“I kind of hoped you’d show up today,” Becca said diffidently. She reached into her duffel bag and removed the little velvet box Tricia had seen the night of Marshall’s death. “I thought you might like to have this.” She handed Tricia the fuzzy cube.
Tricia pulled back the hinged lid and stared at the diamond solitaire engagement ring. It wasn’t that much different from the one Christopher had given her more than fifteen years before, albeit at least a carat smaller. “It’s very pretty.”
“Do you want it?” Becca pressed.
Tricia shook her head and handed it back. “I suppose you’ll sell it.”
Becca shrugged. “Probably. I already have one that looks exactly the same. It’s worth at least a grand,” she said offhandedly. She closed the lid and eyed Tricia. “Do you have a key to Gene’s apartment?”
Again, Tricia shook her head. She hadn’t given him a key to her place, either.
“Did you know Gene had a gun?” Becca asked.
“No. Why?”
“It’s missing.” Hence, the question about Tricia having a key.
“I suppose he had one for protection. Just in case.” As a protected witness, he had to be living on the edge, wondering if one of Martin Bailey’s lackeys might find him and try to eliminate him.
“Yeah. Of course, he wasn’t expecting to be run down in the street. If he’d been carrying the gun on the night he died, I doubt he’d have had an opportunity to use it.”
“What kind of gun was it?” Tricia asked.
“A nine millimeter Glock.”
Tricia knew that the handgun was one of the most popular sold in the US. “I suppose Gene told you where he kept it.”
“In a safe bolted to the floor in the closet.”
Tricia had never poked around in his closet, just as she’d never expected Marshall to root around in hers. “Did the apartment look like it had been searched when you got there?”
“Gene was a very tidy man,” Becca said, which Tricia could attest to as well. “The apartment was not. I assume that the feds or the local cops searched it after his death, although I don’t know why they should.”
“You could ask Deputy Marshal Kirby.”
Becca scowled. “I’d get more information from a turnip. The thing is . . . as far as the feds are concerned, their job is done. The second Gene died, he was out of the program. I’m surprised they bothered to inform you.” She looked thoughtful. “As you never heard from Kirby again, I’m assuming they figured you weren’t of any importance.”
It wouldn’t be the first time someone thought that way, Tricia considered bitterly. That said, she had other questions to ask. “What do you know about Gene’s relationship with Louise Jameson?”
Becca raised a quizzical eyebrow. “So, you know about her?”
“It’s guesswork on my part, but I assume Gene and she were lovers at some point.”
“Oh, yeah,” Becca confirmed.
Tricia felt a slow burn rise within her. “Why did they break up?”
“Who said they did?” Becca asked blankly.
Tricia blinked, taken aback. “Well, Marshall did ask me to marry him.”
“He liked being married. Louise wasn’t interested—at least in marrying him. Let’s face it; a respectable dentist has a lot more cachet—and a bigger bank account—than the former owner of a crappy little porn shop.”
Tricia tried to digest that little nugget of information. “But Marshall was a lot nicer person than Mark Jameson appears to be.”
“Who says nice has anything to do with it?” Becca asked.
“What are you saying?”
“That Gene couldn’t give Louise the financial security her dentist husband could.”
“And he told you that?”
“Of course. We had no secrets.”
And Marshall—Gene—had plenty of secrets he’d kept from Tricia. The more she learned of them, the harder she judged him.
“Have you met Louise?” Tricia asked.
“No, and I don’t care to, either.” She glanced at Tricia’s car. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah.” Tricia was more than ready to be shed of the great Becca Dickson-Chandler. In fact, if she never spoke to the woman again, it would be too soon.
She wondered if she’d soon feel the same way about Louise Jameson.
* * *
* * *
“He asked her to marry him first?” Angelica asked, sounding offended.
The sky outside Angelica’s second-floor window was beginning to darken as Tricia held the chilled stemmed glass tightly and sighed. “Yeah.”
“Well, that wasn’t very nice.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’m sorry he treated you so poorly. But then . . .”
Tricia glared at her sister. Not many of the men in Tricia’s life had treated her very well, from her first real love, Harrison Tyler, to her ex-husband, Christopher, to Russ Smith, Grant Baker, and lastly Marshall. She didn’t need her sister to remind her of that fact.
Tricia sighed. Maybe it was time to just call it quits on guys altogether since she obviously couldn’t pick a good one. But then, she rarely pursued anyone—she was usually the one being pursued.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Tricia suggested.
“Such as?”
“As long as I’m griping about people, I’ll spill on Becca, too.”
“What’s she done now?”
“She disparaged Ginny.”
Angelica’s mouth dropped open. She caught herself and shut it once again. “In what way?” she asked angrily.
“Intimating that she’s not a very good tennis partner.”
Angelica’s eyes widened. “She ought to be grateful she’s got anyone to practice with.”
“I agree.”
“Don’t you dare tell Ginny,” Angelica admonished, got up from the chaise, and began to hobble around the room.
“I hadn’t planned to. And shouldn’t you stay off that foot? It looks a little swollen.”
“I’ve been trying to build up my stamina,” Angelica admitted. “But I’m just so angry at Becca for Ginny’s sake, I could bite her.”
“She’d probably bite back—with poisonous fangs.”
“No doubt.”
Angelica limped another circuit around the room before returning to the chaise. She picked up her drink and took a healthy slug.
“Did you get any work done today?” Tricia asked.
Angelica nodded. “I had a phone conference with Trevor, the architect working on the plans for Ginny’s and Antonio’s house. He assessed what’s left of the building with a structural engineer and they decided it’s a total loss.”
“I’m sure the insurance company thinks the same thing.”
“But this gives us plenty of room to start from scratch. Ginny is determined to stay on that property, and I don’t blame her. All those trees and the lot is almost an acre in size. It’s just gorgeous, especially now when the leaves are so pretty. And to think they’ll be missing all that.”
“They’ll be back in their new home next fall.”
“It seems like forever right now, but it’s doable. And they’ll probably be stuck in some crummy little apartment for Christmas. My heart aches for them.”
“When will you all meet with the architect?”
“Hopefully next week. He’s got other clients. I’m just glad we called him in before the fire happened. At least we’re on his schedule.”
“I guess that’s their silver lining,” Tricia suggested.
“You bet.”
Silver lining . . . the term was tantamount to a joke when the family had lost everything they owned. They’d spent the previous Christmas celebration at Angelica’s apartment, but Tricia knew Ginny wanted to establish her
family’s own traditions. Maybe the following year—with a newer, bigger home—the Barberos could host some of their makeshift family’s holidays.
It was with a pang of regret that Tricia realized she would always be on the sidelines of such events. She and Christopher had been too involved with their careers to plan a family . . . and then it was too late.
It was what it was. Sometimes it hurt . . . but more often, Tricia had very few regrets.
Yeah. It was what it was.
She remembered her goal of finding tidbits of joy in every day. “So, what are we having for dinner?”
Angelica grinned.
TWENTY-ONE
Sometimes Tricia managed to avoid an excess of drama in her life for months at a time. Those times seemed to be coming at shorter and shorter intervals. But it was apparent when Pixie arrived for work the next morning dressed in black that she was suffering from more than just the blues. Mr. Everett turning up with a bag of bagels caused her spirits to plummet even more.
“I don’t dare have one,” Pixie lamented. “I’ve been eating a lot of oatmeal and soup. I’m afraid to even eat a cracker in case my tooth cracks off again. I had a friend who had a bridge. She bit into a soft cookie and all her front teeth were gone.” She shuddered. “I don’t want that happening to me.”
Tricia wasn’t about to point out that the bridge had probably been cracked before she’d taken a bite of the cookie.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Everett apologized. “It was thoughtless of me to forget about your situation.”
“No, no!” Pixie assured him. “You’re the sweetest person in the whole world and I’m just a fraidycat. I’m sure I could chew it on the other side of my mouth.”
“I will not be offended in the least if you decline to eat one. Perhaps you could take it home to Fred.”
“Thank you, Mr. Everett. I’ll do that.”
Poor Pixie needed a pick-me-up. Tricia gazed around the store and knew just how to raise her spirits.
“You know, I was thinking. With the good weather and wonderful fall colors, we’ve already seen an uptick in customers. Perhaps we should do a bit more decorating to make Haven’t Got a Clue even more welcoming to our guests. You know, play up the fact that we’re an autumn destination. What do you think?”
Pixie’s eyes widened in delight. Of course, the month before, Tricia had had to restrain Pixie from adding faux leaves, pumpkins, and dried corn shocks until they threatened to take over the entire retail space. Tricia’s idea of decorating had always been “less is more,” whereas Pixie’s was “more is more is more” and then some.
“What were you thinking about?” Pixie asked cautiously. Tricia had apparently dashed her hopes far too often.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you head downstairs, grab the fall decorations tote, put it in the dumbwaiter, bring it up, and we’ll go through it again to see what seems appropriate.”
“Sure thing,” Pixie said, and practically raced for the stairs to the basement office and storeroom. Mr. Everett followed her and waited at the top of the stairs.
While Pixie was gone, Tricia cleared the stacks of books and magazines that littered the big square coffee table in the reader’s nook, setting them temporarily on the floor. Of course, her actions immediately drew Miss Marple’s attention. The little cat liked to supervise any and all work that went on in the store—that is, of course, unless she was napping. She had her priorities, after all.
Between them, Pixie and Mr. Everett carried the large blue plastic tote through the store and plunked it on the table. Pixie removed the lid and pulled out a long orange, yellow, and gold-leaf garland. Weeks earlier, Tricia had nixed its use, but now she let Pixie decide where to hang it.
“How about above and around the washroom door? It’ll be in the back—not at all intrusive,” she said almost defensively.
“That sounds lovely,” Tricia agreed.
The door to the shop opened, the bell overhead ringing cheerfully, letting in a female customer dressed in a black ski jacket, knit cap, jeans, thigh-high black leather boots, and wearing sunglasses.
“Hi. Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. I’m the owner, Tricia. Let me know if you need any help.” The young woman gave Tricia a salute and ventured farther into the store.
Tricia spoke to her employees. “Pixie, why don’t you and Mr. Everett hang the garland while I take care of the store. We’ll figure out what else we want to use when you’re done with that.”
“Sure thing,” Pixie said.
Tricia turned her attention to the stack of books customers the day before had decided not to buy. She picked up three of the books, intending to return them to the bookshelves. As she approached the Agatha Christie collection, she noticed her customer wasn’t browsing the shelves. Instead, she was on her phone, texting. Had she come into the store just to warm up? But then, dressed like that, she should have been more than warm enough on that sunny, early October morning.
Tricia reshelved the books and saw that, armed with pushpins, Pixie was balanced on the second rung of the step stool, hanging the garland. Smiling, Tricia returned to the cash desk to retrieve the rest of the unwanted books when one slipped off the counter to land on the floor behind the display case. With a sigh, she rounded the cash desk to pick it up.
It was then that the roar of what Tricia immediately identified as a motorcycle boomed out on Main Street. Tricia glanced out Haven’t Got a Clue’s big display window to see a biker, clad in black leathers and a full-head helmet, stop in front of her store. The rider threw back his left arm and lobbed something in the direction of her shop. Tricia instinctively ducked as the big glass display window shattered into what seemed like a million pieces, sending potentially lethal shards like shrapnel into the store.
Tricia heard a yell from her customer and lifted her head to see the first few letters of the bike’s license plate as the powerful bike took off north.
At the sound of the crash, Miss Marple skedaddled in the direction of the back of the store. Pixie and Mr. Everett came running past her as Tricia scooted around the counter and her customer made a beeline for the exit. “I’m getting out of here,” she hollered, wrenched open the door, and let it bang shut behind her.
“What happened?” Pixie demanded.
Tricia looked down to see the brick that had landed just inches from the cash desk. If it had been six inches to the left, it could have destroyed the display case and severely injured Tricia.
Mr. Everett bent down to pick it up, but Tricia raised her voice to stop him. “Don’t touch it! There might be fingerprints.”
Mr. Everett straightened. “We should call the police.”
“We should call the emergency enclosure people,” Pixie piped up. “Man, it’s gonna be dark in here until we can get the window replaced.”
The last time the window had been broken—during the fire—it had been nearly six months until it and the shop’s front facade had been repaired.
Tricia didn’t bother with the vintage phone on the cash desk—there was too much glass on and surrounding it—and pulled her cell phone from her slacks pocket, tapping in 911. “I want to report vandalism!”
* * *
* * *
It was Mr. Everett who captured a distraught Miss Marple, calmed her, and returned her to Tricia’s apartment. Pixie was on the phone to the enclosure repair company while a gale blew through the aperture and an agitated Tricia scanned the street for the sight of a police SUV.
June from the Cookery came by to ask if everyone was all right, as did Terry from the All Heroes comic-book store, and both melted away when Chief Baker showed up on foot to take the police report. And as usual, upon his arrival, Pixie became scarce, disappearing into the basement office. She always did that when law enforcement appeared on Tricia’s doorstep.
Baker eyed the gaping hole.
“Thanks for
coming, Grant, but you don’t have to personally show up every time I have a problem,” Tricia said.
He shrugged. “I was the only one available. Of course, if you’d like me to leave,” he said, his voice hardening, “I’m sure one of my officers could be here in four or five hours.”
“No, let’s get this over with,” Tricia said affably, not wishing to aggravate him, despite his sarcasm.
Baker asked the usual questions, filling in a form on a clipboard he’d brought along. “Was there anyone else in the store at the time of the incident?”
“Yes. A woman came in. Now that I think of it, she seemed rather suspicious.”
“In what way?”
“Most of my customers are older. They come in looking for our vintage mysteries. The woman appeared to be about thirty and she wasn’t really browsing the bookshelves. I thought maybe she’d just come in to get out of the cold, because she had her phone out and was texting.”
“And then the biker threw the brick through the window?”
“Yes, not long after.”
“Can you give me a description of this dynamic duo?” Baker asked sarcastically.
Tricia told him what they looked like. “I didn’t see the entire license plate on the bike, but I got the first three letters: ZBR.”
Baker scowled and shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. What idiot commits such an act in front of witnesses and in broad daylight?”
“A thrill seeker. Or a fool,” Tricia suggested.
“You got that right,” Baker said.
“So, you think they were working together?” Tricia asked.
Baker shrugged. “It’s possible. Could you identify the woman if you saw her again?”
Tricia sighed. “Probably not. I mean, she had her hair tucked under her hat and wore sunglasses. I only got to see the lower portion of her face. When a customer comes in, I don’t immediately commit their features to memory in case I have to pick them out of a lineup.”
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