“Take your time—we’re in no hurry, are we, Mr. Everett?”
“Not a bit.”
“Very well. And thank you.” Tricia strode out of the shop, walked six or seven feet, and stood before the car. Obviously Richardson wasn’t going to leap out and open the door for her, so she did it herself and got in, reaching for the seat belt.
“You look great.”
“Thank you.”
“Where shall we go?”
The most expensive place to dine for lunch in the area was the Brookview Inn. It would serve him right for standing her up two days before. “The Brookview. They may be full, but I know the manager, so we can probably still get a table.”
“Just give me the directions.”
She did.
Less than five minutes later, Richardson pulled up to the Brookside Inn. As Tricia had suspected, the parking lot was nearly full. She strode up the front steps of the beautiful old inn and waited for Richardson to open the door for her, then she headed for the hostess station.
“What can I do for you?” asked the perky blonde. Her name tag said Cindy.
“Lunch for two, please.”
“I’m sorry. We’re fully booked. But if you’d like to wait.”
“How long would that be?”
The woman frowned. “At least an hour, I’m afraid.”
“We can go somewhere else,” Richardson said.
“Is the private dining room available?” Tricia asked.
“Well, yes. But—”
“We’ll take it,” Tricia said, keeping her expression bland.
Cindy did nothing to accommodate them, just stared at Tricia.
“Is there a problem?”
“Well, it’s just—”
“Is Mr. Barbero in?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“May I speak with him, please? Tell him it’s Tricia.”
Cindy forced a smile, picked up the telephone on the desk, and pressed a button. “Um, there’s a Tricia at the front of the restaurant who’d like to speak to you.” She listened for a moment, and then hung up the phone. “He’ll be right out.”
Richardson eyed the elegant surroundings.
Tricia smiled.
From an office just off the lobby, a door opened, and Antonio stepped out. “Tricia!” He held out his hands to take hers, and then leaned in to kiss her cheek. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Tricia never tired of hearing Antonio’s delightful Italian accent. “I understand the dining room is fully booked, and my friend and I would like to have lunch. Is the private dining room available?”
“For you, always. And I would be happy to seat you myself.”
“Thank you.”
Antonio gestured for Tricia to lead the way down the short corridor to the pretty room Tricia had been in so many times before. A table set for two sat before the fireplace, which in summer boasted a fern in the firebox. Antonio seated Tricia and bent down to whisper in her ear. “I will of course comp your lunch.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” she muttered.
Antonio straightened, looked her in the eye, then glanced over at Richardson, who had seated himself. He nodded. “Andre will be your server, but may I take your drink order?”
“That’s so sweet of you, yes. I’ll have my usual.”
“And you, sir?”
“Uh. A beer. Whatever you’ve got on tap.”
Antonio nodded. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your visit more pleasant.”
Tricia smiled and watched Antonio leave the room, closing the door behind him.
“Wow. Swank place,” Richardson commented.
“Nothing’s too good for a New York Times bestselling author. I see A Killing in Mad Gate is still on the list for the third week.”
“Yes. I’m very pleased.”
Tricia smiled again. Was it mean of her to make Richardson pay for what would be an outrageously expensive lunch?
Maybe.
“You still haven’t told me why you stood me up the other day?”
“I do apologize. As I told you, I had a meeting that morning. It ran late.”
“You also told me you needed a copy of your book to give to a local reporter—except our news guy says he never spoke to you on Wednesday or since.”
Richardson said nothing.
“You also told me that you were staying at the Sheer Comfort Inn, and you weren’t. And aren’t.”
“There was a mix-up.”
Tricia kept her tone light. “Did I mention that my sister owns a share of that lovely establishment? She knows everything that goes on there. I enjoy hearing her talk about her businesses.”
Richardson had the decency to look embarrassed at being caught in a lie. “Well, you see . . .” He seemed to run out of an explanation.
A knock at the door captured their attention. A waiter in dark slacks, white shirt, and black bow tie entered the room carrying their drinks on a tray. He set a cocktail napkin embossed with an image of the inn in gold before Tricia and set down her martini, then did the same for Richardson. He poured half the beer into the glass.
“I’m Andre. I’ll be taking care of you this afternoon.” He turned and procured two menus from a bracket attached to the wall. He opened them both, placing them before his charges. “I’ll give you a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” Tricia said, her gaze zeroing in on the most expensive item on the menu. She set it aside as Andre left the room.
Tricia picked up her glass and took a sip of that damn fine cocktail before setting it down once again. “The talk all around town is about Carol Talbot’s murder.”
“Is it?” Richardson took a sip of his beer.
“How well did you know Carol?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You spoke to her not thirty minutes before her death. She slapped you. That tells me you two had more than a nodding acquaintance.”
“I asked a question she thought impertinent.” He took another sip of his drink, apparently unwilling to explain further. “How well did you know Mrs. Talbot?”
Tricia sighed and took another sip of her drink. “Not well. She and I were rivals at the Dog-Eared Page’s darts tournament nights.”
“Yes, I remember back on the ship your sister mentioning something about your prowess at the game.”
“She exaggerates,” Tricia said, but it wasn’t exactly the truth. It still seemed a little strange to her that not only had she developed a liking for the game but that she had gotten so good at it.
“Would you like to play a game sometime?”
“Are you staying in Stoneham for a few more days?”
“It’s a good possibility.” Richardson sipped his beer. “I understand you’ve done your fair share of sleuthing.”
“I’ve been known to ask a question or two.”
“Like interviewing Mrs. Talbot’s neighbors?” he probed.
Word did get around.
“I didn’t interview them. I took my sister’s dog for a walk and just happened to meet them when they were watering the flowers in their front garden.”
“And did you find them as useless as witnesses as I did?”
“I wouldn’t say useless; perhaps clueless. I mean about Carol’s life prior to her being their neighbor.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Was that a challenge?
“And what do you know about Carol’s life before she came to live here?” he asked.
“I assume you’re referring to her murder conviction.”
Richardson raised an eyebrow. “So you have been doing a little sleuthing.”
Tricia merely shrugged. “What’s your interest?”
“I want to write a fictionalized account of the case.
Mrs. Talbot didn’t want to rake up the past.”
“Can you blame her?”
Richardson didn’t comment, taking another sip of his beer.
“Will you have to go to Indiana to investigate the crime firsthand?”
“I’ve already been there. I’ve read the police reports, the newspaper accounts, talked with anybody who would respond, and came up with a whole lot of nothing new.”
“Perhaps it was an open-and-shut case.”
He shook his head and frowned. “Why would a child kill?”
“According to what I heard—and fourth- or fifth-hand, I might add—it was childish jealousy.”
He shook his head. “That’s too pat an explanation. I want to dig deeper.”
“Now that Carol’s dead, can you?”
He shrugged.
“Chief Baker said he was satisfied that you weren’t a suspect in Carol’s death.”
“Am I to assume you don’t feel the same way?”
It was Tricia’s turn to shrug. “Well, you lied to me when you said you were staying at the Sheer Comfort Inn. You lied about to whom you were giving the book you bummed off me. Why should I believe you now?”
Richardson managed a wan smile. “A lie of omission.”
“A lie nonetheless.”
He let out a breath. “The Sheer Comfort Inn cost more than I wanted to pay.”
Tricia eyed him skeptically.
“You know how it goes; publishers pay twice a year. I’ve overextended myself, and it’s a long way until October and my next check. I’m on a strict budget, which it looks like this lunch is about to blow sky-high.”
“You asked me out on Tuesday night, and again today,” Tricia reminded him.
“So I did.”
“And why was that?”
“I thought maybe you could help me convince Mrs. Talbot to open up to me.”
“And what made you change your mind and stand me up? The fact that once she was dead, I couldn’t help you in that regard?”
Richardson offered a weak smile. “I told you, my meeting ran over.”
“But you didn’t call. Not for two days.”
“I did apologize.”
Big deal.
He leaned closer. “We could still work together on this, you know.”
He was challenging her. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Tricia wasn’t exactly scorned, but annoyed pretty much covered it. And she was determined not to feel guilty. If nothing else, she knew Richardson would no doubt have a good line of credit and could deduct the cost of the lunch as a business expense. And what was she likely to get out of his proposed alliance? A sentence in the acknowledgments of his next book? That was hardly an inducement.
“I’ll have to think about it.”
Yes, she needed to think about Carol’s death, the questions she needed to ask—and at whom to direct them—to figure out who’d killed the woman and why. Sharing that information with Richardson? She wasn’t so sure about that. “I’ll think about it.”
“And when are you likely to give me an answer?”
“In a few days.”
He nodded, almost smirking. “You’re going to punish me, right?”
“Maybe just a little,” she admitted.
His smug expression deepened.
Play cat and mouse with me and you might get badly scratched, Tricia thought.
“Why don’t we talk about it in a day or two? And in the meantime, why don’t we have a lovely lunch and converse about other subjects?”
“As you wish.”
A knock on the door preceded Andre’s return. “Ready to order?”
“Ah, just in time. I’ll have the truffled lobster risotto.” The richest, most expensive item on the lunch menu.
“With a side salad?” Andre asked hopefully.
“Of course. House dressing will be fine.”
Richardson scowled. “I’ll have the French dip.”
Not nearly as exciting—or as pricey—as the lobster.
“And another round?” Andre asked.
“That would be lovely,” Tricia said, and smiled sweetly at her companion.
Maybe she was just a little bit scorned after all.
TWELVE
On the drive back to Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia decided she would indeed accept Richardson’s proposal—but she was determined to do it on her own terms. And that meant she might not share everything she learned. At least not immediately.
He was a stranger in the village, and while she wasn’t a native of Stoneham, she certainly had more contacts than Richardson—one of whom worked in her store. Mr. Everett would never speak ill of anyone, but he was still a potential font of information. If she asked just the right questions, and in a nonchalant way, it was likely he’d answer them. And if not, she could always go back to Grace.
Richardson dropped her off in front of Haven’t Got a Clue, but instead of entering her store, Tricia remembered she needed to stop at the Patisserie. Not only did she need to check on the cake order for Pixie’s wedding shower but she wanted to buy a dozen raspberry thumbprint cookies—Mr. Everett’s favorites—to help grease the informational wheels. Luckily, Nikki Brimfield-Smith was ringing up a sale for the only other customer in the shop. “Be right with you, Tricia.” She turned back to the guy with a white bakery box before him on the counter. “Here’s your change. Enjoy!”
“Thanks.”
They watched him leave.
“Long time no talk to,” Nikki said.
“It’s been hectic since the renovation on my loft began. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”
“I’d love to see the final results.”
“I’ll finally have enough space to entertain—and it’ll be fun to show it off, so I think a party will definitely be in order.” She changed the subject. “I understand little Russell is now in day care.”
Nikki nodded sadly. She had wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, but it hadn’t made economic sense. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to go that route, but he was getting too big to have here in the shop—it’s just too dangerous for a small child. And I got a great deal for signing him up at Stoneham Day Care.” Another enterprise of Nigela Ricita Associates.
“Really?”
“It was the darndest thing. They told me I was the hundredth person to walk through the door and gave me an astounding discount. And it’s good for five years. That’ll take Russell Junior right up to kindergarten.”
“Wow, that is amazing.” Tricia made a mental note to quiz Angelica on that later.
“I spoke to Russ yesterday. I was surprised he isn’t looking into Carol Talbot’s murder.”
Nikki’s expression soured. “No, and he won’t be doing any of that crusading reporting in the future, either. He’s got a family now,” she said firmly.
“But being a reporter is his life.”
“He can report on all the other—much more pleasant—things that happen around Stoneham. Like the Girl Scouts planting that tree in the village square; the recipe of the month—I’m helping him with that; and other cheerful or inspirational things.”
In other words, soft—very soft—news.
“He sounded a little down,” Tricia observed.
“He’ll get over it,” Nikki said rather flippantly. Didn’t she see that taking away the thing he loved most might be detrimental to their long-term relationship? That it might just drive a wedge between them? Nikki had been jealous of Tricia’s past relationship with her husband, so Tricia wasn’t about to voice her opinion on the subject.
“Now, what can I do for you today, Tricia?” Nikki was back to being her usual cheerful self.
“I came by to make sure the cake for Pixie’s bridal shower will be ready to pick up tomorrow morning.”
“No need. I’ll be deliv
ering and setting it up myself.”
Tricia blinked. She wouldn’t have thought half a white sheet cake with pink flowers would be worth the trouble. But then she knew Nikki considered herself to be an artist when it came to cakes and pastries. She probably would have preferred to make something much more elaborate, but this was to be a small party. Besides, Tricia knew Pixie was already thrilled at just the prospect of a shower thrown in her honor.
“Anything else?”
“Just some—”
“Thumbprint cookies,” Nikki said, anticipating the answer.
“Yes. They’re Mr. Everett’s favorites.” And obviously Tricia had ordered them far too many times.
Nikki scooped up the cookies, depositing them in a white pastry bag, and Tricia paid for her purchase. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bye!”
Tricia left the shop and headed down the sidewalk for her own store. But before she even entered, the sound of clanging—like someone playing the “Anvil Chorus”—permeated Haven’t Got a Clue, making her wince with each tooth-rattling bang. She could see by the tufts of orange sticking out of Pixie’s and Mr. Everett’s ears that they were back to wearing earplugs and that, thanks to the noise, the shop was once again devoid of customers.
Tricia set the white bakery bag on the counter and reached for a pair of the onetime-use plugs when, suddenly, the noise stopped.
“Thank goodness,” Pixie said, and yanked out one of her plugs.
“What’s going on?” Tricia asked.
“They’re replacing the sewage pipe.”
Tricia wrinkled her nose. There were some aspects of the renovation for which she just didn’t need the details.
“How long do you think we have before it starts up again?”
“Maybe a minute.”
“How was your lunch, Ms. Miles?” Mr. Everett asked.
“Delicious. I had the truffled lobster risotto.”
“Whoo-hoo!” Pixie whooped.
“I was tempted by dessert, but decided I would rather share something with the two of you, so I stopped at the Patisserie and bought some cookies. Thanks to all the dust, we haven’t had them in a couple of weeks.”
“Aw, you’re the best,” Pixie said, picking up the bag and taking a peek. “Ohh, your favorite, Mr. E.”
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