A Just Clause

by Lorna Barrett

  “They do say it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. How much longer are the guys going to be working on your apartment?”

  Tricia sighed, heartsick. “At least another month.”

  Pixie winced, then she shrugged. “Just in time for me and Fred to tie the knot. I still feel guilty about me leaving you in the lurch when we go on our honeymoon.”

  “Don’t you dare worry about it. Mr. Everett and I can handle everything here while you’re gone. But I am concerned about the renovations interfering with your bridal shower. I’m going to see if we can’t hold it at either the Brookview or the Sheer Comfort Inns.”

  “Oh, but Tricia—that would be so expensive.”

  “Angelica has an in with Nigela Ricita Associates. I’m almost certain she can get us a break on the cost.” As in paying nothing. Of course, the affair would still need to be catered, but that would be part of Tricia’s wedding gift to Pixie and Fred. “We can e-mail or phone everyone on the guest list to make sure they know about the change of venue.”

  Pixie actually blushed. “Aw, Tricia, you’re too good to me.”

  “Nonsense. Now, let’s get the folding table and some books out on the sidewalk in time for the afternoon tour bus.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Pixie and Mr. Everett said in unison, and both scurried into the shop to get started.

  While Pixie and Mr. Everett took care of whatever customers wandered up to their makeshift selling area, Tricia took her cell phone and walked back to the park to call the Board of Selectmen’s office to see if she needed a permit for her sidewalk sale. She did, and she went and got it, thankful that the current board was made of up business people who understood and made allowances for extenuating circumstances.

  By the time Tricia returned to her store, it was nearly noon. She retreated to the washroom, dragged a comb across her hair, and applied a fresh coat of lipstick for her not-a-date with Steven Richardson. With Carol’s death, they’d certainly have more than enough to talk about—not that she wanted to dwell on the subject. And she had a feeling that Steven might be averse to being questioned by her about the incident the evening before, too.

  Mr. Everett reentered the shop. “Ms. Miles, since you have a luncheon engagement, Pixie and I thought we’d take turns to get our own lunches—with your approval, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “We agreed that I should take the first hour. I will arrive back in time for Pixie to leave at one.”

  “I’ll try not to be too long at lunch.”

  “Take your time. Enjoy yourself. I know how stressful it is for you being away from your home, and the noise level here is enough to test one’s sanity.”

  “I know it’s been difficult for you and Pixie. I completely understand if you’d like to take some time off.”

  “Nonsense! What would you do without us?”

  Tricia smiled. “I wouldn’t want to test that scenario.”

  Her answer must have pleased him; the corners of Mr. Everett’s wrinkled mouth rose. “I shall see you after lunch.”

  “Very good,” she said, and she couldn’t help but smile as well.

  After Mr. Everett had gone, the pounding overhead seemed to abate. A couple of members of the work crew came down the stairs and exited through the back of the building, no doubt heading out for their own lunches.

  Pixie returned inside, but kept a watch on the table in front of the big display window. “Peace,” she said simply.

  “Yes. But every minute they aren’t working makes it that much longer until I can move back home.”

  “Eh, time will fly—faster than if you were in jail,” Pixie said, and laughed. She’d spent a couple of stints in the New Hampshire State Prison for Women, thanks to her former career as a woman of the night, but she hadn’t had so much as a parking ticket since coming to work for Tricia two years before and no longer had to meet with a parole officer. And now she was getting married. Tricia couldn’t have been more proud of her assistant.

  Pixie consulted her copper-colored vintage watch that coordinated so nicely with her pumpkin-colored dress and clunky heels. “Your date is late.”

  “This is not a date,” Tricia asserted, and part of her wondered why she wasn’t more excited at the possibility of their encounter meaning so much more. Maybe it was because Steven lived in Boston and Tricia knew that most long-distance relationships were doomed. Okay, the drive to Boston was only a little more than an hour, but when a girl—woman, she reminded herself—needed a shoulder to cry on, an hour wait just wasn’t acceptable.

  Then there was the whole idea that a woman without a man could not be complete. Her first real lover, Harry Tyler, had faked his own death to avoid the messy life of his own making. Tricia’s ex-husband, Christopher, had left her to go on a soul-searching quest. Russ Smith had been possessive and had stalked her when their relationship had soured. Grant Baker had been unable to make a commitment. Maybe all that heartache—and a desire to stay in charge of her life—had been the reason Tricia had been so open to establishing more permanent roots here in Stoneham by buying the building where she lived and worked and undertaking the extensive renovations to make the place a more welcoming and enduring place for her to reside.

  Yes, she loathed the entire renovation process that had forced her and her cat to relocate for what might be two or more full months, but when the job was done, she knew she would love her new digs. It turned out Pixie was a wiz at buying and selling items on eBay and Craigslist—which was how she came to acquire so many of her vintage outfits and accessories. Tricia hadn’t yet consulted her assistant, but she was sure Pixie would be willing to help her sell off items she would no longer require and find new things that would make the place feel more like home. She mentally added that to her list of things to do.

  Pixie retrieved the store’s vacuum cleaner from the storage area out back and attacked the dust that had escaped when the workers upstairs had left for lunch. By the time she put the noisy appliance away, it was twelve fifteen.

  Tricia hauled out the latest copy of the Stoneham Weekly News to once again consult the tag sale section. Several of the listings mentioned books. Pixie had a good eye for culling such collectibles. Perhaps Tricia would send her out on Friday to evaluate the offerings and buy whatever seemed to be a sure fit for the shop. Pixie loved to be assigned such duties, because she got to play while working. She’d confided that such forays had allowed her to shop for hers and Fred’s combined home.

  Tricia glanced at the clock on the wall. Richardson was now twenty-five minutes late to pick her up.

  Pixie grabbed Mr. Everett’s lamb’s wool duster and attacked the books along the south wall before joining Tricia at the cash desk. “I know Mr. Everett will just have to vacuum again before we leave tonight, but I just can’t stand the mess.”

  “You and me both,” Tricia said.

  Pixie’s gaze moved to the clock and back to Tricia. Still, she said nothing about Tricia’s lack of a date—if that’s what it was. “I’ve been rereading Arthur Conan Doyle’s Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. Man, what a great book.”

  The two of them weighed the pros and cons of said title for another ten minutes.

  The tourist bus arrived early, and Pixie exited the store to greet the potential customers. She was great with them—she spoke their language, and they dutifully trotted inside with their sale items and to check out the rest of the stock. Tricia rang up their sales.

  All too soon, the work crew reappeared and the hammering and sawing started anew. Mr. Everett returned precisely at one, and it was Pixie’s turn to leave the shop to find sustenance elsewhere.

  And still, Steven Richardson had not appeared or called.

  Time dragged until Pixie returned at two o’clock. It was then Tricia pulled out her cell phone and tapped her sister’s number on her contacts list.

  “H
ello, baby sister,” Angelica sang.

  “Any chance I can come over and join you for lunch? I’m starved.”

  “Don’t tell me that bastard stiffed you.”

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  “Give me ten minutes. The café is still a little crowded.”

  “Will do,” Tricia said, and rang off. She found enough to do to kill time for nearly twenty minutes before she left the store in Pixie’s and Mr. Everett’s care and crossed the street, heading for Booked for Lunch.

  A tall, rather good-looking older male customer held the door open for Tricia. She gave him a cheery “Thanks” and entered. The café still boasted half a dozen customers, but Angelica sat in one of the booths, apparently nursing a cup of coffee, with a stack of computer printouts in front of her. Tricia sat down across from her.

  “There you are,” Angelica said, sounding pleased. “What are you doing for supper tonight?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then come and help me try out a new recipe I’ve concocted. You can chop some of the veggies.”

  “I’d like that. I like it when we cook together.”

  One of Angelica’s hands flew up to cover her mouth, and her eyes filled with sudden tears. “Oh, Tricia, you don’t know how happy you’ve made me by saying that. Grandma Miles would be so pleased.”

  “I wish I’d started years ago,” Tricia admitted. “What are we making?”

  “Zucchini casserole. Tommy’s growing enough squash to feed half the state and brought in a bushel basket this morning.”

  “Sounds wonderful. And then maybe I’ll take Sarge for a walk.”

  “We could go together,” Angelica suggested.

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  Bev, the waitress, wandered over to the table, and Angelica discreetly turned over her pages. “What can I get you, Tricia?”

  “How about the soup and half sandwich special?”

  “Egg salad and zucchini soup coming right up. What kind of bread would you like?” Bev asked.

  “Do you have seeded rye?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  “Make that two,” Angelica said.

  “Got it, boss.”

  As usual, Bev didn’t write the order on her pad; she was used to Tricia’s meal being on the house. Oh, the perks of having a sister who owned a restaurant.

  “You’re really making use of those zucchinis,” Tricia said.

  “Waste not, want not,” Angelica replied. “So what do you think happened to Steven?”

  Tricia shrugged. “I have no idea. Perhaps Chief Baker found him and hauled him in for questioning.”

  “It would serve him right,” Angelica said, and turned her pages over once again.

  “What are you doing? Checking on your millions?”

  “Yes, actually. It’s tedious work. I’d much rather hear what you’ve got going on. Have you heard anything about Carol’s murder?”

  “I spoke to the chief this morning. He’s not giving out a lot of information at this point.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t whip out your phone and immediately call Russ over at the paper to see what he’s found out.”

  “I’m even more surprised he hasn’t called me—especially after talking to Grant first thing this morning. We have shared information on a death before this.”

  “Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you, then.”

  “I think I’ll drop by and see him before I go back to my shop.”

  Bev arrived with a tray laden with their lunches. Tricia had never had zucchini soup before, so it was going to be an adventure. But, she hoped, not nearly as exciting as what she might learn when she got a chance to compare notes with Russ.

  FIVE

  A warm breeze blew down Stoneham’s main drag as Tricia made her way from Booked for Lunch toward the Stoneham Weekly News, hoping its proprietor would be ensconced behind his desk. Come to think of it, lately she hadn’t seen him out and about chasing down the news of the day—or rather, the week.

  Tricia paused to admire a large poster for the upcoming Stoneham Wine and Jazz Festival that took up space on the Happy Domestic’s front display window, where her ex-assistant, Ginny Wilson-Barbero, used to work. Ginny had moved up the management line of Nigela Ricita Associates and was now in charge of their events division. As part of the promotion, Ginny had hired an accomplished artist to do a rendering of a combo playing in the village’s quaint gazebo. At the top of the poster was a banner heading spelling out the name and date of the event, and all around were images of people holding wineglasses and toasting. A copy of it would look nice framed and hanging in Tricia’s brand-new living room. She’d have to ask to see if she could obtain one. Or, better yet . . . maybe contact the artist and buy the original piece. It was something to think about.

  Tricia carried on down the sidewalk to the newspaper’s entrance. The bell over the door jingled as Tricia entered the newspaper’s offices. It was obviously still lunchtime, as Gloria, who usually manned the receptionist’s desk and was in charge of the classifieds section of the paper, was still among the missing. The door to Russ Smith’s office was open, and Tricia could see him hunched over his desk eating a sandwich and reading over what looked like news copy.

  “Anybody home?”

  Russ looked up. “Hi, Tricia. I didn’t hear the bell.”

  “You’re probably so used to hearing it that you tune it out when it actually rings. I know I get that way sometimes. Have you got a few minutes?”

  He gestured for her to enter his tiny office, where she took one of the two chairs that sat in front of his very messy desk. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering what you’d heard about Carol Talbot’s death.”

  Russ shrugged. “Not a damn thing, why?”

  “But you did speak with Chief Baker.”

  “Yeah, but it was him asking the questions.”

  When he said no more, Tricia tried again. “Will you be looking into Carol’s death?”

  “I hadn’t planned on it.”

  “Why not?”

  “What’s the point? By the time the paper comes out, the chief—or you—will probably have solved it. As news, it’ll be staler than two-day-old bread at the Patisserie.”

  “That’s never stopped you before from trying to get a scoop.”

  “Scoops are for Lois Lane and Clark Kent. Me? I’m just the owner of a small-town rag with a circulation of about eight thousand—and dwindling all the time.”

  “Oh, Russ—you sound so pessimistic. Whatever happened to the crusading reporter I used to know?” As he’d once stalked her, Tricia declined to add the words and loved. She wasn’t sure she’d ever loved him, even though they were an item for more than a year.

  “That guy no longer exists,” he admitted wearily. “He vanished when he acquired a wife and child. It would be negligent of me to ignore my family by pursuing stories that might bring me into harm’s way.”

  “Talking to the chief—or other witnesses like me—is hardly a dangerous pursuit.”

  “As you recall, there were times when I would go above and beyond simple interviews to get a story. Those days are gone,” he reiterated.

  “Will you be printing anything about Carol’s death?”

  “I’ve got an obit started, and I’ll mention where the police are in the investigation, but other than that it’s a dead issue—if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  She wouldn’t.

  “But if the chief is tight-lipped about the investigation, can I count on you telling me what you know—if only to beef up the obit?”

  “At this point, I know very little.” And one thing Tricia desperately wanted to do was make sure that her father had nothing to do with the woman’s death. Because now that Chief Baker knew Carol had slappe
d him, he was most certainly one of two suspects in her murder. Then again, Tricia liked Steven Richardson—or she had until he’d stood her up. Still, she didn’t want to believe that he might be capable of murder, either.

  Russ shrugged. “I know once your interest is piqued, you’ll stay on this thing until there’s a resolution. Whatever you can share would be appreciated.” The words were right, but he almost sounded bored by the conversation.

  Tricia nodded. There was really no reason to prolong their chat, so she changed the subject. “How is little Russell?”

  Even that topic didn’t seem to lift Russ out of his doldrums, as he recited what the pediatrician had said at the boy’s last well-baby checkup. She wondered if Russ could be clinically depressed. Tricia supposed it was possible that his wife, Nikki, had laid down the law: no dangerous pursuits because they had their baby’s welfare to think about. In that respect, taking no chances made it seem the prudent choice. But there was something dead in poor Russ’s eyes. He looked like a trapped animal, and, in the long run, feeling that way could be just as deadly to his family relationships. She didn’t envy him.

  Russ finally wound down, and Tricia forced a smile and stood. “It’s been great to catch up with you, Russ.”

  “But you haven’t said a word about what you’re up to.”

  “I’m living through a massive home renovation, which means that nothing is happening in my life.”

  “Maybe that’ll be worth a story when it’s finished. Take some during- and post-construction pictures. My readers love that kind of humdrum crap.”

  Crap? That was hardly an inducement.

  “Sure,” Tricia said, and smiled sweetly. What was the point in even commenting? She turned for the door. “I’ll keep in touch.” Not.

  “See ya,” Russ called.

  By the time Tricia got to the door, she turned back to see that Russ’s nose was again buried in his boring paperwork. Well, perhaps he deserved it, but it was also sad to see that the passion that had once driven him had been doused like a bucket of cold water on a fire.

  One thing was for sure: despite the fact she’d lost a sleuthing ally, Russ was right. She would follow through until she found out who killed Carol Talbot and why.