“I know there is. I checked out his art at the Foxleigh Gallery in Portsmouth last night. He’s got a piece there that blows away everything he’s done before.”
“His lawn art really sucks—but he has made money at it,” Russ said.
“How would you know?” Tricia asked.
“I ran a piece on him last summer in the Stoneham Weekly News.”
“I must have missed it,” Tricia said, and scraped the last of her chowder from the bowl. The truth was, she rarely read the local weekly news rag. “Did David mention he was trying new things?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. But he wasn’t willing to talk about it at the time.”
“I’d like to read the piece. Have you still got copies?”
“Not hard copies. Call over to the office and ask one of the girls to e-mail it to you.”
“Thanks.”
“What else have you got on David Black?” Russ asked.
“He doesn’t seem very interested in his son. His motherin-law says he hasn’t been with the boy since Deborah died.”
Russ frowned. “He’s a rotten little kid. I can’t say I blame David.”
“Davey’s just a baby,” Tricia said, taken aback.
“Hitler started out as a child, too.”
Tricia shook her head, pushed her bowl away, and wondered if she could get an order of the chowder to go. “Are you going to keep pursuing the story?”
“I’ve got a business to run. You could do some of the legwork yourself.”
“Like what?” Tricia asked.
“Find out what else David Black has on his plate.”
“And how am I supposed to do that? Stake him out?”
“Why not? You’re also chums with the biggest gossips in the village. Frannie, for one.”
“Ah, but she’s been closemouthed about some things lately.”
“That’s something you could explore as well.” Russ looked at his watch and frowned. “There’s a dentist’s chair waiting with my name on it.” He reached for his wallet and peeled out a couple of ones. “You don’t mind paying for your soup yourself, do you?”
Tricia shook her head. As a matter of fact, she didn’t. This meant she owed him nothing—except some favor in the vague future. She didn’t like that—not one bit.
“Call me tomorrow,” Russ said, got up from the booth, and left the diner.
Tricia signaled the waitress, ordered soup to go, vacated the table, and paid the check. It took only a minute or two for her to-go order to arrive before she, too, left the diner. She was halfway to her car when she spied a jewelry store on the other side of the strip mall. A neon sign winked OPEN. Tacky, she thought, and instinctively reached for the post in her left ear. On the spur of the moment, she decided she could use some exercise. She and her little take-out bag headed for Maxwell & Sons.
A small bell tinkled in greeting as she opened the door. No other customers loitered around the small, sedately decorated showroom, and in seconds a salesman stepped through a dark velvet curtain at the back of the shop. “May I help you?”
Tricia stepped up to the glass showcase. “I hope so. I was wondering, can you tell cubic zirconium from a genuine diamond?”
“That’s quite easy to determine. Do you have something you’d like checked?”
Tricia touched her left earlobe, twisting the stud earring a quarter turn. “I got these earrings from a friend, and . . .”
“Ah,” the gentleman said, and nodded in understanding. “Customers come in here all the time wanting to know the value of gifts they receive.”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Tricia said. “I just wanted to make sure for . . . for . . .” Her mind whirled. “For insurance purposes.”
The salesman’s placid expression never wavered. “Very good.”
Tricia set her purse and the soup on the counter. She carefully removed her earring and handed it to the jeweler, who collected it in a soft gray shammy. He rubbed the stone for several seconds before he popped a loupe onto his eye and examined the earring. “Hmm.”
Tricia felt her stomach muscles tense. Was that a good or bad “hmmm”?
“May I take a look at the other?”
Tricia removed and then handed him the second earring. He examined it with the same poker face, before removing the loupe. He pulled out a small scale and weighed each. “A full carat each.”
“Cubic zirconium,” she stated.
“Diamonds, ma’am. They’re both exquisite—and beautifully cut.”
“Real diamonds?” Tricia asked, her throat tightening.
“Did you want to sell them?”
“No!” But did she want to keep such an expensive gift?
Yes! Too bad they’d come from a man who’d unceremoniously dumped and then divorced her.
And yet . . . why had Christopher now sent her two gifts of jewelry? She fingered the chain on her neck. On impulse, she unfastened the catch and handed the chain to the jeweler. “Is this chain real gold?”
He inspected the chain, and then had a look at the locket. “Both fine specimens.” He opened the locket. “Pretty kitty.”
“Thank you,” Tricia managed. Her head was spinning. What was she supposed to make of these gifts and the reason behind Christopher sending them?
The jeweler handed back the necklace and Tricia refastened the chain, hiding the locket beneath her sweater once more. She put the earrings back on, too.
“Were you interested in purchasing anything while you’re here?” the salesman asked.
Tricia looked around the showroom. The man had been so nice about checking her jewelry, and since Ginny was leaving, maybe she should buy her a nice gift while she was here. It might be hard to get away from the shop once Ginny started working at the Happy Domestic and Tricia only had Mr. Everett working for her part time. “Yes. I’m looking for a gift. A friend of mine is about to start a new job and I thought it might be nice to get her something. Maybe a watch?”
Ten minutes later, Tricia left the store with her purse, her take-out bag of chowder, and a gift-wrapped watch for Ginny.
And a whole lot more on her mind than when she’d entered the store.
Thirteen
The words the Happy Domestic were beginning to grate on Tricia’s nerves, so much so that she decided to spend her three or four dollars for a good-bye card for Ginny at the convenience store up near the highway instead of patronizing what was once Deborah’s store. She picked up a couple of condolence cards, too, although she still wasn’t sure she wanted to send one to David.
Traffic was light, and all too soon she found herself heading back from Stoneham’s municipal parking lot toward Haven’t Got a Clue. As she passed the Patisserie, she decided to stop in and buy a treat for Ginny. She loved cupcakes, especially those made and decorated by Nikki Brimfield, their friend and the Patisserie’s owner.
Several customers stood in line to be waited on, and Tricia grabbed a ticket with a number from the little machine just inside the door. The heavenly aromas of bread, cookies, and pastries nearly lifted Tricia off the ground. She’d buy some of the raspberry thumbprint cookies Mr. Everett liked, too. Then she remembered that Mr. Everett was spending the day with Elizabeth Crane at—she winced—the Happy Domestic. Still, her customers would probably appreciate them.
Tricia studied all the wonderful desserts in the large refrigerated case and decided to get a cupcake for herself, too. Since she’d begun allowing herself the occasional sweet treat during the past two months, she found she’d gained three pounds. She still ran four miles on the treadmill every morning, and her clothes still fit, save for one pair of slacks that felt a little too tight for all-day comfort. Was she letting herself go—or was it the inevitable middleage spread? No doubt Angelica, who’d always battled her weight, would laugh at the idea of being three pounds overweight.
Tricia took stock of her life as the line grew shorter. Was she too worried about what men thought of her appearance? And what for? Grant Baker
wanted a companion with no long-term commitment. Russ Smith still kind of pursued her, although for some reason had dropped the solicitous act this morning, which was good, as she couldn’t bear the thought of being with him ever again. And her ex-husband, Christopher, was sending her conflicting signals. He hadn’t wanted to stay married but now he was sending her expensive gifts. What did that mean?
Nikki called out the next number, and the line dwindled yet again.
Apple turnovers, date bars, iced cut-out cookies, or whole wheat oatmeal raisin cookies—were they really a toboggan ride to diet hell? Did eating comfort food somehow make you an inferior human being, or was it a red flag that should send one to the nearest shrink in search of the catalyst for such behavior? Grant-Russ-Christopher and all that each man represented could be the reason Tricia had indulged. No doubt about it, she wasn’t getting what she wanted or needed in a relationship, and an occasional cupcake or an extra cookie a day had somehow found its way into her usual routine. And honestly, three pounds wasn’t the be-all and end-all of life. In fact, it was just an extra forty-eight ounces. A two-liter bottle of soda was heavier.
Okay, if the weight gain continued for too long, there could be trouble, but Tricia found the idea of a coconut cupcake now and then far too good to resist.
“Fifty-eight,” Nikki called out, and Tricia realized that it was her turn to order. She raised her hand, stepped forward, and discarded her paper ticket in the little wicker basket atop the tall glass display case.
“Hi, Tricia,” Nikki said brightly. Did her voice sound unusually high?
“Hey, Nikki. It looks like it’s a coconut cupcake day. I’ll take two. And a dozen of your raspberry thumbprint cookies.” And an apple turnover—or four! something inside her wanted to shout, but she exercised all her self-control and let the order stand.
Nikki placed the items in a white bakery box, well insulated with baker’s tissue. She tied the box with string and rang up the sale. Tricia handed her a ten-dollar bill, and Nikki made change. It was only then that Tricia realized there was no one behind her and that she and Nikki were the only ones in the shop.
“Wasn’t Deborah’s send-off yesterday a drag?” Nikki asked, sounding more like her usual self. “And what was with David bringing a date? The man has no shame.”
“I agree. And she’s older, too.”
“A real cougar, I hear,” Nikki said snidely. “It seems Ms. Fowler makes a habit of seeking out younger artists.” She added the last with contempt. “Still, I don’t think she’s the love of David’s life; more like a stepping-stone to somewhere else.”
“Oh?” Tricia asked. Hadn’t Michele Fowler said the same thing . . . more or less?
Nikki nodded. “Seems to me I heard that David was fooling around with someone more close to home, but I can’t think who—or even where I heard it.”
“Frannie?” Tricia suggested.
Nikki shook her head. “Since Frannie was the source of so much gossip back in June and before, she seems to have handed off her Queen of the Rumor Mill title.”
That made sense, as Frannie herself had been the object of scandal when her relationship to a murdered man had become public knowledge. Still, in the past, Frannie had been a wonderful source of information, and Tricia hated to see that source dry up. Then again, maybe it was a temporary thing. As Tricia’s grandmother was fond of saying, “a leopard doesn’t change its spots.”
“I heard Ginny’s going to be taking over as manager when the sale of the Happy Domestic goes through,” Nikki said.
“Yes. And I’ll be losing the best assistant in Stoneham.”
“That’s true. But this also gives someone else the opportunity to be the next best assistant. Have you got anyone in mind?”
Tricia shook her head. “If you know of anyone looking for a job that you think might be a good fit, I’d be glad to interview her.”
“Or him?” Nikki asked.
Tricia laughed. “Or him.” She looked at her watch. “I’d better get back to work.”
“Thank you,” Nikki said, with what seemed like extra cheer, although the degree of her smile didn’t quite match.
Tricia gave her a wave, exited the shop, and started down the sidewalk. As she passed the Cookery, she saw Frannie waiting on a customer. She raised her bakery-boxencumbered hand in a half wave but doubted Frannie even saw her. By now she was overloaded with purse, soup, watch, cards in a plain white grocery bag, and now the bakery box, and she had to juggle them all to open the door to Haven’t Got a Clue. She backed into the store, which was empty except for Ginny, who stood behind the cash desk.
“Do you need help?” Ginny asked, and a sleepy Miss Marple looked up from her comfy spot on one of the chairs in the reader’s nook.
“No, thanks,” Tricia said.
Ginny spied the bakery box. “Nothing says lovin’ like something from the Patisserie’s oven.”
“I bought us some coconut cupcakes,” Tricia said, and trucked across the carpet to join Ginny.
“Oh, yum. And just in time for lunch.”
“I’ve sort of already eaten mine, so this will be dessert. Hang on while I go put this in my fridge,” she said, brandishing the bag with the soup in it and hoping Ginny wouldn’t ask about the other bags. She left the bakery box and trudged up the stairs to her loft apartment, with Miss Marple following in her wake. Of course, that meant Tricia had to give the cat a kitty snack before she could put away her purchases, but Miss Marple had finished by the time Tricia was ready to head back downstairs. She sat patiently at the door to the stairs while Tricia called Angelica at Booked for Lunch to tell her not to save a tuna plate for her.
“I’ve already eaten—the world’s best seafood chowder—and I brought some home for you, so don’t eat lunch. I’ll bring it over at the usual time.”
“Nothing compares to my chowder recipe,” Angelica declared.
“You might change your mind once you taste this.”
“If you say so,” Angelica said, and sounded distinctly bored.
Tricia hung up the phone and headed for the door. Perhaps to echo Angelica, Miss Marple gave her a bored “Yow” in passing.
Ginny was waiting for Tricia at the coffee station. She’d put on some cheerful Southwest-inspired new age music, and had placed the cupcakes on small paper plates that Tricia kept for just such purposes. “I waited for you to come down before I poured the coffee,” Ginny said.
The hackles rose on Tricia’s neck at Ginny’s solemn tone. Was something unpleasant and smelly about to hit the proverbial fan?
Ginny didn’t wait long to share her anxiety. “I’m beginning to have second thoughts about taking the new job,” she admitted, and picked at the paper skin on her cupcake.
“Whatever for?” Tricia asked, reaching for her coffee.
“Deborah could never really make the Happy Domestic pay for itself. What if I can’t make it pay, either? I’m younger than she was—this is a lot of responsibility. Antonio has let me know that his boss doesn’t tolerate failure.”
“Has Antonio ever failed Ms. Racita?”
“Not so far,” Ginny said, and took a bite of her cupcake.
“He’s not much older than you, and he seems to have good business sense. I doubt he would have picked you to take over the Happy Domestic if he didn’t think you could handle it.”
“But I’m his girlfriend,” she said, sounding mortified. “I could put his job in jeopardy if I fail.”
Tricia sighed. It was bad enough she was going to lose Ginny, who truly was the best assistant she could have wished for. How easy—and selfish—it would be for her to encourage Ginny in these flights of doubt. Instead, she donned an almost maternal expression of pride. “I predict you will flourish at the Happy Domestic. I have so much faith in you, and I regret not showing it more often. This whole business with me not giving you a key to Haven’t Got a Clue wasn’t that I didn’t trust you. It’s just that I . . .” Tricia stopped for a moment, unsure how to contin
ue. “Haven’t Got a Clue is what I longed for. Dreamed of. Worked so hard to obtain and years to achieve. I’m afraid I wasn’t willing to share it with anyone.” She had to stop herself for a moment, to swallow down the emotion that threatened to choke her.
And it wasn’t Ginny she was thinking of—it was all the hurt she felt when Christopher told her he wanted out of their marriage. It was the months she’d lived alone in the aftermath of his rejection. Then a friend mentioned meeting Bob Kelly and told her of his efforts to recruit booksellers to some little backwater of a town in New Hampshire. The friend thought only a sucker would risk their financial future on opening a used bookstore in the middle of nowhere. But Tricia had been intrigued by Bob’s grand plans to re-create a piece of the little Welsh village of Hay-on-Wye in the not so wilds of southern New Hampshire. And Tricia’s business hadn’t just survived—it had thrived. And in many respects, so had she.
“Ginny, this is the next step in your life. You weren’t sure you’d survive what happened with Brian, and look at you now. You’ve got a new man in your life, you’ve got a wonderful new job. Things can only get better.”
Ginny nodded, and nibbled at her cupcake.
“I have faith in you. Antonio has faith in you. And Nigela Racita must have faith in you, too.”
Tricia had just about run out of cheerleader commentary and was grateful when the door opened and a couple of customers entered the store. Tricia greeted them and then paused to think of something she ought to do—to give Ginny an opportunity to forget about her frets.
“Can you handle things here, Ginny? I’ve yet to canvass the neighborhood for donations for Davey Black’s education fund.”
“Sure,” Ginny said, and straightened.
Tricia retrieved her list, an envelope, and traded spots with Ginny. Tricia gave Ginny a smile and a wave, then set off.
The first name on her list: By Hook or By Book.
Tricia rarely made it to the craft bookstore. The truth was, she just didn’t have time for hobbies. In fact, her hobby, repairing old, tattered books, had taken a backseat since she’d opened Haven’t Got a Clue. And while she’d refinished a couple of pieces of furniture, the results had not been all that pleasing, and she’d had to pay someone to fix what she’d nearly ruined.
Sentenced to Death bm-5 Page 12
