“You girls need to do some real fun stuff. Like make s’mores or something. Watch romantic or scary movies. Paint each other’s toenails and talk about men.”
“I’m afraid we’re a little too old for that, Pixie.”
“Really? Are you both dead below the waist?”
“Pixie!” Tricia admonished.
“Okay, sorry. I’m just sayin’. ’Cuz I’m not. Fred and me, we’re lookin’ forward to our honeymoon. Not that we ain’t done the dirty before now. But now it’ll be different.” Her grin was positively infectious. “I’m getting hitched, and I still can’t believe my good luck.”
Tricia smiled. “As long as you keep your goal of making each other happy, you guys will do fine.”
Pixie nodded. “I never thought I’d fall in love. Finding a great guy like Fred was something I didn’t think would ever happen to me.”
Suddenly Tricia found herself feeling just a little envious. And then she thought of her own failed marriage, and the fact that her parents were on the outs. There were no guarantees in life. But somehow she had a feeling that Pixie and Fred were destined to make it until death did they part.
“So, are you goin’ to the jazz festival?” Pixie asked.
“I’m planning on it.”
“Great. Then maybe we’ll see you there. Although I gotta admit, I’m attracted to the food-truck rodeo more than the wine or the music.”
“Yes, there’s at least one of them I want to try. I’ll look out for you. How about you, Mr. E?”
“Grace and I wouldn’t miss it. Ginny has worked so hard to set things up, we want to celebrate her achievement. But we won’t stay out too late,” he assured Tricia. “We don’t want Miss Marple to be alone for too long.”
“Thank you, Mr. Everett,” Tricia said, smiling.
Pixie gathered up her purse and headed for the door. “See you later, Tricia.”
“You bet!”
“I shall see you later, too, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said, and followed Pixie out the door.
The phone rang. Tricia picked up the heavy vintage receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue—”
“Trish, it’s me,” Angelica said.
“What’s up?”
“I had a call from Mother accepting your invitation to come with us to the festival tonight.”
“I must say I’m a little surprised by that.”
“Me, too. Parking around here is a nightmare. Luckily I had the foresight to arrange for the Brookview to shuttle guests to the festival. She’s supposed to show up on my doorstep any moment now. Are you available?”
“Ready and waiting.”
“Great. See you outside my shop in, say . . . a minute?”
Tricia laughed. “You’ve got it.”
The sisters hung up and Tricia gathered up her purse. She lowered the blinds and did a quick walk around the shop to make sure the back entrance was secure, and then turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED. Locking the door, she headed outside. She took a look to her left and saw the Brookview’s shuttle van inching along Main Street. Tricia moved to stand in front of the Cookery, and when the van finally got that far, it paused, opening its doors and letting out a stream of people, Sheila among them. The others headed for the village square, but Sheila caught sight of Tricia and walked over to meet her.
“Oh, what a pretty blouse,” Tricia said in greeting.
“It’s old,” Sheila said bluntly.
“It’s still pretty,” Tricia said. She’d rather see the best than the downside of things.
The Cookery’s door opened, and Angelica emerged. “There you two are.”
“You’re not bringing Sarge?” Tricia asked.
Angelica shook her head. “Much as I’d like to, it wouldn’t be fair to him. All that noise and commotion. If I want to stay late, it’s not far for me to return home to let him out.” She turned to her mother. “Oh, what a pretty blouse.”
Sheila managed a weak smile. “Thank you.”
Tricia forced an ironic smile. When it came to her mother, she couldn’t win for losing. “Shall we go to the square? We don’t want to miss Ginny’s welcoming speech.”
“Oh, no,” Angelica agreed, and gestured for her mother and sister to start down the sidewalk.
“What’s so special about this Ginny person?” Sheila asked.
“Ginny?” Angelica asked. “I told you; she’s my stepson, Antonio’s, wife. She’s just a doll. So sweet, and mother to their adorable little girl, Sofia. I’m her nonna.”
“You are not,” Sheila declared. “They are not your blood kin.”
Tricia could see that Angelica’s smile was rigid. “Blood or not, Antonio is my son. Ginny is his wife, and Sofia is my granddaughter. I don’t care what their biological heritage is. We are family,” she said in her no-nonsense voice.
“I love being an aunt,” Tricia said. “And Ginny, who was my former assistant, looks up to me as her big sister. I never got to play that role before. I like it. I like it a lot.”
Sheila shook her head ruefully, but made no further comment.
The three women marched down the sidewalk, waited for the light to change before they crossed the road, and then waited again on the other side. The village square was already teeming with people, all clustered around the restored gazebo, which had been partially demolished three years before when a light aircraft had crashed into it—killing not only the pilot but the speaker who’d been addressing the crowds on Founders Day—an event which had not been celebrated since.
Angelica threaded her way through the crowd, leading Tricia and Sheila toward the gazebo, where Ginny stood with her back to the crowd, conversing with several people Tricia did not recognize, while a trio consisting of a bass, a drummer, and a pianist waited to perform.
“That’s Ginny,” Angelica said, pointing her out for Sheila. “Isn’t she just darling?”
Sheila frowned. “Not especially.”
Ginny was dressed in dark slacks and a white blouse, and her long red hair had been pinned up—no doubt to keep her cool on this rather muggy evening—and Tricia thought she looked utterly charming with a long strand of jet beads hanging around her neck. She knew they had been a gift from Angelica, and Ginny wore them often and proudly.
Ginny turned, and Angelica waved. Ginny held a hand up to shield her eyes, caught sight of them, and waved enthusiastically.
“I’m just so proud of her I could cry,” Angelica gushed.
“Proud, shmoud,” Sheila muttered.
“Yes, I am,” Angelica asserted. “Ginny pulled this event together in an extremely short space of time, vetted the acts, negotiated the contracts, and supervised an unfriendly team. It’s a very big deal indeed.”
“Why isn’t she home taking care of her daughter?” Sheila countered.
“Like you did with Tricia?” Angelica said accusingly.
Sheila positively glowered.
Ginny approached the microphone, tested it, and then addressed the considerable crowd.
“Hello, Stoneham!”
The crowd—of mostly people unknown to Tricia—roared with approval.
“Welcome to the first annual Stoneham Wine and Jazz Festival, which is sponsored by Nigela Ricita Associates. Let’s give them a big hand.”
The applause was loud and appreciative. Tricia glanced at Angelica, who positively beamed.
“Our other sponsors tonight are Haven’t Got a Clue, our magnificent vintage mystery bookstore—”
Tricia allowed herself a smile.
“The Stoneham Chamber of Commerce; the Sheer Comfort Inn; the Stoneham Weekly News—”
That startled Tricia, especially after Russ’s most recent declaration of poverty.
“And the Have a Heart romance bookstore. Let’s give them a wonderful round of applause.”
And so the
audience did.
“We’ve also got some terrific food trucks, featuring Asian-fusion cuisine, crepes, every kind of chicken wing under the sun, artisanal mac-and-cheese, and just about every other thing you could hope to eat, and, of course, we’ve got twelve representatives from some of New Hampshire’s best wineries—so grab your complimentary wine glass and sample their flights. And all the while, bask in the lilting tones of some of the best jazz on the East Coast. And first up to entertain you is the Winston Freeman Trio, featuring Winston on piano, Jonny Martin on bass, and Charley Taylor on drums. Let’s give them all a big hand.”
And once again the audience stepped up to Ginny’s bidding. She raised her hands over her head, clapping enthusiastically, and the musicians jumped into their first tune, Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five.”
For those in front of the bandstand, the volume was deafening. Covering their ears, Tricia, Angelica, and Sheila hurried away from the large speakers to save their hearing.
They wandered over to where the bulk of the food trucks were parked, but before Tricia could suggest they get something to eat, she caught sight of a familiar figure dressed in a green golf shirt and tan slacks.
Daddy! What was he doing there? And why did he have to bring Cherry? The sparks were sure to fly now—if not downright explosions.
Tricia caught her sister’s eye and nodded in the direction of the couple. Angelica saw them and grimaced, then wasted no time turning their mother in another direction and shouting, “Let’s check out the crepes truck.” They started off, but then Tricia saw that John had seen them and was marching straight toward them as though to intercept. She waited until he caught up with her.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded
“It’s a free country. I came to hear the jazz and drink the wine. What’s your excuse?” he asked tartly.
“The same.”
“Well, great. I see your mother deigned to lower her standards more than a notch to be here tonight. Why don’t we just have a nice family reunion?”
“You just want to rub Mother’s nose in the fact that you brought another woman.”
“I did not. Cherry brought me, isn’t that right, dear?”
“Sure thing, honey,” Cherry said, chomping on a piece of gum. She wore a pair of white slacks and a loud print shirt of massive fuchsias on a white background, which clashed terribly with her magenta hair.
“Cherry, would you mind giving my father and me a few minutes to talk?”
“Sure thing, honey. I’ll meet you by that wine stand over there. Okay?”
“Yes, dear,” John said. He watched her go, his gaze fixed on her ample bottom, and positively grinned. Sheila was skinny as a rail. Did Tricia’s father prefer women with curves?
She put the thought out of her mind and focused on the here and now. “I take it you’ve made up your mind not to reconcile with Mother.”
“Why should I? She just wants to bully me—like she always has. Well, I’m tired of it. I’ve been on my own for almost six months now, and I like it. I like doing what I want to do when I want to do it. I like playing cards with the boys. I like eating what I want to eat when I want to eat it and without scathing looks.”
“How will you support yourself?”
“The same way I have since I left your mother in January. Gambling. I did real well yesterday, thanks to the tip I got from that fella at the bookshop.”
Tricia gasped. “Mr. Everett?”
John shook his head. “No. That author guy who was at your bookstore last week.”
“Steven Richardson?”
John nodded.
“When did he tell you about the poker game?”
“Yesterday. He called me at the Brookview right after you left to go to the drugstore. Then he picked me up and drove me to the game.”
But that didn’t make sense. Richardson had asked Tricia on more than one occasion where he could find and talk to John—how would he have known John was staying at the Brookview?
“Had you spoken to him before that?”
“Sure. On the night Carol got killed. I bummed a ride off him to get to Fred’s apartment.”
“How soon after you left the signing did he give you the lift?”
John shrugged. “Five, maybe ten minutes later.”
“Did you go straight to Fred’s apartment?”
John shook his head. “He said he needed gas. We stopped at a station on the highway.”
No wonder Baker had eliminated Richardson so fast. If he hadn’t been able to produce a receipt, it would have been easy enough for the chief to check out his credit card purchases, which would have instantly cleared him of Carol’s murder. That still didn’t explain who had done the deed.
It couldn’t have been her chief suspect—Brad Shields—because he’d been murdered, too. Whoever killed Carol had to have killed Brad, too.
Had to have? Or had two killers been responsible for the deaths?
“Come on,” John said, interrupting Tricia’s reverie, and took off after his wife and oldest daughter.
For a man who’d recently suffered a heart attack, John strode through the crowd with amazing speed. Why couldn’t he have just accompanied Cherry to the wine stand—or was he itching for a fight with Sheila?
Angelica and Sheila stood before the crepes truck, whose sign chronicled the various permutations on offer. Sheila did not look impressed. Instead of going up to stand beside his wife to subtly let her in on his presence, John strode right up to her, put a hand on her shoulder and yanked, nearly pulling her off her feet.
Sheila pivoted. “How dare you.” Then she saw just who had manhandled her. “What are you doing here?”
“I just went through that with the Princess. Why are you here?”
“Because they made me come,” Sheila cried.
“Is that true?” John demanded.
“No!” Angelica said, looking as puzzled as Tricia felt.
“I suppose you’re here with that woman.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? She’s very nice. She appreciates my company. She doesn’t whine about me. She doesn’t order me around.”
“And how long have you known this person?”
“A day.”
“I’m sure by the end of the week she’ll have figured out who you really are and will walk away, as I did.”
“I did the walking,” John reminded her.
“Well, I certainly didn’t go looking for you.”
“Oh yeah? That’s not what Peter Collins told me.”
Sheila bristled at the mention of the name.
“Who’s that?” Tricia asked.
“The private detective your mother hired to find me. No matter where I went, he kept showing up.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe it. He might be good at tracking down people, but he’s terrible at keeping a low profile.”
Sheila’s cheeks grew a livid red. She had let him go—but she had kept her eye on him, as well.
“And then you showed up at Cherry’s apartment yesterday, practically begging me to return.”
“I never beg,” Sheila grated. “I don’t know why I even bothered. Obviously you’re not worth my time.” She turned. “Angelica, let’s go get some wine.”
“What about me?” John called.
“Go back to your girlfriend,” Sheila sneered.
John just stood there, watching, as his wife of half a century stalked off.
Tricia hung back with her father. “What did you accomplish by that?”
“I put her in her place.”
“All you did was make her angry—or should I say angrier at you. Don’t you realize what this all means?”
“No, what?” he snapped.
“She loves you. She really does want you to go back to her.”
“I wouldn’t go back to her if she was the last woman on Earth. I wouldn’t go back to her if she offered me two million dollars.”
Tricia started. Did that mean Sheila had offered him one million bucks?
“What are you going to do now?”
“Go find Cherry and get a drink—and not wimpy wine. I want a real drink.”
Tricia watched as her father stomped off in the direction of where they’d last seen Cherry. Since the only adult beverage on sale at the festival was wine, that had to mean he would head for the Dog-Eared Page. Maybe that was a good thing. It would give both her parents a chance to cool down.
Tricia turned back and followed in her mother’s and sister’s footsteps.
Sheila was obviously upset, for she practically chugged her glass of wine.
“I got you one, too, Tricia,” Angelica said, handing her the glass of white.
“Thanks.”
“Where did Daddy go?”
“To find Cherry.”
“You mean to hook up with her, don’t you?” Sheila accused.
Tricia was shocked to learn her mother even knew that term.
“Why don’t we all calm down and enjoy the wine and the music,” Angelica suggested, sounding far more cheerful than her expression conveyed. “Look, there’s a bench over there. It’s far enough away from the speakers that we won’t all go deaf, and maybe we can have a nice chat.”
“About what?” Tricia asked.
Angelica opened her mouth to reply, but then seemed to have no answer. Instead, she took a hearty sip from her own glass. “Come along, Mother,” she said, then hooked arms with her and led her toward the bench. That was when Tricia saw a familiar face in the crowd, belonging to someone who lounged against one of the square’s maple trees. It was her turn to stalk off in another direction.
She stopped in front of the man, suddenly almost as angry as her mother had been moments before. “What did you hope to gain when you set my father up with poker games and misled me about his whereabouts?”
“Nothing,” Richardson insisted, raising his hands as though in surrender, but then he looked away and shrugged. “Okay, maybe I did that.”
“Why the pretense?”
“I wanted excuses to talk to you. You’re a very attractive woman.”
A Just Clause Page 26