A Deadly Deletion

by Lorna Barrett

  With no niceties like fresh-brewed coffee to warm those in attendance nor a box of local pastries, Tricia was glad she’d eaten an early breakfast of an egg-white omelet with frozen peppers—but no onions—she’d thawed in the microwave. No chance of bad breath that way.

  Mark Jameson stood at the head of the table and called the meeting to order. “Thanks for being here, everyone. I’m pleased to say that Leona Ferguson has graciously agreed to run for the presidency of the Chamber. But as several of you have pointed out, she needs an opponent. Therefore, I have decided to run against her.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mary called out. “You didn’t tell us you were interested in running for Chamber president. Shouldn’t we choose from the other candidates we’ve vetted?”

  “And who are they?” Mark asked.

  “You tell us! You took that process on yourself,” Mary said, her voice rising.

  “Believe me, I tried to convince others to step up to the plate and no one was interested.”

  “So, what about Tricia?” Terry McDonald asked. “The vote was split within a very close margin during last year’s election. You’re relatively new to the Chamber. How many of our current members even know your name?”

  “I have a reputation here in the village,” Mark said gravely.

  Yeah, and as far as Tricia knew, it wasn’t all that good.

  “What do you think, Dan?”

  The Bookshelf Diner’s owner gave a sidelong glance at Tricia and smirked. “I’m fine with you running for Chamber president, Mark.”

  Tricia ignored him. “I’m very flattered you want me to run, Mare and Terry, but it was agreed at our last meeting that I wouldn’t.” Not that she’d really been consulted. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

  The corners of Mark’s mouth quirked up. “Fine. Now, we’ll campaign until the second Thursday in November and then hold a vote. What’s our budget look like, Mary?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’ve spoken with the Chamber’s accountant and he’s agreed we should call in an outside party for the audit.”

  “How are we going to pay for it?” Mary asked.

  “With future earnings.”

  “How long can we run on a deficit?” Terry asked.

  “Not long,” Jameson muttered. “But I’ve spoken with law enforcement and they are going to look into Russ Smith’s finances. It’s doubtful we can recover what he’s taken, but we’re sure going to try.”

  Who did he mean by law enforcement? Chief Baker or the county district attorney’s office? Tricia didn’t bother to ask.

  “Did everyone call or drop in on the former members on their lists?” Jameson asked.

  Nods and a yes or two answered his query.

  “And Tricia?” Why did he keep eyeing her so critically?

  “I stopped in to a number of stores or left messages for everyone on my list, and even one that wasn’t. The Bee’s Knees opened just yesterday.”

  “Were they interested in joining?” Mary asked.

  Tricia shrugged. “Perhaps there’s a lot of distrust after the way Russ vandalized the Chamber.”

  “We need to reestablish a permanent meeting place. Everyone loved going to the Brookview for the breakfast meetings,” Mary said.

  “With no budget?” Terry asked.

  “Would you care to host a meeting at your diner, Dan?” Mark asked.

  “No, I would not. I don’t have a party room big enough, and I’m not about to foot the bill for coffee and Danish for a bunch of freeloaders.”

  “Potential members,” Tricia reminded him.

  “Until they cough up their membership dues, they’re freeloaders,” Dan stated.

  “Tricia, you’re friendly with Antonio Barbero. Couldn’t you get us a freebie or at least a discounted price at the Brookview Inn?” Mary asked, sounding hopeful.

  Tricia shrugged. “Antonio no longer manages the inn. He’s taken over the Stoneham Weekly News.”

  Mary pursed her lips, looking annoyed.

  “But I can reach out to NR Associates, who own the inn, and ask what they could do for the Chamber. They’ve been very good to us in the past,” Tricia reminded them all.

  “Fine. You do that,” Jameson said condescendingly, and she bristled at his tone. “In the meantime, we’re stuck with this warehouse until at least January, but we need to look for something a little less industrial.”

  “And how are we going to do that without money?” Dan asked.

  Mark turned to Tricia again. “Got any contacts at NR Realty?”

  Tricia sighed. Did they really expect Angelica, or at least her alter ego, to cough up for everything the Chamber needed? “I will ask. That’s all I can do. I spoke with their manager, Karen, just the other day, and she’s said she’ll endorse the Chamber to her prospective clients.”

  “So, she expects to rejoin?” Dan asked.

  “None of the NR Associates businesses ever left the Chamber,” Tricia said bluntly.

  “That’s all well and good,” Jameson said, “but we need to woo those who have left.”

  How perfectly ungrateful of the man! If Tricia were a different person, she wouldn’t even speak the Chamber’s name to Angelica or anyone in her network of businesses.

  Jameson blathered on about potential future plans, while Tricia spent the time counting the days until she could be free of her frustrating volunteer job—and Mark Jameson.

  * * *

  * * *

  No sooner had Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue than it was time for her to join Angelica to what their father had always called get beautified when their mother had her weekly appointment at the local hair salon.

  Tricia met Angelica outside the Cookery. “Are you ready for this?”

  “More than,” Angelica said.

  “Are you sure you want to walk to the day spa? I can get the car and—”

  But Angelica held up a hand to cut off her sister. “No. I need to exercise my foot if it’s going to recover. If it swells up later today, I’ll just employ RICE. Rest, ice, compression, and elevation are my best friends.”

  Tricia admired her sister’s tenacity but worried she might be pushing her healing foot too far too soon.

  It took them almost ten minutes to walk the two blocks to the day spa. Once there, Tricia and Angelica were greeted by Booked for Beauty’s manager, Randy Ellison. At other times when the sisters had jointly arrived at the day spa, Randy would personally do Angelica’s hair while Tricia was open to accepting anyone who was working that day to take care of her tresses. Every one of the stylists was a skilled hairdresser, and so far she had no complaints.

  “I was surprised at your sudden appointment,” Randy said as he draped a black plastic cape around Angelica’s neck and shoulders, while Marlene did the same to Tricia.

  “We’re going to get our pictures taken this afternoon—our whole little adopted family group,” Angelica gushed.

  “That’s nice,” Randy said blandly.

  “We’re booked this afternoon at Louise Jameson’s photography studio. Do you know her?” Tricia asked. She seemed to be asking that question of everyone.

  “The local photographer?” Randy asked, his expression souring as he spritzed Angelica’s hair with water.

  Tricia nodded.

  “Please hold still,” Marlene told her.

  “Oh, sorry,” Tricia said, going rigid.

  “Mrs. Jameson dropped by earlier this summer looking to make a deal with the salon,” Randy commented. He did not sound happy.

  “What kind of deal?” Angelica asked. She owned the day spa, but Randy ran the operation. He evidently didn’t convey to his boss everything that went on in the salon.

  Randy snipped a lock of hair at the base of Angelica’s neck. “She said she was partnering to open a wedding venue somewhe
re north of the village and she wanted a deal providing brides with a discounted hair-and-makeup package.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” Angelica said.

  “Not with the discount she was asking for—fifty percent, with a ten percent kickback going to her business for bringing in the trade!”

  “And you didn’t go for it?” Tricia asked.

  “Girl, I need to keep the lights on, you know.”

  From what Angelica had told her, so far Randy was doing a great job—and the business was doing well under his management.

  “What kind of discount would you have given them?” Angelica asked.

  “Twenty—with no kickback. It should be up to the lady to build that into her price packages. And honestly, I can get more locals through the door with a ten percent coupon. That nice woman Ginger at the Stoneham Weekly News is going to take care of everything. The first one will go in next week’s issue.”

  Evidently, Angelica hadn’t known that fact, either, but it brought a smile to her face. Naturally, she wanted Antonio’s new venture to succeed, but Tricia knew she wasn’t about to browbeat anyone—even those who worked for her—into supporting him, either.

  One of the other stylists brought her client back to the chair next to Tricia’s. The woman’s hair was wrapped in a black towel, as she’d just returned from the hair-washing station in the back of the salon.

  “So, what time is your sitting?” Randy asked Angelica.

  “Two thirty. I’m glad it’s not windy today. I wouldn’t want my blowout to be for nothing.”

  “Are you getting a business portrait done?”

  “I haven’t decided, but that’s a good idea.”

  “We could hang it here in the salon.” Randy struck a pose, indicating a space on the wall near his employee-of-the-month display, which showed snapshots of the day spa’s stylists. He laughed. “We could hang a plaque that says ‘our founder.’ ”

  Angelica seemed to mull it over and shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Are you going to the photography studio over on Cedar Avenue?” the woman in the chair next to Tricia asked.

  “We’re both going,” Tricia said as Marlene snipped to trim the layers in her hair. “Have you been there?”

  “No, but my sister has.” The woman frowned.

  “Didn’t she like her work?” Angelica asked.

  “Oh, she liked the pictures. It was her radical ideas that put her off.”

  “What do you mean?” Tricia asked.

  The woman shook her head. “Children. I heard that photographer and her dentist husband don’t like them. Can you even trust someone who doesn’t like or want kids?”

  Tricia knew plenty of women who’d never had children, herself included. But she’d had a career and her childbearing years had slipped away in the interim. And then she’d been divorced. She’d never considered single parenthood, though she knew at least three of her former coworkers who’d grown tired of waiting for Mr. Right and jumped into motherhood via adoption or in vitro fertilization.

  “Don’t want or can’t have children?” Tricia asked.

  It was apparent from the woman’s expression that she hadn’t considered the latter possibility. “Well, now that you mention it . . . I don’t know.”

  Then you shouldn’t spread such a negative suspicion, Tricia thought, wishing she could educate the woman, but then she might be looked at with even more negativity.

  “Well, I’m looking forward to having my portrait taken,” Angelica said.

  “Me, too,” Tricia echoed, although not as enthusiastically.

  The woman sniffed and turned her head away.

  “So,” Randy said, his voice light, as though to ignore the dark turn the conversation had taken. “What about those Patriots?”

  “Football?” Angelica asked, appalled.

  “Okay, then, who’s read the latest edition of Vogue, and what did you think?”

  No one answered. The canned music, which Tricia was sure none of the customers enjoyed, played on.

  Was the woman beside her the only person in the village who held a grudge—however misplaced—against Louise Jameson?

  Maybe Tricia would find out later that afternoon.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Because the makeshift Miles-Barbero-Everett family was to assemble later that afternoon for the photo shoot, Tricia and Ginny postponed their usual Thursday lunch to the next day—if Ginny could get away. Since Angelica was used to eating alone on Thursdays, Tricia retreated to her own apartment and made a salad out of the odds and ends she had on hand and ate it while checking her store’s e-mails. Her online reputation was growing as the place in the New England states to find vintage mysteries. Pixie was a big part of that. Since she’d arrived on the scene, her love of tag and estate sales had been a big source of keeping Tricia’s store supplied with the vintage mysteries that kept the business afloat. Pixie didn’t ask for anything but the price she paid for the books she purchased, knowing her salary depended on Haven’t Got a Clue being well stocked at all times. But such sales became fewer as autumn edged closer to winter. Soon Tricia would have to start scouring the Internet for more vintage tomes.

  After loading her lunch plate into the dishwasher, Tricia grabbed her jacket and purse and headed out the door. It was such a beautiful fall day, that instead of driving, she decided to walk the three blocks to Louise Jameson’s photography studio.

  The bell over the door rang cheerfully as Tricia entered.

  Louise looked up from a camera on a tripod. “Hello, Tricia. I’m almost ready for you and your family. I need to finish a few chores out back.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll just look at some of your work, if I may.”

  “Sure.”

  Louise ducked out back and Tricia strolled around the studio, studying the photographer’s work. She heard Louise speaking with what sounded like another woman as Tricia studied the portraits on display in greater detail. After looking at several of the large wedding photos she concentrated on one detail . . . the copyright. Instead of Louise’s name, all the display photos were marked Mark Jameson Enterprises.

  That was odd. Did that mean that Louise didn’t actually own the copyright for any of her work? Had she and her husband entered into a financial agreement with some kind of tax incentive in mind?

  A rattle at the door caused Tricia to turn and see that the rest of the Miles-Barbero-Everett gang had shown up in two cars, minutes apart, parking on the street outside the studio, everyone dressed in their Sunday best and ready for their portraits to be taken.

  A young woman Tricia had never seen entered the studio. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, with straight brown hair that was held in check by a thin white elastic headband, and dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans. “Hello, I’m Kristin. I’m Louise’s assistant and I’ll be helping you choose just the right photo package for your family.”

  Kristin was well versed in the services the studio sold, and it took more than half an hour of negotiating terms before the photographer actually entered the studio to take the pictures.

  “Hello. I’m Louise Jameson. Thank you for choosing me to be your family photographer. Now, let’s get started.”

  Louise suggested seating arrangements and props, and took pictures with the enthusiasm expected of a Fashion Week pro. The group shots came first, followed by family separations, and finally individual portraits for those who wanted them. After what the woman in the day spa had said about Louise and children, Tricia was sure she was wrong. Louise was great at coaxing smiles out of Sofia and had her laughing throughout the shoot.

  As Louise had predicted, the whole ordeal had taken just about two hours. Tricia let everyone else have their photos taken, being the last in line. By prearrangement, Angelica caught a ride back home with Antonio and Ginny while Tricia lagged behind. She had a number of qu
estions for Mrs. Jameson.

  “Tilt your chin to the left. That’s right. Now to the right. Good—good.” Louise snapped photo after photo as Tricia wondered who, if anyone, would want a professional portrait of her. Maybe she could use it for promotional purposes, but she couldn’t think when. She didn’t even have a boyfriend to give a wallet-sized print to. Then again, she’d have proof sheets e-mailed to her by the next day and only have to pay for the photos she selected.

  “That’s a wrap,” Louise called, sounding pleased, and held out the small screen on her digital camera to flip through and show Tricia several of the shots she’d taken.

  “They look great.”

  Louise smiled. “I’m glad you like them. If you’d like any of the photos to be corrected, though, that will be an additional cost.”

  “Corrected?”

  “Photoshopped.”

  Photoshopped pictures? Did Louise think her current clients were that vain? Okay, maybe Angelica would go for a little smoothing around the neck, but Tricia felt grounded in reality. Like it or not, she wasn’t getting any younger.

  Louise began to pack up her equipment, but Tricia wasn’t in a hurry to leave. It was time to push for some answers.

  “I understand you knew my friend Marshall Chandler.”

  Louise visibly straightened, her expression guarded. “We were acquainted.”

  “He died last week. A hit-and-run accident. I assume you were aware of that.”

  “I heard,” Louise said succinctly, her features rigid as though she was desperately trying to hold her emotions in check.

  “A couple of weeks ago, he took me on a picnic on a beautiful piece of property just north of the village, telling me it’s a soon-to-be wedding venue.”

  Louise merely stared at Tricia.

  “He said a friend of his owned the venue. I’ve heard that friend was you.”

  Still Louise said nothing.

  “It’s a beautiful property.”

  Louise swallowed. “Thank you.”

  Tricia nodded. “Funny, he never told me that the two of you were such good friends. How did you meet?”