“I appreciate that. Thank you.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he said, and ended the call.
Tricia replaced the receiver in its cradle.
Pixie was suddenly right in front of her, offering Tricia a mug of coffee and a bran muffin, with Mr. Everett right behind her holding a paper plate with a bagel slathered in cream cheese—much more food than she wanted or needed, but the looks on their faces were so earnest that she couldn’t bear to let either of them down. “My word. I don’t think I’ve seen such a fine breakfast in a long, long time.” And with that, she accepted both of their gifts.
*
• • •
Tricia showed up at Booked for Lunch at just about two o’clock, still enjoying the unseasonably warm weather and at more or less the usual time she joined her sister for their midday meal. The café was nearly empty, and already the café’s new waitress, Molly, a buxom blonde of about fifty, was filling salt and pepper shakers for the next day’s opening.
“Your usual, Tricia?” she called.
“Just coffee today, Molly.”
Tricia took a seat opposite Angelica at the front table that overlooked the street, not where they usually sat.
“You’re not going back to your old eating habits, I hope,” Angelica said, looking down her nose over the reading glasses that were perched there.
While Tricia had never had an eating disorder, for years she’d been obsessed about her caloric intake. No more. “No. Pixie and Mr. Everett both brought breakfast, and I didn’t have the heart to turn either of them down; but I am stuffed.”
“Let me guess: a poppy seed bagel and a bran muffin.”
“You’re positively psychic,” Tricia said.
Angelica shook her head. “I just know how both of them think. It was very sweet of them to look after you today after last night’s trauma.”
“Yes, it was.”
Angelica looked back down at the papers strewn across the table—order sheets, mostly, for both the Sheer Comfort Inn and Booked for Lunch. And yet there was another folder on the table marked PERSONAL.
Molly arrived at the table with a grilled cheese sandwich for Angelica, as well as a bowl of the soup of the day—chicken vegetable, by the look of it—and Tricia’s coffee. “Thank you.”
“Thanks, Molly,” Angelica said, but her accompanying smile was only half-hearted.
Molly retreated to the counter to finish her condiment accounting.
“Is something up?” Tricia asked, taking in her sister’s lack of joie de vivre.
Angelica eyed Molly and lowered her voice as she set her papers aside. “Nothing I want to discuss here. We’ll talk about it tonight.”
Oh-kay.
Tricia changed the subject. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about Daddy’s pawn ticket surprise, either.”
“No.”
Tricia winced. “Okay, then. I heard from Grant this morning.”
Angelica raised an eyebrow, but didn’t look up from her soup.
“Ted Harper’s autopsy has been postponed.”
“Who’s that?”
“The guy who died in my apartment last night,” Tricia whispered.
“Oh, Ted. Frannie is absolutely distraught.”
“She came into work today?”
“She said she’d only sit at home and cry if she didn’t—not that she’s done much else today, but at least she wasn’t alone with her morbid thoughts.”
“How long had they been going out together?”
“Your party was their third date. Frannie was expecting a totally different outcome to the evening, if you know what I mean.”
Tricia did.
“I feel terrible about the whole situation,” Tricia said, picked up her cup, but then decided she didn’t want or need any more caffeine that day. It would be difficult enough to fall asleep later that night. She didn’t want to have a repeat of the dreams she’d experienced the night before—when she’d been able to sleep, that is.
Angelica took a bite of her sandwich, chewed, then swallowed. “Since I am eating lunch, can we refrain from further talk of autopsies?”
Tricia nodded.
“Scuttlebutt around the village is that Chauncey Porter is going to run for Chamber president,” Angelica said.
“Chauncey?”
“Yes, it seems he heard you might be throwing your hat into the ring and … well, let’s just say his reason for running isn’t at all charitable.”
“You mean he just doesn’t want to see me win.”
Angelica nodded. “That’s about right.”
Chauncey held a grudge—and perhaps rightly so. His former fiancée had taken her life when Tricia had discovered a deeply embarrassing episode from her past. Her death had spawned nightmares that had haunted Tricia for weeks, but worst of all, Chauncey didn’t take into account the other events and people associated with the woman’s death. He blamed one person: Tricia.
“What does Mary have to say about this?” Tricia asked.
“I haven’t heard, but I can’t think she’d approve. And maybe it will be another strike against them getting married.”
“Why do you say that?”
Angelica shrugged. “One hears things.”
Tricia waited, but Angelica didn’t elaborate. Again, her gaze had traveled over to Molly, who may or may not have been eavesdropping. It was another topic they might discuss that evening.
“So you are definitely going to run?” Angelica asked Tricia.
“Well, it seems I have to now.”
“Why’s that?”
Tricia reached for her purse and dug out the pen Mr. Everett had given her earlier that day.
Angelica smiled and read the gold lettering that seemed to jump off the dark blue background, “‘Vote for Tricia Miles for Chamber President.’ It does have a lovely ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Tricia said, and suddenly found herself looking forward to the formality of the election—and perhaps serving her community. And yet, a thread of doubt wiggled within her. If Chauncey was only running to spite her, how low was he liable to go to upset the election process?
FOUR
It was nearly three when Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue, which was experiencing a slow sales day. Both Pixie and Mr. Everett were reading—she standing behind the cash desk, and he sitting in one of the upholstered chairs in the nook, with Tricia’s cat, Miss Marple, ensconced on his lap, purring happily.
“Still no word about Charlie?” Tricia asked Mr. Everett.
He shook his head. “Grace called. They said it would definitely be Monday.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Mr. Everett petted the cat on his lap, and her purring grew even louder. “I admit to being disappointed, but I shall practice being a good pet owner with Miss Marple. She doesn’t seem to mind the attention.”
Tricia grinned. “No, she certainly doesn’t.” Tricia left her employee and strode to the back of the shop to hang up her coat before returning to the front of the store and placing her purse behind the counter once again. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”
Pixie shook her head, not looking up from the prose before her, but reached for a sticky note. “Antonio called. He wants you to call him back.”
“Anything important?”
“He didn’t say, but he sounded kind of worried.”
Tricia looked at the note written in Pixie’s rather girlish hand. If Antonio had something serious on his mind, she wasn’t about to make the call with an audience listening in. Stuffing the note into the left pocket of her slacks, Tricia headed for the back of the store. “I’m going to be working on the books downstairs for a while. Call me on my cell phone if you need me.”
“Sure thing,” Pixie said, never having looked up from her book.
When Tricia had first leased the building that housed her store and loft apartment, the basement was rather dank and gloomy. Since then, she’d upgraded it to act as her cli
mate-controlled storeroom, work space, and exercise area. Although it still lacked natural light, the new system she’d had installed made the area bright and cheerful. And on that particular November afternoon, she settled at her desk in perfect comfort as she tapped the contacts list on her cell phone, choosing Antonio’s work number.
“Nigela Ricita Associates. Antonio Barbero here. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Antonio; it’s Tricia. Pixie said you wanted to speak with me.”
“Ah, Tricia. Grazie—my thanks for returning my call so quickly.”
“What’s up?”
“Ah, it is matrigna—Angelica.”
“Oh?” Was he about to bring up the subject Angelica hadn’t wanted to talk about at lunch?
“Sono preoccupato—something is not right.”
As Ginny had mentioned, and Tricia had noticed, Antonio seemed to lapse into Italian when he was worried or upset.
“Is this work related?” she asked, suddenly fearful her sister might have a health concern she hadn’t been willing to talk about in front of the help at Booked for Lunch.
“I think so. I don’t know if it’s related, but ever since Michele Fowler left the Dog-Eared Page, she has seemed restless and inattentive.”
Until the week before, Michele had been the manager at the village’s only drinking establishment. She’d done a fantastic job getting the new business up and running, but after more than a year she was ready to move on to a new project. The pub’s patrons had thrown her a big sorry-to-see-you-leave party, and Shawn, the former bartender, had moved into the managerial position. Already the new bartender, Hoshi Tanaka, seemed to be working out well, and Bev, the former waitress at Booked for Lunch, had been hired to serve the customers. She liked the work, and loved the higher tips.
“Is Angelica worried about the bar?”
“I do not think so, but I do think her worries may be business related. It’s unlike her not to speak to me about problems within our company. I was wondering … could you talk to her?”
“As a matter of fact, at lunch she hinted that she’d like to speak to me about something later tonight.”
“Ah, good.”
“Now, if she swears me to secrecy—and you know how well she can keep a secret—I won’t be able to talk about it to you.”
“That is all right. I merely want to know if I should be worried for the business as well. She takes on far too much responsibility.”
“I think that’s partly why she’s stepping down as Chamber president.”
“She has done well for them, but I’m sure you will carry on the good work she has begun.”
“I’ll do my best—if I get elected,” Tricia promised.
“Will you call me tonight to let me know if I should continue to be concerned—or encourage Angelica to call me?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“Grazie. Until later, dear Tricia.”
“Bye.” She hung up the phone, staring at it thoughtfully. So, what was going on with Angelica—and should she, too, be concerned?
*
• • •
Late in the day, Mr. Everett made an appearance in the basement to report that a smartly dressed older couple from Boston had chosen that day to visit Stoneham and made their final stop at Haven’t Got a Clue. Apparently Pixie had charmed them into trying out a number of new-to-them authors, netting enough cash from that one sale to more than cover her pay for the day.
Mr. Everett had come down to get a carton of replacement books to restock the shelves, sending them up in the dumbwaiter. Tricia accompanied him upstairs, and while he and Pixie sorted the books by author, Tricia collapsed the empty box and headed for the back of the store to put it in the big recycling bin that took wastepaper.
Tricia opened the door and stepped onto the concrete pad, where she slipped and fell, landing on her backside in quite a large pile of what could only be dog feces.
“Ooohh!” she wailed, struggling to her feet. Not only were her shoes covered in the stinky substance, but the back of her dark slacks was covered in muck. The carton, however, was unscathed. Picking it up with the only two clean fingers she possessed, Tricia deposited it in the bin. There was nothing to do but wipe her hands on the fabric covering her thighs and try to scrape off the excess gunk from her shoes before she could reenter the store. In fact, she tiptoed into the back room and stepped out of her shoes, leaving them on the floor, then shut the door behind her. She’d have to clean the handle with a disinfectant wipe, but first she needed to get upstairs, strip off her clothes, toss them into the washer, and then take a shower.
Walking gingerly, she entered the main sales floor. Pixie and Mr. Everett looked up.
“What on earth happened to you?” Pixie called, taking in Tricia’s disheveled appearance.
“You don’t want to know,” Tricia said, and gingerly headed up the stairs to her apartment.
As she tossed her clothes into the washing machine, Tricia thought about what had just happened and what she would make of it if she were a fictional sleuth. First, the evidence. While there was an abundance of doggy doo—brother, was there a lot of it—the canine manufacturer had to be a small dog. Of course, Sarge, a Bichon Frise, lived right next door, but Angelica was a responsible pet owner and took care of her dog’s business. Someone must have planned long and hard for this prank, because they’d had to collect an awful lot of dog poop to cause her to fall, and the day’s warm temperatures and a light rain had contributed to make the pile a slippery mess. And what if it had been Mr. Everett who’d come out to the Dumpster and fallen? He could have broken a hip. As it was, Tricia’s derriere ached, and she was sure she’d sport a fantastic bruise in the next day or so. What vulgar, mean-spirited person—mind—could have done such an obnoxious thing?
Twenty minutes and a shower later, Tricia returned to the shop to find two anxious-looking employees.
“I washed off the top of the landing,” Pixie said, and Tricia could see the bucket and scrub brush sitting to dry near the back exit.
“And I wiped off your shoes,” Mr. Everett volunteered.
“I’m sorry you had to do that,” Tricia apologized.
“You’d already been through enough,” Pixie said. “I also wiped down the door and its handles, so everything’s nice and clean.”
“Thank you so much—both of you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Aw, shucks,” Pixie said, but Tricia could tell she was pleased by the compliment.
“Why would someone do such a terrible thing?” Mr. Everett asked.
“Spite,” Tricia said, but she still couldn’t think who would be mean enough to pull such a stunt.
Or could she?
Angelica had said Chauncey’s reason for running for Chamber president was the opportunity to deprive Tricia of the job. Could anyone really be that petty?
Tricia was afraid she just might find out.
FIVE
For several months, the sisters had been trading off cooking at each other’s loft apartments. That night it was Angelica’s turn to cook, but when Tricia arrived just after six o’clock, nothing had been started, and Angelica had even forgotten to make a pitcher of martinis. Her dog, Sarge, sat at her feet, quietly whimpering. He must have been down in the dumps, as well, because he hadn’t greeted Tricia at the door with his usual enthusiasm.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Tricia asked as she liberated the gin and vermouth from the ad hoc liquor cabinet in Angelica’s kitchen.
“Going on?” Angelica asked blankly. She’d changed out of her work clothes and wore a faded duster and pink slippers, looking small and preoccupied, so unlike her usual dynamic demeanor.
Tricia grabbed two stemmed glasses from the cupboard and filled them with cracked ice to chill them. “Yes. You were distracted at lunch, and now you’ve forgotten to get anything ready for dinner? Do you want to come to my place tonight?”
“I don’t feel like getting dressed to go out. Besides, after
last night, I’m not sure I’m up to it.”
Tricia could have taken offense at that remark, but had to admit she felt relieved not to be preparing food in the space where the mushrooms had been made—and killed someone. It wasn’t like they were any special kind of fungi—just the regular white mushrooms from the grocery store. Lots of people had shellfish allergies. As Chief Baker had mentioned, maybe Ted had been allergic to the crab in the stuffing.
Tricia didn’t want to speculate and instead changed the subject. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about Daddy’s—”
“No!” Angelica said emphatically.
“Okay, then I need to mention that I had a call from Antonio this afternoon.”
Angelica looked up sharply. “Oh?”
“He’s concerned about you and asked if I could get you to open up about what’s eating you.”
“Eating me?” Angelica asked innocently.
“Yes.”
Angelica shook her head. “It’s nothing, really,” she said, not meeting Tricia’s gaze.
Tricia didn’t believe her. She retrieved the jar of queen olives from the fridge, speared two each on some frill picks, then measured the liquor into the shaker. Angelica was staring into space when Tricia set the glass down before her on the kitchen island.
“What shall we drink to?”
Angelica sighed. “Kindness. It doesn’t seem to be in abundance these days.”
“I’ll say,” Tricia muttered.
They toasted and took a sip of their drinks.
Tricia also took a stool at the island. “Antonio said you’ve been preoccupied for the last week. He’s worried.”
“He’s a dear boy.”
“Is it the shake-up at the Dog-Eared Page that’s got you concerned?”
“Not at all.”
“Then will you please tell me what is bothering you?”
Angelica’s gaze slid across the island to the folder Tricia had seen at Booked for Lunch earlier that day. She reached for it and slid it in front of her sister. “Read that.”
Tricia opened the manila folder to see a creased sheet of white copy paper with a short message printed at the top.
If you don’t want Nigela Ricita’s identity to be revealed, be prepared to pay dearly.
Tricia’s heart froze. “When did you get this?”
Poisoned Pages Page 4