A Just Clause

by Lorna Barrett

  Tricia smiled, shaking her head. Anyone else hearing that proclamation would have thought Angelica an egomaniac, but she trusted that her sister only had the Chamber’s—and the village’s—best interests at heart.

  They rounded another corner, with Sarge trotting along at a brisk pace, pulling on the leash. Angelica pressed the button on the handle, giving the dog another five or six feet of line as she cast an eagle eye on the trucks and trailers that surrounded the square.

  “I think I’m going to have to give Ginny a raise. Everything is exactly as it should be,” she said, sounding extremely pleased.

  But then Sarge stopped dead.

  “What’s up?” Angelica asked her dog, whose little black nose wrinkled. He gave a sharp bark.

  “What’s up, boy?” Angelica asked again.

  Sarge put his nose to the ground and began to sniff around in earnest, dragging his mistress closer to one of the parked trailers.

  “No, Sarge, no!” Angelica admonished, but her dog had other ideas. He strained against his leash, pulling her forward. “Oh, good grief,” Angelica said, distress evident in her voice.

  “What’s wrong?” Tricia asked.

  “Look!”

  Tricia squinted in the feeble light and saw a pair of shoes protruding from under the nearest food truck that proclaimed it sold French crepes. Sarge nudged one of the shoes, but the foot attached to it did not budge.

  “Oh, no,” Angelica wailed.

  “Looks like we’d better call nine one one,” Tricia said grimly, then pulled out her phone, and wondered who belonged to the worn pair of work boots.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Chief Baker glared at the Miles sisters. “You two are definitely a menace to society.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Tricia said, as angry as she’d ever been with her former lover. “We are not responsible for this man’s death, nor any others!”

  Baker shook his head and walked away from them.

  “Grant, wait!” Tricia called, and followed him, leaving her sister behind. “I was wondering, when you and your men checked out Carol Talbot’s home, did you come across any kind of collections?”

  Baker eyed her warily. “What do you mean? Like stamps or something?”

  “Definitely not stamps.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “The collection? Only that there was one.”

  Baker looked around, as though to see if anyone was in earshot, then leaned forward and spoke to her quietly. “There was an empty file cabinet in one of the bedrooms. We noticed that there were pictures missing from the walls, too.”

  “And jewelry?”

  He shook his head. “We found a jewelry box under her bed. It appeared to be intact.”

  That piece of news brightened Tricia’s day, albeit infinitesimally.

  “It seems the Talbots collected vintage erotica.”

  Baker didn’t blink. Had he known that the Talbots and the Shieldses were swingers?

  “You may want to speak with Marshall Cambridge at Vamps down by the highway.”

  “Has someone tried to sell him the collection?”

  “Not that he said. He just said Carol had been selling pieces of it to him, but I thought you should know about this.”

  “How long have you known about it?”

  “Um, maybe a day.”

  “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

  “I thought you might dismiss the whole thing. You don’t like it when I find out and report something you don’t know about.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Actions speak louder than words,” Tricia said firmly.

  “I’ll consider what you’ve told me,” Baker said. He looked away, then back to Tricia. “I have other people to speak to.”

  She nodded. What more could she say? She turned and rejoined her sister.

  The medical examiner and crime photographer had both shimmied under the food truck to examine and photograph the corpse in situ, but so far nobody had mentioned who the dead man was, though—by the footwear alone—Tricia was positive the victim was a male of the species.

  “I don’t get it,” Angelica said. “The security guard we spoke to spotted us and made sure we weren’t up to no good. How could none of the guards have seen someone dump a body under the food truck?”

  “The crepe truck,” Tricia clarified. “I was going to eat there tomorrow night.”

  “The body was found under the truck, not in it. You can eat to your heart’s delight,” Angelica told her. She glanced at her watch and sighed. “How long do you think Chief Baker will make us wait this time?”

  Tricia shook her head. “I have no idea. I wonder if they’d let us go sit on one of the benches. At least then we could take a load off our feet.”

  “And violate the sanctity of the guarded square? I doubt it.” Angelica glanced to her left, and Tricia could see the guard they’d spoken to earlier in animated conversation with one of the other police officers, no doubt defending himself and the other guards, who’d somehow missed either a murder or someone stashing the corpse under their watch.

  “Rigor mortis hadn’t set in,” Tricia said, keeping her voice low, “so the victim hadn’t been there long.”

  “You touched the guy?” Angelica asked, aghast.

  “I nudged his foot a little.”

  Angelica shuddered. “So who do you think it could be?”

  “It has to be one of the suspects in Carol Talbot’s murder,” Tricia said adamantly.

  “Good heavens! You don’t think it can be Daddy, do you?” Angelica cried.

  Tricia shook her head. “Not wearing those clodhoppers. Daddy’s feet are much smaller, and he would never wear work boots.”

  Angelica frowned. “How about Jim Stark—or one of the guys working on your renovation?”

  “I sure hope not,” Tricia said. The thought of her renovation coming to a standstill was unthinkable. “Besides, what possible motive could any of them have for killing anyone?”

  “Well, perhaps whoever is lying under that truck had nothing to do with Carol Talbot’s death. What if this is just a random killing?” Angelica shook her head, and when she spoke again, her voice cracked. “At this rate, Stoneham will never get back its title of Safest Village in New Hampshire.”

  Tricia ignored her sister’s last sentence and addressed the first. “I suppose it could be. A construction worker wouldn’t have looked out of place during the festival’s setup.”

  “Poor Ginny,” Angelica lamented. “This could be disastrous for her and the first—and possibly only—Stoneham Wine and Jazz Festival. She’s worked so hard. I don’t want her spirit crushed by this.”

  “There’s going to be a lot of gossip—and if you’re smart, you’ll make sure that Frannie isn’t an instigator. But because Russ and the Stoneham Weekly News have been pretty much absent about reporting Carol’s murder, it’s likely there won’t be as much fallout as in the past.”

  “Thank goodness for small mercies,” Angelica muttered. “I’d better call Ginny and give her a heads-up. Will you take care of Sarge for a few minutes?”

  “Of course.”

  Angelica handed off Sarge’s leash and stepped away to stand behind one of the police cruisers, whose flashing blue-and-red lights illuminated the gloomy surroundings.

  Tricia bent down to pat Sarge’s head. “Everybody seems to be blaming us for finding the dead guy, but you are a good boy to have led us to him.”

  Sarge probably didn’t have a clue what she was saying, but her tone was soothing, and he wagged his tail, looking self-satisfied. “I’ll slip you a couple more doggy biscuits when we get back home,” she promised him.

  Straightening, Tricia noticed Chief Baker speaking with the crime photographer, who seemed to be passing off a cell phone to Stoneham’s fi
nest. Baker stared at the phone for long seconds, said something else to the photographer, and then charged toward Tricia. He halted and shoved the phone in her face. His voice was taut when he spoke. “Do you know this man?”

  Tricia stared at the photo of the lifeless face and felt her stomach turn. “Good grief; it’s Brad Shields.”

  Baker studied her face. “I’m assuming this is a genuine shock for you.”

  She nodded. “Of course it is. I have to admit, I thought he might have been the one who killed Carol Talbot. But his death means it might be . . .”

  “Who do you suspect?” Baker demanded.

  Although she had no real evidence to base her gut feeling on, Tricia blurted, “His wife, Ellen. I’ve heard rumors that there was hanky-panky going on between Carol and Dale Talbot and Brad and Ellen Shields. Wife-swapping.”

  “And where did you hear this?” Baker demanded.

  “From one of their neighbors.”

  Baker nodded. “I think I can guess who.” That meant Frannie had definitely shared her suspicions with more than just Tricia. Good—because Tricia did not want to be the one to out Frannie as the eyes and ears of the world.

  “What do you know about the guy?” Baker asked.

  “He played in the darts tournament last night at the Dog-Eared Page, and we spoke after the match, but other than that . . . not much.”

  “Then why did you suspect him?”

  “I spoke to his wife yesterday at the big pharmacy in Milford. She and Carol had had a falling-out of late. I’m guessing that after Dale Talbot’s death, Ellen’s husband and Carol decided to carry on their sexual liaison, and Ellen wasn’t happy about it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Just the way Ellen seemed to have turned against Carol. I mean, despite their past relationships, who really wants their spouse to be sleeping with someone else?”

  Tricia had never known why Baker’s marriage had broken up—he’d never spoken about infidelity—but she knew that he’d been devastated by its dissolution.

  He nodded. “My next stop is to visit the deceased’s home and break the news to his wife. It may be that I can’t ask such pointed questions until at least tomorrow.”

  Thankfully, the chief seemed to have a modicum of compassion, because, despite what she suspected, Tricia didn’t have a shred of evidence that Ellen harbored ill will against her husband and wanted him dead. On the contrary—she no longer wanted to share him. There was no other reason, that she knew of, why she’d kill him.

  “Can Angelica and I go home now? You know where we’ll be if you have any more questions.”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  Angelica was still on the phone as Tricia and Sarge approached.

  “It’s okay—it’s going to be okay.” She nodded. “Yes, don’t worry about it. It’ll still be a huge success. No, I’m not just saying that.” She paused again. “Okay. I’ll send an e-mail to your team as soon as I get back to my place. It’s going to be all right.” She listened some more. “Okay. Try to get some sleep. You have a lot to do during the next couple of days, and I’m sure the festival will be a huge success. Now, good night.” Angelica stabbed the end call icon. “Whew.”

  “I take it Ginny wasn’t pleased.”

  “No, and who could blame her? But I wanted the news to come from me and not someone else.”

  “Do you think the festival is doomed?”

  “Of course not. It’s going forward and will be a fabulous success,” she said with authority.

  Tricia didn’t doubt her.

  Angelica held out her hand for the leash. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

  Tricia followed her sister across the street and back to her apartment. But before she entered the Cookery, Tricia looked over her shoulder to where the blue lights from the police cruisers continued to flash. Had she wanted Brad Shields to be Carol’s murderer? What did his death mean? What if Ellen hadn’t killed her spouse? There could only be one other suspect . . . but she didn’t like the idea, and was determined not to embrace it.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  There comes a time when you’re just too old to spend the night on someone else’s couch. Tricia Miles had come to that point. She missed her bed. She missed her cat. She missed being able to roll over. Sleeping in one position for so long—that is, when she could sleep—caused the muscles in her back to protest. So much so that she was up and making coffee just after five the next morning.

  Sarge arrived in the kitchen soon after, telling Tricia he really needed to go outside. By the time they came back to the kitchen, Angelica was up. She’d showered, dressed, and even had applied her makeup, looking businesslike, and was stationed in front of her computer in the living room checking her e-mail. “Good morning,” she called cheerfully. “Thanks for making the coffee. Did you sleep all right?”

  “Not really,” Tricia admitted, and shuffled into the kitchen in her bathrobe and slippers to grab her own cup of joe. She had hours and hours to kill before Haven’t Got a Clue opened for the day.

  Angelica scrolled through more items in her in-box, deleting as fast as she could maneuver her mouse.

  “Don’t you need to read them all?” Tricia asked.

  Angelica shook her head. “Most of them I’m just cc’d on. I trust Antonio to handle the day-to-day problems of Nigela Ricita Associates. If it’s important, he’ll bring it to my attention.”

  Tricia dreaded asking her next question, but it had to be done. “What have you got on tap today?”

  “I want to walk through the wine and jazz festival several times today, surreptitiously overseeing things, but not get in Ginny’s way. I have Chamber business to attend to, and Frannie wants me to go over her list of stock requests for the Cookery. Oh, and Tommy and I have a meeting to plan next month’s menu over at Booked for Lunch.”

  In comparison, Tricia’s to-do list was pretty lame.

  “I know this will be a difficult thing for you to do, but I’m afraid dealing with Mother is going to fall on you.”

  “Will Mother let me deal with her?”

  “If she wants to find Daddy and confront him, it’s either you or nothing.”

  That didn’t make Tricia feel better. It wasn’t at all an enjoyable experience to be saddled with someone who despised you. Something that hadn’t been apparent to her until earlier that year.

  “Think of it this way,” Angelica suggested, “perhaps you and Mother will bond over this experience.”

  “How? My husband left me, but he never cheated on me.”

  “Are you sure?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia thought about it. If nothing else, she felt certain that Christopher had never lied to her. “Yes.”

  Angelica nodded. “I wish my ex-husbands would have been as virtuous.”

  Tricia studied her sister’s sad expression. Much as she didn’t want to spend time with their mother, she also knew that on any given day Angelica was juggling ten times as much as she did. What she did for the village—employing scores of people who otherwise might not have meaningful work that paid the bills—and promoting Stoneham to the world at large, made Tricia feel like she wasn’t contributing much to the village and its denizens. She loved owning Haven’t Got a Clue; it would always be her first love. But could she walk in Angelica’s footsteps and be another guiding force in Stoneham? She might not win if she ran for the post, but what if she did? And was there any other business venture she wanted to champion? Sort of. Currently, there wasn’t a no-kill animal shelter in the area. She would have no qualms championing that cause.

  Yes, there was far more Tricia could do to make life in her community better—if not for humans, then at least for their four-footed friends.

  “You’re smiling,” Angelica accused.

  “I’m thinking about what you said. Things I might want to pursue in the future.” />
  Angelica positively grinned. “And I’ll bet you’ll be fantastic doing them. Now, sit down and tell all.”

  “Let’s eat and talk.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I’m afraid I don’t have all that much in my fridge right now, but we could cross the street for Booked for Lunch and find everything we need for a truly magnificent breakfast.”

  “I’m not dressed for that,” Tricia said.

  “Then get ready for the day. It’ll give me a chance to go through the rest of my e-mails, and by that time, we’ll both have worked up an appetite.”

  Tricia smiled. “You’ve got a deal!”

  She drank the last of her coffee and set her mug down on the table before heading toward the bathroom, her head filled with scores of ideas. And yet . . . she still couldn’t push the problem of Carol Talbot’s—and now Brad Shields’s—deaths out of her mind. And she knew that no matter what the day brought, the deaths of those two people were sure to plague her.

  • • •

  “Where is your sister?” Sheila Miles demanded after opening the door to her bungalow at the Brookview Inn when she found it was Tricia who stood before her.

  “She’s busy. She has an empire to take care of. Me? I’ve just got one measly store.” Not that that was the way she thought of Haven’t Got a Clue. But it was what she believed her mother thought of her only commercial enterprise.

  “So I understand.”

  “I assume you want to be taken to Cherry’s apartment.”

  “Cherry?”

  “That’s the name of the woman Daddy was with.”

  “Have you been there before?”

  Tricia shook her head. “Angelica and I weren’t really introduced to her.”

  “Where did your father meet this woman?”

  “At a poker game.”

  Sheila didn’t roll her eyes, but it looked like she wanted to. “Let’s go. I want to wrap this up soon. My bridge group meets on Friday, and I want to be home by then.”