A Deadly Deletion

by Lorna Barrett

  “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.”

  “Then, yes, please,” she said as her daughter tore into the pink-and-purple princess paper.

  “I think I’d like a pair as well. I wonder if they come in blue,” Grace said.

  “They do. Would you let me buy you a pair as well?”

  “That’s terribly generous of you, Angelica.”

  “Give me your size, too.”

  “What about Tricia?” Antonio asked. “Shouldn’t she have a pair as well?”

  Tricia’s eyes widened. Did she really want to make that kind of a fashion statement? Would rejecting the idea make her sound like a party pooper?

  Find that spark of joy, she reminded herself.

  “Do they come in black?”

  “They sure do.” Angelica rubbed her hands with delight. “Isn’t this exciting. We’ll practically be quintuplets.”

  “Mr. Everett, do you feel left out? Because I certainly do,” Antonio quipped.

  “They come in men’s sizes, too,” Angelica offered.

  Antonio froze, his eyes widening in horror. “Uh, no grazie,” he demurred, and everyone had a laugh. It felt good to laugh.

  “Does everyone have a drink?” Angelica asked as she tied the laces on Sofia’s new footwear. “Ginny and Mr. E, I made a pitcher of virgin piña coladas for you. I hope you’ll like it.”

  “Dear lady, I like everything you make for us.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Everett.”

  He turned to his wife. “Would you like a glass of wine, dear?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Since Angelica was busy being a loving grandmother, Tricia played hostess, grateful to be of use. Once everyone was seated with a drink and the big bowl of guacamole and chips was within reach, Tricia sat down next to Grace.

  “I feel like it’s been ages since we had an opportunity to talk,” Grace said. “How are you doing?” she asked sincerely.

  Tricia sighed. “Every day it gets a little easier. Well, not easier . . . just that I’m getting used to the new normal.”

  Grace nodded.

  “It’s a good thing I have the store and my new Chamber project to work on.”

  “Yes, William told me you were on the recruitment committee. How’s that going?”

  “Slowly,” Tricia hedged. “My main assignment is to sweet-talk former members into rejoining the organization.”

  “I don’t envy you the task. Russ Smith turned a lot of people off with his reckless management.”

  “He sure did.”

  “I understand Mark Jameson is in charge of the committee,” Grace said.

  “Do you know him?”

  Grace shook her head. “I was told he’s a dentist and a bit full of himself,” Grace said. “Linda”—her secretary at the Everett Charitable Foundation—“went to him to have a filling replaced. She thinks he comes on a little too strong.”

  “In what way?”

  “She thought he was verbally abusive to his staff. Telling one of them she was stupid when she made a mistake, instead of using it as a teaching moment.”

  Not everyone was a good teacher. Tricia knew it often took two or three attempts to acquire a new skill. It didn’t help with someone breathing down one’s neck looking for perfection on the first try.

  “She decided not to stay with the practice,” Grace added, and sipped her wine.

  Sofia was enjoying her new sneakers, sque
aling with happiness and racing around the living room with Sarge in hot pursuit.

  “Antonio, you ought to take some pictures or make a video of this,” Ginny said, nodding in her daughter’s direction.

  “Good idea,” he said, and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  “Speaking of photos,” Angelica said, “Tricia’s met the new local photographer. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all went to her studio and had a family portrait taken?”

  Her question was met with several blank stares.

  “You don’t like the idea?” she asked, sounding hurt.

  “Uh, no—it sounds wonderful,” Ginny said, her voice just a little wobbly. Everything seemed to make her teary these days.

  Tricia glanced at Grace and Mr. Everett, who seemed unsure if they, too, were included in the invitation.

  “We’ll have to coordinate our schedules so that we can all meet at the photography studio where Ms. Jameson prefers to work. It might have to be a weekday appointment as she reserves Saturdays for weddings and Pixie works at the day spa, so Haven’t Got a Clue wouldn’t have coverage.”

  “Weekdays might be hard,” Ginny said.

  “I’m sure your boss would be more than happy to give you a few hours off,” Tricia said.

  “She’d be an absolute shrew if she wouldn’t,” Angelica said, and winked.

  “Grace, can you easily rearrange your schedule?” Tricia asked.

  Grace’s smile was beatific. “Absolutely.”

  “Great, then it’s all settled,” Angelica said happily. “Tricia, would you try and arrange it soon?”

  “I’ll make it a priority,” she promised.

  “Oh, dear. We’re running low on chips. Tricia, would you be a dear and get some more from the kitchen?”

  “Sure thing.” She rose from her seat, picked up the nearly empty bowl, and turned to leave the room.

  “Antonio, would you mind refilling everyone’s glasses?”

  “But of course,” he said, and followed Tricia into the kitchen.

  Tricia removed the clip from the bag of king-sized tortilla chips and shook out enough to fill the bowl. Antonio cleared his throat, capturing her attention.

  “I was very sorry to hear of your friend’s death. I apologize for not mentioning it sooner.”

  “Thank you,” Tricia said. “Congratulations on taking over the Stoneham Weekly News.”

  “It is a dream come true, although just a little one.” He held up a hand with this thumb and index finger just about an inch apart and laughed.

  “What are your plans for the paper?” Tricia asked.

  “To make a profit,” he said succinctly. “I understand you’ve already bought an ad.”

  “And plan to do so on a regular basis.”

  “You are too kind.”

  “Will you boost the editorial content?”

  “That is my plan.”

  “Will you run a story on Marshall’s death?”

  He shrugged. “It will be old news by the time we print next week, but I will make sure mention is made of his passing. Patti has suggested we start running death notices. Would you like to compose one for him?”

  Tricia hesitated. She wasn’t sure how much of what she knew about Marshall’s life she should share. Should she keep his past life a secret? Mention Becca as his ex-wife? Maybe she wouldn’t want to be outed. She’d have to ask her the next time they spoke. “Yes, I’ll pull something together,” she promised.

  The rest of the evening was filled with fun and laughter. Even Ginny managed a few smiles as Sofia tested out her new shoes with some innovative dancing moves.

  Tricia almost forgot she was supposed to be grieving.

  SEVENTEEN

  It was still dark when Tricia awoke the next morning. The clocks would be turned back in a few weeks, and the nights would close in far too early. Fall in New Hampshire. Tricia turned up the heat and got ready for her day.

  With a cup of coffee in hand, Tricia turned on her laptop and impatiently waited for it to boot up so she could click the bookmark and scan the headlines of the online edition of the Nashua Telegraph. Civil unrest, climate change, and an unstable Dow average seemed to be the topics that dominated the news that morning, all things she had no personal control over. And it seemed that local news was getting harder and harder to find. More and more, she had to rely on the TV stations in nearby cities that uploaded stories to the worldwide net since her own village had only a weekly rag that concentrated more on ads than actual news. It probably wouldn’t change under its new leadership, either.

  Remembering the short article she’d read the day before in the Sunday print edition, Tricia used keywords to Google about the body found in Rindge two days before. The man had been identified as one Joshua Greenwell, a forty-six-year-old white male well known to local law enforcement.

  What did that mean? Was he a habitual criminal who’d crossed paths with cops both local and county or statewide? The cause of death was pending autopsy results, but she remembered the original story—short as it was—mentioned the Sheriff’s Department was looking at it as suspicious and that foul play was suspected.

  She shrugged and clicked on another bookmark. October had its brilliantly warm, sunny days and just as many cool, gloomy weeks. Every day was a crapshoot and Tricia made it her business each morning to check online to see what she could expect for the day. Cool, cloudy, but only a ten percent chance of rain. She’d take it.

  After checking her social media pages and posting fall-themed pictures of Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia fell into the sinkhole of time wasted on such sites. When she glanced up at the clock she was horrified to see that her store would open in just fifteen minutes.

  Tricia headed downstairs to get the beverage station up and going, wishing she’d thought to make a batch of cookies the evening before. Her customers would just have to accept the coffee, tea, or cocoa she provided.

  Before she could measure the ground beans, the phone rang. Even though the store wasn’t due to open for another fifteen minutes, she picked up the vintage phone’s heavy receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue. This is Tricia.”

  “Ms. Miles.” It was Mr. Everett. “Good news. I was able to reach my acquaintance on the current school board and received permission for Ms. Dickson-Chandler to use their tennis court this afternoon.”

  “That’s great.”

  “She may use it any time after five o’clock. He did ask if she would be willing to sign autographs, but I discouraged that idea. However, if she would like to do so on another day, I would be happy to pass that along.”

  “I’ll ask her and let you know. And please thank your . . .” She hesitated. If Mr. Everett hadn’t called the person he’d spoken to a friend, should she? “Your contact for me and Becca.”

  “I shall do that. And I’ll see you tomorrow when I come in to work.”

  “As always, I’ll look forward to that.”

  “Good-bye, Ms. Miles.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Everett.”

  She hung up the phone and then called Becca on Marshall’s landline once more.

  “Hey, Becca.”

  “Tricia, did you find me somewhere to play?”

  “Yes. The local high school says you can play any time after five this evening.”

  “Terrific. I’ve already got a couple dozen tennis balls. I was whacking them against the back of the building, until Gene’s neighbor came out and asked me to stop when one of them ricocheted and hit their back door, nearly breaking the glass.”

  Oops. It must have been Tommy over at Booked for Lunch.

  “Will you meet me there? I’ve got an extra racket.”

  “Uh . . .” She hadn’t planned on it, but then had more questions to ask of the former tennis star. “Sure. Do you know where the school is?”

  “I’ve passed it a
t least six times.”

  “The court is located behind the school. You can access it from the side street.”

  “Great.”

  “I’ve got a question for you,” Tricia said.

  “Shoot.”

  “The local newspaper is planning to run a short piece on Marshall’s death next week.”

  “Oh.” She sounded less than thrilled.

  “Would you like to be mentioned?”

  “No. Have them only speak about his days here in Stoneham, would you?”

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you. Anything else?” Becca asked.

  “Not right now.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you at five. And thanks,” Becca said, and ended the call.

  Tricia hung up the phone just as Pixie arrived for work wearing her long khaki raincoat and a sour expression.

  “Good morning,” Tricia greeted her.

  “What’s so good about it,” Pixie mumbled, hurrying past her boss and fleeing to the back of the store to hang up her coat. When she returned, she hadn’t cheered up one iota.

  “Is something wrong?” Tricia asked, and, to her surprise, Pixie burst into tears.

  “Oh, Pixie, what’s wrong?” Tricia asked, gathering her friend in a hug.

  “I lost my tooth!” she cried, pulled back, and opened her mouth enough so that Tricia could see the gold canine crown was indeed missing, and all that was left was some kind of metal post.

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, Fred”—her husband—“brought home some toffee apples last night as a treat.”

  Oh, boy. Tricia knew how this story was going to end.

  “I took a bite and—out it came. It wasn’t even loose or anything.”

  “Then you’ve still got it?”

  Pixie nodded.

  “Can it be cemented back in?”

  “Well, it could—if my dentist hadn’t left on a two-week vacation to the Ozarks.”

  Now, that was a destination Tricia had never considered, although she’d heard it was nice. “He’s got family there,” Pixie recounted. “What am I going to do?”