A Just Clause

by Lorna Barrett

  “What for?”

  “Expenses. It takes money to navigate these troubled times. There’s really nothing much to eat at Fred’s house. And several times a day he shows up and takes away more and more of my creature comforts.”

  “His creature comforts. He did mention he’s moving at the end of the month, didn’t he?” Tricia said.

  “I think he said something to that effect.”

  “Do you have plans to move on, and if so—when?” Angelica said.

  “You should have your couch back from the upholsterers by the end of the month, right?”

  “There’s been a delay in obtaining the fabric I ordered,” Angelica said evasively. “It may not be returned until October.”

  “That’s not very convenient,” John said.

  “No, it isn’t,” Angelica agreed.

  “Will your apartment be finished by the end of the month?” he asked Tricia.

  “I’m beginning to wonder if they’ll ever complete the work.” She could be just as evasive as her sister.

  “Have you thought about reconciling with Mother?” Angelica asked hopefully.

  John frowned. “That wouldn’t be my first choice. Your mother is a very difficult person to live with. I’m surprised we managed to last fifty years together.”

  Fifty years? But Angelica was fifty-one. Surely he’d made a mistake with the math—or was he just being flippant?

  “Have you at least spoken to her?” Tricia asked.

  “Yes. I was hoping to convince her to send me some cash—just to keep body and soul together—but she’s as hard-hearted as ever.”

  He’d never seemed hard up for cash in the past.

  “What did you fight about?” Tricia asked, already anticipating his answer.

  “Our trip to Bermuda, of course. She felt as though she’d been ambushed by your sister and me.”

  “I can see her point,” Tricia said charitably. “But what’s done is done. It’s time for you two to kiss and make up.”

  “Ah, but Princess—neither of us wants that. I’d just as soon file for divorce and get a nice, fat, juicy settlement. After all, I’ve given her the best years of my life.”

  Isn’t that what divorce lawyers usually told women?

  John polished off his drink. “I could go for another, but I really could do with some sustenance. Any chance you could rustle up a little something for your old dad, Angelica?”

  “Of course. What would you like?”

  “Tommy gave me the grand tour of your kitchen last winter. Could I rummage through the fridge? I’m sure I can find something.”

  Angelica shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Pour me another drink, and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  The sisters watched their father get up and pass through the double doors into the café’s kitchen.

  “Well?” Tricia whispered. “Do you think he’s telling the truth?”

  Angelica shrugged wearily. “I don’t know. He could be telling us exactly what we want to hear.”

  “About him and Carol being lovers?”

  “That does seem a bit far-fetched. She was no beauty, but she did have a nice figure. But I guess if it was dark, a man could pretend she was an Aphrodite.”

  They could hear the distinct sound of rummaging in the kitchen, the thunk of something heavy hitting the counter, the chink of heavy restaurant china, and the clatter of cutlery.

  Angelica shook her head and again refilled their glasses. “We’re going to be alcoholics before Daddy’s visit is over.”

  “I hear you,” Tricia agreed.

  While they sipped their drinks, Angelica lamented the overabundance of zucchini and the ideas she had for using it up. It must have been five or ten minutes later when they realized it had gotten awfully quiet in the kitchen.

  “What is he doing? Standing over the sink eating a sandwich?” Angelica asked.

  “I’ll go see,” Tricia said, leaving her perch. But when she entered the kitchen, she found the industrial-sized fridge wide open with a number of empty shelves, an untidy mess on the counters, and the back door propped open.

  “He’s done it again!” Tricia hollered.

  Angelica suddenly appeared behind her. “This kitchen was immaculate not fifteen minutes ago!” She took in the fridge and two of the shelves, which had held the cold cuts for the rest of the week and were now totally empty. “Daddy!” she hollered, loud enough to make Tricia wince. “Now what will we do for our dinner?”

  Tricia shrugged, feeling weary. “I guess we can always call for a pizza.”

  TEN

  Despite Tricia calling and leaving a number of messages on Fred’s answering machine, John never picked up the phone. Tricia called Pixie’s number several times and got no answer there, either. So she did the next best thing: she consulted Google, found a website that would do a reverse phone number search, and—voila!—found Fred’s address in Milford. Okay, that told her where her father was staying, but he couldn’t have gotten away on foot when leaving Booked for Lunch. Not when he was toting ten or twelve pounds of cold cuts and cheese. And what was he going to do with the stuff, anyway?

  Since it was quite late, Tricia decided confronting John could wait until the next day. She tried calling several times the next morning, but still got no answer.

  Pixie was about to unlock the door to Haven’t Got a Clue when Tricia showed up. “Hi, Pixie. Did you get my phone message last night?”

  Pixie stood there, key only partially inserted into the lock, looking guilty. “Uh, no. Is there a problem?”

  “I wanted to get Fred’s address. I’ve been trying to get in contact with my father, but he won’t answer the phone.”

  “Sorry. Was it an emergency?”

  Not hardly. “No. I managed to find it online. But I may have to bow out to go over there this morning.” She didn’t want to mention her father’s latest larceny.

  The construction workers were still among the missing, and, deciding to let Pixie get the shop ready for the day, Tricia called Jim Stark. Unfortunately, the call immediately rolled over to voice mail. Didn’t anybody ever answer their phones?

  And no sooner had she put the receiver down when the shop phone rang. Tricia picked it up, thankful for the quiet interlude. “Haven’t Got a Clue; this is Tricia. How may I help you?”

  “Is there a chance you’ll forgive me for standing you up for lunch the other day?”

  “Hello, Steven.” Tricia took a breath, considering what else she wanted to say, and what she probably would say to Richardson. As usual, Pixie, who stood nearby, cocked her head to listen.

  “Well?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

  “Maybe.”

  “I’d like to make it up to you.”

  “Oh?”

  “We could try again. I mean, it is nearly that time of day.”

  Tricia glanced up at the clock on the wall. “It’s barely ten.”

  “How about I pick you up at your store at twelve?”

  Mr. Everett arrived, waving to Tricia as he entered the store. She waved back and addressed Richardson. “I can’t just take off. I have employees who have a regularly scheduled lunch break.”

  “Can’t they cut you some slack?”

  Pixie was practically hopping up and down. “Go to lunch—go to lunch,” she whispered, but her voice was probably loud enough for Richardson. “We’ll wait.”

  Tricia looked toward Mr. Everett, who also nodded.

  “It seems I can change my plans after all.”

  “Great. See you at twelve.”

  He broke the connection, and Tricia replaced the receiver.

  “So, lunch,” Pixie said enthusiastically, virtually hovering.

  “Yes, lunch,” Tricia repeated, resigned.

  “That’s a hopeful sign.”


  “Why’s that?”

  “Because it means he’s still interested in you.”

  Tricia wasn’t sure she liked that analogy. She decided not to comment. She busied herself by tidying up the cash desk, while Mr. Everett wandered toward the back of the shop, no doubt to get his lamb’s wool duster.

  Pixie moved closer to the sales counter. “Well, aren’t you going to do something?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Get ready.”

  “I’m ready,” she said flatly, and straightened up a pile of bookmarks.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure!”

  Startled by her tone, Pixie practically jumped. “Okay—okay!”

  Mr. Everett continued dusting, studiously ignoring them.

  The UPS man chose that moment to deliver a couple of boxes. Pixie found a box cutter and emptied them, then began pricing the new inventory.

  Tricia had planned to go to the basement to work on the computer for a while, but it was such a pretty day, and she had nearly two hours to kill before her so-called date, that she felt restless. What she needed to do was go check Fred’s apartment in hopes of catching her father there and giving him a stern talking-to—not that she thought it would help. Angelica had been so upset to find that John had stolen from her once again. And where could someone fence cold cuts anyway?

  Grabbing her purse, Tricia headed for the door. “I’ll be back in a while.”

  Again, Mr. Everett waved, but Pixie barely looked up from her work, making Tricia feel like a heel. She’d somehow make it up to her assistant later that day.

  • • •

  Fred lived on the second floor of a small, rather seedy brick apartment building not far from the highway, and Tricia made it there in less than five minutes.

  She exited her car and pressed the fob on her key ring to lock it. The metal security door looked like it might have been kicked in at one point, and Tricia felt sorry for Fred having to live in such an unwelcoming place. That he’d entertained Pixie there was even more appalling. And what a comedown the place had to be for her father, who, in comparison, had for decades lived in the lap of luxury. Tricia’s mother would have never settled for less.

  The building housed six units, each with a buzzer. Tricia pressed the one marked five several times, and though she could hear it ring, no one let her in. On impulse, she pressed the first button. Again, no answer. Besides her own, there were three cars parked out front. Surely somebody was home—if that’s what you could call the shabby building.

  A window to her left opened and out popped the head of an elderly woman whose face seemed to have collapsed thanks to her lack of teeth. “Ain’t nobody gonna answer the door.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause they scared of the repo man or the summons server.”

  “Do I look like either?”

  The woman sized her up. “No, but you sure don’t look like you know the likes of anybody lives here.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Fred in number five.”

  She nodded. “He’s a nice guy, but he’s hardly ever home since he got engaged. Too bad. He’s been real nice to me. Brings me ground turkey and hamburger on a regular basis.”

  Fred was a deliveryman for a local meat distributor. He delivered cold cuts and meat to Booked for Lunch, the Brookview Inn, and other local eateries.

  The fact that her father had stolen the café’s meat and absconded had to mean something. Tricia didn’t want to think that Fred might not be on the up-and-up. Pixie had only recently been discharged from the state’s parole system. Was Fred just another lowlife? Because of her past, was Pixie attracted to that kind of man?

  Tricia didn’t want to think about it. Despite her past failings, Pixie was a tremendous asset to Haven’t Got a Clue. Much as Tricia loved Ginny, she hadn’t had a real love for vintage mysteries like Pixie did. She was too young. Pixie spoke the mystery language to the mostly older readers who appreciated the vintage tomes Tricia also treasured. She was good with customers. Her flamboyant, vintage style helped to sell the work of authors who long ago had been reduced to dust.

  “So what you gonna do?” the old woman asked.

  Tricia dug into her purse for one of her business cards. “My father is staying in Fred’s place.”

  The old woman’s eyes seemed to sparkle. “That guy’s a stud.”

  Tricia was taken aback. Her father . . . a stud?

  “I’ve been trying to track him down, but he seems to be avoiding me and my sister. We’re very worried about him. You see, he and our mother have separated—”

  The woman’s eyes widened with what seemed like pleasure, and she actually giggled. “You mean he’s eligible?”

  “Like any child, I want my parents to get back together. They’ve been married for over”—or at least—“fifty years.”

  “Oh.” The woman looked crestfallen. Carol hadn’t been anywhere near pretty, but she had been a lot more attractive than the poor lady in the faded green housedress before her.

  Tricia handed her the card. “If he comes around, would you please call me? I worry about him.”

  “You’re a good daughter—not like the piece of crap kid who dumped me here in this flea trap and only comes around when she thinks she can get my social security.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Tricia said sincerely. She thought of Grace and Mr. Everett, neither of whom had a child to care for them in their dotage, but she knew she—and Angelica—were willing to step up and help them in any way they could should the future darken for either or both of them.

  “Take care,” Tricia said, with the sinking feeling that this poor woman had no one to look out for her welfare.

  “You, too, honey.”

  The woman pulled her head back inside the apartment and shut the window.

  Tricia turned, noticing a Dumpster by the side of the building, and took a detour to look inside. The sun was already beating down, and the smell of rotting garbage emanating from it was rather pungent. Still, she took a deep breath before opening the side gate and peered inside. As she had feared, she saw unopened packages of ham, roast beef, several salamis, processed chicken rolls, and big slabs of various cheeses, still in their original packaging—obviously what had been stolen from Booked for Lunch’s refrigerator the previous evening.

  Why? Why on earth would her father steal food from his own daughter and then throw it away?

  But Tricia also wondered about the connection between Fred and her father. Had John concocted some kind of scheme to steal the meat from the café and have Fred resell it right back to Angelica, cutting himself in on the deal? But that couldn’t be. Fred had always seemed like a quiet, decent man. Could her father have stolen the meat and cheese without consulting Fred first, only to find Pixie’s fiancé had no interest in risking his job and a possible jail sentence for such larceny? No doubt Pixie had filled Fred in on just how terrible being incarcerated could be.

  Tricia walked back to her car, that feeling of depression settling around her shoulders once more. Who was the man who had masqueraded as her father for so many years? Had his quip about being married to her mother for a year less than her sister’s age been a slip of the tongue—or were she and Angelica actually only half sisters? After only recently learning of other long-held family secrets, nothing else would surprise her.

  Half sisters/whole sisters, what did it matter? She and Angelica were sisters of the heart, and after too many years of estrangement were now effectively joined at the hip. If Tricia had learned anything in the past turbulent year, it was that family wasn’t necessarily defined by a shared genetic code. She considered Grace and Mr. Everett as her loving pseudoparents. She loved Ginny like a sister. She adored Sofia as her great-niece, even if they had no shared heritage. And above all, Tricia loved Angelica—as a friend, as a me
ntor, and as her own personal guardian angel—and she believed her sister felt the same way about her.

  But the problem of what they should do about John Miles still hung over them like a five-thousand-pound weight on a rapidly fraying rope.

  Tricia started her car, shifted into reverse, and pulled out of the scantly graveled parking lot, hoping she would never have to return to this terrible, dingy dwelling. Fred would be much better off leaving this place and establishing a home with Pixie.

  As she drove back toward Stoneham, Tricia wondered how she was going to break the news of what she’d learned to Angelica.

  ELEVEN

  Strains of Frank Sinatra crooning “I Could Write a Book” filled Haven’t Got a Clue as Tricia entered—one of Pixie’s contributions to the store’s musical library. Four customers perused the shelves . . . a hopeful sign that they might just make enough sales to be in the black for the day.

  “Everything go all right?” Pixie asked, as though their little altercation an hour earlier hadn’t occurred.

  Tricia forced a smile. “I was hoping to find my father at Fred’s apartment, but no one answered the bell.”

  “You should have told me you were going there. I could have given you the key to get inside the security door.”

  “Thanks. I might try again later.”

  Pixie scrutinized her face. “Are you okay? Your eyes look funny. Like you might want to cry or something.”

  “It must be pollen. There are lots of flowers in bloom.”

  “Uh-huh.” But luckily, further discussion was thwarted, as one of the customers approached the sales counter, her arms filled with books.

  For the first time since the construction crew had arrived weeks before, Haven’t Got a Clue had a steady stream of customers, which kept Tricia and her employees busy while Benny Goodman’s and Tommy Dorsey’s orchestras kept the customers entertained.

  At exactly twelve o’clock, a black Mustang convertible showed up outside the shop’s door. Steven wore a Red Sox baseball cap and aviator sunglasses. He tooted the horn.

  Tricia retrieved her purse from under the cash desk. “I’ll try to be back by one.”