It had seemed a hasty decision to Tricia, too.
“Patti said Antonio intended to start work on Monday. Isn’t that rather soon?”
Angelica shrugged. “As Marshall proved last night: life is short. Why wait?”
Tricia felt herself deflate. Why wait indeed.
THREE
By the time Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue, word had reached Pixie concerning Marshall’s death. She rushed to the store’s entrance and threw her arms around Tricia. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered over and over again. “I’m so . . . so sorry.”
Suddenly, it was Tricia comforting Pixie. “It’s okay,” she said. “Well, no, it’s not okay . . . but . . .” She ran out of words. Mr. Everett had arrived for work and lurked in the background, looking quite upset.
Pixie pulled back. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Do you want something to eat? Would you like me to find a book you haven’t read? We have that set of 1940s Nancy Drews. I always find them a comfort to read when I’m upset.”
“That’s very kind of you, but . . . I don’t think I can even read right now.”
Pixie nodded and dabbed at a tear welling in her left eye.
“Is there anything we can do, Ms. Miles?” Mr. Everett asked sincerely.
Tricia shook her head. “We just have to get through the day and then . . .”
“Happy hour?” Pixie suggested.
Tricia had nothing to be happy about. Alcohol was a depressant, and six o’clock was seven hours away, but she was already craving her usual martini.
“Maybe you should take the day off,” Pixie advised.
“And do what?”
“Well, you could bake. When you do, it seems to make you almost as happy as Angelica when she’s conjuring up a sweet treat.”
Tricia considered the suggestion. She could make some cookies for her customers. And maybe she could make some canapés to share with Angelica before dinner. . . . Goodness only knew, she now had no one else to share them with.
“That’s a good idea. I could make thumbprint cookies—”
“Please don’t make them especially for me,” Mr. Everett protested.
“I’ll eat some, too,” Pixie piped up.
“Okay. Thumbprints it is, although I’m not sure what kind of jam I have on hand.”
“Then it will be a surprise,” Mr. Everett said hopefully.
Tricia almost laughed. “Yes, it will.”
The shop’s door opened, and a heavyset man of about fifty with what looked like dyed brown hair entered. “I’m looking for Tricia Miles.”
Something about the man made Tricia feel uneasy. “That’s me.”
“Ms. Miles? I’m Deputy Marshal David Kirby.” The man brandished his ID.
Tricia felt every muscle in her body tense. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to have a word with you—in private,” he said, his skeptical gaze taking in Pixie, who that day was wearing a khaki skirt and matching jacket, looking like one of the Andrews Sisters and at any moment about to burst into “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.”
“What’s this about?” Mr. Everett asked, moving to step between Tricia and the government agent. He was at least a foot shorter than Kirby, and probably fifty pounds lighter, but Tricia appreciated his protective gesture.
“Mr. Marshall Cambridge.”
Tricia knew that federal marshals tracked down fugitives. They transported prisoners. They were responsible for protection at federal courts and enforcing the decisions made by those judges. And they were also responsible for the security of witnesses.
A cold fist of dread seemed to clench Tricia’s heart.
Federal marshals were also in charge of the federal Witness Protection Program.
Tricia’s mouth felt dry as she answered, “Of course. My office is on the lower level.” It sounded so much nicer than saying the basement. “If you’ll follow me, please.”
Tricia started for the back of the store with Kirby following in her wake.
“Call me if you need me,” Pixie hollered.
“And me,” Mr. Everett echoed.
Tricia flipped the light switch and led the marshal down the stairs. She ushered him into her guest chair and turned her own from in front of the desk to face him.
“First of all, I’m very sorry for the loss of your”—he hesitated—“friend.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve spoken with Chief Baker of the Stoneham Police Department and he gave me your name.”
She figured as much.
“Why are you here, Mr. Kirby?”
Kirby hesitated. “I was the agent in charge of Mr. Cambridge’s case.”
“Was he enrolled in the Witness Protection Program?” Tricia asked. She didn’t have the patience to waste time fencing.
“Er, yes. How did you know? Did he inform you?”
Tricia shook her head. “I read and sell all kinds of mysteries, Mr. Kirby. I’m well aware of what federal marshals do when carrying out their responsibilities. What crime did Marshall—or whatever his real name was—do?”
“Unlike most of the participants in our program, Mr. Cambridge was not a convicted criminal.”
“Unconvicted?” she asked.
Kirby shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“May I assume everything Marshall told me was a lie?” she asked, trying to stay calm.
“I don’t know what he told you, ma’am,” Kirby said matter-of-factly.
“That he was a former college professor.”
Kirby shook his head.
“That he was a widower.”
Again Kirby shook his head.
“He was married?” Tricia asked, startled, although she knew the WPP had an all-or-nothing policy when it came to families.
“Divorced before he entered the program.”
The terrible yoke of grief became that much lighter with every new revelation.
“Was his death an accident?” Tricia asked, dreading the answer.
“We don’t think so,” Kirby said, his voice level.
“You believe the man he helped convict was responsible?”
“More likely a relative or a business associate.”
Tricia nodded, trying to make sense of everything she’d just learned. “What was his real name?”
“Eugene Marshall Chandler.”
“So at least one thing about him was true.” His middle name.
“We encourage those under our protection to assume a name they’ll readily answer to.”
Eugene. Marshall would never have struck Tricia as a Eugene. Gene maybe, but not Eugene.
None of that mattered anymore.
The fact that Kirby had dropped by meant he hadn’t come simply as a courtesy call. “What is it I can do for you, Mr. Kirby?”
He pulled a small notebook and pen from his suit pocket. “Please tell me exactly what you saw last night at the time of the . . . incident.”
Tricia gave a brief description, trying to keep her emotions in check.
Kirby jotted down a few sentences. “What did Chandler tell you about his upcoming plans?”
“That he intended to stay here in Stoneham and take over the local weekly newspaper.”
“Yes, we’ve ascertained that. Anything else?”
Tricia hesitated before answering. “He asked me to marry him.”
Kirby’s gaze dipped. “Yes. A box with an engagement ring was found on the body. I assume you said no.”
“Is it any of your business what I told him?”
His gaze hardened. “I’m investigating a probable murder, ma’am. Everything is relevant.”
“And you suspect me?” she asked aghast. “You must know I was in the company of the Stoneham chief of police when Marshall—er, Eugene—was struck by the pickup.”
“I understand that. But apparently, you were the person closest to him. We’d like to know Chandler’s state of mind at the time of his death.”
Really?
Tricia
sighed. “I didn’t say no. In fact, I didn’t give him an answer. His proposal was totally unexpected and caught me off guard.”
Kirby nodded. If a thought balloon suddenly appeared over his head—like in the comics—it probably would have sarcastically said, Sure.
Tricia suddenly remembered Ava. “Will you be talking to Marshall’s employee at the Armchair Tourist?”
“It’s my next stop.”
Poor Ava. Unlike Patti and Ginger, she would be out of a job sooner rather than later. That is, if Angelica didn’t rush in to buy that business, too. She already owned half of the village under her own and Nigela Ricita’s names.
“What will happen to Mar—Eugene’s—remains?”
“His lawyers have been notified of his death. Whatever arrangements he made will be carried out.”
“He led me to believe he was alone in the world. Will the lawyers carry out his final wishes?”
Kirby’s face remained immobile. “I don’t know, ma’am.”
Tricia despised being called ma’am. It made her feel so old.
“Will you be in charge of the investigation into Marshall’s death?”
“We’ll do a preliminary investigation, but we’ll likely turn it over to the local jurisdiction. Officially, Mr. Chandler left our protection the moment he died.”
Wow. Talk about cold. But then Marshall had been just another cog in the program’s machinery.
“Is there anything else I can tell you?” she asked.
“If I have more questions, I’ll be in contact.” Kirby rose from his chair and turned to leave.
“I’ll show you out,” Tricia said.
Kirby paused at the stairs. “I can find my way. Thank you for speaking with me today.”
Tricia merely nodded. She watched him go before turning to collapse into her office chair.
Everything Marshall told me was a lie, she thought. But those lies had kept him alive—until the evening before, at least.
Tricia frowned, unsure what to feel. If she’d committed herself to Marshall and then found out everything about him was a sham, she’d have felt shaken to the core. She wasn’t sure she wasn’t already that shaken. But the terrible grief and guilt she felt had been muted by Kirby’s revelations.
Now she simply felt numb.
* * *
* * *
Tricia must have sat staring at the floor for nearly half an hour, thinking about the past—the present—and what was to be her future.
Her talk with Deputy Kirby hadn’t been all that informative. But Tricia knew someone who could probably tell her a lot more.
Grant Baker . . . that is, if he was still speaking to her.
Sure he was. He’d been quite concerned after the pickup had come after her the night before. He’d told her she could call him day or night. He could afford to be nice to her if he thought he had a chance to get back in her good graces.
It really wouldn’t be fair to prey on that hope. But then . . . how was she supposed to find out what happened to Marshall? Deputy Kirby wasn’t likely to keep her in the loop. She would just have to be honest with Stoneham’s top cop.
That decided, Tricia rose from her chair and headed back to her store. As she rounded the top of the stairs, she grabbed her jacket, donned it, and headed for the front entrance.
“Going somewhere?” Pixie asked, looking anxious.
“I need to see someone.”
“About Marshall?”
Tricia nodded. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Pixie nodded.
“We’ll be here,” Mr. Everett assured her.
Tricia left the store and headed north, crossing the street at the village’s only traffic light. It took less than two minutes to reach the Stoneham police station.
She entered the station and, as usual, the receptionist, Polly Burgess, looked up from her computer and scowled. She was no fan of Tricia’s. With no real knowledge of her relationship with Baker, the older woman had assumed that Tricia had broken the chief’s heart when they’d broken up several years before. If the cop pined for her, it had been his own fault, not Tricia’s.
She didn’t want to waste another second thinking about it.
“Is Chief Baker in?”
“No.”
“Then why are his car and his service SUV sitting in the parking lot out back?” Tricia had learned to take note of such things, as Polly usually tried to blow her off.
“Oh, are they?” Polly asked, playing innocent.
“I’m here to make an official statement. The chief will want to know I’ve arrived.”
Polly frowned but pressed the intercom key. “Sir, Ms. Miles is here to see you.”
Instead of answering, seconds later the door to Baker’s inner sanctum opened.
“Come on in, Tricia,” Baker said gently.
Tricia strode past the receptionist, who she was sure would stick out her tongue as soon as Tricia’s back was turned.
Baker closed the door and gestured for Tricia to sit in one of the chairs before his steel-and-Formica desk. “What can I do for you?”
“What can you tell me about Marshall’s death?”
“You’ve no doubt already been visited by Deputy Kirby.”
“Yes, and he didn’t seem to have many answers.”
Baker shrugged. “I probably don’t, either—not now, at least. Maybe in a couple of days I’ll know more once the feds wash their hands of it.”
“Does that mean you aren’t expecting me to give an official statement?”
“Sure—for our records. Did Kirby ask for one?”
She shook her head. “He took notes, but didn’t ask for anything more.” She shrugged. “Maybe he figured I’d turn into a hysterical female.”
“He’d be wrong about that.” Baker looked down. “I, uh, didn’t have an opportunity before now to express my condolences to you on your loss.”
“Thank you,” Tricia murmured. “Did you know about the . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
Baker raised an eyebrow. “The engagement ring?”
Tricia nodded.
“I assume you said no.”
Tricia frowned. “You assume wrong.”
“Oh, so that’s why you blew me off so explosively.”
“Explosively?” Tricia echoed. “Your proposal was just ridiculous.”
Baker ignored her. “If you said yes, then why did Cambridge still have the ring?”
“I didn’t say no or yes. I said I’d think about it.”
“That’s pretty wishy-washy.”
Tricia’s frown deepened. Baker always seemed to know which of her buttons to push. “Unlike some people, I take the idea of marriage very seriously.”
“So do I.”
Tricia felt tempted to laugh and say something snide but decided not to go there. She rose from her chair. “Can I write out my statement and go? I have a business to run.”
“Yeah, I have crimes to solve.”
Ha!
“Polly will help you with the paperwork.”
“Fine.” Tricia rose from her seat. “I’ll talk to you later, Grant.”
Much later.
FOUR
Tricia spent the rest of the morning wandering from task to task without really accomplishing anything. She just couldn’t seem to concentrate. In her mind’s eye, she kept seeing Marshall’s hopeful expression when he’d asked her to marry him. Thinking about it, she was glad she hadn’t given him an answer, and she knew in her heart she would have eventually said no, but it would have been after careful thought and with words meant not to hurt.
Because of the many deaths that had plagued the village since her arrival, some of the villagers considered her a jinx, which was ridiculous. Those unkind souls could have applied the same moniker to any number of booksellers who’d opted to move to the village that had become known in the New England area as Booktown. It just happened that Tricia had an uncanny knack for finding the newly deceased. In th
is case, those trolls might well brand her a black widow, as well. Except . . . that Baker still lived. Would he, too, eventually be doomed?
Though they had parted several years before, and though there was still a kind of magnetic pull she sometimes felt for Baker, there was no way she would ever commit herself to him, and although he had a penchant for annoying her, she would never wish him ill.
Such thoughts clouded her mind, and though she helped several customers during the morning, she felt the need to think and contemplate. She canceled her usual lunch with Angelica and ate alone—save for the company of her cat—then made the dough for the cookies for her staff and possible customers, but decided to let it chill in the fridge overnight.
Tricia spent the rest of the afternoon giving her apartment a thorough cleaning. She finally returned to Haven’t Got a Clue only minutes before closing. Mr. Everett had already left for the day and Pixie had just finished washing the coffeepots and cups.
“Feeling better?” Pixie asked sympathetically.
Tricia shook her head. “Not really.”
Pixie nodded. “We heard a whole lotta vacuuming going on.”
“Yes, well . . . it was mind-numbing work and just what I needed.”
“You know, you could take a couple of days off,” Pixie offered once again. “Maybe go somewhere fun.”
Tricia shook her head. “I just need time. Besides, we’re starting to get busy again. I don’t want to leave you and Mr. Everett at such an important time of year.”
Pixie nodded. “I placed the day’s receipts in the safe. Everything on the sales floor is set up for tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Pixie. You’re a gem.”
The women grabbed their coats and headed for the door. Tricia turned off the lights and locked the door. They walked together until they reached the Cookery. “See you tomorrow,” Tricia said.
“You bet,” Pixie said, and gave a wave as she headed north.
The Cookery had already closed and Tricia let herself in, heading for the back of the store to the door marked PRIVATE that led to Angelica’s apartment. As usual, Sarge heard her plodding up the stairs and began to bark in happy anticipation.
“Oh, hush!” Angelica called, but doggy joy knows no bounds, and it was only after Tricia tossed him a biscuit that the dog quieted.
Booktown Mystery 15 - A Deadly Deletion Page 3
