“What are you thinking? That Bob staged this break-in?”
“It’s a possibility. If Baker thinks he’s a suspect, it might be a way of deflecting suspicion.”
“Suspicion of what? Jim’s death?”
Russ nodded.
Tricia shook her head. “If he wanted to do that, wouldn’t he have waited until it was full dark outside?”
“If he’s still on pain meds, he might not be thinking clearly,” Russ countered.
That was a possibility. Still . . . .
The other deputy got out of his car and walked up to the nearest neighbor’s house, while Captain Baker crossed the street, heading back for Bob’s.
Russ touched Tricia’s arm, startling her. “Tricia, isn’t there any way I can make things right between us?”
Tricia exhaled a breath and looked out the passenger-side window. Captain Baker was talking to Bob once again. If she was honest, she was lonely. But she wasn’t lonely enough to settle for just anyone, and Russ was definitely a settle-for candidate.
“I’m sorry, Russ, we just weren’t meant to be together. It would be easier on both of us if you accepted that.”
Russ pursed his lips, grasped the key, and started the engine. “Be that way.”
They didn’t speak again until Russ had pulled up in front of Haven’t Got a Clue. “I’m not giving up on you, Tricia. I think you’re worth the heartache you’ve caused me.”
Tricia opened her mouth to reply, then shut it. Apparently there was nothing she could say to deter him. She unbuckled her seat belt, opened the door, and got out of the truck. “Good night, Russ.”
Without a backward glance, she entered her store and closed and locked the door. It was only then that she heard the sounds of the engine rev and tires squealing as Russ peeled off.
Twelve
Tricia had finished totaling receipts for Haven’t Got a Clue, Booked for Lunch, and the Cookery hours ago, and once again the café’s receipts didn’t match the cash in the register. She’d have to bring it up to Angelica again, and hope her sister would take the news more seriously. Her conversation with Russ had left her too unsettled for sleep. She’d caused him heartache? The man was absolutely clueless.
Miss Marple watched with a distinct lack of interest as Tricia paced her living room for the hundredth time. She’d hoped to find a message from Angelica on her voice mail when she’d returned from Bob’s house, but there was none. She could have called Angelica’s cell phone, or even the hotel, she supposed, but she didn’t. Tricia’s news about Bob would only upset Angelica—and so would her news about Russ.
She made another circuit of the room. Her encounter with Russ had left her too rattled even to read, and reading had always been her escape. Another strike against the man.
There must be something she could do to occupy herself until she felt sleepy.
She wandered from the living room into the bedroom that overlooked Main Street. From this vantage point, she could see the empty shell of what had been History Repeats Itself. The construction guys had made quick work of deconstructing the building.
Poor Jim. Now all that was left for him was the memorial service Frannie had planned for Sunday. Tricia straightened. Frannie had asked for a contribution of food, and she hadn’t thought to order something when she’d spoken to Nikki at the Patisserie. Too bad Angelica was away. Maybe the two of them could’ve come up with something.
Tricia frowned at the thought. Did she really need Angelica to help her with something as simple as baking? After all, baking wasn’t rocket science. It didn’t require any real knowledge of food prep. And, as Angelica had often said, “If you can follow directions, you can cook.”
Tricia searched her bookshelves until she came up with The Nero Wolfe Cookbook. There was sure to be something in it that she could bring to Jim’s wake. She flipped through the pages until she came to the segment on breakfast foods. Ah, blueberry muffins. Everybody loved blueberry muffins. It would be perfect. Of course, she needed a few ingredients—blueberries, for one. And perhaps it might be a good idea to test the recipe first.
Tricia marched into her kitchen, Miss Marple trotting along behind her.
“We are going to make muffins. You like muffins,” she told the cat.
Miss Marple agreed with a hearty “Yow!” She jumped up on one of the stools at the kitchen island and watched as Tricia assembled her ingredients. Tricia was delightfully surprised she had so many on hand. She retrieved a small bag of flour from the fridge. Since she didn’t use it often, Angelica had warned her it might pick up weevils if she left it in the cupboard. Tricia had baking soda, vegetable oil, and eggs. No blueberries, but she’d substitute Craisins for this particular batch. And if she couldn’t get fresh blueberries (too early in the season?), she’d try to find canned or frozen. And since she didn’t actually have a mixing bowl, she took out a large salad bowl.
Tricia consulted the recipe again. Butter. Butter was fattening. She’d replace it with her low-cal spread. Hmm . . . she didn’t have any baking powder. But weren’t baking powder and baking soda pretty much interchangeable? And she didn’t actually have a muffin tin. She could just plop the dough (or was it batter?) onto a cookie sheet. That would probably be okay.
“Angelica thinks she’s the only good cook in this family,” Tricia told Miss Marple. “Well, we’ll prove her wrong, won’t we?”
Again Miss Marple agreed with a loud “Yow!”
Twice Tricia plunged her cup measure into the flour, sending plumes of powder into the air. Both were a little more than full, but if a cup was good, surely a bit extra would be better. Next she added the baking soda. The dry ingredients were supposed to be sifted together, but since she didn’t have a sifter, she stirred the mixture with a spoon.
She consulted the recipe again. It called for two large eggs. Eggs had cholesterol, right? She’d use one. And two-thirds of a cup of sugar seemed a lot. The fruit was naturally sweet. She’d cut that in half, too.
After finding another large bowl, Tricia combined the sugar, the spread, and the egg, beating the mixture with a wooden spoon until it was nicely blended. The recipe said to alternately combine the milk and the butter mixture with the dry ingredients, but that seemed counterproductive. She mixed the milk with the spread, then added it to the flour. The dough was stiffer than she would have thought, and there seemed to be a lot of lumps, so she kept mixing until the dough was completely smooth—building her biceps as she went.
Oops! She had forgotten to preheat the oven. She turned it on and searched for the aluminum foil to cover the cookie sheet. Next, she found her ice cream scoop. Since she didn’t have a muffin tin, she wanted the muffins at least to have a rounded shape. She scooped out twelve mounds of dough, setting them on the cookie sheet. The recipe said it made twelve muffins, but she still had plenty of dough left, so she kept scooping, adding some to each mound until the salad bowl was empty.
The oven wasn’t quite up to speed, but she popped the tray into the oven anyway and set the timer, giving the muffins an extra few minutes.
Now that the action was over, Miss Marple settled down on the stool to doze while Tricia tidied up the kitchen. Soon the aroma of baking filled the entire loft. “Who says baking is so tough?” she asked Miss Marple, who didn’t react.
Eventually the timer went off, and Tricia grabbed her pot holder, removing the cookie sheet from the oven. The muffins weren’t exactly beautiful. She’d get some of those little paper cups from the baking aisle next time she went to the grocery store. And if they had a muffin pan, she’d buy that, too. Maybe Angelica sold them in her store—Tricia wasn’t really sure what stock her sister handled besides new and used books.
She left the muffins on the counter to cool, and headed for her bedroom to get ready for bed. Ten minutes later, she was back in the kitchen. Miss Marple was nowhere to be found, and one of the muffins lay on the floor. “Miss Marple,” she called, but the cat refused to come out. Tricia picked up the muffin, wh
ich had obviously been nibbled, and sniffed it. Not wonderful, but not horrible, either.
Tricia removed the rest of the muffins from the cookie sheet, piled them on a plate, placed a clean dish towel over them, and put them in the microwave, out of harm’s way.
It was with a feeling of accomplishment that Tricia climbed into bed. Together, she and Rex Stout—or should she credit Nero Wolf?—had done it. As she drifted off to sleep, Tricia looked forward to the morning and providing her employees with a wonderful breakfast treat.
Tricia and Miss Marple made it down to Haven’t Got a Clue early the next morning. Tricia wanted to be ready for Ginny and Mr. Everett to arrive, and set the coffee to brewing. As she opened the shop blinds, Tricia was surprised to see a ladder standing against the gas lamp outside her store. A pickup truck was parked at the curb, its cargo bay filled with hanging baskets holding gorgeous salmon-colored geraniums.
A young woman removed one of the baskets and turned toward the ladder. Tricia left her shop to investigate. “Hi,” she called.
The woman—who looked to be about college age—smiled. “Hi. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and it looks like you’re about to make it prettier,” Tricia said, indicating the flowers. She introduced herself.
“Amy Schram. Pleased to meet you,” the woman responded.
“What’s with the flowers?” Tricia asked.
“Part two of the Beautify Main Street campaign of the Stoneham Board of Selectmen. My family owns Milford Nursery. We were hired to hang and maintain the flowers over the summer,” she said as she climbed the ladder and hung the basket from a bar on the gas lamp. “Come Christmastime, they’ll hang banners.”
Tricia hadn’t heard about these plans, and decided she ought to make more of an effort to get to Board of Selectmen meetings. She admired the robust basket. “I recognize geraniums, but what are the other plants?”
Amy stepped down from the ladder and folded it. “Each basket has a spike and a trailing vinca. They should look even nicer in a couple of weeks when it all bushes out.”
Tricia glanced down the street, noting Amy had already hung five or six baskets. They added a lovely accent to the already picturesque street. Too bad they couldn’t dress up the empty lot where History Repeats Itself had been.
“You’ll be seeing a lot of me over the summer,” Amy said and hefted the ladder, carrying it to the next lamppost.
“Well, I won’t keep you from your work now. It was nice meeting you.”
“Likewise,” Amy called, and continued with her work.
Tricia retreated to Haven’t Got a Clue. She’d just counted out the money for the till when Ginny arrived.
“Hey, did you see all those pretty flower baskets hanging from the gas lamps?” she called, and stepped up to the cash desk.
“Yes, they’re gorgeous.”
“Sure makes me wish I had a store here on Main Street,” Ginny said wistfully.
“You’ll have your store one day.”
“Yeah, a million years from now,” she groused. “You know, you ought to have postcards made showing Haven’t Got a Clue’s facade—especially with the flowers looking so pretty right now. You could give them away to tourists.”
“That’s a great idea. Thanks.”
The door opened, and Mr. Everett entered. “Good morning, ladies. Have you seen the lovely flowers hanging outside?”
“Yes,” Tricia said, “we were just admiring them. And I have another surprise for you two.” She directed her employees to follow her to the coffee station, where the muffins she’d made sat on the counter, still covered by the dish towel.
“What’s going on?” Ginny asked suspiciously.
“Just a little surprise,” Tricia said, finding it hard to keep the Cheshire cat grin from her face. She pulled off the towel. “Voilà!”
Ginny leaned in close and scrutinized the plate. “What are they?” she asked, with the hint of a curled lip.
“Blueberry muffins,” Tricia answered, taken aback. I made them myself.”
Ginny bent lower to examine the “goodies.” She pointed to one of the colored protrusions. “Blueberry? Then what are those red things?”
“Well, they’re actually not blueberries. I didn’t have any, so I substituted Craisins.”
Ginny shot a look at Mr. Everett, whose eyes seemed unnaturally large in his wrinkled face. “And why are these . . . muffins . . . here?” Ginny asked with wariness.
“To sample. Frannie asked me to bring something to Jim’s wake tomorrow, and I figured I’d better do a trial run before then. I haven’t done all that much baking,” Tricia admitted.
Mr. Everett swallowed, looking like he’d just been goosed.
Tricia picked up one of the muffins. “Go on,” she urged, “try one.”
“Have you eaten any of them?”
“This is my first,” Tricia admitted. She wasn’t about to say only Miss Marple had done a taste test.
Ginny hesitated before plucking one of the muffins from the plate.
“Why don’t I pour the coffee?” Mr. Everett volunteered, and escaped to the other side of the coffee station.
Ginny stared at the muffin in her hand. “It feels a little damp.”
“They may have still been a bit warm when I put them in the microwave last night. I didn’t want Miss Marple to get into them.”
“I can see why,” Ginny said. She swallowed, closed her eyes, and bit into the muffin. She chewed, and chewed, and chewed, but didn’t seem to swallow.
Throwing caution to the wind, Tricia bit into her own muffin—and nearly gagged. She grabbed a napkin and spat the gummy mass into it. “Forgive me,” she said, embarrassed.
Ginny had stopped chewing. She’d opened her eyes, but they seemed stuck in a permanent wince.
“Oh, Ginny—get rid of it!” Tricia handed her assistant a handful of the paper napkins, and she, too, spat out what was left of the masticated muffin.
“That was dreadful,” Tricia admitted.
“Did you follow the recipe?” Ginny asked, her voice sounding strangled.
“Of course. Well, I did make a few substitutions,” Tricia admitted.
“Such as?”
“I used Craisins instead of blueberries, and I didn’t have any baking powder, so I used baking soda instead.”
Ginny shuddered, still grimacing, and smacked her lips.
“Quick, you’d better drink this,” Mr. Everett advised, handing Ginny her coffee mug. She gulped the hot brew, and gasped.
Tricia, too, took her coffee and downed a mouthful, hoping to obliterate the lingering taste of the muffin. They’d smelled delicious while baking—how had they mutated into such a vile-tasting, rubbery mass?
Tricia walked around the counter, grabbed the plate, and dumped the rest of the offending muffins into the trash. Mr. Everett and Ginny seemed to be looking anywhere but in Tricia’s direction. Thankfully, the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Tricia said, and hightailed it for the cash desk and the Art Deco phone. She picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue; this is Tricia. How may I help you?”
“Hello, Tricia, this is Livvie Roth—James’s mother. Am I calling at a bad time?”
“Not at all. What can I do for you?”
“You were so kind to help me the other day. I was wondering if you could spare me a few minutes today.”
“I’d be glad to. What do you need?”
“One of the booksellers brought over some boxes of memorabilia Jim had at the shop. I wanted to go through them to determine if anything was worth saving. I’ve done that now. Do you think you could help me move the cartons from the house into the garage? It would probably only take a few minutes.”
“I’d be glad to come over. Would this evening be all right?”
“Oh, dear. I’ve promised to have dinner with a friend.”
“That’s okay, I can make it this afternoon. How about two o’clock?”
“That would be fine. Thank you, dear.
I’ll see you then. Good-bye.”
Tricia hung up the phone and frowned.
“Something wrong, Ms. Miles?” Mr. Everett asked.
“That was Jim Roth’s mother. She said a bookseller had brought some boxes of rescued items from Jim’s store. I thought everything had gone into the storage unit.”
“I took them over,” Mr. Everett admitted. “They were rather fragile fabric items, and I was worried they might be damaged.”
“That was very thoughtful of you.”
Ever too bashful to accept a compliment, Mr. Everett merely shrugged.
“Ginny and I have an errand to run later this afternoon. Would you mind taking care of Haven’t Got a Clue while we’re gone? It should only take an hour.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Thank you. And I have another favor to ask. Would you be open to helping out over at the Happy Domestic for an hour or so during lunch hour a couple of days a week? Since she lost her only employee, I’m afraid Deborah’s been pretty frazzled. Of course I’ll pay you for your time.”
Mr. Everett chewed his lip for a moment. “I could use the money.” He looked around to make sure Ginny was out of earshot. “I’m determined to repay Grace.”
Tricia’s frown returned. “Are you sure you want to make an issue of it? I believe she thought she’d be easing your financial burden.”
“I believe a person should make their own way in this world. A man should provide for his family—not the other way around.”
Tricia wasn’t up to arguing about outdated chivalry, and she was glad she’d asked Ginny not to say anything about her refinanced mortgage. No doubt Mr. Everett wouldn’t approve of that, either.
“Have you spoken to Ms. Black about my helping out?” Mr. Everett asked.
“Not yet. I’ll let you know what she says and when she can use you.”
“Very good.”
The shop door opened and a lone customer entered. Mr. Everett perked up. “May I help you, sir?”
“Yes. I’m looking to fill several gaps in my collection.” The slight, older gent withdrew a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his sports shirt and handed it to Mr. Everett, who studied it for a moment.
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