A Deadly Deletion

by Lorna Barrett

  Ginny actually smiled. “Well, now that you mention it . . .”

  FOURTEEN

  Tricia and Mr. Everett spent a pleasant afternoon together made better still by an influx of customers who’d traveled to southern New Hampshire in search of pretty fall colors and had stumbled across such a quaint little village. They gushed about their visits to other merchants along Main Street and of their pleasure at discovering such a gem of a place.

  Listening to them made Tricia feel proud of her adopted home and the small part she played to make it appealing. Better still, she was happy to hear the effusive praise for Angelica’s contributions under her own name and that of her Nigela Ricita brand that had transformed the tired little village of used bookstores into the travel destination it had become—and in such a short span of time.

  Inspired by those testimonials, Tricia was determined to look for sparks of joy in what had become such a dark time.

  As they began preparations to close for the day, Tricia turned to Mr. Everett. “I’m in charge of dessert for our family dinner tomorrow. Is there anything you’d like me to make?”

  Mr. Everett’s gaze dipped. “When I was a small boy, my favorite fall treat was apple crisp. My mother made it often from the apples that grew in our own backyard. Such happy, happy memories,” he said with a wistful smile. “Would that be something the others might enjoy?”

  Tricia smiled. “I’m betting everyone will. I’ll need to get some apples, but I’ve got everything else I need to make it.”

  “May I contribute the apples?”

  “Of course. Then it would be our contribution to dinner.”

  He nodded, satisfied. “Your sister is so generous she rarely lets us pitch in.”

  “Would you like to do more?”

  “We would.”

  “Then I’ll mention it to her.”

  “Please don’t let her think we’re ungrateful,” Mr. Everett clarified.

  “Not at all. What would you like to bring next week?”

  Mr. Everett looked thoughtful. “I could make the dessert.”

  “What would you make?”

  Mr. Everett flashed a smile. “A surprise.”

  Tricia positively grinned. “Go for it!”

  * * *

  * * *

  That evening, after yet another exuberant greeting from Sarge, the first thing Tricia noticed upon entering Angelica’s apartment was that she was wearing pink-sequined sneakers. “Congratulations on the fancy new footwear.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” Angelica said lightly, and held out the foot that the day before had been encased in a heavy, ugly boot. “They were delivered this afternoon. Do you like them?”

  “They bring me joy,” she said, and laughed.

  “À la Marie Kondo?”

  “Sort of. But instead of judging things for joy, I’m going to look for the good.”

  “Oh, so a combination of Marie and Pollyanna?”

  “It beats being miserable.”

  Angelica smiled. “I got a pair for Sofia, too. I thought we’d look like twins.” Angelica frowned. “I wonder if I should have gotten a pair for Ginny, too. She could use a smile.”

  “Why don’t you ask her tomorrow?”

  “Good idea.”

  “I take it your foot feels okay to wear something other than that clunky boot?”

  “They might be pushing it,” Angelica admitted, “but they’ve done wonders for my spirit. Now help me with the snacks and drinks so I can get off my feet and sit on my butt.”

  Tricia hung up her jacket and collected the glasses and the evening’s treat, which was some kind of white dip with pretzels.

  “What have we here?” Tricia asked.

  “Beer dip.”

  Tricia wrinkled her nose. She really wasn’t much of a beer drinker. Neither was her sister. She said so.

  “But Tommy at the café is. He made it for us. It couldn’t be easier, either. Cream cheese, beer, salad dressing mix, and cheese. Taste it. You’re going to love it.”

  Tricia picked up a pretzel, dipped it lightly into the bowl, and took a bite. “Whoa! That is good.”

  “Let’s sit down and pig out,” Angelica said with a giggle.

  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 play 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.