Angelica actually blushed. "I've got a date."
Tricia's stomach tightened. "Not with Bob Kelly."
"But of course. I haven't met any other eligible men in this burg."
"Where is he taking you?"
"Some divine little bistro called Ed's. I hear they've got the best seafood and that it's charmingly intimate."
"Charming for sure," Tricia admitted. Intimate as in small. But she didn't want to spoil her sister's anticipation.
"You've been there?"
She nodded. "The food is very good." An idea came to her: Bob and Angelica, dinner, a relaxed social atmosphere…"Ange, when you're with Bob tonight, see if you can get him to spill where he went after he left us at the Brookview on Tuesday night."
"I will not," she said sharply.
"Why? Don't you want to help prove me innocent?"
"Of course, but I also don't believe Bob killed the woman."
"Ange, please?" Tricia found herself whining.
Angelica turned away, refusing to meet her sister's gaze, and glanced out the front window and at the street beyond. "I'll think about it."
A couple of women walked past, clutching shopping bags, but they didn't enter Haven't Got a Clue.
"I circled the block three times before I gave up and parked in the municipal lot," Angelica said, annoyed. "Who owns that car out front with the Connecticut license plates? They've been hogging that spot all morning. Surely you have parking restrictions along the main drag during business hours."
Tricia hadn't noticed the car. "The sheriff's department is pretty busy these days; at least I hope they're busy trying to solve Doris Gleason's murder."
"Mmm," Angelica muttered, her attention still on the offending vehicle. "That's the third or fourth time I've seen it."
"Excuse me, miss, could you help me?" asked a middle-aged woman, clutching a handwritten list. "I'm looking for Malice with Murder, by Nicholas Blake. Do you have a copy?"
Tricia gave the customer her full attention. Angelica mouthed, "Later," and wandered off toward the back shelves.
Ginny popped a more lively CD into the player, and between them she and Tricia waited on four more customers who paid for their purchases. The crowd had thinned by the time a puzzled-looking Angelica stepped up to the counter, slapping a booklet onto the glass top. "What are you doing with an old cooking pamphlet on one of your shelves?"
Awestruck, Tricia gaped at the booklet's title: American Cookery, by Amelia Simmons. "Good grief, it's the book that was stolen when Doris was murdered."
Eleven
Curious onlookers lurking under umbrellas peered through the plate-glass windows of Haven't Got a Clue, the closed sign and locked door did nothing to deter them from rubbernecking. And despite the lack of customers, the shop seemed crowded with Sheriff Adams, a deputy, Angelica, Ginny, and Tricia, as well as Deirdre Gleason and Mr. Everett, who'd followed along after Ginny had called Deirdre over.
Sheriff Adams's piercing glare was fixed on Tricia. "I thought you said this thing was a book?"
Tricia looked down at the little booklet. "Technically, it is. Its significance is undisputed in the evolution of American cookery books. It's condition and rarity make it extremely valuable."
"This can't be worth ten grand," the sheriff said, poking the pamphlet with the eraser end of a pencil, unconvinced.
"Oh yes, it can," Ginny chirped up. "I looked it up on-line."
The sheriff shook her head, then took in the four women standing around the sales counter. "Who's touched the book since it was found?"
Tricia looked sidelong at her sister, but didn't answer.
The quiet lengthened. "Okay, it was me," an exasperated Angelica said, crossing her arms across her chest. "And what's the big deal anyway?"
"You might've obliterated whatever incriminating fingerprints were on it," the sheriff muttered.
"Oh, don't go all CSI on me. Whoever stole that little pamphlet probably wiped it clean before they dumped it here."
"Ange," Tricia warned.
The sheriff turned her scrutiny back to Tricia. "It's very odd that the person who found Ms. Gleason's body should now possess the stolen book."
"And not at all coincidental, if someone is trying to implicate my sister as Doris's killer," Angelica said, her voice rising. "And do we even know this is the same book?"
The sheriff turned to Tricia for the answer. "Given its rarity, it's unlikely there'd be two copies of it in a town this size. And, Sheriff, I assure you I have no idea how it ended up in my store, but I'm not responsible."
"Any ideas on who might be?"
If she had, she certainly would've volunteered that information before now. Tricia shook her head, fought to stay calm. "People wander in and out of here all day long, most of them strangers. Anyone could've planted that book here."
"But it's not likely Ms. Gleason would've let a stranger into her shop after hours."
"She was expecting someone," Tricia reminded the sheriff. "Bob Kelly."
"Trish." It was Angelica's turn to scold.
Sheriff Adams threw back her head and straightened to her full height. "Mr. Kelly has accounted for his whereabouts at the time of Ms. Gleason's death. I'm satisfied with his answers."
It was all Tricia could do not to blurt, "Yeah, but-" The way the sheriff kept glowering at her reinforced her fear that she remained the prime suspect.
"Why wasn't I told my sister expected Bob Kelly on the night of her death?" Deirdre demanded.
"I saw no need to upset you. And as I've just told Ms. Miles here, I don't suspect him."
"And why not? He was determined to force my sister out. The way he cleaned out the store less than forty-eight hours after her death is proof positive."
Sheriff Adams pointed a finger of warning at Deirdre. "This discussion is closed." She looked over her shoulder at the young deputy standing behind them. "Placer, take this 'book' to the office and lock it up. We'll send it to the state crime lab first thing Monday morning."
The uniformed officer stepped forward with what looked like a tackle box, which he opened, and took out a pair of latex gloves. He withdrew a paper evidence bag, shook it open, and picked up the booklet. A yellowed note card fell from it, hitting the carpeted floor.
"What's that?" Angelica asked, bending down.
"Looks like a birthday card," Tricia said.
"Don't touch it," the sheriff warned. "Placer?"
The deputy elbowed his way in and picked up the card, setting it and the booklet back on the counter before stepping aside. The five women crowded around, silently studying the front of the card, with its old-fashioned font and the image of a dozen red roses, the colors muted by the yellowing paper. "Happy Birthday, to my dear wife," Angelica read.
"Open it up," the sheriff said.
Ginny stepped back so the deputy, with his gloved hands, could do so. The text in black was the usual syrupy wishes for a happy day; it was the peacock-blue-inked script that drew them in. "To my dearest Letty, Happy Birthday, love Roddy."
"What kind of a name is Letty?" Ginny asked.
"Letitia comes to mind. Or it could be short for something else," Tricia suggested. She raised her gaze. "Anybody in town named Letitia or Letty?"
The sheriff shook her head. "Not that I know of. And I've lived here my whole life."
They watched as the deputy carefully placed the book into a paper evidence bag, then put the card in another. With a curt nod to his boss, the officer headed out the door to his double-parked cruiser.
"That book is worth a lot of money. With my sister's passing, it now belongs to me," Deirdre asserted.
"It's part of a criminal investigation," the sheriff said.
"Will I ever get it back?"
"Possibly. But these things take time. Sometimes years."
"Years?" Deirdre repeated, appalled.
"Just what are you going to do to the book?" Ginny asked.
The sheriff bristled. "Normal procedure."
"Wait a minute," Tricia said. "Subjecting that book to black magnetic powder or ninhydrin would ruin it. I suppose iodine fuming might work. It develops prints beautifully. They'd just have to be photographed, not lifted, but it should spare the book. Then again, all that humidity." She shook her head. "CrimeScope. That's the book's best option, though on a porous surface like paper, it might not show a viable fingerprint, either."
"How do you know so much?" Sheriff Adams asked, suspicious.
Tricia waved a hand, taking in the thousands of books on the shelves around them. "I deal in mystery fiction. Not only do I read the classics, I read contemporary authors like Patricia Cornwell, Kathy Reichs, and Elizabeth Becka. You can practically get a degree in forensics just by reading these top authors. But that doesn't change the fact that it's likely only Angelica's prints are on the book, anyway."
"I want a receipt for it," Deirdre said. The sheriff just about rolled her eyes, and Deirdre snorted in outrage. "If any harm comes to that book, I will not only sue the county sheriff's department, but you personally."
"Will you at least ask the state lab to take special care with it?" Tricia pressed.
"I'll ask, but I can't make any guarantees."
"And I can't guarantee I won't immediately speak to my lawyer, either," Deirdre said. "Now about that receipt-"
Tricia provided a pen and a piece of paper. The sheriff scribbled a few lines, handing the sheet to Deirdre, who gave Tricia a nod. "I appreciate you calling me over. Otherwise, I'm not even sure I'd have been told the book was found." She turned on her heel and stalked out the door.
Sheriff Adams was the next to leave, following Deirdre without even a good-bye.
Angelica scowled. "I thought people from New Hampshire were supposed to be extra nice. Isn't that the state motto? Be nice or die?"
"That's 'Live Free or Die,' and don't judge all of us by some people," Ginny said, then, "What am I saying? Sheriff Adams is a good person. I've just never known her to be so cold. She must be getting pressure from somewhere else, like maybe the village board."
"What should I do next, Ms. Miles?" asked Mr. Everett, who hadn't said a word during the entire conversation.
"Why don't you go back and help Deirdre? Ginny and I can manage here." He didn't look happy, but nodded anyway. She glanced up at the clock. Two hours until official closing. Although the onlookers had disappeared, there was no reason she had to stay closed. She followed Mr. Everett to the door, turning the sign back toOPEN , and shut the door behind him.
"I guess I should go, too. Have to get ready for my big date tonight," Angelica said brightly. Shouldering her enormous handbag, she fingered a wave, called, "Ciao," and she, too, was gone.
Tricia and Ginny exchanged glances. "I need a cup of coffee," Tricia said.
"I'd go for something stronger," Ginny muttered.
"Not during work hours-but I agree. Put something cheerful on the CD player and hope we get busy so we don't have to think about what we've just been through."
"You got it," Ginny said.
Tricia poured them both a cup of coffee while Ginny sorted through a stack of jewel boxes, selecting a jazz piano CD.
Peace now reigned, but forgetting the significance of finding that wretched booklet in her store wasn't going to be so easily accomplished.
The hands on the clock finally crawled around to closing time. Despite her hopes otherwise, very few customers had come in during the intervening hours and Tricia and Ginny had completed all their end-of-day tasks, save for counting the receipts. Mr. Everett had checked in, assuring Tricia that Deirdre had left the Cookery for the day, then he, too, departed. Miss Marple sat patiently at the door to the stairs, anticipating her evening routine.
Ginny grabbed her coat and purse from the back closet and headed for the exit. "Night, Trish."
The door opened before she could grasp the handle. Russ Smith stood in the open doorway. "Are you closed?"
"Yes," Ginny said emphatically.
"Not quite," Tricia said. "How can I help you?" Her tone was civil, but cool.
"Want me to stay?" Ginny asked.
Tricia shook her head. "Go on. Have a nice day off. See you Monday."
Ginny looked uncertain, but Tricia waved her off. "It's okay. Now scoot."
As the door closed behind her, Russ walked up to the counter. Shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, he gave the shop the once-over. "I seem to be your last customer."
"Yes, and you're keeping me from my dinner."
"As I recall, I invited you out."
"And as I recall, I turned you down. Come on, you're only here because you heard the book stolen from Doris Gleason's store was found here earlier today."
"Actually, I didn't know that, but thank you for sharing. The special over at the diner is meat loaf and real mashed potatoes."
"How do you know they're real?"
"I wasn't always a small-time reporter. I worked the Boston crime beat for years. And besides, I've seen the peels in their garbage."
Tricia's stomach growled, betraying her.
"See, at least part of you wants to go with me. And what's your alternative: a peanut butter sandwich?"
Had he been scoping out her cupboards and fridge? And although she'd neglected her paperwork for days and needed to catch up, the truth was she really didn't want to be alone tonight and cursed Angelica for having a date.
"Okay," she agreed, "but only if we go Dutch."
Russ shrugged. "Saves me eight-ninety-nine plus tax and tip."
Already Tricia regretted her decision, yet she locked the cash drawer, pocketing the keys. "I have to feed my cat before I can go."
"Do what you gotta do," he said and flopped down into one of the nook's chairs. "I'll wait."
The walk to the Bookshelf Diner had been silent. At least the rain had stopped, but a voice in Tricia's head kept up a litany of "big mistake, big mistake" with every step along the damp pavement.
Russ held the door open for her. A sign on the metal floor stand said SEAT YOURSELF. With only two other booths occupied, they had their pick of the place. Heads turned as the village jinx walked down the aisle, but Tricia aimed for the back of the restaurant with her head held high. She slid across the last booth's red Naugahyde seat and shrugged out of her jacket, folding it and placing it next to her. Russ hung his on a peg and sat down.
A college-age waitress with a quick smile, a pierced brow, and a name tag that said "Eugenia" handed them menus and took their drink orders before disappearing.
Tricia eyed her surroundings. The name over the door did not match the decor. The only books in the Bookshelf Diner were of the trompe l'oeil variety-and then on a commercial wall covering. The waitress returned, setting the stemmed glass down in front of Tricia and pouring coffee for Russ. After quickly consulting the menu she did order the meat loaf, then practically gulped the well-deserved glass of red wine.
"Tough day, huh?" Russ asked.
"I've had better. And I don't want to talk about it."
"Why should you? The sheriff suspects you of murder. I'm sure it's just lack of motive that's keeping her from locking you up. She'll have to turn up the heat after finding that book in your store."
"She did not find it. My sister did."
"Then she's not doing you any favors, either."
Tricia snatched up her glass, gulping down the rest of her wine, then let it smack back down on the table. "I barely knew Doris Gleason. She argued with Bob Kelly, had an appointment to see him on the night she was murdered. He wanted her out of that store, which is at least a credible motive for murder. He left the Brookview Inn before Ange and I did, but he didn't show up at the Cookery until more than an hour after I found Doris dead. Where was he during that time?"
"You tell me."
"He could have murdered Doris, then showed up later feigning no knowledge."
Russ sat back, folded his arms across his chest. "If I was you, I'd quit harping on Bob Kelly as a possible suspect. For one t
hing, he would've never started the fire at the Cookery and put his property at risk just to get rid of a tenant. And even so, it wouldn't matter if he were caught plunging the knife in the victim's back. Most people around here consider him a savior for how he almost single-handedly brought Stoneham back to life."
"So someone like me, who's innocent, should take the blame?"
"I didn't say that. But in the sheriff's eyes, so far you are the only 'person of note.'"
Tricia picked up her glass, signaling the waitress for a refill. "I did not kill Doris Gleason. I had no reason to kill Doris Gleason."
Heads turned at the sound of her words.
"I'd start looking for reasons why others might've wanted her dead."
"That isn't my job. You said you were once a big-time reporter; isn't there at least a shred of Clark Kent left inside you? Why don't you take up the challenge, or at least direct one of your minions to do it?"
"Honey, I have a staff of two, one of which spends her time soliciting ads to keep us afloat. My chief reporter is a soccer mom who writes most of her copy after her kids go to bed. I do everything else. You own a small business-you know the drill."
"Do I ever."
The waitress returned with another glass of wine and their dinners.
Russ picked up his fork and stabbed at his mashed potatoes. "Besides, you run a mystery bookstore. You've probably read enough of them to get you started. In fact, you may already have bits and pieces of knowledge about the murder you haven't yet put together. I'd be happy to brainstorm with you about it."
"You'd be the last person I'd bare my soul to. I'd see whatever I tell you in next Friday's edition. It's just as likely whoever killed Doris was a transient. Someone who'd canvassed the Cookery, figured any book worth locking up would be of value, killed Doris, and stole it." She took another sip from her glass.
"Is that you or the wine talking? Don't kid yourself. The fact that book was found in your store means someone wants you to take the blame. You can either keep wandering around in denial or ask yourself some tough questions: like who wants you out of the picture and why?"
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