Not the Killing Type

by Lorna Barrett

  Had Stan said those things in cruel jest or had he actually been aroused by his wife’s aunt?

  “How much older were you than him?”

  Eleanor swiped a hand across her cheek, catching another tear, and practically fell into the office chair behind the counter. “Ten years. He said the age difference didn’t matter when … when …” She choked on the words. “When the flesh was willing … and that I had more than enough flesh for both of us. And then … then he made a point of grabbing me in a very private place. And he … he …” Eleanor broke down completely, unable to go on.

  Tricia felt like a heel for making the poor woman relive the worst moments of her life, and yet she couldn’t forget that Eleanor had killed a man—viciously stabbing him through the heart with her own letter opener.

  Eleanor’s sobs began to slow and she took another sip from her glass, which seemed to calm her even more. “You were right, Tricia,” she said at last, and set the glass down. “Life as I knew it is over. I guess I knew that the minute you found Stan dead. For a day or two I thought maybe no one would learn of my shame, but I should have known you would ferret out the truth. You always do,” she said with an ironic laugh.

  “What are you going to do now that I know?” Tricia asked.

  Eleanor sighed and picked up the glass once again, but this time she drained it. “Funny you should ask. I figured if the truth came out, I’d have to spend the rest of my life living in shame. It wasn’t a very pleasing prospect. And I couldn’t bring that kind of shame to the only man who has ever treated me with kindness.”

  “Chauncey?” Tricia asked.

  Eleanor didn’t answer, but instead grasped the arms of her chair and continued. “So, I made a decision right after it happened. I’d decided that if there was even a remote chance that the world would ever find out about my shameful secret … that I’d kill myself.”

  The breath caught in Tricia’s throat. “Oh, Eleanor. Please tell me you’re joking.”

  Eleanor reached out to clasp the edge of the reception desk, and slowly swung her head to the left and right. “You were right, Tricia. My life is over.” She shook herself and grimaced, as though she’d just tasted something terribly sour.

  Tricia’s gaze drifted to the glass Eleanor had so recently set down on her workspace. Could it have contained poison?

  “Eleanor?” she said sharply.

  Eleanor closed her eyes and hung her head.

  Tricia rummaged in her purse for her cell phone, stabbed in 911. Within seconds the dispatcher answered. “Please send an ambulance to the Brookview Inn in Stoneham. There’s been a poisoning. And send the police as well.” Before she could say more, Eleanor’s hands slipped away from the reception desk and she slid from her chair. Tricia dropped her phone, scooted around the desk, but couldn’t catch Eleanor before her head crashed into the side of her workstation. The wound gushed blood, and Tricia grabbed the sweater from the back of Eleanor’s chair to staunch the flow. She’d already lost consciousness.

  Antonio suddenly appeared behind her. “I heard a crash. What happened?”

  “Eleanor drank a glass of poison.”

  “Poison?” Antonio echoed, sounding stunned. “What for?”

  “She killed Stan Berry.”

  “No, she didn’t,” came a frantic voice, and suddenly Henry Dawson was beside Tricia, pushing her away from Eleanor’s prone body.

  Eleanor’s breaths started to sound like gasps.

  “Where is that ambulance?” Tricia wailed.

  “Henry, what are you saying?” Antonio demanded.

  “I have a feeling I’ll be repeating the story over and over again in the next few hours. Please, go outside and direct the EMTs to come here when they arrive,” Henry pleaded.

  Antonio nodded, and ran for the exit.

  “Oh, Eleanor—you didn’t have to do this,” Henry said, his voice filled with anguish.

  “Henry, please don’t tell me it was you,” Tricia pleaded, confused.

  Henry smoothed Eleanor’s hair back with great tenderness. “I told you, the staff here at the Brookview is like family. I have no one else. All my brothers and sisters are gone. Most of my friends are dead or moved south. I have no one but the people I care about here at this lovely old inn.”

  “But why?” Tricia practically begged. “What reason did you have to kill Stan Berry?”

  “Eleanor, of course. She’s like a sister to me. I saw that man taunt her with a disgusting photo. He violated her. Not just in the past, but I saw him touch her on Friday morning. He had no right to do that to her. Eleanor ran into Mr. Barbero’s office, crying. That’s when …”

  “You picked up the letter opener and followed him down the hall,” Tricia stated.

  Henry nodded. “I waited until he opened the washroom door and I—I killed him.”

  Tricia’s heart sank. “Oh, Henry.”

  Eleanor’s breaths were coming in choking gasps. What kind of poison could have reacted so quickly?

  The sound of a siren cut through the soft sounds of Christmas carols coming from a speaker in the ceiling.

  Henry continued to stroke Eleanor’s hair as silent tears wet his wrinkled cheeks. “Hold on, Eleanor. The ambulance is on its way,” he crooned.

  Tricia looked down at a deathly pale Eleanor and wondered if she would last even that long. She bit her lip and cursed herself for her impatience. If she had only called Baker would the outcome have been different, or would Eleanor have spooned the poison into her milk and drunk it in front of him—anything to avoid facing further humiliation?

  It was something Tricia would never know … but would always have to live with.

  TWENTY-THREE

  If there was one thing Tricia was grateful for, it was that most of the Chamber members had already left the building by the time the ambulance and police arrived at the Brookview Inn. But she knew the gossip mill would already be churning out the news of Eleanor’s attempted suicide, Henry’s confession, and that she was nothing but a jinx after all.

  She bit her lip and considered the possibility that she might just have earned the title.

  Antonio had provided a straight-backed chair for her to sit in, since every other seat in the lobby had been occupied and no one seemed eager to provide her with any comfort, and so Tricia sat near Antonio’s office door, where Chief Baker had been interrogating Henry for more than an hour. Despite the tragedy, cheerful holiday tunes still played throughout the inn’s common areas, while the stately Christmas tree stood tall and beautiful and silent.

  Darlene stood at the reception desk, glaring daggers at Tricia for her part in this terrible mess. Tricia had never felt so alone in her life.

  And then a hand touched her shoulder. “Are you okay, Trish?”

  Tricia looked up into Angelica’s sympathetic face.

  “No. Why couldn’t I mind my own business? Why do I always have to play detective? Why—?”

  “Hush!” Angelica ordered, the same command she gave her dog. It had the same effect and stopped what could have been a long tirade of self-pity and regret. “Are you still waiting to speak to Chief Baker?”

  Tricia nodded miserably. “You don’t have to hang around here, Ange.”

  “Don’t worry. Frannie has already taken Sarge out. Bev and Tommy can get along without me at Booked for Lunch. I’ll stay here as long as you need me.”

  Tricia reached up to clasp Angelica’s hand and found herself smiling. It felt oddly comforting to realize she wanted—and needed—Angelica’s company. She was also glad Christopher hadn’t shown his face during the time she’d had to hang out in the inn’s lobby. He was the last man on the planet she wanted to see.

  Of course, she soon felt otherwise when she saw Chauncey Porter charging across the lobby and heading her way. “Oh, no,” she muttered under her breath.

  Angelica turned just as Chauncey practically skidded to a halt in front of them.

  “What is wrong with you?” he hollered. “Why cou
ldn’t you just mind your own damned business?”

  “Chauncey, there’s no way Tricia could have known that Eleanor would try to kill herself when the truth became known about Stan.” Angelica tried to reason with him. “The man may have been a scumbag, but it wasn’t up to Henry to decide to make himself judge and executioner.”

  But Chauncey wasn’t listening to her, his gaze was focused on Tricia. “I was going to ask her to marry me tomorrow. We could have had a beautiful life together.”

  “Chauncey, I—” Tricia tried, but Chauncey wasn’t interested in apologies.

  “I am so angry with you right now, Tricia, that I could murder you!”

  “Now just a minute, pal,” Baker said. Tricia hadn’t heard the door to Antonio’s office open. She turned, but before the chief could intervene, Chauncey’s hand lashed out and struck Tricia’s cheek, knocking her sideways.

  Baker lunged forward, tackling Chauncey, wrestling him to the ground and manacling his wrists before Chauncey had a chance to react. A couple of officers charged across the lobby to give assistance, but Baker had everything under control.

  Stunned, Tricia righted herself, her left hand moving to touch her face, which burned. She was sure she’d sport a bruise before morning.

  Baker yanked Chauncey to his feet. “Come on, pal, we’re heading for the station. You’re under arrest.”

  “No, Grant,” Tricia cried. “Let him go.”

  “The hell I will. He’ll be charged with assault.”

  “Not if I don’t press charges.”

  “Don’t be foolish.”

  “Not foolish, Grant, compassionate.”

  “I don’t need that from you, either. Just leave me the hell alone.” Chauncey glared at Tricia. “I never want to speak to you again.”

  “Then don’t,” Baker said, unlocking the cuffs. “Go home, Mr. Porter, before I find something else to charge you with.” He nodded toward one of the officers. “See to it that he gets to his car and leaves the premises.” The officer nodded and ushered Chauncey toward the exit.

  Angelica stood over Tricia, rubbing her back. “Are you okay, Trish?”

  Tricia nodded and looked to Baker. “I suppose you want to talk to me now.”

  “Not here. This place is a fishbowl.” Hadn’t Eleanor said the same thing? The thought of her brought tears to Tricia’s eyes once more. “Have you … heard?”

  Baker shook his head. “Not in the past half hour. All I know is she was still alive when they arrived at St. Joseph Hospital in Milford.” His voice was hard, cold. Did he blame her, too?

  He turned back for Antonio’s office and seconds later emerged with a handcuffed Henry, who looked like he’d been crying. He paused beside Tricia. “I’m so sorry you had to get involved in all this, Ms. Miles. I thought I was helping Eleanor, but I only made it worse. I don’t want you to blame yourself for what happened. I guess she had to know her shame would become public at one point, and she was prepared for that eventuality. I don’t want you to hold yourself accountable. If I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands …”

  “Come along,” Baker said and grabbed Henry’s left elbow, while the other officer took his right, and they practically propelled him through the lobby and out the door to a waiting patrol car.

  “I guess I’d better wait for Grant to return,” Tricia said.

  “Uh-oh,” she heard Angelica mutter. Tricia followed her sister’s gaze to see Christopher heading down the inn’s main staircase. He was dressed for outdoors, with a jacket, scarf, gloves, and hat, but he paused at the bottom step, looked around, saw Tricia, and headed her way.

  “I’ve seen the cops coming and going for more than an hour now. Don’t tell me you found another dead body,” he said and laughed.

  “Not now, Christopher,” Angelica warned.

  His grin disappeared as he studied Tricia’s face. “Oh, Trish. I’m sorry. I never really thought …”

  “You better run away as fast as you can,” Tricia said coldly. “I’m the village jinx and people around me have a habit of dying.”

  Angelica jerked her thumb toward the exit. “Take a hike.”

  Christopher nodded. “I’m sorry.” He reached down, patted Tricia’s arm, and then pivoted. Without looking back, he strode across the lobby to the exit and disappeared behind the wood and glass door.

  Typical. He always did leave just when she needed him most.

  Seconds later, Baker reentered the lobby. He carried a cop’s arrogant attitude with him, something Tricia had never seen on him before. This little talk wasn’t going to be pleasant, and she had a feeling it would start with a stern lecture. He stopped uncomfortably close to her, his heavy boots nearly touching her shoes. “Inside.” He nodded toward Antonio’s office.

  “I thought you said …”

  “I changed my mind. I think it would be better for you if we talked here rather than down at the station.”

  Was he showing her at least a little mercy?

  Tricia rose from the chair. Angelica began to follow her, but Baker stepped between them. “Not you.”

  “But I’m her sister.”

  “And your presence is neither wanted nor justified.”

  Angelica was about to protest when Tricia waved a hand. “It’s okay, Ange. But wait for me, will you?”

  “I’ll be right here,” Angelica promised and promptly took the chair Tricia had just vacated.

  Once inside Antonio’s office, Tricia sat on a chair in front of his desk, while Baker closed the door. Seconds later he loomed over her.

  “Where do you want me to begin,” Tricia asked, but then noted that they were alone in the room, with no one to take her official statement.

  “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, Tricia, but Ms. McCorvey has died,” Baker said gently.

  “Oh, no,” Tricia wailed and buried her face in her hands.

  Baker stepped close, crouched, and put his arms around her. Tricia hung on for dear life, sobbing. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Baker repeated.

  “I didn’t know this would happen. I swear,” Tricia said.

  “It’s pretty apparent she’d made the decision to try suicide before she even spoke to you,” Baker said, patting her back.

  “But if I hadn’t spoken to her … I practically accused her—”

  “Of killing Stan Berry?” Baker pulled back and shook his head. “I think she had a good idea who killed him. She left a note,” Baker said.

  “A note?” Tricia repeated, wiping her eyes.

  “I can’t show it to you, but I can tell you what it said. She took full responsibility for Berry’s murder.”

  “But Henry said—”

  “Yes, he killed Berry. But Eleanor didn’t want him to get in trouble for it. I guess she thought she could save him from jail time, but that isn’t going to happen.”

  “Could he be lying about it?” Tricia asked, and sank back into the chair.

  Baker shook his head. “He knew pertinent information about the murder that we hadn’t released to the public—and especially to you.”

  “Poor Eleanor. And poor Henry.”

  “He plans to plead guilty, to save the cost of a trial. Thoughtful man,” Baker commented.

  “I’m sure he likes to think of himself as a good citizen.”

  “Good citizens don’t kill,” Baker reminded her.

  Tricia shook her head. “I still can’t help thinking that it’s all my fault—”

  “Don’t,” Baker warned. “Now. If you’re up to it, I’d like to get your statement now so that you can start putting all this behind you.”

  “I don’t see how I can do that.”

  “I do. You’ve got a lot on your plate, what with Thanksgiving tomorrow, Black Friday, and the wedding on Saturday.”

  It all seemed terribly frivolous in light of Eleanor’s death.

  “Life goes on, Tricia. You can’t help those that are beyond your reach.”

  “Sweep it under the rug and go on li
ke Eleanor never existed?” she asked.

  “No. But remember her as the smiling woman behind the desk. The one who helped the guests here at the inn. The woman you knew—not the one who lived in secret shame. I’m sure that’s not how she’d want to be remembered.”

  No. Of that Tricia was certain.

  “Are you ready to begin?” Baker asked kindly.

  Tricia nodded.

  Baker opened the door, signaled to another of his officers, and Tricia prepared herself for the unpleasant task ahead.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Half the businesses in Stoneham closed early that Saturday afternoon, all so the owners could attend Ginny and Antonio’s wedding at the Brookview Inn. It was a quarter the size of Tricia’s overly elaborate wedding, but the setting was lovely, the company was great, and both the bride and groom looked stunning as they held hands and promised to love and cherish one another ’til death do them part.

  At the sound of those words, Tricia’s thoughts flashed back to her own wedding some thirteen years before. At the time, she’d believed she and Christopher were destined to stay together the rest of their lives. So much for happily ever after. She fervently hoped that Ginny and Antonio would weather the ups and downs of marriage and grow old together.

  The inn’s dining room was packed, even though the guest list was shorter by two: Chauncey and Eleanor.

  Will Berry had returned to Stoneham earlier than he’d planned so he could attend Eleanor’s memorial service that had been held at the Baker Funeral Home that morning. Tricia wanted to attend, but Will had called and asked her not to. He made it clear that he didn’t blame her for what happened, but he didn’t think Chauncey would ever forgive or forget. That hadn’t helped assuage the guilt she felt, and always would. Would losing Eleanor cause Chauncey to give up his store and leave Stoneham? Only time would tell.

  The music started again, shaking Tricia from her reverie. She smiled at Ginny, handing back the bridal bouquet. As she did, she caught sight of Angelica, sitting in the front row on the groom’s side, which was totally devoid of family, decidedly short on friends, and entirely free from enemies. Frannie sat beside her, while Baker sat in the row behind Angelica, giving Tricia a comforting smile. These last few days had almost seemed like old times for them. Baker had come to Angelica’s for Thanksgiving dinner after all and had picked Tricia up at Haven’t Got a Clue in time for the wedding. And though he’d done everything right these past few days, she knew that they could not go back to the way things had been. They’d gone through too many periods where they’d been estranged—for one reason or another—for Tricia to face going through it all again. But at least they were friends, and Tricia was sure that no matter what, she’d always be able to count on Grant Baker.