Poisoned Pages

by Lorna Barrett

  “Are you okay?” she asked when Angelica answered.

  “Yes. I tried to call you earlier, but there was no answer—and you didn’t answer your cell phone, either.”

  “I turned it off. Marshall took me out to brunch at an exclusive country club outside of Nashua.”

  “You’ll have to tell me all about it—but not right now, please.”

  “Can you talk?” Tricia asked.

  “Yes; the jammer is on. I assume you heard about Chauncey?”

  “Apparently Frannie’s been calling all over the village. She got to Pixie, and Pixie delivered the bad news.”

  “Mary must be dancing a jig,” Angelica commented. Tricia had told her over pizza the night before about the conversation she’d had with Mary earlier that day. “She wasted her vote.”

  “I still would have lost,” Tricia lamented. “And you won your bet.”

  “Bet?” Angelica asked.

  “About Pixie.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  Maybe for the moment—but Angelica had a sharp mind, and she wouldn’t have forgotten it for long. Tricia changed the subject. “How did your meeting with Chief Baker go?”

  “Well, my phone will be tapped. They’ll be looking at the mail—before I do—and I hope they catch the bastard who’s been threatening my family.”

  “Did he say anything about the crime wave?”

  “Only that there’s no evidence to link my problems with the outbreak of vandalism.”

  “Why?”

  “Because all the businesses along the alley behind us got hit—not just me.”

  “He may have something there. With all that’s gone on, I never had a chance to tell you that I saw someone throwing rocks at my light last night.”

  “What time was this?”

  “After one. I opened the window and yelled to scare him off. I think it was Russ Smith.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Maybe to make it look like I wasn’t being singled out the first time it happened?” Tricia suggested.

  “He couldn’t have known you’d fall and get hurt the last time it happened.”

  “No, that was probably a bonus.”

  “But he smashed the light at the Patisserie, too.”

  “He probably wanted to spite his wife as much as me,” Tricia offered.

  “Did you report this to the police?”

  “Yes, but not that I thought it was Russ. I guess I should tell Chief Baker—not that he’ll do anything about it.”

  “At the very least, he should talk to him.”

  “I agree.” Tricia remembered what else Pixie had told her. “Mr. Everett called. Charlie died last night.”

  “Oh, no!” Angelica lamented. “The poor dear. He and Grace must be heartbroken.”

  “They knew Charlie was living on borrowed time—I just wish they’d had more than a few days with their sweet boy.”

  “I hope they’re not sorry they adopted him, but I can understand if they were. It was years after I lost my little Pom-Pom that I was brave enough to love another pet.”

  As though he knew what she was talking about, Tricia heard Sarge bark somewhere in the background.

  “You tell her, Sarge,” she encouraged.

  Angelica sighed. “I’m sorry, but I have tons of things to do before the end of my workday—which is fast approaching. Come to my place for dinner. I’ve brought leftovers from the café.”

  “Soup?” Tricia asked. After her large lunch, that was about all she thought she’d need.

  “Among other things.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you just after six.”

  No sooner had Tricia put down the receiver than the door to Haven’t Got a Clue opened and Russ Smith staggered inside.

  “What do you want?” Tricia said, none too friendly.

  “You.” He lurched toward her, and she could see that he was drunk.

  “Get out of my store.”

  He didn’t bother to look to see if anyone else was present; he must have waited for Pixie to leave before he made his move. And what was he interested in?

  “That’s not a very friendly way to greet an old friend—or should I say lover?”

  “Get out of my store,” Tricia repeated.

  Russ staggered closer, and Tricia was glad to have the big glass display case/cash desk between them. He leaned closer, and she could smell the sour stench of Scotch on his breath.

  “You screwed me.”

  “What?”

  “You were supposed to win the damn election. Why didn’t you win it?” he demanded.

  “I thought that was your plan—to sabotage my chances. Isn’t that why you wrote that horrible story about me in your terrible little rag?”

  “Yeah, but I wasn’t supposed to come in second. Three votes. I got three lousy votes more than you, and now I’m stuck.”

  “‘You reap what you sow,’” Tricia quoted, not feeling at all bad about it.

  “Nikki’s furious with me. She said she’s going to leave me.”

  “Why don’t you try counseling?” Tricia suggested, trying to sound sympathetic—not that she truly felt that way.

  “It’s all your fault,” Russ grumbled.

  “Russ, I think you need to leave. Now, please.”

  “Or what are you gonna do? Call your little cop friend? The one who took my place in your bed?”

  “Please leave. Now! Or I will call the police.”

  Russ reached over and grabbed the cord on the vintage telephone that sat beside the register, giving it a vicious yank, pulling it from the wall socket. Tricia instinctively backed away, and Russ grabbed the phone’s heavy receiver, brandishing it at her like a weapon. It wouldn’t take much force for it to cause serious injuries.

  “Come on, Russ—go home. Sleep it off. Things will look better tomorrow.”

  “How can they? My wife is leaving me, you don’t love me—”

  This wasn’t the time to mention that she was pretty sure she never had.

  The door opened and Pixie walked into the shop holding a brown paper bag that no doubt held her take-out lunch. “Uh, am I interrupting something?” she asked, sounding uncertain.

  “Get out of here. Tricia and I are talking,” Russ slurred. He yanked hard on the receiver’s cord, pulling it from the body of the phone, and threw the receiver at her.

  “I’m out of here,” Pixie said, tossing the bag on the floor and hightailing it out of the store, the door slamming behind her.

  “Pixie!” Tricia called, but her assistant was gone.

  Russ turned back and grabbed what was left of the phone, glaring at Tricia. “Now, let’s have a nice li’l talk, shall we?”

  Tricia didn’t want to talk to him at all, but she knew Pixie would be on her cell phone calling 911, and then trying to find someone—anyone—to help.

  “All right. What do you want to talk about?” Tricia said, hoping her voice sounded soothing instead of terrified. She wasn’t sure what she should expect from the lout.

  “The future. We can go back to where we were before you dumped me. I’ll take you back,” he said, sounding maudlin.

  If anything, Tricia never wanted to see his red, sweating face again, but she needed to stall him until help arrived.

  “Put the phone down, and then we’ll go sit in the reader’s nook and talk.”

  Russ gave her a calculating look. “No.”

  “Then no deal.”

  “Why? Don’t you trust me?”

  Tricia eyed him. Of course she didn’t! “It’s hardly a romantic gesture to threaten the woman you love with a weapon.”

  He looked at the business end of the phone still in his hand and seemed to have trouble focusing on it. “This—a weapon?”

  “Well, it’s not a bouquet of roses. Have you forgotten how to sweet-talk a woman?”

  Russ seemed to ponder the question before answering. “Maybe I have.” He set the phone back on the top of the case. “Come out
from behind there.”

  Tricia eyed him. “Only if you back off.”

  He laughed. “Why? Do you think I’d hurt you?”

  Yes!

  “That’s the deal.”

  Russ swayed as he took a step back.

  “One more step,” Tricia said.

  He complied, and she moved around the end of the case.

  Russ held out his arms. “Come to Poppa.”

  “Shouldn’t you be saying that to your son?”

  “What do I care about that brat? I never wanted him.”

  As Tricia had always suspected.

  “Come on, Tricia. Come and give me a little kiss and tell me all is forgiven.”

  Boy, he really was drunk. But Tricia did take a tiny step forward.

  “Close your eyes.”

  “Why?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Because a kiss is always better when you close your eyes.”

  “You wouldn’t play a trick on me, would you?”

  “Me?” she asked innocently, slowly slipping her arm out of her sling.

  “You don’t like me,” he said petulantly.

  “I thought we were friends,” Tricia said, and she meant it—as in the past tense.

  “We could be more—should be more. I never loved anybody like I love you, Tricia.”

  Yes, and that’s why he had stalked her. He didn’t want her to be with anyone else, and he’d obviously held on to that assertion.

  “Close your eyes, Russ,” she said softly, and took another tiny step forward.

  Again he scrutinized her face, but then he did close his eyes.

  Tricia pounced, shoving him backward, knocking him off balance. Despite her sore arm, she managed to roll him over onto his stomach, haul his left arm behind his back, and kneel on his buttocks, effectively pinning him. He bucked and wriggled, but Tricia wasn’t about to let him up.

  Just then, Pixie and one of Stoneham’s uniformed police officers burst through the door and practically skidded to a halt.

  “You got him!” Pixie hollered.

  “Yes, and I could sure use some help.”

  The officer motioned for Tricia to get up, and Pixie leapt forward to give her a helping hand.

  “Get up!” the officer demanded of Russ, who’d stopped wiggling but made no move to obey the order. “Sir, get up!” But Russ didn’t seem to have the strength to raise himself.

  The officer grabbed one of Russ’s arms and hauled him to his feet. As though in reply, Russ threw up all over the officer and the carpet.

  “Uggh!” Tricia and Pixie cried in unison.

  Russ doubled over and threw up again, then he fell to his knees and vomited again and again, until he was left with the dry heaves.

  Without comment, the officer peeled off his jacket and tossed it out the door.

  “I take it you’ve been through this before,” Tricia said.

  “Way too many times,” he said wearily. “Do you want to press charges?”

  “I don’t know,” Tricia answered honestly.

  “If nothing else, I can drag him in for being drunk and disorderly.”

  “If you would, please.”

  “I’ll say,” Pixie chimed in, eyeing the sick on the carpet and wrinkling her nose at the stench. She hurried to get the door and hold it open as the cop dragged Russ out into the street. The cold, fresh air must have hit him like a brick wall, and Russ doubled over and vomited once again.

  “Glad he did that outside. Much easier to clean up,” Pixie said.

  They looked at each other, then at the stained carpet, then at each other again.

  “It’s my store; I’ll clean it up,” Tricia said.

  Pixie shook her head. “Nah. Back in the day I was a janitor at an elementary school for a while. Kids barfed on almost an hourly basis come flu season. I’ll get this.”

  “And you’ll get a nice fat bonus for it,” Tricia said.

  Pixie merely grinned.

  THIRTY

  After Russ had been dragged away, Tricia phoned Chief Baker, leaving a message that she was pretty sure it had been Russ who had thrown the stones at her light the evening before. She left it up to him to follow up—or not—on the information. And then it was back to work.

  While Pixie took care of the shop, Tricia went to her office and logged onto the Internet. It took less than a minute for her to find Cassandra Logan, Esquire’s address in Milford. Grabbing one of the padded envelopes they used for shipping stock, she wrote the address down with a black marker. She quickly typed up a note, detailing what the items were and to what estate they belonged, and hit the print button. She donned a pair of plastic gloves and folded it, hoping that Ms. Logan wouldn’t be too inquisitive. Tricia’s fingerprints had been taken more than once. She would just have to hope that the return of the jewelry would be seen as good fortune, and not an opportunity to go after the person who had returned it.

  Next, Tricia went up to her apartment, removed Carol Talbot’s jewelry from her closet, and cleaned and dried it. Still wearing gloves, she stuffed the items into the envelope and sealed it before heading back down to the basement. She kept a variety of stamps in her desk, so she weighed the package and then added stamps to it. Since it was only being mailed to the next town over, she didn’t dare bother with insurance and would just have to hope the good old post office would deliver the package safely.

  It took only a few minutes for her to walk to the nearest blue USPS mailbox and drop the envelope in it, heaving a sigh of relief that she’d been able to return the stolen items to the estate—and that at least one thing that day had gone in her favor. And it gave her a feeling of peace to know that the money obtained from the sale of the jewelry would go to take care of abandoned pets just like Charlie, giving them a secure place to live until they found their forever homes.

  The sky was darkening, and Tricia had just finished cleaning the beverage station when Pixie looked up from her book. “Hey, look—there’s Mary Fairchild.”

  Mary passed the shop’s big display window with her head held high, apparently heading for her store, which had been closed all day.

  “I think I’ll go offer her my condolences for Chauncey,” Tricia said.

  “Sure thing,” Pixie said.

  Tricia grabbed her cloak and ventured out into the deepening twilight. By the time she reached By Hook or By Book, the lights were on inside, but the blinds hadn’t been drawn and a CLOSED sign still hung from the door. She tried the door, but it was locked. Pounding on it drew Mary’s attention, and she soon came and unlocked it.

  “Goodness, Tricia, what are you doing here?”

  “I came to check up on you.”

  Mary shrugged and walked deeper into her store, heading for the stool behind the counter. Tricia closed the door and ventured closer. “So … ?”

  Mary picked up a skein of pastel pink yarn and a crochet hook, and began working on what looked like a baby blanket. “I followed the ambulance to the hospital. Of course, as I wasn’t Chauncey’s next of kin, nobody wanted to tell me anything. I guess they worked on him for about an hour before he was pronounced dead. At least, that’s when someone finally came out and told me.” She kept her eyes on the yarn, giving it a yank every so often.

  “What happens next?” Tricia asked, noting that Mary had spoken without emotion and remained dry-eyed. In fact, it didn’t look like she’d cried at all, which wasn’t much of a surprise.

  “As it happens, it turns out I inherit Chauncey’s entire estate.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  Mary’s hook stopped moving. “Weird.”

  “How did you find out about it?”

  “I went to his apartment right after I left the hospital. I knew where he kept his important papers—not that he ever actually told me. So I went through them. I mean, at the very least I needed to find out about who was responsible for making burial arrangements for him—and it turns out to be me.”

  “What will you do?”
/>
  “I’ve already spoken with VanArsdale’s in Milford. He’ll be cremated tomorrow.”

  “Will you hold a memorial service?”

  Mary shook her head. “He wasn’t religious and he didn’t have any close friends. As he’d just won the Chamber presidency, I thought perhaps Angelica might devote a few minutes of the next meeting to celebrate his life.”

  “I’ll speak to her about it,” Tricia promised. “And what about you?”

  “I’m sorry he’s dead. I never wished that on him, but I’m not sorry he’ll be out of my life, which you well know.”

  Tricia nodded. “What about his store?”

  “I’d like to talk to Angelica about that—she’s thrived while juggling multiple businesses. Chauncey wasn’t all that successful until he took advice from the two of you, but he did manage to get out of the red, and there’s enough money to take care of his affairs. As his heir and executrix, I have the authority to keep the business running, and I intend to do so.”

  “Wow. You’ve made a lot of decisions in a short period of time.”

  “Yes, and the biggest one is that I’m never going to rush into a relationship again.”

  Something Tricia had also decided upon. But then she thought about Marshall. They’d shared two meals, although unlike Frannie, Tricia didn’t intend for her third date with Marshall—should there be one—to be the deciding factor for intimacy. What she wanted more than anything else was friendship. She’d thought she’d had that with Russ, but she’d been wrong. She never wanted to be that wrong again.

  “Why did you come back to your store this evening instead of going home?”

  “What for? This is my home away from home. I’m going to put some music on, make myself a mug of cocoa, finish this blanket, and think about the future.”

  “What would you like to do?”

  Mary looked thoughtful for a few moments. “I’d like to be more like you and Angelica.”

  “In what way?”

  “First of all, I’m going to sell my house. Now that Chauncey won’t be moving in, it’s far too big for just me. The lease on the apartment upstairs runs out in a few months. Alice Jones, who lives there, is going to move out, and I’m going to ask my landlord if I can have it. That way I can be close to my shop—and be around people more. I really don’t like living so isolated.”