Twelve
When the check arrived, Tricia and Russ ponied up their shares, donned their jackets, and headed for the exit. The wind had picked up and the clouds had departed, leaving the sky clear and star-strewn. "Walk you home?" Russ offered.
They stood outside the Bookshelf Diner. Tricia buttoned her jacket. "I'm not afraid of the dark. And besides, Stoneham is safe."
"I believed that a week ago," he said. "Now I'm not so sure."
Tricia looked down the street and saw the flashing lights of a police cruiser. "Now what?" She started walking, heading south down the sidewalk at a brisk pace.
"Looks like it's parked outside the Cookery," Russ said, as he struggled to keep up with her.
It was, but a deputy stood outside Haven't Got a Clue. Tricia broke into a run, crossed the street, and practically skidded to a halt in front of her shop. The large plate-glass window now sported a gaping hole in its center, with cracks radiating from it in a sunburst array. Inside the shop, what was left of her security system wailed.
"You wanna shut that thing off?" She didn't recognize the deputy, whose name tag read "Placer."
Heart pounding, Tricia fumbled for her key, unlocked the door, and flipped on the light switch. Seconds later, she'd disarmed the alarm and quiet descended. She joined the deputy on the sidewalk. "What happened?" she asked, breathless.
"Looks like a rock," he said, peering into the hole.
Tricia frowned at his blasé attitude. Glass covered Tricia's display of Ross Macdonald's books. Several people had turned up, rubbernecking from behind the back of a parked car.
"So what's the story, Jim?" Russ asked Placer.
"Just what it looks like, petty vandalism."
"How can you be sure?" Tricia asked. "A woman was killed right next door just days ago. This could be tied in."
The deputy shook his head, turned his attention to the clipboard he held and the report he'd already started to fill in. "Probably just kids."
"Did anybody see anything?" Tricia called to the unfamiliar faces in the gathering crowd, but they all shook their heads, huddling in their coats and jackets.
Placer handed Tricia a business card. "These guys can board up the window until you can get it fixed. You want me to hang around until then?" He couldn't have sounded more bored.
"Wait a minute. Aren't you going to check out the shop?"
"The door was locked-you opened it yourself. Did you see any other damage or anything missing?"
"I've hardly had a chance to look."
"So look," he said and turned his attention back to his clipboard.
Tricia threw Russ a glance, as if to ask if this was the way all law enforcement acted in Stoneham. He shrugged.
Tricia reentered her store, doing a quick walk-through. Save for the gaping hole in her window, everything seemed just as she'd left it a little over an hour before. The door to the stairs was still closed. The alarm would've sounded in the apartment, too. Poor Miss Marple was probably hiding under the bed, terrified.
Russ stood inside the doorway. "Want me to go upstairs with you, make sure everything's okay? I got Jim to promise he'd hang around at least another five minutes."
"If you wouldn't mind, thank you."
Tricia opened the door, threw the switch to bathe the stairwell with light, and bounded up. The door to the second-floor storeroom was locked, just as she'd left it. Still, she took out the key, opened it, and groped for the light switch and entered. Nothing looked out of place in the cavernous room full of stacked boxes-all of them containing books. She closed and locked the door.
Russ was behind her as she started up the stairs once again. The door to her loft apartment was unlocked and she quickly decided to amend her own personal security measures in the future. She'd left a light on for Miss Marple, but the cat was nowhere in sight.
"Miss Marple. Miss Marple!" she called. Sure enough, a pair of frightened green eyes appeared when Tricia lifted the bed's dust ruffle. She reached for the cat, scooping her into her arms. "Oh, you poor little thing," she cooed, as she struggled to her feet.
She found Russ standing in the middle of her kitchen. "Everything okay?"
"Yes, thank goodness." Miss Marple had already engaged her motor and nuzzled Tricia's chin, purring loudly. "She was just frightened."
Russ smiled. "I'll go downstairs and keep watch. Why don't you call the guys to cover the window?"
"Good idea. But first, I think someone deserves a treat." At the sound of the magic word, Miss Marple wriggled to get down and Tricia placed her on the floor. She spilled half a packet of kitty cookies into Miss Marple's bowl, knowing she'd only toss most of them later. But at that moment, she didn't care.
The board-up service the deputy recommended was available twenty-four/seven and promised Tricia someone would be there within the hour. Next up, a call to her security company. They weren't as helpful, saying a service rep might be by bright and early Monday morning. No more chances, Tricia decided. It was time to find another security company.
Miss Marple had had her fill of cookies and had settled on one of the breakfast bar's chairs, ready for a nap by the time Tricia headed back downstairs to the store.
Russ had closed the shop's door and the crowd had dispersed. He sat in the nook, reading an article in CrimeSpree magazine. He looked up as she approached. "Everything okay?"
She nodded.
Russ stood. "Seems like all I've asked you for the last hour is 'everything okay?'"
For the first time since she'd seen the cruiser's flashing lights, Tricia smiled. "The enclosure company will be here pretty soon. They said not to bother to sweep up the glass, they'd clean up everything. If the window's a standard size, they can have it replaced first thing Monday morning. They'll even take care of the insurance claim."
"Can't beat that for service." He handed her a paper that had been sitting on the nook's coffee table. "Here's the police report. And what about your security system?"
"That's another matter. I may have it back up on Monday, but I'm not going to bet on it."
"Should you stay here without it working?"
"I'll be all right. Besides, I can always hide under the bed with my cat."
"I'm serious, Tricia. Someone's trying to make you look responsible for Doris Gleason's death, and now this."
"There's no proof the two events are connected."
"That's not what you said to the deputy. Do you have a girlfriend or a relative you can stay with tonight?"
Tricia thought about Angelica, remembered she had a date with Bob, and immediately nixed that idea. "I'll be fine."
"I've got a guest room," Russ offered. "It's got a lock on the door."
"That's very kind, but-" She shook her head, thinking of the logistics of moving Miss Marple. Food and water bowls, toys, litter box…
The conversation lagged. "You don't have to stay, Russ. I'll be all right until the repair guys get here."
"No way," he said. "I want to prove to you that chivalry isn't dead in Stoneham."
Tricia almost laughed, considering the article he'd published on her only the day before. Still, she wasn't about to turn down an act of kindness. "At least let me offer you a cup of coffee while we wait."
"I'll take you up on it."
Russ retreated to the nook and his magazine while Tricia made coffee. Her gaze kept returning to the broken window, which a gale seemed to be blowing through. The rock, quite a hefty specimen, had crashed through her window-no one else's. Whoever had thrown it had had to have the strength to do it. Her chief suspect in Doris's murder was on a date with Angelica.
Who else wanted to frighten her?
Light from the street lamps outside was all that lit Tricia's bedroom. Sleep had not come and she'd been staring at the glowing red numerals on her bedside clock for almost two hours while Miss Marple, curled beside her on the comforter, snored quietly.
Tricia's thoughts followed a circular track: Doris dead: someone wants to blame me. Rock th
rough window: someone out to get me.
She'd taken her security for granted in this quiet little village. Five years ago she'd led a much different life. Until her divorce, she'd never revealed her desire to open a mystery bookshop. She'd lived the life of a stockbroker's wife, had a gorgeous apartment overlooking Central Park West, spent many an evening at five-star restaurants and the theater, her days filled with…not much since the nonprofit agency she'd worked for since college had down-sized staff. But she'd loved Christopher and the life they'd shared, even if he worked much too hard.
And then everything changed.
Christopher changed. Wanted a simpler life. A life that didn't include responsibilities…or a wife.
And yet…somehow they'd remained friends. And right now she wanted to hear the sound of a friendly voice.
On impulse, Tricia picked up the receiver on her bedside phone, punched in the number she'd memorized but so far hadn't used.
The phone rang four times before a sleepy voice answered, "-llo?"
"Christopher?"
Long seconds of silence.
"Tricia?"
She sagged against her pillows. "It's me."
"What time is it?"
"After one. Oh, wait-that's eleven your time. You go to bed early these days."
"It's all that fresh air. There's nothing like it." She could hear the unspoken should've done this years ago. "What's wrong?"
"Can't a friend call a friend without something being wrong?"
"Trish," he admonished.
She sighed. "Someone threw a rock through my shop window tonight."
"What?"
"And my neighbor was murdered on Tuesday." She left out the part that she was the main suspect.
"You're not serious," he said, no longer sounding sleepy.
"It's all true."
"All those years in Manhattan without a problem, and you move to a small town in New England to find chaos."
"Could only happen to me, right?" she said, but the laugh that accompanied it was forced.
"I can't just come over and make it right for you."
"I know. I wouldn't expect you to. It's just…" She reached out, petted her cat, who began to purr. "Miss Marple misses you."
"I miss her, too."
She dared speak the words she'd been afraid to ask. "Are you with anybody?"
"Nobody could live up to you."
"Then why…?" she asked, the hurt bubbling up once again. He didn't answer, hadn't had a real answer the day he'd announced his decision to leave. "I didn't want a divorce. We could've worked things out."
"No. I wasn't going to drag you down with me. You're too special for that, my girl."
But Tricia knew she would never be his girl again. "Are you happy?"
"Yeah. I am. It's a much different life. It's not something you'd enjoy. You need people. Stimulation. Tell me, were you happy before Tuesday, before all this crap happened?"
"Yes," she answered without hesitation. Admitting that did make her feel a bit better.
"When things calm down, you'll feel happy again."
"Angelica's visiting. She says she wants to move to Stoneham."
"Scratch that, then," he said, which made her laugh. That's why she'd called. Some part of her had known he'd make her laugh.
"It'll be okay, Trish. You're strong and you'll get through whatever's going on. You'll be fine."
"You promise?"
"Yes. Now close your eyes and dream about something wonderful. Like a cheese blintz."
Tricia couldn't help but smile. "I take it they're hard to find in the wilds of Colorado."
"You got it, sweetheart."
She laughed again. "Thank you for picking up the phone. I'm sorry I woke you."
"You know you can call me anytime."
It was time to hang up and actually doing it was proving harder than she'd anticipated. Saying what she had to say would be even more difficult. "Good-bye, Christopher."
"Good-bye, Trish."
Tricia carefully replaced the phone in its cradle, knowing she would never call him again.
Thirteen
Tricia inspected her makeup in the mirror over the bathroom sink. After three attempts to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes with concealer, she admitted defeat and set the little tube aside. Talking to Christopher hadn't settled her nerves, and Russ Smith's words of warning the evening before had stayed with her, keeping her from yet another decent night's sleep.
She'd come to no conclusions during her tossing and turning, grateful she could spare no time this morning to ponder the situation. Still, she took another moment to assess herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door, wanting to look nice for Mike. She'd chosen the peach sweater set over beige slacks. With the days growing shorter, she'd soon put it away for darker fall colors. The idea of winter setting in and the possibility of spending it in the New Hampshire State Prison for Women did more than depress her.
I will not think about it, I will not think about it. And despite his chivalry after the rock incident, she cursed Russ for even hinting at the possibility she could end up in jail.
Out in the kitchen, Miss Marple rubbed her little gray body against the door leading to the stairs and the store below. "It's Sunday," Tricia told her, and took one last sip of her tepid coffee before dumping it in the sink. "You don't need to go to work until noon." But the cat would not be dissuaded.
Tricia grabbed her coat from the tree and snagged her purse and keys.
The phone rang. Who on Earth would be calling so early on a Sunday morning?
Miss Marple stood up, scratched the door, and cried piteously. Tricia unlocked and opened it for her. The phone rang again as the cat scampered down the stairs. Tricia snatched it on the third ring. "Hello?"
"Tricia, it's Angelica. What took you so long to answer?"
"I was almost out the door," she said, balancing the phone on her shoulder as she struggled into her jacket sleeves.
"I thought the store opened late today."
"It does. I'm going out to evaluate a private collection. Can this wait until later? I'm going to be late."
"Wait! I just heard about your store being vandalized. Are you okay?"
"Of course," she lied. "I'm perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
"There's a murderer running around Stoneham, and now someone's targeted you-maybe the same person."
"Don't be so melodramatic. It was only a window; it'll be replaced tomorrow. Besides, I wasn't even in the building at the time."
"Are you opening the store today?"
"Definitely. But as I said, I've got to head out right now or I'll be late."
"I think you should close the store and come house hunting with me today."
"You know I can't. There are at least two buses coming through this afternoon."
"Well, at least you close early, don't you?"
"At three."
"Fine. By then I'll have looked at two or three properties. If I find one I like, I'll want your opinion."
That was a first. Tricia couldn't remember her sister ever consulting her on anything, be it a brand of designer shoes or the ripeness of a banana. For some reason, it pleased her. "Okay. Who's driving, you or me?"
"Me."
"All right. See you at three."
"Be careful," Angelica warned.
Tricia hung up the phone to find an annoyed Miss Marple sitting at her heels. "You know perfectly well there's a door at the bottom of the stairs and that it's closed until I open it."
Miss Marple stood and swaggered back to the open doorway. Tricia grabbed her purse once again and followed.
The Harris homestead was a lovely pseudo-Tudor nestled in a quaint, upscale neighborhood with mature trees and professional landscaping.
Tricia parked her car at the curb, noting Mike's sleek black Jag sat under a massive maple, its highest leaves just beginning to turn gold. The remnants of a now-untended garden rimmed the front of the buff-colored, stuc
co-faced house. A sense of recent abandonment clung to the property. Mike probably had his own home to take care of, and the house was huge, much too big for one person-especially someone with the beginnings of Alzheimer's disease. Poor Mrs. Harris.
Tricia pressed the doorbell and heard a resounding bing-bong from within. Moments later the heavy oak door swung open. "Welcome," Mike greeted, ushering her into an elegant foyer with its polished tile floor and matching floral wing chairs flanking a marble-topped mahogany table. To the left was a magnificent staircase, with ornately carved banisters, that swept up to the second floor. Light streamed in through stained-glass panes of green and yellow diamonds, casting a warm glow on the carpeted steps.
"What a beautiful home," she said, wondering what other delights it might contain.
"Thanks. It was a nice place to grow up in. And as you can see, my parents took good care of it." He held out his hands. "Let me take your jacket. I've got a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen. Can I get you a cup?"
"Yes, thanks," she said and shed her coat.
Mike took it from her and hung it in a closet off to the left at the base of the stairs. "How do you take it?"
"Milk or creamer only-no sugar."
"Coming right up. Most of the books are in the living room," he said, gesturing to his right. Go have a look-make yourself at home." He gave her an encouraging smile and took off down a dark hallway.
"Thanks," she called after him.
With Mike gone, an unnerving silence enveloped her. She took in a deep breath of stale air and wondered how long the house had been closed up.
Since she was there to see the books, Tricia figured she might as well get started and entered the living room through the opened French doors, where both chaos and order reigned. A stack of mismatched, taped cartons sat beside an empty curio cabinet just inside the doors, bald patches in the dust suggesting the shapes of the delicate objects that had once occupied it. Several seating arrangements compartmentalized the large room. Most of the furniture lay hidden beneath drop cloths, while other pieces, richly brocaded in shades of beige, were not. The carpet hadn't seen a vacuum cleaner in months. Rectangular patches on the walls hinted at where paintings, prints, or photographs had once hung.
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