“It could just be a string of bad luck. Either that, or a literary critic would rather take it out on me personally. I’ll be glad when I’m done with my book tour and can sleep in my own bed every night. In fact, I think I’m going to try to come home more often.”
“But it sounds like these incidents were meant to keep you off the road. Maybe you should cancel—or at least postpone—the rest of your tour.”
“And piss off every independent bookseller in New England who put time, effort, and money into promoting my signings? I know how I’d feel if an author canceled on me at the last minute.” Angelica gulped the rest of her drink, getting cat hair on the glass, which was wet with condensation. “Now, please, can we change the subject?”
“For the moment,” Tricia said, exasperated. She struggled to remember what had originally brought Angelica home. “When we last talked, you said you were going to find Bob a lawyer,” Tricia said.
“Your Mr. Livingston was very helpful. He dispatched a criminal lawyer to St. Joseph’s and apparently has sprung Bob from the place. At this point, I’m merely paying his bill, and unless Bob starts talking, I’m not privy to attorney-client confidentiality.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Well, it’s the law,” Angelica said, resigned. She bent down and pressed another kiss on Miss Marple’s head. The cat basked in the attention. Tricia tried, but didn’t succeed, in suppressing a smile.
“What happens next?” Tricia asked, and took two bone china mugs from the cupboard.
“I don’t know,” Angelica said, and sighed. “I still haven’t heard from Bob, but I’m hoping I can salvage tomorrow night’s signing.” She shook her head, gently put Miss Marple down on the floor, and stood. “I’m way too rattled to go to bed. I need to bake. What have you got on hand?”
“Not much more than I had last night.”
Angelica frowned. “It’s enough to make a coffee cake. Do you like coffee cake?”
“I love it,” Tricia said. She wasn’t sure she did, but right now Angelica needed positive reinforcement. Tricia took out the brown and white sugars, flour, baking powder, butter, and eggs, and arranged them on the counter while Angelica found an eight-inch-square baking pan.
“I’ll have to adjust the recipe for this size pan, but it’ll taste just as good as one done in a Bundt pan,” Angelica said, and turned to take the vegetable spray from a cupboard.
The kettle whistled, and Tricia made the tea, then got out of the way, letting Angelica take over. “Turn the oven on to three fifty, will you?” Angelica asked.
Tricia did so, and then poured them both a cup of tea. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Bob is a murderer.” She placed Angelica’s cup before her on the counter, but Angelica was too preoccupied to notice.
“Of course he’s not. But that means someone else is,” Angelica said as she measured flour into a bowl.
Tricia blew on the steaming tea to cool it. “I’m beginning to think it might be Russ,” Tricia said in jest.
“Really?” Angelica asked, intrigued, as she added baking powder to the bowl of flour.
“No.” Tricia wasn’t going to mention her thoughts about Jake—at least not yet. “But we almost had another run-in this evening. It was Darcy who saved me.”
“Darcy?” Angelica asked, and Tricia told her what had happened at the grocery store. “Don’t worry. We’ll find a way to deal with Russ,” Angelica said. “But right now, Bob is my main priority.” She put a stick of butter into a small bowl, put it in the microwave, set the the timer, and hit the Start button.
“Speaking of Bob, don’t you find it suspicious that this Nigela Ricita Associates shows up and buys the empty lot the day after it’s put on the market?” Tricia asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that. That it might actually be a good investment. Except for Jim, most of the booksellers were able to weather the financial meltdown without too much trouble.”
“But that building was a prime piece of real estate,” Tricia stressed.
The microwave dinged, and Angelica removed the bowl of melted butter. “Are you suggesting someone blew up the building to get Bob to sell?” Angelica asked.
“Stranger things have happened.”
“I don’t believe it. It’s too far-fetched. And who’s to say the property would be put up for sale? Although, if it had been the Armchair Tourist that had gone up instead, I could’ve expanded my operations at Booked for Lunch and had a place for al fresco dining.”
“You’re being terribly morbid.”
“I’m being realistic,” Angelica said, and cracked an egg into a bowl.
“I must admit I had the same idea,” Tricia said.
“And you call me morbid?” Angelica said in a huff. “Tell me more about the new buyer,” she said, grabbing a fork from the silverware drawer and beating the egg.
“I didn’t meet the buyer—just her representative. Antonio Barbero.”
“Barbero—wasn’t that the horse that broke its leg at the Kentucky Derby?”
“That was Barbaro—and it was at the Preakness. Believe me, there was nothing horsey about Antonio. Ginny’s quite smitten with him.”
Angelica waved a hand in dismissal. “She’ll get over him.” She thought about it for a moment. “She probably won’t. You’d think after what Brian did, she’d be off men forever.”
“Rod cheating on you didn’t make you swear off men.”
“More’s the pity. At least Ginny never married her scoundrel.” Angelica mixed brown sugar with a little flour.
“True, but she’s still facing credit problems that will dog her for years.”
“Oh, yeah, how’s that mortgage thing going?” Angelica asked, and poured the wet ingredients into the dry, stirring the mixture.
“Ginny’s been stalling. I don’t understand it.”
“Maybe she came to her senses. It’s not good for an employee to be so beholden to a boss. It wouldn’t be in her best interest in the long run.”
“Are you saying you think I’d take advantage of her sense of loyalty?”
“You, never. But she should always be open to opportunities, and let’s face it, ringing up mysteries isn’t going to get her that shop she wants.”
No, it wouldn’t. And neither would hanging on to the little cottage in the woods.
“Eventually, Ginny’s going to need to look for something that’s going to pay far more than even you can afford to give her. Or she’s going to have to marry well.” Angelica laughed. “Look what marrying well has done for me.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already thinking about marrying Antonio Barbero,” Tricia said, and sipped her tea.
Angelica shook her head. “Poor Ginny’s been alone for almost eight months, and let’s face it, the prospects of her finding someone here in Stoneham are slim. This guy probably seems heaven sent. That is, until he disappoints her.”
Tricia laughed. “She just met him, and already he’s breaking her heart?”
Angelica shrugged, and poured the batter into the prepared pan and sprinkled the brown sugar mixture over the top. “I’ve been down that road too many times myself. I know the signs.”
That was too depressing a subject to dive into yet again. Tricia changed the subject. “What are your plans for the morning?”
Angelica popped the coffee cake into the oven and set the timer. “Talk to Bob. Talk to the lawyer. And no doubt talk to Captain Baker. Or at least argue with him.”
“I’m a bit concerned about something you’ve already told him.”
Angelica picked up the dirty bowls and measuring equipment and set them in the sink. “What’s that?”
“That you could vouch for Frannie the afternoon Jim died.”
“Why are you concerned?” Angelica asked, running warm water into the bowls.
“Because you spent most of the day cooking for your launch party.”
“Don’t remind me of that fiasco,” Angelica said.
Angelica opened her mouth to answer but said nothing, and turned back to the sink.
“Aha!”
“Don’t ‘aha’ me. Frannie wouldn’t leave the store unattended. I can swear to that.”
“It’s not the same thing, and you know it.”
“What am I supposed to do? Let my boyfriend or my employee go to jail? Somebody killed Jim Roth, and I don’t think it was either Bob or Frannie.”
“That leaves Jim’s mother.”
Angelica nodded vigorously. “You said she made a spectacle of herself at the memorial service. If she hated him so much, surely she had a motive to kill him.”
“Captain Baker says she’s got an alibi—her boyfriend.”
“Who could’ve lied,” Angelica countered.
“Like you did about Frannie?”
Angelica’s gaze narrowed. “I didn’t lie. I made an educated assumption. And who’s to say there isn’t someone else out there who had a motive to kill Jim?”
“If there is, he or she hasn’t come forward.”
“And who wants to advertise themselves as a murderer?” Angelica asked.
“My point exactly.” Tricia again thought about, and rejected, the idea of mentioning her suspicions about Jake. She and Angelica were actually getting along, and she didn’t want to spoil it.
Angelica chewed on her thumbnail. “We’ve got to build a case against Mrs. Roth.”
Tricia laughed. “And how are we supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who reads all those mysteries.”
“And police procedurals,” Tricia added.
“Then, go to it!” Angelica cried, exasperated.
“I can’t. I have a business to run.”
“You have two employees who can take care of it while you take a few hours to help your friends stay out of prison.” Tricia shook her head doubtfully. “Look,” Angelica continued, “all you have to do is establish reasonable doubt.”
“How do you know about that?”
“I’ve watched a lot of TV shows about lawyers.”
“It’s not that easy,” Tricia countered.
“Frannie can help you. She’s got an entire spy network out there, thanks to her years working at the Chamber of Commerce.”
That was true. Hadn’t Frannie already told Tricia about Mrs. Roth booking a cruise with money she expected to receive from Jim’s insurance policy? “Okay, that’s a possibility. But I’ll look like a hypocrite if I hand Jim’s mother the money I’ve been collecting for her, and then have the police come after her as a murderer. And there’s no guarantee she is.”
“Reasonable doubt,” Angelica repeated again, “that’s all you have to establish.”
Suddenly, Tricia wished she had recently reread some Erle Stanley Gardner books. She was no Paul Drake, and Angelica was certainly no Della Street—let alone Perry Mason. She shook her head. “This doesn’t feel right.”
“And what if Mrs. Roth is the murderer, and you let either Bob or Frannie go to jail? Then how would you feel?”
Terrible. “All right. I’ll try to think of something.”
Angelica let out a pent-up breath and reached out to touch Tricia’s arm. “Thank you.”
Tricia gave her sister a weak smile. She had the feeling she was going to find it much harder to fall asleep the next time her head hit the pillow.
TWENTY-ONE
Tricia awoke to low-hanging clouds heavy with rain, leaving her feeling depressed and anxious about Russ, about Bob, about just about everything. The weatherman’s prediction for more of the same didn’t lift her spirits, either, causing her to worry even more about Angelica going back on the road that morning.
Four miles on the treadmill, a shower, and coffee later, Tricia packed up Angelica’s coffee cake and she and Miss Marple went down the stairs. Miss Marple was ready to start work, and looked puzzled as Tricia grabbed her umbrella and raincoat from a peg at the back of the store before she deposited the coffee cake on the coffee station’s counter and started for the door. “I’ve got an errand to run,” she told the cat. “Mind the store while I’m gone.”
Miss Marple just blinked as Tricia pulled the door closed behind her.
Tricia decided to walk the two blocks to Bob’s house, figuring that parking at the curb in front would only bring attention to her and her mission.
Without a backward glance, she marched up the walk in front of Bob’s house and quietly climbed the steps to his porch, hoping not to alert Bob to her presence.
So far, so good.
She swept her gaze along the gray-painted wooden floor, but didn’t see the cigarette butt that had been there days before. Rats! Had Bob taken a broom to the porch? Tricia peered around the wicker love seat and chairs, wishing the day had been brighter. She was about to give up when she saw the butt in the far left corner. It must’ve been kicked or blown there.
Relieved, she withdrew a small pair of tweezers and a plastic snack bag from her slacks pocket. She sealed the bag and pulled a marker from her other pocket, writing a large numeral 1 on the bag. She blew on the ink to make sure it had dried before stowing the bag in her left pocket.
Her heart was pounding as she descended the stairs and started to purposefully walk back down to the street, fighting the urge to break into a run. But no one seemed to have seen her, and no one challenged her.
Within minutes, Tricia was back on Main Street, and turned for the alley that ran behind the west side of Stoneham’s main thoroughfare. She’d never walked that way before, and took note of how shabby the backs of the stores looked. Behind each building stood one or two Dumpsters, and Tricia’s fingers tightened around the handle of her umbrella as she approached the rear of Booked for Lunch. Had it only been eight months ago she’d found the body of her former college roommate in a garbage tote behind Angelica’s café?
She put that image out of her mind and concentrated on her task. Sure enough, the concrete apron outside the café was littered with soggy cigarette butts. She withdrew the tweezers and the second snack bag from her pocket, snagged a couple of sample butts, and sealed the bag’s zip lock. Stuffing the bag into her pocket, she decided to wait until she got back to Haven’t Got a Clue to compare the butts.
The damage to the back of the Armchair Tourist was evident from where she stood. As Chauncey had said, the back of his store was boarded over with plywood. She wondered if he’d find a large puddle in the back of his store when he opened for the day.
The concrete slab behind the now-empty lot was pitted and cracked, no doubt from debris that had hit after the explosion. It was eerie to look up and see gray sky where less than a week before a building had stood.
Although the rubble had been cleared, the ground was left uneven with potholes filled with rainwater. It wouldn’t be smart to cut through, but Tricia decided not to retrace her steps. That would take her back to the north end of Main Street, and Russ’s office. Instead, she continued south until she reached the end of the block, crossed the street, and doubled back to Haven’t Got a Clue with more than half an hour to spare before opening.
After hanging up her coat and soggy umbrella, Tricia headed for the cash desk and the old-fashioned phone that sat upon it. But before she dialed Captain Baker’s number, she placed the plastic bags containing the cigarette butts on the counter for a comparison. They were exact matches. Of course, she wasn’t sure if all cigarettes had the same filters and paper casings. That would be up to a trained investigator to decide. In the meantime, she had collected evidence that might put a killer in jail. Could there be anything more satisfying than to help see justice done?
Tricia picked up the receiver and dialed, and was surprised when Baker answered on the third ring.
“Grant? It’s Tricia Miles. I have a theory about who killed Jim Roth.”
“Oh?” he said, sound
ing mildly interested. His boss, Sheriff Wendy Adams, had never been this polite when Tricia had offered her views or suggestions in a criminal investigation.
“Now, don’t laugh—but what would you say the possibility was that one of the suspects hired someone to get rid of Jim Roth?”
A long silence followed that statement. For a moment, Tricia thought the line might have gone dead. Finally, Baker spoke. “Why would you think that?”
“They all seem to have alibis.”
“Seem to have?” Baker repeated.
Had the captain already figured out that Angelica had fudged about Frannie’s alibi? She decided to ignore that possibility and plunged on. “If Bob Kelly, Frannie Armstrong, or Livvie Roth didn’t kill Jim Roth, then someone else had to have done it.”
“That makes sense,” he said reasonably, if not enthusiastically.
“And there’s already someone here in Stoneham who is a convicted felon—convicted of attempted murder. Suppose this person was paid to get rid of Jim.”
“Would you be talking about the short-order cook in your sister’s restaurant? The one you asked me to check up on?”
“I would.”
“And what makes you think Jake Masters killed Jim Roth?”
“I’ve collected some evidence.”
“What evidence?” Baker asked sharply. “Please don’t tell me you moved this evidence from where you found it. That you touched it. That—”
“Of course I didn’t touch it with my hands. I used tweezers.”
“But you did move it.”
“Well, yes—”
“Which would taint it.”
“Oh, dear,” Tricia said, realizing he was right. And why hadn’t she thought of that before she’d donned her trench coat and played Columbo?
“Tricia, why didn’t you call me before you decided to play detective?”
“I figured you might not be interested in what I had to say. After all, your boss—”
“Is not me—and when are you going to get that through your head?”
Silence seemed to be the best reply to that question.
“What was this possible evidence that is now unusable?”
Chapter & Hearse Page 21