A Just Clause

by Lorna Barrett

  The costs for this little shindig were beginning to spiral out of control.

  Angelica leaned forward. “Are you okay? You look a bit dazed.”

  “I’m a little overwhelmed,” Tricia admitted.

  “You do want Pixie to be happy, don’t you?” Angelica pressed.

  And now she was pulling a guilt trip?

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And it’ll be fun. Just wait until you see your costume.”

  “Costume? This isn’t Halloween.”

  “Oh, but it’s a theme party. I’ve asked everybody to come in an outfit from the era. And for those who don’t, I’ll have a dress-up box.”

  “Like we had when we were kids?”

  “Oh, I’d outgrown all that by the time you were ready to use it.”

  “Uh-huh?” Tricia seemed to recall a few times when Angelica had condescended to play with her younger sibling—but only because a blizzard howled outside and she was bored.

  “Ginny thinks it’s a great idea,” Angelica added.

  “You spoke about this to Ginny before you spoke to me?”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

  “Oh, yes, you did.”

  “I hoped you’d be open to the concept. And it would—”

  “Make Pixie happy—I know.” Tricia let out a breath. She hadn’t dressed up in costume in ages. Not since she’d hosted a Halloween fund-raising party for the nonprofit she’d worked for in New York. Those attending had really gotten in the spirit of things—pun intended—and it had been a rollicking success.

  “Okay, so what is my costume? A poodle skirt?”

  “Oh, no—that’s mine.”

  “Why do you get to wear a poodle skirt?”

  “Because Sarge will be my accessory.”

  “He’s not a poodle.”

  “He doesn’t know that.”

  Tricia had no answer for that leap in logic.

  “I thought you’d look terrific as Sandy from Grease. You know, an off-the-shoulder tight black blouse, tight black Capri pants, and red heels. You’ve got the body for it and already have the shoes. Curl and tease your hair, and you’ll look perfect!”

  Perfect? Tricia doubted that. But it might be fun. Still, she wasn’t about to let her sister know that.

  “I guess I could,” Tricia said, sounding just a little bored.

  “Excellent.”

  “What’s Ginny dressing up as?”

  “I thought she’d make an adorable Holly Golightly.”

  “A redheaded Audrey Hepburn?”

  “All she needs is a little black dress, some rhinestones, and a cigarette holder.”

  Tricia shrugged. “If she’s game, I don’t see the problem. What about Grace?”

  “Uh, she may not want to appear in costume—that’s what the dress-up box is for.”

  “Okay,” Tricia said, feeling just a little beaten.

  “Great.”

  Angelica’s mood had done a one-eighty since they’d changed topics. And if Tricia was truthful, her own spirits had risen, too.

  The next day’s forecast was for sunny skies; the location was wonderful. The food and cake would be divine. Pixie’s shower would be perfect, filled with happy memories, and a good time would be had by all.

  Of that, Tricia had no doubt.

  FOURTEEN

  As predicted, the skies dawned clear, and the weatherman assured his audience that the temperature wouldn’t go higher than seventy-six.

  Tricia showed up at her store just before opening. She’d given Pixie the day off, and Mr. Everett arrived looking dapper in a crisp white shirt and blue-and-white polka dot bow tie, which had been a birthday gift from Pixie. He looked very pleased indeed. It wasn’t often that Tricia left the store in his charge. Not because she didn’t trust him—because she did; with her life. But he worried so about making a mistake or charging a customer too much. But this was to be a very special day, and Mr. Everett had been adamant about not closing the store during Pixie’s bridal shower.

  “That woman stuff is just that—for ladies. I wouldn’t be comfortable in that kind of situation, and this way I can not only give you a break, but assure that dear Pixie will have a wonderful day.”

  “You are so sweet,” Tricia said, and gave him a peck on the cheek, which made his cheeks glow a rosy pink.

  Angelica’s car pulled up outside Haven’t Got a Clue, and she honked the horn.

  “You’d better get going,” Mr. Everett advised, and Tricia grabbed her shoes—the only part of her costume Angelica would let her provide—and headed out the door. “I’ve got my cell phone. Call me if you have any problems.”

  “I will,” he promised, and waved a cheery good-bye.

  Ginny was already in the car, riding shotgun, and both she and Angelica were wearing matching (and probably brand-new) Ray-Bans.

  “Do we look cool or what?” Ginny called as Tricia hopped into the backseat.

  “Very cool,” Tricia agreed as Ginny handed her a pair of the same glasses, which she donned before buckling up.

  Angelica checked her side mirror and then took off with a girlish squeal.

  “I’ve only been gone from home for ten minutes, and already I’m loving girls’ day out!” Ginny called as the wind rushed through their hair from all four open windows.

  “We are in for some serious pampering today, girls. Hair, makeup, nails, lunch—the works!” Angelica promised.

  “Shouldn’t we have invited Pixie to join us? I mean, it is her day.”

  “I did invite her,” Angelica said, “but she said she had some last-minute details to take care of. She bought a new dress—”

  “New?” Ginny demanded, laughing.

  “New for her,” Angelica clarified, “and it needed some alterations.”

  “I sometimes think Pixie would be better off working as a tailor,” Ginny said. “She does beautiful work.”

  “Hey, I need her. It took pretty big feet to fill your shoes. The third time might not be the charm,” Tricia said, and Ginny laughed.

  The Stoneham Salon and Day Spa wasn’t far from the heart of the village, and Angelica pulled into their crowded parking lot. “I dropped off our frocks—and your pants, Tricia—earlier. After lunch, we can dress right here and go straight to the party.”

  “Sounds like another one of your great plans,” Ginny said with enthusiasm.

  They got out of the car, each of them bringing their purses and extra shoes, and entered the day spa.

  Tricia hadn’t yet had an opportunity to check out Angelica’s latest business venture under her Nigela Ricita umbrella, but it was undoubtedly classic Angelica. In other words: gorgeous. And, Tricia was pleased to note, every hair and nail station was occupied. And it wasn’t just tourists who were partaking of the services on offer. Tricia recognized a few familiar faces, including Carol Talbot’s neighbor, who was having her roots touched up. She gave Tricia a vague kind of wave as she, Ginny, and Angelica were escorted to their private room.

  Private room! It reminded Tricia of the spa on board the Celtic Lady cruise ship, where she and Angelica had had their nails done. And like at that spa, the three women were given pretty pink smocks and led to the pedicure baths.

  “Oh, I could get used to this,” Ginny said as they took their seats at the three pedi stations. And soon their toes were surrounded by warm, swirling water. “This is the life,” she said, then leaned back in her padded chair and sighed. “I feel like I haven’t got a care in the world. Until I start thinking about Monday, that is.”

  “Oh, don’t do that,” Angelica admonished.

  “But I need to. I have so many things on my plate if I’m going to get this wine and jazz festival finalized before Wednesday. I feel terribly guilty for taking a day off right before the final push.”
/>   “But that’s exactly when you need to be your freshest. And you can’t do your best work if your muscles are tied up in knots and your nail polish is chipped,” Angelica said. To Tricia’s knowledge, her sister had never had a chipped nail in her entire life.

  “I have learned so much in the past few months, sometimes I think my head will explode,” Ginny said as one of the spa’s workers entered the room, offering a refreshing cucumber-and-lime-infused mineral water to each of them.

  “No, thanks,” Angelica said. “We’re fine.”

  Ginny looked a little confused, and Tricia surmised that she would have liked to try the concoction. But then Angelica reached for her enormous purse and pulled out a thermos and, from a plastic bag, three plastic cups. “I thought it might be nicer to share a few mimosas.”

  Ginny perked right up. “I’m game.”

  And so the women sipped their drinks while their tootsies soaked.

  “So what’s the latest gossip around the village?” Ginny asked.

  “Not much,” Angelica said, giving Tricia a knowing look. There was no way either of them was going to mention their father—and they hoped no one else would, either.

  “Next to the wine and jazz festival, Carol Talbot’s murder pales,” Tricia said, noting how the color of her drink went so well with the decor.

  “Everybody in my office—except me, that is—knew her,” Ginny said. “They all had stories to tell, too.”

  “Oh?” Tricia asked.

  “That she was a bit of a lush.”

  Knew that. Move on, Tricia thought.

  “That she used to take very long walks around the village, sometimes walking to Milford or Wilton and back.”

  Did Carol do a lot of thinking—contemplating—on those walks?

  “And one of the girls said she saw the old bat at the professional building up by the highway.”

  That was where several doctors and dentists who served the village worked.

  “Any office in particular?” Angelica asked.

  “Yeah, Dr. Kennedy—the shrink.”

  “Really?” Angelica said, sounding halfway interested.

  Ginny nodded. “The girls, and I don’t know why I call them that, since all of them are at least ten years older than me, had a field day speculating about Carol’s problem.”

  Her problem was that she was a child murderer and may have never gotten beyond that terrible crime. Or maybe—as Lois Kerr had pointed out—she hadn’t ever come to terms with that fact and hadn’t appeared to feel any remorse. Ginny didn’t mention Carol’s sordid past, so maybe none of the women in her office was old enough to remember. Or was it that people in New England just didn’t talk about those things? Although Tricia had never had much trouble getting some of the citizens of Stoneham to open up to her. Perhaps it was because she had an honest face. She’d inherited it from her Grandma Miles, who apparently hadn’t passed that trait along to her ne’er-do- well son.

  “This latest murder has once again put us at the bottom of the list for safest village in New Hampshire,” Angelica groused. “Why couldn’t we be just some lovely, sleepy village? No, instead there seems to be an undercurrent of passion that boils twenty-four/seven beneath the soil—or is it something in the water?”

  “Maybe,” Ginny agreed, “but I’m guessing there’s no water in these drinks, so I think we’re safe.”

  Tricia couldn’t help herself, and she grinned.

  The conversation turned back to the upcoming festival, and Angelica listened, enraptured, as Ginny went through the tasks she was doing and overseeing to make this first incarnation of the festival a success. But Tricia’s thoughts circled back to Ginny’s mention of Carol consulting a psychologist—or was the doctor a psychiatrist? Because of doctor-patient confidentiality—and HIPAA laws—Tricia was never likely destined to find out.

  • • •

  After a light lunch catered by the Brookview Inn—which consisted of field greens with a vinaigrette dressing—that Angelica said was more than enough, as there was to be an ungodly amount of appetizers, sugar, and fatty retro foods sure to clog everyone’s arteries at the party, they donned their costumes and Angelica drove them to the Sheer Comfort Inn, parking in the reserved spot that was always open just for her.

  Pale pink roses spilled over the picket fence out front, while white wicker chairs, love seat, and tables with matching blue-and-white striped pillows decorated the porch. The weather cooperated, delivering a sunny day that wasn’t too hot—and with low humidity.

  They entered through the kitchen and met Sarah Morgan, the current innkeeper, who assured Angelica that everything was indeed ready for the party.

  They walked through the dining room and into the living room, both of which had gone through an astounding transformation. Gone—or at least disguised—were the antiques and quaint furnishings that fitted the Victorian-era home. The place now looked like it had been primped by a set designer.

  Sarah had performed the sleight of hand, covering the furnishings with white sheets and adding black-and-white-checked throw pillows. Posters of movie stars and singers adorned the walls. An old record player sat on a table in the corner with a stack of forty-five RPM records on the spindle: Patti Page, Buddy Holly, Connie Francis, Elvis, and more. In the dining room, the sideboard was covered in the same checkered fabric, with a matching throw rug to complete the transformation. Pink fuzzy dice hung from the chandelier. Where had they gotten all the memorabilia?

  Grace was the first of the guests to arrive, and she gushed over the party’s nineteen-fifties theme. She was soon followed by Mary Fairchild and a couple of members from Haven’t Got a Clue’s Tuesday night book club.

  Grace had donned a blue pillbox hat with a short veil that perfectly set off the pearls that hung from her neck. The other guests raided the dress-up box and were busy taking selfies when at precisely two o’clock, Grace said, “Everyone’s here but Pixie.”

  “She’s probably going to make an entrance,” Ginny guessed, and struck a pose with her cigarette-holder prop. She looked adorable dressed as Audrey Hepburn.

  The roar of a big engine caused the women to move en masse to the parlor’s front windows. Pixie had indeed arrived in style. In fact, in a big classic convertible. It pulled up to the front of the Sheer Comfort Inn with Fred behind the wheel. He parked, got out of the driver’s side, and ran to the passenger side to open the door and help his white-gloved lady disembark. Pixie was dressed to the hilt in a firecracker-red polka dot dress that perfectly matched the car’s paint job, sunglasses, and a white scarf draped around her head to preserve her do from the wind.

  Everyone ran onto the porch to laugh and applaud as a red-faced Fred escorted Pixie up the walk. Pixie looked like a movie star from the golden age of Hollywood—looking joyful—as though she were greeting her fans on a red carpet.

  “Welcome!” Tricia called and laughed. For some odd reason, she felt as though she ought to be throwing confetti.

  “Oh, you look divine!” Angelica called.

  “Thank you, thank you,” Pixie said as she mounted the stairs, blowing kisses to her waiting public. “Thank you all for coming.”

  “Let’s get this party started,” Ginny called, and opened the porch door to allow first Pixie to enter, and then the rest of the ladies.

  “Great car, Fred. Is it yours? What make is it?” Tricia asked.

  Fred fumbled with the set of keys in his hand, not meeting her gaze. “A nineteen fifty-nine Cadillac Eldorado. It’s not mine. I borrowed it from a buddy of mine. He takes it to all the car shows around the state. I thought Pixie might like to arrive in style.”

  “Would you like to stay for the festivities?” Angelica said.

  “Uh, no, thanks. All this girl stuff makes me crazy. Besides, I don’t want to leave the car alone for a second. My buddy will kill me if I return it with a scratch
on it.”

  “We’ll save you some goodies. I assume you’ll be back to pick Pixie up.”

  “Sure thing.”

  He gave a good-bye wave and headed back for the car. Angelica went back inside the inn, but Tricia hung back. “Fred!”

  Fred turned.

  Tricia hurried over to the car. “Is something wrong?”

  “Uh. Well.” He seemed to find the front seat of the vintage car to be of infinite interest. “I, uh . . .”

  “What is it you’re trying not to tell me?”

  “Well . . . I sort of had to ask your father to leave my apartment.”

  Of course.

  “Can I ask why?”

  “It just wasn’t working out.”

  “Did it have anything to do with the stolen cold cuts from Booked for Lunch?”

  Fred looked panicked. “I didn’t know where they came from. Thursday night he called me with some screwy plan,” Fred babbled. “I didn’t want anything to do with it. I told him—”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” Then Tricia forced herself to ask the next dreaded question. “Has he stolen from you?”

  “No! Well. Not stolen. Borrowed and . . . hasn’t returned it.”

  Oh dear. And after Pixie had warned him to take all his valuables out of the apartment.

  “Can it be replaced?”

  “Not really. It was my father’s watch. It wasn’t worth much, just sentimental value.”

  “I see.” She forced a smile. “I’ll do my best to see that it’s returned to you.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Tricia.”

  “And I appreciate your kindness to my father and am so sorry he repaid you in this manner.”

  Fred just shrugged and again didn’t seem able to look her in the eye.

  Peals of laughter came through the screened windows overlooking the porch, reminding Tricia she had a party to attend.

  “Thank you for all you’ve done for Pixie. You’ve changed her life,” Fred said.