A Just Clause

by Lorna Barrett

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Vamps parking lot was empty—for which Tricia was grateful. She really didn’t want to be caught dead—or alive—in the place. But it seemed that curiosity always got the better of her, and now that she was here, she knew she had to enter.

  Tricia got out of the car, looking around to see if anyone was around to witness her journey into the depths of what she thought might be the depraved, and entered the store. She must have triggered an electric eye, because a buzzer went off. Seconds later, a purple beaded curtain at the back of the shop parted, and Marshall Cambridge stepped into the shop.

  “Well, if it isn’t Stoneham’s village jinx,” Marshall called jovially.

  Tricia didn’t laugh. She loathed the phrase. “What can I do for you?” Marshall asked. “Need any marital aids?”

  “I’m not married.”

  “All the more reason to buy a sex toy or two to make your life more interesting.”

  Tricia still wasn’t laughing. Instead, she took in the shop, which housed quite a number of magazine racks with what looked like new and vintage copies of various glossy magazines aimed at men, women—and various combinations of the same. Along the walls were framed pictures of pinup girls—most of them nude—from what she guessed were the nineteen forties and fifties.

  “What can I do for you?” Marshall asked.

  “I understand that you sell a lot of erotica.”

  “I do indeed. What are you interested in?”

  “I’m not interested in anything of that nature.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “To ask you a few questions about your clientele.”

  “If you’re looking for names—forget it. I’d be out of business in a heartbeat if I ratted on the villagers who frequent my establishment.”

  “How about those who are dead?”

  “Such as?” Marshall asked warily.

  “Dale and Carol Talbot,” Tricia bluffed.

  Marshall’s head seemed to bow involuntarily. She had definitely struck a nerve.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I understand Dale had a very nice collection of erotica,” she bluffed.

  “I wouldn’t know. I only dealt with Carol.”

  That stood to reason; the shop had only been open for a few months, and Dale had died back into the winter. “Were you buying from or selling to her?”

  “Buying.”

  Tricia blinked. She hadn’t expected him to actually answer her question. “What kind of things?”

  “See these framed pinup illustrations?” Marshall asked. “They’re prints from artists like Mike Ludlow, Duane Bryers, and Gil Elvgren. They’re not especially valuable, but prime examples of what was available in the nineteen thirties, forties, and fifties.”

  “How much can you sell them for?”

  “I get about fifty bucks each.”

  Tricia nodded. “What else did Carol try to sell you?”

  “She brought in some vintage—Victorian—photographs. Not copies, the real thing. But there’s no way I could give her the prices she was asking for the stuff.”

  “What kinds of things are we talking about—besides photos?”

  Marshall shrugged. “Playing cards, books, and magazines.”

  “Where else could she sell them?”

  Marshall shrugged. “Online. She may have also tried to flog them with an auction house. But I did buy a number of the pinups.” Again he jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the framed beauties in provocative poses wearing little to nothing over their birthday suits.

  “Do you have any photos that are similar to what Carol wanted to sell you?”

  “Oh, sure.” He turned and opened an old, four-drawer oak cabinet, rummaged around for a bit, then pulled out a file folder of photos. He handed them to Tricia, who thumbed through them, wincing. There was no finesse to these photos. Unashamed women—who’d probably been outcasts in what was then a very straitlaced society—showed off what Mother Nature gave them, and in the most uncomplimentary of poses. You couldn’t even call the photos alluring, they were just . . . bad, with an almost textbook aesthetic.

  She handed them back to Marshall.

  “Not what you expected?”

  “No.” And not at all what she would have considered erotic. More . . . pathetic. “Collectors actually pay for these?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Marshall admitted.

  “When was the last time Carol came to see you?”

  “About a week ago.”

  “Did you buy anything?”

  “The last of her pinup girls.”

  “I don’t suppose she mentioned why she needed to sell the collection.”

  “Something about her health care not picking up the tab for something. I wasn’t really paying all that much attention.”

  What health care was that? Seeing the psychologist? Often insurance only paid for a certain amount of counseling visits. They expected their clients to shape up PDQ or go without such sessions.

  Tricia inspected the man before her. “I’m curious; what made you go into this business?”

  “Money, what else? People are always looking for cheap thrills, but these days they can get a hell of a lot of that on the Internet for free. My clientele wants the real thing, and they come to me from all over New England.”

  Tricia couldn’t imagine why.

  “Thank you for speaking with me.”

  “My pleasure. You wouldn’t want to pass out some of my business cards to your customers, would you?”

  “Sorry, I don’t think they’d go over well.”

  “It never hurts to ask,” Marshall said with a shrug.

  Tricia bid him adieu and headed back for her car.

  So, Carol had a collection of erotica she was trying to flog—pardon the pun. Tricia wondered if the collection was still intact—or at least as intact as it had been before Carol’s death.

  Did she dare ask Chief Baker about it? Had John seen the collection when he’d been rooting around for things of value to pawn? Was he likely to tell if she asked?

  Tricia got back in her car and drove back to the municipal parking lot, wondering just how valuable what she’d learned could actually be. And worse—what if it meant nothing at all?

  • • •

  Not long after Tricia returned to her store, the sidewalks cleared, the buses filled with tourists took off, and it was finally time to close the bookstore for the day. And still no one from the Brookview Inn had called to say that John had returned to his bungalow.

  The construction workers had already given up work for the day, and Pixie gathered her purse, pulling out her car keys. “Another day closer to my wedding,” she said, her tone sounding distinctly dreamy.

  “I need to look at the renovation of my home in the same light—only you have an actual date for your wedding and I only have vague threats about when they’ll be finished with construction.”

  “It’ll happen,” Pixie assured her.

  Out the corner of her eye, Tricia noticed a familiar figure ambling up the sidewalk.

  Pixie noticed, too. “Well, if it isn’t that author guy—Richardson.”

  Richardson stopped outside Haven’t Got a Clue’s big display window, seemingly contemplating the items on offer.

  “Do you want me to quickly turn the sign on the door to CLOSED?” Pixie asked.

  “No. If he wants to come in for a chat, I’m willing to talk.”

  Pixie waggled her eyebrows suggestively, but this time didn’t voice her hopes for an uptick in Tricia’s love life. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Have a good evening,” Tricia said, and Pixie pushed through the door, pausing only long enough to give Richardson a good once-over before she turned right and headed down the sidewalk.

&n
bsp; Richardson walked over to the door and entered the shop. “Are you still open, or am I too late?”

  “Too late for what?” Tricia asked.

  “To see how your investigation is going.”

  Tricia shrugged. So far her inquiries seemed to have gotten her next to nowhere. “I’ve got a few minutes I can talk, but then I’ve got a dinner appointment.” He didn’t have to know with whom.

  Richardson sauntered over to stand before the cash desk, resting his elbows on the glass top, then his head in his hands. “People around here don’t seem to want to open up to a stranger.”

  “Would you?”

  He shrugged as best he could. “Maybe. Maybe not. Are you having any better luck?”

  “That depends on your definition of success. To whom have you spoken?”

  “If I tell you, it might tip my hand.”

  “I could say the same thing.”

  He smiled. “Then it looks like we’re at an impasse.”

  “I guess so,” Tricia said, returning the smile.

  “I understand I wasn’t the only one who got slapped by Carol Talbot the night of the book signing.”

  “That’s true,” Tricia said, keeping her voice neutral.

  “I understand it was also your father.”

  “Word gets around.”

  “May I ask why she slapped him?”

  “From what I understand, he said something she didn’t like.”

  “And that was?”

  Tricia shrugged, declining to answer.

  “Is your father around?”

  “I can truthfully say that I have no idea where he currently is—but I would very much like to speak to him myself.”

  Richardson nodded. “Has your friend the police chief shared any news about Carol Talbot’s murder with you?”

  “I haven’t run into him lately,” she fibbed.

  “It doesn’t sound like he’s got any idea who may have killed Carol.”

  Except for possibly trying to pin the rap on my father, Tricia thought sourly. She glanced at the clock. “I really need to get going, or I’m going to be late for my dinner appointment.”

  “Is there any chance we could meet later for a nightcap?”

  “Tonight is darts tournament night at the Dog-Eared Page, and I’m playing.”

  “What time?”

  “Nine.”

  Richardson smiled. “Then I’ll be there to cheer you on.”

  Tricia smiled, too. “I’d like that.” She may as well make nice. Maybe then she could get some information out of him, since he didn’t seem inclined to share any just then.

  “Great. I’ll see you there.”

  Richardson headed back out the door, waved, and closed it behind him. Tricia walked to the back of the store to check the door to the alley to make sure the workers had locked it, came back to the front of the store, lowered the blinds, then grabbed her purse and the baguette Angelica had requested.

  Turning the sign on the door to CLOSED, she locked up and headed for the Cookery next door. The day had been filled with interesting tidbits of information that may or may not be relevant to Carol Talbot’s murder, and Tricia wasn’t sure what would end up being pertinent. Needing a neutral sounding board, she knew she had a lot to talk over with her sister.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Tricia’s canine welcoming committee was once again waiting behind the door of Angelica’s loft when she entered the apartment. Sarge jumped, barked, wagged his tail with wild abandon, and nearly did a backflip in his joy at seeing her once again.

  “Calm down—calm down, and I’ll give you a biscuit.”

  Sarge had an extensive vocabulary, and he also knew right where the biscuits were located, so he raced ahead of Tricia to the kitchen in the front of the building.

  “Hush!” Angelica commanded, and the dog instantly went silent, but his little butt wiggled as his tail pumped from side to side.

  Tricia set her keys and the baguette on the counter, dipped her hand in the lead crystal jar that held Sarge’s treats, and came up with two biscuits. She held out her hand until Sarge sat up smartly, then she tossed it in the air and he sprang to his feet, catching his treat and instantly crushing it between his teeth. He munched it down and stood, waiting for the next one. Tricia sniffed the biscuit, unable to fathom its appeal, then tossed it, too.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?” Angelica offered. She stood at the counter, once again grating a zucchini.

  “No thanks. I want to be sharp during the darts tournament later tonight.” Unlike many of the other contenders, Tricia chose not to imbibe until after game play, and often wondered if that alone might be the key to her success.

  “I’d almost forgotten about that,” Angelica said as she systematically reduced the veggie in her hand to pulp.

  “What’s on the menu tonight?” Tricia asked.

  “Quiche. I know it’s another eggy recipe, but who can turn down bacon?”

  Once upon a time, Tricia could—but no more.

  “So, what’s the dirt for the day—besides what you’ve already dumped on me,” Angelica asked.

  “I haven’t heard from Daddy—or anyone at the inn reporting on his return. For someone with no transportation—or money to pay for it—he sure seems to get around.”

  “I’ll say. Can you get the eggs out of the fridge?”

  Tricia opened the refrigerator and took out the carton, placing it on the counter near her sister’s work space.

  “Just before I came over here, Steven Richardson arrived at my store to pump me for information.”

  “Oh?”

  “He wanted to know why Carol slapped Daddy.”

  “And you said?”

  Tricia shrugged. “I played it cool, but didn’t give him the answers he wanted.” She frowned. “I like the guy, but I don’t trust him as far as I can throw a dart.”

  “It was rude of him to stand you up for lunch.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I just get the feeling that maybe he’s up to no good.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. The way he spoke—kind of slyly—made me think that he thought he’d pulled a fast one on me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Again Tricia shrugged. “I don’t know. But he said he would be at the Dog-Eared Page to watch the darts tournament tonight.”

  “Will it throw you off your game?”

  Tricia took her usual seat at the kitchen island. “Not a chance.”

  “Anything else worth mentioning?”

  “Several things, actually. I ran into Ellen Shields at the drugstore.”

  “And she is?”

  “Carol’s neighbor—you know, Sarge’s fan.”

  Angelica nodded, then went back to work. “I suppose you grilled her.”

  “I did nothing of the kind. We had a brief conversation.”

  “Did she reveal anything juicy?”

  “She seems to have changed her mind about Carol. No glowing reports of her being a good neighbor.”

  “Why the switch?”

  “I don’t know. But she admitted she likes to read erotica.”

  “She said that out loud in the drugstore?”

  “Not exactly. But after I got the baguette, I dipped into the Have a Heart bookstore and spoke with Joyce.” Tricia told her what the shopkeeper had had to say.

  Angelica waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, everybody and their brother read Fifty Shades of Grey, it doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “I didn’t read it.”

  “Well, I did,” Angelica said.

  “And?” Tricia asked, curiously.

  She frowned. “It got tiresome. I’d rather read a cookbook. Then at least I might learn something new.”

  “What?” Trici
a practically shouted, appalled at the implication.

  Angelica frowned. “Oh, you’ve got a dirty mind. I’ve never been into kinky sex, but I know plenty of people who were—and I definitely mean that in the past tense.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  Angelica resumed her grating. “It’s not nice to tell tales.”

  Tricia sighed, reminding herself that her sister was very good at keeping secrets. “Anyway, Joyce reminded me that Marshall Cambridge owns a porn shop down by the highway.”

  Angelica shook her head and her expression soured, as though she’d just tasted something bitter. “And what does that have to do with Carol Talbot’s murder or Ellen?”

  “It seems Carol’s husband had quite a stash of sexually explicit photos, pinup pictures, books, and magazines. Carol was selling it off piecemeal—perhaps to pay for her psychological counseling.”

  “Who said she needed counseling?”

  “People Ginny works with. Should we get the bacon going?”

  “It’s in the fridge. Take it out and I’ll cook it.”

  “I can do that,” Tricia offered.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  Tricia retrieved the bacon from the fridge, then took one of Angelica’s heavy skillets from the cupboard and set it on the stove. She washed her hands before opening the package and laid half the contents in the pan, then turned on the burner. She put the package back in the fridge and washed her hands once more. They continued talking while they worked.

  “What else did Marshall have to say?”

  “He didn’t want to pay the prices that Carol was asking and suggested she might be trying to sell the collection online. I wonder what Grant Baker would say if I mentioned all this to him.”

  “He’d probably tell you to mind your own business.”

  That was a distinct possibility. Tricia gave up on that line of conversation. “So how was your day?” she asked, and took out a fork so she could turn the bacon when necessary, noting her fingers still felt a little greasy.

  Angelica sighed. “Very long. Nigela had to approve some last-minute details for the wine and jazz fest.”

  “Is Ginny having problems?”

  “No, but one of her vendors was playing hardball. She tried to handle it herself, but the guy was a total jerk.”