"Honolulu?" Tricia asked. Talk about a non sequitur.
Frannie smiled broadly. "Where I plan to retire. It's a big city compared to Stoneham. Mighty expensive, too. But my heart's set on it." She pulled at the lapel on her shirt and winked. "I've already got my wardrobe."
Tricia could do little more than gape at the woman.
"Now," Frannie said, all business. "What can I do for you today?"
Tricia struggled to change mental gears. "I'm still trying to figure out where Bob Kelly could have been last Tuesday night after he left the Brookview Inn. Any chance you can tell me?" she asked brightly.
Frannie's lips tightened. "He had a business meeting."
"With a representative from a big box company?"
"I can't tell you that," Frannie said. "I can't tell you any more."
"Oh, come on," Tricia chided. "It's no secret. Everyone in the village is talking about it."
"Who?"
Tricia shrugged. "Everybody."
"Now, Miss Tricia, you wouldn't want me to blab my boss's business, risk my job, just to satisfy your curiosity, now would you? Surely you'd expect that kind of loyalty from your own employees."
Tricia blinked. "Well, yes, of course. It's just that-" She realized that no matter what she said, she already looked a fool. "I'm sorry, Frannie. I didn't mean to put you in a compromising position."
"Well, of course you didn't," Frannie said in all sincerity. "I can understand where y'all are coming from. Things don't look good for you right now." She lowered her voice confidentially. "We all read the story in Friday's Stoneham Weekly News. "
Tricia's cheeks burned, but she kept her lips clamped shut.
"It's been said you think Bob might have killed Doris Gleason. Now, I don't know about you, but I prefer to believe in the good in people. My daddy always said hearsay and gossip is just not nice. And I know in your heart of hearts that you don't believe Bob would hurt anybody. He's a good man, and I know you're a good woman. I just know these things."
"Thank you," Tricia managed, feeling even smaller.
An awkward silence fell between them.
The phone rang and Frannie picked it up. "Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. Frannie speaking. How can I help you?"
Tricia inched away from the counter, reaching behind her to find the door handle.
"Hold on just a sec," Frannie told the caller. "Now you have a good afternoon, Miss Tricia."
Tricia forced a smile. "Thank you," she said and hurriedly left the office.
An impatient Ginny stood at the door when Tricia returned to Haven't Got a Clue. "Thank goodness you're here. I've nearly been jumping out of my skin for the last hour waiting for you."
"What's happened?" Tricia asked, concerned. "Why didn't you call me on my cell phone?"
"You've got it turned off," she said with disdain. "Again!"
Tricia waved her off and headed for the sales counter to stow her purse. "So what's the big news?"
"We caught her!" Ginny said with triumph.
"Caught who?"
"The mad leaflet dropper!"
Tricia's head whipped round so fast she was in danger of whiplash. "Who is it?"
"You mean today? Just some tourist."
Tricia waved her hands beside her ears, as though brushing away a pesky fly. "Run that by me again. A tourist?"
Ginny's smile was smug. "It's a racket." She signaled for Mr. Everett to join them. "I got her to tell me her part, but it was Mr. Everett who tracked down the whole story, and I think he should be the one to tell you."
"You give me too much credit," the older gentleman said as he approached. "Ms. Miles, the customer told me which bus she came in on, and I went in search of it to talk to the driver. It seems he's seen this happen several times over the last week or so. A man in a business suit approaches one of the tour members, someone who doesn't appear to be with friends. He offers that person money if they'll hide the leaflets in books or other merchandise when they visit the booksellers in Stoneham. He pays them in cash-as much as fifty dollars."
Tricia crossed her arms over her chest. "Where did the tour originate?"
"In Boston."
She exhaled a long breath through her nose. "It was probably a representative from the Free Spirit chain of nudist camps and resorts. It's helpful information, but unfortunately it doesn't help us stop the problem."
"Perhaps we could ask for the sheriff's help," Mr. Everett suggested. "These people are in a sense littering. Perhaps if a deputy met each bus and warned them-"
"It's a good idea-if it can be worked out. But I'm afraid I have no pull with the sheriff's office," Tricia said, her unpleasant visit with Wendy Adams still too fresh in her mind.
"Why don't you ask Mike Harris to deal with it?" Ginny proposed. "He's running for selectman."
Tricia fought to keep a grimace from pulling at her mouth. "Mike and I… aren't exactly on friendly terms today." And she wanted to keep it that way.
"I see," said Mr. Everett. "Then perhaps we could enlist one of the other booksellers to approach the sheriff. I'd be glad to speak with Jim Roth over at History Repeats Itself."
"No, that would be my responsibility, but thank you just the same, Mr. Everett."
He nodded. "Very well," he said and turned back for the bookshelves.
"Did all your errands go all right?" Ginny asked.
Much as she liked her employee, Tricia didn't feel comfortable sharing with Ginny everything that was happening. Instead she forced a smile. "Just great."
Ginny nodded. "We're slow right now if you want to go see Jim."
"Yes, perhaps I'd better," Tricia said, although after her encounters with the sheriff and Frannie, all she really wanted to do was pull the shades and hide.
* * *
"I put an offer in on the cottage," Angelica said offhandedly. It was almost eight o'clock, and she stood at the stove in Tricia's loft with her back to her sister, stirring a pot of Irish lamb stew.
Tricia paused, about to lay a fork down on the place mat. "Oh?" Was she supposed to sound happy? Maybe she should be. The two of them had actually been getting along for most of the past week, but that couldn't last. At least it never had before.
"Did you bid high or low?"
"Low. I mean, it does need a lot of work. It's much too small for my needs, and it's really much too far out of town."
Tricia struggled to keep her voice level. "It doesn't sound like you really want it."
"Oh, but I do. It's just…I don't know. I guess I really didn't think you'd approve."
"It's not a question of my approval," she asserted once again. "You've decided to live in the area. You're the one who has to actually stay there…if you get it."
Angelica turned back to her pot. "I could just 'flip' it-you know, fix it up a little and sell it off quickly. Or turn it into a shop. Or maybe a restaurant. If it weren't for the location, it would make a sweet little tearoom." Angelica peeked at her sister over her shoulder.
"Are you really thinking of opening a restaurant?"
Angelica turned back to her stew. "I don't know. I just know that my life hasn't worked out so far and it's time for a major change."
No doubt about it, moving to the outskirts of a small village like Stoneham was going to be a tremendous change for life-of-the-party, shopaholic Angelica. And yet, if Tricia was honest with herself, Angelica hadn't annoyed her half as much as in years past. Tricia was even beginning to anticipate their nightly meals together, knowing it would end sooner rather than later.
Angelica seemed to be waiting for some kind of comment.
"I think it's great," Tricia said at last. "And, if nothing else, I think you'll have a lot of fun fixing it up and decorating it."
Angelica's smile was small, but pleased. She changed the subject. "And what did you do today?"
One thing she wasn't about to disclose was her talk with Frannie. Never had she been shamed so thoroughly and sweetly.
"I made a trip to Benwell, spo
ke to Mike Harris's mother at the assisted living center."
"The poor woman with Alzheimer's?" Angelica asked.
"I don't think she has dementia of any kind. She even remembered the date my store opened."
"Then what's she doing in an old folks' home?"
"Good question. And as I suspected, it looks like her son has been selling off her assets without permission."
"The rat. Why are half the men I meet rats?" Angelica asked.
"Grace is concerned about her jewelry and her late husband's coin collection. Apparently Mike has stolen from her before."
"Then I don't blame her for being upset."
"She wants me to check out her house and make sure those items are still there."
"And you want to do that tonight?" Angelica asked, her eyes gleaming with delight.
"I thought about it. You busy?"
Angelica planted her hand on her left hip. "Would I be here with my sister if I had a man to cook for?"
"You tell me."
Angelica didn't answer, but bent down to peek through the oven's glass door at the Irish soda bread she had baking.
Tricia wandered over to the kitchen island, rested her elbows on the surface, with her head in her hands. "It bothers me that Grace was committed to St. Godelive's for dementia, six months ago, but suddenly her symptoms have disappeared. What if she never had dementia? Could Mike have faked the symptoms that put her away?"
"Very easily," Angelica said. "Remember Ted, my third husband? His doctor prescribed some new heart medicine for him that interacted with another drug he was already taking. Suddenly the man I loved was gone. It was a nightmare until I figured out what was wrong-with the help of our local pharmacist, of course. Took more than a month for Ted to get back on an even keel. Of course we broke up six months later when he fell in love with said pharmacist. He felt she'd saved his life." She rolled her eyes.
Poor Angelica. Dumped by at least two of her husbands. And that wasn't fair. She was a woman of worth. What was wrong with these jerks?
Tricia changed the subject. "I also saw Sheriff Adams today. That woman is more stubborn than a terrier. She's determined to prove me guilty of Doris Gleason's murder."
"All the more reason to check out Grace's house. The soda bread will be ready in a few minutes. Take out the butter and let's chow down and hit the road."
Tricia smiled, pleased. "Okay, but only if you insist."
All this intrigue had Angelica thinking like the heroine in a suspense novel, and she insisted on parking her rental car several blocks away from the Harris homestead. Despite the threat of rainy weather, the clouds remained high, blocking out the moon. They left their umbrellas in the car and prayed the rain would hold off, as Tricia didn't want to leave any wet, muddy telltale footprints in and around the house.
Dressed all in black and armed with the large orange flashlight, Tricia felt like a cat burglar and was grateful for the canopy of trees blocking most of the light from the street lamps. She and Angelica turned up Grace's driveway and seamlessly blended into the darkness.
Mike hadn't bothered to leave on any outside lights, and none of them appeared to have motion sensors, leaving the yard spooky and uninviting. However, trying to lift the garage door proved it was either locked or was fitted with a door-opening system and effectively locked. They circled the garage and found a door, but it, too, was locked.
"Break the glass," Angelica urged. "You do have permission to be here."
"I'm sure the sheriff would disagree with you on that. Besides, Mike would see it the next time he came by."
"Isn't there a window on the side? Break it."
Easier said than done. The window was old, three-over-three panes; she'd have to break the whole bottom level in order to have enough room to struggle through, and then there were the mullions. She'd have to somehow dismantle them, too, and they'd brought no tools. The flashlight proved to be as effective as a hammer, and Tricia was grateful the next-door neighbors' windows were closed, with a good fifteen or more feet away from the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood.
"How am I going to get in without getting cut on all that glass?" she hissed.
"You'll have to go feet first. I'll help you."
Tricia was thankful there was no one nearby with a video recorder to chronicle the deed as she and Angelica hauled a heavy trash can to the window.
"What's in here, lead?" Angelica complained.
Tricia removed the lid and shone the light inside. Paper, stuff that should have been shredded. Old bills, receipts, and…"Photographs?" An old album of black-and-white photos and lots of torn color shots of people Tricia didn't know. As she flipped through the pictures she recognized many of Grace.
"Why would Mike throw away all these pictures?" Angelica asked.
"Maybe he doesn't have a love of family. From what I understand, it's just him and his mother left."
"All the more reason to hold on to your memories of the past."
The thought didn't comfort Tricia, who rescued as many pictures as she could see, piling them by the side of the garage. "I'll save these for Grace. Maybe take a few of them to her tomorrow. Hopefully we'll find a bag inside to make it easier to carry them back to the car."
With half its contents removed, the trash can was considerably lighter and easier to maneuver. But worming through the window was a lot harder than Tricia would've thought. Climbing onto the can, she poked her feet through the window and Angelica huffed and puffed to raise her derriere up high enough to push her torso through and into the garage. Next Angelica held on to her hands as Tricia bent back like a limbo dancer and lowered herself into the garage, her sneakered feet crunching broken glass as she landed. Once inside, Angelica handed her the flashlight. "Be careful."
The bobbing light failed to give adequate illumination, and Tricia's hips bumped and banged against a number of tables haphazardly heaped with kitchen items, old clothes, and glassware, no doubt items that hadn't sold at Mike's tag sale. Tricia sidled her way to the back of the garage. Old dusty rakes, snow shovels, and other garden tools hung on the wall and she waved the beam back and forth, searching for the little flowered print Grace had assured her would be there.
"What's taking so long?" Angelica demanded in a harsh whisper.
Tricia ignored her, and restarted her search, this time painting the light up and down, noticing an old spiderwebbed set of golf clubs, aged, stained bushel baskets, and finally-a little, faded print of pansies. She pulled the framed picture from its nail and just as Grace had said, found an extra set of house keys.
"Eureka!" She replaced the picture, unlocked the door, and turned off the flashlight before stepping back outside and closing the door once more. "Angelica? Where are you?" she whispered into the inky blackness. A tap on the shoulder nearly sent Tricia into cardiac arrest. "Don't do that!"
"Well, you did call me. I take it you have the key?" Angelica asked.
"Keys," she said, and held them up. "Come on, let's get inside before someone sees us."
They walked to the back of the house and Angelica held the flashlight while Tricia tried the first key, which didn't fit. What if Mike had changed the locks? She tried the next one. Still no luck. "There's only one left." She slid the brass key into the hole and this time it turned.
"Thank goodness," Angelica breathed.
Tricia turned the handle, pushed the door open, and stepped inside, with Angelica close enough to step on her heels. "Give me the flashlight and close the door," she whispered. Angelica complied and Tricia searched for a light switch, flipping it as soon as she heard the door latch.
Bright white light nearly blinded them and it took a moment for Tricia to realize they'd entered the big house through the butler's pantry. Dark-stained oak shelves and cabinets lined the ten-foot walls clear up to the ceiling, with a little ladder on a track making the highest regions accessible. The shelves, however, were completely empty. No crystal, no dishes. No cans of peaches or coffee. Just an
accumulation of dust. And in that small, enclosed space, Tricia was suddenly aware of Angelica's perfume.
"What is that you're wearing?"
Angelica pulled at her jacket. "This little thing?"
"No, your perfume. Do you bathe in the stuff?"
"I won't even dignify that question with an answer. Now, do you think the neighbors will think something funny is going on if we turn on the lights?" Angelica asked.
"Maybe we'd better close the blinds, just to be on the safe side." And Tricia did.
"Where does that doorway lead?"
"The kitchen."
"Why are we whispering?" Angelica asked.
Tricia cleared her throat. "Didn't we go through this at Doris's house?"
"It's you who keeps whispering," Angelica pointed out.
Tricia gritted her teeth. "Come on."
They entered the kitchen, and Tricia flicked on a flashlight.
"Whoa! Time warp," Angelica declared, taking in the color of the dated appliances and decor.
The kitchen looked exactly as it had when Tricia had been there only the day before with Mike-with a couple of small additions. A mortar and pestle sat on the counter, along with a canister of gourmet cocoa.
"This looks suspicious," Angelica said.
"Yeah. What do you think the odds are that if we looked through the drawers-or maybe the garbage-we'd find some empty medicine vials?"
"I'm game to look," Angelica said and pulled open a drawer with the sleeve of her jacket drawn over her fingers. "Look, Trish, plastic gloves. I assume you didn't bring any this time. Maybe we'd better use these. We wouldn't want to leave any incriminating evidence behind."
Having read a score of CSI–based books, Tricia knew they probably already had. Still, she placated her sister and donned the pair of gloves Angelica handed her. Angelica pulled open another drawer.
"The nurse on Grace's floor mentioned she had made a sudden improvement. I'll bet Mike sent her there with a supply of her favorite cocoa and they ran out in the last couple of weeks. Looks like Mike's concocting a new batch."
"Sounds plausible," Angelica said and shut her fourth drawer. "No sign of any little amber bottles."
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