“What are you going to do with this windfall?” Swingle asked. Mr. Everett looked downright annoyed at this invasion of his privacy, but Grace jumped right in to answer for him. “We’re going on a cruise! And we’re going to buy all our friends lovely gifts, and give a sizable amount to charity.”
“Will you move to a mansion?” one of the reporters asked.
“Heavens, no,” Grace answered. “We’re staying right here in Stoneham. And my husband is going to continue working at Haven’t Got a Clue, Stoneham’s mystery bookshop.”
“Free publicity for the store,” Ginny whispered, still excited.
“I’m just glad I don’t have to find another employee,” Tricia said. “Nobody could replace you or Mr. Everett.”
A reporter shoved a microphone in front of Bob. “What do you think of Stoneham’s biggest lottery winners?”
“William and Grace are a wonderful asset to our community. I couldn’t be happier.”
“And what about that explosion on Stoneham’s Main Street last Wednesday? I understand you own the property—that you were in the store at the time of the blast.”
Bob glowered and growled, “No comment.” He pushed away, heading for the exit. Tricia struggled to get through the crowd to follow. “Bob! Wait!” she called, but he paid no attention and kept going.
Once outside, Tricia looked from left to right and finally saw Bob across the busy road, hurrying for his car. She waited for traffic to allow, and crossed the road to follow. “Bob! Wait!”
Finally, Bob stopped and turned. “Will you stop hounding me.”
Tricia was taken aback by his tone.
“Angelica has been worried sick about you. Have you at least had the courtesy to talk to her?”
“We spoke.”
“This morning?”
Bob nodded.
“And?”
“What we said is none of your business. And if Angelica hasn’t already told you, she probably won’t.”
That was true. Years ago, Tricia and Angelica might have kept secrets from each other, but no more. And Angelica had a schedule to adhere to—no time to make a phone call, although she might spill all at the end of the day. Tricia would just have to wait.
“Is there anything else?” Bob asked, anger coloring his voice.
“Yes. Frannie Armstrong said you might know the name of the woman Jim Roth was seeing.”
“Why would I know that?”
“Frannie couldn’t say. Just that Jim had mentioned you and this woman were acquainted.”
Bob’s face went slack, the pallor behind his burns more distinct. “What did you say?”
“If you know who Jim was seeing, it could be the missing piece of the puzzle—you might know who killed him.”
“Good Lord,” Bob breathed, and stumbled toward his car.
“Bob—if you know something, you’ve got to call the Sheriff’s Department. Please, call Captain Baker.”
“I can handle this,” he said.
“Is that the person who’s been harassing you, Bob? Did this woman try to kill you, too?”
Bob turned, his face screwed into a mask of fury. “For once in your life, will you just try and stay out of things?” He turned, unlocked his car, and jumped in. Tricia ran to the car and beat her fists against the driver’s-side window.
“Bob, wait!”
But he started the car, revved it, and peeled out, scraping the bumper of the car in front.
“Bob!” Tricia hollered, but he paid no mind and zoomed down the road.
Was he about to confront Jim’s killer, or would he be the next victim?
Twenty-Three
Tricia dug through her purse to find her car keys, then remembered Ginny had driven her and Frannie to the convenience store. She snatched her cell phone and stabbed in Grant Baker’s personal number but, as expected, got only his voice mail. She left a message as she walked back to the store to get Ginny. “Grant, this is Tricia Miles. You’d better put out an APB on Bob Kelly. He’s gone after Jim Roth’s killer. It’s too complicated to explain—but he feels Jim was killed by a woman, a mutual acquaintance. Please call me back as soon as you get this message.”
She paused at the convenience store’s door. Inside everyone was still celebrating. She turned her back on the merry-makers and punched in 9-1, then paused before she hit the last digit. What was she going to tell the dispatcher?
Tricia closed her phone, shoved it back in her purse, and yanked open the convenience store’s door, searching for Ginny.
A crowd of people encircled Grace and Mr. Everett. Reporters with microphones pelted them with questions, and the cameras continued to roll. Ginny stood on the edge of the crowd, teetering on tiptoe. Tricia threaded her way through the crowd and grabbed Ginny’s arm. The poor girl nearly stumbled while trying to right herself.
“What’s up?” she demanded.
Tricia started pulling Ginny toward the door. “We have to leave. Now!”
“Where are we going?” Ginny demanded
“To follow Bob.”
“Why?”
Tricia pushed through the double glass doors. “I’ll tell you on the way.”
“What about Frannie?”
“She’ll have to find her own way home. Come on.”
Finally Ginny seemed to understand the urgency of the situation, and hurried down the road to retrieve her car, with Tricia dogging her footsteps. Ginny pressed the unlock button on her key fob and the women jumped into the car.
“You’ll have to turn around. Bob headed back into Stoneham,” Tricia said.
“Where do you think he’d go? His house?” Ginny asked, and started the car.
“Maybe. We should probably start there.”
“Why are we chasing Bob?”
“It’s a long story, but he may know who killed Jim Roth—and more important, why.”
“Oh, boy,” Ginny cried with glee. “I always wanted to go on one of these adventures with you. Usually Angelica gets all the fun.”
“This is not fun. Bob is—and maybe we could be, too—facing a life-and-death situation.”
“Who are we chasing?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know!”
Ginny frowned, and looked at the gas indicator on the dashboard. “We’ve been at this for almost an hour now, Tricia, riding up and down the streets of Stoneham. Bob isn’t here.”
Tricia exhaled an exasperated breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Take me back to Haven’t Got a Clue and drop me off. You may as well go home. And I’ll give you some money for gas. I appreciate you driving me around in circles.”
“Hey, you promised me dinner at the Bookshelf Diner,” Ginny reminded her, and to prove it, her stomach growled loudly.
Tricia sighed again. Yes, she had promised Ginny dinner, but after all the worry while they’d been driving around, she’d lost her appetite.
Ginny pulled into the municipal parking lot and turned off the engine. “Ooh, look at that gorgeous Jaguar,” she said, pointing toward a maroon car parked at the north end of the lot, far from other cars that might dent its doors. A sleek, chrome cat adorned the hood of the vehicle.
“Who do you suppose that belongs to?” Ginny asked as they got out of her aging Focus.
“I have no idea,” Tricia said, and couldn’t care less. “Come on, let’s go to the diner” and get this over with, she added to herself.
They crossed the street and entered the Bookshelf Diner. “At last, a customer!” called Eugenia, the evening waitress, and then she recognized Tricia and Ginny and scowled. “What do you want?”
“What do you think?” Ginny said, sarcastically. “We came here to eat. And if you have a problem with that, I suggest you ask the manager to step in.” She turned to Tricia, her tone dramatically sweeter. “Where would you like to sit, Tricia?”
The diner was completely empty. Was everyone still at the convenience store celebrating the announcement of the Powerball winners? “Anywhere,” Tricia a
nswered. She’d forgotten Eugenia would be on duty. The bad blood that had passed between her and Ginny the previous fall was obviously still there. Tricia followed Ginny to the second booth in, and took her seat, facing into the restaurant.
“May we have menus, please?” Ginny asked, unable to keep the contempt out of her voice as she spoke to Eugenia.
Eugenia tossed a couple of menus on the table and stalked off.
“I’m sorry I suggested we come here,” Tricia apologized. “I’d forgotten about your situation with Eugenia.”
“I haven’t, and I make a point of coming in at least once a week just to annoy her.”
“Ginny!” Tricia admonished.
“Well, after what she put me—put all of us—through last fall. . . .” She let the sentence drop, and concentrated on her menu.
“Order anything you want,” Tricia said, and let her gaze fall on the salad portion of the menu.
“I’m starved. Would it be okay if I ordered a steak dinner?”
“The sky’s the limit,” Tricia assured Ginny, frowning as she read and reread the words “Cobb salad.” All of a sudden, resentment filled her. She was sick to death of salad. She’d eaten salads for years. She’d run a million miles on her treadmill in an effort to keep what Angelica teased as her girlish figure, and for what? To please some man? Christopher had dumped her for a life of solitude. Russ had turned out to be a major jerk, and Grant Baker was too preoccupied with his ex-wife’s illness to spend quality time with her.
Angelica had never been what Tricia would call svelte, and yet she’d never hurt for male companionship.
Grant had been right. Life was short. Start with dessert.
Tricia closed her menu and set it on the table.
Ginny, too, looked up, but it wasn’t Tricia she gazed at. Tricia turned and saw Antonio Barbero standing outside the window. He caught sight of them and waggled his fingers in a wave.
Ginny’s smile lit up her face, and her eyes widened. “Ohmigod,” she said through her teeth, like a ventriloquist. “Do you think he might come in?”
Tricia smiled. “Let’s ask him.” She beckoned Antonio to enter the diner.
“Here he comes!” Ginny nearly squealed, still doing her Sherri Lewis imitation.
“Buona sera, signorina e signora.” He reached out to kiss Ginny’s hand. She giggled like a schoolgirl.
“Would you like to join us?” Tricia asked.
Antonio smiled. “It would be my pleasure.” Ginny slid over, and he sat down beside her—close beside her. Ginny’s fair skin blushed bright pink, and Tricia fought the urge to laugh.
“Why don’t we start with a glass of wine? Would you like red or white?” Tricia asked Antonio.
“Red. Like lovely Ginny’s hair.” If anything, Ginny’s blush grew even deeper.
Tricia looked up. Eugenia stood at the back of the diner, scowling. Tricia waved, and Eugenia pushed herself away from the wall, stalking toward their table. “Yes?” she asked defiantly.
“Three glasses of the house red.”
But Eugenia was too busy staring at Antonio to write down the order. “Who’re you?”
“Antonio Barbero, from Nigela Ricita Associates. Pleased to meet you”—he read her name tag—“Eugenia.”
Tricia stifled a laugh. He said the word as though it might be the name of a disease. Ginny giggled yet again.
It was Eugenia’s turn to blush. “Three glasses of red, coming up.” Somehow she managed to keep the surliness out of her tone. She turned and walked slowly back to the kitchen, her hips swaying.
“Would you like to look at my menu, Antonio?” Ginny asked, her voice almost an octave higher than usual. She cleared her throat and handed it to him.
“I love American diners. The food is so disgustingly fattening, yet so wonderfully delicious. So much so, I rarely eat in them.”
“You must be starved for real Italian cooking,” Tricia said.
He shook his head. “No, no. I cook for myself. One day I would like to cook for you two ladies, as well. You are my first friends here in Stoneham and have made me feel so welcome.”
Ginny said nothing. Tricia wasn’t sure she was actually breathing—she looked ready to explode. Obviously, she wasn’t going to be able to carry her share of the conversational load. “What brings you back to town?” Tricia asked Antonio.
“I want to check out the site before my architect comes tomorrow.”
“Surely the sale won’t go through until after the insurance company settles with the current owner.”
“Oh, sì, I know. But my employer wants to be ready to start construction the day after we close on the property.”
“What’s the hurry?” Ginny asked, and then added, “not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Time is money,” Antonio answered. “I will be on the site every day, overseeing the construction.”
“Every day?” Ginny asked eagerly. “And when do you think that will be?”
“Hopefully in the fall. My employer has many friends in the insurance business. I’m sure she can speed up the process. The polizia have already signed off on the cause of the explosion that destroyed the old building.” He shook his head. “My employer wants the new building to have the same character—to blend in with the rest of the street. Of course, it will have many upgrades: insulation, up-to-date HVAC systems. But the turisti will not know it was not there for one hundred years.”
Eugenia arrived with a tray, placed paper napkins on the table, and set the glasses down. She did so with care, and this time when she spoke, her voice held respect. “What may I get you, sir?”
Antonio waved a hand to take in Ginny and Tricia. “Ladies first.”
“I’ll have the house salad with raspberry vinaigrette,” Ginny said politely. So much for a big steak dinner.
“Tricia?” Antonio said.
“I’ll have the strawberry shortcake—with extra whipped cream, thank you.”
“Tricia?” Ginny asked, amazed at her choice.
“Life is short. Eat dessert first,” she said simply.
Antonio frowned, looking like he might have missed something.
“And you?” Eugenia asked, her voice soft—almost soothing—as she clenched her pencil, poised to write down his order. She hadn’t written down either Tricia’s or Ginny’s request.
“Steak, medium rare. Baked potato. And salad.” Antonio collected Tricia’s menu and handed them both to Eugenia.” Grazie.”
Eugenia looked almost as love-struck as Ginny. She gave a little laugh and said, “No problem,” making Tricia cringe.
Ginny waited for Eugenia to retreat before speaking again. “Do you think you’ll be moving to Stoneham anytime soon?”
Tricia resisted the urge to shake her head, keeping her teeth clenched. Don’t be so obvious, she wanted to warn Ginny, who gazed at Antonio with cow eyes. Either Antonio didn’t notice, or he had chosen to overlook it. He shook his head. “Not until later this summer. I have much business to take care of before I can relocate. And I wish to thank you, Ms. Miles, for giving me the number of the manager at the Brookview Inn. We are speaking tomorrow about a possible alliance. My employer is very interested in investigating the possibilities.”
“You wouldn’t buy the inn outright?” Tricia asked.
“At this point, we are only talking about possibilities. Who knows if we will come to an agreement? I was just telling Bob Kelly—”
“You’ve spoken with Bob?” Tricia asked. “When?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
“We spent the last hour looking for him,” Ginny said.
“I’m surprised he took your call. He’s been ignoring all mine,” Tricia said. “Did he say where he was or where he was going?”
Antonio shook his head.
“Just that he had business out of town. A mission of mercy, I think he called it.”
Tricia instantly thought of Angelica. If someone was after Bob, could they be after Angelica
as well? She thought of all the little accidents and mishaps Angelica had experienced since Wednesday evening, and suddenly they seemed even more sinister.
“I have to go,” Tricia said, grabbed her purse, and struggled to get out of the booth. She paused only long enough to dig into her wallet for two twenty-dollar bills. “You two have fun.”
“Tricia, where are you going?” Ginny asked, concerned.
“I just remembered something I have to do. I’ll see you in the morning, Ginny,” she said, gave a quick wave, and hurried for the door.
“Ciao,” Antonio called after her.
Once outside, Tricia pulled out her cell phone and hit autodial for Angelica’s phone. It went to voice mail on the fourth ring. “It’s Angelica. I’m not available right now. Leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Ange, it’s Tricia. No time to explain, but someone may be after you—the same person who killed Jim Roth. Call me as soon as you get this message, and don’t trust anyone! I mean no one—not even Bob! Call me!”
Tricia flipped the phone shut and broke into a jog, heading for Haven’t Got a Clue, her thoughts racing. Where was Angelica’s next signing? She couldn’t remember. She had printed out her whole book tour itinerary, and a copy was taped to the fridge and another was under the counter at Haven’t Got a Clue.
Tricia was breathless by the time she reached Haven’t Got a Clue. She fumbled with her keys, unlocked the door, and burst inside. Miss Marple was sitting on the sales counter and rose with a sharp “Yow!”
“No time now,” Tricia told the cat, and practically skidded around the cash desk. “I’ve got to warn Angelica!” She pawed through the stuff littering the shelf under the counter and found the printed sheet, then ran her finger down the page until she found Monday night’s signing in Woodstock. The old rotary phone on the counter was too slow, so she punched in the number on her cell phone.
“Crazy Hermit Bookstore, Martha here. How can I help you?”
“Angelica Miles is supposed to sign her cookbook tonight at your store.”
“That’s right.”
Chapter & Hearse bm-4 Page 24
