“It’s possible,” Angelica said, but she didn’t sound very sure. “Anything else new?”
“I’ve been thinking about helping Ginny with her mortgage.”
Silence greeted that statement. And then, “Please tell me I just heard wrong. You’re going to—?”
“Help Ginny with her mortgage,” Tricia repeated.
“Help how?”
“I’m going to pay it off, and then I’ll have Roger Livingston set up a repayment schedule on terms Ginny can actually afford.”
“On what you pay her?”
“Hey, I pay her more than the going rate.”
“I know, but it’s still not enough to make mortgage payments.”
Tricia took a burn to that remark.
“I’ve got another question: Why?” Angelica asked.
“So she doesn’t lose her house.”
Angelica sighed. “Let me tell you, as a cookbook author, this idea of yours is a recipe for disaster.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Ginny’s your subordinate. Now she’ll feel beholden to you. Friction will build up. One day it’ll explode—taking whatever friendship the two of you have with it. And don’t you dare give me that look.”
Tricia felt anger boiling within her. “What look?” she asked through clenched teeth, knowing her sister couldn’t see her through the phone.
“The one that says, ‘I won’t believe you simply because I don’t want to.’ If you really think about it, you’ll agree with me. And is losing Ginny’s friendship something you really want to risk?”
First Billie Hanson and now Angelica. Didn’t anyone have faith in the power of kindness and friendship anymore?
Tricia heard Angelica heave another sigh, and wished she hadn’t brought up the subject. Time to change it. “By the way, Ange, you owe me two hundred and forty-five dollars and sixty-three cents.”
“What for?”
“Chicken. Just after you left this morning, the poultry man made a delivery to the café and demanded a check before he’d leave it.”
“There must be some mistake. I don’t use that much chicken in a month.”
“That was the amount on the invoice.”
Tricia could picture her sister frowning. “Well, okay. You know I’m good for it.”
“Yes, I do. Just out of curiosity, how close do the café’s cash and order receipts add up on an average day?”
“Within a dollar or two. You know how it is—take a penny, leave a penny. Why?”
“The café’s cash didn’t match the orders. It was thirteen dollars over.”
“Better over than under.”
“Mmm,” Tricia halfheartedly agreed.
“Did Frannie bring over the Cookery’s receipts?” Angelica asked.
“No. She probably just forgot. And I’m not surprised, either. She was extremely upset about Jim Roth’s death. In fact, this morning she admitted to me that she and Jim had been lovers.”
“You’re kidding!” Angelica gushed.
“Nope. His mother decided not to hold a funeral, so Frannie’s planning a memorial service. It’ll be Sunday morning so that the booksellers don’t have to close shop.”
“Poor Frannie. And damn, I can’t be there. I’ve got a signing in Bennington.”
“Poor Frannie? Don’t you mean poor Jim? He’s the one who was pulverized,” Tricia reminded her sister.
“Of course. But I didn’t think Frannie had ever even been with anyone . . . if you know what I mean. Now to find out she’s been having an illicit love affair—well. . . .”
“Not that illicit. They were two unencumbered, consenting adults.”
“Mmm. If I get a chance, I’ll give her a call tomorrow morning to get all the dirt firsthand. And find out what happened to today’s banking.”
Tricia looked at the clock. “It’s late. I’d better let you go.”
“Thanks for taking care of the café for me. I’ll make it up to you somehow.” She paused. “I know, I’ll buy you a nice big present. You deserve something deliciously girly and sweet for your birthday. That is, if I ever get any time to myself in the next couple of days and can shop.”
Tricia frowned. Girly and sweet? She made no comment. “Remind me—just when will you be coming home?”
“Next Friday.”
Which seemed a million years from right then, Tricia decided. Still, she tried to sound upbeat. “Okay, see you then. Call me when you can, and you take care, now.”
“Good night, Trish. And think about what I said about Ginny. If you go through with this plan, you might lose a good employee, and a friend.”
“Good night!” Tricia said and hung up the phone.
An annoyed Miss Marple had reappeared and sat at her feet. “Yow!” she said.
“Don’t you take Angelica’s side,” Tricia warned, but later, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, all she could think about was the threat of Ginny one day hating her, and Angelica saying, “I told you so.”
Tricia was up with the birds the next morning. After showering and dressing, she spied the locket Christopher had sent her, still lying on the dresser where she’d left it the night before. It was time to make a decision—banish it to the back of the closet, or wear it.
She decided to wear it, once again tucking it inside her sweater. After all, it was likely to be the only birthday gift she would receive.
Tricia fingered the chain next to her skin. Birthdays were meant to be special, she’d decided at a very early age. The fact that hers hadn’t been as special as Angelica’s had been a source of great hurt and puzzlement. That’s why, as an adult, she used to plan to be somewhere special, doing something special, on her special day. Paris, Rome, San Francisco . . . and until the last year of her marriage, her husband had bought into that idea, too.
Tricia tightly held the chain at her neck and thought wistfully of those days.
Since nobody else was interested in her birthday, maybe she should do something to treat herself. There were day spas in Nashua, but that wasn’t really her thing. She wasn’t a clotheshorse, so a day trip to Boston for shopping wasn’t something she’d aspire to, either. She couldn’t really cook—and though Angelica had promised her what would probably be a gourmet meal, she did not want to celebrate her birthday with Bob Kelly. She needed nothing—any book she wanted she got as stock for her store, read it, and then it put on the sales floor. She needed nothing material, like jewelry or furniture.
If she was honest with herself, besides her parents and Angelica, there were only two people on the planet she would care to spend her special day with: her grandmother, who’d been dead for over twenty years, and . . . Christopher . . . neither of whom was available.
Birthdays were probably overrated, anyway. A baby emerged from the womb, and it was the mother who had suffered through pregnancy (an extremely difficult one, Tricia had always been told). Shouldn’t it be the mother who was honored with cake, flowers, and gifts? Of course, the year Tricia had done just that, it hadn’t been well received. For some reason, the unexpected child had never been able to please her parents the way that Angelica had charmed them.
Tricia let go of the chain, and the urge to discard the gift again surfaced—and yet she didn’t rip it from around her neck. Something had spurred Christopher to send it. Maybe it was only guilt, but it had been the first contact he’d initiated since their split. She would not disregard that, but neither could she give it too much credence. It was what it was—only a locket and chain—but at least Christopher had thought fondly of her, and she could accept that at face value.
Tricia shook herself. She was getting maudlin in her old—or should she accept it as just middle?—age.
Never mind. She had two errands to run that morning—with both venues opening at nine o’clock. That gave her only an hour before Haven’t Got a Clue opened at ten. She’d have to hurry. And she’d have to find time during the next day or so to canvass the Chamber of Commerce members
to collect money in Jim’s honor for his mother. Yet another chore: Tricia needed to get a card for them to sign, too. One more stop to put on her places-to-go list.
Tricia and Miss Marple descended the stairs to Haven’t Got a Clue. Miss Marple deigned to check out the large square table in the reader’s nook while Tricia opened the blinds that covered the large display window overlooking Main Street. She noted that a Sheriff’s Department cruiser sat outside History Repeats Itself, with a deputy inside—probably guarding the site to keep rubberneckers away. Crime scene tape fluttered in the slight morning breeze. It surrounded not only what was left of Jim Roth’s store, but was still tied to the buildings on either side of it. Booked for Lunch hadn’t been affected, thank goodness. Angelica didn’t need that headache on top of all her other worries.
The bank was Tricia’s first stop that morning, where she deposited cash and checks for Haven’t Got a Clue and Booked for Lunch. She’d have to make another run tomorrow for the Cookery. Or maybe she’d wait until Monday, to save wear and tear on the soles of her shoes. Next up was a stop at the Stoneham Library.
Tricia parked her car and retrieved a box of books from her trunk. Was it her imagination, or had they gained ten pounds since she’d put them in there the week before? Somehow she managed to close the trunk lid, and staggered up to the library entrance. Jabbing the Handicapped door opener, she swung around and entered the library.
Head librarian Lois Kerr caught sight of her and met her halfway to the checkout desk. “My goodness, Tricia, is that another batch of books you’re donating for our quarterly sale?”
“Yes. They came in a box lot from an auction I attended last week. Nothing very valuable, I’m afraid, but there are at least a dozen mainstreams by bestselling authors, as well as some big-name romances, so you should be able to sell them with no problem.”
Lois smiled and shook her head. “If all the booksellers were as generous as you, we wouldn’t have to worry about donations for these book sales, which wouldn’t even be necessary if the Board of Selectmen would stop slashing our budget. Here, let me help you carry them to the conference room.” She grabbed one side of the box, and the women did an awkward sideways shuffle to the book sale dumping ground.
They set the box on the floor next to several other cartons. The library had a long way to go until there were enough books to hold a sale. Tricia decided she’d ask Angelica if she could spare anything, and maybe she’d hit up Deborah Black at the Happy Domestic as well. And what was going to happen to the stock salvaged from Jim Roth’s store?
“It’s a shame what happened to Jim Roth,” Lois said, as though reading Tricia’s mind.
“Yes. I shudder every time I look out my store window. That big gap in the street reminds me of a front tooth missing from a beautiful smile.”
“I’m sad to say I met Mr. Roth only a couple of times,” Lois went on, “although his mother comes in quite frequently. I’ve spoken to her on a number of occasions, and helped her find new authors. Like you, she likes to read mysteries. Although. . . .” Lois frowned. “Several months ago, she asked me about poisons.”
“Poisons?” Tricia repeated, taken aback.
“She said she’d seen something on television about cats and dogs dying because they found antifreeze and lapped it up. I helped her look up information on ethylene glycol.”
Tricia had seen the same report. The chemical had a sweet taste, which attracted animals and small children—and the results were almost always fatal. An uncomfortable wariness swept through her as she thought about the bright yellow color of the lemon bar cookies Mrs. Roth had served her the day before. Mrs. Roth had mentioned that they were Jim’s favorite treat.
Sanity prevailed, and Tricia again dismissed the notion. Jim had died from an explosion, not from ethylene glycol poisoning. But then . . . Mrs. Roth had said a few things that didn’t quite feel right. She’d have to think about all this.
“I heard once the Sheriff’s Department is finished investigating on site, they’ll have to knock down whatever is left of the store,” Lois went on.
“It’s a shame,” Tricia agreed. “It had one of the prettiest facades on Main Street. But it is dangerous to leave it as is. I heard several crashes during the night. I figured they were falling bricks or rafters or something.”
Lois shook her head in sympathy.
Tricia glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry, Lois, but I’d best be on my way. I have just enough time to get a condolence card at the convenience store. I’m collecting money for Jim Roth’s mother.”
Lois beamed. “You are a dear. Will you let me contribute?”
“That would be very nice, thank you.”
Lois stepped into her office, and came back a few moments later with a ten-dollar bill. “Will you sign my name on the card?”
“I’d be happy to,” Tricia said, and tucked the money into the side pocket on her purse.
Lois walked her to the exit. “Thank you again for your generosity.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Tricia gave a farewell wave as she headed for her car. She did have time to get that condolence card. But where would she find the time to contact all the Chamber of Commerce members?
One thing at a time, she told herself . . . one thing at a time.
Nine
After a stop at the convenience store to pick up a condolence card, Tricia made it back to the municipal parking lot with a full ten minutes before she needed to open her store. While she’d been gone, the Sheriff’s Department cruiser had departed, and a large Dumpster had appeared outside of History Repeats Itself, taking up almost three parking spaces, while the neck of a tall wrecking crane towered over the back of the building. Construction workers in hard hats tossed bricks and other rubble into the Dumpster, making a terrible clatter. She sighed. The sound of demolition was sure to put off more than just her customers, and she wondered how soon the wreckers could complete their task.
The lights were on in the Cookery, and the photographic version of Angelica was once again outside the shop door. This time, however, it was wearing a sombrero and a colorful serape. The note telling customers they could find Angelica’s book inside was now pinned to the fabric.
Tricia knocked on the door. Stationed at the cash desk, Frannie looked up, gave her a wave, and rounded the counter to open the door. “Hi, Tricia, what brings you over so early?” The words were cheerful, but her expression was anything but. Frannie’s eyes were swollen and bloodshot, no doubt from crying. And she wore her least cheerful aloha shirt—the black one with the solemn white calla lilies. Someone had once told Tricia the calla lily was a flower of death. Despite that, it was still her favorite.
Frannie didn’t look like she needed another problem, but Tricia’s first loyalty was to her sister. “Was there something you forgot to do yesterday?”
Frannie frowned, her brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t think so.”
Tricia nodded toward the register.
“Oh, my goodness! I was supposed to give you yesterday’s receipts, wasn’t I?”
Tricia nodded.
“I’m so sorry. I locked them in the safe last night, and then just opened as usual this morning. Does Angelica know?”
“She did ask.”
Frannie winced. “Am I in big trouble?”
Tricia shook her head. “No. But could you have them separated for me this evening? I’ll need to go to the bank tomorrow.”
“But won’t Angelica be back on Friday?”
“Next Friday, but I don’t think she’ll have time to do much of anything, besides laundry, before she has to go back on the road. It’s going to be a rough month, I’m afraid—for her and for us.” By “us,” she also meant Darcy and Jake. “I take it you haven’t heard from Angelica? She did say she was going to call this morning.”
“The phone hasn’t rung yet.”
Hmm. Angelica had said her car would be ready by nine. Perhaps she’d forgotten . . . .
Tricia jerked a
thumb behind her, toward the door. “What happened to the cutout of Angelica?”
Frannie managed a laugh. “That’s how I found it when I went to bring it in last night. Someone thought it was funny, I guess. But Angelica’s book does feature some Tex-Mex and Mexican recipes, so I thought I’d just leave it as is. Do you want me to take them off now?”
Tricia sighed. “I wouldn’t want it to offend anyone.”
“Ah, good idea,” Frannie said. “As soon as I get a chance, I’ll put it back the way it was. But maybe I’ll take a picture of it first,” she said, with just the hint of mirth in her eyes.
“How’re the plans for the memorial service going?” Tricia asked.
“Fine. I’ve booked the conference room at the Brookside Inn. Did you know they’re in financial trouble? They’ve shut down the restaurant—at least part of the time.”
“I hope you’re kidding,” Tricia said, remembering many fine meals she’d eaten there, and the excellent room service when she’d stayed at the inn prior to moving into her loft.
Frannie shook her head. “Nope.”
“But where will we have our Chamber breakfasts?”
“They’ll have to go back to the Bookshelf Diner, I guess.” Which they both knew was really too small to accommodate the entire group.
“I convinced the inn to let us bring in the food for Jim’s send-off, but they’ll supply the tables, chairs, and linens and let us make coffee and tea. Of course, I had to sign a waiver in case anyone gets sick so the inn can’t be sued, but I’m not worried about that. I’ve already asked Nikki Brimfield, and she said she’d bring a cake and maybe some fresh Danish. Do you think you could bring something—maybe a coffee cake?”
Tricia bake? “Um . . . sure.” She’d have to see if she could order something from Nikki’s Patisserie. She hadn’t actually baked anything since earning her Girl Scout cooking badge way too many years before. “What time?”
“Ten. I asked Bob Kelly to speak, since he knew Jim the best—except for me, of course, but I don’t think that would be fitting. Don’t you agree?”
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