“Even if we were drowning in customers, which we’re not, I wouldn’t ask you to work on your only day off of the week.”
“It might save me from that pile of laundry that’s waiting.”
“Everybody needs clean clothes,” Tricia told her.
“Yeah, and those poor homeless people probably don’t have any—and what they’ve got is going to be soaked, if it isn’t already.”
Tricia thought about the people in the encampment huddled under tarps and cardboard, trying to stay warm, and it made her appreciate her dry, heated store all the more.
“We’ll see you tomorrow,” she told Pixie.
“Bright and early. That is, if you think ten o’clock is the butt crack of dawn.”
Tricia laughed. “I don’t. ’Til tomorrow.
She ended the call and turned to find Mr. Everett standing before her, looking sad.
“Your gentleman turned down your dinner invitation again,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Tricia nodded. “I wish he’d come, but . . . I think he feels uncomfortable in a crowd.”
“Then it seems odd that he plans to be a tour guide. One would think being a people person would be requisite for the job.”
“Yes,” Tricia agreed, frowning. “One would.”
* * *
* * *
Sometimes Tricia felt like it was a waste of time to bother opening her store between the busy tourist seasons, but the lack of rainy-day customers had one benefit: she and Mr. Everett had plenty of time to catch up on their reading and spent most of the day in companionable silence, flipping the pages of their books. They took a break late in the afternoon to visit Booked for Lunch to pick up their catered dinner, delivering it to Angelica’s dumbwaiter, and Mr. Everett returned to Haven’t Got a Clue while Tricia helped set up for the meal.
Mr. Everett closed the shop for the day, and the rest of the gang showed up at Angelica’s apartment, arriving right on time—just after five. Tricia was greeted with hugs and kisses from her friends and family, which warmed her heart. Everyone made a fuss over Angelica’s swollen foot, with Sofia crawling up on her lap to give her a big hug, but there was no mention of the attempted break-in at Tricia’s store the night before.
Tricia brought out the stuffed leprechaun she’d brought back from Ireland for Sofia, who ran around the kitchen island squealing with delight and showing it off for everyone to see.
As usual, Ginny brought several bottles of wine and played sommelier, pouring it into glasses and describing its provenance before distributing it throughout the crowd. She found Tricia looking out the big window that overlooked Main Street and handed her a glass.
“Look at that rain. We may have to build an ark,” Tricia mused before taking a sip.
“It’s supposed to rain all week.”
“I hope not,” Tricia said, and laughed.
“Hey, Sofia loves her present. Thanks for thinking of her.”
“She’s a great kid.”
Ginny proffered her glass. “Tell me what you think?”
They both took a sip. “Not bad,” Tricia agreed. A thought occurred to her and she decided to test the proverbial waters. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said the other day at lunch.”
Ginny looked puzzled. “What was that? Something profound, no doubt.” She laughed.
“I spoke with Fiona Sample the other day.”
Ginny’s grin faltered. “I’m about three books behind in her cozy mystery series. I just haven’t had time to read more than nutrition labels on cans since Sofia arrived.” She took a tiny sip of wine. “What’s Fiona got to do with my profound words?”
“I was referring to your family dilemma. Should you or shouldn’t you have another child.”
Every muscle in Ginny’s body seemed to tense. “And?”
“What would you think about taking in little Russell Smith?”
Ginny’s eyes widened to the point of caricature. “You’re kidding, right?”
Tricia shook her head.
“Oh, Tricia, I’ve got my hands full with Sofia, my marriage, my home, and my job.”
“It was just a thought.”
“Two kids in diapers?” Ginny asked with what sounded like despair. “We’re just starting to potty train Sofia. I heard it’s a lot harder with boys—that they don’t take to it as fast.”
Tricia had never pondered the situation. “It seems that since Nikki just up and left, Russ doesn’t feel he can care for his son and asked Fiona to take him.”
“He’s trying to foist his son off on her?”
Tricia nodded. “Unfortunately, she can’t take him in because of her writing commitments. I was thinking maybe you could help her out.”
“I’d be helping Russ out—and why would I want to do that?” Ginny demanded.
Tricia merely shrugged.
“Why don’t you take the kid?” Ginny suggested.
“Me?” Tricia asked, aghast.
Ginny shrugged. “Why not? You’re the only one who seems worried about him.”
Tricia let out a breath. As a career woman, and especially after her divorce, she’d given up the idea of ever having children—at least biologically—and the thought of adoption had never entered her mind. At forty-six, she didn’t want to even contemplate adding a child to what she considered an already unsettled life.
“I just thought taking little Russell might solve your dilemma about having another baby.”
Ginny frowned. “And say we did take him in. Say we welcomed this boy into our home, took care of him, fell in love with him, and then Nikki comes roaring back on the scene and takes him from us?”
Tricia had to admit the scenario was entirely possible.
Ginny shook her head. “You of all people should know how downright mean and vindictive Nikki can be. She’d probably accuse me of trying to steal her son’s affection.”
That she would.
“I’ve been told Russ might be considering putting the boy in foster care.”
“Oh, now you’re really pulling the guilt card,” Ginny said, sounding angry.
“I’m sorry. I just thought you should know the whole story.”
“I have my own family to take care of,” Ginny said resentfully. “And sometimes we struggle.”
“Would you consider mentioning the possibility to Antonio?”
“Oh, yeah, I’ll mention it all right,” Ginny said, her cheeks flushing. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”
“Of course,” Tricia agreed. What else could she say?
Ginny guzzled what was left of the wine in her glass, glared at the offending object, and stalked off in the direction of the kitchen, presumably for a tall refill.
Tricia joined the others, who were sampling the cheesy corn dip Tommy from Angelica’s café had whipped up for the occasion. Tricia dunked a corn chip into the bowl of steaming dip and sampled it. Tommy was good at his job—maybe too good. How soon would it be before he decided to move on and find other employment, or would Angelica simply find him another position in one of her other enterprises, as she’d done with Tommy’s predecessor? It was rare for someone to leave their job once hired by either Angelica or Nigela Ricita Associates.
Tricia was trying to decide if she should have another glass of wine, when Grace sidled up next to her. “I’m sorry we haven’t had time to talk since your return from Ireland. We’ve been inundated with requests at the foundation.”
“With so many appeals, you probably wouldn’t remember if Susan Morris ever applied for a grant.”
“The woman found in your dumpster?”
Tricia nodded.
“I knew you’d ask me that question, so I asked Linda to go through our files and look,” Grace said—Linda was Grace’s secretary. “We do keep track of who applies and whom
we’ve had to turn down. There was no application from a Susan Morris.”
“How about Susan Radnor?” Tricia asked.
“Linda only checked on that one name,” Grace admitted. “Radnor, you say?” Tricia nodded and spelled it. “I’ll have Linda look tomorrow and let you know if anything turns up.”
“Thanks.”
Angelica held up her empty glass. “Could anyone else use a refill?” she asked hopefully.
Seconds later Ginny swooped in and refilled everyone’s glass—everyone but Tricia’s. She didn’t take offense and wandered into the kitchen to top off her own glass and wished that Marshall had accepted her dinner invitation. If Ginny was going to be prickly, it could be a long evening. But soon enough Tricia forgot about their conversation and lost herself in playing hostess for her sidelined sister. And, of course, the meal was a rousing success.
Ginny and Grace insisted on clearing the plates and tidying the kitchen, and Tricia’s dessert was welcomed by one and all—especially Sofia, who insisted on having two roses. Antonio seemed fine with the idea, but Ginny maintained that Sofia would be bouncing off the walls from a sugar high and never go to sleep. Still, Sofia ended up with purple-stained lips and a bib smeared with pink frosting before she was wiped down and zippered into her rain jacket for the ride home.
Once Tricia had closed the Cookery’s front door behind the last of the visitors, she went back up to the apartment, poured two more glasses of wine, and joined Angelica on the other end of the couch.
“Another successful dinner,” Tricia said, and extended her glass so they could clink glasses.
“Tommy’s lasagna was almost as good as mine.”
“Almost,” Tricia agreed.
Angelica smiled. “The cake was excellent. Your culinary prowess has come a long way this past year. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
Angelica sipped her wine. “Was it my imagination or did things seem a little strained between you and Ginny this evening?”
“They were,” Tricia admitted. “I spoke to her about possibly taking little Russell.”
Angelica winced. “Please say you didn’t,” she implored.
“I did.”
“And her reaction?”
“Stupefaction, for one.”
“A given,” Angelica acknowledged. “And two?”
“She worried that she might become attached to the boy only to have Nikki show up one day and snatch him from them.”
“That’s a very strong possibility.”
“And then she went on to suggest that I take the child in.”
“You’re the only one who seems to care about the boy.”
“Another of her points.” Tricia sighed.
“Can we talk about something less painful?” Angelica asked.
Tricia shrugged. “Tomorrow, Marshall and I are going to visit the homeless encampment near Merrimack.”
“I guess I meant something cheerful,” Angelica corrected herself, scowling.
“It could be cheerful for the people we meet. We’re going to bring lunch.”
“That’s good of you. I suppose you’ll be badgering them about Susan Morris, too.”
“I didn’t badger Grace this evening. She volunteered the information on Susan.”
“That’s because she anticipated your question. You have a reputation, you know.”
“I’m well aware of my reputation.” As the village jinx. But Tricia had never met Susan Morris before her violent death. Nonetheless, it did seem rather suspicious that her body had been disposed of in Tricia’s dumpster—almost as though someone was daring the police to blame her for the crime. Except that she’d been out of the country at the time of Susan’s death. And it could just as well have been Mr. Everett who’d found the body instead of Pixie.
“What if the people in this camp don’t want to talk to you?” Angelica asked.
Tricia shrugged. “They’ll at least get a sandwich and something to drink.” She sipped her wine. “I wish you were coming along.”
“To a dirty old homeless camp?”
“Not when you put it that way.”
“Well, then why would you want me to join you? Because I can be more intimidating than Marshall?” Angelica asked.
“Well, he is shorter than me.”
“So am I.”
“Yes, but you’re Nigela Ricita and you’re invincible.”
“Why, thank you,” Angelica said, and smiled, but it was short-lived. “You will be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And if you find out something, you’ll go straight to Chief Baker with it and let the police follow up?”
“Don’t I always?”
The scowl was back. “No,” Angelica said emphatically.
THIRTEEN
Tricia didn’t sleep well that night. She kept telling herself she wasn’t nervous about her upcoming adventure, and to distract herself she read the first eight chapters of False Scent by Ngaio Marsh before she was able to fall into an exhausted sleep. When morning came, it wasn’t her alarm that woke her but an impatient Miss Marple, eager for her breakfast.
When it came time to get ready for the day ahead, Tricia decided not to don her usual attire of dark slacks with a pastel sweater set and took a full ten minutes to decide what to wear that wouldn’t look too showy or flaunt that she was better off than anyone in the camp. She chose jeans, a white turtleneck shirt, and a denim jacket, as well as brown boots that ended just below her knees. After all, she didn’t know how dirty or muddy the camp was likely to be. As she dressed, Tricia wondered what kind of clothes Susan had worn to her job at Sweet As Can Be. If the customers had known she was homeless, would they have patronized the chocolate shop?
Tricia made it down to Haven’t Got a Clue minutes before Pixie arrived and found the mail had arrived early, delivered through the slot in the door. She picked up the pile but immediately focused on the Stoneham Weekly News, which had arrived as scheduled. Setting the bills and advertisements aside, Tricia unfolded the paper and was disappointed to find a full-page ad for the big chain grocery store in Milford, which was having a giant meat sale. Beef, pork, poultry—you name it, it was on sale.
Tricia turned the page and found Susan Morris’s murder highlighted on page three. She quickly read through the story but was disappointed that it didn’t give her any more information than what she’d been able to discover herself by doing an Internet search.
Well, poop on that, she thought.
She thumbed through the rest of the paper and was rewarded with pages of white background interspersed with ads for tag sales, the Bookshelf Diner, a book sale at the Stoneham Public Library, and not much more. She was about to toss the rag into the recycle bin when she caught sight of a full-page ad on the back of the paper—an ad for the sale of the Stoneham Weekly News.
What the heck?
Patti Perkins hadn’t mentioned that when they’d spoken two days before. She proofed the paper, so she had to have known. Was she sworn to secrecy, or had she found it not to be newsworthy enough to mention? After all, Russ had put the paper up for sale several years earlier when he thought he was about to get a job as a crime reporter at the Philadelphia Inquirer. Or had Tricia read her wrong by assuming that Susan Morris’s death would be the big story of the day?
Was it really surprising that Russ would want to bail on the weekly newspaper he’d tried so hard to keep afloat? His wife had left him for the possibility of a career as a TV chef, and he was stuck with a child he’d never wanted and couldn’t seem to foist off on anyone else.
And just who did he think was going to see the ad and buy a not-so-going concern?
The shop door swung open, and Pixie entered wearing a trench coat that looked like something Ingrid Bergman had worn in Casablanca. “Good morning,” she
called, already untying the belt at her waist.
“And to you.”
Pixie dropped her big leather purse before nodding toward Tricia’s attire. “My, don’t you look trendy.”
“Really? I thought I looked rather casual.”
“Not with those boots,” Pixie said, eyeing the footwear.
“I don’t have anything else.”
“Then I guess you gotta go with what you’ve got.” Pixie nodded toward the paper still in Tricia’s hands. “Anything interesting in there?”
“Apparently Susan’s murder isn’t nearly as important as the big meat sale in Milford.”
“That stinks,” Pixie said. “I take it you haven’t heard any more about the investigation.”
Tricia shook her head.
“I have to admit, I’ve been thinking a lot about Susan and can’t for the life of me figure out why someone would want to kill her.”
“She didn’t appear to have any enemies,” Tricia agreed.
“That we know about,” Pixie added. “I was thinking . . . maybe I should try to—”
“We’ve already had that discussion,” Tricia warned. “If you step out of line, Chief Baker will crush you.”
Pixie winced as though stung. “Wow—those are harsh words.”
“He’s looking for a killer. If he thinks he’s got a strong enough case to present to the district attorney . . .” She let the words trail off.
“Maybe you could talk to him again,” Pixie suggested hopefully.
Tricia sighed. “Okay. But I’ll have to make it seem like a casual encounter.”
“He usually has lunch at the Bookshelf Diner around one o’clock. He likes to sit in the back,” Pixie said.
“It’s not on my usual list of places to eat”—especially not since Angelica had opened her café, owned the local food truck, and had cornered the market for fine dining at the Brookview Inn under her Nigela Ricita umbrella—“but maybe I’ll duck in later today.”
“Well, my goal is to avoid the man at all costs. In fact, I brought my lunch,” Pixie said, and picked up her purse, patting its side. “A good old baloney sandwich and a bag of chips.”
Handbook for Homicide Page 12
