Digging deeper, Tricia found links to Eugene’s high school and college yearbooks, and, of course, his courtship and marriage to tennis star Rebecca Dickson. She’d been a globe-trotter, winning tournament after tournament, open after open, while Eugene had apparently been content to remain in her shadow. There were no pictures of him at the red-carpet events Becca had attended during their years of marriage, and she’d often been accompanied to those affairs by her coach, one Sandra Bailey—ex-wife of Martin Bailey. Was that how Eugene got the job working for the Baltimore Kingpin, as Bailey was known in Maryland?
A small article dated six years before noted the amicable dissolution of Eugene and Becca’s marriage, and she’d been seen in the company of several well-known actors and movie moguls, but none of those relationships seemed to have lasted—if, in fact, they were relationships and not just photo ops. A year after that, Eugene had testified against Bailey. It had taken a jury less than five hours to convict Bailey on all counts, and he went to jail vowing revenge. By that time, of course, Eugene was apparently already in federal custody himself and then disappeared, whisked into the Witness Protection Program.
Tricia typed the name of her favorite online encyclopedia into her browser search box and hit the enter key. Next, she typed in Martin Bailey’s name and read his bio, skipping over his early life and heading for the personal life section. It listed his several wives and the name of his only child, a son, who had changed his surname some years before so as not to be associated with his father. Sandra Bailey—Becca’s coach—had divorced the man before the trial, perhaps to recoup some of the couple’s assets before they could be swallowed up by lawyers, creditors, and the ever-powerful IRS.
The son who’d distanced himself from his father, and a wife who’d decided to grab what she could and let the man face jail alone, didn’t seem like the type to perpetrate an act of revenge. Bailey Junior was the product of the old man’s first marriage. His mother was replaced by a younger, prettier model and had not made out well when it came to a divorce settlement. She’d had to take her ex to court on numerous occasions to get the child support she was granted by the decree.
So, it didn’t look like Marshall’s death was a simple case of revenge. Then again, Tricia knew only a few sketchy facts about Marshall—Eugene—and the people he’d been associated with in the past.
Tricia sat back in her office chair. When would Chief Baker have the inside scoop on what the feds suspected?
Poor Grant.
Tricia shook herself. Now she was feeling sorry for Baker? They hadn’t spoken since she’d given his department her statement. And after her unequivocal rejection of his proposal, perhaps in the future he might be reluctant to speak to her again. That was too bad. While she wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship with Baker, she realized she was going to miss male company.
Hers and Baker’s relationship had always been rocky. He couldn’t bring himself to trust her completely. He’d even suspected her of being capable of murder—and on more than one occasion.
She let her mind wander to the times when they’d been in sync. At one point, she even wondered if she loved him, but their relationship had gone sour one time too many before she’d called it quits. It hadn’t taken him long to replace her with the beautiful, high-powered attorney Diana Porter.
Tricia shook herself. Why was she even thinking about Baker when there were so many other subjects she could pursue?
She reached across the desk to pick up the phone to call Marshall to ask his take until she remembered she’d never hear his voice again.
Evenings were going to be the hardest. That’s when they’d go for a drink at the Dog-Eared Page and then to his place for a final nightcap. Sometimes she stayed over, sometimes she didn’t. Sometimes he came to her place. Sometimes they’d just chat on the phone for an hour or more, comparing notes on the day or just commiserating over the lack of sales in their businesses during downtimes. Yes, she was already missing Marshall Cambridge . . . Eugene Chandler, she reminded herself.
Then it occurred to her . . . she’d neglected to ask Becca what, if any, arrangements were being made for Marshall’s burial, and if not that—his remains. Would she scatter his ashes here in Stoneham or take them somewhere else? Would she hold a ceremony of some kind? And if not here, where? Back in Baltimore? Would he be remembered in death by his birth name or the name he’d acquired when he’d dropped out of sight after the trial? They were all questions Tricia wished she’d thought to ask.
Becca had said they’d speak again.
Tricia decided she wouldn’t wait for Becca to seek her out. The next morning, she determined, she’d seek out Becca.
SEVEN
The morning sky was steel gray and gloomy when Tricia donned her jacket and left Haven’t Got a Clue, clutching her pink floral umbrella in one hand and settling her other on the purse she’d slung over her shoulder. If one had to use a bumbershoot, it might as well be pretty and colorful.
The walk up Main Street took less than ten minutes, but by the look of the cars in the gravel lot, the rest of the Chamber’s nominating committee had chosen to drive.
Russ Smith had chosen a terrible location to house the Chamber offices. It was only a brass padlock that kept the warehouse secure—and this one looked brand-new. No doubt someone on the committee had changed it since they’d probably had to cut the old one off to gain access to the building.
It seemed Tricia was the last to arrive, although by her watch she was two minutes early.
Tricia didn’t bother to hang up her jacket and joined the others at a folding table and chairs that had been set up in the drafty, wide-open space. She greeted the others, who all looked appropriately somber—especially Mark Jameson, a more recent member. He’d opened his dentistry practice in the new professional office park near the Brookview Inn and had apparently appointed himself head of the recruitment committee. The others were Mary Fairchild, of course, Terry McDonald, and Dan Reed, owner of the Bookshelf Diner.
“Now that we’re all here,” Mark said, “we can start. Mary, will you act as secretary and take notes?”
Weren’t any of the men capable of that duty?
“Sure thing,” Mary answered wearily.
“Now, I’ve spoken with the Chamber’s attorney and he’s looking into how we can get the organization up and running again as fast as possible.” He leveled his gaze at Tricia. “Since you were in the running for the Chamber presidency during its last election, and got thirty-one percent of the vote, it’s likely you could be named the interim president.”
“What if I don’t want the position?” Tricia asked.
He leveled his laser-like gaze upon her. “Then why are you here?”
Tricia bristled. “Because Mary asked me to be a part of this committee. She also made it clear that it wasn’t me the Chamber wanted as president.”
“Oh, I’m sure I didn’t put it that bluntly,” Mary said defensively. Oh, but she had.
“Once a judge gives us the okay, we can hire back the old secretary—oh, what was her name?”
“Mariana Sommers,” Tricia supplied.
“Between the two of you, you could have the Chamber up and running so that the new president can step right in.”
“It may not be that easy,” Tricia cut in. “Mariana was extremely competent. When Russ fired her, my sister wrote her a glowing reference letter and she found a well-paying job in Nashua. I’m not sure we’d be able to lure her back.”
“Well, then we’ll find someone else,” Mark practically growled. What put him in such a bad mood—or was that just his regular state? It made Tricia appreciate her dentist and the friendly people who staffed her office in Milford.
“What’s the state of our finances?” Tricia asked.
“Not good,” Terry piped up. “In addition to a murder rap, it looks like Russ Smith could be facing additio
nal charges of embezzlement as well.”
Russ was broke, or at least that was what everyone assumed. He’d said he was saving the Chamber money by giving up their comfortable digs for the warehouse and firing the secretary, who undoubtedly would have noticed the lack of funds by merely opening the envelopes the bank statements came in. The temps who came and went on a regular basis weren’t around long enough to notice any irregularities. Had Russ been squirreling away the Chamber’s funds to finance the new life he intended to start in California?
“As interim president, you can authorize an audit,” Mark said.
Too bad Marshall was dead. As an accountant, he could have done it himself. Of course, as a protected witness, he wasn’t supposed to practice his previous occupation. But maybe he would have made a few helpful suggestions.
Tricia pushed the thought aside. Marshall was gone and she was on her own. That is, if she agreed to take the position.
“How long do you think it would take to interview suitable candidates?” she asked.
“Our elections are usually held in November,” Mark reminded her.
So, between six to eight weeks.
“I’ll have to think about it.” That meant consulting Angelica. Tricia had worked for the Chamber as a volunteer for nearly six months during the time Haven’t Got a Clue was closed after the fire, and she had a good idea about how the operation worked, but Angelica had been deeply involved for two full years, and she’d completely turned it around by pure force of will. Tricia wasn’t sure any of the current or former members would show that kind of commitment.
“Why would I want to take on this job?”
“I understand you worked as a volunteer for half a year. What’s another two months?”
“My business was closed during that time.”
“You have full-time help and this is your slow season,” Mark said reasonably.
“No, it isn’t. Have you seen the color of the leaves? As long as the weather holds, Stoneham will be inundated with tourists for the next three weeks.”
Jameson merely glared at her.
Still, staying occupied would mean Tricia would have less time to think about Marshall.
But she stuck to her guns. “I’ll give you my answer in a day or so.”
“That would be satisfactory,” Mark said.
Tricia opened her notebook and uncapped her pen. “So, what’s the recruitment criteria?”
Mark glanced at his notes. “Those running need to make a firm time commitment. They should have full- or part-time help in their businesses, give a full two-year commitment, and have the financial chops to bring the Chamber back into solvency.”
“Tricia ticks off all those boxes,” Mary pointed out. “And why are you so adamant she couldn’t do the job? Have you got something against strong women?”
Tricia tried not to smile at Mary’s confidence in her abilities.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mark said.
“Then why don’t we invite Tricia to run for Chamber president?” Terry asked.
“Look, we’ve already been over all that,” Mark said. “Now, I’ve drawn up a list of names of possible candidates. Shall we discuss them?”
Dan Reed spoke up. “I’d like to present my proposed changes to the charter.”
“Changes?” Tricia asked.
He turned a glare in her direction. “Yes. It’s unfair that some Chamber members have more say in how it’s run than others.”
“It’s one vote per business.”
“Ah, but some of our members have more than one business.”
“Such as?” Mary asked.
“Well, Nigela Ricita, for one. She owns half the village.”
“And the other?” Tricia asked, already knowing the answer.
“Your sister.”
“Angelica owns the Cookery and the day spa. Her manager speaks for the spa. She has a share in the Sheer Comfort Inn, but it’s the innkeepers who speak for that business. Angelica speaks for the Cookery and Booked for Lunch with one vote. The same goes for NR Associates. And, I might add, each of these businesses pays separate dues. They all have different needs and aren’t colluding for a power grab.”
“I have to agree with Tricia,” Mark said, which rather surprised her. “Our goal is to find a replacement for new leadership. You can present your ideas to him or her and the rest of the membership at our January meeting.”
Dan was not pleased by the rebuke. He crossed his arms over his chest and sat glowering.
“Now, Mary, would you please pass out the list of possible candidates?”
Mary handed a stack of pages to Tricia, and she took one off the top and passed them on. She glanced at the names. Sure enough, her name wasn’t listed.
Fine.
“Now, let’s start the discussion with the top name on the list. What does everyone think about Leona Ferguson?”
* * *
* * *
Tricia left the warehouse at nine forty-five, and since the Sheer Comfort Inn was only a couple of blocks farther north on Main Street, she considered stopping in to see if Becca was there. But then she reconsidered. She didn’t want to interrupt the innkeepers during the hustle and bustle of tidying up after the breakfast rush and getting ready for their next guests, so she waited until she returned to her office at Haven’t Got a Clue before she dialed the inn’s number from the vintage black phone that graced the cash desk. Three rings later, her call was answered.
“Sheer Comfort Inn. This is Marina. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Marina, it’s Tricia Miles.”
“Oh, Tricia. Hi. It’s great to hear from you. We haven’t spoken for months, ever since the Chamber moved to that dreadful warehouse and our meetings were suspended. I heard you’re on the committee to look for a new president.”
“Yes. We had our first meeting this morning.”
“You weren’t thinking of asking me, were you?” Marina sounded positively horrified at the notion.
“No, that’s not why I’m calling. I understand that Becca Chandler is a guest at the inn.”
“She was,” Marina said, her tone going sour. “She called and canceled. Of course, we charged her the cancellation fee, but she was booked for a week. Things have been slow—we need the income.” Well, Marina was assured a paycheck, but like nearly all the dedicated people Angelica hired, she was concerned for the health of the business.
“You’ll be booked full for the next couple of weeks.”
“Thank goodness,” Marina agreed. “Leaf-peeping season is my favorite. That and Christmas. I love decorating for the holidays.”
“Did Ms. Chandler say where she was staying?”
“No, just canceled.”
“Okay, well, thanks.”
“Good luck on your search for the next Chamber president.”
“Thanks. Talk to you soon.”
Tricia pressed the hook switch, waited a few seconds, and then let go and dialed Marshall’s home number. Like her, he had a landline that was connected to the Armchair Tourist. He often picked up after hours so as not to lose a potential sale. Tricia didn’t know if Becca had been given his cell phone and was pleased when the call was answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?” Becca said apprehensively.
“Hi, it’s Tricia Miles.”
“Oh. This is a surprise.”
“I wanted to apologize for ending our talk yesterday so abruptly.”
“No need,” Becca said simply.
“I know it’s short notice, but I wondered if you were free for lunch?”
“How nice of you to ask. I’m dying to check out the Brookview Inn. Gene said it was his favorite eatery in the village.”
And the most expensive, not that Tricia couldn’t afford it. And it was more likely they could talk without an audience
, especially if Tricia booked the private dining room.
“How does twelve thirty sound?”
“Perfect. I’ve got some errands to run. Give me directions and I’ll meet you there,” Becca said.
Tricia did.
“See you then,” Tricia said.
As she hung up the phone, Tricia wondered just where Becca could be headed before their lunch date.
* * *
* * *
Leaving Haven’t Got a Clue in Pixie’s and Mr. Everett’s care, Tricia drove to the Brookview Inn, which was already decked out with fall décor. And though she was right on time, her lunch partner was nowhere to be seen.
Tricia sat on one of the lobby’s richly upholstered chairs to wait. And wait. She took the paperback she was reading from her purse and removed the bookmark, but soon found it too hard to concentrate and put the book away. After ten minutes, Tricia got up to pace. Five minutes later, she paused and glanced at the big clock on the wall of the Brookview Inn’s lobby, the hands pointing to the Roman numerals for twelve forty-five. Becca was now fifteen minutes late. Tricia resumed her seat and wondered if she’d been stood up.
Once again, she pulled out her book and read for no more than a minute before looking over the top of her book to see a pair of legs before her.
“Hey, Tricia. Checking up on me?” asked Hank Curtis. Tricia had arranged for the former Army vet to interview as the Brookview’s new manager. He’d be taking over for Antonio full-time in a matter of days. Talk about jumping into the fire.
“Not at all,” Tricia said. “Just waiting for . . .” She paused. Becca certainly wasn’t a friend. “A lunch date.”
Hank looked surprised. No doubt he’d heard about Marshall and thought the idea of a date so soon after his death was crass.
“I’m meeting my friend Marshall’s ex-wife, who’s come to the village to settle his affairs.”
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