A Just Clause

by Lorna Barrett

  • • •

  Tricia hadn’t made it to the corner when she heard a familiar voice calling her name. She turned and saw Chief Baker hurrying down the sidewalk to catch up with her. Was she in for another browbeating session?

  “Yes, Chief. What’s up?” she asked, shading her eyes on that bright afternoon.

  “I tried calling the store, but Pixie said you hadn’t returned from lunch.”

  “I was on my way there now. What do you need?” She could be testy with him, too.

  “To know if you’ve heard from your father since last night.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, no. But I’m sure he’s still around—somewhere.”

  “And why’s that?”

  Because he hadn’t gotten any money off either her or Angelica. Because he’d been fishing for a place to stay—which meant he probably had no money. “He seems to have unfinished business with us.”

  Baker nodded. “Of course. I heard the rumors after your father left the village back in January.”

  “Rumors?” Tricia repeated, playing dumb.

  “That he’d skipped town owing just about everybody—and that he was a little light-fingered, too.”

  Tricia felt a blush rise up her neck to stain her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you,” Baker continued, “but your father has a rather checkered past.”

  “How checkered?” Tricia asked, dreading the answer and wishing he hadn’t decided to break such news to her on the street where passersby could listen in.

  “Petit larceny; mail fraud; racketeering.”

  Tricia’s stomach did a flip-flop, and it was a struggle to remain silent as her eyes filled. She wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment for herself or her father. But Baker wasn’t finished with his list of bad news.

  “His rap sheet is as long as your arm. He’s spent some time in jail, but mostly he’s had the best lawyers working to keep him from being incarcerated. From what I gather, he’s never been gainfully employed, at least not in any honest endeavor.”

  That could only mean one thing: that Tricia’s mother had bailed him out of trouble time after time. After all, how often had she heard about her mother inheriting the Griffith family fortune? And yet, despite that, she’d grown up thinking her father had been the family’s breadwinner. Yes, there were times when he’d been out of the picture for months at a time. Her mother had always told them that John had gone away on business.

  Surely, if her father had been a bona fide con man, someone would have told her. Had her ex-husband, Christopher, known? Would he, too, have kept silent to spare her? Worse, did Angelica know? She’d kept her own secrets for years. Was that a trait she’d inherited from their father?

  And what about her beloved Grandmother Miles? She’d lived with the family on and off, and now that Tricia thought about it, it was during the times that her father had been absent that that wonderful woman had visited for several months at a time. Had her beloved father been in jail? Tricia now knew that her mother blamed her for the SIDS death of her twin brother. Her happiest childhood memories had been spent in the company of her father’s mother. Tricia’s mother had wanted a son. When he died, Sheila had pretty much maintained a hands-off policy with her youngest child. Grandma Miles had showered both Tricia and Angelica with unconditional love. She’d shared her love of mystery stories and cookery with her only grandchildren, and those tales and meals had shaped Tricia’s and Angelica’s lives. So much so that both had based their current livelihoods on different aspects of what their grandma had loved best.

  “You’re very quiet,” Baker said rather kindly, rousing Tricia from her memories.

  “It’s a bit much to take in.”

  “I’ll bet. But this doesn’t color my opinion of you.”

  Was he serious? And what did that mean? She wasn’t about to ask. Instead, she forced a smile. “Thank you.”

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t consider your father a probable suspect in Carol Talbot’s death, either,” he said, to spoil his previous statement.

  “Have you spoken with everyone who was at the signing?”

  “No, but only because I don’t know who they all are. Can you give me a list?”

  “Sorry, no. But perhaps if Pixie, Mr. Everett, and I put our heads together, we might come up with a comprehensive list.”

  “Please do.”

  “And what about Steven Richardson? Carol slapped him, too.”

  “I’m satisfied with his explanation.”

  “How did you track him down?”

  “He called me.”

  Tricia felt her cheeks begin to glow in annoyance. Why hadn’t the author had the decency to call her? She had to work to keep her tone neutral. “What did he say?”

  “I’m not at liberty to share that with you.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because it’s none of your business. As you’re such good friends with the man, why don’t you ask him?”

  “I would . . . if only he’d answer my calls.”

  “I thought you two were close.”

  “And why would you think that?”

  “I heard about the two of you on that cruise last winter.”

  “Heard what?” Tricia demanded. She’d kissed the man—twice—and neither of those busses could be called passionate.

  “That there was the start of a relationship.”

  “Well, whoever told you that was mistaken. The man and I had a couple of drinks together. Period—not that it’s any of your business, either.”

  “You’re right; it isn’t.” He was silent for a few moments. “I apologize.”

  “Apology accepted,” she said, albeit rather grudgingly. “Now, is there anything else we need to go over? If not, I really need to get back to my store.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know when your father resurfaces.”

  “After what happened last night, I’m sure somebody will gladly share the news with both of us.” She hadn’t meant to sound so sarcastic, but she’d spoken the truth.

  Baker gave her a curt nod and did an abrupt about-face. So much for the social graces.

  Feeling just a little bit depressed, Tricia headed back for Haven’t Got a Clue, fearing what was left of the day would be very long indeed.

  • • •

  The hammering and sawing went on and on that afternoon, and, thanks to the guys’ heavy work boots, it seemed like a herd of elephants traipsed overhead, but Tricia hardly noticed. She couldn’t stop thinking about her conversation with Chief Baker. She needed to share what she’d learned with Angelica—not that she thought any of it would come as a surprise, but it was embarrassing to have hers and Angelica’s good names sullied by their father’s actions.

  When a particularly long pause of quiet from above finally registered in her brain, Tricia decided to take a chance and call Angelica, but instead of her sister picking up, the call went directly to voice mail. “Hi, Ange, it’s me, your sister. Just wondering if you’ve heard from Daddy. Chief Baker was asking about his whereabouts and . . . I’ll tell you more at dinner tonight. Bye.”

  As Tricia put down the phone, Miss Marple, who had barely left her carrier all day, timidly emerged from her sanctuary. She looked around, as though assessing the danger level, and then looked up at her mistress.

  “It’s good to see you, little girl.”

  The cat jumped up on the sales counter, rubbed her head against Tricia’s shoulder, and began to purr. “You’ve had a rough day,” Tricia said, then looked up and was startled to find Pixie standing before her.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She and Mr. Everett had been taking turns standing outside the shop in case customers needed assistance with the sale items. “Uh, I couldn’t help overhear you mention your pop a minute ago,” Pixie said. Her ea
vesdropping had been a bit of a problem since the day she’d first started working at Haven’t Got a Clue, but one Tricia had gotten used to—or had at least become resigned to. “I think I know where your father has been staying.”

  Tricia perked up. “Where?”

  Pixie looked sheepish. “Um . . . at Fred’s apartment.”

  Tricia’s eyes widened. “Fred—your Fred’s place?”

  Pixie nodded. “Remember I told you that Fred went after him last night? Well, apparently your father told Fred that he had nowhere to stay. Since we became engaged, Fred’s spent most of his time at my place. His lease runs out at the end of the month, which is why we thought that might be a good time to get married. Well, Fred thought he was doing you—and your father—a favor by offering to let him stay there.”

  “Oh, Pixie—that was so very generous of Fred, but . . . you know my father’s reputation.”

  Pixie’s features seemed to sag even more. “Yeah, I do. When Fred told me, I about hit the roof. I kept remembering how upset Angelica was to find out antiques went missing from the Sheer Comfort Inn.”

  “Please don’t tell me Daddy’s walked off with any of Fred’s things.”

  “Well, not so far. At least, not as far as I know. But I told Fred if he had anything valuable there he’d better box it up and bring it to my place PDQ. He should have already started to do that, and now he has no excuse not to.”

  “I’m so sorry. Please let me know if anything turns up missing. I don’t want Fred to be out of pocket for anything.”

  “Thanks, Tricia. You’re a good person.”

  “You and Fred are good people.” And way too trusting.

  An enormous, loud bang sounded overhead—had one of the workers dropped a five-ton safe?— sending Miss Marple back down to the floor and into her carrier once more.

  “That’s it,” Tricia said, and bent down to secure the carrier’s door. “This continual noise is pure-and-simple animal abuse. I’m taking Miss Marple back to the Brookview, and until the renovations are over, I’m not bringing her back.” She grabbed her purse, sorted through her keys, and then picked up the cat carrier.

  “I’m going to miss you, Miss M,” Pixie said, “but I don’t blame you, Tricia. Let’s just hope they finish soon. I’m getting pretty sick of all this noise, too.”

  “You and Mr. Everett have been very good sports. Thank you.”

  Pixie shrugged. Honestly, what more could she say?

  Tricia headed for the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Not to worry. We won’t be overwhelmed with customers,” Pixie called after her.

  Tricia marched north up the sidewalk. She’d have to drive to the Brookview with all the windows open, since the air-conditioning wouldn’t be on long enough to cool the car, and she’d leave the AC on at the bungalow to keep Miss Marple comfortable, along with the DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from her door to keep the maids from accidentally letting loose her precious cat.

  The twinges of depression she had felt earlier had begun to grow, and Tricia wondered when she would ever feel settled again.

  SIX

  It was well after six when Tricia finally closed the door to her now-silent shop and abode. The construction workers had called it quits a little after four, which was a blessing to her ears, but if they worked another couple of hours every day she might get into her apartment all the sooner. Of course, what did it matter to them? Construction guys were employed only when there were projects, and when there weren’t—they lay idle. Were the guys milking it to keep drawing a paycheck? Maybe—maybe not.

  Tricia used her key to open the door to the Cookery, cut through the shop, and headed up the stairs to Angelica’s loft apartment.

  “Hello!” Tricia called as she approached the door. She heard joyful barking, and when she entered, Sarge, Angelica’s Bichon Frise, jumped up and down as though he had springs for legs. “I’m glad to see you, too!” Tricia simpered in doggy-ese, patting the little guy, who wiggled and squirmed before taking off for the kitchen to announce her presence.

  “Sarge! Hush!” Angelica ordered, and the barking immediately stopped, but the dog still ran around in happy circles. She turned to her sister. “You’re just in time. I’ve just made a pitcher of martinis and was about to pour.”

  From past experience, Tricia knew there’d be a couple of glasses chilling in the refrigerator, and she retrieved them, setting them on the counter. Angelica poured, then added the olives on frill picks.

  “What do we drink to?” Tricia asked.

  “How about the upcoming wine and jazz festival?”

  “Great idea.”

  They clinked glasses.

  “What do you want me to do to help make dinner?” Tricia asked.

  “You can chop the onion and garlic while I grate more zucchini.”

  “More?”

  “Yes, I’m going to make zucchini bread later. Tommy’s threatening to bring in another bushel basket before the end of the week. Apparently he planted a few too many vines. What we need for this recipe is still draining.” She indicated a colander in the sink and the pool of green liquid beneath it staining the porcelain.

  “Okay.”

  Angelica supplied a cutting board, knife, the onion, and garlic cloves for Tricia, who set down her glass, and the sisters set to work.

  “So what’s the news of the day?” Angelica asked, picking up a zucchini that could have doubled as a cudgel.

  Tricia considered sharing what she’d learned during her conversation with Chief Baker and decided to keep it to herself—at least for the time being. Why upset Angelica? She was upset enough for both of them. And if Angelica already knew, it would only be a source of contention.

  “I found out where Daddy’s been staying,” Tricia said, removing the onion’s outer skin.

  “Oh?”

  “Fred Pillins’s place.”

  “Whatever for?” Angelica asked, hacked off a large chunk of squash and began to grate vigorously.

  “Oh, Fred thought he’d be doing us a favor by taking Daddy in.”

  “That was sweet of him. Has Daddy pawned any of his stuff yet?” Her voice positively dripped with sarcasm.

  “When Pixie heard about it, she told Fred to bring anything he valued over to her place.”

  “Sound advice.”

  “I suppose we should contact him.”

  “I suppose,” Angelica agreed, albeit not enthusiastically.

  “I have Fred’s number on my phone. Pixie gave it to me in case I need to contact her and didn’t find her at home.”

  “That was nice.”

  Tricia took out her phone, scrolled through her contacts, and found Fred’s number. It rang five times before rolling over to voice mail. She didn’t bother to leave a message. “No answer.” She put the phone away and started chopping the onion once again.

  “How did your discussion with Russ go?”

  “It didn’t. He has no plans to pursue a story on Carol’s death. The poor man sounded beaten, saying he couldn’t take on any pursuits that might be dangerous. He seemed to lay the blame on having become a family man.”

  “That seems perfectly reasonable to me.”

  Before she’d become a stepgrandma to little Sofia, Angelica might not have been as understanding.

  “Anything else interesting happen at your store today?” she asked.

  “Not really. It’s so loud and dirty, my customers have been few and far between. Which leads me to my next topic of conversation. I’ve come to a decision,” Tricia said, depositing the onion pieces into a bowl and beginning to mince the garlic. “There’s no way I can host Pixie’s bridal shower at Haven’t Got a Clue. No matter how often we dust and vacuum, we can’t seem to keep it clean.”

  “That is a problem,” Angelica agreed.

  �
��I know it’s presumptuous of me to ask, but is there a chance you’d let me use either the function room at the Brookview Inn or the front parlor at the Sheer Comfort Inn?”

  Angelica frowned. “I’d have to check the schedules. I may own these sites, but I’m a big-picture person. I rely on my right-hand people to take care of the daily operations. If there’s nothing planned, of course you can have one or the other. But you’re going to have to pay for the catering.”

  “I figured that was a given.” Tricia sipped her drink. “I know I should have done all this before now. I admit, I’ve grown rather used to you—and your businesses—rescuing me in these kinds of situations.”

  “I’m happy to do so. What did you have in mind?”

  “A lovely, proper tea, reminiscent of what we had on our cruise on the Celtic Lady.”

  Angelica pursed her lips.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you think Pixie deserves it?”

  “Pixie deserves the best of the best. Goodness knows, she hasn’t had that for most of her life. But it sounds like what you have in mind is what you would like, more than what would make Pixie happy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Pixie might consider a proper afternoon tea to be rather stodgy.”

  “But I want her to have a lovely time,” Tricia said, and finished with the garlic. She headed for the sink to rinse her hands.

  “She can—but you might want to rethink the menu, the music, and everything else.”

  “What are you saying?” Tricia said, heading back across the kitchen to grab her drink.

  “That Pixie might enjoy a more nostalgic event.”

  “What’s more nostalgic than an afternoon tea?”

  “It depends on the era. You and I would love a tea with a string quartet, scones and clotted cream, cucumber-and-cress sandwiches, and tiny, delicate pastries. But I’m betting Pixie would be happier with a Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin soundtrack, cocktail wienies wrapped in puff pastry, Swedish meatballs, and potato salad.”

  Tricia nodded, feeling a bit defeated. “You’re probably right.”