Tricia took out the day’s receipts, counted them, and placed them in the little blue zippered bank pouch. By then Ginny had retrieved her jacket, said a cheery good-bye, and departed. Tricia locked the money in the safe; that left only the nudist leaflets on the counter.
She tried to imagine prim and proper Mr. Everett in his birthday suit and, thankfully, failed.
She trashed the leaflets.
The clock ticked. Miss Marple had parked herself at the door leading to the back stairs and the loft apartment and cried, impatient for her dinner. “I’m hungry, too, but we have to wait for Angie.”
Miss Marple turned her back on Tricia, licked the pads on one of her white boots.
The street lamps glowed and most of the parked cars had disappeared when the sound of an engine drew Tricia to draw back the shade on the front window to see Angie’s rental car pull up in front of the store. She got out, waved a hello, and opened the car’s rear door, crouching down for something. Tricia headed for the shop’s door to intercept.
“Here, take this,” Angelica said, handing Tricia a large, heavy Crock-Pot along with funky chili pepper potholders. Tricia set it on the sales counter, heading back to the door to hold it open for Angelica, who juggled her large purse and a big brown grocery bag, with a crusty loaf of Italian bread poking over its rim.
“How much food did you bring?”
“You can freeze the leftovers. Besides, you’re much too thin. I’ll bet you haven’t had a decent meal in months. Now lead me to the kitchen, and then you can tell me how it is you became Stoneham’s jinx of death.”
Miss Marple sat before her now-empty food bowl, daintily washing her face. After a brief tour of the loft apartment, with its soaring ceiling and contemporary décor, which Angelica had declared gorgeous, she’d commandeered the kitchen, demanding various utensils that had gathered dust from months of disuse. The pasta water was already bubbling on the stove when Tricia located her corkscrew and opened the wine. She poured, handing a glass to Angelica.
“Just who in town thinks I’m a jinx, and how are you privy to that kind of gossip? You’ve only been in town one day.”
Angelica shrugged theatrically. “It’s my face. People feel they can unburden themselves to me.”
Tricia frowned. She’d never felt so inclined.
“You know, I never saw the appeal of small-town life,” Angelica began and took a sip of her wine. “But everyone’s just so friendly and they love to talk.”
“About me, apparently.” Tricia said, growing impatient.
Angelica waved a hand in dismissal, put down her glass, and stirred the sauce once more. “It’s just an odd coincidence. I’m sure the sheriff’s department will take care of everything within a few days and someone else will be the object of everyone’s curiosity.” She tasted the sauce. “Mmm. Maybe it could use a little more oregano.” She started opening cupboards.
“The one by the sink,” Tricia said. “And just what is it everyone’s saying?”
Angelica squinted at the row of jars. “I told you. That you’re a jinx. Don’t be surprised if the locals cross the street as you approach. Set the table, will you? The pasta is almost al dente.”
Tricia dutifully gathered place mats, plates, and cutlery. “Who did you meet? How did you meet them?”
Angelica sprinkled on the herb and stirred it in. “I took a walk around your new little hometown. It’s very cute. I can see why you love it here. Let’s see, I spoke to most of the other booksellers, or at least their sales staff. Do you realize there isn’t one shoe store in this entire town?” She slapped her forehead. “Like I need to tell you. Look at your feet.”
Tricia glanced down at her thick-soled loafers. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“Honey, between them and those sweater sets, you are in dire need of a fashion intervention. I have not arrived a minute too soon.”
“I have to stand for ten hours a day. I need comfortable shoes.”
“If you say so. I also noticed that besides the Brookville Inn, there isn’t one decent restaurant in Stoneham.”
“We’ve got the Bookshelf Diner.”
“As I said, there isn’t one decent restaurant,” Angelica deadpanned. “Where do regular people go for food that isn’t dripping in grease?”
“I eat in a lot.”
“Good thing, too. It’s a lot healthier.” She stirred the pasta. “Now, do you want to hear the results of Doris Gleason’s autopsy, or are you squeamish?”
“Give me a break, Ange. I’ve been reading mysteries and thrillers since I was in grade school.”
Angelica snagged her glass and drank. “As expected, the knife wound was fatal—sliced up something terribly vital. She died almost instantaneously, that’s why there wasn’t much blood.”
Hardly a gory account. “Tell me something I didn’t know.”
Angelica sobered. “The poor woman had pancreatic cancer, which she either didn’t know about or had chosen not to have treated. Without immediate treatment, it’s likely she would’ve died within months.”
Doris couldn’t have known, otherwise she wouldn’t have been worried about renegotiating her lease. “That poor soul.”
Angelica frowned. “I suppose that depends on your point of view. A quick death with little fear or pain, or lingering in agony: I’ll take the former any day.”
Tricia reached for linen napkins from a drawer. “How did you find out about Doris’s autopsy?”
Angelica went back to work on the salad as she spoke. “Didn’t I tell you? Bess, the Brookview Inn’s receptionist, has a cousin who works for the county health department, who has a direct pipeline to the medical examiner’s office. Isn’t it amazing how already I’ve met the most eclectic assortment of people here in Stoneham? Not many of them seem to know you.”
“That’s because nearly all my customers are from out of town.”
“And I’m sure the fact that—except for today, apparently—you rarely leave the store also has a lot to do with it.” She paused in slicing a tomato and looked over at her sister. “I’m worried about you, Trish. You need to have a life outside your bookstore.”
“I’m doing just fine.”
“Have you made any friends?” Angelica asked, abandoning her knife to add spices to a little bowl of olive oil.
“Of course I have,” she said, thinking of her conversation earlier in the day with Deborah.
“All booksellers, no doubt. They probably work themselves to death, too, with no real social outlets. Then again, you were right; aside from reading, there isn’t much else to do in this burg.”
“It’s the main draw. How I and all the other booksellers make our living. And in a world with so many other distractions, it’s getting harder and harder to find new readers.”
Angelica shook her head sadly. “How typical you’d choose a dying trade.”
Tricia ignored the jab. “Have you spoken to any of the locals about Bob Kelly?”
“Of course. He’s a fascinating man and I want to know all about him. Although I’ve noticed people either seem to love him or hate him.”
“And you’re choosing to love him?” Tricia asked.
“Don’t be silly. I only met the man last night. But it seems something’s going on in town.”
“Oh?” Tricia thought back to Frannie, who hadn’t wanted to let on what she thought about Bob’s meeting the night before.
“There’s talk of a big box store wanting to open up right on the edge of town.”
“And just who’s saying this?”
“People.” She didn’t elaborate. “It’s a hot topic, and I wouldn’t want to get in between someone who’s for and another who’s against the idea. You could lose your life. Some of the locals don’t like all these tourists in town and don’t want to encourage any more change. If a big store came in, they might have to actually add a traffic light on Main Street.” She rolled her eyes.
“Is Bob negotiating for the village?”
&nbs
p; Angelica checked the wine level in her glass, then topped it up. “He’s apparently exploring the idea, although I don’t know if he’s doing it for himself or the Board of Selectmen.”
“Who told you all this?”
Angelica’s smile was sly. “I told you, I’m sworn to secrecy.”
Tricia frowned, growing grumpier by the moment. “That pasta will be gummy if you don’t serve it soon.”
“Oh, right.” Angelica switched off the burner and drained the penne. She placed the salad bowl, sliced bread, and dipping sauce on the table and within another minute had heaped their plates with pasta, ladling the sauce on thick. Tricia had to admit it smelled divine. Angelica took her seat across from Tricia, sighed, and smiled. “Isn’t it great to be back in each other’s lives again?”
Tricia’s fork stopped inches from her mouth, cold dread encircling her heart. “How long were you planning on visiting?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’ve decided to move to New Hampshire.”
FIVE
Tricia nearly choked on her wine. “You what?”
Angelica picked up her napkin, smoothed out the folds, and placed it on her lap. “I don’t like the idea of you living up here all on your own. Murders happening right next to your place of business.” She shook her head. “Mother and Daddy would be heartsick if they thought I’d abandon you in such a violent community. I feel it’s my duty to stay here with you at least throughout the crisis.”
Tricia sat back in her chair. “There is no crisis. This is the first murder in Stoneham in over sixty years. It’s not likely to happen again.”
“What about that poor woman who crashed her car?”
“You heard about that, too?”
“I told you, people here like to talk.”
“Well, there’s no proof she was murdered. I’ll bet she didn’t maintain that old rust bucket she drove.”
Angelica picked up her fork, speared a chunk of tomato. “Surely that’s what yearly car inspections prevent.”
“Let’s get back on topic, which is you moving to Stoneham. There’s nothing for you to do here. There’s no shopping, no art galleries, no museums, no gourmet restaurants—and as you pointed out, no shoe stores.”
Angelica toyed with a piece of pasta. “Perhaps it’s my destiny to bring culture and a sense of style to this little backwater.”
“Stoneham is my home. Don’t call it a backwater. It has history and charm and it doesn’t need outsiders coming in with an agenda to change it.”
“Au contraire. You yourself are an outsider. Bob Kelly told me the majority of booksellers were all recruited from out of state to come here. And you just said yourself that most of your customers are out of towners.”
“Yes, but—”
“Most of the villagers don’t mind you little guys opening shop, but they don’t want malls and big box stores moving in and changing the area’s character, not to mention all the people from Boston crossing the state line just because it’s cheaper to live here.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Change happens, Tricia,” she said, pointedly. “Whether some people want it or not.”
Tricia’s temper flared. “You do not need to live here in Stoneham.”
Angelica swirled the wine in her glass. “And I may not stay long. Just long enough to see you through this ordeal.” And then she did something that totally startled Tricia; she laid one of her hands on Tricia’s. “I may not have been the best big sister in the past, but I intend to make up for that now.”
Flabbergasted, Tricia could only sit there with her mouth open. Then she shut it. Angelica had never before displayed even a hint of altruism. Something else was behind her visit, and her newfound sisterly love.
How long would it be before she revealed her true intent?
Being labeled the village jinx didn’t seem to have an impact on customers at Haven’t Got a Clue. A busload of bibliomaniacs on a day trip from Boston had unloaded an hour earlier, and business had been brisk. It was easy to tell the townsfolk from the transients. The villagers paused at the shop’s windows, faces peering in to see the jinx on display like at a zoo, judgment in their eyes. Tricia braved a smile for each of them, but the faces turned away.
Tricia rang up a three-hundred-dollar sale for a British first edition of Agatha Christie’s Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? and carefully wrapped the book in acid-free tissue before placing it in one of the store’s elegant, custom-printed, foil-stamped shopping bags. No plastic for an order of this magnitude.
“Please sign our guest book,” she suggested as she handed over the purchase to a dapper old gent.
“I will, thank you.”
The phone rang and Ginny stepped up to the counter, taking the next customer. Tricia answered on the second ring. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia speaking, how can I help you?”
“Hi, Tricia, it’s Mike Harris.” Aha—one friendly voice remained among the locals. “Scuttlebutt about town is that you’ve developed into the village jinx. How’s it feel to be raked over the coals?” Then again…
Tricia sidled over to the front window, looked across the street to Mike’s campaign office. “I’m feeling the heat but so far haven’t been burned.”
“How’d you like to escape the pressure cooker for an hour or two? I know a little bistro up on the highway that serves a mean lobster bisque, and their sourdough bread is the stuff of legends.”
“Right now that sounds heavenly.”
“Fine. I’ll pick you up at eleven thirty.”
“I’ll be here.” Tricia hung up the phone and turned to find Ginny at her elbow.
“A date?”
“It’s not a date.”
“That’ll be thirty-seven fifty,” Ginny told the elderly male customer. “Then what do you call lunch with a handsome man?”
“An escape. Can I help you find something?” Tricia asked a matronly woman in a denim jumper.
Six sales and fourteen more nudist tracts later, Tricia glanced at the shop’s clock. The Care Free tour bus had picked up its passengers and there was sure to be a lull in foot traffic, assuring Tricia she needn’t feel guilty for leaving Ginny alone in the shop.
At precisely eleven thirty a sleek black Jaguar pulled up in front of Haven’t Got a Clue, its powerful engine revving. Ginny gawked and inhaled deeply. “Ooh! I smell money.”
“Behave,” Tricia scolded and grabbed her purse. “I’ll try to be back within—”
“Take your time. I’ll be fine here,” Ginny said. “But you’ll have to report on everything the two of you talk about.”
“No promises,” Tricia said, suppressing a smile as she headed for the door. Then on impulse, she stopped, went back to the counter, and fished one of the nudist leaflets from the trash, stuffing it in her handbag. “See you later,” she told Ginny as the door closed behind her.
In celebration of the beautiful early autumn day, the Jag’s windows were wide open, and Tricia bent down to see Mike’s smiling face. “Hop in.”
Tricia opened the door and slid onto the cool, black leather seat. “What a beautiful car. The insurance business must be booming.”
“Not bad if I say so myself.”
Tricia pulled shut the door and buckled her seat belt as Mike eased the car back into traffic. Her gaze momentarily lighted on the Cookery, the yellow crime tape still attached to the door frame reminding her of Doris Gleason’s murder. She shook the thought away and concentrated on the Jag’s dashboard, with its GPS screen and rows of buttons and switches. It reminded her of the cockpit of a jumbo jet. She wiggled her shoulders deeper into the leather, remembering she had once been used to this kind of luxury in the early days of her marriage to Christopher. She glanced across the seat, caught Mike’s eye. He looked fabulous in a gray pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt, and a pale yellow silk tie—and nothing like her ex. “You’re dressed to the nines. For my benefit?”
“I’d love to say yes, but I’ve got a speak
ing engagement later this afternoon. There’s always next time.” Again he flashed those perfect white teeth.
Next time. That sounded nice. Maybe Angelica had been right. In pursuing her goals to get the bookstore up and running Tricia had neglected to factor in time to build a social life.
“Is this little restaurant in Milford?”
“Just east of there. It’s only twenty minutes down the road. Don’t worry, I’ll have you back to your store before the Red Hat Society bus comes in.”
Tricia stifled a laugh. “Do you have all the tourist bus schedules memorized?”
“I’m making an effort. Stoneham’s economy has rebounded thanks to tourism. I want the business owners to know how much I appreciate their efforts to keep the village in the black.”
“Happy potential constituents mean a landslide victory?”
“Something like that.”
“Forgive me, but I thought the village voted for these kinds of things in the winter—not on traditional election day.”
“That’s right. This is a special election at the next town meeting to fill the spot left by Sam Franklin, who had a heart attack and died a few weeks back. My opponent and I are pretty much evenly matched.”
Tricia couldn’t remember seeing any other literature for the selectman campaign, realizing she didn’t even know the other candidate’s name.
“What made you decide to run?”
“Too many former Stoneham selectmen have been outsiders who came to the area after retiring. They fought against the idea of tourism, wanting Stoneham to remain a quaint little—dead—village. They were also lawyers,” he said with contempt. “They didn’t have a clue how to bring life back to the village. It was people like Bob Kelly who turned Stoneham around. The board begged him to take the job of village administrator, but he said he couldn’t afford to take the pay cut.”
“Oh?”
“It’s only a part-time job, but Bob felt it would take away from running his real estate empire. Besides, he wields his own power as president of the chamber of commerce.”
Murder Is Binding Page 6
