Not the Killing Type

by Lorna Barrett

  Flowers would be an appropriate gift from Ginny, but Tricia wanted to give her sister something more long lasting. Maybe jewelry. Angelica loved jewelry, and she could wear just about any metal or stone and look fabulous in it. Yes—she’d find time to go to Nashua and one of the more exclusive jewelry stores sometime during the next couple of weeks.

  “I’d better get going,” Frannie said and opened the door, letting in more cold air. “Time waits for no man—or woman. See you later, Tricia.”

  “Have a great day,” Tricia said and decided she’d don another sweater before the store opened for the day. The forecast hadn’t called for balmy temperatures and she hoped the door would open many times to let in potential customers.

  As she headed for the back of the store and the pegs that held her jacket, hats, and extra store sweaters, Tricia pondered her plans for the evening—half-baked though they might be. What she needed was an accomplice, and she knew just the person to ask.

  *

  Pixie arrived early for work, once again wearing what looked like a bearskin fur coat, this time with a lavender beret covering her pompadour. She carried yet another large, beat-up cardboard carton. Tricia sighed, wondering what else Pixie could have possibly found in the way of inappropriate decorations. “Good morning,” she called in what she hoped was a cheerful voice. “What have we here?” She indicated the box.

  “Hey, boss lady, just a little something to celebrate the season.” She didn’t stop, and kept moving deeper into the store.

  “Oh, Pixie, you really mustn’t spend your hard-earned money on Haven’t Got a Clue. Honestly, we’ve already got everything we need to decorate for the holidays.”

  Pixie dumped the box on the readers’ nook table. “It’s not for the store, it’s for you.”

  “Me?” Tricia echoed.

  “Uh-huh. After our talk yesterday, I kinda felt sorry for you. I figured you might need something to make up for all the unhappy Christmases you’ve endured.”

  “Oh, but you shouldn’t have,” Tricia said politely and with a little dread.

  Pixie wriggled out of her big heavy coat, tossing it onto one of the upholstered chairs. “Go on, open the box,” she encouraged.

  Tricia braved a smile and lifted the folded-in tabs. Whatever was in the box was swathed in wads of crumpled tissue paper. She fished them out to find that something else had been wrapped in the same tissue.

  “Go ahead, tear the paper,” Pixie encouraged.

  Tricia did as told and ripped at the tissue to find …

  “It’s a—”

  “Baby doll,” Pixie cried in delight.

  Tricia pulled the large, heavy vinyl doll out of the box. It wasn’t new—probably forty or fifty years old—and dressed in a little sailor suit, but it was in remarkably good shape. The head was also molded vinyl, the brown hair coloring embedded in the same material.

  “Oh, my,” was all Tricia could think to say.

  “Do you like it?” Pixie asked, her eyes shining with delight.

  “It’s-it’s …”

  “Pretty darn cute, huh?”

  Pixie was older than Tricia by at least ten years. Did this doll represent the kind of toy she’d had as a child—or, perhaps, had coveted?

  “Cute about sums it up,” Tricia said. Not.

  Pixie clapped her hands enthusiastically. “I just knew I’d find Sarah Jane a loving home.”

  “Sarah Jane?” Tricia asked.

  “I named her after a character from Doctor Who.”

  “Doctor what?”

  “No, Who. She was the fourth doctor’s traveling companion—probably the favorite of all time. Of course we’re talking vintage Doctor, here.”

  Tricia had no idea what Pixie was talking about and wasn’t about to ask. Instead, she knew what she must say next. “Thank you, Pixie. It was so thoughtful of you to give me this … gift.”

  “You need something to love. You can love Sarah Jane when the old cop boyfriend isn’t around.”

  But I have Miss Marple to cuddle with during those times, she didn’t say. And the old cop boyfriend was a boyfriend no more.

  Tricia gazed at the doll’s plastic blue eyes. They blinked if you moved the doll up or down. It had plastic filament eyelashes. In its day, it must have elicited many squeals of little girl delight.

  The shop door opened, allowing several customers to enter. Tricia scooped up the wads of tissue, returning them to the carton, while Pixie grabbed her coat. “I’ll take that box out back to get it out of the way.” She took it from Tricia and headed toward the rear of the store.

  Tricia moved Sarah Jane, placing her in one of the upholstered chairs and quickly walked away, feeling like a heel because the doll did not inspire love—it was nothing she would have wanted as a child, and it was nothing she wanted as an adult, either. She felt angry and ashamed for feeling that way, too, because if ever a doll needed love, Sarah Jane was it.

  “Can I help you?” she asked the two women who stood in the entry, surveying the store.

  “I’m looking for a book by John Dickson Carr. Dark of the Moon.”

  “If we have a copy, it’ll be over here,” Tricia said and led the woman over to the side shelves. The other customer wandered off to browse.

  Mr. Everett burst through the door. “Please forgive me for being late, Ms. Miles. But like Bob Cratchit in A Christmas Carol, I was making rather merry last evening.”

  Tricia smiled and looked at the clock. It was exactly ten o’clock. “No need to apologize; you’re right on time.”

  He took off his cap and jacket and hurried to hang them on a peg at the back of the store. Tricia had no time to even station herself at the cash desk before the door opened once again. Arms laden with what looked like quite a heavy box, Angelica backed into Haven’t Got a Clue. “They’ve arrived!” she called cheerfully, changed direction, and headed straight toward the readers’ nook.

  “What has arrived?” Tricia asked.

  “My rulers. And they’re just darling.” She dropped the box, which made a loud thump. Angelica immediately noticed Sarah Jane sitting in the chair—her expression one of surprise. She was about to say something when Tricia grimaced and mouthed, “It’s from Pixie.”

  Angelica nodded in understanding and turned back to the carton on the table.

  Their customers forgotten, Pixie and Mr. Everett gathered around as Angelica pried open the interleafed box top. She grabbed a handful of rulers and passed them around.

  “I don’t think I need more than one,” Tricia said as she glanced at the slogan printed on the wooden ruler. As she’d threatened, the rulers said: Angelica Miles. Entrepreneur. Author. Leader. And under that, A vote for Angelica Miles is a vote for progress. It then gave the Chamber of Commerce web URL.

  “Why so many? The Chamber only consists of about sixty members.”

  “The minimum order was five hundred,” Angelica explained. “You can give them out to your customers, as well as any Chamber members you happen to come across in the next few days. I imagine Frannie will be giving them out at the Cookery for the next six months.”

  The bell over the door sounded and Tricia looked toward it to see her two customers making a hasty exit through it.

  “You aren’t going to visit them all individually?” Tricia asked, chagrined.

  “Of course I will. But you know what they say, it takes seven repetitions before someone’s brain will process a sales pitch.”

  Again Pixie and Mr. Everett looked at one another. Mr. Everett was the first to speak. “They’re very nice. Thank you. And thank you again for a lovely dinner last evening.”

  “Oh, you’re more than welcome,” Angelica said and smiled.

  “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I need to dust the back shelves,” Mr. Everett said and escaped.

  “I’d better go stand behind the cash desk. You never know when our customers might want to cash out,” Pixie said. The store was now empty, but she scurried across the carpet, leaving
the sisters to themselves.

  Angelica wore a wad of rubber bands around her wrist like bracelets, and began counting out rulers in bundles of five.

  “I’ll echo Mr. Everett and say that was some dinner you put on last night,” Tricia said.

  “Three, four, five,” Angelica counted and snapped one of the rubber bands around the rulers. “Not bad, if I do say so myself. The prospective bride and groom seemed very appreciative.”

  “It was very nice of you to throw them the party.”

  “I figured Antonio wouldn’t have time … and maybe wouldn’t even know the custom. I don’t know what the groom’s family does in Italy, do you?”

  Tricia shook her head. “Do you want help with those?”

  Angelica shook her head and continued to count. She snapped a rubber band around another bundle and eyed the doll once more. “What’s the story?” she whispered.

  Tricia sighed. “Pixie seems to think I need something to love.”

  “And she brought you that?”

  “Her heart was in the right place.”

  “I think I’d rather love a prickly cactus,” Angelica hissed and began counting rulers once again.

  “Ange, I never got a chance to actually talk to you last night, but I was wondering what you were doing this evening.”

  Angelica wrapped a rubber band around another bundle of rulers. “Not much. I’ll probably work on the new cookbook manuscript for a while. Worry a lot about the election. Maybe polish the silver again. Why? What did you have in mind?”

  “When I was over at Stan Berry’s house on Saturday, I noticed that Will had tossed out a lot of weird-looking magazines. I wanted to get hold of one to see what his father might’ve had to hide.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask him about it?”

  “He covered one of them up when I was there the other day. It was obvious he didn’t want me to see what he was throwing away.”

  “And now you want to Dumpster dive for a copy?”

  “I’d hardly call it Dumpster diving. I just want to grab one before they’re recycled.”

  “And how do you know you can dig through his garbage tonight?”

  “Frannie said most of the neighbors put out their trash the night before. What better time to go digging? That way no one will see me—us.”

  “Uh-huh,” Angelica said, her expression sour. “Why can’t you just go alone?”

  Tricia squirmed inside her sweater set. “I always thought you enjoyed these little investigative forays.”

  Angelica scowled. “Why don’t you just admit you’re a chicken?”

  “I am not.”

  “You are, too,” Angelica asserted and counted out another bundle of rulers. “Tell you what, if you help me distribute these rulers, I’ll go with you tonight.”

  It wasn’t much of a deal, but reluctantly Tricia agreed. After all, she’d anticipated this was in the offing.

  “Excellent. I have a list right here for you.” Angelica dipped a hand into the box and brought out a piece of paper.

  Tricia scrutinized the names. Quite a few of them were members who rarely, if ever, came to the monthly meetings. And as she studied the addresses, Tricia thankfully noted that Angelica had kept the not-so-easy-to-get-to locations for herself and had given Tricia the names of members who were situated on or near Main Street. That was one blessing. Distributing the rulers—and trying to cajole less-than-enthusiastic Chamber members to attend the meeting—was sure to eat up most of the morning, if not half the afternoon. But then, it would also give her an opportunity to speak to half the Chamber members and ask what they remembered about the day of the murder. Sort of a win-win situation.

  “Okay.”

  Angelica’s mouth quirked into a smile.

  Set up! She’d known Tricia would be looking for an excuse to talk to the other merchants and had conveniently given it to her.

  Touché.

  Angelica counted the bundles of rulers, and then removed four of the rubber bands that had been constricting the blood flow to her fingers. “Here. Help me do another eight and that should be enough for you to work with. Of course, if they want more—I’d be glad to supply them.”

  Tricia refrained from rolling her eyes—but only just. She grabbed a bunch of rulers and began counting. In the back of her mind, she was already thinking what questions she would ask her fellow Chamber members about Stan Berry and hoped she didn’t run into his killer.

  FOURTEEN

  Tricia spent several frantic hours chasing down the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce members who rarely made an appearance at Chamber meetings. Most of them were polite and at least listened to her pitch to come to the special Wednesday morning meeting to participate in the Chamber elections while not promising to accept her invitation. Getting past the receptionists at the local doctor and dentist offices proved impossible, but she left Angelica’s rulers and business cards and hoped for the best.

  It was nearing the lunch hour when she returned to Haven’t Got a Clue and hung up her coat. As she approached the cash desk, the shop door opened and a deadly serious Joelle Morrison entered the store. For someone who worked in the bridal industry, where the end result was supposed to be lives merrily on their way to happily ever after, plus-sized Joelle’s personality seemed more suited to that of a frenetic undertaker. Did the woman ever crack a smile?

  “Joelle, good to see you again,” Tricia lied but smiled brightly just the same.

  Joelle sighed, as though the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. “I realize that you’re a frightfully busy person, Ms. Miles, what with running your own business and all, but I’m afraid you have been sorely neglecting your duties as Ginny Wilson’s maid of honor.”

  Tricia frowned. She’d hosted a shower a month before, given Ginny the gift of an espresso maker, which Antonio seemed over the moon about, and had helped Ginny pick out her dress. What more was she supposed to do?

  She asked.

  “The wedding is only days away, and you’ve shirked your responsibilities when it comes to Ginny’s emotional well-being.” Emotional well-being? Tricia was the one who seemed to be living through one emotional crisis after another. Ginny had visited Haven’t Got a Clue just that very morning and had seemed perfectly fine.

  “How’s that?” Tricia asked.

  Pixie sidled closer, not bothering to hide the fact she was eavesdropping.

  “This is a very emotional time for the bride, making her feel completely vulnerable. She needs everyone around her to bolster her confidence, to make her feel like she’s the most important person in the world.”

  “What a load of bullsh—”

  “Pixie!” Tricia admonished.

  Joelle turned a jaundiced eye on Pixie but spoke directly to Tricia. “Do you always allow your employees to listen in on personal conversations?”

  “Pixie, would you mind?” Tricia asked, making sure her voice was gentle and without reproach.

  Pixie glowered but turned and walked a few steps to her left, stopping at one of the bookshelves. She made a show of tidying, but Tricia had no doubt she intended to continue to soak in the rest of the conversation.

  Joelle turned back to Tricia, reminding her of an old-time schoolmarm who expected her to shape up—and right now!

  “I’ve spent a good deal of time with Ginny these last few days, and she didn’t seem to need any bolstering. She’s a pretty confident young woman.”

  Joelle shook her head and tsked loudly. “She’s horribly depressed over the fact that her soon-to-be mother-in-law has not committed to attending the wedding.”

  “Oh, that. She’ll get over it,” Tricia said confidently.

  “Ms. Miles, how can you totally dismiss what to Ginny is an earthshaking problem?”

  “Joelle, if this was the biggest problem Ginny was going to face as a married woman, I might have a bit more sympathy. But her family will be there, as well as all her friends, and it will be a lovely day. It should be Antonio who’s heartbr
oken, and he seems to be shouldering the burden just fine. Once Ginny gets caught up in the festivities she’ll forget all about it and have a wonderful time.”

  Joelle shook her head sadly. “I think you’re terribly wrong, and I only hope Ginny won’t hold it against you in years to come.”

  Tricia doubted that. A glance at Pixie confirmed she seemed about to comment again, but a stern look from Tricia made her look away.

  “By the way, I had the good fortune to meet your ex-husband yesterday at the Brookview Inn,” Joelle said

  “Oh?” Where was this conversation thread going?

  “He’s a real charmer. Whatever possessed you to let that man get away?”

  Tricia’s jaw dropped, but she quickly recovered. No way was she going to go into the details of her failed marriage, consequent divorce, and current feelings about Christopher with Joelle Morrison.

  “Is there a chance you two will get back together?”

  Tricia blinked, surprised. And yet something told her it might be best to play along if she hoped to get useful information out of Joelle. “We haven’t discussed it.” But, boy, was Christopher going to get an earful the next time their paths crossed.

  “I wonder, when you and your ex were married, did you have the wedding of your dreams?” Joelle challenged.

  “Yes, and I can tell you that in retrospect I spent far too much time worrying about the colors, the dresses, the shoes, the flowers, the cake, and everything else that goes along with the supposedly perfect wedding day. None of it means a damn thing if the marriage doesn’t last,” she said bitterly.

  “I’m beginning to see why your marriage didn’t survive,” Joelle said with disdain.

  “When things don’t work out, divorce is sometimes the only answer. Surprisingly enough, the condition is not fatal.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Pixie said under her breath but still loud enough for Tricia to hear.

  Joelle continued to ignore Pixie. “I’m very sorry you feel that way. Every bride deserves her day. I’m deeply disappointed you can’t find it in your heart to make Ginny’s wedding day as special as it can possibly be.”

  Tricia sighed. Why was it everyone on earth could pull a guilt trip on her and it would work? “I’ll try harder, Joelle,” she said, if only to shut the woman up.