Although it was nearly time to open Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia didn’t feel like meeting the public. She’d let her assistant manager, Pixie Poe, and her other employee, Mr. Everett, handle that. But what was she supposed to do all day? Hide in her basement office? She could run away to a hotel or a resort for a few days to try to heal, but she’d be carrying her feelings of remorse and sorrow with her. She didn’t even feel like retreating to her bedroom nook to read the day away—especially not stories filled with death and misery.
Though it was much later than her usual morning walk, Tricia decided not to forgo that ritual. Yet she would have to at least face Pixie and go through her tale of woe once again. Unfortunately, she’d probably have to repeat the story over and over again to friends, family, and colleagues for the foreseeable future—something she wasn’t looking forward to.
Pixie arrived just as Tricia was making the coffee. “Morning, Tricia. How are you today?” Pixie called brightly. Obviously, she hadn’t heard about Marshall’s death.
Tricia turned to face her assistant manager. “Uh, I—I didn’t sleep well last night,” she lied. Was the fact she slept well damning in itself?
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Reading ’til dawn again?”
“Not quite.” Tricia braved a smile. “When I finally dropped off, I woke up late and I haven’t had my walk. Do you mind if I go now?”
“Oh, sure. Get it over with before it rains. It’s supposed to be a gloomy afternoon.”
Tricia already felt gloomy. “Thanks. I’ll get my jacket and be off. I shouldn’t be more than half an hour or so.”
“Take your time. We haven’t exactly been inundated with customers this week.”
That was true enough, although that would change any day now once the tourists returned in force to witness New England’s spectacular fall colors.
Tricia was tempted to head out the shop’s back door, but then remembered her near-lethal encounter with the white pickup truck. When he’d returned to the Cookery the previous evening, Baker had warned her to be careful. The someone who’d killed Marshall might be determined to take her life, too. That said, she felt pretty safe walking the village streets in broad—if dreary—daylight.
Pixie had taken off her coat and the women sidled past each other near the reader’s nook. “Have fun!” Pixie called.
Fun? Feeling the way she did, Tricia wasn’t sure she’d ever have fun again.
June, the Cookery’s manager, had already arrived and gave Tricia a sad, tentative wave as she passed the store’s big display window. Since Angelica’s surgery, if Tricia didn’t call or stop in early, June would take Sarge out to do his business. After what had happened the previous evening, Tricia was sure Angelica wouldn’t expect her sister to show up for dog duty that morning. From June’s expression, she must have heard what happened to Marshall—and probably from Angelica.
Instead of a brisk walk, Tricia’s gait more resembled a slow drag, and after covering only half her usual three miles, Tricia turned back for home.
She’d taken her usual route around the village, going up and down streets, but eventually, she’d have to pass by Marshall’s shop, the Armchair Tourist. The store had done better after Tricia had loaned its former owner, Chauncey Porter, money to invest in the business, but it had positively flourished under Marshall’s guidance.
Tricia’s gut tightened as she turned the corner of Cedar Avenue and walked up the west side of Main Street, nearing Marshall’s store. But as she came closer, she noticed someone on the sidewalk ahead of her: Ava Campbell, Marshall’s assistant.
Ava’s gait was jaunty, and she swung her purse as she walked. She caught sight of Tricia and waved.
Oh no oh no oh no! Tricia did not want to be the bearer of bad news, but there was no way she could avoid Ava—and not to tell her about her boss’s passing would be the ultimate betrayal.
“Hey, Tricia!” Ava called.
Tricia braved a smile and waved, slowing her pace.
The two women met outside Booked for Lunch, which wouldn’t open for another two hours, its usually cheerful, blinking open sign dark and lifeless.
“You’re awfully early for work, aren’t you?” Tricia asked.
“Uh-huh. We got a new shipment of electrical items in yesterday, and Marshall asked me to come in early to do an inventory. I don’t mind. Overtime is overtime,” she said, and laughed. “You can’t go to Europe without those adapter plugs, you know.”
“Yes. We took some on our trip to Ireland last month.”
“Marshall had lots of cool stories to share when he got home.” Ava laughed. “He’s a great storyteller. I almost felt like I’d been along on the trip, too.”
“Yes, well . . . there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Sure. What?”
Tricia let out a breath. “There was an accident here on Main Street last night.”
“Oh, yeah, I saw what was left of some crime tape in the street. I picked it up and tossed it in the trash.”
“You’re a good citizen,” Tricia said quietly.
Ava shrugged. “Just doing what anyone would.”
Not these days.
“What about this accident?” Ava asked.
“It was a hit-and-run. A big white pickup truck.”
“That’s terrible.”
“The victim was killed instantly.”
“That’s even worse,” Ava said, her breath catching. “Was it anyone we know?”
“I’m afraid so. It was Marshall.”
Ava’s expression turned from concern to disbelief. “You’re messing with me, right?”
Tricia shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
Ava’s mouth began to tremble and her eyes filled with tears. “He’s dead?”
Tricia nodded.
“But that can’t be,” Ava cried. “I just spoke to him last night at closing.”
Tricia reached out and pulled the twentysomething young woman into an embrace as Ava began to sob. She held on for long moments wondering why she wasn’t crying in commiseration. She felt the same terrible loss, but for some reason, she still couldn’t cry. Was it shock or guilt? She wasn’t sure what exactly she felt besides the cold numbness that didn’t seem to want to leave her.
“Why don’t you come on over to Haven’t Got a Clue and have a cup of coffee with me?” Tricia asked.
Ava pulled back and shook her head. “I’ve got to open those boxes of stock before we open for the day, and—”
Tricia shook her head sadly. “Ava, you won’t be opening today.”
“But . . .” Ava wiped her sleeve against her tearstained cheek. “No, I guess we won’t. What am I supposed to do?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
Ava cleared her throat and stood straighter, shaking her head. “No. I am going to open the store. I mean, I need to. I need to keep it going for . . . whoever now owns it. Wouldn’t they expect that of a good employee?”
Tricia sure wouldn’t, but it was a testament to Ava’s work ethic and loyalty that she wanted to. She gave the woman a sad smile. “I’m sure Marshall would be pleased.”
Ava nodded and swallowed hard. “It must be really hard for you. Especially after last night.”
“Last night?” Tricia asked.
“Oh, then he didn’t ask you to—” She stopped herself. Ava had known Marshall was going to ask her to marry him, whereas Tricia had been blindsided. She pretended she didn’t know what Ava was intimating.
“Never mind,” Ava said, and withdrew her keys from her jacket pocket. “I’d better get to work.”
Tricia was about to say Have a good day, but stopped herself just in time. “It’ll be a hard day for both of us. Let’s try to think of all the times Marshall made us laugh.”
Ava nodded bravely. “Okay.”
“
We’ll talk again soon,” Tricia promised, and patted Ava’s arm.
Ava nodded and carried on to the Armchair Tourist. Tricia watched until she entered the store and closed the door behind her, then carried on down the street. She had intended to go directly back to Haven’t Got a Clue but wasn’t sure she was up to going through the whole story with Pixie and Mr. Everett. Not yet. Instead, she decided to walk a few more blocks to try and shore up her courage.
An SUV was parked in front of the Happy Domestic, its gate open, displaying pots full of cheerful chrysanthemums in gold, brown, yellow, and a few pink ones, too. Nigela Ricita Associates paid for the flowers for a second time that year, since the now-ex-president of the Chamber of Commerce had slashed them from the budget. Since she’d begun her walk, the urns in front of a number of shops were now decked out with fall color. It was a bright spot on a very gloomy morning.
As Tricia approached the Stoneham Weekly News, her steps slackened still more. Marshall had practically gushed the evening before when describing his plans for the horrible little paper.
Tricia frowned. He would have turned the business around. With Russ Smith no longer at its helm, Tricia might have even tried to enjoy the little weekly rag. She wasn’t sure she’d be willing to give it a chance . . . if it survived.
As Tricia approached the paper’s modest display window, she noticed the lights were on inside. They suddenly winked off, and Russ’s girl Friday, Patti Perkins, backed out, locking the door before turning with a start. “Tricia! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
Patti’s shock soon turned to dismay. “Oh, Tricia, I was so sorry to hear about poor Mr. Cambridge.”
News sure traveled fast.
“Thank you,” Tricia murmured. “You must be as devastated as me. Just when it looked like your jobs at the newspaper would have been saved . . .”
“Oh, but they have been saved. Thank goodness Nigela Ricita has bailed us out,” Patti said with relief.
Tricia’s jaw dropped. “What?”
Patti grinned. “They’ve bought the paper and if they can iron out the details with the attorneys, we’ll be back to full speed by next Monday.”
“But—who’s taking charge?” Tricia demanded.
Patti gave an exaggerated shrug, her gaze suddenly dreamy. “That divinely handsome Antonio Barbero.”
Tricia’s eyes widened and the heat of a blush rose up her neck to color her cheeks. Why hadn’t Angelica mentioned this to her? Had she swooped down like a vulture to pick at the carcass of the plans Marshall had left behind?
“How did you find out about this?” Tricia asked, her voice strained.
“From Mr. Barbero—Antonio,” Patti corrected herself. “He popped into the office about an hour ago to tell me the good news.”
Tricia’s mouth twisted into an annoyed frown.
“Is something wrong?” Patti asked.
Tricia shook her head and struggled with her emotions. “Nothing. I’m . . . I’m so happy for you and Ginger.”
“Can I call you on Monday about reserving some ad space?” Patti asked eagerly.
Tricia struggled not to cry. “Sure.”
“Aw, you’re the best! Talk to you soon.” And with that, Patti scurried down the sidewalk with a decided spring in her step.
Anger fueled Tricia’s pace as she briskly resumed her walk south on Main Street. She pulled out her phone, flipped through her contacts list, and stabbed Angelica’s number.
“Hello, Tricia,” Angelica sang upon answering. “I sure hope you’re feeling better after what happened last night.”
“We need to talk. Now!” Tricia said.
“Oh, dear. I don’t think I like your tone,” Angelica quipped. “Have I upset you in any way?”
“Oh, you know damn well you did.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” Angelica said in all innocence.
“We’ll discuss this in person. I’ll be right up,” Tricia said, stabbed the end-call icon, and entered the Cookery.
June looked about to speak, no doubt to offer her condolences, but took a step back upon seeing Tricia’s furious expression.
Tricia stalked to the door marked private, threw it open, and took the stairs two at a time.
Sarge was barking up a storm of pure joy, but then abruptly quit as soon as Tricia entered the apartment. He was good at sensing the moods of the humans around him and quickly vamoosed to the safety of his bed.
“Why is Antonio taking over the Stoneham Weekly News?” Tricia began without preamble.
Angelica sat on one of the kitchen island’s stools, still clad in her pink chenille robe, with a pink fuzzy slipper on one foot and the ugly black boot on the other. She gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, that. Yes, I was going to let you know about that—this afternoon, at lunch.”
“You know there are no secrets in this village. Why would you let someone else leak it to me?” Tricia demanded.
Angelica’s expression darkened. “Who’s the blabbermouth?”
“Patti Perkins. I just spoke to her and—”
Angelica scowled. “It isn’t quite a done deal—not until we turn over a Nigela Ricita check,” she hedged.
“And when’s that going to happen?”
“Um, this afternoon.”
“So fast?”
“Yes. As it turns out, Russ hadn’t cashed Marshall’s check, so there won’t be a delay.”
Tricia pursed her lips, feeling as though she might explode. “How could you swoop in and buy the Stoneham Weekly News without even consulting me first?”
Angelica shrugged. “Because I knew it would upset you—although, for the life of me I can’t see why.”
“Marshall’s not even cold in his grave and—”
“And what?” Angelica objected. “We saved a Stoneham institution and the livelihood of many people.”
“Many?” Tricia challenged. “Patti and Ginger are not ‘many.’ ”
“There are the people who actually print the newspaper, the paper and ink suppliers, the US Postal Service . . . The list goes on and on.”
“Losing one account wouldn’t have hurt any of them. Much,” Tricia amended.
“We don’t know that,” Angelica said reasonably.
Tricia couldn’t argue with that kind of logic. She changed tacks. “Why on earth would Antonio want to run a newspaper?”
“Well, he minored in journalism when at university,” Angelica pointed out.
Tricia frowned. “I didn’t know that.”
“Now you do. And you know he’s been itching to do something other than managing the Brookview Inn. And now that we’ve brought in Hank Curtis to run the place—”
“He’s only had the job for five days!”
“He won’t be there on his own. I’ve got a crack team, plus the fact that I am his supervisor. I can give him direct guidance.”
“You mean Nigela Ricita is his supervisor.”
Angelica waved a hand in dismissal. “Same thing.”
Tricia felt herself deflating. It still seemed wrong that Marshall’s dream of running the paper had been snatched away. The fact that he was dead and would never see that ambition fulfilled was beside the point. Kind of.
“You’re upset,” Angelica simpered. “Why don’t I make you a nice soothing cup of tea? I’ve got some apple cinnamon scones in the freezer. I can pop one in the microwave and it’ll taste just like it came out of the oven.”
Tricia thought it over. Most people found comfort in eating. For years she never allowed herself to do so. Now was just as good a time as any to start. Besides, she hadn’t had any breakfast. “Well, okay,” she said, feeling defeated.
Angelica put the electric kettle on and brought out the pretty rose-patterned teapot. Next, she collected several tea bags from a glass ja
r on the counter. When the water boiled, she made the tea and set the dishes on the island. Tricia would have helped, but she was still angry at her sister. And, besides, she was grieving. It wasn’t a good excuse, but it was all she had.
Angelica popped the scones into the microwave and less than a minute later set them on the plates before shuffling over to the island. “There you are.”
Tricia had to admit, the scones smelled wonderful. She took a bite as Angelica poured Tricia’s tea. Delicious.
Angelica sat on one of the stools and poured milk into her cup before pouring the tea. “Are you terribly angry with us?”
Tricia took another bite of her scone, enjoying the flavor, making her sister wait for her answer. “Yes. No. Definitely.”
“Will you get over it anytime soon?”
“Send a couple of these scones home with me and I might.”
Angelica grinned, but it was short-lived. “What are you going to do today?”
“I don’t know. From what he told me, Marshall had no family. I don’t know who will make the funeral arrangements. Maybe his lawyer? As a businessman, he had to have a will.” It suddenly occurred to Tricia that although she and Marshall had been sort of a couple, there was a lot about the man she hadn’t known. Maybe that was another reason she hadn’t wanted to be more than friends with benefits. They’d been intimate—but failed to share the kind of intimacy she and Christopher had at the beginning of their relationship.
She took another bite of the scone, wishing Angelica had come up with some clotted cream, and contemplated her previous thought. Would she forever compare every man she was with to Christopher?
Probably.
“You never did tell me why Chief Baker came to see you last night before . . . before the accident.”
Tricia picked up her cup and sipped her tea. “He asked me to marry him.”
Angelica nearly dropped her cup. “He what?”
Tricia shrugged. “I told him no.”
“I should think so,” Angelica said. “Why on earth would he think you’d marry him?”
“Completely delusional,” Tricia muttered, and polished off the last of her scone. By now Baker had to know about the engagement ring Marshall had slipped back into his trouser pocket. It would have been listed as a personal effect by the medical examiner. Would Baker interrogate her about that when she came in to make her statement? She hoped another officer would be assigned to that duty, but one never knew. Baker would know she hadn’t automatically accepted Marshall’s proposal. Would that give him false hope that he could again try to pursue her? If so, she’d nip that notion in the bud without delay. And she didn’t yet have all the answers she needed from her sister, either.
A Deadly Deletion Page 2
