Ginny didn’t answer for a long moment. “It wasn’t something Antonio planned on doing.”
“I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but wasn’t that uncalled for?” Tricia asked.
“Please don’t blame him,” Ginny said. “His boss told him to do it last night, right after he talked to Elizabeth. She didn’t take the news well that he’d already taken possession of the store. She was extremely upset—screaming at him. It was David she was angry at, but she took it out on Antonio. He said he’d keep her on, but she grabbed her purse and Davey and stormed out of the store without even closing for the day. Antonio had to call in a locksmith from Nashua and pay double to change the front and back locks. We never did get our celebratory dinner at the Brookview Inn,” she added with a twinge of resentment.
Tricia shook her head and exhaled a long breath. “What about Elizabeth? Shouldn’t she have been told about the locks?”
“That wasn’t my decision,” Ginny said, sounding defensive. “It was—”
“Don’t tell me—Antonio’s boss who decreed it.”
Ginny nodded. “Look at it from Antonio’s perspective. He didn’t think Elizabeth would be coming back to work after all the nasty things she said.” Ginny frowned. “I had hoped my first day would be pleasant. I hoped Elizabeth would at least tell me how things operated, who the suppliers were—that kind of thing. Now I’ll either sink or swim.”
“You’ll do fine.” Tricia braved a smile. “There’s still a little time before you have to open. I should get going so you can take a look around and get familiar with your store.”
Ginny managed a weak laugh. “My store,” she repeated, and shrugged. “Well, as good as, anyway.” Ginny bit her lip. “There is something I noticed when I was poking around last night that I didn’t mention to Antonio. There are a lot of empty boxes in the back room.”
“Mr. Everett said they’ve been having trash difficulties.”
“Yes, but that’s not the problem. The figurines are supposedly worth more if they’re in mint condition and in their original packaging. I don’t think Deborah or Elizabeth would sell the Dolly Dolittles without the boxes, and if someone buys them as a gift, they’d naturally ask for a box.”
“Do you think they were stolen?”
“I wouldn’t know who to point the finger at if they were.”
Tricia frowned. “Mr. Everett helped out at the store for two days. He might have some insight to share. When he comes in, I’ll send him over. He’s welcome to stay if he wants to help out, but I’ll need some coverage for lunch.”
“That would be great. I’m sure going to miss working with him—and you, of course.”
“If nothing else, having Mr. Everett on the register will give you time to check the inventory against your stock. That really should have been done before the store changed hands.”
“Don’t I know it,” Ginny said. “We could have a real mess on our hands come tax time. But Nigela Racita Associates seems to have every contingency covered, so I’ll just putt along as best as I can for now.”
“Do tell Antonio about it as soon as you can. You wouldn’t want his boss to think you were hiding anything.”
“Right,” Ginny agreed.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Tricia said, and headed for the door.
“Thanks,” Ginny called. “For everything.”
Tricia smiled and exited the store. The smile was shortlived. As she crossed the road, she considered her earlier encounter with Elizabeth Crane. She’d said she wanted to get inside the store and clean up some of the paperwork. Had she instead intended to get rid of some paperwork? Maybe remove the evidence of all the empty boxes—and all before Ginny arrived?
Elizabeth had reason to hate David for selling off Deborah’s store. Reason enough to steal from the store, too? But that didn’t make sense, either. The figurines were far more valuable in their original packaging. Unless . . . one sold them cheap.
It was time to get out the old laptop and have a look at what was selling on eBay.
Business was slow, which gave Tricia time to do her Internet searches. Sure enough, someone in southern New Hampshire was selling a boatload of Dolly Dolittle figurines, but every one of the postings was without a picture, and each one listed the item as having no original box. Still, Tricia had no way of knowing who the seller could be. Worse than that, she had no way of proving the figurines were stolen property. All in all, it was pretty much a dead end.
The bell over the shop door jingled as someone entered. Tricia looked up from the computer screen to see Russ Smith striding toward the cash desk. “Good morning, Tricia.”
Tricia straightened. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Russ’s smile was jubilant. “I like the sound of that. Always happy to hear a pretty woman thinks it’s a pleasure to see me.”
Tricia folded her arms and straightened. “Russ, I know about you and Nikki.”
Exit one smile, with bridge intact.
“Why did you invite me out to dinner the other night, when you were already in a new relationship?” she asked.
Russ looked uncomfortable. “I wanted to tell you myself.”
“You’ve had several opportunities since then to tell me. Why didn’t you? And look at the way you came in here just now, as though you were willing to continue with the ruse.”
Russ’s gaze was now focused on the top of the cash desk. “I’m sorry, Tricia. I don’t know what it is about you that brings out the jerk in me.”
Tricia raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment on that. Instead, she asked, “Is what you have with Nikki serious?”
“It could be. If I don’t blow it.”
“Good. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks. We’ve been keeping a low profile because . . . well, just because.”
“You don’t owe me any explanations.”
“No, but I do owe you an apology. Actually, quite a few. I was pretty arrogant, and now I can see how it might have come off as threatening.”
“Apology accepted.”
“Can we go back to being friends?” he asked.
“Sure.” However, Tricia didn’t offer him her hand to shake on it. She didn’t trust him that much . . . yet.
“So, what brings you to Haven’t Got a Clue?”
“This.” He offered her a folded piece of paper—a photocopy of a story from the Stoneham Weekly News. “I asked Gail if you’d called for a copy of the piece we did on David Black. She said no, so I—”
“I completely forgot about it. Thank you,” she said, unfolding the paper. The accompanying photo was of David standing next to one of his rusty bird sculptures.
“I also have some news about Monty Capshaw’s bank account.”
“Russ—you didn’t hack into it, did you?”
“Of course not. But I have a friend who did.” He held out his hands in submission. “Don’t even ask. A good reporter never reveals his sources.”
Tricia frowned, disapproving, though eager to know exactly what he had found out. “Well?” she demanded.
“A sizable deposit was made the morning the plane crashed.”
“How big is sizable?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Sounds cheap, when you consider Capshaw paid with his life.”
“Hey, he was dying, anyway,” Russ said with a shrug.
“What about insurance?” Tricia asked, remembering the envelopes she’d seen on Elaine Capshaw’s coffee table.
“To the max. His wife was the primary beneficiary.”
“Elizabeth Crane told me Deborah was also heavily insured, with David as the sole beneficiary.”
“So you said. Interesting. It wouldn’t be the first time people have been killed for profit.”
“Yes, but how can we prove it? Can you find out who wrote the check Monty deposited?”
He shook his head. “It was a cash deposit.”
“To leave no paper trail?” Tricia asked.
�
��That’s my guess.”
Tricia looked down at her laptop on the counter. “Do you think your hacker friend can find out who a seller on eBay is?”
“What’s that got to do with Monty Capshaw?”
“Probably nothing. But something odd is going on at the Happy Domestic.” She told him about the missing inventory and the empty boxes piled in the back room.
Russ shrugged. “eBay is pretty secure. Why don’t you just buy one of the things? That way you’d know for sure who the seller is.”
Tricia felt like smacking herself in the head. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you read too many mysteries. You think everything has to be so god-awful complicated.”
Tricia frowned. “Thanks for that.”
“You’re thinking a theft at Deborah’s store is tied in with both their deaths, but I don’t see how. Selling those figurines sounds more like an inside job to me.”
“Hey, with what I found out about Deb and some of her shady doings, it’s possible she could’ve been behind the thefts, making an insurance claim and selling the stuff off cheap.”
“Shady doings?” Russ inquired.
Tricia told him about unloading trash in the Coffee Bean’s Dumpster.
Russ shook his head. “Dumping your trash in someone else’s receptacle and petty theft aren’t usually motives for murder.”
“All these listings were made before Deb died,” Tricia pointed out.
“So what? If it wasn’t Deb, who do you think that might implicate?”
“How about her mother?”
Russ shook his head. “Elizabeth thought the sun rose and set on Deborah. My money’s on David.”
“He did have keys to the shop,” Tricia admitted. “And their relationship had deteriorated enough for him to do something like that out of spite.” Tricia wondered if she should tell Russ about both Deborah and David’s lack of fidelity, but decided to hold back for now. She could always clue him in later.
Russ glanced at his watch. “I need to get back to my office. Keep me posted on what you find out—and I’ll do likewise.”
“Okay.”
Russ started for the door, then paused and turned to face her again. “I am sorry about the way I treated you for the past year. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Should your relationship with Nikki fizzle, don’t pull the kind of crap on her that you did on me.”
“I don’t think you have to worry on that account. I think she’s the one.”
“The one?”
“Yeah. Forever.”
Hadn’t he thought that about the two of them, too?
“I’ll see you,” Russ said, and headed out the door.
Tricia watched him cross the street and go back to the Stoneham Weekly News. She wasn’t sure she believed him.
She shook her head and opened her laptop once again. Russ was right. She should just buy one of the figurines. She pulled up the bookmarked page and was about to finalize the purchase when she stopped herself. Buying it outright would alert the buyer that she was on to him/her/ them. Instead, she reached for the phone and dialed a longdistance number. It rang several times before it was picked up.
“Hi, Nancy. It’s Tricia Miles. Yes, long time no hear from. Look, are you still an eBay power seller? Good—good. Listen, can you do me a favor . . . ?”
Seventeen
Come Tuesday morning, Haven’t Got a Clue seemed terribly lonely without Ginny and Mr. Everett. Even Miss Marple appeared to sense the wrongness of their new situation and had stayed close to Tricia all morning, offering comforting looks and dampnosed head butts whenever Tricia paused for a minute or more.
Too bad for Tricia, the day seemed to drag when there were no customers and no one to talk to. She wondered how the shopkeepers who had no employees kept their sanity. Between customers, Tricia called the employment agency in Nashua and was told to go online to fill out a form. So, out came the laptop once again. She had just begun to fill out the form when a customer came in looking for a first edition copy of Aaron Elkins’s Old Bones. Luckily, she had one.
The bell over the door rang, and Cheryl Griffin stepped over the threshold. This day she had on black slacks that hovered just above her ankles, and a pink long-sleeved knit top that looked too warm for the weather. Tricia rang up her customer’s purchases, keeping an eye on Cheryl as she flitted around the store, picking up books, looking them over, and then replacing them on the shelves. When Tricia bid her customer a good afternoon, Cheryl hightailed it to the cash desk.
“Hello,” Tricia greeted her. “What can I do for you today, Cheryl?”
“I hear you’ve lost an employee. I’m here to fill out an application for the job.”
Application? Tricia hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I don’t have any forms to fill out,” she began, but Cheryl cut her off.
“I’ve got a résumé,” she said, dipping into her purse to retrieve a piece of paper. She handed the creased document to Tricia. It had seen better days.
Tricia skimmed each entry on the error-ridden typed page. The poor woman had never worked anything but minimum wage jobs, and either her typing or her spelling was atrocious.
“I won’t give my Social Security number unless you actually hire me,” Cheryl said. “I worry about having my identity stolen.”
She didn’t need to fear it from Tricia. Masquerading as Cheryl Griffin would be the last thing on Tricia’s to-do list.
“I haven’t even listed the job with an employment agency yet. But I’ll certainly keep you in mind,” Tricia said, and bent to place the résumé under the counter.
“That’s the only one I’ve got,” Cheryl said. “Why don’t you make a copy of it?”
This woman didn’t have a clue how to approach a prospective employer. Rather than give her a lecture on the subject, Tricia turned on the all-in-one printer under the cash desk and copied the paper. She handed the original back to Cheryl.
“What does the job pay?” Cheryl asked.
“It’s minimum wage, I’m afraid.”
Cheryl frowned. “Deborah Black told me that you paid Ginny Wilson at least five bucks an hour more than that. I’d expect the same.”
Ginny had been an exceptional employee who had started at minimum wage and quickly proved to be worth far more than that. And why had Deborah disclosed that kind of information, anyway?
“I’m sorry. That’s all I can offer at this time.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” Cheryl grumbled, and refolded the résumé. “When are you going to make a decision? I really need this job.”
“Ginny only left yesterday. I haven’t given it too much thought.” And if you’re the only job candidate, I might not replace her at all, Tricia thought. “I do still have another employee who is willing to cover for Ginny’s absence.”
“I guess,” Cheryl said, none too graciously. “But as you can see, I’ve worked a lot of retail jobs.”
“So I see, but what do you know about mysteries?”
“What’s to know? Somebody always gets killed.”
“Many of my customers ask for recommendations. I like my staff to be knowledgeable about the genre.”
Cheryl shrugged. “Just tell me what books you want me to push, and I’ll push them.”
“I’m afraid I don’t work that way,” Tricia said, using every bit of tact she possessed to keep her voice level with this alien from the planet Nimrod.
“I watch a lot of television. Do you sell books based on the CSI series?”
“I’m afraid my stock is mostly classic mysteries. Agatha Christie, Josephine Tey, Dorothy L. Sayers . . .”
“Never heard of them.” Cheryl looked thoughtful for a moment and then brightened. “Maybe you could give me a couple of books and I could read them before I start work. Being unemployed, I have a lot of time on my hands.”
“Yes, I’ll bet you do,” Tricia said.
Cheryl stood there, staring at Tricia. “So, what books d
o you think I should read?”
“Why don’t we wait and see what happens first. I wouldn’t want you to waste your time.”
Cheryl’s expression darkened. “It sounds like you don’t want to hire me.”
“As I told you, I’m not even sure I’m going to be hiring anyone.”
“But you said the job paid minimum wage.”
“If there were a job, that’s what it would pay.”
Cheryl’s lips were now a thin line, and her brows had furrowed. “It doesn’t sound like you really know how to run a store. Is that why you paid Ginny so much, because she was really the brains behind the business?”
The door opened and a customer walked in before Tricia had an opportunity to answer the question. “Good afternoon. Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. I’m Tricia. Let me know if I can help you with anything.”
“I’m looking for some Rex Stout first editions,” the man said.
“Let me show you where they are.” She turned back to Cheryl. “I’m sorry, but I really must help this customer. I have your information and will call and let you know if I can use you.”
Cheryl tightened the grip on her purse strap and stalked across the store to the door. She didn’t say good-bye.
“I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” the gentleman offered.
Tricia conjured up her most winning smile. “Not at all. Now, let me show you our Nero Wolfe collection.”
All too soon the shop was empty once again, and Tricia ducked behind the counter seeking Miss Marple’s company. “Were we this lonely when we first opened the store?” she asked the cat.
Miss Marple opened one sleepy eye, regarded Tricia for a couple of seconds, and then flopped back to doze in the afternoon sunshine.
The door handle rattled, the bell overhead jingled, and in walked Elaine Capshaw. She was dressed casually, in a white, scoop-necked shirt and green capri pants and sandals, with a massive straw purse thrown over her left shoulder. Angelica probably had a similar purse stashed in one of her closets. She, too, liked them big. Elaine had also colored her hair since the last time they’d met, which made her look less weary—more like a woman ready to get on with her life.
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