“It came in this morning’s mail.”
“Do you still have the envelope?”
“I tossed it in the trash, but it’s still down in the shop.”
“I could go retrieve it.”
“Would you, please? And could you take Sarge out, too? I forgot to do that when I came in.”
“Of course,” Tricia said, but Sarge seemed to have acquired extrasensory perception and was already heading for the door.
On the way out, Tricia grabbed his leash, but didn’t pick him up. She didn’t know how full the little guy’s bladder was, and she didn’t want to end up as a urine sponge if he couldn’t make it outside. She’d had enough of doggy messes for one day.
Once they returned inside, Tricia let the dog off the leash, and he scampered back up the stairs while Tricia headed for the wastebasket near the register. Even though Frannie had been in mourning for her friend, she’d still been a conscientious employee and had emptied the trash. Tricia didn’t feel like Dumpster diving in the cold and dark, and she returned to the apartment and her sister.
“You didn’t find it?”
“Frannie must have emptied the trash. We’ll have to look for it in the Dumpster tomorrow morning.”
“Damn,” Angelica cursed, and took a healthy swig of her drink.
Tricia washed her hands and settled at the island once again, taking a sip of her martini before speaking. “Any suspects?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who do you think guessed your secret?”
“I have no idea. I’ve been extremely careful about what I say and to whom in an effort to keep it quiet.”
“That’s not exactly true.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s pretty obvious that you have a rather close relationship with Antonio, Ginny, and Sofia.”
“Really?”
“Of course. Sofia calls you Nonna—and plenty of people have heard her say it.”
“She calls Grace Nonna, too—and Ginny’s mother … when she can be bothered to come visit. There’s no way on earth I’d live a thousand miles away from my grandchild.”
Technically, Angelica was Sofia’s step-grandmother—no blood relation at all, but the heart doesn’t pay attention to those kinds of details.
“Our family dinners are rather famous as well,” Tricia pointed out.
“It’s not like we advertise them.” Angelica frowned. “Do you think we should stop going to the Brookview?”
“Only if you’ve grown tired of it. Although it would probably be easier on Grace and Mr. Everett not to have to climb so many stairs to get to your apartment.”
“I’ve asked them to tell me if it becomes a problem.”
“And you know as well as I do that they would deny it even if they had to crawl up the stairs on their hands and knees to join the rest of our assembled lot.”
“They do seem to enjoy our time together.”
“Let’s face it, none of us are close to our blood relatives, and Grace, Mr. Everett, and Antonio have no one else.”
“That’s what makes our group so special. Isn’t it wonderful that we’ve all found each other, can depend on one another?”
“Yes, it is.”
Angelica took another sip of her drink. “We could try having our family dinners at Booked for Lunch.”
“It wouldn’t be as comfortable and would be hard to seat us all in one group when it only has booths and a counter.”
“Why do you have to be so logical?” Angelica complained.
Tricia shrugged. “Just part of my nature. Now, let’s get back to this letter. Was there anything unusual about the envelope?”
“Only that it was addressed to me and marked Personal.”
“Was the address handwritten?”
Angelica shook her head.
“No return address label?”
“No.”
Of course not.
“I assume it’s the only one you’ve received.”
Angelica nodded. “It sounds like you don’t think it’ll be the last.”
“I don’t. And they’ve said you might pay dearly.”
“Sounds like they mean pay more than just money. Do you think this person or persons is threatening any of us? I couldn’t bear it if any of you got hurt because of my secret.”
“What I think you should do is first thing tomorrow morning go talk to Grant Baker. He’ll be able to tell you our options and open a case.”
“For one thing, tomorrow is Sunday. If he’s lucky, he’ll have the day off. Goodness knows the poor man deserves at least one day off a week. This could just be a sick joke. I’ll wait and see if any more letters arrive. I don’t want to look foolish.”
“I think you’re making a mistake,” Tricia admonished. “I mean, look how worried you are.”
“Like you, I’ve read a whole lot of mysteries.”
“And you know only trouble will come if you disregard the threat and try to handle the situation on your own.”
“Look who’s calling the kettle black. You’re the one who’s constantly taking on crime single-handedly.”
“And I realize how dangerous it is, but you must admit I’ve developed some kind of skill in pulling it off.”
“And it’s just dumb luck that you haven’t been critically injured or killed.”
“Now you’re getting melodramatic.”
“I worry about you. All your friends do. You’ve taken some awfully foolish chances.”
The conversation was getting them nowhere. Tricia polished off the rest of her drink and poured another from the pitcher. Should she tell Angelica about her drop onto doggy doo? Judging by Angelica’s tense expression, the answer was no. She had enough on her mind.
“So, what have you got on hand for dinner? I’m famished.”
Angelica got up to peruse the contents of the fridge. It would be slim pickings that evening, as all she had available were eggs, some veggies, and part of a loaf of Italian bread. “Omelets and toast it is!”
Tricia chopped the onions and peppers while Angelica assembled the rest of the meal. Neither the threatening letter nor the subject of the poisoning the night before entered their conversation, but all the innocuous chitchat in the world couldn’t mask the heavy atmosphere in that kitchen. It felt like they were playing a waiting game, but what exactly they were waiting for, neither of them knew.
SIX
Tricia’s slumber was still disturbed on the second night after Ted Harper’s death on the floor below her. In fact, she found herself avoiding the living room altogether, even though her supposed ghost barometer, Miss Marple, didn’t seem at all bothered that someone had died there and apparently felt no spectral vibrations. The cat still napped in her favorite chair and probably would have hung out with Tricia should she have stayed in the room, but after leaving Angelica’s apartment the night before, Tricia had immediately retired to her third-floor bedroom suite. The comfortable window nook was cozy and the perfect place to read.
Except … she didn’t do that right away. First, she dug through her closet and pulled out the plastic bag that contained Carol Talbot’s jewelry, spreading it across her duvet. John Miles had liberated a pair of what looked like diamond stud earrings, a tennis bracelet, an opal broach, a gold wedding band, and a diamond engagement ring. It had cost Angelica two grand to obtain the plunder—money she had no doubt long written off to save their father from yet more jail time. But they still needed to get rid of it.
Tricia picked up the tennis bracelet and admired its sparkling diamonds, and she was pretty sure they were real, if not of tremendous value. It was probably the most valuable item in the sorry little collection. The item of least value was either the wedding band—which was engraved—or the broach. Should she just toss them in the toilet and try to flush them away? She could, but decided not to, at least not without Angelica’s input. And what if the items got stuck in a pipe? It would be awkward to try to explain that to a plumber.
The next morning, Tricia realized she still hadn’t replenished her kitchen cupboards, and she’d sent the previous day’s breakfast leftovers home with Pixie, so she once again crossed the street bright and early and entered the Coffee Bean for a cup of their best Colombian brew and a much smaller muffin than Pixie had provided the day before—tastier, too.
Unfortunately, instead of a teenager behind the counter, it was one of the shop’s proprietors.
“I heard there vas another tragedy at your place Friday night,” Alexa Kozlov said, her slight Russian accent making the words sound just a little bit sinister. “Ve saw the coroner’s vagon leave wery late.”
“I guess everybody must have heard about it by now,” Tricia lamented.
“Is terrible. Poor Frannie. She came in here yesterday in tears. She didn’t even order her usual two glazed doughnuts and mocha double latte with extra foam.”
It sounded revolting to Tricia—the doughnuts and the extra foam, that is. “Maybe she’s counting her calories,” Tricia offered, hoping to divert the conversation away from Ted Harper and his untimely death.
“She said it vas your cooking that killed her boyfriend.”
“It was his allergies—not my food,” Tricia asserted. And how often was she going to have to defend her culinary efforts to other villagers?
Alexa handed Tricia the bag with her muffin and the coffee to go, then rang up the sale. Tricia paid, smiled, and wished Alexa a good day before crossing the street and returning to Haven’t Got a Clue. But Tricia stopped dead as she approached her store. She hadn’t opened the blinds before leaving and only now saw that the front display window was covered in at least a dozen broken, runny eggs. They had to have been there since late the evening before, because they’d hardened—or were they frozen?—to the glass.
The bucket and scrub brush were going to get yet another workout, and Tricia tackled the job immediately after drinking her coffee and eating her muffin.
Sunday was Pixie’s day off, and the store didn’t open until noon, so Tricia still had plenty of time to kill before the first customers of the day would arrive.
It was then she remembered that she hadn’t phoned Antonio the evening before. She wasn’t sure what she should say. Angelica hadn’t asked for her silence when it came to the threatening letter, but she decided it was up to Angelica to tell him about it. After all, he was a big part of the secret she was determined to keep quiet.
Still, she called his work number. Not surprisingly, he was unavailable. Like Chief Baker, he, too, deserved a day off. And yet Tricia had fulfilled her promise by returning the call. Of course, unless things changed, she’d be seeing him for dinner that night. Would he press her for an explanation, or would Angelica have called him and explained for herself by then? She’d just have to wait and see.
Tricia returned to the basement to attend to the paperwork that never seemed to get finished during the rest of the week. As she sat at her desk, contemplating the small stack of invoices and her checkbook, she reflected on what Alexa had said about Frannie. It bothered Tricia that Frannie was telling the world at large that she was responsible for Ted’s death. Okay, technically her stuffed mushrooms were responsible, but only because of the man’s acute allergies. Tricia hadn’t killed him, and obviously no one else who’d eaten the mushrooms—and there had been at least four dozen of the baked goodies—had become ill, either.
Frannie had a right to be upset. She had liked Ted and obviously thought they were about to become more than just friends. Tricia would cut her some slack.
Her mind next wandered on the subject of what was to become of Ted Harper’s remains. Would the brother and sister take care of that? Would he be buried in Pennsylvania? Would it be appropriate for her to send flowers, or might that upset his survivors?
Angelica seemed to know what was appropriate for any social situation. She’d ask her later. In the meantime, that stack of bills wasn’t going to pay itself.
*
• • •
As Tricia could have predicted, Angelica changed the location of the weekly “family” dinner from her third-floor apartment to Booked for Lunch. Since it closed in mid-afternoon, they had the place to themselves. There wasn’t room for a long table, so Tricia pulled up the small one from the front of the café and set it next to the longest booth. Getting in and out of it might be a bit of a strain, but it should be easier for Grace and Mr. Everett to navigate the ground-floor location.
Angelica unwrapped the tray of appetizers she’d made earlier in the day, setting it on the long counter. She had a prime rib of beef in one of the ovens, too, but she seemed decidedly unhappy.
“What’s up?” Tricia asked, handing her a chilled glass of pinot grigio she’d recently taken a liking to.
“We should be drinking red wine with beef,” Angelica muttered.
“So we’ll switch later,” Tricia advised.
“I love this place,” Angelica said, her gaze traveling to the little window in the saloon door that separated the kitchen from the dining room, which was decorated in retro red and white that practically screamed 1955, “but it’s just not the homey atmosphere I like for our dinners. And the kitchen is separated from the dining area, so I’ll be in there by myself and won’t get to see and talk to everybody.”
“We can prop the door open or take turns keeping you company. But there’re other alternatives. Since the reno, I have plenty of room, or we can go to the Brookview more often or have them cater our weekly repast,” Tricia pointed out.
Angelica wandered back into the kitchen with Tricia following. “Yes, but what’s a family dinner without home-cooked food?”
“What’s the difference? You prepare most of the meal in the café’s professional kitchen most weeks anyway, and just finish it off at home.”
“Yes, but when I make a meal, I cook with love,” she said, and lifted the lid on a pot of boiling potatoes, stabbing one with a fork to test to see if it was done.
Tricia really didn’t see the difference, but she decided it wasn’t worth arguing about.
The door to the café opened, its little bell jingling merrily. “Hello!” called a woman’s voice. Grace and Mr. Everett had arrived.
Tricia hurried out of the kitchen to greet them. “Hi, Grace.” She gave her a quick hug, and a welcoming nod to Mr. Everett, whose cheeks always colored at overt shows of affection.
“Let me help you with your coat,” Tricia offered Grace.
“I’ll get it,” Mr. Everett said.
While he hung up the coats, Grace clasped Tricia’s hand. “Are you all right, dear? After what happened on Saturday night …”
“I’m getting better,” Tricia said, and proffered her glass. “This helps—a little. Can I get you a glass?”
“Just a small one. I wouldn’t want to get tipsy.”
Angelica ducked her head around the swinging kitchen door. “Hello, Grace—Mr. E. Glad you could make it.”
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Grace said.
“Tricia, get Grace a glass of wine,” Angelica admonished.
Tricia rolled her eyes. “Always the hostess,” she said of her sister, and Grace laughed.
By the time she poured the wine, Antonio, Ginny, and Sofia in her stroller had also arrived.
“Something sure smells good,” Ginny said as she bent down to extricate Sofia, and then Angelica was on hand to take the baby from her.
“Don’t you look pretty in your little snowsuit,” she cooed.
“Nonna, Nonna!” Sofia squealed happily.
“Uh, I think she may need her diaper changed,” Ginny said apologetically.
“Nonna will be glad to take care of that.”
“Better you than me,” Tricia muttered, just loud enough for all to hear. They all laughed. It felt good to laugh. Heaven only knew, after the last few days neither she nor Angelica had muc
h to feel good about. But, unless Antonio pressed her for answers, she was determined to forget about curses, accidental deaths, and blackmail.
She hoped. But she also needed to address the situation. So, while Angelica attended to the baby, Tricia pulled Antonio aside. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night.”
“I wasn’t surprised,” he admitted, slipping out of his leather jacket and hanging it with the others.
“And I’m sorry I don’t have anything to tell you yet.”
“Then you will keep trying?”
Tricia nodded. Now she just had to hope her sister would listen to reason.
SEVEN
Pixie returned to work on Monday morning at nine fifty-five. As usual, it was Mr. Everett’s day off—a day he intended to spend with his new-to-him cat, Charlie, promising to bring pictures when he returned on Tuesday.
Pixie was so excited she was practically vibrating. “I was on the phone at exactly eight o’clock this morning, chewing off the customer service agent’s ear at NewHamp Promotions,” she said as she unbuttoned her fashionable, yet rather lightweight, vintage raincoat—something better suited to a West rather than East Coast winter. “She managed to pull my original order and had to concede that it was their error—not mine—when they processed my magnets. That broad was pretty snippy, but nobody walks over Pixie Poe,” she declared, and Tricia believed her.
“So are they going to replace the order?”
“Damn right. And not only that—they’re going to FedEx it so that it arrives tomorrow afternoon so you can take them to the Chamber of Commerce meeting on Wednesday.”
“I don’t know what to say except … thank you, Pixie. I always know I can depend on you.”
Pixie straightened to her full height—enhanced by her three-inch heels—and positively beamed. “Ah, it’s nothing,” but clearly she did believe it was, which amused Tricia.
Once Pixie had hung up her coat and downed her first cup of coffee, she settled down. As expected, the store was bereft of customers, and Pixie had more on her mind than finishing her latest paperback novel.
“We need to come up with a package,” she told Tricia authoritatively.
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