Molly arrived at their table. She knew Ginny didn’t have a lot of time to spare. “What’ll you ladies have?”
“I’ll go for the soup of the day and the half chicken salad sandwich,” Ginny said.
“What is the soup?” Tricia asked.
“Chicken rice.”
Tricia wrinkled her nose. Not that she didn’t like chicken rice soup, because every soup Tommy made was good, but she just wasn’t in the mood for it that day. “How about a BLT?”
“With chips?” Molly asked skeptically.
“Of course.” Tricia knew Ginny would help her eat them.
“Be right back,” Molly said, and gathered their menus.
“Whoa—Tricia ordered chips, that’s a big surprise, but not as big as you dating Marshall Cambridge.”
“Who told you that?” Tricia said, looking around to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation.
“Angelica. She told me you have a lunch date on Sunday.”
“Coffee,” Tricia stressed. “It’s just coffee.”
“Coffee can be a date. But I’m a little surprised you’re going with Marshall.” She shuddered. “Ick—he sells porn.”
“That isn’t all he sells.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ll probably never darken his door.”
Did Ginny think less of Tricia because she had entered Vamps?
Tricia decided to change the subject. “So, what big project are you working on today?”
“Next summer’s jazz festival. We almost broke even this year, and believe it or not my employer”—she mimicked the way Antonio spoke of his stepmother and boss—“was ecstatic. I learned so much—and a lot of it was what not to do next year—that I know we’ll make a profit, which is fabulous. Sometimes it takes three or four years to just break even.”
If anybody could do it, it was Ginny.
“I hear Frannie’s got a new hobby,” she said, and looked toward the back of the café, no doubt hoping her order would arrive quickly. Sometimes Tricia felt like these weekly lunches were stolen time.
“Yes. I bought an antique washstand. It’s whitewashed with a marble top.”
“Sounds cute. You could make it your dry bar.”
“I hadn’t thought about that.” After Ted Harper’s death, Tricia had half decided she’d never entertain again.
Molly arrived with their lunches and bade them to “eat hearty.”
Ginny picked up her sandwich and immediately took a bite. “Tommy makes the best chicken salad. He puts little slivered almonds in it. To die for!” she said, and took another bite.
Tricia ate one of her chips and tried to decide how she’d approach her sandwich, which was much taller than she’d anticipated. “What else is new?”
“We’ve got a prankster here in the village.”
“Tell me about it. Someone left a big pile of doggy doo on my back step, and my store’s been egged. Not vicious damage, but difficult to clean in freezing temps. What have you experienced?”
“My windshield was egged, too. And someone—and I’ll bet it was a teenaged boy; they can be so obnoxious—stuffed a russet potato up the tailpipe of my car. We had to have it towed to the shop when it wouldn’t start. I was late to pick up Sofia at day care—it was a real pain in the butt. I’m only grateful it wasn’t an expensive repair.”
“When did this happen?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“And the eggs?”
“That was Monday.”
“Did you report it to Grant Baker?”
“Not personally. I called the station and was told they couldn’t spare the manpower to investigate and that I should come in person to file a report.”
“Will you?”
Ginny shrugged. “I don’t know when I’ll have the time. There was no real harm done either time. It was more aggravating than anything else.”
Yes, it was.
“I wonder who else has been hit?”
Ginny shrugged. “Funny enough, I looked around the parking lot but didn’t see any other cars that were egged.”
Tricia frowned. It seemed odd that she, Angelica, and Ginny had been targeted. Or was she just being paranoid?
She hoped so.
FOURTEEN
Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue just before two o’clock and found a stranger standing at the cash desk with a couple of nasty-looking cartons sitting on the glass case. Pixie stood behind the counter while Mr. Everett looked on. It wasn’t often that someone stopped in and tried to sell a box of moldy old paperbacks from a dank basement.
“Here’s the owner now,” Pixie said as Tricia unbuttoned her coat.
The older man, who wore a black Greek fisherman’s cap, turned. “This lady here said you’re the buyer, and that only you could decide whether to take my stuff or not.”
“That’s right,” Tricia said. When (and if) she took on the Chamber presidency, she’d have to give Pixie more authority. Maybe now would be a good test. “Let me take off my coat and we’ll have a look.”
By the time Tricia returned to the front of the store, Pixie had donned a pair of reading glasses and had emptied the boxes. She stepped back. “It’s all yours, Tricia.”
“Why don’t you take a look first?”
Pixie nodded. Her expression was impassive, but Tricia could tell by the look in her brown eyes that they might just have a treasure trove in front of them. Pixie inspected each book, looking at the copyright dates and edition numbers, inspecting the spines and dust covers. She looked up at Tricia, who nodded for her to continue. She watched as Pixie went through every book and sorted them into three piles, just as Tricia would have done: For sure, maybe, and no way!
Pixie removed her glasses. “I need to speak with my colleague for a moment,” she said dispassionately.
“Sure,” the guy said.
Tricia and Pixie retreated to the back of the store, with Pixie keeping her back to the customer.
“Oh my God,” she nearly squealed, but in a hushed tone. “I could kill to own some of those books.”
“Well, we don’t want that,” Tricia said.
“A figure of speech,” Pixie whispered.
“From what I saw, I agree with you. What do you think a fair price would be?”
Pixie looked pensive. “Considering our overhead—and I’m only guessing, because I’m not sure what you’re paying for utilities—I think fifty would be a fair price. We should lowball, maybe thirty-five, to keep him interested, and then make our best offer.”
“That sounds reasonable. Why don’t you do the negotiating.”
“Really?”
“Yes. If I get the job at the Chamber, you might have to do more of this in the future.”
Pixie’s eyes widened, and she looked about ready to jump for joy. But then she took a breath and composed herself. “Okay.”
She turned and headed for the front of the store, as confident as a supermodel on a catwalk. A bemused Tricia followed.
Pixie resumed her place behind the sales counter. “I’m afraid we wouldn’t be interested in these books. They’ve been stored in adverse conditions.” She placed the no-way pile of books back in the first box. “We might be able to find customers for these.” She indicated the other two piles of books. “What are you asking for them?”
The man stood a little straighter. “Make an offer.”
Pixie shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to insult you. Please, tell us what you think they’re worth.”
“I think they’re worth a couple hundred bucks.”
“Oh, well. Then I’m afraid we won’t be able to do business.” She began to pack the books back into the second box.
“Wait a minute. What do you think they’re worth?”
Pixie shrugged. “Thirty-five?”
“Now you are insulting me. They’re worth at least a hundred.”
Pixie shook her head and continued to repack the boxes.
“Okay, seventy-five.”
Another book went into the second box.
“Sixty?”
Pixie placed the last book into the box and pushed it forward. “Thank you for thinking of us. Maybe we can do business some other time.”
“Fifty, and that’s my final offer,” the man said, sounding just a teensy bit angry.
Pixie gazed at the box for a few long moments, looking bored, then she sighed and glanced in Tricia’s direction. “What do you think?”
Tricia pretended to mull over the offer, then finally nodded.
“Very well. We’ll probably take a beating, but fifty it is.” She began to unpack the box once more. “Ms. Miles, would you be so kind as to get the checkbook so we can pay this gentleman?”
“I’d like cash.”
Pixie stopped unpacking. “We don’t usually deal in cash.”
“Cash or nothing,” the man said.
“Perhaps you could write out a receipt,” Tricia suggested.
Again Pixie sighed. “Very well.”
She ought to get an Academy Award for her performance.
She bent down and retrieved a receipt book. She wrote out the transaction and asked the man to sign. He did, but whether he used his own name they didn’t know or really care. Then Pixie opened the register and took out the cash, counting it into the man’s palm.
“There you go. Thank you for visiting us today.”
The man stowed the money in his wallet, took his leftovers, and bade them good-bye. The bell over the door jingled as he left the store. Once he was out of earshot, Pixie did squeal and actually jumped!
“Holy smoke! Did you see those books?”
Tricia laughed, while Mr. Everett looked subdued.
“Who were you channeling?” Tricia asked.
“I don’t know—just some dame I heard on TV. Did I do okay?”
“You did great, and you got us a great buy on those books.”
“I was sure I was going to give myself away.”
“Will we be offering these titles in the store or online?” Mr. Everett asked.
“Online. Would you like to put them in the inventory and write out the descriptions?” Tricia asked.
Mr. Everett nodded. “I’d be happy to do so, Ms. Miles.”
“Let me carry the box to the dumbwaiter for you,” Pixie said.
“And mess up your pretty sweater? No. I’ll do it,” Tricia said. The box really was cruddy. “And you’ve more than earned your pay for the week.”
Pixie positively beamed.
“Why don’t we transfer the books to a nicer box,” Mr. Everett suggested. “Then we can discard this moldy one.”
“Good idea. I think there’s one in the back of the shop.”
“I’ll get it.” Mr. Everett took off and returned moments later with a clean box, and he and Pixie repacked the books. “I’ll put this in the recycle bin.”
“Thank you, Mr. Everett.”
He started for the back of the shop, and Tricia hefted the new box, following him to the back of the store and setting it in the dumbwaiter. She sent it down to the basement and was about to head back to the front of the store when Mr. Everett reentered through the back door.
“Uh, Ms. Miles. There’s something outside I think you should see,” he said gravely.
More doggy doo?
Mr. Everett held the door open for Tricia. She looked around before stepping outside. What was it she was supposed to see?
She turned back to Mr. Everett—and then understood what he’d meant. In big purple letters, sloppily spray-painted on the back of her tidy brick building was the word JINX.
*
• • •
Finding her building tagged had put a damper on the rest of the afternoon. Tricia dutifully reported the damage to not only the police but her insurance company. Was she covered? They weren’t sure. They’d get back to her. Meanwhile, Pixie hit the Internet and found a company that specialized in graffiti removal. They’d just have to wait to see if insurance would pay for it or not.
But as Tricia entered the Cookery later that evening and headed for the stairs to Angelica’s apartment, she was determined not to start happy hour with the bad news first. Pixie deserved her success story to be told in a cheerful tone.
“You should have seen her in action,” Tricia told her sister as Angelica poured their drinks.
“I always knew she had it in her. And to think you were reluctant to hire her.”
“That was before I knew her. I can’t say I’ve ever regretted hiring her—and I was just so proud of her today.”
“You did take a chance hiring an ex-con, but it paid off.”
“I knew she wasn’t a thief when I hired her.” No, she’d been a lady of the evening, but according to her parole officer, Pixie had never been accused of stealing. “I swear, she was walking on air for the rest of the afternoon. It was so fun to see someone that happy.” Tricia sighed. “I wish I could say the same of Mr. Everett.”
“Oh?”
Tricia nodded. “Charlie wouldn’t eat this morning. Poor Mr. Everett worried about him all day. He called Grace several times, and she reported that Charlie was sleeping under their dining room table for most of the day.”
“Poor kitty. Do you think there’s anything wrong with him?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes Miss Marple has an off day where she does nothing but sleep.”
“I thought that’s all cats did every day,” Angelica said, and took another sip of her drink.
Tricia managed a weak laugh. “You’re right. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Everett comes in late after taking Charlie to the vet.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Angelica agreed. “Did anything else happen today?”
“I had my weekly lunch with Ginny.”
“How is my dear girl?”
“Like you haven’t spoken to her at least once today?”
“Um, I may have. Strictly about work.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, did you know her car had been egged, and that someone stuck a spud up her tailpipe?”
Angelica sobered. “No, I didn’t.”
“And today, after Pixie’s triumph, Mr. Everett discovered that someone had tagged the back of my building.”
“What did it say, or was it just gibberish?” Angelica asked, as though dreading the answer.
“What else? ‘Jinx.’”
Angelica winced. “How bad is it?”
“I’d say the person wasn’t all that tall—and not very good at street art.”
“Did you report it?”
“Yes. To the Stoneham police and my insurance company.”
“And?”
“Neither seemed all that interested.”
Angelica reached for a cracker and a piece of cheese that she’d set out as an appetizer. “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I, but you must admit, so far this vandalism has been rather benign.”
“Yes, but who knows when it could escalate?”
“Like the demands of your blackmailer?”
“Don’t go there,” Angelica warned.
Tricia sipped her drink.
“Why do you think Antonio or Ginny didn’t tell me about these incidents?”
“Probably because they know you’re preoccupied about something and they don’t want to worry you.”
Angelica looked thoughtful. “I wonder if I ought to hire a security firm to watch out for all of us.”
“That would take a lot of money.”
“I’ve got a lot of money, and I want my family to be safe.”
“Why don’t I talk to Grant first?”
“Did you speak to him today?”
“No. Just one of his officers. He probably doesn’t even know about it. I’m sure he’s got other, bigger problems than a report of graffiti.”
“Would you call him tonight?”
Tricia shook her head. “Tomorrow morning will be good enough.”
“Let me know what he says.”
“I w
ill.”
Tricia reached for a cracker and then decided against it. She really wasn’t very hungry. With so much on her mind, she wondered how long it would be before her appetite returned.
FIFTEEN
After a restless night, Tricia got up early, made a pot of coffee, and practically paced the floor until eight o’clock, when she called Chief Baker’s office only to be told that he was attending a meeting out of town and wouldn’t be back until at least ten. She hung up the phone and left a message on his personal phone and hoped he’d check it sooner rather than later.
Feeling antsy, Tricia made another pot, and drank nearly all of it before she went downstairs to Haven’t Got a Clue to begin her workday. Miss Marple accompanied her but immediately sought out her perch behind the cash desk to take a well-deserved nap. So much for having company.
Tricia started yet another pot of coffee for Pixie, Mr. Everett, and whatever customers arrived that day, and figured she had at least one thing to look forward to: the delivery of her antique washstand. It would be such a pretty addition to her living room. Perhaps on Sunday morning, when she had a few hours to kill before the shop opened, she’d go through the box of bric-a-brac she hadn’t yet found new homes for and decide what should grace the stand.
It was pleasant to have something else to think about besides blackmailers and pranksters.
Pixie arrived, a minute late and breathless. “Sorry,” she called, and practically flew to the back of the shop to hang up her coat. “I popped a button on my blouse and couldn’t find the right color thread to fix it.” That seemed hard to believe, since Pixie had once told her she had several thousand reels of thread. Then again, maybe that was why she couldn’t find the right shade of orange to match the vintage top that went with a matching skirt. The color was a bright spot on an otherwise gloomy day.
Pixie arrived at the front of the shop and headed for the coffeemaker. “Can I pour you a cup?”
“No, thanks. I’ve already had more than my usual caffeine allotment for the day.”
“So soon?”
Tricia nodded.
“Anything on tap for the day?” Pixie asked as she fixed her coffee.
“Just my furniture delivery this afternoon.”
“I thought we might want to start planning our Christmas decorations. Or do you want to just do what we did last year?”—and by the tone of her voice it was obvious that Pixie wanted to do something entirely different.
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