“I’ll go have a word with him—that is, if you don’t mind holding the fort.”
“That depends,” Pixie said with a grin. “If you bring back any goodies, will they be edible?”
* * *
* * *
Stoneham’s bakery seemed to have a lull in customers on that particular morning, for there was nobody in the shop, where the heavenly aromas of cakes, cookies, and bread mingled in the air.
“Can I help you?” asked the man in baker whites behind the counter. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with salt-and-pepper hair.
“Yes, I’d like to buy some thumbprint cookies.”
He shook his head. “Fresh out, I’m afraid. But the oatmeal raisin are pretty darn good—and they’re healthy for you, too.”
“I’ll take a dozen,” Tricia said, and watched as the guy bagged her purchase.
“Are you the head baker?”
“Well, I’m managing the place until I can buy it. I’ve got a couple of helpers who come in early and work until after lunch.”
“I’m Tricia Miles. I own the vintage mystery bookstore, Haven’t Got a Clue, a few doors down.”
The man raised an eyebrow. Nikki had obviously mentioned her name. “I’m Roger Sykes.” He didn’t offer his hand.
“Aside from the cookies, I wondered if you might have Nikki Brimfield’s new phone number.”
He shook his head as he plucked a piece of baker’s tissue from the nearby box and filled the white waxed bakery bag with cookies. “No can do.”
“Then perhaps you’d pass on a message and ask her to her to call her mother.”
“Uh, sure. Is it an emergency?”
“I wouldn’t say that, but Fiona, her mom, is anxious about a situation that needs to be quickly resolved, and it involves Nikki.”
“I don’t actually have her number. She emails me.”
“Her mother hasn’t been able to contact her by text or email.”
“I guess Nikki had to change her contact info when she moved,” Roger said.
Tricia nodded and pulled out her wallet to pay for the cookies. Roger made change and handed her the bag.
“When will the sale of the Patisserie go through?”
“With luck, before the end of the year. How’s the tourist trade during the holidays?” Roger asked.
“Brisk. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about the winter doldrums. There’re enough people in the village who supported Nikki through the slow months. If they like your wares, I’m sure they’ll be just as loyal to you.”
Roger raised his hand, crossing his fingers. “I hope to see you again, Ms. Miles.”
“Tricia,” she emphasized.
“Tricia.” She smiled and headed for the exit, wondering if he’d have an opportunity to pass her message along to Nikki anytime soon.
It was odd that Nikki seemed to have cut all ties to her hometown, her business, but especially her responsibility to her child. Nikki had considered selling the bakery the year before when she’d first become a mother—wanting to stay home with her boy. It had been Russ who insisted that she keep the bakery open because they needed the income. Now Nikki had abandoned both little Russell and her business, gambling that she’d make it big as a TV chef.
Did Nikki dream big, or was she just a fool?
SEVEN
Tricia arrived back at Haven’t Got a Clue to find that Mr. Everett had come to work more than half an hour before his shift. “Grace is working at the Everett Foundation today, so I thought I’d ride with her to save gas.” Mr. Everett had won the lottery several years before but had channeled the majority of that money into his philanthropic foundation that his wife, Grace, now ran. She, of course, was well-off, but they lived modestly in the home she had shared with her first husband.
“You’re just in time for oatmeal cookies,” Tricia said. She found a plate under the beverage station and placed the cookies on it before offering them to her employees. “They didn’t have any thumbprint cookies, I’m afraid.”
“These will do just as well,” Mr. Everett said, and bit into his. But instead of a smile, he frowned, chewing slowly.
Pixie didn’t seem to notice his reaction and selected one of her own. She bit into it, chewed, and her eyes narrowed.
“Anything wrong?” Tricia asked.
Pixie swallowed. “Well, I guess I was expecting something a little different.”
“Different?” Tricia asked. She picked up a cookie and took a sniff. It smelled okay.
“Yeah, good. You know, like Nikki used to make.”
Tricia took the tiniest of bites. There was oatmeal in the cookie, but it wasn’t as sweet as she’d expected. In fact, it wasn’t sweet at all.
“I think a crucial ingredient might be missing,” Mr. Everett suggested.
“I’ll say,” Pixie agreed. “Do you think we should tell Roger?”
Tricia wasn’t sure she wanted to be the bearer of bad news to someone she’d just met. “I don’t think so.”
“It might be a kindness,” Mr. Everett said.
“Or taken as criticism,” Pixie suggested.
“I’m sure it was just an oversight with this batch,” Tricia said.
Pixie examined the cookie in her hand, then her gaze slid to the wastebasket nearby.
Tricia took the hint and discarded her cookie first, with the others following suit. Then she tossed the rest of the cookies in the trash as well. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to whip up a batch of cookies before Marshall came to pick her up for lunch. She’d try to make time that evening so they could offer their customers a sweet treat on Saturday.
It occurred to Tricia that she hadn’t thought to tell Angelica about her lunch date, so she fired off a quick text, also asking if she needed anything for lunch.
Not a thing. See you for dinner at my place? came Angelica’s reply less than a minute later.
Tricia sent her sister a thumbs-up emoji, then pocketed her phone. “Well, shall we finish our coffee before we begin the workday?”
* * *
* * *
Marshall’s car pulled up outside Haven’t Got a Clue at precisely eleven thirty. Tricia hopped into the passenger seat and buckled up. Marshall hadn’t taken off and was looking at her expectantly, no doubt waiting for a hello kiss. She obliged, but it was quick, without a hint of passion. He turned his attention back to the road, checked his side mirror, and pulled away from the curb.
“How goes the Susan Morris investigation?” he asked.
“How would I know?”
“Tricia . . .” he chided.
“Apparently Chief Baker still seems to think Pixie might be responsible.”
“Why’s that?”
“Probably because she’s handy to blame.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I would hope he wouldn’t stoop that low. He practically interrogated her on Wednesday night—and without a lawyer.”
“Do you think she needs one?”
“I sure hope not, but the thought of going back to jail terrifies her.”
“I should think so. What else?”
Tricia filled Marshall in on what little else she’d learned about the dead woman before changing the subject. “Where are we going this time?”
“On a picnic.”
“Where?”
“Just up the road a bit.”
Tricia laughed. “The last time I went on a picnic, it was in a cemetery.”
“Oh, great. Now you’ve ruined my surprise.”
“Really?”
“Of course not. A friend of mine has a piece of land just north of here with a pond and a gazebo. It’s a very pretty spot.”
“And what are we going to eat?”
“Something I had catered by the Brookview Inn.”
“Oh, you’re going all out,” she said in jest.
“And why not? After that disaster of a vacation I dragged you along on, I owe it to you.”
“The trip was not a disaster,” Tricia said.
“It wasn’t,” he agreed. “Milford Travel sent emailed surveys to the guests and all but one has come back with high praise.”
“Are you insinuating that I sent in the dissenting vote?”
“Not at all. That you didn’t return it at all. I’m guessing it got caught in your spam filter.”
Tricia thought about it: she didn’t always check the spam for her personal account, but she did for the store. “I’ll have a look when I get home.”
“You’ve got a phone; can’t you check it now?”
“What would you have me say?”
“Nothing,” he said, sounding just a little defeated, his attention on the road.
Tricia studied his profile. “Part of me enjoyed the trip. The people were nice, the food was good, and the scenery spectacular.”
“And the part you didn’t enjoy?”
“That you had to work so hard. I knew that going in, but I didn’t realize you’d be working as an indentured servant.”
“Had you ever taken a guided tour before the trip?”
“No,” Tricia admitted. “I thought you did great. You were knowledgeable and attentive to the guests.”
“Just not attentive enough for you.”
“You warned me before we left. And two weeks was way too long for me to be away from my home, my store, and my cat.”
“Then a monthlong trek through China is out of the question.”
“Sorry, but I’d have to answer yes.”
Marshall was quiet for long minutes, and Tricia wished he’d switch on the radio to break the silence. Finally he spoke. “Do you still want to go on this picnic?”
“Of course I do. It’s the first time in weeks we’ll share a meal that doesn’t include twenty other people.”
“Now, that’s not true.”
“A scone and a cup of tea in a tea shop hardly counts.”
Marshall braked and turned onto a dirt road that was lined with maple trees, their leaves giving a subtle hint that the full-blown colors of autumn would soon be upon them. As Marshall had said, the drive ended at a pond and a gazebo that looked newly built.
“Wow,” Tricia said in awe. “It looks like the perfect place for a wedding.”
“That’s the whole idea. But the site won’t be completely finished until next year. My friend has plans for a pavilion so that he can cater all kinds of parties. It’ll even have a gas fireplace for winter gatherings.”
“Sounds ambitious. How come I haven’t heard about this before?”
Marshall raised an eyebrow. “It was reported in the Stoneham Weekly News.”
Tricia frowned. “I no longer read that rag.”
“Maybe you should.”
Tricia nodded. “I do have a reason to speak with someone in that office—if I can gather up my courage.”
“Why would you need courage?”
“I’ll tell you about it over lunch. Speaking of which, shouldn’t we get this picnic going?”
Marshall gave her a smile and reached for her hand. “Thanks for coming out with me today.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
He shrugged. “Because.”
“I’m here because I want to be with you. Even if we’d just gone to a burger joint, I’d still want to spend time with you.”
His smile broadened, and he leaned forward and kissed her gently. Then again. And again.
EIGHT
Tricia returned late from lunch—quite late—and perhaps just a little tipsy thanks to the wine Marshall had brought to their picnic. But it was obvious that business was light at Haven’t Got a Clue on that Friday afternoon. A worried-looking Pixie kept looking north up Main Street as though expecting a police cruiser to barrel down the road and screech to a halt in front of the store, a couple of cops spilling into the street and rushing the door with cuffs in hand, ready to arrest her.
Mr. Everett had already left for the day, and Tricia glanced at the clock and then back to Pixie. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, sure,” Pixie said, and brushed at the shoulder of her sweater as though to flick off nonexistent dust.
“I don’t think you should worry about it.”
It. They both knew what she meant. That Pixie could be a suspect in Susan Morris’s death.
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’ve done nothing wrong.”
“That never stopped the cops from nailing me before,” Pixie admitted sourly.
Tricia decided to try another tack. “Have you got many clients to see tomorrow at the day spa?”
Pixie worked for four hours Saturday afternoons as a nail tech at Booked for Beauty, Angelica’s day spa. Considering she had no formal training, her nail artistry was exquisite, and already she’d had a number of repeat customers.
“Just five tomorrow, but I’ll take walk-ins, too. You know I love working here, but I really enjoy all the girl talk at the spa. I missed all that once I—”
Once she got out of jail or once she no longer hung out with other ladies of the night?
Tricia didn’t ask.
“I know what you mean. If I didn’t have you to talk to, and Ginny and Angelica, I would be completely starved for female companionship.”
“Did you ever have a lot of friends?” Pixie asked.
Tricia shook her head. “Angelica was the one who brought people home for parties and such. I was more the studious type.”
“With your nose in a book?”
“You got it.”
“What was the first mystery you ever read?” Pixie asked.
Tricia smiled. “The Secret of Smugglers’ Cove by Margaret Leighton.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight or nine. Years later I paid through the nose to hunt down a copy. How about you?”
“The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side by Dame Agatha. I was thirty-seven.”
Tricia smiled and looked at the clock. “It’s only five minutes ’til closing. Why don’t we call it a day?”
Pixie nodded and collected her purse from behind the cash desk. “It’s such a pretty evening, I think I’ll take the long way home.”
Tricia knew that meant she’d avoid walking past the Stoneham police station. “Exercise is good for you,” she agreed. “Have a good weekend. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Pixie forced a smile, and her voice broke when she said, “If I’m still around.”
Tricia frowned, stepped forward, and gave her employee and friend a hug, then pulled back, looking Pixie in the eye. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
Pixie nodded. “Okay.”
Tricia watched as Pixie left the store with a good-bye wave and headed north. Sure enough, when she got to the intersection, Pixie crossed the road and started up Locust Street. She’d only have to walk up two blocks and double back to avoid the police station. Tricia sighed, shook her head, and then closed her store. After leaving a snack for Miss Marple, she locked up and hoofed it next door to the Cookery, where she let herself in and took the stairs to Angelica’s apartment. Again Sarge gave her a hearty welcome and was rewarded with two dog biscuits.
“Oh, really, Sarge. Will you hush!” Angelica ordered. “Honestly, you’d think it had been years, not less than twenty-four hours, since he’s seen you.”
“I’m so lovable, he can’t help himself,” Tricia deadpanned. “Shouldn’t you be sitting? What are you doing on your feet?”
Angelica frowned. “Walking, or perhaps shambling. I’m going stir-crazy,” she admitted, and turned to retrieve the pitcher of martinis she’d already made, then took out the chilled glasse
s from the freezer. “So, how was your lunch with Marshall?”
“It was a picnic by the side of a pond. We sat on a blanket in the grass and drank chilled champagne and dined on baguettes stuffed with chicken salad. And for dessert—”
“You?” Angelica asked wryly.
“No! Profiteroles.”
Angelica practically swooned. “Oh, I love them. We occasionally serve them at the Brookview for afternoon tea.”
“I know. That’s where they came from—like our dinner, I suppose?”
“You supposed right. Antonio had one of his employees drop it off. I’m going to gain ten pounds before my next surgery. I wonder if I should join the Y in Merrimack so I can do water aerobics.”
“If you do, I’ll go with you,” Tricia offered, thinking about the weight she’d gained on her trip.
“Deal.” Angelica poured their drinks and sighed. “It’s been a long time since I was on a picnic.”
“What’s the weather supposed to be like on Sunday? Maybe we can have a cookout on your balcony instead of a big dinner inside. The weather won’t hold for much longer.”
“Isn’t it supposed to rain?”
“There goes that idea. But it’s lovely out now. Let’s sit on the balcony again.”
They picked up their drinks and Angelica led the way, with Sarge bringing up the rear, his dog biscuits long gone.
Once they’d settled themselves, Angelica spoke. “How was the rest of your day?”
“Busy, or at least making busywork for Pixie. She’s paranoid she’s going to be arrested for Susan Morris’s murder.”
“Well, if it happens, we’ll get her the best lawyer money can buy,” Angelica declared.
Tricia liked the fact Angelica included herself in that equation.
“Aside from that, there is something that’s weighing on my mind,” Tricia said.
“Oh?”
Tricia sipped her martini. “After I got home last night, I got a call from Fiona Sample.”
“Oh? How’s she doing?”
“Career-wise, fantastic. Not so happy on the personal front.”
“Why’s that?” Angelica asked.
“Nikki.”
Handbook for Homicide Page 8
