“What do you mean?” Tricia demanded.
“Just what I said. Now, I’m going upstairs to talk to Ms. Armstrong,” Baker said. He knew the way. He’d been a regular visitor years before, and Tricia had shown him the space early in its renovation. For some reason, she was reluctant to have him see the final result, although she wasn’t exactly sure why.
Still, she said nothing as Baker made his way through the living room and headed for the stairs to the third floor.
And then she remembered Carol Talbot’s jewelry, hidden in a shoebox in the back of her closet. Carol Talbot had been murdered just five months before—and the prime suspect had been none other than Tricia’s father, John. Someone had burgled her home immediately after her death. Someone had pawned her jewelry. Tricia and Angelica had found the pawn tickets and claimed the jewelry. It was their father who’d purloined the expensive rings, broach, earrings, and bracelet. They hadn’t figured out how to return the jewelry to the estate without implicating John Miles, who, last they heard, was heading to Grand Cayman with their mother, once again playing snowbirds. If he thought he’d gone to a country without an extradition treaty with the US, he was sadly mistaken.
What if the ever-inquisitive Baker nosed around and found the stolen items in her closet? How was she ever going to explain having them?
“Look at the time,” Ginny said, her gaze fixed on the antique clock that graced the south wall of Tricia’s living room. “We promised the babysitter we’d be home by eleven, and it’s almost one.”
“Go home,” Angelica said.
“Not until the chief says so,” said the uniformed officer still standing watch over the body.
“She’s already given her statement, and so has her husband,” Angelica pointed out. “What’s to keep them?”
The officer opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to think better of it. “Very well.”
Ginny crossed the floor to give Angelica, and then Tricia, a hug. “Let us know if there’s anything you need.”
“Will do,” Tricia said.
Antonio, too, hugged the sisters. “Call us tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Angelica said, and watched as her stepson and his wife donned their coats and headed for the stairs to go home.
The medical examiner returned and this time he had company.
“We’re ready to remove the body now,” she told the officer.
“Let’s give the guys some room,” Officer Henderson said, and herded those remaining into the kitchen, which was fine with Tricia; she didn’t really want to watch.
“When can I go home?” Angelica asked, sounding exhausted.
“When the chief says so.”
“What about Frannie?” Tricia asked.
“If she requests it, we can take her home.”
“I suppose I should go with her,” Angelica said.
“Are you sure?”
“She’s my employee. I feel I owe it to her.”
Tricia nodded.
The body had been removed by the time Baker returned with a flush-faced Frannie in tow.
“Are you okay, Frannie?” Tricia asked.
Frannie clutched a tissue in one hand, and her eyes were red from crying, but she nodded. “I just want to go home.”
“I’ll come with you,” Angelica said.
Frannie shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ll be all right, but if it’s okay, I don’t think I can come into work tomorrow.” She glanced at the clock. “Today.”
“Of course not,” Angelica agreed. “And take as much time as you need.”
“Please let me know if I can help in any way,” Tricia said with sincerity, but Frannie’s expression tightened.
“I know you didn’t mean to poison Ted, but he’s dead. I think you’ve done enough.”
Frannie’s frigid tone shook Tricia, but she said nothing—and neither did anyone else.
“Drive the lady home, Henderson,” Baker ordered, and the officer waited for Frannie to snag her coat before the two of them left the apartment.
“You can go home, too, Angelica.”
“I think I’ll keep Tricia company a little while longer,” she said, which hadn’t been her plan only a minute before, but for which Tricia was grateful.
Baker nodded. He turned back to Tricia. “By the way, I heard you were in court today for Bob Kelly’s sentencing and that he said some disparaging things about you.”
“He cursed me.”
“You did everything right. Because of you, that’s one less bad guy who’ll walk the streets of Stoneham, and I, for one, am grateful.”
“Thank you, Grant.” It had been a long time since she’d called him by his first name. He seemed to appreciate it.
For a moment, he rested a hand on her shoulder and gave her an encouraging smile. “I’ll see myself out and make sure the doors downstairs are locked.”
“Thanks again,” Tricia said.
“I’m sure Harper’s death was just an accident,” he said kindly, “but I’ll be in touch just the same.”
She nodded. She wouldn’t have expected any less. Then again, she thanked heaven he hadn’t gone poking around in her bedroom.
They watched him go and didn’t say a word until they heard the door downstairs close.
“Well, that was certainly an interesting evening,” Angelica declared.
“How can you say that?” Tricia accused.
“I said interesting, I didn’t say good—although the party really was a success until poor Ted’s throat closed up like a crushed straw.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen anything like that, and I hope I never do again.”
Tricia shuddered. “Me, too.”
Angelica studied Tricia’s face. “Are you okay? You’re as pale as a ghost. Have you eaten anything tonight?”
Tricia shook her head. “And I don’t think I can right now.”
Angelica sighed. “The crime scene investigators took every scrap of food from the fridge, even the jars of pickles and olives, so there’s nothing to eat anyway—unless you want to spread some of Miss Marple’s kitty pâté on a cracker. I think there’s at least one unopened box of them in the cupboard.”
Tricia shook her head. “Seeing them pack up my kitchen was one thing, but I was sweating bullets when Grant went up to my bedroom.”
“Whatever for?”
“That little treasure trove of Carol Talbot’s jewelry still sitting in the back of my closet.”
Angelica cringed. “Oh, dear. I’d forgotten all about that.”
“So had I. Or at least, I’d put it out of my mind. We need to find a way to return it to her estate without either of us—or Daddy—getting in trouble with the law.”
“Well tonight is not the time for that conversation. Are you sure you don’t want to go over to Booked for Lunch or my place for some eggs and toast? It’s really no trouble.”
“I’ll pick up something from the Coffee Bean tomorrow morning. Then I guess I’ll have to go to the grocery store—that is, if Pixie and/or Mr. Everett even show up for work tomorrow.”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“They might be traumatized, too.”
“Not much traumatizes Pixie. She once told me that in her former profession, a john or two had a cardiac arrest while they were engaged in … shall we say, a heart-straining situation. And Mr. Everett left the party before the poor man died. Besides, it was an accident—Grant even said so. If Frannie’s date had terrible allergies, he should have known better than to put anything in his mouth without asking for a detailed list of the ingredients.”
Hearing Angelica confirm that aloud did make Tricia feel better, but only a little bit.
Angelica yawned. “Would you like me to stay here with you tonight?”
Tricia shook her head. “No. I’m all right. I just want to go to bed—that is, if I’ll be able to get to sleep.” She looked over to the front of the living room where the body had lain and wondered how long it would take—a night or two … or
more—before she would feel comfortable sleeping in her newly refurbished home again.
And she wondered if Bob Kelly’s curse had already proved effective.
THREE
It wasn’t hunger that kept Tricia awake for most of the night, but dreams about a stranger lying dead in her living room. She’d awoken more than once in the midst of the dream, sweating and shaky from terror that was more disturbing than the victim’s actual death. By the time morning arrived, she’d recovered her appetite and felt ravenous. And she was determined to be the first in line across the street at the Coffee Bean when it opened. The day was bright with only scattered clouds scudding across the sky, and the temperature was positively balmy for early November—already in the fifties. She hoped it meant she’d have a much better day—and evening—than the one before.
A uniformed barista, with a visor bearing the Coffee Bean logo, unlocked the door and turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN, and Tricia followed her to the counter, glad neither of the owners was in sight. She could just imagine what they’d have to say.
The barista, Emily according to her name tag, poured Tricia’s large skinny latte and placed a hefty almond-glazed croissant in a cream-colored take-out bag. A year before, she would have never considered such a decadent breakfast, but as her ill-fated cocktail party had proved, life was short, and she felt she deserved some kind of compensation for having endured it.
By the time Tricia finished her makeshift breakfast, she still had nearly ninety minutes to wait until she could open Haven’t Got a Clue. She rescued her copy of Angelica’s Easy-Does-It Cooking and took it down to her basement office, where she scanned the crab stuffed mushroom recipe and e-mailed it to the chief. By then, she only had an hour to kill. She spent most of it on her treadmill. The mindless activity was about all she felt up to handling just then, though her pace was far slower than necessary to break a sweat and qualify as true aerobic activity.
Pixie arrived ten minutes early for work, laden with a big bakery box from the Shaw’s grocery store in Milford. “Good morning,” she called out. “And isn’t it a gorgeous day? It almost feels like summer.”
“Let’s hope we’ll have a spurt of customers—just like in the summer,” Tricia said. She eyed the box. “What have you got there?”
“When I saw the cops cleaning out your fridge last night, I figured you could use some sustenance this morning.” She set the box on the glass display case that also acted as a cash desk.
The thought of the police taking probable evidence reminded Tricia that Carol’s jewelry still awaited its final disposition. She shook the thought away. “That was very thoughtful of you, Pixie, but I—”
Pixie held up a hand to halt Tricia’s protestations. “Now, I know you only like to put healthy food into your mouth, so I bought some of the real stuff for Mr. E and me and some low-sugar, low-sodium bran muffins for you. If nothing else, it’s roughage—and that’s good for you.”
Tricia pursed her lips, feeling guilty for having eaten the sinful pastry hours earlier. “Uh, thank you for thinking of me.”
Pixie grabbed the pot from the beverage station and headed for the back of the shop to hang up her jacket and get water for the coffee. Before she could return, Mr. Everett arrived, and he didn’t come empty-handed, either, as evidenced by the big brown paper bag he held.
“Good morning, Ms. Miles.”
“Good morning. What are you doing here? I thought you were going to pick up Charlie this morning.”
“Police Chief Baker was at our door at eight o’clock this morning. He said someone passed away at your party last night.”
“Unfortunately, it’s true.”
“He asked us about the food.”
“It seems Frannie Armstrong’s friend had a bad allergic reaction.”
“I’d sure say so,” Pixie said, and rolled her eyes.
Yes, it sure was unfortunate for Ted whatever-his-last-name-was to die at her party, but Tricia was determined to steer the conversation away from that topic.
“But surely you would have still had time to pick up your new cat.”
“We thought so, too. But then the phone rang. It was the rescue center. Something about the veterinarian paperwork not being ready. I’m on standby in case Grace calls and says we can pick him up later today after all, but it may end up being Monday.”
“I’m so sorry you have to wait. I know you’re eager to welcome your new family member home.”
Mr. Everett nodded sadly.
“What have you got there?” Tricia asked, already knowing the answer.
“Bagels. I bought several of all our favorites because I wanted to make sure that you would be eating well and taking care of yourself after … after what happened last night.”
Mr. Everett shrugged out of the sleeves of his jacket and shuffled off to hang it up in the back, passing Pixie along the way. She had the coffee brewing before he returned.
“Great minds think alike, huh, Mr. E?” Pixie asked, indicating the large brown paper bag he still held.
“I’m sure we can put a dent into both of your generous provisions,” Tricia said, and meant it.
Pixie brought out paper plates and plastic knives, opened the container of cream cheese, then plucked an everything bagel from the bag. She passed it to Tricia, who took a poppy seed, and then Mr. Everett chose an Asiago cheese bagel.
Pixie broke the quiet. “I thought maybe you were going to announce the Chamber thing last night,” she said to Tricia.
“I was going to—but that was before …” She didn’t need to say more.
“Perhaps we should discuss your campaign strategy,” Mr. Everett suggested.
“Strategy?” Tricia echoed. “I hadn’t thought about it. We have a week between the time the candidates announce their intent to run and the election itself.”
“Yeah, we know,” Pixie said. “Mr. E and me have been doing some brainstorming and we came up with a couple of great little angles.”
“Angles?” Tricia asked, wondering if she should dread the explanation.
“Yeah. We looked at an online catalog that sells all kinds of cool tchotchkes—you know, like the authors sometimes send us.”
“You ordered some pens that say ‘Vote for Tricia’?”
Pixie shook her head. “Too pedestrian.”
“I thought it was a good idea,” Mr. Everett said defensively. Had he been overruled by Pixie?
“Magnets,” Pixie said. “Everybody needs them for their fridges to hang up their grocery lists, pictures of their kids and grandkids, and stuff like that.” She darted around the counter and came up with a box that Tricia hadn’t seen before. From the strain on Pixie’s face as she lifted it, it must have been quite heavy.
“These came in just yesterday. I wanted to surprise you.” Pixie opened the flaps on the box and plucked out one of the magnets, handing it to Tricia.
Tricia frowned and read the three-line text aloud, “‘Tricia Miles Hasn’t Got a Clue for Chamber President.’”
“Oh, no!” Pixie wailed. “That’s not what it’s supposed to say. It was supposed to say, ‘Tricia Miles OF Haven’t Got a Clue for Chamber President.’” Mouth agape, she grabbed the magnet from Tricia. “I proofread it at least three times. Mr. E even proofed it.”
“I did,” Mr. Everett agreed, nodding vigorously.
Pixie looked ready to cry.
“I—I …” Tricia didn’t know what to say. “Perhaps they will replace the order,” she said lamely.
“But it won’t come in time for the election,” Pixie said, her voice cracking.
“Then it’s a good thing I went ahead and ordered those pens,” Mr. Everett said, and it was his turn to go behind the desk and pull out a small box. He opened the flaps, took out a blue pen, and handed it to Tricia. “See, it says, ‘Vote for Tricia Miles for Chamber President,’ and it has a rubber tip for texting.”
Tricia gave him a warm smile. “I’m very touched that both of you are pulling for me to win. P
ixie, let me reimburse you for the—”
But Pixie shook her head adamantly. “No! This is my gift to you, and I’m going to make it right.”
Tricia didn’t know what to say, so she smiled. “Why don’t we have that coffee and some breakfast. I have a feeling it’s going to be a very long day.” And to prove her point, the phone rang. Tricia stepped behind the cash desk and picked up the receiver on the circa nineteen thirties telephone. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia; how can I help you?”
“Tricia? It’s Chief Baker.”
Tricia’s heart sank. What piece of bad news would he have for her now? “What’s up?”
“First, thanks for that recipe. I know shellfish can sometimes be the cause of anaphylaxis. It may be what killed the guy.”
It was a good explanation.
He went on. “I’ve already forwarded it to the ME. Which brings me to my next point; I wanted to let you know that the autopsy for Theodore Harper won’t happen until at least Monday. There was a fire in Nashua last night, and—”
Hearing about yet another tragedy was more than Tricia could bear. “Oh, Grant—don’t say any more.”
“I thought you should know about the holdup.”
“Thanks. Were you able to notify Ted’s next of kin?”
“So far all we’ve been able to contact is the guy’s ex-wife. She was quite upset. Apparently they were still on friendly terms. She said she’d try to get the number of Mr. Harper’s brother and sister in Pennsylvania and get back to us.”
“Ted and his ex had no children?”
“Apparently not.”
Maybe that was better in the long run. Tricia felt guilty enough for possibly killing the man with a loaded mushroom—her sense of responsibility would have tripled if the man had left behind children.
“Thanks for letting me know, Grant.”
“You’re welcome. I wish I could be more reassuring.”
Okay, why was he being so nice? Had he broken up with his girlfriend and decided he wanted to—
No, she couldn’t even entertain the thought of getting back together with a man who feared commitment, so she put that idea right out of her head.
Poisoned Pages Page 3