Poisoned Pages

by Lorna Barrett

  “We could call Mr. Everett. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind coming in for a couple of hours.”

  “I hate to do that on his day off.”

  “I could call in a take-out order from Booked for Lunch.”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “And it will be my treat.”

  Pixie grinned. “If you say so.” She brought their cocoa over to the nook and sat down. “There you go. Do you need help?”

  “I’ve got it,” Tricia assured her, and picked the cup up with her left hand. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t arrived so early. And why was that?”

  “I don’t know. Fred is working overtime today and I felt antsy. I figured I’d come in and maybe get a couple of minutes’ reading in before the crowds descended.” She laughed. “They’re not here yet, but they will be next week.”

  She was right. The Chamber had arranged for tour buses to bring in people to spend the holidays in Stoneham for the five weekends before Christmas.

  Tricia sipped her cocoa. It was warm and she felt herself begin to relax. “I’ve been wondering; the night Ted Harper died, Angelica sprang into action to try to save him. If you’ve had so much training, why didn’t you help?” She hoped that didn’t come out sounding like a criticism. She hadn’t meant it that way, and quickly tried to reassure Pixie of that fact.

  She shook her head. “I saw she had everything under control. Well, not under control, but that she was capable of handling the situation.”

  “Did you realize it was anaphylaxis and not a question of choking?”

  “Not right away, but when he didn’t respond I kinda figured that might be the problem.”

  Tricia stared into the bubbles around the rim of her mug, frowning.

  “Angelica did what she could,” Pixie reiterated. “It just wasn’t ever going to be good enough for the poor guy.”

  Tricia nodded, feeling bad all over again.

  The door opened and a customer entered. Pixie was immediately on her feet, greeting the woman and taking a position behind the register. Tricia drank her cocoa, feeling rather useless, and incredibly tired. Why had she read until after two the night before? It wasn’t like she didn’t know the outcome of John Dickson Carr’s The Hollow Man, which she’d read at least five times before.

  Another customer entered, and Tricia smiled as the man walked past her, staring at her bandaged arm and bloodstained sweater. She really ought to go upstairs and change, but it could wait a few more minutes.

  She finished her cocoa and set the mug on the big square coffee table, then sat back in her chair. Her arm was getting sore from being held upright, and she laid it across her chest, her fingers grabbing hold of a handful of sweater. She closed her eyes for just a few seconds, and the next thing she knew, someone was shaking her.

  “It’s lunchtime,” Pixie said. “Angelica will be waiting for you over at Booked for Lunch.”

  “It can’t be,” Tricia said, and went to rub her eyes with her right hand, and her arm began to throb again. She’d almost forgotten about her little accident. She glanced at the clock across the way and realized she must have been asleep for more than two hours.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “I didn’t have the heart. Don’t worry. You weren’t snoring and you didn’t have your mouth open or anything—else I woulda woken you.”

  “But what about the customers?”

  “Nobody noticed,” Pixie blatantly lied, waving a hand in dismissal. “I figured you’d want to change before you crossed the street. Do you need help?”

  “I think I can manage,” Tricia said, and awkwardly rose from the chair. She took a deep breath before walking across the shop. She was not going to coddle herself—however, she wished she had a banister on the left side of her stairwell. At least she could hold on during her trip back down.

  Tricia was glad Pixie had awakened her almost half an hour before she had to meet Angelica, for it took her an awfully long time to get her sweater off and a clean one on. She wasn’t sure the bloodied one would ever come clean—and since it had lost its long-sleeved mate, it probably wasn’t worth keeping—so she tossed it in the wastebasket.

  Once downstairs, Tricia had to decide what coat to wear. She’d have it on for only a minute or two going and returning, and decided the hell with it, and crossed the street wearing just her peach sweater set and the not-so-stylish sling.

  She entered Booked for Lunch and headed for the back table, where Angelica sat with an empty coffee cup before her.

  “What on earth happened to you?” she demanded, and practically rocketed out of the booth, instantly at Tricia’s side.

  She shrugged. “It’s only a flesh wound.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Angelica stood by, looking anxious, as Tricia eased herself into her side of the booth. Once again she raised her arm in the air, resting her elbow on the table.

  “Do you need anything?” Angelica asked, her voice sounding shaky.

  “Maybe just some soup—and a roll and butter. Comfort food.”

  “Molly!” Angelica called, and the waitress looked up from behind the counter, where she’d been warming up her customers’ coffee, then scurried around it and hurried to their table.

  “Oh my goodness! What happened to you?” Molly asked, concerned.

  “It’s too long a story,” Tricia said wearily. “What’s the soup today?”

  “Broccoli and cheese.”

  Tricia wrinkled her nose. “Maybe not.”

  “You can have anything you want—Tommy can make you anything you want—and then you must tell me what happened,” Angelica insisted.

  Tricia ordered the chicken pot pie and mashed potatoes—and that roll and butter—and then told Angelica the whole story.

  “Thank goodness Pixie arrived when she did and knew just what to do. But why didn’t you call me?”

  “There wasn’t time, and then when we got back to the store, I fell asleep in the reader’s nook, although Pixie assured me I didn’t have my mouth open or snore,” she said with chagrin.

  “Thank heaven for small favors.” Angelica shook her head. “I knew I should have walked next door and swept up the glass on your step, too. I feel terrible. But I was in a hurry and had to—”

  “I wouldn’t have expected you to do that, so don’t give it a second thought.”

  “Well, I’m going to call Grant Baker and give him a piece of my mind.”

  “And I’m going to let you; otherwise it would just sound like sour grapes—or something like that—on my part.”

  Molly arrived with their lunches, setting the plates on the table. “I had Tommy cut up the pastry crust so you could handle it better.”

  “That was very thoughtful of you, Molly. Thank you.”

  “Let me know if you need anything,” she said sincerely.

  “Thanks.” Tricia picked up her fork with her left hand and stabbed a piece of chicken. It was almost as good as Angelica’s.

  “What are you going to do now that you’re one-handed? You should come and stay with me,” Angelica said.

  “I can manage,” Tricia said, but then wondered if she’d be able to pull the tab from the top of a cat food can. But then it was her forearm that was injured, not her fingers. She was sure she’d get used to her limited mobility in a day or so and learn to compensate. Besides, she didn’t want to sleep on Angelica’s couch when she had a perfectly fine bed of her own. “But maybe you could come and make supper at my place tonight? I’ve got nearly a whole roasted chicken sitting in the fridge.”

  “Of course. I’m sure I can whip up something for us.”

  “Thanks.”

  They ate in silence for several minutes, and again it felt odd and awkward, and Tricia had no doubt it would continue to do so until something else happened. Something not good. Something that might shatter all their worlds. Her o
wn—and especially Angelica’s.

  *

  • • •

  Pixie was an absolute doll. She took care of all the end-of-day tasks, cleaned the beverage station, and closed out the register. “Can I do anything else before I leave?” she asked sincerely.

  Tricia shook her head. “You’ve done more than I could have hoped. Thank you. I don’t know how I would have made it through the day without you.”

  Pixie’s cheeks colored, but she was obviously pleased to hear such praise. “I can come in tomorrow if you need me.”

  “Definitely not. You need to spend the day with Fred. Besides, Mr. Everett will be here, and I’m sure we’ll make out fine. And hopefully I’ll be as good as new by midweek.”

  Pixie looked skeptical, but nodded anyway. “Okay. Then I’ll see you on Monday.”

  “Yes. And thank you again for everything.”

  Pixie waved and headed for the door. Tricia locked it behind her, set the lights to low, and headed for her apartment. If she wasn’t going to be able to make dinner for her sister, the least she could do was make a pitcher of martinis. Easier said than done, however, and she was glad she started ten minutes before Angelica’s anticipated arrival. And she vowed that, for the foreseeable future, she would not tighten the bottles quite so hard.

  “Hello!” came Angelica’s voice from the stairwell, sounding more cheerful than she had at lunch. Seconds later she entered the apartment.

  “Just in time,” Tricia said, and poured the first drink left-handed, slopping a little onto the counter.

  “Well, that’s no good,” Angelica said. “Now I’ll just have to lick up the excess.”

  “Don’t be disgusting,” Tricia chided, but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  Angelica removed her jacket, tossing it on one of the kitchen island stools, and accepted the martini glass. Tricia poured another and they toasted.

  “Do show me this magnificent washstand you purchased,” Angelica said, and looked around the room until she saw it. “Oh, my—that is pretty.” The sisters crossed from the kitchen to the living room windows that overlooked Main Street. “And you said Frannie refinished this?”

  Tricia nodded.

  “She certainly did a beautiful job of restoration. She may have missed her calling.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know if there’s any money in that kind of work, but she obviously has a talent for it.”

  “You’re not unhappy with her work at the Cookery, are you?”

  Angelica sighed. “No. But she seems to have lost her passion for it lately.”

  “Was she ever passionate about retail—or cooking, for that matter?”

  “No. And she does a good job—just not … inspiring.”

  “I know what you mean. Pixie is passionate about vintage mysteries. She’s great with the customers, and she was almost a certified EMT, for which I am extremely grateful,” she said, brandishing her sore arm.

  Angelica ran her hand over the washstand’s cool tiles. “What are you going to do with it?”

  Tricia shrugged. “Ginny suggested using it as a dry bar.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “Maybe. But I’m awfully fond of that little table Pixie and Fred gave me as a housewarming gift.”

  “Well, you don’t have to decide today what to put on it.” She looked down at the furniture in question. “This vase is far too small.”

  “Yeah. I’ll have to dig through some of my stuff to find the perfect accent piece or pieces. Or maybe I’ll do as Toni suggested and go back to the Antiques Emporium to find the perfect solution.” She looked down at her injured arm. “Although it probably won’t be anytime soon.” She glanced at the bandage poking out from beneath her three-quarter-length sweater sleeve and shuddered. It was time to think of something different. “Do you want to get started on dinner?”

  “Not yet. I need to sit for a while.” Angelica took the nearest chair—the one Ted Harper had fallen on during Angelica’s rescue attempt. She didn’t seem to notice. “What a day.” She eyed her martini, then took a healthy swig.

  “Did you ever call Chief Baker to give him a piece of your mind?” Tricia asked, taking the matching chair.

  “Er, yes,” Angelica said, sounding sheepish. “After I said my piece about your accident, he asked me about being blackmailed.”

  “And you said?” Tricia asked cautiously.

  “‘What blackmail?’”

  “Oh, Ange.”

  “Well, there’s no way I’m going to risk my family.”

  “You need to report it.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Now, can we talk about something else?”

  Tricia sighed. “How about dinner tomorrow?”

  Angelica nodded. “I was thinking about serving it at Booked for Lunch, but it just wouldn’t be practical—and now that you’re a southpaw, it would be even harder. Could we have it here? I can take care of all the prep—in fact, I’ll get it started at the café and then bring it over.”

  “Of course we can meet here. It’ll give me a chance to try out my new dining room table. There’s a reason I bought all those extra leaves for it.”

  “Thanks. Can I bring Sarge?”

  Tricia’s gaze traveled to her newly refinished floors and thought about Sarge’s claws and how he liked to race around to fetch a ball. “You know he and Miss Marple don’t get along.”

  Angelica sighed. “Yes. All right, but that means I’ll have to miss the little guy two nights in a row.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Tricia said, feeling like her floors had just dodged a bullet. Her stomach growled. If Angelica wanted to delay the dinner hour, she’d need to buy her stomach some time. “I’ve got some cheese and crackers. Would you like some?”

  “Sure.”

  “Only you’ll have to cut the cheese—and that was not a rude joke. I’ve got a slab of Vermont cheddar in the fridge.”

  “It really should breathe for a while.”

  “I don’t want to wait,” Tricia said.

  Angelica shrugged. “Very well.”

  The sisters got up from their chairs and headed back to the kitchen, where Angelica found the cheese while Tricia took the box of crackers from her pantry. “So, are you excited about tomorrow?” Angelica asked.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Your big date with Marshall Cambridge.”

  “Gosh, I’d completely forgotten about it. And it’s coffee—not a date.”

  “Whatever. What are you going to wear?”

  “A sweater set and slacks—like always.”

  “You could glam up just a bit.”

  “I thought you didn’t like him. Why would you want me to glam up?”

  “If nothing else, to keep in practice. You never know when a real date might come along.”

  Tricia shrugged. She wanted to talk about this so-called date as much as Angelica wanted to talk about her blackmailer: in other words, not at all.

  The whole pornographic thing really bothered her. She liked to think of herself as a feminist, even if the term was deemed either old-fashioned or detrimental. But, honestly, she’d read articles that showed different sides of the story. First, that sexual exploitation was demeaning—that it objectified women, that most of it was downright disgusting. And yet some women found it exhilarating—liberating, even. Those were the women who controlled their destinies and reaped the financial rewards of such a life/business. However, those women were few and far between.

  Tricia had to look at this coffee meeting with Marshall—which sounded so much more clinical than a date—as a make-nice-with-the-constituents affair.

  There was one thing that really worried her, however: what if she actually liked the guy?

  NINETEEN

  When Mr. Everett arrived the next morning, he was quite upset to find Tricia’s arm in a sling. “You should have called me,” he insisted.

  “Pixi
e took care of everything. She was an angel.”

  “Then at least you were in good hands.” Mr. Everett’s words were positive, but his demeanor was anything but.

  “Is something wrong?” Tricia asked.

  Mr. Everett shook his head. “No. We’re just worried about Charlie.”

  “Why?”

  Mr. Everett shrugged. “Grace thinks he’s failing to thrive.”

  Tricia had only heard that term applied to sick babies. Charlie was an elderly cat.

  “We’re going to call the vet first thing tomorrow,” Mr. Everett added. “Just to make sure.”

  “It’s a wise precaution,” Tricia agreed.

  Mr. Everett nodded.

  “Are you having second thoughts about adopting Charlie?” she asked.

  Mr. Everett’s brow furrowed. “Maybe.”

  He said no more, just staring at his feet, and Tricia had to fight the urge to hug him. That just wasn’t his style.

  The shop door opened and a woman entered. Mr. Everett perked right up, probably ecstatic to have his attention diverted. “Hello. Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. My name is William. Feel free to look around, and don’t hesitate to ask for help if you need it.”

  The woman nodded and moved to peruse one of the shelves.

  Tricia spoke to Mr. Everett. “I’ve got an appointment at one. Would you mind if I left for a while this afternoon?”

  “Not at all. I can take care of the shop.” He looked toward the cat perch behind the cash desk. “And Miss Marple.”

  The first hour of business that day at Haven’t Got a Clue wasn’t exactly busy, but the two customers who visited were pleasant and obviously avid readers, as evidenced by the bulging bags Tricia packed while Mr. Everett expertly rang up the sales.

  At five to one, Tricia headed for the back of the store to retrieve the cloak she’d dug out of the back of her closet. She figured it would be easier to wear than a coat with sleeves—at least until she lost the bulky bandage on her right arm.

  “My, you look smart,” Mr. Everett said.

  For a moment, Tricia wasn’t sure what he meant.

  “The cloak. It reminds me of Mr. Conan Doyle’s most famous creation.”

  Tricia laughed. “Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Perhaps you just need a deerstalker cap and a magnifying glass to complete the outfit,” Mr. Everett suggested.