“Exactly what I wanted to talk about.” Tricia took a sip of her drink to fortify herself. “We went to that little Chinese restaurant in Merrimack. He ordered chicken feet.”
“Really? How were they?”
“Surprisingly good. Next time he threatened me with snake soup.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’d like that.” Angelica sipped her drink and looked thoughtful. “Then again, maybe I would.”
Tricia gave an involuntary shudder. “But that wasn’t the only interesting thing that happened.”
“Do tell.”
“As we were finishing our meal, Joyce Widman walked into the restaurant . . . with a date.”
“Oh? I didn’t know she was involved. Anyone I know?”
“Know of—yes. Know personally? No.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Joyce came in with Officer Cindy Pearson.”
Angelica frowned. “That’s not a date. That’s girls having lunch.”
“You and I have had lunch hundreds of times, and we have never sat at a table holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes.”
“Oh. That does sound like a date.” Angelica took another sip of her drink.
“I wonder if Chief Baker knows about it.”
“Are you going to ask?” Angelica asked with incredulity.
“I don’t know. I mean . . . Cindy Pearson could get into a lot of trouble—maybe even lose her job over it.”
“Which is why they were in Merrimack instead of Stoneham.”
“I think so. But let’s face it, Merrimack isn’t all that far from Stoneham, and plenty of people just like me go there to shop, eat, or play golf. If they are dating, it’s not going to be a secret for very long.”
“But why would a woman who sells romance novels that feature men and women want to date a woman?”
Tricia told Angelica about her former co-worker.
“Not my cup of tea, but I can understand why it would happen. What did Marshall have to say about it?”
“Gone but not forgotten,” Angelica said. “Maybe you should just keep this information under wraps until or unless it becomes relevant.”
“What if it’s already relevant?”
“That’s not for you to decide.”
Tricia shrugged. “I guess you’re right,” she said, and polished off the last of her drink, which had gone down much too quickly. “Getting back to secrets . . . have you decided on a recipe yet?”
“Maybe,” Angelica hedged. “How about you?”
“I’ve narrowed it down,” Tricia said evasively. That wasn’t exactly true, but she was seriously considering a recipe containing lemon zest.
“Has Nigela Ricita Realty rented out the old Chamber building yet?” Tricia asked casually.
“The apartment upstairs has a tenant, but the office space is, unfortunately, still empty. Why?”
“I was wondering if it might be available for a retail space.”
“Such as?”
“A candy store—or rather a chocolate shop.”
“Are you going to open one?” Angelica asked, her eyes widening with pleasure.
Tricia shook her head. “But this morning I ran into a woman who makes hand-dipped chocolates. In fact, she sells some of them at the Coffee Bean. I bought a selection for us to try.”
“So that’s what’s in the bag you brought with you. I never turn down chocolate.”
Tricia retrieved the paper bag, withdrew the box, and broke the seal. She proffered it to her sister.
“What flavors are they?”
“We won’t know until we bite into them.”
“Chocolate really doesn’t go with a martini,” Angelica said.