A Deadly Deletion

by Lorna Barrett

  “I know,” Tricia said. “I accept your apologies and thank you for coming.”

  “I brought you a peace offering.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Well, they’re not my size.”

  Angelica offered Tricia the bag. She took it and peeked inside to see a shoebox. Slipping the top off, she nudged the tissue paper and smiled: black sequined sneakers.

  “Thank you.”

  Suddenly Angelica lunged forward with tears in her eyes and grabbed Tricia in an awkward hug. “I’m sorry, Trish. I’m so sorry,” she whispered in Tricia’s ear between sobs.

  Tricia patted her back. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  Angelica pulled back.

  “Now, why don’t you three sit over there in the reader’s nook and talk things through,” Ginny suggested. “I still have to speak to Grace and Mr. Everett and straighten things out with them before I can pick Sofia up at day care.”

  The three of them nodded solemnly and watched as Ginny flounced out the door.

  Tricia offered the others a shy smile. “I guess we’d better do as she asked.”

  “Yes, or else I will be in the cur house.” He meant doghouse, but Tricia got the gist.

  They all took a seat in the reader’s nook and looked at one another self-consciously. “Well?” Tricia asked.

  “I should explain why I was so stubborn on Saturday,” Antonio began. He looked at Angelica, who nodded, as though to encourage him. “When I met Ms. Chandler on Saturday morning, there was something very familiar about her face.”

  “Well, she was a world-renowned tennis player,” Tricia pointed out.

  Antonio shook his head. “That is not it. I know nothing about her past career. I knew I had seen her at the Brookview Inn . . . and not that long ago.”

  Tricia’s eyes widened. “But she told me she’d never been to Stoneham before last week.”

  “As she told me, as well,” Antonio said.

  Tricia sat back in her chair and Miss Marple ambled up and jumped into her lap, purring. She turned around three times before she settled down. “You know, when Becca came into the shop the day I met her, she showed me some pictures she’d said Marshall had sent her of Stoneham.”

  “What kind of pictures?”

  “Of the Armchair Tourist and the Stoneham Weekly News. I didn’t realize it until just now that those pictures showed the mums in the urns in front of each of the Main Street merchants. Marshall couldn’t have sent them to her because they were planted the morning after he died.”

  Antonio nodded. “Ms. Chandler has not been entirely truthful on several fronts. It seems she stayed at the Brookview Inn for two nights during last year’s holiday season.”

  Tricia felt her mouth drop as she petted her cat. But then she remembered something else. “That makes sense. The other day when I had lunch with Becca at the Brookview, Cindy at the front desk said ‘Welcome back, ladies.’ It wouldn’t have occurred to me that Becca had been there before—especially as she told me she was looking forward to visiting the inn for the first time.”

  “Why would she tell so many lies?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia felt a slow burn rise up her neck. “Who knows? Maybe Marshall didn’t want her to be seen coming out of his apartment.”

  “Do you think they were hooking up?” Angelica asked.

  “At this point, I wouldn’t put anything past Marshall,” Tricia said bitterly. “But it also kind of puts the whole revenge plot to rest.”

  “What do you mean?” Antonio asked.

  “The idea behind the Witness Protection Program is that the person entering it risks his—or her—life by contacting people from their past. Marshall contacted Becca after her accident and they kept in touch for years. Despite that, no one came after Marshall until last week. That tells me no one was watching Becca all that closely—especially if she had met Marshall right here in Stoneham last year.”

  “But from what you said, Becca was in the village at least a day before she visited you,” Angelica said. “Could she have been in the area for a day or so before Marshall was killed, and if so, why?”

  “Would you feel comfortable asking Ms. Chandler?” Antonio asked. “Or do you think it’s too dangerous?”

  That he was concerned for her safety warmed Tricia’s heart. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I’ve been iffy when it came to trusting Becca. Now I feel absolutely terrified. We can’t let Ginny practice with her anymore.”

  “As she has already agreed to pick up Sofia, I think she is safe tonight, but I will tell her of our conversation as soon as I see her this evening.”

  “The less we truck with that woman, the better,” Angelica agreed. “We should go straight to Chief Baker and report all these anomalies.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Tricia said.

  “That would steal my scoop,” Antonio said, sounding hurt.

  Tricia couldn’t help but smile. Ginny may have been right about Antonio’s Clark Kent fixation. “We need more proof that Becca’s up to something nefarious before we talk to the chief.”

  “And what about Louise Jameson being arrested for her husband’s death?” Angelica asked.

  “She was released this morning after posting bail,” Antonio reported. “I went to her studio to speak with her, but her assistant said the studio would be closed for the foreseeable future.”

  “And I still don’t have my proofs,” Tricia muttered.

  “It still doesn’t make sense to me that she was arrested at all,” Angelica said. “Okay, I can see she might want to kill her husband—he wasn’t a very nice man. But Marshall? What for? Apparently, he wanted her and she rejected him. Where’s the motive?”

  “Then it seems more likely Ms. Chandler would have killed Marshall,” Antonio said.

  “I’m still not clear on what her motive could be,” Angelica said.

  “Lots of times there really is no motive,” Tricia pointed out. “I mean, didn’t we just go through that with Susan Morris’s murder? It was a crime of passion—or at least unreasonable anger.”

  Angelica looked pensive. “When Ginny suggested we talk and compare notes, I was pretty sure we’d come to some kind of consensus. Now I feel confused and more than a little frightened,” Angelica admitted.

  “I do not think you should be alone the next time you speak to Ms. Chandler,” Antonio told Tricia. “Please promise me you will call me to escort you should you confront her.”

  “She’s already taken a dislike to you,” Tricia pointed out. “It seems to me that I shouldn’t talk to her in person from now on. When I do, I’ll make sure it’s by phone.”

  “That makes me feel a little better—but not by much,” Angelica remarked.

  “I’d like to speak to both Becca and Louise. I think they’re both credible suspects for masterminding at least one murder each,” Tricia said.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about all this to Chief Baker?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia shook her head. “I’m keeping my distance from him until I have something concrete to report. You know he always questions my motives. It’s the prime reason we broke up in the first place.”

  Angelica nodded and her bottom lip quivered once again. “I . . . I’m so sorry I bit your head off on Saturday. I was—”

  Tricia held up a hand. “We never have to speak of it again. We’re sisters and no one and nothing can come between us again.” She waited, half afraid her sister might not agree.

  Angelica nodded. “Never again.”

  A surge of affection for her sister rushed through Tricia, but all too soon it faded. She glanced at Antonio. “Today was your deadline to put the next issue to bed. Did you print anything about Marshall?”

  Antonio shook his head. “My instinct is to wait. We are printing a death notice, but we don
’t yet have the full story behind Marshall Cambridge’s life. What about your promise to Ms. Chandler?”

  “I did my duty to her. I asked you not to delve into Marshall’s past. If you choose to pursue the story, I can’t stop you.”

  “Yes, but now you are invested in trying to discover the truth,” Antonio pointed out.

  Tricia nodded, albeit reluctantly. “I have more information than I had on Saturday morning. I no longer feel a loyalty to that promise, to Becca—and sadly, even to Marshall. It’s a bitter pill to swallow when you’ve been lied to on multiple fronts.”

  “I am sorry,” Antonio apologized.

  “What are you going to do next?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia sighed. “I want to speak to Louise Jameson, and fairly soon.”

  “Good luck pinning Mrs. Jameson down,” Antonio said.

  Tricia pursed her lips. “I’m going to call her now.” She pulled out her cell phone and tapped Louise’s name on her contacts list. The phone rang and rang, only to be picked up by voice mail. She decided to leave a message.

  “This is Tricia Miles. I’d like to speak to Ms. Jameson about the proofs from my photo shoot last Thursday. I haven’t yet received them.” She gave her e-mail address. “I might also be able to help her with her current legal problem. Please have her call me.” She left both her cell and landline numbers and ended the call.

  “Do you really think she’ll contact you?” Angelica asked.

  “There’s not much else I can do at this point. If she’s gone into hiding—and who could blame her?—she may even have left the village, although I’m sure law enforcement has told her how far she can go without being considered a flight risk.”

  “Her bail was set at a hundred thousand dollars,” Antonio said.

  “Maybe she has more financial latitude than you imagined,” Angelica suggested.

  “Maybe. Or maybe her attorney helped her arrange bail. Either way, I don’t suppose it matters. She’s out of the pokey—at least for now.”

  “Was that a bluff—your telling her you could help with her legal problem?”

  “Partly.”

  “What will you tell her?”

  “Right now? I have no idea.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Tricia decided to wear her new sequined sneakers to Angelica’s that evening for happy hour and dinner. They didn’t have as much support as she would have liked, but they did look cute and gave her an emotional boost. After what she’d endured the previous few days, she really needed that.

  No mention was made of Marshall, Becca, or Louise, and Tricia was perfectly fine with that. Instead, Angelica spoke of other things.

  “Earlier today, I paid a visit to the NR Realty office. You were right. Karen did a wonderful job decorating her office, but it made the rest of the place look like the DMV.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Paint, for one thing. New carpet. Buy some art for the walls and add some separators so that the staff has at least some privacy. And I think I might get a white-noise generator so that conversations won’t be echoing around the room. I’m sure the clients would appreciate that as well.”

  “Does Karen know you’re Nigela?”

  “I don’t know. I went as myself, saying I was asked to have a look and suggest solutions.”

  “What did Karen think about the proposed changes?”

  “She seemed okay with it. One of the agents came in and when she heard why I was there, was thrilled.”

  “Then you’ll have more happy employees.”

  “I’m afraid they haven’t been very happy. The agent told me she’d been thinking of going to work for a realty office in Milford. She’s done well for the company. I would have hated to lose her over something as mundane as crappy office décor.”

  “How soon can the changes be implemented?” Tricia asked, enjoying her first martini in three days.

  “I’ve already contacted the design firm that worked on the Brookview. They’re going to give me some preliminary sketches and cost estimates before the end of the week.”

  “That’s great.”

  Angelica looked down at her untouched drink. “I feel bad about what happened on Saturday—” she began.

  “Didn’t I say we never had to mention it again?”

  “Yes, but . . . I can’t believe I treated you so poorly. That’s not me—or at least, that’s not who I ever want to be again.”

  “Let’s drop it,” Tricia said, exasperated.

  “No,” Angelica insisted. “We need to talk about it.”

  “You wanted to protect Antonio. But he’s a grown man. He doesn’t need his mama to run interference for him. If he’s going to be a journalist, he needs to grow a thicker skin.”

  Angelica nodded. “Exactly. And we both know that the Stoneham Weekly News isn’t ever likely to print any earth-shattering news, but he would like to have a little fun with it.”

  “I thought it was funny the way Ginny described it as an ‘ad rag.’ ”

  Angelica shrugged. “I don’t suppose it’ll ever be much more than that. But Antonio can play journalist while he oversees the bulk of the NR Associates portfolio. And without the Brookview Inn to worry about, he should have more time to spend with his family in the future.”

  “Including you?”

  “Exactly.”

  Tricia wasn’t about to ask where she landed in that family dynamic. She decided to change the subject. “So, what treat have you concocted for our supper?”

  “Nothing fancy, I’m afraid. Good old comfort food. Tommy made us a chicken pot pie and provided a salad and some rolls.”

  “I’m all for comfort food,” Tricia said, because, as it was, she was sure she’d feel more than a little discomfort the next time she spoke with Becca Chandler, and she wondered if she’d even have an opportunity to talk to Louise Jameson.

  Discomfort was putting it mildly. But she also felt compelled to find out the truth about the relationship each woman had had with Marshall, because it was now obvious to her that the man had loved both of those women more than he’d loved her. That he found them inaccessible and had decided to settle for her was even more demeaning.

  One thing was for certain, Tricia no longer had any warm feelings for the stranger she’d known as Marshall Cambridge.

  * * *

  * * *

  Tricia awoke early on Tuesday morning. It had been two weeks since Marshall’s death. She wasn’t sure why she was still counting the days, but she probably would do so until whoever had planned his death was brought to justice.

  Was it justice he deserved? He’d avoided the scales of justice—saving his own neck—when he’d testified against Martin Bailey. Was it karma that had brought him down?

  Tricia didn’t really believe in karma, although sometimes she wished she did.

  Tricia took off on her usual early-morning walk on that brisk October morning and meandered the streets of the village until she found herself on Cedar Avenue. Like Main Street, it had a back alley running parallel to it. She decided to hike down the alley to see if there were signs of life behind the Louise Jameson Photography Studio. Some of the houses had small parking pads, and the photography studio was one of them. A late-model Audi was parked there.

  Although it wasn’t even eight o’clock, Tricia approached the building and knocked on the door. When no one answered after thirty seconds, she knocked again. And after another thirty seconds . . .

  The curtain on the window next to the door moved. Tricia waved to the building’s occupant. For all she knew, it might have been Louise’s assistant, Kristin. The curtain was pulled back once more. Tricia pondered knocking a fourth time when she heard the sound of a chain being drawn back and the dead bolt being thrown before the door was wrenched open.

  “Boy, you don’t give up easily, do
you?” a scowling Louise accused.

  “Can we talk?” Tricia asked cautiously.

  Louise turned away. She didn’t slam the door in Tricia’s face, so Tricia entered the small dated kitchen, which looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 1940s, and smelled like fresh-brewed coffee. Louise was clad in a flowing silk robe decorated in large fuchsia flowers. Her hair hung around her shoulders and looked like it could use a good brushing. It was her haunted eyes that struck Tricia. She looked like a woman in mourning, but was it for Marshall or Mark?

  “What is it you want—besides your proofs?” Louise asked as she grabbed a mug from the counter, cupping it with both hands.

  “Then you got my message.”

  “Yeah. What kind of help can you offer me with my ‘legal problems,’ or was that just a line to get me to talk to you?”

  “On paper, you make a good suspect for your husband’s death—but for Marshall? I don’t think so.”

  Louise leaned against the old-fashioned counter. “And why’s that?”

  “Because you weren’t a spurned lover. If anyone was spurned, it was Marshall.”

  “Any other theories?”

  “I suppose Mark could have been responsible for Marshall’s death. But I also got the feeling he didn’t like to get his hands dirty.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “He could have hired Joshua Greenwell, the man suspected of being the hit-and-run driver who killed Marshall.”

  “But Mark didn’t even know about Marshall. If he had, he would have used it against me.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t? Or has your work always been copyrighted Mark Jameson Enterprises?”

  “It has since the day after we returned from our honeymoon,” Louise said bitterly.

  So, Tricia was at least right on that account.

  “And what about now? Now that Mark’s dead, do you own Mark Jameson Enterprises?”

  “It’s complicated—just like everything Mark set his mind to. It’s all so convoluted I’m not even sure I can access the funds to pay my lawyer’s retainer—and it’s a whopper.”