“A package?”
“Yeah, you know—like the swag bags some of the authors give to their readers at signings.”
“What would you put in such a bag?”
“What else? Swag—and all we can fit in there.”
“Don’t you think a magnet and a pen is more than enough?” Tricia asked, dreading Pixie’s answer.
“Nah—you need more than that, but not necessarily stuff we’d have to order. How about a little parchment scroll tied with a ribbon.”
“What do you think it should say?”
“Your platform. Ya gotta have a platform. Like, why should these schmoes vote for you? A chicken in every pot? Time and a half for overtime? Chocolate?”
As Tricia thought about it, chocolate wasn’t a bad bribe. “Where would we get parchment paper?”
“The craft store up on the highway sells it by the ream.”
“And chocolate?”
“There’s this terrific little place just outside of Nashua called the Chocoholic, and their stuff is to die for.”
“Let’s not talk about dying,” Tricia hurriedly interrupted. Ted Harper’s death was still a little too fresh on her mind.
“It’s just a saying,” Pixie said apologetically. “Anyway, the craft store also sells little boxes that get used for weddings and showers and stuff that would be perfect for the candy. We could do something sweet, like hot-glue some little fabric ribbon rosettes to them to dress them up.”
“Wouldn’t something representing a book—like a sticker—be better?”
“And where are we going to find those on such short notice?” Pixie demanded. She was into this thing heart and soul.
“I guess you’re right. But what would the rosette represent?”
“The fact that you’ll keep the flowers on Main Street if you’re elected to the board.”
“Do you think that would be an issue?”
“I’ve heard flack that some of the Chamber members think it’s a waste of moola.”
“But the tourists like them. And if we keep it up, we’ve got a good shot at Prettiest Village in New Hampshire.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I’m all for it.”
Tricia squinted, giving her assistant a good once-over. “Are you sure you never worked on a political campaign before?”
Pixie raised her right hand, giving the Girl Scout salute. “Never have, never will. But I read lots of decorating magazines, and not the fancy-schmancy ones with antique furniture and lotsa doodads. I’m talking Crafting Today and stuff like that.”
Tricia shrugged. “It sounds good to me.”
Pixie was practically bristling with excitement. “Okay, let’s make a list of the stuff we need, and if you hold down the fort, I’ll head to the craft and candy stores. Tomorrow, when Mr. E is here, the three of us can work on the swag bags. If you like, I could go to the meeting with you on Wednesday and pass out everything.” Pixie was almost as bad as a child who begged to stay up late.
“Let’s see how things go. But I think your ideas are truly brilliant.”
Pixie grinned, her gold canine tooth flashing. She waved her index finger in the air. “And you’re going to win.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We don’t even know for sure who the competition is.”
“You must have heard the rumors,” Pixie said. Frannie was the town gossip, and though Pixie listened to it, she wasn’t one to spread it around.
“Yes, but I think I’m more qualified. I mean, I did work for the Chamber as a volunteer for almost six months.”
Pixie’s smile faded. “Yeah, but you’re a woman. They already had one of those, and New England has its share of woman-hating curmudgeons.”
“That may be, but Angelica was far more successful than her male predecessor.”
“And a lot less selfish, too,” Pixie amended under her breath. “But that don’t mean the members will vote for the most qualified person in the room. We all know how that works out,” Pixie alluded.
“Let’s not go there,” Tricia said. “Instead, let’s concentrate on your brilliant campaign strategy.” She grabbed a pen from the holder and a scrap piece of paper. “Now, what else do you think we need to get?”
*
• • •
The customers were few and far between on that brisk November morning, which gave Tricia and Pixie lots of time to research the best places to get the items they needed and for Pixie to head out to get the supplies. She made it back just in time for Tricia to head over to Booked for Lunch.
Angelica was seated in her favorite back booth, and Tricia took off her coat and joined her. “You look busy.”
Angelica looked up and over the reading glasses perched on her nose. “I’m always busy,” she said, and again there was a stack of papers on the table, which she quickly scooped up and put into a plain manila folder.
“That was a nice dinner last night,” Tricia said. “Everyone seemed to enjoy it—even little Sofia.”
Angelica sighed. “Yes, but as I suspected, I spent far too much time in the kitchen. I wonder if we should just go to the Brookview Inn and book their party room for our Sunday dinners.”
“As you said; you’d lose the personal touch.”
“Yes, and their menu is rather pedestrian. I mean, it’s wonderful. I helped create it—but it doesn’t scream me!” Perhaps not, but thanks to the changes she and Antonio had introduced, the inn was securely in the black, which it hadn’t been under its previous ownership.
Tricia’s gaze traveled to the chalkboard behind the counter, which listed the day’s specials. “The menu here isn’t all that spectacular, either.”
“The Brookview serves three meals a day; we serve lunch,” she pointed out, sounding just the teensiest bit cranky.
Tricia shrugged. “I’ve heard they make good meatloaf.”
“You’ve never had it?” Angelica asked.
Tricia shook her head. “I’m not into meatloaf.”
“I used to make it a lot for … He Who Shall Not Be Named,” she said, alluding to Bob Kelly who wasn’t a forbidden subject, but they tried not to mention him just the same. “He liked it with a lot of onions, which, by the way, is a very healthy vegetable.”
“I’d rather have them in my soup.”
“We don’t usually serve French onion on a Monday, but come back on Thursday and—”
“That’s okay,” Tricia said.
Molly, the waitress, stopped by to take their orders. Tricia ordered a bowl of the soup that was on offer (tomato bisque) and a fruit plate, while Angelica ordered a turkey club sandwich and a cup of the same soup.
“Did you talk to Antonio?” Tricia asked, as Angelica snuck a peek at the papers in the folder.
“About what?”
Tricia leaned in closer and whispered, “About the threatening letter.”
“Of course not.”
“How about Chief Baker?”
“Not him, either,” Angelica muttered.
“Why not?”
“I’m beginning to think it was all a prank.”
“Honestly? Or are you trying to talk yourself into the idea it was some kind of a put-on?”
“I didn’t get another letter, so I’m going on the assumption that the one I received the other day was someone’s idea of a joke.”
“Oh, Ange. Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Ignore this. Obviously someone knows what’s going on with”—Tricia looked around the café to see if Molly or anyone else was listening—“you know what. They’ve tied you to—” And then she mouthed the words Nigela Ricita Associates.
Angelica pursed her lips, but said nothing.
“You need to do something about this.”
“I will not be blackmailed.”
“And if whoever sent the letter spills the secret?”
“They get nothing. I lose my anonymity, but—” She sighed. “I’ve decided that’s not the worst thing in the world. I�
�ve treated every company I’ve worked with fairly”—she lowered her voice—“no matter what name I’ve done business under.”
Tricia had to admit her sister was right about that. She never really did see the reason for all the secrecy surrounding Angelica’s various business ventures. She always assumed Angelica liked the intrigue. She positively glowed whenever she was around Antonio, so there was no way she was ashamed of their relationship.
“What if it all comes out?” Tricia dared to ask.
“Sorry?”
“What would happen if people found out about …” She let the sentence trail off.
“I’m sure some would be very upset that they had to go through a middleman, so to speak, to work with the Nigela Ricita Associates.”
“Management at a lot of companies is virtually unknown to the average Joe.”
“That’s true,” Angelica agreed. “But some, maybe all, of my employees might feel that I’ve tried to pull one over on them.”
“For instance?”
Angelica shrugged. “The staff at the Brookside Inn sometimes get crazy notions about ‘the big boss’ arriving on an inspection tour. They’ve been trying to figure out who she is for a couple of years now. Antonio says they’ve even gone through the reservations with a fine-tooth comb looking for repeat visitors to try to figure out who Nigela is.”
“Is that ethical?”
Again she shrugged. “It’s a marketing tool. Repeat customers can be one of the most important keys to a successful business. The staff has identified several customers who get extra-special treatment because of their repeat reservations—and for booking meetings and other events. It’s all to the good of the inn.”
“I guess,” Tricia agreed, but despite Angelica’s protestations, Tricia was pretty sure her sister would do everything in her power not to let the truth be known to the world at large. Angelica enjoyed being an enigma.
Molly backed through the swinging kitchen door with a big round tray filled with their lunches.
While they ate, Tricia told Angelica about Pixie’s ideas for her run for Chamber president.
“You’ve got a crack assistant there, Trish.”
Tricia plunged her spoon into her soup. “I know it. It’s so cute to witness her enthusiasm. You’d think she was making a bid for the job.”
“Of course, if you win, it means you’ll have to give her more responsibility running Haven’t Got a Clue.”
“I’ve thought about that. I never thought of myself as a control freak, but there are some things I like done just so—and I’m the only one who can do them.”
Angelica shook her head. “You have to trust your staff. Just because you do something your own way, doesn’t mean it can’t be done better and more efficiently by someone else. Antonio has proved that to me time and time again.”
“You’re right,” Tricia said, and sampled the soup. “Ooh, that’s good.”
“Tommy makes great soups, doesn’t he?” Angelica asked.
Tricia nodded and freed her saltines from their cellophane prison.
Angelica tried the soup and nodded her approval. “Although I personally love the idea, I do think you should consider how your competition could view your little swag bags.”
“You mean it might look like I’m stacking the deck?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“I thought about it. But anyone who runs for the job has a week to campaign and do something similar. I’m getting out there with my message, along with a little chocolate. I don’t see it as a negative.”
“Chauncey Porter might think otherwise.”
Tricia shrugged. “I can’t worry about him. I just need to stay focused on winning.”
Angelica smiled. “I’m pleased to hear you say that. The Chamber members would be foolish not to elect you. Have you got your campaign speech ready?”
“I haven’t thought about it. I guess I could just read the text from the little scroll from our handout.”
“It wouldn’t hurt if you mention everyone you’ve ever worked with from the membership.”
“Since I volunteered for six months, that’s just about everybody.”
Angelica nodded. “Uh-huh. People like to know their contributions have been noticed and appreciate anyone who spreads the word around.”
“Duly noted,” Tricia said.
“I’m only sorry I can’t publicly endorse you. The fact that you’re my sister, and did a phenomenal job as my unpaid assistant for nearly half a year, shouldn’t be lost on the members.”
Tricia hoped so.
The sisters ate the rest of their lunch in companionable conversation, but it also occurred to Tricia that while they spoke, somewhere in Nashua, Ted Harper’s autopsy had either been completed or was still pending. That made talk about Nigela Ricita Associates and Tricia’s run for Chamber of Commerce president seem rather frivolous. The poor man had died in her home only two days before, and here she was, planning to put together party favors and march on with her life as though nothing had happened.
They were sobering and uncomfortable thoughts that Tricia couldn’t dismiss, even if she’d tried.
EIGHT
With the hands of a surgeon—wearing gloves and a medical mask—Pixie carefully divided the hundred and twenty hand-dipped chocolates (in four scrumptious flavors) and placed them in the little white boxes that Tricia had assembled. Then she wielded the glue gun with precision and added the blue rosettes to the box tops. She’d chosen that color because “pink is too girly,” given that the Chamber had a 60 percent male membership. “It’s a subtle point, but anything we can use to our advantage is worth the effort,” Pixie had declared.
Tricia couldn’t argue with that logic.
“You mentioned earlier that you’d like to go to the Chamber meeting,” Tricia said.
“Yeah. Back when I was temping at the Chamber, I always hoped I’d get to go. I mean, Mariana always did, but I was always stuck back at the office.”
“I’m sorry. Why didn’t you mention it before now?”
Pixie shrugged, frowning. “Maybe ’cuz I ain’t the most polished dame in the world.”
“Oh, Pixie.”
Again, Pixie shrugged. “I promise, I won’t do anything to embarrass you.” She looked at Tricia with puppy dog eyes; there was no way she could deny her assistant the pleasure.
“Of course you can come. I’d be proud to have you help me represent Haven’t Got a Clue.”
Pixie grinned, looking about ready to burst with pride.
They set the chocolates aside in a large cardboard carton wrapped in multiple layers of plastic—just in case—in the shop’s coldest location near the back door to the alley, then gathered up the rest of the items for the swag bags on the beverage station. The next day, with Mr. Everett’s help, they would finish the job. Tricia also called Mariana, the Chamber’s secretary, to let her know that Pixie would be her guest at the Wednesday breakfast meeting. Pixie was absolutely ecstatic and, as soon as Tricia hung up the phone, started planning what she’d wear.
“Something understated yet dignified,” Pixie asserted, but who knew what that meant.
Tricia called Angelica late in the afternoon to confirm their dinner plans, only to be put off.
“I’m sorry, Trish, but I’ve got a monstrous headache. I’m going to make myself a soft-boiled egg and toast and go to bed.”
“Are you sure? I can come over and—”
“No, no! I’ll be fine,” Angelica said. “I just need a good night’s sleep.”
“Okay. But call if you need me,” Tricia said.
“I will. And thanks.”
And so after closing Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia retreated to her large, new kitchen for the final meal of her day and, as Angelica had suggested, had an egg for her dinner, too. The carton was about the only thing left in the fridge, and now her egg had been transformed into an omelet thanks to frozen onions and peppers, which she’d liberally sprinkled with cracked pepper.
It was accompanied by one perfectly toasted piece of white bread—no butter—that she’d found in the freezer. However, there was no cocktail hour filled with discussions of her day. Yes—that’s what she missed most. It occurred to Tricia that the best part of her day—what she most looked forward to—was the time she spent with her sister talking about the ins and outs of the daily tasks of being in business.
Tricia resisted the urge to call Angelica—and more than once—and she and Miss Marple retired to her bedroom suite early that evening. Still, she wasn’t quite ready for bed. The whole Carol Talbot jewelry debacle kept niggling at her brain. It was obvious Angelica wasn’t interested in being part of the process of returning Carol’s jewelry to her estate, which meant it would be wholly Tricia’s responsibility.
Retrieving the stolen goods, Tricia spread them across the top of her vanity before selecting the sparkling tennis bracelet, which she tried on. She’d learned to play the game in high school, and was actually quite good at it, but she didn’t have the competitive nature—at least for sports—that it would have taken to become a champion. She removed it and examined the solitaire engagement ring, which, except for the caret size, was pretty much the same as the one Christopher had given her back on that balmy summer night on Martha’s Vineyard. Don’t go there, she warned herself and set it aside to examine the old-fashioned broach. Had it belonged to a relative? Might Carol have obtained it as a piece of estate jewelry?
Tricia returned the jewelry to the plastic bag and thought about the situation. She knew that once probate was initiated, a will became a matter of public record. It would list Carol’s attorney’s name and what was to be done with her earthly possessions. But did Tricia want to make it known that she was interested in the dead woman’s affairs? The fact she’d been snooping around could make things awkward when the jewelry finally showed up.
No, she wasn’t ready to go to the county clerk’s office to obtain a copy of the document, and she couldn’t ask anyone to do it for her, either. Not without arousing suspicion. Those thoughts preyed on her mind, making it difficult to concentrate on her book. Finally she just gave up and turned out the light, but it was a long time before she was able to fall asleep.
Bright and early, Tricia was up and ready for work—hours before her shop would open. That gave her plenty of time to take her walk through the village—sans Sarge, who often accompanied her—to check out some of the early holiday decorations in the other shops along Main Street. The Happy Domestic was all decked out for Christmas, with everything in its big display window a pastel pink and green. It wasn’t her idea of Christmas colors, and Tricia was pleased to see that the Coffee Bean was still holding on to its fall decorations of oranges, yellows, and browns.
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