The annoyed shopkeeper skirted the sales counter, lumbered to the door, and unlocked it.
"I'm glad you're still here. You left these in my store this morning," Tricia said.
"So that's where they went. I'm always losing them. That's why I keep an extra pair here at the shop." She pocketed them in the same ugly sweater she'd worn earlier in the day, but the rest of her attire had changed. Dressed in dark slacks and a red blouse, she looked pounds lighter, years younger, and, except for the sweater, almost elegant.
Tricia had never actually been in the Cookery before. It seemed like all her encounters with Doris had been in her own shop. Since all the storefronts were more or less the same-give or take a few feet in width-the Cookery was set up in the same configuration as Haven't Got a Clue, except that where the mystery store had a seating area, the cookbook store housed a cooking demo area: a horseshoe-shaped island with a knife block, complete with ten or twelve chef knives, a small sink, burners, and an under-the-counter refrigerator. Overhead hung a large rectangular mirror so that an audience would see the hands-on instruction. A thin film of greasy dust covered the station, which obviously hadn't been used in a while.
"Nice store," Tricia said.
"It ought to be," Doris groused. "I put a lot of money into it, and if Bob Kelly and I can't come to an agreement on it tonight, I'll lose it all."
The cost of doing business, Tricia thought, but didn't voice what would obviously be an unpopular opinion.
Doris glanced at the big clock over the register. "Bob should've been here ten minutes ago-the inconsiderate jerk."
Atop the main sales counter sat an oblong Lucite container that housed what looked like an aged booklet. The little hinged door sported a sturdy lock. "The prize of your collection?" Tricia asked, her curiosity piqued.
Doris's eyes lit up, and for the first time Tricia saw beyond the sour expression to the woman's true passion. "Yes. It's American Cookery, by Amelia Simmons, the very first American cookbook ever published back in 1796. A similar copy recently sold for ten thousand dollars at auction."
Calling the little, yellowing pamphlet a book was stretching the definition.
Doris exhaled a shaky breath, her expression akin to a lovesick teen. "I wish I could keep it myself, but-"
Tricia knew that "but" only too well. Like every other collector she, too, had coveted the holy grail for her own collection. She'd been close a few times, but had never been able to obtain an original copy of Graham's Lady's and Gentleman's Magazine containing Poe's short story "The Murders in the Rue Morgue."
"What are you asking for it?"
Doris hesitated. "I haven't actually set a price. I only obtained it a couple of weeks ago. The lockbox arrived just yesterday. But I couldn't resist putting it on exhibition." She gazed fondly at the booklet. "Of course I have a facsimile of it at home and have read it many times, but to actually hold an original copy in my hands has been the thrill of a lifetime."
Tricia nodded.
Doris shook her head. "It's sad how few people really appreciate a well-written cookbook. Most of the slobs who come in here are looking for the latest Food Network star's most recent atrocity. And I can't tell you how much money I make on old Betty Crocker books from the fifties and sixties. Not even first editions, mind you. I can sell a tenth or twelfth edition for twenty bucks." She shuddered. Clearly, the woman hated the books, but she'd sell them to pay her rent-it was something else Tricia understood.
"How did you score such a find?" Tricia asked.
Doris's expression curdled. "Private sale."
The fact that she wouldn't elaborate must've meant the former owner had since had an inkling of what the booklet might be worth.
Tricia forced a smile. "I'd better get going."
"Thank you for returning my glasses," Doris said, her tone still clipped.
"No problem."
Doris followed Tricia to the door and locked it behind her without even a good night.
Tricia headed down the sidewalk with no thought to the snub-now to face Angelica. Of the two, she ruefully admitted that she'd probably rather spend time with Doris.
She'd parked her own car in the municipal lot earlier in the day. By this time it was mostly empty. Now that school was back in session, the bulk of the summer tourist trade had evaporated. That would change when the autumn leaves began to turn and tour buses and crowds would return for another few weeks of superior sales. Thank goodness for the cruise ships that moored in Portsmouth and Boston harbors, which often brought in more customers. Once winter arrived they, too, would be gone. Still, the business slowdown would give Tricia time to establish a storefront in cyberspace, something she'd been meaning to do since she'd opened some five months previous.
Stoneham wasn't very large and it only took a minute or two for Tricia to drive to the Brookview Inn, lit up like a Thomas Kinkade painting with warm yellow light spilling from every window. Soft pink roses flanked steps leading to the entrance, the last of the summer's offerings crowding against white-painted wrought-iron railings. Tricia hesitated, taking in the delicate scent. No doubt Angelica would have doused herself in the latest overpriced perfume with a celebrity's name attached to it.
Stop it, she ordered. Yet she'd spent her whole life finding fault with her older sister. Was it natural that even as an adult she hadn't been able to let go of her childhood animosity? If she was honest with herself, she should blame their mother for fostering such an unhealthy atmosphere.
Then again, Mother never took the blame for anything.
Tricia took a breath to control her anxiety. It was really her own reactions to her sister that upset her. Angelica wasn't likely to change anytime soon. It was up to Tricia to ride out the visit and not let it turn her into the jealous child she thought she'd long outgrown.
The Brookview had given Tricia shelter for three weeks during the time when the apartment over the store was being made habitable. She could've opted for one of the efficiency bungalows behind the inn itself, but had been seduced by the sumptuous bedding and other pampering amenities, finding the inn a serene haven during the demolition and chaos of the store's renovation. And she'd tried to replicate some of that ambiance in her own much more humble abode. So far she'd only managed to acquire the four-hundred-thread-count sheets and fluffy down pillows. Tricia missed the cuisine and the friendly staff, but admitted she still preferred the privacy of her own home and the company of her cat and her precious books.
Bess, the plump sixty-something night clerk, looked up from her keyboard behind the reception desk, a smile lighting her face. "Welcome back, Ms. Miles. And what brings you to the Brookview tonight?"
"My sister, Angelica Prescott, is a guest."
"No doubt at your recommendation," Bess said and beamed.
Tricia smiled, pushing down the guilt.
"I think you'll find her in our dining room. The special tonight is hazelnut-encrusted salmon." Bess closed her eyes in a moment of pure ecstasy. "Itis to die for."
"Sounds heavenly. But I've already eaten." Her dinner had consisted of a burger on a soggy bun that Ginny snagged at the Bookshelf Diner down the street from the shop. "I'll just pop in and see if Angie's there."
"You go right ahead, dear." Bess gave a little wave and returned her attention to her keyboard.
Tricia crossed the foyer to the opened double doors at the far end of the lobby. The Brookview's elegant dining room, with its crown molding, traditional furnishings, and lamp-lit oil paintings of Revolutionary War heroes, welcomed her. And at the best table, holding court, sat Angelica, leaning forward, manicured index finger wagging to make a point with her guest. She was blond again, cut short and stylish, and what looked like a recent weight loss was evident in her face. She'd always been the family beauty, and so far age had not worked against her. Even with his back turned toward her, Tricia recognized the man who sat opposite her sister: Bob Kelly. Two of the three people on the planet who irritated Tricia the most, and now she had to deal with both of th
em-together.
The fact that Bob could've passed as her ex's twin-albeit a decade older-may've been responsible for part of Tricia's dislike for him. Did he have to be so drop-dead handsome? Tall, muscular, with a head full of wavy dark hair that had never seen a colorist, and those deep green eyes. Yes, except for the eyes, he could have been Christopher's double.
Dinner had been cleared and only demitasse cups and crumb-littered dessert plates remained on the linen-shrouded table.
Tricia took a breath, plastered on a smile, and charged forward. "Angie!"
Angelica looked up, a look of true pleasure lighting her expression, reinforcing the guilt Tricia felt. "Darling Trish." She rose, arms outstretched.
The women embraced and Tricia quelled the urge to cough. Angelica did indeed smell like she'd been dipped in a vat of perfume. A couple of air kisses later, Tricia pulled back. "You look fabulous. You've lost weight."
"Twenty pounds," Angelica admitted proudly. "I've just returned from this divine spa in Aspen, and-"
Bob Kelly cleared his throat. Tricia hadn't noticed that he'd also stood. She nodded, dropped her voice. "Hello, Bob. I see you've met my sister."
"Yes, and what a delightful surprise."
Tricia gave the empty chairs around the table a cursory glance. "Where's Drew?"
Angelica scowled. "Obviously not here." She abruptly changed the subject, taking her seat once again. "Order some dessert, Trish, and we'll all have a nice conversation."
Bob remained standing. "I'm afraid I have a business meeting this evening."
"So late?" Angelica asked.
"The downside of being a successful entrepreneur, I'm afraid."
Tricia fought the urge to gag. By now Doris would be furious-and that's probably exactly what Bob wanted.
Bob offered Angelica his hand. She took it. "Thank you so much for the dessert. I'd love to take you to dinner some time during your visit."
"And I'd love to accept. Do call me."
"I will. Ladies." And with a nod, Bob excused himself.
"Isn't he just a doll," Angelica whispered once he was out of earshot.
Tricia took Bob's abandoned seat and forced yet another smile. Her cheeks were already beginning to ache. "What brings you all the way to New Hampshire, Ange? This really isn't your style at all."
Angelica sighed. "I can't keep anything from you, can I?"
Tricia's stomach tensed. Bad news? Angie's twenty-pound weight loss…
Angelica played with the chunky diamond ring on her engagement finger. Her wedding band was gone. "Drew and I…well, our trial separation proved successful. We're finished."
Tricia relaxed. Not a total surprise. Drew was Angelica's fourth husband. He was a quiet, studious type, whereas Angelica was boisterous and liked fun and crowds of people. Sedate New Hampshire was much more Drew's sort of refuge. "I'm so sorry." And she was. She and Drew could talk books for hours, much to Angelica's chagrin.
"No, actually, I've come to help you with your little store," Angelica charged on. "I'm a successful businesswoman in my own right and quite naturally I assumed you'd need my help."
Tricia gritted her teeth and grimaced. Angelica had worked in a boutique in SoHo for all of five minutes some twenty years before. It had closed within weeks of opening. "No, but…thank you anyway."
"Nonsense. I'm here and I'm dying to see the little place." Angelica raised a hand in the air and within seconds a waiter appeared. "Please add the dinner to my account."
"With pleasure, ma'am." The black-suited man bowed and made a discreet exit.
Angelica rose. "Come, come," she ordered and, like a well-trained dog, Tricia jumped to her feet to follow.
Already the evening was not going as Tricia had planned.
Minutes later, Tricia steered her Lexus onto Main Street and under the banner strung across the road that proudly proclaimed Stoneham the Safest Town in New Hampshire. She pulled into the empty parking space in front of Haven't Got a Clue, cut the engine, and waited to hear the inevitable insult disguised as a compliment.
"Oh, Tricia, it's lovely," Angelica breathed, and she truly sounded awed.
All the brick-faced buildings along Main Street sported a different pastel hue, except for number 221. The bottom floor's white stone facade resembled a certain Victorian address in London, while Tricia had had the brick of the top two floors sandblasted to reveal its natural state. The door, beveled glass on the top and painted a glossy black on the bottom, looked impressive with glowing period brass lanterns on either side. The gold-leafed address numbers 221 shone brightly on the Palladian transom above. The plate-glass display window to the right did sort of spoil the effect, but the effort Tricia had made to approximate the beloved detective's home hadn't been lost on the majority of her customers.
"Surely the address is wrong," Angelica said. "Shouldn't it be 221B?"
"I didn't know you'd read Dr. Watson's stories."
"Please! Grandmother bored me to tears with them before you were born."
Tricia had never been bored when Grandmother had read her Sir Arthur's stories. As a child, she hadn't always understood them-but she'd loved the sound of all those wonderful words and her grandmother's voice.
"Come on in and I'll give you the fifty-cent tour."
Tricia opened her car door and stepped out onto the pavement. She held up her keys, selecting the proper one as Angelica got out of the car.
"Do you smell something burning?" Angelica asked.
"No." The truth was, after being sealed in the car with Angie's perfume, Tricia wondered if she'd ever be able to smell anything again.
"Something's definitely burning…or maybe smoldering," Angelica insisted. Shading her eyes, she peered into the mystery bookshop's large plate-glass window, then turned her head from right to left and sniffed loudly, her nose wrinkling.
Tricia watched as her sister moved a few steps toward the Cookery. "Trish, I think it's coming from the mail slot next door."
Sure enough, a thin veil of smoke drifted from the painted flap in the door.
Tricia jammed her keys back in her purse, scooping up her cell phone, and hurried to Angelica's side. "Dial nine-one-one," she ordered, shoving everything into her sister's hands. She grasped the Cookery's door handle, shocked when it yielded to her touch.
The smoke was thick, but with no sign of flames, Tricia took a deep breath and plunged inside. Grabbing the heavy rubber doormat, she searched in the dim light for the source of the smoke and found a section of carpet glowing red.
Swinging the mat, she beat at the embers until they were extinguished, then rushed outside for a much-needed breath of air.
The Stoneham Fire Department was only a block or so away and already Tricia could hear their sirens.
"Think there's anybody in there?" Angelica asked.
"I didn't see anyone, but I'd better look, just in case."
Back she dipped into the stinking building. The smoke seemed to hover, but already it wasn't as thick as it had been only a minute or so before. "Doris?" she called and coughed. "Doris, are you in here?"
Grateful for the security lighting that hadn't winked out, Tricia searched behind the sales counter. No sign of Doris. But a glance to her right showed that the little Lucite case that less than an hour before had housed Doris's treasured cookbook was no longer perched on the top of the shelf. Had someone tried to burn the place down to hide the theft of the book?
"Doris?" she called again, trying to remember if Doris inhabited an apartment over the shop or if she lived elsewhere.
Tricia stumbled over something and fell to her knees. The air was definitely better down here. Righting herself, Tricia pivoted to see what had tripped her. She gasped as she focused on the still form half protruding from behind the horseshoe-shaped kitchen island, noting the carving knife that jutted from its sweatered back.
Two
Miss Marple wrinkled her little gray nose, sniffing the cuff of Tricia's slacks before giving a hiss of fear and
backing away.
"I couldn't agree more," Angelica said and aimed a squirt of perfume in Tricia's general direction.
"Please, don't-I'd rather smell like smoke," Tricia complained, waving her sister off.
Chagrined, Angelica returned the atomizer to her handbag.
Outside the bubble-gum lights of a patrol car flashed upon the walls and shelves of stock, reminding Tricia of a carnival ride-one that, as a child, had made her violently ill.
"Let's go through it once again," Sheriff Wendy Adams said.
Until that night, Tricia hadn't had an occasion to meet any of the county's law enforcement community. The sheriff's uniform shirt buttons strained against her ample cleavage, her large hips accentuated by the cut of her standard-issue slacks. But it was mostly Sheriff Adams's no-nonsense countenance that made Tricia feel so uncomfortable. It probably worked well in police work. Good thing the woman's livelihood didn't rely on retail, where a no-nonsense attitude was the kiss of death.
Tricia sighed and repeated for the third time the events leading up to her discovery of Doris Gleason's body.
Sheriff Adams scowled. "Wouldn't you know, I'm up for reelection in two months and now I've got a murder on my hands. Did you know we haven't had a killing in Stoneham in at least sixty years?"
"No."
The sheriff continued to scowl. "How much was that missing book worth?"
Tricia sighed. "My expertise is in mystery novels-not cookbooks. But Doris told me a copy recently sold at auction for ten thousand dollars. It's all subjective: an antique, book or otherwise, will only sell for what a buyer is willing to pay."
"Whatever," Sheriff Adams muttered. "Did Mrs.-or was it Miss-or Ms.-Gleason have any enemies?"
Tricia's eyebrows rose, her lips pursing as she gazed at the floor.
"Is that a yes?" the sheriff asked impatiently.
"Doris was negotiating a new lease for her store," Tricia explained. "She felt the new terms were…perhaps a little steep."
"And who was she negotiating with?"
"Bob Kelly."
"Oh," Angelica squealed. "I just had dessert with him at the Brookview Inn. Very nice man, and oh, those lovely green eyes of his are heavenly."
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