It was so rare when Mr. Everett cracked a joke that Tricia set off for her rendezvous with the porn master in a much better state of mind.
Summer Sundays at the Bookshelf Diner were always crowded. Sundays in November … not so much. Tricia entered the restaurant and looked around, seeing no sign of Marshall Cambridge. Well, she was a few minutes early. The sign at the front of the restaurant said SEAT YOURSELF, and Tricia found an empty booth about midway down the left side of the main aisle and sat down, pulling off the cloak and settling it across her lap. From past experience, she knew when the door opened there’d likely be a blast of arctic air.
It was an unfamiliar waitress who stopped by her table. “What can I get you, ma’am?”
Ma’am! That term always sounded like it should be applied to someone in her late eighties.
“I’m meeting someone, but we’re only going to have coffee, so I guess you could bring it to me now.”
The waitress frowned. Good tips weren’t made on such skimpy orders. Without a word, she turned and headed toward the big steel urns behind the counter.
Actually, since she hadn’t had a bite to eat since her toast and jam breakfast some six hours before, Tricia was in the mood for lunch. Why shouldn’t she order soup or a sandwich? She’d told Angelica she’d ask for separate checks anyway.
The waitress returned with a coffeepot and poured, dumping several containers of creamer on the table. “Get you anything else?” she asked without hope.
“I think I’m going to go ahead and order lunch. Could I please have a menu?”
“Sure thing.” She certainly brightened in anticipation of a bigger order.
The diner’s door opened and, sure enough, a bone-chilling breeze whooshed through the diner, and in came Marshall wearing jeans, a brown leather bomber jacket, and a black knit cap. Outside of his dark and gloomy store, he actually looked rather nice, something Tricia hadn’t noticed when at Chamber meetings. He looked around, caught sight of Tricia, and moseyed on down the aisle, slipping into the opposite side of the booth.
“Cold enough for you?” he asked.
Oh, dear. Was this going to be a tedious conversation?
“Yes,” Tricia answered flatly.
“For me, too. I like summer better, although in my business, the seasons don’t seem to make much difference.”
“Why? Do people buy porn year-round?”
He shook his head, seeming not to take offense at her rather impertinent question. “Nah, I’m not dependent on the tourist trade like most of the shops and stores around here. My customers are pretty much local—and there’re a lot of them.”
Tricia blinked. “Really?”
“Sure. Why do you think I relocated here? I did my homework.”
Tricia wasn’t sure she wanted to know what that homework entailed. And he didn’t seem all that aware, as he hadn’t seemed to notice her sling.
The waitress dropped by with a couple of menus and filled Marshall’s cup.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll give you a few minutes.”
“Don’t hurry,” Marshall said.
The waitress departed, and he leaned back in the booth.
Marshall rested his arms on the table and folded his hands. “So, what’s with the sling? Did you break your arm since Wednesday?”
“No, I fell on some broken glass behind my store and ended up with fifteen stitches.”
He winced. “Sounds painful.”
“It was—is,” she amended.
He nodded, and for a few long moments they sat in awkward silence. Marshall broke the quiet. “Boy, the Stoneham Weekly News sure did a hack job on you last week.”
Tricia slapped her palm to her forehead, suddenly wanting to cry. “Please, let’s not talk about that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s embarrassing.”
“Well, yeah, but one of the reasons I wanted to meet with you was to talk about your experiences with all these murders.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I thought I made that clear on Wednesday. I read true crime. You attract it. You must have tons of fascinating stories. I was kind of hoping to pick your brain.”
Tricia had never thought of her experiences in quite that light. “Well, I guess so.”
“I did some research on the local murders that have occurred in the past six years. It is quite a coincidence that they happened after you arrived, and I don’t think most people really believe you’re a jinx.”
Oh yeah? Should she tell him about the graffiti spray-painted across the back of her building? “You seem to call me that every time we meet.”
“I was just having fun with you.”
“Well, I don’t find it funny.”
“Oh, come on. When you get all pissed off like that, your forehead wrinkles. It’s not all that attractive.”
“You’re the last person I’d like to be attractive for.”
He seemed hurt by her reply. “Why’d you say that? I’m a great guy.”
“Great as in your opinion of yourself?” she countered.
He raised his hands in submission. “Okay, let’s start over. Hi, Tricia. It’s good to see you. I’ve been looking forward to it for days.”
Tricia studied his face. He seemed to be sincere. “Hello, Marshall.” She didn’t elaborate, since she hadn’t been looking forward to their meeting.
“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. I thought you might want to talk about your experiences to a neutral third party.”
“Or do you just want to hear the salacious details?”
“Maybe a part of me does, but I also think the village hasn’t given you enough credit for what you’ve done. Your sister, too.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And what have you heard?”
“That you both have hired ex-cons. You gave that old man who works for you a second chance. Some people say he’d be dead if you hadn’t given him a job. But now look at him. He’s got a wife and a job, and you’ve practically adopted him. From what I’ve heard, he seems to be very happy.”
Had he been gossiping with Frannie Armstrong?
“Mr. Everett is very special to me—and to my sister.”
“Why do you call him by his surname?”
“Because he’s an old-fashioned gentleman, and he calls me—and my sister—Ms. Miles.”
Marshall shrugged. “Whatever.”
“What else have you learned while poking around in my private life?” Tricia accused.
“That you had to testify against the bastard who killed your ex. That had to be hard.”
“It was much harder to watch him die,” she asserted, “but yes, it was very difficult.”
“And that wasn’t the first time you’ve had to testify in criminal—murder—trials, was it?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“I also heard that you and Russ Smith used to go out. Was there a bad ending to the relationship? Is that why he trashed you in the last issue of his little birdcage liner?”
“You’re asking some very personal questions,” Tricia said.
Marshall shrugged. “I guess I’m just interested in what makes people tick.”
“And what makes you tick?” Tricia asked.
“Well, for one thing, I don’t actually read porn.”
Tricia blinked. “Then why on earth do you sell it?”
“I gotta make a living, and the stuff sells—despite all the crap available for free on the Internet. If it stops selling, I’ll figure out something else to do.”
“What have you done previously?” Tricia asked, not the least bit interested in his answer.
“Waiter, used car salesman, college professor.”
“College professor?” Tricia asked a little too loudly.
Marshall nodded.
Okay, now she was becoming just a little interested in the man. “What did you teach?”
“Criminal justice. As I said; I’ve always been interested in crime
, but I never wanted to actually work in the field. I figured teaching might be satisfying.”
“But it wasn’t?”
He shook his head. “Kids today come to class totally unprepared. Some of them actually want to learn, but the emphasis on testing from K through high school means they don’t learn how to think critically. And they don’t read. Too boring.”
Tricia sighed. That was true enough. And too often schools seemed to use reading as a punishment, forcing kids to read stuff they had no interest in. When she was a child, her mother would punish her by not letting her read.
“And I’m also betting that since you work with books, you don’t get to read as much as you’d like.”
“I make time every day, but you’re right. Since I opened the store, I don’t get nearly enough time to read, despite the fact that I have two employees.” She smiled. “When it’s slow, I let them read on the job. I think that’s why they’re so happy working for me.”
“I’ll bet you pay them well, too. You seem like that kind of a person.”
Tricia didn’t acknowledge the compliment. “Do you always work alone?”
Marshall nodded. “I close on Sundays—not for religious reasons, but just because a guy’s gotta have at least one day off a week. And it also keeps the straitlaced from beating up on me too much.”
“The two times I’ve been in your store, you’ve always come into the sales floor from the back.”
“That’s where I live. It was a bear to get the zoning board to agree to it, but eventually they saw it my way.”
“I haven’t seen any customers. What do you do back there to kill time?”
“Read. Watch TV. Do the laundry—just what every other single person does.”
“Have you ever been married?” Tricia asked, finding the guy was beginning to grow on her.
“Now who’s asking personal questions?” Marshall asked, but there was a smile on his lips.
Tricia felt a blush warm her cheeks.
“Yeah, I’ve been married.”
“And?” Tricia prompted.
“The first time, we were too young. The second time, she died.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “I’d probably still be teaching if April was alive.”
“Do you mind my asking—?” But she didn’t finish the question.
“She jogged. Was going to live forever because she believed in healthy living. A car clipped her—hit-and-run. I got worried after a few hours and went looking for her. I found her in a gully.”
“That must have been terrible for you.”
“Yeah, it was, but I don’t like to dwell on it. Like I said, I’d probably still be teaching—and unhappy as hell. At least this way I got to try some different things until I found something that worked. What’s the story with you and your ex?”
Tricia sighed. “Midlife crisis. He up and moved to the Colorado mountains—until he realized how lonely he was and came back east to try and win me back.”
“It didn’t take?”
“No. I loved him, but I didn’t want to be married to him anymore. It turns out … I don’t mind being single. It didn’t happen overnight, of course, but I’m not as lonely as I thought I’d be. And my sister and I have gathered around us some very special people. They make us feel like a family.”
“I’ve heard about your famous Sunday dinners.”
“What?”
“It’s a small village. People talk.”
The waitress arrived. “Having lunch?”
Tricia looked to Marshall to answer.
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“Me, neither,” Tricia said. “What’s the soup of the day?”
“New England clam chowder.”
“It was a given,” Marshall quipped.
“I’ll have a bowl,” Tricia said.
“Me, too. And a turkey club sandwich.”
The waitress gathered up their menus. “You got it. And I’ll be ’round to warm up your coffee.”
“Thanks,” Tricia said.
After she’d left, Marshall leaned both elbows on the table and gazed into Tricia’s eyes. “So, shall we keep trading life stories?”
“I guess.”
Tricia hated to admit it, but she was beginning to like Marshall Cambridge.
TWENTY
For the rest of the afternoon, Tricia found herself smiling, and it wasn’t just the cheerful Irish music that was playing on the shop’s sound system. Even Mr. Everett noticed.
“I’m so glad to see you so happy this afternoon, Ms. Miles.”
“After the last few days, I’m happy to feel a little happier.”
“Better days are always ahead, I say. And we have dinner to look forward to tonight, and right upstairs.”
“Yes, we do.”
“It’s my favorite time of the week,” he admitted. “I’m grateful to be able to share such happy times with you and your sister, Antonio, Ginny, and the baby. I never would have had the opportunity to be a grandpa without you.”
Tricia smiled, remembering what Marshall had told her earlier. She felt just as lucky at finding Mr. Everett and Grace—her surrogate parents.
“Do you know what we’ll be having?” Mr. Everett asked.
She shook her head. “Angelica likes to surprise me—and I’m almost always surprised.”
“She’s a wonderful cook,” he agreed. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “My goodness, is that the time?”
Yes, closing. And during the dull days before the holiday season shopping jumped into high gear, it was sometimes the best part of the day.
“Are you going home to pick up Grace for dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you go now, and I’ll see you back here in a little while.”
“But you still need to close.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes, and my arm isn’t feeling too badly, then I’ll be heading upstairs to get things ready.”
“Very well.” Mr. Everett retrieved his coat, hat, and muffler from the back of the shop and headed out the door.
“See you soon,” Tricia called, and waved. Then she turned for the beverage station to dump the last of the dregs and wash the pot.
She was just heading back to the front of the shop when the door opened and Antonio stepped inside. He stamped his feet from the cold, and his chapped cheeks told her that he had walked some distance.
“Don’t tell me you hoofed it here all the way from your house.”
“I did,” Antonio agreed, rubbing his hands to warm them.
“But that’s at least three miles.”
“Exercise is good,” he replied. “And I had a lot of thinking to do.”
Uh-oh. That sounded rather ominous.
“The coffee’s gone, but I could make you some instant cocoa to help warm you up,” she offered.
Antonio shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to spoil my dinner.” He looked at her sling. “Angelica called to tell us of your accident. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I’m good,” she assured him. “I take it Ginny will be driving here with the baby?”
He nodded. “Yes. Can we sit?” he asked, and indicated the comfortable chairs in the reader’s nook.
“Of course.”
They sat down facing each other across the expanse of the large square coffee table covered with magazines that needed straightening.
“You look like a man with a lot on his mind,” Tricia said, and again Antonio nodded.
“It is Angelica, of course,” he said, his voice soft. The way he said her name was almost lyrical, thanks to his Italian accent. “I know we have spoken of this before—but it still concerns me. Something is very wrong and she will not tell me what it is. This past week, I’ve sometimes thought she might be avoiding me. And her eyes have been red and swollen. She tells you everything. Is she all right?”
Tricia couldn’t help but laugh. “Everything? Hardly.”
“Is she ill?” he demanded.
Tricia shook her head vehemently. “No, nothing like that.”
“But you do know what is bothering her.”
Tricia sighed, and it was her turn to nod.
His dark eyes were earnest. “Can you please tell me?”
“She’s asked me not to.”
“And do you think that is the wisest course?”
Tricia shook her head. “If I tell you, you would immediately go to her and demand answers. She’d feel betrayed.”
“Could your relationship weather such a betrayal?”
Tricia found it hard to meet his gaze. “I’m afraid it might not. I was without my sister for decades. I don’t want to be without her ever again. And yet … I don’t think she’s making wise decisions. She thinks it’s—” Tricia was about to say in your best interest, but stopped herself. “She thinks she’s doing the right thing.”
“And you don’t?”
“No.”
Antonio nodded and looked thoughtful for several long seconds. “Is she being blackmailed?” he said at last.
Tricia looked up, startled by the question.
“As I suspected,” Antonio said softly, taking her expression as assent.
“What do you mean?”
“I have known her most of my life. After all this time, I can read her quite well. What I don’t know is why she would be blackmailed.”
“I think it’s silly. I don’t know why she cares so much.”
“Please tell me.”
Tricia felt torn. But honestly, if Sofia was in danger, her father—both parents—should be made aware of the threat. “Someone has discovered that Angelica is Nigela Ricita and has vowed to hurt your daughter if she doesn’t pay to keep her secret quiet.”
Antonio frowned in confusion. “But that is absurd.”
“I know. She says that the other merchants might feel betrayed that she wasn’t up front about her companies. She thinks they may be angry that she owns so many of the village’s more successful businesses—that somehow she has an edge over them.”
“She has done nothing but bring jobs and prosperity to Stoneham. How can anyone object to that?”
“You know as well as I do that people make assumptions, and once they do, often they can’t be talked out of them.”
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