Booktown Mystery 15 - A Deadly Deletion

by Lorna Barrett

  Tricia brought out their snack and drinks and they sat in their usual spots in the living room, with Angelica taking the chaise end of the sectional and elevating her feet. She gave them a wiggle. “My foot might not be one hundred percent back to normal, but I’m ready to get back to living a real life,” Angelica proclaimed.

  “Are you actually allowed to walk in those shoes?”

  “Allowed—yes. Encouraged . . . eh, that’s debatable. But I can get along with crutches or the knee scooter, and from now on I intend to be a lot more active. I want to heal—and I don’t want to lose my mobility. So if I take it carefully, I should be able to start getting out more.”

  “That’s great.”

  “And remember, I promised to help with your Chamber mission.”

  “I’ve called a couple of people. The committee is supposed to meet again sometime next week,” Tricia said. “Since physically canvassing past members isn’t in the cards for you, would you be up to making a few phone calls?”

  “I’ve never been afraid of a telephone,” Angelica said self-assuredly.

  “Great. I’ll e-mail you the half of my list of people I never want to speak to again.”

  “Who are they?” Angelica asked, and picked up a pretzel, taking a deep swipe of the dip.

  “The members who didn’t vote for me to be Chamber president.”

  Angelica nodded. “Good idea. What else happened today? Tell all, because I’m bored silly.”

  While they sipped their drinks and sampled the dip, Tricia gave her sister a brief recap of each of her adventures, but Angelica wasn’t satisfied and peppered her with questions.

  “Instead of Antonio, I think maybe you should be in charge of the paper.”

  “Manage it, definitely. Write for it?” She shook her head. “My specialty is writing recipes—not mediocre ad copy.” She sighed. Angelica’s writing career had been on hold for so long, Tricia doubted she’d ever get another cookbook contract. Well, there was always self-publishing, but she also knew that cookbooks didn’t translate all that well when it came to electronic editions. Angelica’s publisher had arranged for wonderful photography to accompany each of her recipes, which she wasn’t sure her sister could handle on her own.

  As though channeling Tricia’s thoughts on photography, Angelica said, “Tell me more about Louise Jameson’s studio. Is she any good?”

  “From the samples I saw on display, yes. And her studio is very cute, albeit small.”

  “What did she seem like as a person?”

  Tricia thought about it for a moment. “Guarded. Of course, I was dying to ask her how she knew Marshall, but I didn’t want to blow it. I’ll have to take my time—get to know her a little bit better—before I can ask her any difficult questions.”

  “Well, laying some silver across her palm could help grease the wheels.”

  “More like letting her swipe my credit card,” Tricia remarked. She took a sip of her martini before changing the subject. “I told Mr. Everett I was making dessert for tomorrow night’s dinner and he suggested apple crisp.”

  “What a great idea,” Angelica said, and took another hit of beer dip.

  “And he had a request.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, that you let him and Grace contribute to our dinners in some way.”

  “Oh, but that’s not necessary.”

  “They would like to,” Tricia stressed. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Everett would like to bring next week’s dessert.”

  Angelica looked thoughtful. “He is a wonderful baker.”

  “There, then it’s all settled.”

  Angelica nodded.

  “I’m looking forward to you being able to climb the steps to my apartment so I can host you for happy hour and dinner. It’s been more than a month since I did. I know exactly how Mr. Everett and Grace feel by not being able to reciprocate your generosity.”

  “Well, when you put it that way, I guess I can understand.”

  Tricia nodded. “Now, with that settled, what’s for supper?”

  FIFTEEN

  When Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue that evening, she found a bag of apples sitting on the cash desk along with a note from Mr. Everett.

  I stopped at the grocery store. I didn’t want you to have to wait until tomorrow to receive the apples to prepare the crisp.

  Your Friend,

  Wm. E.

  Tricia smiled. Friend? Mr. Everett was far more than a friend and employee to her and the rest of their little family.

  She carried the bag up to her apartment and started peeling the fruit, humming tunelessly as she worked. Making dessert was one of the joys she was determined to find every day.

  She decided not to bake the crisp, but to put it in the oven when she got to Angelica’s the next day. There was nothing like the spicy aroma of dessert baking to get the old taste buds going.

  And, taking Mr. Everett’s cue, Tricia examined her bookshelves and came up with another Rex Stout favorite for her evening’s reading pleasure: Too Many Clients. After finishing it, she drifted off to dreamland.

  After the second good night’s sleep since Marshall’s death, Tricia headed downstairs to pick up the newspaper, once again lamenting that the print edition came out only on Sundays. Okay, so she was a dinosaur, but as much as she enjoyed the convenience of an e-reader, she still enjoyed reading the printed word—selling hardcovers and paperbacks was her bread and butter, after all.

  As she poured her first cup of coffee of the day, she scanned the headlines before opening the front section. At the lower right was a two-paragraph story about the body of a man found by hikers in the woods near Rindge, some twenty-plus miles from Stoneham. Foul play was suspected.

  Tricia let out a breath. Someone she knew here in Stoneham had mentioned growing up in that little town west of Milford, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember who it was. There seemed to be foul play happening all over southern New Hampshire. The mystery reader in her wondered what kind of mayhem had been involved. With brief reports such as she’d read, sadly, she’d probably never find out.

  Find some joy, she told herself, and skipped to the comics page. But before she could catch up on the antics of the Cobb family, the landline rang. These days, she didn’t receive many calls on that number outside of store hours but decided to set the paper aside and answer the phone anyway.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Tricia, it’s me, Becca.”

  “Hi,” Tricia said cautiously. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to play.”

  Tricia scowled. “Play?”

  “Yes. I may be retired from professional tennis, but I need to keep up my game and I need to practice. Are there any tennis courts in the vicinity?”

  Tricia thought about it. Sure, at the local nudist camp, and some private courts in a couple of backyards. And then there was . . . “There are courts at Stoneham High School, but they’re not nearly the quality you’re used to.”

  “Honey, I learned to play tennis on a weed-filled patch of asphalt in Hoboken when I was the size of a firecracker and just as explosive. As long as I can lob a ball over a net, I’ll be good to go. Do you have any connection with the school?”

  Tricia thought about it. She’d been a contender in the Great Booktown Bake-Off that was held at the school back in the summer. She was acquainted with a former teacher at the school, but other than that she had no real connection with the local school district.

  “Give me a day or so and let me see what I can do.”

  “Thanks. A day without tennis is like a day without—”

  “Sunshine?” Tricia supplied.

  “Not exactly,” Becca said. “You have to understand, since I was ten years old, tennis has been my life.”

  It made sense that she would miss practice, let alone the game—and why she was willing to give up her marriage to keep playing. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Do you know anyone who’d be willing to pl
ay with me? Someone I won’t automatically slaughter.” She laughed.

  Tricia didn’t.

  “If my sister hadn’t recently undergone foot surgery, she might have been a candidate. She was heavily into the game until she had a repetitive motion injury.” That sounded pretty much true.

  “That’s too bad. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t play. That’s why I have an indoor court on my property.”

  It occurred to Tricia that Becca probably had a lot more money than Angelica—and that was saying something. And if so, why was she spending time winding up Marshall’s piddly affairs? Couldn’t she just pay someone to do that? After all, as far as Tricia knew, he lived comfortably, but not extravagantly. Then again, everything he’d told her was a lie. Had he escaped his old life with money to spare? Had he gotten a settlement from Becca? If asked, would Becca answer honestly or just tell her she was out of line?

  “Are you still there?” Becca asked.

  “Yes, sorry.”

  “Have you ever played?”

  “It’s been a long time since I picked up a racket. I don’t think I could keep up with you.”

  “If nothing else, you could just lob balls and I could return them. I could get a couple dozen balls at the sporting goods store up on the highway.”

  “Why not rent a machine for that?”

  “I’ve already tried,” Becca said, sounding bored.

  “Okay, let me find out if I can finagle a court first, then we’ll talk about the rest.”

  Becca let out a breath. “All right. Call me when you know something.”

  “Will do.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tricia hung up the phone. She didn’t mind helping out someone in need. And she had, after all, offered to help Becca any way she could. But finding her a tennis court? She thought about it for a moment and remembered she did know someone who might be able to help. And he would be arriving for work in less than three hours.

  * * *

  * * *

  There was no point in opening Haven’t Got a Clue sooner than noon on a Sunday—especially during non-peak traffic. To keep busy, Tricia gave her apartment another thorough cleaning and had just enough time to shower and change before the magic hour arrived. But when she went down to her store, she saw Mr. Everett had already arrived and was busy with his beloved lamb’s-wool duster.

  “You’re here early,” Tricia said by way of a greeting.

  Mr. Everett smiled. “I consider myself lucky to have such a wonderful job with such good coworkers. Many people my age can’t find meaningful work.”

  Tricia nodded at the validity of that statement. So many employers wanted younger workers so they could pay them less, but Tricia had found just the opposite with the people who worked for her. Not only did Mr. Everett and Pixie always show up on time, they almost never asked for time off or called in sick for the odd “mental health” day. It was worth paying them more than minimum wage and giving them benefits, as well.

  “Thank you so much for the apples. It was so sweet of you to deliver them last evening.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “The crisp is ready to go into Angelica’s oven and we can eat it piping hot with vanilla ice cream.”

  The old man’s eyes practically sparkled with pleasure.

  Tricia remembered her telephone call from earlier that morning. “Mr. Everett, you used to be on the Stoneham School Board. Do you think you could help me get permission for Becca Dickson-Chandler to practice on their tennis courts while she’s here in Stoneham?”

  “I’d be happy to put out some feelers, although I would hate to do so on a Sunday.”

  “Tomorrow would be fine.”

  “Very well. I’ll make some calls and get back to you then.”

  “Thanks. You’re a dear.”

  Mr. Everett’s head dipped and his cheeks turned pink.

  “Well now, what kind of trouble can we get into today?” Tricia asked.

  Before he could answer, the bell over the door rang and Tricia looked up to see Grant Baker enter the shop. He was dressed in uniform, which seemed strange for a Sunday, and glanced around the shop, as though looking to see if there were customers present. “Morning,” he called.

  “Just about afternoon, actually,” Tricia said.

  Mr. Everett merely nodded. As though sensing the chief wasn’t interested in buying a vintage mystery, Mr. Everett turned to his boss. “Ms. Miles, unless you need me right now, I’ll be down in the office updating the inventory.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Everett.”

  He nodded and headed for the back of the store. Tricia and Baker watched until he’d rounded the wall for the stairs.

  Baker stepped forward. “It’s the first time in a long time I’ve seen you alone in your shop.”

  “The day’s young,” she said with a shrug. “What can I do for you?”

  Baker moseyed up to the glass display case that doubled as the cash desk. “It looks like we’re alone.”

  As if to contradict that statement, Miss Marple jumped up on the counter and plopped down in front of them, telling Baker, “Yow!”

  “Are you here on official business?” Tricia asked, eyeing his police service cap. She wasn’t in the mood for a personal conversation—if that’s what he had in mind.

  “We think we’ve found the pickup truck that killed Cambridge—Chandler—whatever his real name was,” he added dismissively.

  Tricia’s heart jumped. “Where?”

  “It was dumped in Hunter’s Creek at the edge of the village. There was no sign of the driver. And, of course, the feds confiscated it before the state lab could get its hands on it,” he said bitterly.

  “What happens next?”

  Baker shrugged. “They’ll try to lift some prints, but my guess is the vehicle was wiped clean before it was abandoned. We’re dealing with a pro here.” He shook his head and swore under his breath. “But don’t worry. I’ll solve this.”

  Would he? It seemed to Tricia that she’d been better at his job than he’d been—not that she would ever voice that opinion. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to poke around too much on this one. Whoever had been driving that truck had tried to run her down, too.

  She wouldn’t find joy in being the state’s latest murder statistic.

  “Thanks for sharing this with me. It brings me hope that Marshall’s killer will soon be brought to justice.”

  He raised a hand. “Fingers crossed.” He cleared his throat. “There was one other thing I wanted to ask you about.”

  “Oh?”

  He looked into her eyes. “Tricia, do you ever see us getting back together?”

  Tricia looked into Baker’s mesmerizing eyes. She could see flecks of gold in his green irises, but then she had to remind herself that the attraction to them had always been based on her feelings for her ex-husband, Christopher. She’d told Christopher there was no way they would ever be reconciled—and, with his death, that pronouncement became reality. But had she really meant it? More than a year after his death she still found herself mourning his loss, missing him every day. Had he been the one true love of her life?

  “I’m sorry, Grant, but no. With my romantic track record, I’m beginning to think that maybe being single is what I was meant to be all along. There are worse things in life.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, and for a moment she thought the macho man before her might actually cry.

  “Pretty sure.” At least about you, she mentally added.

  Baker nodded, swallowing.

  “But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends,” she offered because, for a time, Baker had been an important part of her life.

  “Like you and Marshall were?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

  “Friends with benefits?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  She shook her head. “Just friends.”

  Baker nodded—she thought with sad acceptance. “So be it.” He straightened. And cleared his throat,
becoming all business once again. “Do you want me to keep you informed on anything I hear about Chandler’s death?”

  “Yes, of course! I need that kind of closure.”

  “Well, then, I guess I’d better get going. I’ve got lots of paperwork to attend to.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “They pay me a salary—not by the hour,” he reminded her.

  She nodded and in a moment of sentimentality reached out to touch his arm. “Thanks for stopping by. I really appreciate you keeping me apprised of the case.”

  Baker shrugged and patted her hand. “All in a day’s work.”

  He turned and headed for the door. Tricia watched him go, feeling sad for what had been—and could never be again.

  SIXTEEN

  After collecting her unbaked dessert, Tricia switched off her shop’s lights, set the security system, and locked the door, then she and Mr. Everett headed next door. June had waited for them to arrive and bid them good night before taking off for the day, leaving Tricia to lock up.

  “Looks like we’re the first to arrive once again,” she told Mr. Everett.

  “Punctual as ever,” he agreed, and followed her to the back of the shop and the stairs for Angelica’s apartment, where the heavenly aromas of roast chicken, garlic, and lemon greeted them.

  As usual, Sarge was over the moon to see them, and they made a big fuss of the little dog only to have the scenario repeat when the others arrived.

  “Help yourselves to drinks and hors d’oeuvres,” Angelica called as she helped Sofia off with her coat, but the little girl was far more interested in her nonna’s sparkling sneakers.

  “Would you like a pair, too?” she asked.

  Sofia nodded enthusiastically, and Angelica asked Antonio to pass her the wrapped package that sat on her computer desk.

  “You’re spoiling her,” Ginny warned.

  “If you’d like a pair, I’d be happy to spoil you, too! Just tell me your size.”

  “Really?” Ginny asked, delighted. After all, because of the fire, she might possess only the shoes on her feet.

  “Of course.”