Booktown Mystery 15 - A Deadly Deletion

by Lorna Barrett

  “Do you really think she’ll contact you?” Angelica asked.

  “There’s not much else I can do at this point. If she’s gone into hiding—and who could blame her?—she may even have left the village, although I’m sure law enforcement has told her how far she can go without being considered a flight risk.”

  “Her bail was set at a hundred thousand dollars,” Antonio said.

  “Maybe she has more financial latitude than you imagined,” Angelica suggested.

  “Maybe. Or maybe her attorney helped her arrange bail. Either way, I don’t suppose it matters. She’s out of the pokey—at least for now.”

  “Was that a bluff—your telling her you could help with her legal problem?”

  “Partly.”

  “What will you tell her?”

  “Right now? I have no idea.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Tricia decided to wear her new sequined sneakers to Angelica’s that evening for happy hour and dinner. They didn’t have as much support as she would have liked, but they did look cute and gave her an emotional boost. After what she’d endured the previous few days, she really needed that.

  No mention was made of Marshall, Becca, or Louise, and Tricia was perfectly fine with that. Instead, Angelica spoke of other things.

  “Earlier today, I paid a visit to the NR Realty office. You were right. Karen did a wonderful job decorating her office, but it made the rest of the place look like the DMV.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Paint, for one thing. New carpet. Buy some art for the walls and add some separators so that the staff has at least some privacy. And I think I might get a white-noise generator so that conversations won’t be echoing around the room. I’m sure the clients would appreciate that as well.”

  “Does Karen know you’re Nigela?”

  “I don’t know. I went as myself, saying I was asked to have a look and suggest solutions.”

  “What did Karen think about the proposed changes?”

  “She seemed okay with it. One of the agents came in and when she heard why I was there, was thrilled.”

  “Then you’ll have more happy employees.”

  “I’m afraid they haven’t been very happy. The agent told me she’d been thinking of going to work for a realty office in Milford. She’s done well for the company. I would have hated to lose her over something as mundane as crappy office décor.”

  “How soon can the changes be implemented?” Tricia asked, enjoying her first martini in three days.

  “I’ve already contacted the design firm that worked on the Brookview. They’re going to give me some preliminary sketches and cost estimates before the end of the week.”

  “That’s great.”

  Angelica looked down at her untouched drink. “I feel bad about what happened on Saturday—” she began.

  “Didn’t I say we never had to mention it again?”

  “Yes, but . . . I can’t believe I treated you so poorly. That’s not me—or at least, that’s not who I ever want to be again.”

  “Let’s drop it,” Tricia said, exasperated.

  “No,” Angelica insisted. “We need to talk about it.”

  “You wanted to protect Antonio. But he’s a grown man. He doesn’t need his mama to run interference for him. If he’s going to be a journalist, he needs to grow a thicker skin.”

  Angelica nodded. “Exactly. And we both know that the Stoneham Weekly News isn’t ever likely to print any earth-shattering news, but he would like to have a little fun with it.”

  “I thought it was funny the way Ginny described it as an ‘ad rag.’ ”

  Angelica shrugged. “I don’t suppose it’ll ever be much more than that. But Antonio can play journalist while he oversees the bulk of the NR Associates portfolio. And without the Brookview Inn to worry about, he should have more time to spend with his family in the future.”

  “Including you?”

  “Exactly.”

  Tricia wasn’t about to ask where she landed in that family dynamic. She decided to change the subject. “So, what treat have you concocted for our supper?”

  “Nothing fancy, I’m afraid. Good old comfort food. Tommy made us a chicken pot pie and provided a salad and some rolls.”

  “I’m all for comfort food,” Tricia said, because, as it was, she was sure she’d feel more than a little discomfort the next time she spoke with Becca Chandler, and she wondered if she’d even have an opportunity to talk to Louise Jameson.

  Discomfort was putting it mildly. But she also felt compelled to find out the truth about the relationship each woman had had with Marshall, because it was now obvious to her that the man had loved both of those women more than he’d loved her. That he found them inaccessible and had decided to settle for her was even more demeaning.

  One thing was for certain, Tricia no longer had any warm feelings for the stranger she’d known as Marshall Cambridge.

  * * *

  * * *

  Tricia awoke early on Tuesday morning. It had been two weeks since Marshall’s death. She wasn’t sure why she was still counting the days, but she probably would do so until whoever had planned his death was brought to justice.

  Was it justice he deserved? He’d avoided the scales of justice—saving his own neck—when he’d testified against Martin Bailey. Was it karma that had brought him down?

  Tricia didn’t really believe in karma, although sometimes she wished she did.

  Tricia took off on her usual early-morning walk on that brisk October morning and meandered the streets of the village until she found herself on Cedar Avenue. Like Main Street, it had a back alley running parallel to it. She decided to hike down the alley to see if there were signs of life behind the Louise Jameson Photography Studio. Some of the houses had small parking pads, and the photography studio was one of them. A late-model Audi was parked there.

  Although it wasn’t even eight o’clock, Tricia approached the building and knocked on the door. When no one answered after thirty seconds, she knocked again. And after another thirty seconds . . .

  The curtain on the window next to the door moved. Tricia waved to the building’s occupant. For all she knew, it might have been Louise’s assistant, Kristin. The curtain was pulled back once more. Tricia pondered knocking a fourth time when she heard the sound of a chain being drawn back and the dead bolt being thrown before the door was wrenched open.

  “Boy, you don’t give up easily, do you?” a scowling Louise accused.

  “Can we talk?” Tricia asked cautiously.

  Louise turned away. She didn’t slam the door in Tricia’s face, so Tricia entered the small dated kitchen, which looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 1940s, and smelled like fresh-brewed coffee. Louise was clad in a flowing silk robe decorated in large fuchsia flowers. Her hair hung around her shoulders and looked like it could use a good brushing. It was her haunted eyes that struck Tricia. She looked like a woman in mourning, but was it for Marshall or Mark?

  “What is it you want—besides your proofs?” Louise asked as she grabbed a mug from the counter, cupping it with both hands.

  “Then you got my message.”

  “Yeah. What kind of help can you offer me with my ‘legal problems,’ or was that just a line to get me to talk to you?”

  “On paper, you make a good suspect for your husband’s death—but for Marshall? I don’t think so.”

  Louise leaned against the old-fashioned counter. “And why’s that?”

  “Because you weren’t a spurned lover. If anyone was spurned, it was Marshall.”

  “Any other theories?”

  “I suppose Mark could have been responsible for Marshall’s death. But I also got the feeling he didn’t like to get his hands dirty.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “He could have hired Joshua Greenwell, the man suspected of being the hit-and-run driver who killed Marshall.”

  “But Mark didn’t even know about Mars
hall. If he had, he would have used it against me.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t? Or has your work always been copyrighted Mark Jameson Enterprises?”

  “It has since the day after we returned from our honeymoon,” Louise said bitterly.

  So, Tricia was at least right on that account.

  “And what about now? Now that Mark’s dead, do you own Mark Jameson Enterprises?”

  “It’s complicated—just like everything Mark set his mind to. It’s all so convoluted I’m not even sure I can access the funds to pay my lawyer’s retainer—and it’s a whopper.”

  “Has law enforcement decided the copyright problem was the motive you might have had for killing Mark?”

  “Partially.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “It turns out that while I was cheating on Mark, he was cheating on me.”

  Tricia hadn’t considered that scenario. “Did you know?”

  “Hell, no! But I haven’t been back to the house since he died. I have no interest in ever again sleeping in our former marital bed.” She looked around the shabby kitchen, but it wasn’t with disdain. “I’ve been working on getting the apartment over the shop in shape to sublet. I had hoped to lease it after the holidays. Instead, I might just stay here and put the house up for sale. If I can get decent money for it, I’d at least be able to pay my legal bills.”

  Tricia eyed the shabby space. Old though it might be, it was not decrepit. Instead, it oozed vintage charm, much like the robe Louise wore. It wouldn’t be a horrible place if she had to downsize her life.

  “I suppose the chief believes you had a key to Marshall’s storage unit.”

  “I didn’t even know he had one. And if I did, and if I murdered my husband, why would I stash his body at the storage facility? I had a unit there for about six months before I moved my equipment into this place. I’d been using our garage, which wasn’t at all comfortable for me or my clients during the winter and the worst of summer. And Mark was sick of parking his car in the driveway. He let me rent this place.”

  Magnanimous of him, Tricia thought.

  “How did Baker find out about you and Marshall?” Tricia asked.

  “I don’t think he had a clue until after I was arrested.”

  Yes. When it came to murder, the spouse was always first on the list of suspects.

  “You said you might be able to help me with my legal problems,” Louise reminded Tricia.

  Tricia chose her words carefully. “I tend to believe you more than I believe Marshall’s ex-wife. I’ve caught her in a couple of lies.”

  “I sure hope you’ll make that clear to Chief Baker and the Hillsborough County district attorney’s office,” Louise declared.

  “Under ordinary circumstances, I’d speak with Chief Baker, but now isn’t a good time. Although it does occur to me that I do know someone else who might get me an in with the DA’s office.”

  “But what can you tell them? That you have a gut instinct I’m not a killer?”

  “That they ought to look a little harder to find a viable suspect. I’ve got to think your lawyer thinks the charges are trumped up.”

  “He does. But that doesn’t stop crooked cops and prosecutors from railroading people to prison.”

  “Chief Baker has never struck me as a crooked cop. In a hurry to make an arrest, maybe; but he’s also admitted mistakes when he’s made them.” Like the many times he’d suspected Tricia of being a criminal only to have to eat crow.

  “I’d appreciate anything you can do on my behalf,” Louise said sincerely. “And I’ll make sure to send your proofs today. I may not be taking on new clients right now, but I sure need to collect money for those jobs that’re still in the pipeline. It might be all I have to live on until I can get a judge to give me control of my share of our assets.”

  “My sister will be very glad to hear that. She’s eager to have prints made of the family.”

  Louise nodded.

  Tricia pitied the poor woman. New Hampshire was not a community-property state. If Mark had tied up Louise’s photography copyrights, what other nasty little surprises was she going to find out once she’d hired an accountant to try and unravel the mess?

  Right then, Tricia felt pretty good about being a single woman who controlled her own destiny.

  She was pretty sure she’d never marry again. That said, she wasn’t about to commit to saying never. One never knew what the future held.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue in plenty of time before opening. To her surprise, Pixie had already arrived, had set up the beverage station for the day, and was busy with the lamb’s-wool duster. “I figured with Mr. E gone, you might need me more than ever,” she said sadly.

  Tricia nodded. “We’ll just have to make out as best we can. I can call a temp agency to see if they can send someone to help me on the weekends, at least until we can find someone permanent. I know how much you love working at the day spa on Saturdays and spending your Sundays with Fred.”

  “I wouldn’t want to have to give either of them up—but I could do it until we find someone.”

  “Thank you,” Tricia said. Of course, she could run the store on her own . . . but not during the Christmas rush, which was only weeks away.

  Tricia’s phone pinged. She pulled it from her jacket pocket and looked at the name of the person who sent the message: Becca. She ignored it. “I’m going to hang up my coat, then pour myself a cup of coffee. Would you join me?”

  Pixie laughed. “Is there room for both of us in one mug?”

  Tricia rolled her eyes. “Very funny.”

  “Made you smile.”

  “Only a little,” Tricia admitted.

  By the time she returned to grab a cup at the beverage station, the door to the shop opened and Mr. Everett stepped inside, his shoulders drooping, looking like he’d lost his best friend.

  “Mr. Everett. We didn’t expect to see you here today,” Tricia said.

  Pixie joined Tricia as Mr. Everett stepped forward. “Good morning. I . . . that is, Grace and I spoke to Ginny yesterday afternoon. It was rather an embarrassing conversation.”

  And Tricia had no doubt he wasn’t about to reveal the gist of that discussion. She waited for him to continue.

  “Ginny assured us that nothing will ever come between us that we can’t discuss. She promised we would always be in Sofia’s life.”

  Tricia hadn’t been wrong about that, either. Still, she didn’t comment.

  Mr. Everett lowered his gaze to the floor and fiddled with the buttons on his coat. “I was wondering if I might rescind my resignation. I would truly miss working for you, Ms. Miles, and with Pixie.”

  Instead of answering, Tricia walked over to the display case and retrieved the envelope Mr. Everett had given her the day before. She returned to the beverage station and handed the envelope to him. “I would be very pleased to have you back with us. You’re an integral part of Haven’t Got a Clue.”

  “That’s right,” Pixie chimed in. “We’d miss you terribly.”

  Mr. Everett dared to look up and there were tears in his eyes. He wasn’t one for great shows of affection, so Tricia restrained herself from hugging him.

  “Why don’t you hang up your coat and we’ll all gather in the reader’s nook for our first cup of coffee of the day.”

  “That sounds like a fine idea,” Mr. Everett agreed.

  As he started for the back of the store, Pixie gave Tricia a big toothy grin and a thumbs-up.

  Tricia’s phone pinged. She took it out, glanced at the screen to see Becca had texted her, and once again ignored it. This time Pixie didn’t comment. Back in her pocket went the phone.

  “Well, let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into today,” Tricia said with a smile.

  * * *

  * * *

  Tuesdays were always the slowest day of the week for retail, or at least it seemed so to Tricia, but that day, with sunny skies and the leaves practically shimmering, the st
iff breeze blew in a lot of customers looking to add to their book collections or buying early holiday gifts. Tricia and her staff were kept busy making recommendations, restocking the shelves, and grinning until their cheeks ached. Pixie and Mr. Everett went to lunch at Booked for Lunch, and Tricia joined Angelica there after they returned. She filled her sister in on the conversation she’d had with Louise—and Mr. Everett’s return—before returning for the final few hours of the day.

  Her cell phone rang three times during the afternoon—each of the calls from Becca, which she ignored. But finally, when there was a lull in the store’s foot traffic, it was with reluctance that Tricia retreated to her office, picked up her phone, and tapped Becca’s number from her contacts list.

  “What’s going on?” Becca demanded without even saying hello. “Suddenly Ginny is ghosting me and you took hours to get back to me.”

  Tricia wasn’t sure how to reply to that statement. Her mind whirled before she answered. “I’m a bit concerned that you haven’t been totally honest with me about certain things.”

  “Such as what?” Becca asked.

  “Well, for one thing, that you arrived in Stoneham before Gene died.”

  Becca didn’t immediately reply. “Who says?”

  “The pictures on your phone, for one. They were taken after Gene’s death, but before you supposedly showed up in Stoneham.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw the flowers in them being planted the morning after he died.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  “Gene was right. You’re one sharp cookie.”

  The last thing Tricia wanted to be described as was a cookie.

  “What else?” Becca asked.

  “You implied that you’d never set foot in Stoneham before you arrived two weeks ago, but the receptionist at the Brookview recognized you when we went there for lunch. Antonio went back through the reservations and found you’d stayed at the inn for two nights last year over the holidays.”