“This is an emergency. I need to speak with her right away.”
“I’m sorry, but the signing ended about half an hour ago. Ms. Miles has already left the store.”
“Did she say where she was going? To her hotel?”
“I think she said she was driving home.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I wish I could help you more.”
“Thank you. You’ve already been a big help.” Tricia folded her phone. What should she do now? If whoever killed Jim and had already gone after Bob was gunning for Angelica, too, she would be the most vulnerable on the road. In fact, every time the person attacked, he or she had targeted Angelica’s car—or targeted Angelica with his or her own car.
Tricia’s mind raced. Angelica had said that whoever chased her on the road the night before had hit a guardrail. Darcy’s car was out of commission and she needed a ride from Jake. Could she have been chasing Angelica?
That didn’t seem likely. Angelica had never mentioned that Darcy knew anyone in Stoneham prior to her taking the waitressing job at Booked for Lunch. But then, why would Angelica discuss her employee in great detail? She certainly hadn’t mentioned Jake’s past.
Darcy had been an acceptable, if annoying, employee. Angelica trusted her with the cash receipts.
Which hadn’t been adding up.
And it had been Jake who’d brought the receipts over for the past two days—not Darcy.
And what about that order of chicken Angelica had known nothing about? Darcy had seemed nervous when Tricia wrote out the check for the deliveryman. Jake had been watching from the café’s small kitchen, and had said nothing. Could he and Darcy be in on all this together?
Tricia didn’t want to believe that. Not with all the faith Angelica had put in Jake.
She pawed through the papers to find Angelica’s list of emergency numbers and came across Darcy’s phone number. She dialed it, but there was no answer—not even voice mail.
She glanced at the clock. By now Jake would be at his second job at La Parisienne in Nashua. Unless that was a fabrication, too. But, no, Captain Baker confirmed he worked there. She was getting herself all shook up and confused. She looked up that number on Angelica’s list and dialed.
“La Parisienne, this is Patty. We have a one-hour wait for seating. Can I take your reservation?”
“Patty? My name is Tricia Miles. I’m a friend of the sous-chef—Jake Masters—” That was a bald-faced lie. “I need to speak to him—it’s an emergency.”
“Kitchen help can’t take calls during working hours. Let me take your number, and Jake can return your call on his break.”
“Did you hear me—this is an emergency! Someone’s life could be at stake. Now, please let me talk to Jake.”
Patty exhaled an impatient breath. “Hold on.”
Tricia heard the thud of the phone being put down. In the background she could hear the buzz of voices in the tiny, crowded dining room.
The minutes ticked by. Finally, Jake came on the phone. “Hello?”
“Jake, it’s Tricia Miles—”
“Are you trying to get me fired? We’re up to our armpits in customers, and—”
“What’s going on with Darcy?”
“Look, I’m going to hang up—”
“Jake, I think she might be out to get Angelica. Did she tell you what her car was in the shop for?”
There was a pause, and again Tricia could hear La Parisienne’s patrons in the background—laughing, the clinking of glasses and silverware. “She said she hit a guardrail. The front end was out of alignment. She also had a big dent in the right front quarter panel, but was going to get that fixed another time.” That was consistent with Angelica’s description.
“What was with that shipment of chicken that was delivered last Thursday? Angelica didn’t know anything about it.”
“Ahhh,” he groaned, which didn’t sound encouraging. “The thing is . . . there was no shipment. Darcy and the deliveryman split the money.”
“Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”
“I don’t know you. I was waiting for Angelica to come back.”
“You have her number. You could’ve called her.”
“Look, now wasn’t the time to rat on Darcy over a couple hundred bucks’ worth of chicken. I mean—we need her right now to keep the place open while Angelica’s on her book tour.” He said the words “book tour” as though it was a frivolous waste of time. “Believe me, I’ve documented everything Darcy’s done. I’m sure you noticed I’ve brought over the receipts for the past two days. I saw her being light-fingered with the till—and pocketing some of the receipts. I need that job. I don’t want to see Booked for Lunch close because of that stinking little bitch’s gambling debts.”
Gambling debts! Frannie suspected Jim had met some little hussy at a Gamblers Anonymous meeting in Nashua. Darcy lived in Nashua.
“Jake, tell me everything you know about Darcy. I think she’s already killed one man. She may be after Angelica, too. I need your help to keep my sister safe.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Tricia.”
“Did she know Jim Roth, the man killed in the explosion last week?”
“Of course. We’d see him outside the shop when he’d take his smoke breaks.”
“Does Darcy smoke?”
“Same brand as me.”
Maybe those cigarette butts might still come in handy—Tricia was glad she hadn’t yet tossed them. But she still had other questions that needed answering. “Did Angelica leave a copy of her itinerary with you at the café?”
“Sure, but—”
“When was the last time you saw it?”
Jake hesitated. “I don’t remember. Friday—maybe Saturday. I can’t be sure.”
Darcy had been adamant about leaving work on time— time enough to race around half of New England chasing after Angelica? Slashing her tires? Smashing her headlights? Keying the paint on her car? Why? Had Bob refused to dump Angelica for Darcy?
“I’ve got Darcy’s number,” Jake said. “I’ll give her a call, but I don’t think—”
“I’ve already tried calling her. There was no answer. I called the bookstore where Angelica was signing, but she’d already left for home. Bob Kelly went off to intercept her, but there’s a lot of highway between Woodstock, Vermont, and Stoneham.”
“Call the Sheriff’s Department. Don’t you have a friend on the force?”
“I’ve already got a call in to Captain Baker, but so far he hasn’t gotten back to me.”
“Call the dispatcher. He or she should be able to track him down, especially if he’s the lead investigator on the Roth homicide.”
Damn! Why hadn’t Tricia thought of that?
“I’ll do it right now.”
“And I’ll make a few calls to see what I can find out—and hope like hell I don’t lose my job over this.”
“Will you call me back?”
“Give me your number.” He took it down and hung up—with no good-bye, no nothing. Tricia wasn’t about to berate him on his phone etiquette, and instead punched in 9-1-1.
Twenty-Four
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you shouldn’t be calling Emergency Services to track down a member of the Sheriff’s Department,” the 9-1-1 operator said.
“But this is an emergency! Who else am I supposed to call at a time like this?” Tricia tried to explain for the third time.
“Misuse of an emergency—”
“Oh, never mind,” Tricia said and flipped her phone shut.
There was only one thing to do—try to intercept Angelica along the way.
And what if Angelica had deviated from her Mapquest printout?
Tricia grabbed her purse and keys and headed for the door. She ran to the municipal parking lot, but with every step she thought better of her haphazard plan. There were hundreds of miles of highway between where Angelica might be and where Tricia was now. The old finding-a-needle-in-a-haystack anal
ogy fit this situation perfectly. And Tricia had promised Captain Baker she would not put herself in harm’s way. The logical thing to do was to stay put, be available by phone, and hope and pray Angelica would be okay.
Tricia turned and started back for Haven’t Got a Clue. She’d make a big pot of coffee. Maybe she’d call Deborah to wait with her . . . not that Deborah could get away. Her husband probably wouldn’t want to forgo a Red Sox game to watch the baby. She could call Ginny, but she might still be with Antonio Barbero, and if she was, wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted.
Thank goodness for Miss Marple. She’d been a true companion through some of the lowest times of Tricia’s life.
As she slowly walked back to her store, Tricia sorted through her keys, pausing in front of the Cookery. Something caught her eye, and she looked at the door. The little CLOSED sign that hung on a chain was gently swinging—as though someone had just looked out the blind-covered window.
But no one should be inside the Cookery.
Tricia had last seen Frannie at the convenience store. She’d probably gotten a ride back into the village, and if so, her home, not the Cookery, would’ve been her destination. She had no reason to be inside the store at this hour.
Angelica’s car was not in the parking lot, and Tricia and Frannie were the only other people who had the keys to the Cookery.
Don’t put yourself in harm’s way.
Tricia opened her phone, dialed Captain Baker’s number once more, and listened to it ring and ring and ring before voice mail kicked in. She waited for the tone. “Grant, it’s Tricia. Please call me back on my cell phone as soon as possible. Please!”
She folded her phone and put it in her slacks pocket.
What constituted “harm’s way,” anyway? Surely not opening a door and peeking inside her sister’s shop.
Tricia sorted through her keys once more, came up with the one that opened the Cookery, and placed it in the lock. She opened the door slowly. The inside of the shop was dim. Frannie had apparently forgotten to flip on the switch for the security lighting before leaving.
Or someone had flipped the switch off.
Tricia’s hand tightened on the door handle. She felt like one of those bimbos in a mystery novel, the ones who walked into darkened alleys, basements, or attics where an armed serial killer lurked. If she walked inside, she might be in harm’s way. Or she might just find that Frannie had forgotten to turn on the security lights.
She took a step forward. The light switch was just inside on the left. She needed to turn the lights on so Angelica wouldn’t walk into the darkened store.
She took another step forward, squinting as her gaze swept across the empty shop. The store was eerily silent. Angelica’s life-sized cutout, still clad in the hula skirt and paper lei, stood just ahead of her on the right.
She took another step forward and reached for the switch.
A sudden movement to her right startled Tricia as the Angelica cutout rushed toward her.
She stumbled off balance as the cutout shoved her to the ground. The door slammed, and Tricia crawled backward crablike, farther into the store.
“Stop it! Stop!” she hollered.
The cutout stopped moving. It was then that Tricia saw the lacquered nails and silver rings on the fingers holding the cutout upright.
“What are you doing here, Darcy?”
Darcy poked her head around the left side of the cutoff. “Looks just like Angelica, doesn’t it? Demented. Delusional. Soon to be departed.”
For some reason, Tricia wasn’t afraid of dumpy little Darcy—despite what she suspected the woman had done. She struggled to her feet. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Duh! I’m waiting for Angelica.”
“How did you get in?”
“Through the door. How else?”
“How did you get through the locked door?”
“I have a key. I have a copy of all Angelica’s keys. I’ve been in her bedroom. She’s got a lot of nail polish. Why doesn’t she get her nails done professionally? She can afford it more than I can.”
Tricia could imagine all Angelica’s nail polish bottles spilled or smashed on her rugs and bedspread. A malicious little prank pulled by a malicious little slob.
“We could dance around what you’re doing here, but why waste time? Why are you jealous of Angelica, and why have you been stalking her?”
Darcy’s grin was wolfish. “Stalking her? Me? I’m not a stalker, I’m a fan. I’ve been to at least half of her book signings.”
“But you didn’t go inside the bookstores. Instead, you waited outside, slashing her tires, breaking her headlights, and keying the paint on her car. Calling Angelica a fat bitch by ruining the paint on her driver’s door doesn’t sound like the work of a fan to me. And have you looked in the mirror lately, Darcy? You might benefit from a diet yourself.”
“Shut up, bitch! Skinny broads like you always have an edge over people like me. You get all the breaks.”
“Hard work got me my breaks.” That and a nice fat inheritance, plus a generous divorce settlement—but she wasn’t about to go into that.
Tricia bent down to pick up her purse, but Darcy spoke up. “Uh-uh-uh! Leave that stuff on the floor.”
“I have a call in to Captain Baker of the Sheriff’s Department. He’ll be here any minute now, looking to talk to me about—of all things—you.”
“You’re lying.”
Tricia shrugged, hoping Darcy wouldn’t notice the sweat that had broken out on her forehead.
“While we wait, we can talk about Bob Kelly and Jim Roth—and why you’ve already killed once, and tried to kill again.”
“I’m not one of the blabbermouths in those stupid mysteries you read—the ones who go on and on confessing their guilt. And I don’t need to, because I’ve done nothing wrong.”
The woman was either in denial or had no scruples, but maybe Tricia could buy some time by talking through the points that had been coalescing in her mind. “Let’s talk about Jim Roth. Why did you want him dead?”
“Why would I want him dead? I didn’t know him.”
“There are only so many meetings of Gamblers Anonymous in Nashua. I’m sure the Sheriff’s Department will be able to prove the two of you attended meetings together.”
“There’s a reason they’re anonymous—nobody snitches,” Darcy said with a sneer.
“The two of you were dating. I’ll bet the surveillance cameras at Foxwoods Casino caught the two of you together. Jim used his credit card, proving he was there.”
Darcy’s sneer wavered.
“What happened? Did he reconsider his promise to drop Frannie?”
“That skinny hag,” Darcy grated. “She’s at least fifteen years older than me.”
“And what about Bob Kelly? The two of you had been together in the past, but his taste in women had improved over the years. He’d long ago given up bologna for Angus steak.”
Darcy’s mouth twisted into a frown. She might not be blabbing about her motives, but her expression was confirming everything Tricia said. She pushed on.
“But while you were dating Jim, you were two-timing him with Bob.”
“So much for Angus beef,” Darcy said, and the sneer was back.
“But then he realized what you were and what he stood to lose with Angelica, so he broke it off. Now you had no one, and a crappy job waiting tables in a hick town. Not much of a life,” Tricia said.
“You don’t know anything,” Darcy muttered.
“You were so angry,” Tricia went on, “that when you saw Bob and Jim together last Wednesday at History Repeats Itself, you decided to take action. Not something overt that might cast suspicion your way, so you went behind the store and loosened the connection on his gas meter. You knew Jim would eventually come outside for a cigarette, and then—boom!”
“There was no boom! It hardly made a noise at all. It was the glass shattering and the ceiling falling in that made all the noise.”
“I didn’t see you in the crowd on the sidewalk, but you had to be there. You had to see the ambulance take Bob to the hospital in Nashua. When you learned he wasn’t badly hurt, you decided to expand your little reign of terror, and include Angelica in your plan for revenge.”
Darcy didn’t comment.
“You tried to run her over outside the hospital that night. That was your first attempt to get rid of her.”
“Pure conjecture,” Darcy said.
Tricia hadn’t thought Darcy’s vocabulary was that evolved. “You made sure you left work on time or early every day so you could chase all over New England after Angelica. You let Bob know what you were doing, but he didn’t believe you because Angelica didn’t tell him about the incidents.”
Darcy’s mouth had pursed once more.
“Why did you try to kill Bob? Or were you just trying to scare him into taking you back? Not a very clever plan, but then, were you ever able to acquire your GED?”
“That’s it,” Darcy said, finally losing her temper. “Get in that chair.” She pointed to the only upholstered chair Angelica had provided for her customers.
“Going to tie me up?” Tricia asked. “With what?”
Darcy’s mouth dropped open, but then abruptly shut again.
“You’re right—I don’t need to tie you up. I have a gun,” Darcy said, and withdrew it from the pocket of her slacks. It looked like a toy, barely bigger than the size of her hand. But Tricia knew even a small handgun could do deadly damage if the shooter hit the target in just the right place.
“I don’t think you’ll shoot me,” Tricia bluffed, keeping her voice level, but her gaze was riveted on the chrome-plated gun barrel.
Darcy’s smile was positively evil. “What have I got to lose?”
Something moved behind the shop door’s blinds, momentarily diverting Tricia’s attention.
“That’s the oldest trick in the book,” Darcy said, employing yet another cliché, “and I’m not falling for it.”
Then, in a clash of shattering glass and splintering wood, the door burst open, but instead of Captain Baker, it was Bob Kelly who plunged into the shop. Darcy barely had time to react before Bob tackled her like a Patriots linebacker.
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