Nikki shrugged, looking unconvinced, and sniffed again.
Tricia paid for her purchases and started for the door. She needed to give Nikki a shot of hope—or at least the promise of another sale. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I hope you’ll be feeling better by then.”
“I’d sure appreciate the business,” Nikki said as she commandeered the stool once again.
The door closed with another bang and Tricia hung on to her bakery bags for dear life as she battled the wind and crossed the street, heading for the Coffee Bean, where she bought a cup of French roast for herself and a decaf for Ginny. She had to work up her courage to leave the shop and slog through the gale to the Happy Domestic. She rang the bell and quickly turned her back to the wind. Seconds later, Ginny came out from the store’s back room, crossed the shop, and unlocked the door.
“I thought it might be you,” she said in greeting. “Come in out of that wicked cold before you shatter.”
Tricia welcomed the warmth that enveloped her, not completely sure if it was the temperature or the pretty merchandise that was for sale all around her. “I bring you a decaf coffee and a bran muffin. No more cupcakes for you—you’ve got to eat healthy for the next few months.”
“How did you know I skipped breakfast this morning?” Ginny asked.
Tricia smiled. “Just a hunch.”
Ginny took the coffee tray from her. “Come on back to the office where we can sit.”
The Happy Domestic’s combination storeroom and office was tidy, with a place for everything. The folding metal seats weren’t exactly comfortable, but they’d do. Ginny doled out the coffee while Tricia took off her coat, tossed it onto a stack of cartons, and sat down. She opened the bag and removed the muffins, handing one of them to Ginny.
“Thanks. I think I’ve got some napkins,” she said, scrounged through her desk, and came up with a couple stamped with the Coffee Bean’s logo.
“How’s business?” Tricia asked.
“Slow.”
“Same here. Same everywhere in Stoneham. Nikki said I was only her second customer of the day.”
Ginny nodded. She and Nikki hadn’t talked much since Ginny had scored the Brookview Inn for her wedding reception, the same day as Nikki’s. Nikki had had to settle for the party room at the American Legion hall, which wasn’t anywhere near as swank. “How’s Angelica holding up after yesterday?”
“She’s fine. You know what a trouper she is.”
“That she is. If it were me who’d had to deal with an employee being killed on the premises, I think I’d be ready for a padded room.”
“Angelica is made of tough stuff. Her biggest problem now is keeping things together for the Chamber until she can hire someone to do Betsy’s job.”
“What about Frannie?”
Tricia shrugged. “She has her duties at the Cookery.”
Ginny nodded and sighed. She broke off the top of her muffin but instead of eating it, just stared at it. “I’m so embarrassed about the fuss I caused at your store yesterday. But when Nikki came busting in with her happy news, it just made me feel like such a heel.”
“You are not a heel. And Nikki isn’t as happy as you might think.”
“What do you mean? When I saw her she was absolutely ecstatic.”
“Apparently Russ didn’t share her joy. It seems they’re having financial difficulties. Unless things change, Nikki probably won’t be able to stay home with the baby as she’d like.” Tricia didn’t care to say more.
Ginny frowned. “Here she wants to stay home with her baby and can’t, and I can afford to, but don’t want to. What a pair we make.”
Tricia took a sip of her coffee. “Have you told Antonio yet?”
Ginny shook her head and looked guilty. “But I’m going to have to soon. I know he’ll be happy about it, but I can’t tell him until I feel happy about it.”
“Give yourself a few more days. Once the shock wears off, you’ll be fine.” Tricia broke off a piece of her muffin and nibbled on it.
“Since I haven’t been able to work up the courage to say something about the baby, I’m actually glad Antonio has been working late almost every night lately. Something very hush-hush”—she rolled her eyes at the words—“is going on at NRA and there’s going to be an announcement at any time now.”
“He hasn’t let you in on the big secret?” Tricia asked, surprised.
Ginny shook her head. “The big boss—Nigela Ricita—says it’s on a need-to-know basis, and I don’t need to know.”
Oh, dear. How was it Angelica knew about the NRA real estate agency and not Ginny? Perhaps they weren’t copied on the same e-mails.
Ginny took another bite of her muffin and swallowed. “I suppose it’s too soon to hear if Chief Baker has any good leads on Betsy Dittmeyer’s murder.”
“He hasn’t shared any news with me,” Tricia admitted.
“I’ve tried to remember when I last spoke with her. I guess it was at the January Chamber breakfast. She chided me for not finishing my third cup of coffee. She told me in future I should finish everything I took from the buffet table or not take seconds at all.”
“That sounds like Betsy all right,” Tricia agreed.
“But what’s funny is, after the meeting was over, I hung back to talk to Antonio and saw Betsy pilfering paper napkins. She must have stuffed about a hundred of them into her purse.”
“That is rather rude,” Tricia said, especially for someone who she’d been told had millions squirreled away.
“I mentioned it to Antonio, but he said to forget it. That she always took something after every Chamber breakfast. Once, she swiped a linen tablecloth. He said paper napkins were cheaper and easier to replace.”
They both polished off the last of their muffins and Ginny glanced up at the clock, stood, and sighed. “I hate to be a killjoy, but we both need to get to work.”
Tricia rose, too. Good old Ginny, always the pragmatist. Tricia disposed of her coffee cup, buttoned her coat, and headed for the door, with Ginny right behind her. “We’ll talk again soon,” Tricia promised, gave her former employee a quick wave, and headed out the door.
* * *
The sky was overcast with the threat of snow when Tricia arrived back at Haven’t Got a Clue. No sooner had she hung up her coat when the shop door opened, the little bell over it tinkling cheerfully. “Good morning,” Chief Baker called as Tricia approached from the back of the store.
“What brings you out bright and early this not-so-fine morning?” Tricia asked.
“Not much. I just thought I’d pay you a visit. We are friends. And besides, you seem to know everything that goes on around the village.”
“I hope you don’t think of me as the resident gossip.”
“Not at all. We all know Frannie Armstrong has that title cinched. But you do seem to get around, and people are far more willing to talk to you than they are to me.”
“And you want me to share what I’ve heard?” she asked.
“If you think it might help my investigation, yes. Have you heard anything of interest?”
“I’m not sure I know anything you don’t already know. Are you willing to compare notes? Have you got any suspects?” she asked.
“I’ve spoken to your friend Charlie, the mailman.”
“Charlie? How can you even suspect him? He’s a sweet old man.”
“You, Angelica, and Frannie all said he was in the Cookery before Mrs. Dittmeyer’s death. But no one can corroborate where he was at the time she was actually killed.”
“What do you mean? He delivers to all the stores. He walks into every store and hands the shop owner his or her mail. Somebody has to have seen him Saturday morning.”
“The shopkeepers know they got their mail that day, but none of them can seem to remember the exact time he delivered it.”
&
nbsp; “What possible motive does he have for murdering Betsy?”
“We don’t know. We’re still investigating.”
Tricia couldn’t imagine Charlie hurting a fly—let alone dumping a heavy bookcase on anyone. And running up the stairs to Angelica’s apartment, kicking in the door, and then fleeing down the fire escape to escape? The rather chubby, older gent wasn’t any kind of an athlete.
“Do you have any other suspects?” Tricia asked.
“We’re continuing to investigate,” Baker reiterated, which meant he wasn’t going to share whatever else he knew—despite his hint just minutes before. “There is another reason I stopped by. I wanted to let you know that I’ve heard from the state crime lab with their analysis of the fingerprint evidence from the break-in at Stan Berry’s home last fall.”
Tricia had to think about what he’d said before she remembered the incident. Three months before, Stan Berry had been murdered at the Brookview Inn. Days later, his home had been broken into and ransacked in what appeared to be an attempt to eradicate evidence.
“And?” Tricia asked.
“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but the fingerprints match a set already on file with the state: Bob Kelly.”
“Bob?” Tricia repeated, aghast.
Baker nodded.
“Are you going to arrest him?”
“If I can track him down—yes. If you see him, would you please call me?”
Tricia scrutinized Baker’s face. “Why are you telling me this? Shouldn’t this be confidential until after the deed is done?”
“I felt I owed it to you. You were involved in the case, and you helped bring Berry’s killer to justice.”
And he wanted very desperately to get back in her good graces.
“What else?” she asked, knowing there had to be more to it.
“The man seems to have gone to ground. I went to his office on Thursday. He saw me coming and slipped out the back, as though he knew why I had come to see him. Since then, neither I nor my officers have been able to pin him down. Not at his house or his place of business. His business, home, and cell phone numbers all go to voice mail.”
Tricia digested all that he’d said. “It won’t work, you know.”
“What won’t work?” Baker asked, sounding puzzled.
“Telling me about Bob. And all the other silly excuses you make to see me. Grant, we’re not getting back together again.”
“I know that. But I consider us friends. Can’t a man talk to his friend? Can’t he elicit her help to track down a criminal? Can’t he invite her to lunch once in a while just to talk? And maybe to dinner, too?”
Tricia frowned; it sounded like he and Christopher were quoting the same script. “As long as that’s all there is to it.”
“Are you free for dinner tonight?” he asked hopefully.
“As a matter of fact, no.”
“Is it true, or are you just saying that to blow me off?”
“I’m telling you I am not free for dinner tonight. I’ve made other plans.”
“Will you be free tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you be free if Christopher asked you?” he asked, sounding like a willful child.
“We’re not talking about Christopher.”
“Have you been talking to him?”
“This is beginning to sound an awful lot like an interrogation,” Tricia said unhappily.
“I’d just like some company when I eat. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“Have you considered adopting a pet?”
It was Baker’s turn to frown. “Very funny.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“I’m sorry I brought up the whole subject,” Baker said diffidently.
Tricia sighed. “Grant, have you noticed that every time we talk lately it ends up feeling like an argument?”
“I don’t mean for that to happen,” he said, defending himself.
“And neither do I. I just wish . . .” She let the sentence hang for a long moment. “I just wish things had turned out differently. It seems like we connected at the wrong times in our lives.”
“You mean we never quite connected,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“Are you absolutely sure there can never be a future for us?”
Tricia felt a smile creep onto her lips. “I never say never.”
“But?” Baker asked.
“Your job doesn’t make it easy.”
“Nor does your propensity to find trouble. Trouble in the form of murder.”
“My life revolves around solving puzzles—be it in a mystery book or in life.” She shrugged. “And I’m beginning to think I really was born under an unlucky star.”
“Is that why they call you the village jinx?”
Tricia sighed once more. “I guess so.”
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe it. Not for a minute.”
“Thank you.”
The shop door opened once again, this time admitting Pixie. “Good morning!” she called, sounding insanely cheerful.
“Hi,” Tricia called back.
Baker pursed his lips. “I’d best get back to work. I’m sure we’ll speak again in the coming days.”
“No doubt,” Tricia said.
Baker touched the brim of his hat in good-bye and left the store.
Pixie returned from hanging up her coat. “What did he want? To take you out to dinner—again?”
“Yes.”
“And you said no.”
“Yes.”
Pixie shook her head. “It’s been so long since either one of us has been with a man, I’ll bet we’ve both forgotten how to do it.”
“Do what?” Tricia said, knowing full well what Pixie was getting at.
“The deed. Getting our bones jumped. Having red-hot, sweaty, wonderful sex.”
Tricia sighed. She wasn’t about to talk about her sex life with someone who had performed the act for a living. “Why don’t you shelve those bargain books you priced last night?” Tricia suggested.
Pixie’s smile was wide. “I don’t know why you don’t want to talk about sex. I mean, it’s as natural as . . . well, getting laid.”
“Pixie, conversations such as that are not conducive to maintaining a good employer-employee relationship.”
Pixie frowned. “Gee, I thought we’d gone beyond all that. I thought by now we might actually be friends.”
Again Tricia sighed. “We are, but—”
Pixie held up a hand to stave off the explanation, but Tricia could tell by her expression that Pixie’s feelings had definitely been hurt. “Never mind.” She turned, picked up an armful of books, turning her back on Tricia, and headed for the bargain shelf, leaving Tricia to feel like some kind of repressed prude.
Three of the four conversations she’d had that morning had ended on rather unhappy notes, and Tricia wondered if that was an omen of things to come.
SEVEN
Mr. Everett arrived for work at precisely two o’clock, just as Tricia grabbed her coat and headed across the street for Booked for Lunch. The place was deserted, and Bev, the waitress, had already gone home. That left just Angelica and her short-order cook to clean up the café and make it ready for the next day’s customers.
“Bev left early?” Tricia asked, taking off her coat and setting it on one of the booth seats.
Angelica nodded. “She wasn’t feeling well. If she has the beginnings of the flu, I don’t want her spreading it to me or Tommy—and especially not to my customers.” She picked up a couple of mustard-stained plates and a glass. “Don’t mind me. I’ll take these dishes in to Tommy and be right with you.” And with that, Angelica backed through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Tricia hung up her co
at and moved behind the counter, crouching before the small fridge. But when she opened the door, the tuna plate that was usually waiting for her was nowhere to be seen. She stood.
Angelica reappeared. “What a rotten day. It was dead slow, and then we had a bit of a rush at the end, but not enough to make a difference for this month’s bottom line.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and one for Tricia, too. “So, what’s the latest gossip around town?”
“Um, Ange, there’s no tuna plate for me.”
“Of course not. We’re having tea with Karen Johnson in less than an hour over at Haven’t Got a Clue.”
“At my store? Why?” she asked, irritated.
“Business has been at a standstill, and you’ve got that lovely readers’ nook just sitting there doing nothing.”
“What if I have customers?”
“I’m sure Pixie or Mr. Everett can wait on them while we talk to Karen.”
Tricia’s stomach grumbled in annoyance. “If this shindig is less than an hour away, shouldn’t you be getting ready for it?”
“I need to sit down for five minutes and rest,” Angelica said and slid onto one of the counter stools.
“Why can’t you meet with your Realtor here?”
“Much as I love this place, it isn’t the ambience I want to project when I speak to Karen.”
“Then why don’t you entertain her in your apartment?”
“This is a business meeting. And besides, my place is a mess. There was so much of that messy fingerprint powder all over my bedroom that I ended up sleeping in the living room. That stuff got everywhere. My dry cleaning bill is going to be three or four pages long. Thank goodness Antonio asked one of the ladies on his housekeeping staff if she’d like to earn a few extra bucks. It should be clean before the Cookery closes today.”
It was no good arguing with Angelica. She usually got her way no matter what. Tricia decided not to press it.
“So, have you heard anything new about Betsy’s murder?”
“You didn’t want to talk about it last night, but I had news yesterday. Did you know Christopher was Betsy Dittmeyer’s financial advisor?”
Book Clubbed (A Booktown Mystery) Page 6