Poisoned Pages

by Lorna Barrett

  “Of course I will,” Angelica promised. Then she seemed to notice the other person seated at the table. “Oh, hello, Marshall. Thank you for coming this morning.”

  He nodded. “My pleasure.”

  Tricia looked toward the back of the room, but Mariana and Leona had already removed the ballot box and were nowhere in sight. She flexed her fingers, her nerves getting the better of her. “Were you this antsy when you ran for election?” she asked Angelica.

  “Of course not. I knew I’d win.”

  Tricia wished she felt as confident.

  “Maybe I will have another cup of coffee,” Marshall said. “Can I get you ladies anything?”

  “No thanks,” Tricia said. Angelica merely shook her head.

  Marshall left them, and Tricia again let her gaze roam the dining room. Russ still hadn’t moved from his spot at the buffet table, while Chauncey was speaking into Mary’s ear. She seemed tight-lipped and perhaps as anxious as Tricia felt. She felt sorry for Mary and her predicament. But still, Tricia wanted to win.

  The murmur of voices seemed to quiet and Tricia saw that Mariana and Leona had returned to the dining room, both staring straight ahead, their expressions rigid, and not making eye contact with anyone.

  “The moment of truth has arrived,” Angelica said, and stood. She patted Tricia’s shoulder before she turned and strode to the front of the room, where she consulted with the official ballot counters. Tricia leaned forward, trying to interpret just what Angelica’s rather stoic expression meant. Bottom line, it wasn’t encouraging.

  Angelica turned to the lectern, switched the microphone back on, and cleared her throat before speaking. “The ballots have been counted, and it is now my duty—”

  Tricia cringed. She would have said pleasure if the news were good.

  “—to announce that your new Stoneham Chamber of Commerce president is Chauncey Porter.”

  A ripple of applause broke out through the room, and Tricia felt heat rise up her neck to color her cheeks, her stomach doing a belly flop. She glanced across the room. Mary looked absolutely elated. Turning her head, Tricia saw Russ shrug. After all, he hadn’t even wanted the job.

  “Tough luck, kid,” Marshall said close to her ear, sounding sincere.

  “The official tabulation is Chauncey Porter: twenty-five; Russ Smith: twenty-three; and Tricia Miles: twenty.”

  It had been a close race, but Tricia had still come in last.

  Jinxed again.

  “Chauncey, will you please approach the lectern?” Angelica asked.

  Chauncey got up from his seat and slowly walked to the front of the room. He was sure milking the moment. Angelica’s smile was absolutely rigid as she handed her gavel to Chauncey and took a step back.

  Chauncey moved up to the microphone and took a long look around the room, as though taking in all of their faces. And then his mouth dropped open and he seemed to sag against the wooden stand, until suddenly it fell forward, and Chauncey dropped like a stone to the floor.

  A loud gasp echoed through the room and Angelica was immediately at his side. She felt for a pulse before ordering, “Call nine one one!”

  Here we go again, Tricia thought, as suddenly everyone in the room seemed to pull out their cell phones and stab the numbers onto their keypads.

  *

  • • •

  Tricia watched as the paramedics whisked Chauncey’s gurney out of the dining room. He’d been in full cardiac arrest when they’d arrived, and the first responders seemed grim, since they hadn’t been able to restart his heart before taking him away.

  Mary looked shell-shocked, once again sitting at the table she’d shared with her fiancé only minutes before. Tricia went over to face her. “Are you okay, Mary?”

  Mary looked up. “Well, this certainly could change everything.”

  For better or worse? Tricia wondered.

  “Would you like me to drive you to the hospital?”

  Mary straightened and suddenly seemed to pull herself together. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’m fine to drive. And who knows how long I may need to be at the hospital. I wouldn’t want to leave my car here in the parking lot and be stuck.”

  “You didn’t come with Chauncey?”

  “I drove,” she said flatly, as though it hadn’t been her idea.

  Other concerned Chamber members milled nearby. “Did Chauncey have a heart condition?” asked Mindy Weaver, easing forward.

  Mary shook her head. “Not that I know of.” She stood. “I’d better get my coat.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” Mindy offered, and the two women set off for the coatroom.

  “Call me if you need anything,” Tricia called.

  Mary waved a thank-you, but didn’t turn.

  Tricia pivoted and headed back to the front of the room, where Angelica was talking to Antonio, who, as Brookview’s manager, had shown up only moments after Chauncey’s collapse.

  Tricia halted before them. “Well?”

  “It doesn’t look good,” Angelica said grimly—but was she thinking about Chauncey or her impending conversation with Chief Baker?

  Suddenly Russ Smith was standing beside Tricia, and she made a point to step aside. “What happens if the old geezer dies?” he asked Angelica, his voice oddly fierce.

  “Then you’re our next duly elected Chamber president,” she said sweetly, knowing he didn’t want the job.

  Russ turned an angry glare on Tricia. “You are a stinking jinx.” And with that, he turned and left the room.

  “Did I miss something?” Antonio asked. “Or did he seem upset by that news?”

  “Oh, he’s upset all right,” Tricia said.

  Angelica reached out a hand and touched Tricia’s good arm. “I’m so sorry you lost, Trish. In fact, I’m absolutely astounded.”

  “Easy come, easy go,” she said, but she felt anything but accepting of the situation. That would take a couple of days—maybe a week—to happen.

  “Angelica,” Antonio said. “We have a meeting in five minutes,” he prodded.

  Angelica sighed, looking depressed. Just another dark cloud hanging over their heads. “I’ll call you later,” she again promised Tricia, and then she and Antonio headed out of the dining room.

  Marshall still sat at the big round table. Tricia resumed her former seat, and it was her turn to feel exhausted.

  “So, is he going to die?” Marshall asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

  “I don’t know, but it doesn’t look good,” she said, repeating Angelica’s assessment.

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Terrible.”

  “Even though the guy treated you like crap?”

  “Yes,” Tricia admitted.

  Marshall shook his head. “You’re a nice person, Tricia. Maybe too nice.”

  “And nice people always finish last,” she lamented.

  He gave her a quirky smile. “How about I make you first?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean instead of going out to dinner tonight, let’s go out to lunch. Maybe a liquid lunch where you can drown your sorrows.”

  “But it’s barely nine thirty.”

  “So it’ll be brunch. Do you like mimosas?”

  “I have a store to run, and so do you.”

  “You’ve got a couple of employees who are perfectly capable of taking care of it. I’m only liable to miss one customer, if that. Most of my business is later in the day.”

  Tricia sighed. “Brunch sounds awfully good. But instead of a mimosa, make it a martini.”

  “Maybe two,” he promised.

  She smiled. “Let’s go.”

  And they both rose and headed for the coatroom.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Marshall Cambridge was a man of many surprises. Since his shop looked rather shabby, she was surprised that he owned a late-model Mercedes that appeared to have every bell and whistle available. The porn business paid well, indeed.

  After d
ropping her car off at the municipal parking lot, she joined him in the Mercedes and they headed north out of town. They made small talk until they passed St. Joseph Hospital in Milford. That was where the paramedics had taken Chauncey. Tricia recognized Mary’s car in the parking lot and forced herself to look away. She was tired of bad news.

  “Does this radio work?” she asked, pointing to the dashboard, which could have passed for the control panel of an Airbus.

  Marshall switched it on, and mellow jazz from a subscription music station poured out of the hidden speakers. “Is that okay?”

  She gave him a weak smile. “Perfect.”

  Tricia had never once played hooky while in school, and so she felt guilty leaving Haven’t Got a Clue in Pixie’s and Mr. Everett’s more than capable hands while she moped over her election loss. However, she also did not feel guilty. She deserved a completely fat-filled, alcohol-laden brunch and was determined to have one.

  The Mercedes pulled up in front of the stately clubhouse on the outskirts of Nashua, and a valet stepped forward. “Welcome back, Mr. Cambridge.”

  “Thanks, Pete.” He handed over his keys, and then offered his hand to Tricia. She accepted it and they steered toward the grand entrance with its massive columns. It must have looked magnificent on a sunny summer’s day. Like the Brookview, the lobby was decorated for the upcoming holiday. They paused at the hostess station, where a pert young woman awaited.

  “Do you have a reservation?”

  “I’m sorry. We came on the spur of the moment. But I am a member,” Marshall said, and gave his name.

  Tricia turned to look at him. The membership fee for this place must cost a small fortune.

  “Ah, yes. We’re so glad you and your guest could join us, Mr. Cambridge. I’d be glad to take your coats”—which she did, and then handed Marshall the check slips. “If you’ll step this way.”

  They were taken to a table that overlooked a big pond. Several geese paddled along the edges, stragglers who hadn’t gone south for the winter. Even though the trees nearby were bare, there was a stark beauty about the grounds that Tricia found enticing.

  “Ben will be taking care of you this morning.”

  “Thank you,” Marshall said, giving the young woman a toothy smile before she nodded and retreated.

  “Nice place,” Tricia said.

  “It works,” Marshall agreed.

  “So, are you any good?”

  Marshall blinked. “At what?”

  “Golf.”

  Marshall shook his head and laughed. “About average. I should try to get here more often.”

  “And your business keeps you away?”

  “You could say that.”

  Tricia picked up her napkin, shook it, and placed it on her lap. “How did your meeting go last night?”

  “Very well.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He shook his head. “You wouldn’t be interested.”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t interested.”

  Their eyes met. “No, I don’t suppose you would have,” he said, amused. “I’ve been in negotiations for months trying to obtain what’s left of Dale Talbot’s art collection.”

  Tricia’s eyes opened wide. Dale had been Carol Talbot’s husband. “Do tell.”

  “Sometimes when dealing with an estate, you can get things for a bargain.”

  “And that isn’t happening with his things?” After Carol Talbot’s sudden death, Marshall had shown her the kinds of items that made up such an assemblage. Some of them turned her stomach.

  “Her attorney is a hard bargainer.”

  Ah, so he knew Carol Talbot’s attorney’s name—possibly useful information when it came to returning Carol’s jewelry to the estate. “Really? Who is he?”

  “She. Cassandra Logan.”

  Tricia instantly memorized the name for future reference. “Has she seen what she’s negotiating for?”

  “Yes. And she’s done her homework. But I lucked out, because like Carol, she wasn’t able to get what she thought the items might be worth at auction.”

  “I suppose she gets a certain percentage of the estate for her trouble.”

  “As per usual.”

  “And who gets the rest? I didn’t think Carol had any heirs.”

  “She didn’t. She left it to some animal rescue place in Milford.”

  Tricia nodded. The very place where Mr. Everett and Grace had adopted Charlie. “I know of it. I’m glad Carol left a legacy for good.”

  Marshall cocked his head, giving her a sidelong glance. “Being a little judgmental there, eh, Tricia?”

  “Possibly. We can’t forget that Carol once took a life and was never truly repentant.”

  Marshall nodded. “Touché.”

  “Are estates a common place for you to find merchandise?” Tricia asked. What did families do with porn collections once someone died? Toss them—would be her first instinct.

  “Sometimes. My goal now is to make my business more attractive to a potential buyer.”

  Tricia blinked. “You’re thinking of selling Vamps?”

  “Until recently, no. But I’ve been approached by a chain.”

  “There are chains of porn dealers?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “What would you do instead?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever I do, I’ll research it thoroughly before I make a commitment.”

  “Would you leave the area?”

  “I don’t know. I have no ties here. Since April died, I let the wind take me where it will. But I do like this part of the state.” He gave her a wistful smile. “There are certain attractions.”

  The waiter arrived, bringing with him two leather-clad menus. “I’m Ben, and I’ll be serving you today. Would you like to start your brunch with a cocktail?”

  Marshall nodded toward Tricia.

  “I’d like a dry gin martini, up, with olives.”

  “And the gin?”

  “Hendrick’s.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “The same.”

  It was Tricia’s turn to smile.

  *

  • • •

  Despite two very strong martinis, Tricia felt totally, one hundred percent sober when Marshall pulled the Mercedes into an empty parking space in front of her store—something that would have been impossible during high summer.

  “Thank you for the lovely lunch,” Tricia said.

  “The food was good,” Marshall agreed. “But the company was better.”

  Tricia gave him a smile but then turned to stare at the front of her pretty little mystery store. “I don’t want to go inside. I’m sure I’ll only hear more bad news, and I feel like I’ve had enough for one day.”

  “Pull up your big girl panties and face it,” Marshall advised, grinning.

  Tricia shook her head. “It’s more than just losing the election and Chauncey keeling over. It’s knowing that the majority of villagers just don’t like me. The Chamber election only reinforced that fact.”

  “Self-pity doesn’t suit you,” he chided.

  “I don’t usually allow myself to feel this way, although I may let myself sulk for another few hours or so while I wait for happy hour and another couple of martinis.”

  “Big girl panties,” Marshall advised once more.

  “Oh, all right,” she acquiesced. And then Marshall suddenly leaned closer and kissed her on the lips. Nothing romantic; just a nice soft kiss.

  “Can I call you?”

  Tricia couldn’t help the smile that crept across her mouth. “You’ve got my number.” And with that, she reached for the door handle.

  A cold wind blew all around her, and she didn’t look back as Marshall’s car took off. And when she opened the door, a cold shiver ran up her back when she saw Pixie’s wide-eyed stare.

  “The old geezer bought the farm,” she said without preamble.

  “What?” Tricia asked.

  “Chauncey Porter. He’s de
ad,” Pixie said.

  Tricia sighed and closed the door—the little bell above it sounding ridiculously cheerful. “I take it you heard what happened at the meeting.”

  “Oh, sure—Frannie called me right after Angelica got back. Said your sis was so upset she had to go lie down. I didn’t think she was that friendly with the old coot.”

  “Angelica made it her business to know all the Chamber members,” Tricia said neutrally. “That, and he was the second person she recently tried to help who died.”

  “Damn, I wish I’d gone to that meeting—not to see the old geezer keel over, mind you. I thought about showing up as moral support,” Pixie said. “But then I figured they might not let me in, thinking I was there to pinch a free breakfast or something. As it turns out, it was a good thing I didn’t go.”

  Tricia looked around the store, noting Mr. Everett’s absence.

  Pixie noticed her noticing.

  “Don’t tell me—” Tricia said, dreading more bad news.

  “Yeah, Charlie bought the farm overnight. Mr. E called in and said he and Grace were taking him to the vet to drop him off to be cremated and that he might not be in today.”

  Tricia sagged. “Oh, poor Mr. Everett. What a terrible, terrible day.”

  So many people’s lives had been disrupted for so many reasons, and none of them good. Of course, what was Mary Fairchild thinking, now that all her problems had died along with Chauncey? No wonder she hadn’t wanted to be driven to the hospital. She might have wanted to leave there and go straight to a bar to celebrate her good fortune in avoiding marriage to a man with abusive tendencies.

  “What do you think we should do for poor Mr. E?” Pixie asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll call him later to see how he’s doing, but first I need to talk to Angelica. I think I’ll do that up in my apartment. This could be an epic call.”

  Pixie nodded, and probably figured the sisters would commiserate.

  But then Tricia noticed the clock on the wall. It was almost two. “Oh, Pixie—you haven’t had your lunch yet.”

  “I’m good,” she said with a shrug.

  “No, I insist. I just assumed Mr. Everett would be here and … Go. Please go. The Bookshelf Diner is still open.”

  “Well, if you insist. I’ll get my coat. Give me yours and I’ll hang it up.”

  Once Pixie was out the door, Tricia picked up the phone and called Angelica’s number.