A Deadly Deletion

by Lorna Barrett

  “Of course.”

  As he was about to hand the pie over, Tricia’s cell phone rang. She looked at the screen and saw it was Becca calling. “I’d better take this,” she said, and answered the call. “Hi, Becca, can you hold on for a minute? I’ve got to take something from the shop up to my apartment.”

  “Fine,” Becca said testily.

  Tricia stuck the phone in her slacks pocket and took the pie. “I’ll be back down in a few minutes,” she told Mr. Everett, who nodded. They headed for the back of the shop, where Mr. Everett hung up his coat and Tricia climbed the stairs to her home. She placed the pie in the fridge and retrieved her phone.

  “What’s up?” she asked Becca.

  “I wondered what you thought of Louise Jameson’s arrest.”

  Tricia sighed. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “I’ve got a theory.”

  “Do tell,” Tricia said, and leaned against her kitchen island.

  “I think she killed them both.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Gene told me she was bitter that her husband wove her business into his scheme to tie whatever profits she made from her studio into his financial empire—same with the wedding venue.”

  So Tricia hadn’t been the only one to notice it.

  “But why would she want to kill Gene, her lover?”

  “I haven’t exactly figured that out,” Becca admitted. “I really don’t know much about the bitch.” Her description of Louise could be applied to herself. “Maybe she was jealous of you.”

  Ha!

  “The cops are sure a man named Joshua Greenwell was at the wheel of the truck that killed Gene.”

  “Who she could have hired,” Becca pointed out. “The cops must have found a connection or else they wouldn’t have arrested her.”

  Tricia wasn’t so sure.

  * * *

  * * *

  After a good day of sales, it was time to close Haven’t Got a Clue. Tricia hadn’t mentioned the rift among her, Angelica, and Antonio, and she’d been dreading having to tell Mr. Everett that there was a change of plans for that evening. He so looked forward to the whole makeshift family being together, and it wasn’t going to happen on that day.

  At 4:59, Mr. Everett grabbed his coat from a peg at the back of the store. “And we’re off to have another wonderful evening with our little family,” he said gleefully.

  “Uh, not tonight, I’m afraid,” Tricia said, and forced a grin. “I have a lot of paperwork I need to catch up on and if I don’t scour the Internet for some deals, we’ll be low on stock during the holiday crunch.”

  Mr. Everett frowned. “But surely you can take an hour or so for camaraderie and a wonderful meal.”

  Tricia’s throat constricted even as she forced yet another smile. “Not tonight,” she reiterated.

  “But I made the pumpkin pie especially for you,” he insisted.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But what will you have for your dinner?”

  “I have plenty of food in my larder,” she lied. She hadn’t hit the grocery store in almost two weeks. The milk in her fridge was on the cusp of souring. She might have to—shudder!—resort to adding some of the nondairy whitener she kept in the beverage station for her store’s customers.

  “Does your sister know you won’t be attending dinner?” Mr. Everett asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Tricia answered blithely. “We discussed it.” No lie there.

  “Well, all right, then,” Mr. Everett said, but still looked doubtful. “Shall I save you a piece of pie?”

  Tricia patted her stomach. “I could stand to lose a few pounds, but I know everyone else will enjoy it. You can tell me how much on Tuesday.”

  Mr. Everett studied Tricia’s face and she could tell he wasn’t accepting her obvious line of bull. “Well, if you say so,” he reluctantly said.

  Tricia forced a smile. “Now, go and have a wonderful time. And I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

  Mr. Everett took possession of his beautiful pie and nodded. “I will see you then.”

  Smiling, Tricia watched him go. When the door closed behind him, she let out a sigh, looked around her empty store, and fought the urge to cry.

  THIRTY-ONE

  That evening, Tricia moped around her apartment, wondering what the family was having for dinner. Wondering how the conversation was evolving and how Angelica had explained her absence.

  Tricia scrambled a couple of eggs, drank a mug of cocoa, and went to bed early with a good book. It was times like that she noticed how deadly quiet her apartment was. She didn’t feel comfortable calling anyone to vent her frustration. She counted Angelica and Ginny as her closest friends. Pixie was a good listener, but although Tricia was quite fond of her, their relationship just wasn’t the same.

  After a fitful night of sleep, morning eventually arrived, and Tricia dragged herself out of bed, forcing herself to go through her usual routine. Instead of her accustomed route, she power walked other streets, trying not to think about what was eating at her mind and emotions.

  Back at Haven’t Got a Clue, she put some change in the till, made coffee, and stared at the clock, daring it to be opening time.

  Pixie arrived five minutes early, in high spirits. That day she’d donned what Tricia thought of as her Katharine Hepburn outfit. A black, long-sleeved blouse, high-waisted tan slacks, and her hair in a topknot.

  “We’re going to have a wonderful day!” Pixie declared as she poured herself a cup of coffee at the beverage station.

  “We sure will,” Tricia said, forcing cheer she did not feel into her voice.

  The little bell over the door rang and the women turned, expecting their first customers of the day. Instead, it was a sad-faced Mr. Everett who entered Haven’t Got a Clue.

  “Mr. E, what are you doing here on your day off? Come to hang out?” Pixie asked brightly.

  “Er, no. I came to see Ms. Miles,” he said sheepishly, and looked down at a business-sized envelope he held in his hands.

  Tricia stepped closer. “Is everything all right?”

  “Er, well, no.” The old man hesitated. “I missed you last night at . . .” But then Mr. Everett didn’t finish the sentence.

  “I missed you, too,” Tricia said.

  Mr. Everett looked to be on the verge of tears. He thrust the envelope he held toward her. “It’s with great sorrow that I must tender my immediate resignation.”

  Tricia blinked. “What?”

  “It’s not what I would wish to do under other circumstances, but you see, Grace . . .” But then he didn’t elaborate.

  Tricia understood only too well.

  Grace had no other family. The Miles-Barberos had accepted her and Mr. Everett into their family. Little Sofia thought of Grace as her other nonna. If Grace had to choose sides, and obviously she had, she would choose the warm embrace of Antonio, Ginny, and—most of all—that golden child all of them loved so much.

  Tricia fingered the envelope and nodded slowly. “I understand. But I want you to know that you will always be my friend. And if you ever wish to come back to Haven’t Got a Clue, I will welcome you with open arms.”

  Mr. Everett’s eyes brimmed with tears. He swallowed several times and nodded. But then he turned and headed for the door, closing it behind him without a backward glance.

  Pixie let out a breath that was almost a sob. “I don’t get it. What’s going on? Why . . . ?” But then she couldn’t seem to finish the sentence.

  “It seems I’m caught in the middle of a family feud,” Tricia said simply. “And unfortunately I’m on the losing side.”

  “But why?”

  Tricia shrugged, and it took a few long hard moments before she could speak again. “These things happen.”

  “But not to you guys. You’re special.”r />
  Not anymore, Tricia thought sadly. Not anymore.

  Tricia braved a smile. “I’m sure things will straighten out in a day or two,” she said, although she wasn’t at all convinced.

  * * *

  * * *

  As lunchtime approached, Tricia realized she didn’t have much in the way of groceries. No way was she going to cross the street to go to Booked for Lunch, and she noticed that Pixie had patronized the Bookshelf Diner for her midday meal.

  Instead, she decided to head to the grocery store in Milford. She’d stock her cupboards and hunker down. If nothing else, Miss Marple would be pleased to have her cat mom home during her midday and evening meals. And perhaps things would be ironed out and maybe in a few weeks she could slide back into her evenings with Angelica.

  Except . . . how could she? Tricia now knew where she stood. Without saying it aloud, Angelica’s meaning hadn’t been lost: When push came to shove, she had her own family. She really didn’t need Tricia.

  Tricia’s cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and frowned. Now what did Chief Baker want?

  “Hello, Grant,” she said, feeling weary.

  “Hi, Tricia. I’m calling to give you an update on the brick-throwing motorcyclist.”

  “Did you catch him—and her?” she asked eagerly.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It seems they had an accident.”

  The muscles in her arms tensed. “Go on.”

  “They must have hit a greasy patch on the highway. A motorist with a flat tire saw the bike down in a gully. He called nine one one and . . . Well, it must have been instantaneous.”

  “Are you sure it was the right couple?”

  “The license plate was ZBR3. There was a partial print on that brick thrown through your window. We’ll have proof positive once the state lab confirms it belonged to the male victim.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Tyler Holden.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Ashley Emery.”

  The names meant nothing to Tricia.

  “Are you okay?” Baker asked. “You sound kind of down.”

  A shudder ran through her. “Angelica and I had a little tiff. It’ll all blow over in a couple of days.”

  “Does that mean you’re free for dinner tonight?”

  Tricia frowned, glad Baker couldn’t see her sour expression. The guy just wouldn’t give up! She kept her voice neutral. “Sorry, but I already have plans.” Yeah, to sit alone at her kitchen island and eat a sandwich or something even less interesting. And why was she being so careful with his feelings, anyway? She should have just said No!

  “Well, if you need a sounding board, I’m available,” Baker offered.

  “Thank you,” she said, if only to be polite. “Would you keep me posted on any other developments?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have a good evening,” Tricia said.

  “You, too.”

  Tricia ended the call. She sat staring at the phone. So, the man who lobbed a brick through her window and the woman who’d texted him were now both dead. The man who’d run down Marshall and had possibly torched Ginny’s and Antonio’s home was also dead.

  What did they have in common?

  That they’d made attacks on the Miles-Barbero families. They appeared to be petty criminals.

  That they had probably been paid to wreak havoc, and now they were dead. One had been murdered. Was the accident that killed the biker and his girlfriend a premeditated murder?

  Whoever had hired them had also silenced them . . . or had them silenced—and permanently.

  The shop door opened and several women entered. Tricia immediately brightened. “Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. I’m the owner, Tricia. Let me know if you need any help.”

  The women smiled and dispersed to begin browsing.

  Tricia gave herself a little shake and gazed out the window, where she could just see the sign for Booked for Lunch. It reminded her that she needed to get a shopping list together. She grabbed a scrap piece of paper and began to make notes.

  Still, the thought of that trio of felons lying dead in a morgue was still stuck in her mind.

  Her phone pinged. She glanced at the screen. It was a text from Ginny. Are we still on for lunch?

  Tricia cringed. Their weekly lunch had been postponed twice.

  Why don’t we just wait until Thursday? Tricia texted back.

  She expected an immediate text back, but instead, her phone rang: Ginny.

  “Hey,” Tricia said, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb her customers.

  “Why weren’t you at our Sunday dinner last night?” Ginny demanded.

  Tricia hesitated before answering. Should she tell the truth, or would that make the situation that much worse? She took a chance. “Uh . . . I was asked not to come.”

  “By whom?” Ginny demanded.

  “Angelica.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I really don’t want to go into it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . . because it’s all rather silly. At least, it should be.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Antonio and that miserable excuse of a newspaper they acquired?” Ginny asked, her voice tightening.

  “Well, sort of.”

  “I knew it. I knew that rotten excuse for a fish wrapper had to be the cause.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ever since Antonio came up with the idea of running that birdcage liner, he’s been obsessed with becoming the next Clark Kent.”

  “Have you heard from Becca?”

  “Not since she canceled our practice on Friday. I was going to text her this morning to see if we’re going to play.”

  “She may not answer your message.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Antonio badgered her about Marshall’s death and details about his past—and hers. Angelica’s in his court because . . . well, I don’t have to tell you why, but Becca also . . .” Tricia let the sentence trail. She wasn’t about to reveal how Becca had disparaged Ginny.

  “She said I was a lousy player and beneath her skill level.”

  “Well, sort of.”

  Ginny let out a dismissive breath. “She’s told me that since the second day we played. If I’m such a slouch, why did she keep asking me to come back?”

  Ginny had a point.

  “You’re not offended.”

  “Ha! How many years did I work in retail? Nobody can insult me and take me down unless I let them. Becca’s a blowhard, but she’s also taught me a lot in the past week on how to improve my game. After the new baby arrives, I’m going to join a tennis league and get back into it. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed playing.”

  “I’m glad something good has come out of this whole messy situation.”

  “But not for you,” Ginny said bluntly. “I knew something was up last night when Antonio and Angelica kept looking at each other every time your name was mentioned.”

  “That’s not the only collateral damage. Mr. Everett quit this morning.”

  “What?” Ginny practically wailed.

  “I have a feeling Grace made him do it. This is just supposition on my part, but I’m guessing she sensed there was a rift and if he continued working for me it could alter things. If it appeared they were choosing sides, she might be afraid that you and Antonio could keep them from seeing Sofia and . . . well . . .” But Tricia couldn’t go on.

  “Good grief,” Ginny said, sounding exhausted. She let out an exasperated breath. “I refuse to let that Russ Smith–tainted ad rag unhinge our lives.”

  “Ginny, please don’t do anything to—”

  “Oh, you better believe I’m goin
g to do something. I will not stand for any kind of bullying. Not from Antonio or Angelica. And they are going to hear from me. I will not let my daughter think that kind of behavior is acceptable. Not from her nonna and especially not from her father,” Ginny said fervently.

  She is woman, hear her roar, Tricia thought with the smallest hint of a smile.

  “I need to nip this behavior in the bud,” Ginny declared. “And right now. Talk to you later.”

  The call ended.

  One of the women customers ambled up to the cash desk. “Excuse me, but there are so many wonderful books here, I’m having a hard time making a choice. Can you give me a recommendation?”

  Tricia’s insides felt wobbly after two jarring conversations in a row but somehow she managed a smile. “I’d be delighted.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The shop was devoid of customers when, less than an hour later, Ginny marched into Haven’t Got a Clue with a humble-looking Antonio and Angelica following in her wake. Because of their hangdog expressions, Tricia was surprised Ginny hadn’t dragged them in by their ears.

  “Hi, Pixie. Would you excuse us for a few minutes?” Ginny asked, her voice as sweet as could be.

  Pixie shot Tricia a glance before answering, “Uh, sure. I’ve got some work down in the office I can do.”

  “Thank you.”

  Tricia had a feeling Pixie would hang out at the top of the stairs and listen to every word that was said, but she also knew Pixie wouldn’t breathe whatever she heard to another soul. At least she was pretty sure she wouldn’t.

  Once Pixie was out of sight, Ginny turned, arms akimbo, and glared at the guilty parties. “Well, what do you have to say for yourselves?”

  Antonio’s gaze was fixed on the carpet. “I . . . I am sorry I was unreasonable. When you said we should agree to disagree, I should not have protested. I behaved like a child.”

  “And you, Angelica,” Ginny prompted sternly.

  Angelica’s fingers tightened on the handle of her cane. In her other hand was the shopping bag she’d received at the Bee’s Knees. “I’m sorry, too, Tricia. I was only trying to be supportive of—”