A Deadly Deletion
Page 23
“Um, yes. So I heard. In fact, I got a call from Becca Chandler this morning and she was more than a little upset that you tracked her down at the Bookshelf Diner. In fact, she said you accosted her.”
Antonio frowned. “Do you believe I am capable of accosting a lady?”
“No, of course not. That was her perception. But I’m asking you to please drop an in-depth article on Marshall.”
“Tricia, there appears to be a much bigger story here,” Antonio insisted.
She sighed. “But there’s no good end to it.”
“You say that, but how do you know it?” Antonio persisted, his voice rising just a bit.
“Because I’m privy to most of that story,” she admitted, deliberately lowering her voice.
“But not all,” he said.
“No.”
Antonio suddenly stood and straightened to his full—towering—height and shook his head. “I will not drop this. I have my journalistic reputation to uphold.”
Tricia’s eyes widened. A reputation to uphold? Antonio didn’t even have a single issue of that nasty little rag under his belt. Tricia had never been fond of the village’s weekly newspaper, and now her negative feelings toward it were only intensifying.
“Will you tell me what you know about Marshall—if that was his name?” Antonio asked bluntly.
“Becca asked me not to.”
“So, your loyalty is to a complete stranger instead of your own blood?” Antonio accused.
“No,” Tricia said, growing frustrated. “But I gave her my word. That’s a solemn oath. I hope you understand that.”
“No, I do not. In Italia, family is everything,” Antonio insisted. “Those who turn against their family are”—he seemed to struggle to find the right word—“traitors!”
“What are you saying?” Tricia asked, her insides tightening.
“Rejecting that connection is tantamount to blasphemy.”
Tricia didn’t agree, but it was apparent that trying to convince him of her argument was fruitless.
“I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”
“That I will not do,” he said adamantly. Why was he so angry? “I think you should leave now, Tricia.”
“Antonio,” she protested.
He pointed toward the door, his face twisted with fury.
For a moment, Tricia just stared at him. Then she got up, opened the door, and walked out of the office.
“See you later, Tricia,” Patti called cheerfully, but Tricia didn’t acknowledge her salutation as she exited the building.
She walked away, feeling shaken. She’d never exchanged a cross word with Antonio in the four years since they’d first met. She found herself walking slowly back toward her store, still unsure what had transpired between them and wondering how they were ever going to get past that awkward moment.
Perhaps Angelica would have some words of comfort to offer her that afternoon when they met for lunch.
At least, Tricia sure hoped she would.
TWENTY-NINE
As always, Mr. Everett arrived for work just a little early, and as cheerful as ever. Tricia put on a brave face, greeting him in kind, but her nerves were still shot. Now all she had to do was get through the day without letting it bother her . . . too much.
Once they’d shared their usual cup of coffee, Mr. Everett picked up his lamb’s-wool duster and started his workday. Meanwhile, Tricia checked online for news of updates on Mark Jameson’s death. Other than a brief paragraph from one of the TV news websites, there was no further information. Tricia scowled and considered her encounter with Baker the day before. She was grateful it had been Becca and not she who had tested his patience. She wanted so badly to pick Baker’s brain and wring him for information, but what excuse could she make?
She thought about it for a few moments before she pulled out her cell phone and called the chief.
“What is it now, Tricia,” Baker answered, sounding bored.
“I was wondering if you wanted me to come in this afternoon to make my official statement.”
“We’re shorthanded. It can wait until Monday morning.”
“Oh. Okay. Did you learn anything from the video from the storage unit’s camera system?”
“Nope. The system was down. It looks like sabotage.”
“What?”
“Yeah, they’ve had a number of units broken into of late. The system went down Wednesday evening and hadn’t yet been repaired.”
“How convenient,” Tricia said.
“Very,” Baker agreed. “These break-ins are sometimes an inside job, but the manager said he hadn’t had any employee problems. Could’ve been kids just trying to find some stuff to pawn.”
“Chief,” someone called out from a distance. “We’ve got the warrant.”
“Is that for Marshall’s or Mark’s killer?” Tricia asked, suddenly alert.
“I’ve gotta go,” Baker said without answering. “We’ll talk soon.” Without a good-bye, Baker ended the call.
Tricia stared at her now-silent phone. Had Baker just gotten the warrant to make an arrest for the two murders? She’d find out—but not quickly enough.
She wondered how Louise had taken her husband’s death. Was she distraught or relieved? Would she now be free to own her work, or had Jameson set up his business so that she’d never gain control of her rightful intellectual property? As his wife, it was likely she’d inherit his entire estate . . . unless he’d set things up to exclude her. Louise hadn’t given Tricia the impression she was in a loving relationship, but she had rebuffed Marshall in favor of staying with her dentist husband. It sure sounded unpalatable to Tricia.
Another tour bus, filled to the brim with tourists, arrived, and Tricia and Mr. Everett easily handled the shoppers who crowded into the store. Tricia heard her phone ping but was too busy ringing up sales to check her message until a midday lull when Mr. Everett had gone to lunch.
Very busy, can’t meet at BFL, said Angelica’s terse text.
Tricia didn’t have time to reply since the door to the shop opened, letting in another three customers, one of whom asked for immediate assistance. She’d just have to ask Angelica about the rift with Antonio at happy hour after closing.
When Mr. Everett returned, Tricia headed to her apartment, opened a can of soup, and made herself a quick lunch. She’d barely managed to finish when Mr. Everett called to ask for assistance. My, how Tricia loved leaf-peeping season and the crowds of tourists who descended on the village.
Considering they’d had several buses earlier in the week, with good sales, Saturday had been the best day and Tricia felt considerably cheered. She and Mr. Everett got the store ready for the next day’s sales before grabbing their coats to leave.
“Have you decided what you’re going to bring to our family dinner for dessert tomorrow?” Tricia asked.
“Since last week you consulted me for a favorite, I thought I might ask the same of you.”
“How thoughtful of you.” Tricia chewed her lip and thought about it. “How about a pie?”
“What kind?”
“Anything.”
Mr. Everett nodded sagely. “I thought I might like to try to make a pumpkin pie. From scratch. Grace picked up a cooking pumpkin at the store the other day for just such an experiment.”
“Then it sounds like it was meant to be.”
“Would you like whipped or ice cream with that?” Mr. Everett asked.
“Why don’t you surprise me?”
Mr. Everett nodded, trying to suppress a smile. “I shall do so.”
Tricia locked the door and the two of them started off. “See you tomorrow!” Tricia said as they parted in front of the Cookery. June had already left for the day and so Tricia let herself into Angelica’s shop and headed for the upstairs apartment.
r /> When Sarge enthusiastically greeted Tricia as she entered, Angelica was quick to reprimand him. “Hush! Go to your bed, Sarge,” she said sternly.
The little dog was used to being told to quiet down, but Tricia had never heard her sister say the words quite so sternly. Sarge looked at her with wide, frightened brown eyes and almost seemed to cringe, but he was too well trained to disobey a direct order and padded over to his bed, where he immediately hunkered down, looking completely demoralized.
Tricia stepped up to the counter to get a couple of biscuits from the lead crystal jar on the counter when Angelica spoke again. “No.”
Tricia blinked. “No what?”
“Don’t give Sarge any biscuits. He’s being punished.”
“For what? For greeting me like he has hundreds of times before?”
Angelica didn’t answer.
Tricia studied her sister’s ultra-rigid posture and the taut lines around her mouth. “What’s wrong, Ange? Can I help?”
“Of course you can help,” Angelica snapped. “I got a very disturbing call from Antonio earlier today. You should tell him everything you know about Marshall and his background. You should have done that when you visited him this morning. What’s wrong is you giving your loyalty to a complete stranger instead of Antonio.”
Tricia had had nearly a dozen conversations with Becca since she’d arrived more than a week before. “She’s no longer a complete stranger.”
“Becca is not a nice woman,” Angelica remarked. “You’ve said so yourself. And she showed her true colors when she disparaged Ginny, who was doing you a favor by practicing with her on the tennis court.”
“Becca has her faults,” Tricia conceded, “but she asked me not to talk about Marshall to others—and especially not the press. I promised her I wouldn’t.”
“You told me,” Angelica countered.
“And it was in confidence. Are you going to betray that trust?”
Angelica pursed her lips and said nothing.
A prickly feeling along her spine caused Tricia to shudder. Was it a sense of déjà vu? When they were younger, she and Angelica had never gotten along. Tricia always wondered if it was because Angelica had had to share the limelight of their parents’ affections with the interloper five years her junior. But then, it was apparent that their mother doted on Angelica and merely tolerated Tricia, for reasons she had only recently become aware of.
“Angelica, please answer my question,” Tricia implored.
Long moments passed before Angelica answered. “I haven’t decided.”
Tricia swallowed hard. It had taken nearly seven years for the sisters to build a close, loving relationship that was cemented by trust. Suddenly it felt like an earthquake had just shaken away all that they’d built.
Tricia wasn’t sure what to say next, but she wasn’t about to issue an ultimatum.
The sisters stood staring at each other for long moments.
Tricia forced a smile and softened her voice. “Why don’t we pour a couple of martinis and talk about this more?”
Angelica remained as rigid as a statue. “I didn’t make any.”
“Oh, well, I could—”
“I don’t think so,” Angelica said curtly.
“Don’t think what?”
“That we need to have a drink. In fact, I’m beginning to think we drink far too much.”
Maybe that was true. But happy hour had become a part of their lives—the best part, where the sisters could let down their hair and discuss their lives. And if they drank only tea, it would still be the best part of Tricia’s day.
“Why are you so upset with me?”
“Upset? I’m not upset,” Angelica said tartly.
“Then why are you speaking to me in that tone?”
“What tone?” Angelica asked, and Tricia knew from experience that this was no time to try to reason with her sister.
“Maybe I should come back tomorrow.”
“I don’t think so,” Angelica said once again.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, I don’t think you should come for dinner tomorrow, either.”
“How about Monday?” Tricia asked. Now she was getting irked.
Angelica just glared at her.
Tricia was glad she hadn’t taken off her coat. She turned, headed toward the door of the apartment, and closed it behind her.
Never had she heard such a hollow sound.
THIRTY
Tricia spent a rather lonely evening restlessly pacing her apartment. She thought what she and her sister shared had become an unbreakable bond. Now . . . she doubted every confidence they’d shared, the times when she had depended on her sister to build her up when she’d been down.
She’d come to depend on her sister’s opinions and advice. And what shocked her most was that Angelica, who had leaned toward fairness, had suddenly reversed her stance and seemed hell-bent on defending Antonio no matter what. Then again, just the evening before, Angelica had declared that all she’d wanted most of her adult life was to be a mother to the child she’d given up at such an early age. But was she now taking that desire to an unhealthy—at least for Tricia—degree?
And she’d cried. Cried because there were times when Angelica had defended her—especially the year before when they’d met their parents for lunch in Bermuda. Angelica had stood up to their formidable mother and had pleaded Tricia’s case, even if Tricia had wanted to crawl under the table and hide.
If her sister would reject her for abiding by her sense of morality, then what they had shared had been a sham all along.
That hurt. More than hurt, it was devastating.
The only thing Tricia could think of to soothe her soul was to bake, and even that had been a gift from Angelica. Tricia had finally been able to channel that part of her grandmother’s soul, but if it hadn’t been for Angelica, Tricia was sure she never would have embraced that calling.
And it was, yet again, thumbprint cookies she made, because Mr. Everett would be working the next day. They were his favorites, and he was one of her favorite people. If he gave her even the slightest of smiles because of them, it would make her day.
Tricia wasn’t much of a TV viewer, preferring to get her news from USA Today and the Nashua Telegraph’s online editions, but that evening she turned on one of the Nashua TV station’s news programs for background noise as the cookies cooled. It was then she heard the news.
“An arrest has been made in two murders that occurred in the past two weeks in Stoneham. Louise Jameson has been charged with the deaths of her husband, local dentist Mark Jameson, and Marshall Cambridge, owner of the Armchair Tourist,” the dark-haired female anchor reported. “We have few details at this time, but will keep you posted as the story develops.”
Tricia found herself standing before her TV with her mouth gaping.
Louise Jameson arrested? It didn’t make sense—at least in Marshall’s case. What could her motive be? She’d turned him down—not the other way round. She’d chosen her marriage to Mark over Marshall. If Mark held the copyright on her photos, she had at least expected him to bankroll her wedding venue project. It was possible he’d pulled out of that agreement and she could have killed him in a fit of rage, but Tricia hadn’t gotten the impression Louise was a killer.
Then again, she hadn’t thought Frannie Armstrong capable of killing, or Henry Dawson. Much as she disliked Bob Kelly, she was shocked that even he had committed murder. Did she tend to look for the best in people instead of their worst traits?
Tricia listened to the weather report before turning off the set. She didn’t want to hear any more disturbing news.
After the cookies had cooled and were safely ensconced in a plastic container, Tricia fed Miss Marple and took to her bed to read . . . not that she took in even one tenth of the words she scanned. Her m
ind kept going back to the hurtful conversation with Angelica. Okay, she could see why Angelica would side with Antonio—her only child, and one she couldn’t (or rather, wouldn’t) acknowledge to the world at large as her own—but it hurt just the same.
And Tricia had never known Antonio to be anything but strong. That during his first foray into journalism he’d resorted to squealing to his mother about his encounter with Tricia was not an indication of any kind of journalistic integrity. If he couldn’t see that, then he had no business trying to establish himself as a member of that profession.
Eventually, Tricia drifted off to sleep, but disturbing dreams of being hounded and judged kept visiting her in the night.
She awoke in the dark and way too early.
It would be a very long day.
* * *
* * *
Haven’t Got a Clue didn’t open until noon on Sundays, which gave Tricia way too long with time on her hands and not much to think about except the rift with her sister and the possibility that Louise Jameson might have killed Marshall and her husband.
Tricia set off for her usual walk but ended up traveling far beyond her customary route. By the time she returned to her shop, it was nearly twelve and she estimated she’d covered ten miles, making her glad she always wore sensible shoes.
Grace dropped off Mr. Everett five minutes before Haven’t Got a Clue’s opening and he entered the shop with his homemade pie in hand. “Good morning, Ms. Miles.”
“Good morning,” Tricia said, forcing some cheer she didn’t feel into her voice. “Looks like your pie came out beautifully.”
Mr. Everett peeled back the plastic wrap to reveal that instead of crimping the bottom crust, he had cut out tiny maple leaves for the edge, each perfectly brown with a shiny egg-wash glaze.
“I think it turned out well,” he said, which was unusual, as he seldom accepted praise, let alone gave it to himself. “I hope the rest of our friends will enjoy it.”
One thing was for sure, Tricia wasn’t going to get a slice. She wasn’t about to voice that fact.
“Could you store it in your refrigerator until this evening? I wouldn’t want it to spoil.”