Angelica didn’t comment, and neither did she react to his words.
“See you later,” she said as John dug for the room key in his pants pocket.
“I’ll be back with your things in a little while,” Tricia promised, and leaned forward to kiss his cheek.
“At least one of my children still cares about me,” John muttered as Angelica continued on to her car.
“She’s just upset with you, Daddy, and with cause.”
He shrugged.
Tricia waited until he entered the bungalow and closed the door before hurrying after her sister. Angelica was already in the car with the engine running.
Tricia got in. “Are you okay?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You seem upset.”
Angelica eased the shift into reverse and backed out of the parking space. “I am. I’m upset that Daddy could be so flippant about the trouble he’s caused. That he doesn’t seem to care that he keeps making us look bad. And that he’s a suspect in a murder case.”
“You don’t really think he killed Carol, do you?”
“Of course not. But that doesn’t mean the chief won’t try to pin her murder on him.” She steered out of the parking lot and headed back toward the village. “It’s bad enough my ex is a killer,” she said, referring to Bob Kelly. “But I don’t know how I’d live it down to find out my father is a murderer, too.”
“What did you make of Daddy’s comment that Carol was”—she didn’t want to use the same term her father had used—“open to having sex with him—and boy do I wish I didn’t know about that.”
“Daddy’s a man. They love to brag about their prowess. But I must say, I’m rather amazed he’s still interested. Do you think he uses Viagra?”
“I don’t know or care!”
Angelica smiled. “Most children don’t want to think about their parents having sex—but that’s how we got here.”
And again, Tricia wondered if it was John who was Angelica’s biological father. She scrutinized her sister’s face. She definitely had the Miles nose. Okay, so she probably was John’s daughter—unless he had a brother they’d never known about. But that didn’t mean he was married to their mother at the time of her conception. It was something she needed to ponder. Maybe she should do some genealogical research to find out just what year her parents had married.
Then again, who cared? The past was the past.
Only it wasn’t for her mother.
“Do you want me to drop you off at your store?”
“No. I may as well head straight to the drugstore to get the things Daddy needs, so you can drop me off at my car.”
“Right.”
A minute later, Angelica pulled into the municipal parking lot, steered over to Tricia’s car, and parked two spaces away.
“What do you want to do about dinner?” Angelica asked.
“Are you up to cooking?”
“Yes. I always feel better when I’m preparing food.”
“What will we have?”
“What else? Zucchini in some way, shape, or form.”
“Sounds okay to me.”
“Great. I’ll see you after you close your store,” Angelica said.
“Right.”
The sisters parted, and Tricia got into her own vehicle, which was stifling hot. She started the engine and opened the windows before taking off.
As she pulled out of the lot, she noticed activity on the village square. Ginny stood on the sidewalk near a truck from R & A Tents and Awnings, speaking to a man who was probably the driver. Ginny caught sight of her and waved. Tricia waved back.
The first annual Stoneham Wine and Jazz Festival would start in only two days. Poor Carol Talbot was dead—never to witness or be a part of the fun.
It was a sobering thought. Tricia had already had too many sobering thoughts that day. She turned on the radio and Katy Perry belted out her latest hit. Still, thoughts of Carol Talbot seemed to shadow her thoughts, and she wondered when the dead woman would stop haunting her.
TWENTY
The parking lot of the big chain drugstore in Milford was nearly empty when Tricia parked her car. She got out and headed into the store. Once inside, she opted for a cart instead of a basket. John’s list of things he wanted was fairly extensive.
She read the overhead signs and located the aisle that stocked shaving cream. It had been a long time since she’d purchased that item. Her former husband, Christopher, hadn’t been fussy, but her father had requested a specific brand, as well as a new razor and blades. Ouch! They were expensive! She found them, then the toothpaste, an arthritis-strength pain reliever—was he hurting and hadn’t mentioned it?—as well as other sundries. Last on the list was a bag of peppermints. She’d forgotten that her father often had a stash of peppermints on him at any given time. Her mother would never let her eat them. She said they promoted tooth decay, but her father liked to sneak them to Tricia whenever her mother was out of earshot.
With the list exhausted, Tricia steered her cart toward the cash desk and was surprised to see Carol’s neighbor manning the register.
“Hi,” Tricia called, noted the name tag on the woman’s smock, and added, “Ellen. Remember me? We spoke last Wednesday evening.”
The woman studied Tricia’s face for a moment before recognition dawned. “Oh, yes. You were with the woman who had the Bichon Frise—Sarge.”
“That’s right. I’m Tricia Miles. I run the mystery bookstore, Haven’t Got a Clue, in Stoneham.”
“I read romances—and the steamier the better,” Ellen said with a crooked smile.
“Do you patronize the Have a Heart romance store in Stoneham?”
Ellen shook her head. “I have an e-reader.” She left it at that.
Tricia started taking the items out of her cart and putting them on the counter. “Shopping for a friend?” Ellen asked, ringing up the shaving cream.
“My father, actually. He’s visiting Stoneham.”
“That’s nice. All our relatives live out of state.”
“Just like Carol’s,” Tricia commented idly. “I heard she was originally from Indiana.”
Ellen’s expression soured. “I guess.”
“I was wondering what would happen to Carol’s house.”
Ellen shrugged.
“I understand her husband had quite a collection.”
“What?” Ellen asked sharply.
“That he collected baseball cards or something.”
“Oh, yeah,” Ellen said, and went back to ringing up the sale. “I saw it. It wasn’t all that great.”
Tricia nodded. “Do you know if there’ll be a funeral service for Carol?”
Again, Ellen shrugged.
Her lack of interest in her neighbor seemed a little odd, considering she’d been willing to talk about Carol less than a week before. Tricia tried again. “It won’t seem the same without her at the pub tonight. There’s a tournament. She was one of our best players.”
“Look, I don’t really want to talk about her.” The emphasis she put on that last word was distinctly unfriendly.
“Sorry. I just thought that as you and she were friends—”
“She may have been my friend at one time, but no longer.”
Of course not; Carol was now dead. But had Ellen had a change of heart before or after that death? Tricia thought she knew the answer to that question.
“I’m sorry. I just thought—”
Ellen didn’t let her finish the sentence. “That’ll be forty-six dollars and sixty-seven cents.”
Tricia pulled out her credit card and swiped the machine on the counter. Ellen handed her the slip to sign and waited impatiently for Tricia to hand it back. She gave Tricia the final receipt and shoved the three plastic bags Tricia’s way.
“Tha
nks for shopping with us today.” A dismissal if ever Tricia had heard one.
“It was nice talking to you,” Tricia said, but Ellen folded her arms across her chest and just looked at her. Tricia plastered on a faux smile. “Bye.”
Still nothing.
Tricia gathered up the bags and exited the store. And she wondered why the subject of Carol Talbot was suddenly off-limits with Ellen.
• • •
It took about fifteen minutes for Tricia to drive back to the Brookview Inn. She got out of her car, gathered the bags, locked the car, and headed for bungalow two. Transferring the third bag to her left hand, she knocked on the door. “Daddy. It’s Tricia.”
No answer.
Maybe he was in the bathroom.
She waited thirty seconds before knocking again.
Still no answer.
Feeling a bit panicky, she walked over to the window, but the drapes were drawn. What if he’d had another heart attack? What if he hadn’t been able to summon help and was lying on the floor helpless—or worse!
Angelica had a master key to all the rooms, but she was back in the village.
Tricia hurried to the main building, ran up the steps, and then jogged to the front desk, with the can of shaving cream banging against her leg like a truncheon, but no one was standing at reception.
“Hello! Is anybody here? I need help!”
Still no one appeared, so Tricia dropped the bags on the floor and hurried over to Antonio’s office. She banged on his office door, then tried the handle. It was unlocked.
She shoved her head inside his office. Antonio was on the phone, but said to his caller, “Just a moment. Tricia, what’s wrong?”
“It’s Daddy. I went to the store to get him some things he needed not half an hour ago and now I can’t get him to answer the door. I’m worried he might have had another heart attack.”
“I’m sorry,” he spoke into the phone again. “I’ll have to call you back, I have an emergency.” He hung up the phone and rose to his feet. “Bungalow two?”
“Yes.”
They hurried out into the lobby, where Tricia bent to grab the bags and her purse. Antonio took two of the bags and took off down the hall, with Tricia trailing behind.
By the time she caught up with him at the bungalow, he’d already opened the door and entered and was nowhere in sight.
“Antonio!”
He came out from the bathroom, shaking his head. “There’s no one here.”
“But that can’t be!”
Antonio shrugged.
Tricia set the bags down on the coffee table and looked around before she headed for the dresser. Yanking open a drawer, she saw that John’s clothes were still there, but there was no other sign of him.
“I don’t understand it. He’s got no money, and no transportation.” She remembered what her father had said earlier; that he was a prisoner there. She hadn’t spied him walking on the sidewalk when she’d steered for the inn, and it was a good fifteen-minute hike to the village. Where could he have gone—and more importantly, why had he left?
• • •
“Not again,” Angelica said with a weary sigh after Tricia had called to say their father had pulled yet another fast escape. “But if his clothes and everything else are still in the bungalow, he may still be coming back.”
“What should I do?”
“It could be hours—or even days—before he returns. I’d say go on with whatever you had planned for the rest of the day.”
“Doesn’t that seem rather—” Tricia struggled for a descriptor. Heartless wasn’t the word; it could be said her father’s vanishing act was heartless, when she’d told him she would soon be back from the store—and after dropping nearly fifty bucks for the things he’d requested. Disinterested? Oh, no—she was very interested in finding out where he’d gone, and why. She should take a day from Angelica’s planner and admit defeat, or at least resignation.
“Okay,” she said finally.
“We’ll still have a few drinks and a nice dinner together and be grateful we have each other.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll ask the desk to give Daddy a message to call us.”
“He’s got no outside line,” Angelica reminded her sister.
“Okay, then I’ll have them call me and I’ll call him back.” And give him a piece of my mind, too.
“Keep me posted,” Angelica said, and rang off.
Tricia put her phone away and headed for reception to ask for a call when her father returned, while feeling that it was probably a useless gesture. When the shift changed, the message was likely to be lost or abandoned.
On the drive back to Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia kept a watch for her father in case she saw him along the sidewalk. He’d said he couldn’t go anywhere except to walk. He had no money for a cab, but she hadn’t thought to check his wallet for credit or ATM cards. Some sleuth she was.
Tricia checked her watch as she left the municipal parking lot. It was already after three. What must her employees think of her constantly leaving the shop to run errands—and interference with her father?
Two tour buses were parked at the far side of the lot and the sidewalk was filled with people, but once again when she entered her noisy shop, the customers were few and far between. Pixie was back to wearing earplugs, and Mr. Everett was nowhere to be found.
“He went home,” Pixie reported. “He feels guilty working when there’s no money in the till. Besides, he said he feels bad leaving Miss Marple all alone. She’s used to having company most of the day, and Grace is a docent at the Horticultural Society this afternoon.”
Tricia nodded as the sound of banging continued unabated on the floor above. She reached for a pair of the earplugs. Conversation was out of the question under those conditions, and she and Pixie read for most of the rest of the afternoon. It was nearly five when the phone rang.
“Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia—”
“And this is Angelica. I’m running late and the Patisserie is going to close in a little while. Could you run down the block to see if they have any Italian or French bread left to go with our dinner?”
“Sure. It’s so dead here”—a loud bang overhead sounded as though to negate that remark—“I’ve got nothing else to do.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you around six.”
Tricia hung up the phone.
Pixie placed the fingers of her right hand against her forehead and struck a pose. “I see another errand in your future.”
“Angelica wants me to get a loaf of bread from the Patisserie. I’ll only be gone a few minutes.”
Pixie waved a hand as though in dismissal. “Like you said, you’ve got nothing else to do.”
Tricia grabbed her purse. “I’ll be right back.”
Luckily, Nikki had one unsold baguette left and she rang up the sale in no time. But as Tricia left the bakery, she paused, taking in the shop next door: the Have a Heart romance bookstore. On a whim, she decided to pay the owner a quick visit.
Unlike her own store, Have a Heart was quiet. Soft music played in the background while several women perused the shelves.
“Hi, Tricia,” Joyce Widman called in greeting. “I don’t think I ever remember you dropping by the store before. Did you suddenly change genres?”
Tricia and Joyce had become friendly at the Chamber of Commerce meetings, but this was the first time Tricia had ever actually entered the romance bookstore.
“You can’t talk me out of loving mysteries, but I could use a little of your expertise.”
Joyce laughed. “I don’t think I could call myself an expert on any subject, but I’m willing to take a shot at it. What’s on your mind?”
“I was speaking to a reader who told me she was a romance reader—and the steamier the better.”
“Oh,
yeah?”
Tricia nodded. “Do you carry a lot of hot titles?”
Joyce shook her head. “I sold a few copies of Fifty Shades of Grey and its sequels when they first came out, but most of my clientele like contemporary or historical romances.”
“So where do people buy the really steamy stuff?”
“Online. Erotica titles sell like hotcakes for e-readers, but I’ve also heard authors complain that they get returned a lot, too—cutting off their income.”
“Why’s that?”
“Readers—women and men—love the explicit stuff, but they don’t always want their friends and family to know they read it.”
That made sense. But Ellen hadn’t seemed at all ashamed to mention her preference—not that she’d actually used the word erotica. It was hard to think of the drab woman as overly interested in sex—but then, perhaps it was just that fact that made her preference understandable.
“Of course, Vamps sells a lot of vintage stuff.”
“Vamps?”
“The porn shop up by the highway. I met the owner at one of the Chamber mixers. What’s his name?” She looked thoughtful.
“Marshall Cambridge,” Tricia supplied. The guy hadn’t exactly been welcomed to the Chamber with open arms, but he paid his membership dues and hung out the Chamber shingle, and he had come to a couple of Chamber events when he first joined—but that was about the extent of his involvement with the organization. And he’d quickly become a regular at the Dog-Eared Page.
One of Joyce’s customers walked up to the register with her arms filled with books.
“I’d better get going. It was nice to see you. Talk to you more at the next Chamber meeting.”
“Bye,” Joyce called as Tricia left the store.
Armed with her baguette, Tricia headed back to Haven’t Got a Clue, thinking about what Joyce had said. Ellen said she liked steamy reading. Did she only read erotic e-books, or was there a chance she might also patronize a place that sold hard-copy versions of the genre?
Doing an about-face, Tricia headed toward the municipal parking lot to get her car. After all, it was too far a walk to pay a visit to Vamps.
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