“Oh, dear. She’s terribly afraid she’s going to disappoint you.”
“Pulling this event together was a nearly impossible task, and she’s managed it brilliantly. I simply reminded the vendor—in my no-nonsense voice—of our contract, and threatened to never work with him again.”
“Couldn’t Ginny have done that?”
“She will—next time.”
“What else?”
“Much as I love the job, I’ve got to give up something, and it looks like come fall it’ll be the Chamber presidency.”
“That’s too bad—you’ve done a wonderful job. Much better than your predecessor.”
“We won’t speak his name,” Angelica said acidly. She’d get no argument from Tricia.
Neither had uttered Bob Kelly’s name since the day he’d shot Christopher.
“You would make a great president. You shadowed me for months when you volunteered to help out after your shop burned. You’d be a terrific candidate.”
“I never thought about it.”
“Think,” Angelica said, turning her no-nonsense gaze on her sister, before reaching for her wineglass.
It seemed like whatever Angelica wanted—she got. But as Tricia considered the idea, she found it wasn’t at all repugnant.
Tricia looked around the kitchen, noting there wasn’t a cookbook in sight. “Where’s your recipe?”
“I’ve made so many quiches over the years, I don’t even need to consult one.” Angelica washed her hands, dried them, and then began breaking eggs into a bowl. “How’s that bacon coming along?”
“Nearly done.”
Angelica whisked the eggs to a mighty froth, then reached for the pie pan nearby. It looked—and the kitchen smelled—like she’d prebaked the crust. Sarge wandered back into the kitchen and settled beside Angelica, looking hopeful.
“You know it’s not time to eat yet. Why don’t you go back to your basket to wait?” But Sarge didn’t seem inclined to do as she instructed and began to whine.
“You know that tactic doesn’t work with me,” Angelica admonished, and turned back to work on her quiche.
Tricia turned the bacon for one last time. “I think this is done.”
“Oh, good. Bring the pan over here and we can drain the grease before we add the bacon to the egg mixture.”
Tricia turned off the burner and grasped the pan’s handle with her right hand, but it still felt gummy from the greasy bacon she’d handled, and she switched to her left. As she turned, Sarge leapt to his feet, startling her. The pan tipped, and she went to grab it with her free hand—forgetting how hot it would be. The bacon grease spilled onto the top of her right hand and she cried out, dropping the pan on the floor with a resounding crash.
“Tricia!” Angelica hollered—sounding fearful, not angry—and Sarge took off at a gallop.
Shocked, Tricia just stood there—holding her wrist, gasping. Angelica grabbed her elbow and pulled her toward the sink, and both of them nearly fell on the greasy floor. Angelica turned on the cold water and plunged Tricia’s hand under it.
“Oh, oh—that hurts. It hurtsithurtsithurts,” Tricia grated, wincing.
“I’m so sorry,” an agitated Angelica cried. “You know that Sarge would never mean to—”
“Oh, don’t be silly. He just thought he was going to get a treat.”
And he had. For they looked down to see the dog had returned and was not only scarfing up the bacon on the floor—but was licking up the grease as well.
“Sarge! Stop that,” Angelica ordered, but the allure of bacon was not to be denied, and in no time he’d eaten every piece.
“Well, at least it’ll be easier for you to clean the floor,” Tricia said, still wincing.
Angelica reduced the flow of water. “I’ve dealt with a lot of burns. You need to keep that hand under the water for at least ten minutes, and then we can assess the damage.”
Tricia’s heart sank. The darts tournament! Despite the cool water, the skin on the top of her hand still burned. Would she be able to play at all? She sighed. “What will we do about dinner?”
“There’s still half a package of bacon in the fridge. I’ll clean up the rest of the mess and get it going. That is, if you can even stand the sight of bacon after this.”
“I’m not going to let this little incident put me off bacon for life.” She pulled her hand back from the stream and examined it. The skin was bright pink and smarting. She plunged it back under the faucet.
Tricia glanced up to take in her sister’s guilt-filled eyes glistening with tears and knew she needed to lighten the tension.
“You know, I think I’ll take that drink, after all.”
TWENTY-THREE
“You don’t have to go,” Angelica said, as she and Tricia left her apartment and walked down the sidewalk toward the Dog-Eared Page just before nine o’clock.
“If I don’t show up, everyone will think I’m afraid to face the Purple Finch team.”
“Well then, you don’t have to stay. Just show them your hand and that will shut up anyone who thinks you’re faking an injury. You’ve got a nasty second-degree burn.”
Over the years, Angelica had seen—and experienced—a number of kitchen accidents. Tricia trusted her assessment. The hand looked and still felt vile. Tricia kept her arm raised, as letting it hang made the burn throb. It was going to take a while for the skin to heal.
The bar was crowded, as it was every month on darts tournament night. As reigning champion, Tricia always made sure she was there to play—not necessarily to win, but because she enjoyed the competition, and now she was disappointed that it might be a month or more before she could play again.
Michele saw the sisters standing just inside the door and hurried over to join them, catching sight of Tricia’s bright pink hand. “Goodness. What did you do to yourself?”
“Bacon grease,” Angelica answered for her.
“That’s nasty. I imagine it’s quite painful.”
“You’ve got that right,” Tricia said. “Unfortunately, I could hardly hold a fork to eat dinner. There’s no way I can play tonight.”
“I’m so sorry. It looks like the Dog-Eared Page has lost both its stars this week.”
“But only temporarily,” Angelica said firmly.
“Yes, quite.” Michele looked back at the crowd in the back of the pub. Maybe it was because Carol had died that so many had gathered and it was standing room only. Were those who weren’t regulars only there to gawk? As Tricia looked at all their faces, mixed in among her friends and acquaintances, she recognized Ellen’s husband among the crowd. Maybe she’d finally learn his name.
“I wanted to let you know that there’ll be a toast in Carol’s honor before game play,” Michele continued. “Would you like to say something?”
“Um,” Tricia stalled. “I . . . don’t think so. I mean, I didn’t know her well at all. In fact, we barely ever said hello to one another.” Not that Tricia hadn’t tried—and on more than one occasion.
“That’s all right. You seem to be in the majority.” Michele looked at her watch. “I’d better get things moving.”
“Do you want something from the bar?” Angelica asked.
“A new hand?” Tricia suggested.
“Sorry. No can do.”
“Then a glass of wine, thank you.”
“Coming right up.”
Tricia strayed to the back of the room to listen to the pub manager’s speech.
Michele elbowed her way through the crowd, but stopped at the bar to pick up a glass of what looked like a gin and tonic in one hand and a spoon in the other. She moved to stand before the darts board on the south wall and clinked the spoon against the glass to gain everyone’s attention. Once they’d quieted, she spoke.
“Welcome, everyone, to the Dog-Eared Page’s mon
thly darts tournament,” Michele began. “But before we begin, let us remember Carol Talbot. Although she was only a recent addition to the regulars here at the pub, she proved herself to be a worthy darts player.”
Everyone listened attentively, but that seemed to be about all Michele had been prepared to say. It was Carol’s neighbor who finally lifted his glass of beer and said, “Hear, hear.”
“Hear, hear,” many of the onlookers said, but for the amount of people in attendance, not nearly enough of them had spoken up.
Tricia watched as the man took a healthy swig of his beer. Funny, his wife had said they didn’t drink. She looked around, but Ellen didn’t seem to have joined her husband that night.
Michele gave a quick recap of the rules of the games of 301 and 501, and then each of the players who’d signed up for that evening, including the Purple Finchers, stepped forward to take their nine warm-up shots. Surprisingly enough, it was Carol’s neighbor who stepped up when Michele called out “Bradley Shields” as one of the opposing players.
“Unfortunately,” Michele said. “We’ve had a player drop out. Tricia Miles has injured her hand and won’t be able to play tonight.”
The crowd groaned. How many bets had already been lost? A number of people came up to her to offer their regrets, but also insisted on looking at her hand. The skin was puffy and red, with one large blister and a number of smaller ones clustered around it. More than one person winced.
Michele had a job quieting the group, and Tricia decided to move back and away from the play. Now that the tournament was about to begin, a number of tables had emptied. She spied Angelica sitting at one of them and moved to join her.
“I figured you’d like to watch the tournament,” Angelica said from her seat that faced away from the back of the bar.
Tricia slipped into the booth and watched as Shields strode up to take his place in front of the board. He threw three darts, garnering what would have been a good score had they actually been playing. No doubt about it; he was good—possibly as good as Carol had been. As they were neighbors, perhaps he and Carol had played the game together on a regular basis.
As usual, Michele acted as the official scorekeeper, as well as the mistress of ceremonies. She called out the names of the other two contenders, and she watched with interest as they threw their practice shots.
For all the hype about how good they were, there really was only one good player on the Purple Finchers team: Bradley Shields. It would be Jamie Henderson against Shields, and Dave Watson, one of the construction workers from Tricia’s renovation, stepped up to play against Jim Thorton. Without Tricia and Carol playing, the atmosphere was decidedly testosterone-charged.
Tricia had played against Henderson several times and wasn’t surprised when Shields easily defeated him. Watson was better, but not up to Tricia’s standard, and he went down nearly as fast.
Tricia turned her attention to her glass on the table and also noticed a small bowl of ice water and a handful of cocktail napkins sitting before her.
“You can soak the napkins and place them on your hand. It’ll make it feel better,” Angelica advised.
“You always take such good care of me,” Tricia said, offering her sister a wan smile.
“That’s what big sisters do.”
For the next ten minutes, Tricia alternated between watching the tournament and gently blotting the burn with the cold, wet napkins. It did seem to help.
At last Michele announced the winning team, which was no surprise: the Purple Finchers.
Oh well, there was always next time.
The other patrons drifted back to their seats and the music started up again. A rather smug-looking Brad stepped up to Tricia’s table. “I’m sorry we didn’t have the opportunity to play against each other.”
“As am I,” Tricia said truthfully.
“Carol said you were the best darts player in the village.”
“I’m honored that she thought so. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking that question?”
“Not at all.”
“Did you ever offer to buy Carol a drink?” Shields asked.
Tricia frowned. “I don’t think so.”
Shields shrugged. “Then I think I’ll pass.”
At his refusal, Tricia forced a smile. “Perhaps we’ll get to play some other day, Mr. Shields.”
“Call me Brad. And we will play sometime,” he said rather smugly, then nodded and headed for the door.
Angelica sipped her wine. “If nothing else, you’re still undefeated.”
Tricia looked behind her to watch Shields leave and caught sight of Steven Richardson sitting alone at one of the tables up front.
“I want to have a word with Steven.” She nodded toward the thriller author.
“Ooh, this could be good. Go right ahead, but only if you promise to tell all later,” Angelica said.
“You have my word.” Tricia picked up her wineglass and stepped over to Richardson’s table. “Is this seat taken?”
He looked up at her. He’d been nursing what looked like a Scotch on the rocks. “Sure.”
Tricia took the seat across from him.
“You didn’t play after all.” She brandished her hand. Stevenson winced. “That looks evil.”
“It certainly is.” But she didn’t want to talk about that. “So, how goes your investigation into Carol’s death? Anything new happen since this afternoon?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
She shook her head.
“I saw you talking to Brad Shields.”
“Yes. I had no idea he was a member of the Purple Finchers—especially since his wife told me he didn’t drink. The latter was obviously incorrect.”
Stevenson shook his head. “There’s something about that woman I don’t trust.”
“Ellen? Why?”
Richardson shook his head. “Nothing I can put my finger on.”
Tricia debated telling him what Ellen had told her earlier that day, but decided against it. How could her choice of reading material possibly relate to Carol’s death? “It doesn’t seem like you’re making much headway in this story. Will you be staying in Stoneham for a few more days or heading back to Boston?”
The corners of his lips quirked upward. “Would you like me to stay?”
Wouldn’t you just love to hear me—or anyone—say yes?
Tricia shrugged. “The wine and jazz festival will begin on Wednesday. It’s the first time it’s being held in the village. It could be fun. Especially if you like music . . . and wine.”
“I like both.”
“They’ve scheduled a crepes food truck as part of the festivities. I thought I might give it a try.”
“Sounds like the perfect match with a glass of cabernet.”
“I guess that depends on what you choose for the filling.”
Richardson raised his glass. “Touché.”
Tricia nodded and sipped her wine.
Richardson sobered. “Have you heard from your father since we spoke?”
Tricia’s lighthearted mood soured, too. “No. But I’m sure he’ll turn up sometime soon.” Bad pennies always did.
Richardson nodded, then glanced at his watch. “I haven’t got my word count for the day, and there’s only two hours left.”
“Have you started working on Carol’s book?”
He shook his head and drained his glass. “No. And if something doesn’t crop up soon, it’ll have no satisfying ending.”
“Let’s hope the killer shows his hand soon.”
“If he—or she—is smart, they won’t.”
“Are you insinuating that this might be the perfect crime?”
“Not at all. But it’s a fact—some killers do get away with murder.”
The way he
said it—so casually—gave Tricia a chill. But, sadly, he was also correct.
Richardson maneuvered out of the booth. “Until we meet again.”
Tricia raised her nearly empty glass in salute and watched him leave the pub.
There was something odd about that man. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was, but knew it would eventually come to her.
She left the booth. Almost immediately another couple grabbed it, and Tricia headed back to where Angelica sat. She’d just ordered another round. “So?”
Tricia shrugged. “Nothing to tell.”
“From where I sat, it looked like flirting was going on.”
“Harmless banter,” Tricia countered. “The man just doesn’t do anything for me.”
Angelica sighed. “I know the feeling.” Then Angelica’s eyes widened. “Good grief—Daddy just walked through the door.”
Tricia turned to see her father enter the bar, an unlit cigar hanging over his bottom lip, accompanied by a buxom fifty-something woman with a magenta bouffant hairstyle. “What on earth?”
Angelica stood. “Daddy! Daddy! Come and join us!”
John turned at the sound of his name, saw them, and waved. He spoke to his companion, who peeled away and then headed for the bar while John made his way across the floor to join his daughters.
“Girls, girls! It’s lovely to see you.”
“Where on earth have you been?” Tricia demanded. “You dispatched me to the drugstore, and then had disappeared when I came to deliver the goods.”
John sat down beside Angelica, who didn’t look at all pleased. “Just after you left, I got a call from a friend about a poker game.”
“But you had no money,” Angelica insisted.
“He staked me. I won quite a bit, and now I’m no longer dependent on you girls.”
“We’re women,” Angelica asserted.
John smiled broadly. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Angelica did not take well to condescension. Her gaze was murderous.
“I hope you haven’t been smoking,” Tricia admonished. “You had a heart attack just three days ago.”
“I can take care of myself,” John said with annoyance.
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