Tricia laughed. “I was hoping you’d like the idea.”
“I get to keep my house, I get to keep my house!” Ginny sang. Then, just as suddenly, she stood stock still and covered her mouth, as her eyes welled with tears. “Nobody’s ever done anything this nice for me in my whole life. Thank you, Tricia. Thank you so much.”
“I’ll have to speak to Roger Livingston—my lawyer—but according to Billie Hanson at the bank, we could iron out the details in no time.”
“You’ve already been to the bank?”
Tricia nodded.
“Oh, wow,” Ginny said again, and wiped at her eyes.
“Why don’t you go home—and start unpacking?” Tricia suggested.
“You don’t know how huge a weight has been lifted off me. Thank you, Tricia. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: You’re the best boss in the world.”
“Go home,” Tricia said and pushed Ginny toward the door.
Again Ginny smiled and sang, “I get to keep my house, I get to keep my house,” as she went through the door.
Miss Marple jumped down from her perch behind the cash desk, and daintily walked across the glass top of the showcase, unmoved by Ginny’s euphoria. She had more important matters to consider, and looked hopefully at Tricia. Tricia looked at the clock and sighed. “Yes, it is almost your dinnertime.” Miss Marple allowed Tricia to smooth her fur, and began to purr. “Well, at least I’ve been able to make two people happy today.”
The little bell above the door rang and Tricia straightened, eager to welcome a last-minute customer, but it was only Russ Smith. Her shoulders slumped, her good mood gone. “Oh, it’s you.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
She sighed. “Nothing. What can I do for you, Russ?”
He sauntered up to the cash desk and petted Miss Marple, who eyed him warily. “I wondered if you were free for dinner tonight.”
“In case it’s escaped your attention, we are no longer an item.”
“It has not escaped my attention. But you’re alone—I’m alone. We’re not lovers, but I hope we’re still friends. And why can’t friends share a table at the Bookshelf Diner once in a while? We can even share the check.” Tricia was about to refuse when he spoke again. “Tonight’s special is chicken and biscuits,” he called in a singsong cadence.
“Which, if you’d paid attention in the past, you’d know would never entice me.”
“Okay, then, we can talk about the explosion at History Repeats Itself. I’ll tell you what I know, and you can share what you know.”
“What makes you think I know anything?”
Russ laughed. “Because I know you. You can’t help yourself when it comes to sleuthing. You’re like a heroin addict or something. All those mysteries you read have you thinking you’re Stoneham’s own Miss Marple.”
At the sound of her name, Tricia’s cat gave a spirited “Yow!”
“I am not that old.”
“But you are that smart.”
Tricia shrugged. She wasn’t about to argue with the truth. She eyed him warily. With Angelica gone, she was feeling a tad lonely, and, as her grumbling stomach reminded her, she was hungry, too.
“All right. But don’t think we’re going to make a habit of this. And I can’t leave right now. The shop is officially open for another ten minutes. And I have to feed Miss Marple before I can go anywhere.”
“Feed her now. I’ll mind the store.”
Again she shrugged. He’d done it before.
Ten minutes later, Tricia locked the door to Haven’t Got a Clue, and she and Russ crossed the street, heading for the diner. They didn’t speak again until they’d been seated. Except for curt exchanges, Eugenia Hirt, the night waitress, hadn’t spoken with Tricia since the unpleasant situation the previous fall, nor would she make eye contact. At first it had bothered Tricia, but now she just ignored the silly girl.
“Bring us a couple of glasses of house red, and give us a few minutes, will you, Eugenia?” Russ asked.
She nodded, and pivoted to make a fast escape.
Tricia perused the menu. Same old, same old.
Russ rested his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Now, what has Bob Kelly told Angelica about the night of the explosion?”
Tricia didn’t look up, and considered the Cobb salad. “Nothing.”
“Oh come on, it’s me, Russ. You can tell me.”
“I can’t tell you, because Bob isn’t talking—to Angelica, to me, and, as far as I know, he’s not talking to anyone else, like Captain Baker, either.”
Russ frowned. “I’ve received the same cold shoulder.”
Speaking of which, Eugenia returned with their drinks, plunking them on the table and nearly spilling them. “Ready to order?” she asked.
She’d gone back to wearing the studs in her nose and eyebrow. It must drive her mother crazy, Tricia thought. “I’ll have the Cobb salad, with poppy seed dressing on the side.”
“Chicken and biscuits for me,” Russ said.
Eugenia nodded and again escaped.
Tricia picked up her glass and took a sip. “So, who dishes first—you or me?”
“Ladies first,” Russ said, and picked up his glass.
“Jim Roth’s mother didn’t see the point of holding a funeral service, since there’s no body to bury. So Frannie Armstrong is planning a memorial service for him on Sunday at the Brookside Inn.”
“Why Frannie?”
“Apparently they were friends.” That wasn’t a lie—it just wasn’t the whole truth. Besides, it was bound to come out eventually, anyway. Russ was a reporter. If he wanted more information on the subject, he would have to dig for it himself.
Tricia sipped her wine. “Have you started Jim’s obituary?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got an appointment to talk to his mother. She said she might be able to dig up some photographs. To tell you the truth, she didn’t sound all that interested in talking about her son. She didn’t even sound all that sad.”
“People express their grief in different ways,” Tricia offered, even though she’d wondered about Mrs. Roth’s true feelings toward her son. Should she bring the subject of radiator fluid into the conversation? Probably not. After all, she couldn’t even say she had suspicions . . . just . . . a funny feeling.
“I might get a few of the other booksellers to say something. Jim was well liked, but it doesn’t look like he was particularly close to anyone in town.”
Tricia thought about Frannie and bit her tongue. Mrs. Roth had mentioned that Jim was involved in other activities. What could she have meant?
“If his mother’s no help,” Russ continued, “I may forget the whole thing and just run a short piece about the explosion.”
“You’ll do what you have to,” Tricia said, and smoothed the curling edge on her paper placemat.
Before the lack of meaningful conversation could get awkward, Eugenia brought their food, carefully setting Russ’s down in front of him, and then nearly tossing the salad at Tricia. A grape tomato bounced from the bowl and onto the table.
“Hey!” Russ protested.
“Sorry,” Eugenia mumbled, sounding anything but, and took off again.
Tricia unwrapped her cutlery from the paper napkin that surrounded it. “Apparently she hasn’t forgiven me for what happened last fall.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
Tricia stabbed at a piece of lettuce. “No, it wasn’t.”
“Eugenia was lucky to get a sympathetic judge who gave her only probation and community service, or she might be in jail like her boyfriend,” Russ said, and dug into his chicken. “Back to Jim,” he said, and shoveled in a mouthful. Tricia waited impatiently until he had chewed and swallowed, and could speak again. “Now that it looks like his death may not have been accidental, who do you think did it?”
“Who said it wasn’t an accident?” Tricia asked.
“I’m a newspaperman. I don’t reveal my sources.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Do you think Bob Kelly might’ve offed old Jim?”
“Of course not. Angelica would never allow it.”
Russ laughed. “You’re probably right. But it’s been said Jim was behind on all his bills—his biggest creditor being Bob.”
“And if he wanted his money, I’m sure Bob wouldn’t go around killing anyone—much less destroy his own building. That would be a sure way of never seeing what was owed him. Bob is simply too cheap to kill when he can go to small claims court to get what’s owed him. Besides, they were supposedly friends.”
Again, Russ laughed. “Look at you—defending Bob Kelly. I never thought I’d see the day.”
Neither did Tricia. She dipped a piece of green pepper into her dressing. “Do you think there’s a viable suspect—besides Bob, I mean?”
Russ shook his head. “Nothing that’s come to light. But then it’s not quite twenty-four hours since it happened.”
Tricia leaned forward. “The way you spoke at my store, I thought you actually had something interesting to tell me.”
“You don’t find our conversation interesting?”
She turned her attention back to her salad. “I’d find it more interesting if I didn’t feel like you’d lured me here under false pretenses.”
“What pretenses? You’re hungry—I’m hungry. And we’re talking about Jim’s death. That doesn’t mean it has to be the only topic of discussion. For instance—why don’t we talk about us?”
Tricia put her fork down. “There is no us. You made that quite plain last fall.”
“I also told you I was wrong.”
He had. But by then, she was already interested in Grant Baker—and that had gone nowhere, too.
“Let’s get back to Jim,” Tricia said. “Do you know what caused the explosion? Captain Baker didn’t seem to think the gas lamps were involved.”
“No. The firemen, sheriff’s deputies, and utility people were out back of the shop until late last night, checking things out. They spent an awful long time looking at the area where the meter had been. I’ll bet you dinner someone tampered with it. The flash point was at the back of the building.”
This wasn’t going to be much of an information exchange if that was all he could come up with. “No bet. The deal was, I pay for my dinner and you pay for yours. Bob wouldn’t risk destroying his own building—eviction is the easiest way to force a deadbeat out.”
“I’m told Jim never smoked in his shop, but he did out back. He lit a cigarette and—kaboom—the walls came tumbling down,” Russ said.
Tricia chewed and swallowed. “So Mrs. Roth said, and Captain Baker confirmed a cigarette lighter was responsible,” she said, and stabbed another piece of lettuce. “Who knew Jim’s habits? His customers? Fellow businessmen? How about the mailman or any of the delivery guys?”
“As far as I know,” Russ continued, “Jim had no enemies. In fact, outside of the shop and the occasional Chamber meeting, I don’t think he had much of a life. He lived with his mother, for chrissakes. I don’t think he’d ever lived on his own—or, God forbid, with someone of the opposite sex.”
“Why do you say that?” Tricia asked, again thinking about Frannie. Apparently she and Jim had been extremely discreet.
“You know how guys talk about sex. Jim never joined in.”
“Maybe he was a gentleman. Or do you think he was gay?”
“Not necessarily. Maybe he was just missing the romance chip.”
That was rich—coming from Mister I-never-turn-off-my-police-scanner-for-anything-or-anybody. Tricia turned her attention back to her food.
“I’ve spoken to a number of Chamber members, but the story’s pretty much the same,” Russ went on. “None of you booksellers have much of a social life, so no one seems to know much about their neighbors.”
Was that last an insult against Tricia, or did he really believe what he said? She chose to ignore it.
“It’s pretty hard to keep tabs on each other when we’re dealing with busloads of people on and off all day,” Tricia admitted. “Then again, some of us are keeping tabs on our neighbors, or at least I am while Angelica’s off on her book tour. I’ve already had to solve one crisis at Booked for Lunch. I have a feeling it won’t be the last.”
“Lucky you.” Russ had never been overly fond of Angelica, and the feeling had been mutual. “So where does that leave us? With just Bob as a key player?”
“I suppose.”
“There’s speculation he won’t rebuild,” Russ said.
Tricia dropped her fork. “What do you mean? There’s a gaping hole in the street. He has to rebuild.”
“My guess is he’ll take the insurance money and put the property up for sale.”
“Who’d buy it?”
“You’ve got a point. Rebuilding in a historic district will be prohibitively expensive. But if I know Bob, he’ll want to cut his losses.”
“It would be a shame.” And the view from Haven’t Got a Clue would be ruined forever—not that Tricia voiced that opinion.
Russ shrugged. “Then again, I’ve heard talk of a developer poking around, looking for investments here in Stoneham.”
“Really? Who?”
“I don’t have a name. I just heard a rumor.”
“From whom?”
Elbows on the table, Russ laced his fingers together and stared at Tricia. “I haven’t got a clue.”
Tricia refrained from commenting on that. “Would Bob sell to a developer? I didn’t think he’d even consider it. He sure wasn’t interested in talking about selling when I broached the subject with him prior to opening Haven’t Got a Clue.”
“Times, and people, change,” Russ said, and dived back into his chicken and biscuits.
Maybe so. But Russ hadn’t changed, and because of that, Tricia knew she’d be going home alone.
Eight
Tricia stared at the calculator’s digital readout and frowned. Three times she’d added up the figures, and three times they hadn’t matched the cash she’d counted out of Booked for Lunch’s bank pouch. That there was more cash than receipts didn’t make her feel better. A few dollars here and there wouldn’t have worried her—but the pouch had contained thirteen dollars more than the total of the receipts. Had someone lost or disposed of several of the grease-stained table receipts? The receipts were numbered, and sure enough, four of them were missing from the stack.
Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions, she told herself. Just because the numbers didn’t jibe didn’t mean someone—Darcy or Jake—had been light-fingered with the till. Maybe Darcy had messed up a few of them, had tossed them away, and rewritten the orders on a new order blank. If Tricia was the suspicious type, and it wasn’t so god-awful late, she might be inclined to check the café’s trash to look for missing order receipts. As she’d learned in the not-too-distant past, you could learn a lot about a business by going through its garbage. At least Darcy had brought over the day’s receipts. Frannie was supposed to do the same, and hadn’t. Still, that didn’t ring alarm bells. Tricia knew and trusted Frannie. Darcy had been working for Angelica for only three or four months.
Tricia filled out the bank deposit slip, put a rubber band around it and the day’s cash, and stowed it back in the bank pouch. She’d deposit it along with her own receipts in the morning.
Tricia glanced at the clock. It was already after eleven. Like an expectant parent, she’d hoped Angelica would call long before this.
Turning off the kitchen lights was the signal that bedtime had come, and Miss Marple roused herself from the stool where she’d been napping and jumped to the floor, stretching before trotting off toward the bedroom.
Tricia started to follow when at last the phone shattered the quiet. She grabbed it before it could ring again. “Angelica?”
“Yes, at last!” came the voice she’d been waiting for. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”
“Me, ei
ther,” Tricia said. “Why are you calling so late?”
“I only got to the hotel about half an hour ago. I jumped in the shower, and then into my jammies. I didn’t even get anything to eat tonight. If this place had a mini bar, I’d be raiding it now.”
Tricia carried the wireless phone over to the kitchen counter and sat down on the stool she’d abandoned only a minute before. She had a feeling this could be a marathon call. “Tell me all about it.”
And Angelica did—from the road trip to the north end of the state, down to the problem she’d encountered when she’d gone to fetch her car after her second signing of the day.
“Someone slashed your tires?” Tricia repeated in disbelief.
“All four of them,” Angelica said, not disguising her disgust. “The bookstore manager was terribly embarrassed, although not enough to offer to pay anything toward replacing them.”
“Who’s to say it was one of her customers?”
“Exactly. It took forever for Triple A to tow it to their garage. It should be ready for me by nine o’clock tomorrow, which gives me just enough time to drive to Conway for tomorrow’s lunchtime signing.”
“I’m sorry you had such a bad day. It wasn’t that great here, either.”
“How’s Bob?” Angelica asked, ignoring Tricia’s hint that maybe she needed to vent as well.
Tricia sighed. “Grumpy.”
“I suppose that’s only natural after what he went through last night. I tried calling him several times, but all I got was voice mail. Do you think he could’ve been sleeping the whole day?”
“Could be. Did you know he’d ordered a security system to be installed at his house?”
“No. He never mentioned it.”
“The firm was finishing up when I dropped him off this morning. I asked him about it, but, like last night, he wasn’t talking.”
“That’s not like Bob.” Angelica sighed. “I hope he calls before I have to take off tomorrow morning.”
“I’m sure he will,” Tricia lied. She thought about what Russ had said. “There’s a rumor Bob won’t rebuild on Main Street—that he’ll sell the land Jim’s store stood on. Russ heard there’s a developer looking for investment properties in Stoneham. Do you think Bob would sell?”
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