From her perch on the shelf above the register, Miss Marple looked from Tricia to Angelica. The squeak of the door's hinges promised food, and the little gray cat jumped down to follow.
"Traitor," Tricia hissed, but Miss Marple took no heed and scampered up the steps.
It was another ten minutes before Tricia finished her evening chores, all the while stewing about Angelica's threats to make Stoneham her new hometown. She'd emptied the wastebaskets, cleaned the coffee station, straightened books on the shelves, and aligned the mystery review magazines on the nook's big, square coffee table, and still there was no sign of Bob. They'd never hear the bell from the third-floor apartment, so she was forced to wait until he showed up.
Her irritation escalated to smoldering anger with every passing minute. She peered out the shop windows. Nothing. She wondered if she should give him a call, but then remembered Ginny had given her only copy of his business card to Deirdre. She went in search of the phone book and remembered she'd let the answering machine take at least one call this morning. She'd been too upset to answer it after reading the Stoneham Weekly News.
Tricia played the message.
"Tricia? Hi, it's Mike Harris. In case you haven't already seen it, the Stoneham Weekly News has a scathing report about the murder at the Cookery. I wanted to let you know that Russ Smith is a jerk, and the whole village knows it. He'll sensationalize anything to sell copies of that rag. Don't take it seriously. My day is pretty full, but I'll try to get over to see you later this afternoon or early tomorrow. We're still on for Sunday morning, right? Talk to you later."
Tricia's finger hovered over the delete button. Well, at least one citizen in the village thought she was innocent.
A knock on the door caused her to look up. It came again and Tricia went to the door. Shoulders hunched inside his jacket, Bob Kelly looked as peeved as Tricia felt.
"Hello, Bob," she greeted without enthusiasm.
"Tricia," he grunted and stepped inside the shop.
"Angelica's upstairs."
He grunted again, waited as she locked the door, then followed her across the shop. "This way," she said and started up the stairs at a brisk pace.
As she hit the top-floor landing, Miss Marple was there to admonish her. "Did you give the cat anything to eat?" Tricia asked.
Angelica looked up from a pan on the stove. "I don't know what to feed a cat."
Miss Marple rubbed against Tricia's ankles, looked up at her with hope in her green eyes.
"Where's Bob?" Angelica asked.
Tricia looked down the staircase. Bob was nowhere in sight. "I thought he was right behind me." Annoyed, she started back down the stairs, with Miss Marple right at her heels. Bob rounded the second-floor landing.
"Sorry. Had to tie my shoe," he said. "What smells so delicious?"
Tricia waited for him to catch up, then turned back for her apartment, with Miss Marple sticking to her like glue. Bob was breathing hard by the time they reached the apartment.
"There you are," Angelica called from her station at the counter. Already a heavenly aroma teased the senses. "Trish, take Bob's coat," she scolded.
Tricia did as she was told, stowing Bob's jacket on the coat tree.
He took in the changes she'd made to the third-floor loft-he hadn't been there since she'd signed the lease. "It's beautiful, Trish. You've done a wonderful job converting the space into a home."
She had. But everything was modular-from the pickled maple cabinets to the granite-covered island that doubled as a breakfast bar. Should she ever decide to relocate she could remove everything, leaving the space as she'd found it-an empty shell.
"Have a glass of wine and relax, Bob," Angelica suggested. "Or would you like something a little stronger?"
"Wine is fine," he said, settling on a stool at the breakfast bar.
Again Angelica proved she knew her way around Tricia's kitchen. She took another couple of glasses from the cabinet and poured, setting the merlot before Tricia and Bob. Then she grabbed a pot holder, took a tray out of the oven, and settled the contents onto a waiting platter.
"The seafood around here is pretty good. I hope you like crab puffs." She offered the plate to Bob, who took one of the golden savory pastries. He popped it into his mouth and chewed.
"These are delicious. Where did you buy them?" he asked, eyes wide with pleasure.
Angelica laughed. "I made them, silly."
Tricia selected one as well. "From scratch?"
"Of course. Have another, Bob," Angelica said, taking one for herself.
"You're going to spoil me," he said, but he took another puff anyway.
Angelica set the platter down within reach of all them, pushed the napkin holder toward her guest, and leaned her elbows against the granite, resting her head on her balled fists. "You look tired, Bob. Tough day?"
Bob snagged a napkin, wiped his fingers. "I've got problems. Who knew Doris Gleason would have a sister bent on keeping the Cookery open?"
Angelica shook her head. "I heard all about it."
From where? Tricia wondered, annoyed. She turned to Bob. "I believe I suggested you wait to take action on the property. It fell on deaf ears."
Bob didn't answer, only glowered at her.
"Tricia, behave," Angelica admonished. "Bob is our guest."
No, he was her guest in Tricia's home.
"The worst thing is, this woman-this sister-is making out like I might have had something to do with Doris's death, just because I exercised my rights as the building's owner to do some cleanup and maintenance. She as good as accused me of killing Doris so I could lease the Cookery to someone willing to pay a lot more in rent."
Good. At least one other person in Stoneham considered Bob a viable suspect.
"Oh I'm sure she doesn't believe that," Angelica said. "It's just grief. If I lost my only sister"-she looked fondly at Tricia-"I'm sure I'd be just as devastated."
Bob wasn't listening. "She's already called in an attorney. Apparently Doris had sent her sister copies of the current and proposed leases. The sister threatened a lawsuit over my emptying the store. It may be easier for me to cut my losses and extend the current lease-as is-for another year and renegotiate at a later date. That way she would be up and running again in a couple of weeks. No matter what, it's going to cost me." He shook his head. "The damage that woman's death has done to Stoneham's economy will end up being in the millions."
"Don't be ridiculous," Tricia said.
"I'm not. The PR value of being the safest town in all New Hampshire was priceless. Losing it could affect future development here for decades."
Angelica clucked sympathetically, but it took all Tricia's self-control to keep quiet on that account. Instead, she decided to move things along. "How's that Stroganoff coming, Ange? It sure smells good."
Angelica was not about to be hurried and topped both her own and Bob's wineglasses.
Resigned, Tricia tried another topic. "What's this about a big box store coming to Stoneham?"
Bob choked on his wine. Angelica scurried around the island, thumped him on the back. "Are you okay?"
"Who told you that?" Bob asked, anger causing his eyes to narrow.
"I heard it. Around," Tricia offered lamely.
"I did, too, Bob," Angelica said. "Is it true?"
Bob cleared his throat, pounding on his chest before answering. "No. Maybe. I hope not."
"That's not much of an answer," Tricia said.
"All I can tell you is that a nationally known company has put out feelers. That doesn't mean they're actually looking to establish a presence in Stoneham."
"But you are talking to their representatives," Tricia pushed.
"I've been approached, and so has the Board of Selectmen, on a number of proposed projects. That's all I can say."
"Would candidates for selectman know about this interest, too?" Tricia asked. Maybe she could pump Mike Harris for information.
"No," Bob said emphatically and gul
ped the rest of his wine. Angelica filled his glass again.
So much for that idea.
"Any news on Winnie Wentworth's death?"
"How would I know?" Bob looked up, aggravated.
Tricia shrugged. "You seem to have your finger on the pulse of Stoneham. I wondered if they'd made a determination."
"I have no interest in vehicular accidents unless they pose a threat to commerce."
Talk about cold-hearted.
"Winnie was a citizen of Stoneham. Surely, she-"
"She didn't own property. She didn't pay taxes. She was little more than a pest to most of the shop owners, always trying to flog her junk. I had more than a few complaints about her over the years. Everything from vagrancy to harassment."
"Yes, but-" Tricia tried to protest, but Bob cut her off again.
"She was an embarrassment to the village. It's hard to promote tourism when you've got her sort wandering about. She was a nuisance in life and a liability in death. No one's claimed her body. It'll probably be up to the taxpayers to bury her," he finished bitterly and took another gulp of wine. He turned his attention to Angelica. "Now, what kind of house were you thinking about buying or were you just interested in renting?" And Bob launched into his pitch for possible residential rentals and sales.
Taking the hint, Tricia busied herself by feeding Miss Marple and setting the table. Although Bob was her first official dinner guest since moving in, she decided not to use her grandmother's best china and tableware. For someone like Mike, however, she might be persuaded to pull out all the stops.
She would've liked to have returned Mike's call, thanking him for his support. Hadn't he said his mother's book collection included cookbooks? Deirdre Gleason would need additional titles to restock the Cookery. Perhaps Tricia could broker a deal for the books, which would at least keep the lines of communication open with her nearest neighbor.
When the crab puffs were finally gone Angelica declared the entrée ready to serve. She'd whipped up a romaine salad and homemade poppy-seed dressing as well. The three of them took seats at the table.
Bob dug in, chewed, and swallowed. "Unusual flavor. What is it?"
Tricia took a bite and could tell the meat wasn't beef. "Yes, it's different, but it's delicious," she said and took another bite.
"Venison," Angelica said, smug. "Most people won't eat it, but I know how to take out the gamey flavor."
"And how do you do that?" Bob asked, shoveling up another mouthful.
"It's a secret." She sipped her wine. "I'm sorry I had to use store-bought noodles, but there just wasn't time to make them from scratch," she lamented and sighed.
Tricia watched as Bob stabbed another forkful, then savored the taste. "This is absolutely delicious. Have you ever thought about opening a restaurant, Angelica?"
Angelica brightened. "Well, actually, I have."
Bob leaned in closer, his voice growing husky. "I've got a couple of beautiful properties that could be converted into the most exquisite little bistros."
Tricia cringed. Honestly, he sounded like the worst kind of used car salesman.
Angelica didn't seem to notice and fluttered her eyelashes. "Do tell."
Tricia cleared her throat, afraid they'd forgotten she was still there. She'd never seen Angelica turn on the charm for a man before-and she was sure she didn't want to see a repeat performance.
"Gee, it's too bad Drew isn't here. As I recall, Stroganoff was his favorite. And he has such a vast knowledge of architecture and renovation-which would sure be a big help if you're serious about opening a restaurant."
"Drew?" Bob asked.
Angelica straightened in her chair, her expression souring. "My soon-to-be ex-husband."
"I'm still hoping for a reconciliation," Tricia said, trying to look encouraging.
Angelica put down her fork. "Well, I'm not. More Stroganoff, Bob?"
Tricia studied her sister's face. There was hurt behind her strained smile. Tricia still didn't know why her sister's marriage was about to end, and teasing her now, in front of Bob, really wasn't fair. Although, the last thing she wanted was for the two of them to start a relationship.
Tricia sipped her wine. Then again, why should she stand in the way of her sister's happiness even if she'd find it with someone like Bob Kelly? Wasn't she looking forward to seeing Mike Harris again? The pain of her own divorce was still fresh, and somewhere in the back of her mind she heard her mother scolding,"If something happens to Dad and me, you're all you've got." Those words held new meaning for her after finding Doris Gleason's body, and suddenly Tricia found herself looking at her sister with kinder eyes.
"Tell me more about those hot properties, Bob," Angelica cooed, lashes fluttering again.
Tricia's grasp on her fork tightened. If she didn't end up killing Angelica first.
Ten
Tricia lay awake half the night, disturbed by dreams of Angelica, radiant in a long white gown, and Bob Kelly in a tuxedo with a green shirt and tie, making goo-goo eyes at each other as they exchanged I dos, and vowing to live a life of wedded bliss in Tricia's home. The rest of the night Tricia lay awake, various scenarios of her future-none of them good-circling through her mind.
Regular coffee might not be enough to get her through the day. A double shot of espresso was what she needed, except there was no place in all of Stoneham to get a cup of that black-as-tar brew at this time of day.
After a half hour of running nowhere on the treadmill, a shower, and a Pop-Tart breakfast, Tricia and Miss Marple headed down to the store, if only to soak up its cozy ambiance on that gray morning. Miss Marple settled down on one of the nook's chairs, ready for some serious napping, while Tricia puttered around the shop.
Mr. Everett must've seen the lights on, because he showed up especially early, with his collapsible umbrella under his arm. Tricia let him in and offered him the first complimentary cup of coffee of the day.
"Thank you," he said, taking his first sip. He scrutinized her face. "Is something troubling you, Ms. Miles?"
She shook her head-definitely in denial-then thought better of it and nodded. "Yes. I keep thinking of all that's happened in the past few days and I can't quite make sense of it all."
"Death is never as easy to handle in person as it is in fiction. Yet that's the fascination that inspired all the books here on your shelves."
"That's true," she admitted, "but it doesn't feel so antiseptic, so remote when you've actually known the deceased."
"I agree." He took another sip. "Death is not a stranger to Stoneham. We lose people all the time to sickness, to accidents. That we've lost one to murder gives us more in common with our big-city cousins. Not something we as a village aspire to."
"You're right. When someone dies of natural causes there's pain, but also a sense of acceptance. But murder and accidents…" She studied the old man's gray eyes. "Did you know Winnie Wentworth?"
His gaze dipped and he took his time before answering. "Yes."
"What was she like?"
"In years past she liked honeydew melons, green beans, and pork rinds and malt liquor on a Saturday night."
Not the kind of details Tricia would've expected. She laughed. "How do you know that?"
He shrugged. "Just some things I observed over a number of years. For instance, you don't want customers to know how passionate you are about keeping the work of long-dead mystery authors alive. So you carry the current best sellers and give them some prominence, but when you talk to your customers, you always recommend the masters."
Of course she did. Like the rest of the booksellers in town, Haven't Got a Clue offered used and rare books. He hadn't really answered her question.
"Tell me something else about Winnie," she said, hungry to hear more.
Mr. Everett searched the depths of his quickly cooling coffee. "She had contempt for the written word, or at least reading for pleasure, but she recognized books as way to stay afloat with the changes that came to Stoneham these past few y
ears."
"Then why didn't she offer me more books?" Tricia asked, puzzled. "I didn't meet her until the day she died."
Again he shrugged. "She was eccentric, didn't trust many people. But I do know one thing: she was always careful with her car. It's all she had. She wasn't one to drive recklessly."
"Do you think her death was an accident or…something else?"
He glanced around the shop with its thousands of books. "Perhaps I read too much. Yet unless she was ill, it makes no sense that she crashed and died on such a beautiful, sunny day. Especially when she was the only person who knew where the book stolen from the Cookery came from."
Though Winnie denied remembering, Tricia suspected Doris's killer could've believed the same thing. Hearing that theory from another source gave her no comfort.
"Oh dear, "Mr. Everett said within minutes of opening a copy of Carter Dickson's The Punch and Judy Murders. Even with a Nicholas Gunn CD playing softly in the background, the tone of his voice caused Tricia to look up from opening the morning mail.
Mr. Everett rose from his chair, headed for the sales counter.
Ginny, who'd been helping a customer, excused herself and intercepted him.
The elderly gent handed a folded piece of paper to Tricia. Another nudist tract, but this one was different. Instead of a generic missive on the health benefits and pleasure of a nudist lifestyle, this one was a blatant advertisement. "Free Spirit Inc. presents Full Moon Camp and Resort," Tricia read aloud. The tract went on to list all the amenities, including a pool, hot tubs, therapeutic massage, and-"Why is it nudists are so intent on playing volleyball?" she asked.
Ginny giggled. "Look, there's a website listed. Maybe they've got pictures."
Tricia made the trek up to her apartment, snagged her laptop computer, and was back down to the shop in record time. She booted up and was connected to the Internet within another minute or two. The three of them gathered behind the sales counter. "If there're naughty pictures, I'm shutting it down," she warned.
"We're all grown-ups," Ginny said sensibly, but Mr. Everett bristled at the notion. Still, he didn't walk away.
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