“And you and Ginny don’t like her. That’s why you’d be happy to see her arrested for the murder.”
“Happy? I barely know the woman. Why would I want to see her arrested?”
“If she was out of the picture, she’d stop harping on you.”
How did he know about that? Still, Tricia hadn’t consciously thought of that, yet there was no denying his conclusion. Still, she suggested another possibility. “Could a stranger have killed Stan?”
“No one reported seeing a stranger that morning.”
“Then you’ve eliminated the inn’s guests as suspects?”
Baker nodded.
The waitress arrived with their lunches, then topped Tricia’s coffee cup before leaving them alone once more.
Baker uncapped the ketchup bottle, turned it upside down, and tapped the bottom to speed up the process. It worked too well, with ketchup nearly drowning his fries.
“Tell me again what you observed on the day of the murder,” he said.
Tricia was sick of telling the tale and viciously stabbed a grape tomato. “Do you want me to leave out the reason I was out in the inn’s lobby? I mean, we are now eating lunch.”
“You had to pee. Big deal,” he said and took an enormous bite of his burger.
“Yes, well, I went in search of other facilities and spoke to Eleanor about her love life, while she searched for her missing letter opener. She was annoyed that it had been misplaced.”
“Would you say upset or flustered, because she might have been trying to cover the fact she’d just murdered a man?”
“No way.” Although her eyes and nose had been red. Allergies, she’d said, but she’d seemed fine on Sunday. Had the culprit really been perfume?
“Since when does she even have a love life? I hadn’t heard of it.” Baker said, shaking Tricia from her memories.
“Oh, come on, it was the talk of the summer. Eleanor and Chauncey Porter have been going out for months. They started out as diet buddies, encouraging each other to lose weight. Their relationship appears to be on the verge of changing. You should talk to Chauncey if you want to know his intentions. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
“I wish everyone involved in this case would unburden themselves to me like they do to you. It would sure make my job a lot easier.”
“I have spoken to quite a few of the Chamber members since the meeting,” Tricia admitted. “Angelica has me handing out those rulers with her name and campaign pledge.” She dipped a piece of lettuce into the small container of dressing that had accompanied her salad. “Have you received the results of the autopsy?”
Baker cut a long fry with his fork and then popped it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “You’re the only woman I know who could ask that question while eating.”
“I read a lot of murder mysteries, many of them while I eat my breakfast, lunch, or dinner. The fact that we’re talking fact and not fiction makes no difference to me.”
“Some investigators might find it highly suspicious.”
“Do you count yourself as one of them?”
Baker shook his head and picked up his burger once again, but paused to speak before taking another bite. “As suspected, Berry died of a fatal stab wound to the heart. That’s why there was so little blood. Otherwise, he was a healthy male of fifty-seven with no clogged arteries and no lesions of any kind.”
“Poor Stan,” Tricia said and dipped another piece of lettuce into her vinaigrette dressing. “He didn’t seem the kind of man who would annoy anyone to the point of murder.”
“Everyone’s capable of murder,” Baker said. “They just need to have had the right buttons pushed. I’ll figure out who killed Berry. It might just take me a while.”
“How about DNA evidence? Too soon for a report, I suppose.”
Baker nodded.
“Were there fingerprints on the letter opener?”
“No. And the only fingerprints in the washroom belonged to the victim and the janitor, the latter of whom has been exonerated. He’d punched out at eight o’clock that morning. His wife corroborates that he was in bed asleep at the time of the murder. Neighbors say they saw him pull into his driveway at the usual time.”
“So, another dead end.”
Baker polished off the last of his fries. “Every time you eliminate a suspect, you’re that much closer to solving the crime.”
Or not, Tricia thought.
Baker wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’d better get going. But one thing we haven’t talked about is Ginny’s wedding. I’d still like to go. What do you say?”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Tricia said.
“Not at all. I had to reschedule half the force to make sure I’d be free. And the Brookview puts on a great dinner. Besides, it’ll give me a chance to interact with half the Chamber members. I’m convinced one of them—or a member of the Brookview’s staff—is responsible for Berry’s murder.”
A staff member? He had to mean Eleanor, who was to be a guest at the wedding, accompanied by none other than Chauncey Porter. If they announced their engagement as planned, would Ginny try to toss her bouquet Eleanor’s way?
“Meanwhile,” Baker continued, “I need to reread all the witness statements we collected after the murder. I might think of something to ask—or, hopefully, catch someone in a lie.”
“Good luck,” Tricia said. She hadn’t yet finished her salad.
Baker tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table and stood. “We are still on for Saturday?” It sounded like a challenge.
“I guess,” she said with a shrug.
“I’ll keep in touch.” And with that, he nodded and left the diner.
Tricia picked at her salad for a couple of minutes, rethinking the conversation, yet she came to no new conclusions. She was surprised when movement in front of her caused her to look up and see Russ Smith hovering above. She frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you. I came for lunch.”
“Not with me.”
“You’ve got that right, but every other table is occupied and you look like you’re almost done.”
Tricia pushed her nearly empty salad plate aside. “I guess I am now.” She reached for her coat, which hung from a peg just outside the booth.
“Don’t run away,” Russ said and slipped into the booth where Baker had sat only minutes before. “I thought we could talk about the Berry murder.”
Didn’t any man on the planet want to talk to Tricia about any other subject?
“I don’t think Nikki would like it. And speaking of Nikki, is everything on schedule for your wedding on Saturday?”
“Don’t bring up a sore subject,” he groused.
“Have you canceled?” Tricia asked, surprised.
“No, but I think we should. Of course, we’d lose all our deposits, but then we might actually have a guest list. It was just our bad luck to pick the same weekend as Ginny, and then we didn’t get the invitations out fast enough. Everyone Ginny had invited had already accepted by the time Nikki got ours out. As it is, we changed the time, making it earlier in the day. I hoped some of the Chamber members and merchants could attend, but they’re reluctant to close shop prematurely the day after Black Friday.”
And Tricia could understand why. She started to scoot out of the booth when Russ’s voice stopped her again.
“Wait! We haven’t talked about Berry’s death.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Oh, come on. You found him,” Russ accused.
“And that was the extent of my participation in the investigation.”
“Knowing you, I doubt that.”
“And just where were you when Stan was killed?” she asked.
“Unlike most of the rest of the Chamber members, I never left the dining room. I understand you got Antonio Barbero to call 911.”
“And your point?”
“It just seems a bit funny, that’s all. You’ve never been shy about making that kin
d of call in the past.”
“There was nothing funny about it. I’d had too many cups of coffee and needed to go to the ladies’ room.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you know?”
Since he didn’t elaborate, she figured he knew about as much about Stan’s death as she did. Which meant not much at all.
“I really have to leave, Russ,” she said, grabbing her purse from the seat beside her. “I’ve got a business to run. Good luck on your wedding day.”
“Thanks. Wish you could be there.”
Had Tricia just been insulted? Nikki was terribly jealous that Tricia and Russ had once dated. Nikki had made a point of telling Tricia that she wasn’t invited to the wedding, and now that Ginny had stolen Nikki’s wedding thunder, she’d been absolutely impossible.
Too bad.
Tricia donned her coat, rummaged in her purse, and left money on the table to pay for her salad. “Good-bye, Russ.”
“See you around,” he promised.
Not if I can help it.
*
Despite the fact the Christmas rush hadn’t officially started, there sure were a lot of customers visiting the shops on Stoneham’s main drag that afternoon, which delighted Tricia. Still, once the day’s last tour bus was boarded, sales had slowed to a virtual crawl. It was after four when Tricia noticed a man and woman standing in front of her shop, admiring the figurines in her display window. Pixie suddenly appeared at her shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you that people would like those little angels and elves and buildings and stuff?”
“Yes, you did.” But was the display bringing in cash-spending customers?
Pixie waved to the couple, who smiled and headed for the shop’s door. The bell overhead tinkled as the pink-cheeked couple entered.
“Good afternoon,” Pixie called cheerfully. “And welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. Let us know if you need any help finding anything.”
“Actually, we’d like to know if the items in your front display are for sale.”
“All the books are available for purchase,” Tricia said.
“We’re more interested in the adorable village and the characters that populate it,” the woman said.
“Oh. Uh, they belong to my associate. Pixie?” Tricia turned.
“Gosh, I hadn’t thought about selling them,” Pixie said, sounding unsure of herself. “As a matter of fact, I just bought them a few weeks ago.”
The woman opened her purse and withdrew a business card. “My name is Diane Gunther. I’m curator of the Providence Museum of Kitsch. This is my associate Rodney Adams. We’re looking for examples of holiday decorations from the 1950s and ’60s. You have a fine collection in your display.”
Pixie studied the card. “Thank you. I saw them in a thrift shop. I figured the owner had probably just croaked and her relatives dumped all her junk at the charity store. Those little guys looked like they needed a good home, so I bought them all.”
“They really are amazing. Their expressions are incredibly cute,” Diane said.
“I particularly like the cardboard village pieces. Our museum has a few pieces, but not in such pristine condition,” her associate chimed in.
“Well, I aim to keep them that way.”
“Then you really should remove them from the window. Ultraviolet light can be incredibly destructive,” Diane pointed out.
“Gee, I hadn’t thought of that,” Pixie said and bit her bottom lip.
“We’re prepared to make an offer, if you’d be interested in parting with any or all of them,” Rodney said.
“Sell them?” Pixie said again, as Mr. Everett joined them.
“Would you be insulted by an offer of a thousand dollars?” Rodney asked.
“A thousand dollars?” Tricia and Pixie cried in unison.
“I’m sorry. Apparently we did insult you. How about twelve hundred?”
“Twelve hundred?” Pixie practically squealed.
“You drive a hard bargain. Fifteen hundred, and that’s as high as we can go.”
“I-I-I—” Pixie sounded like a broken record.
“She’ll take it,” Tricia said, afraid the couple might change their minds if the deal wasn’t quickly sealed.
“As it happens, we can pay you in cash, but we will need a receipt,” Rodney said. He reached into his topcoat pocket and withdrew his wallet. Opening it, he pulled out fifteen one-hundred-dollar bills, handing them to Pixie, who still seemed unable to speak.
“We’ve got some boxes and newspaper in the back. I’ll go get them,” Tricia offered, but Diane shook her head.
“We’ve got acid-free wrap and boxes out in the car. If you wouldn’t mind removing the items from the window, we’ll go and get them.”
Pixie nodded so vigorously that Tricia was afraid she might give herself a good case of whiplash.
“We’ll be back in a few minutes,” Diane promised, and she and her associate exited the shop.
Tricia moved to the window and began dismantling the display.
“I can’t believe it,” Pixie gasped. “Fifteen hundred smackers.”
“Can I be nosy and ask how much you paid for the lot?” Tricia asked.
“Seventy-five bucks.” Pixie’s gaze remained on the crisp new bills in her hand.
“What are you going to do with this windfall?” Tricia asked.
“I have no idea. Maybe buy some new old clothes, or a new TV, or get the muffler fixed on my wreck of a car. Or maybe I’ll just stick it in the bank for a rainy day,” she said, grabbing her purse from under the cash desk and stowing the money away.
“That would be a wise decision,” Mr. Everett agreed. “Do you need help, Ms. Miles?”
“I think Pixie and I can handle it.”
“Very well.” He turned to Pixie. “Congratulations, Pixie. Imagine all those little Christmas angels charming hundreds of people for years to come.” He shook his head and went back to straightening the shelves.
Tricia and Pixie had retrieved just about all the figurines by the time the couple returned. “You’d better let us wrap them,” Diane said, and it was obvious by her somber expression that she didn’t trust them not to break them and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Tricia and Pixie watched as they wrapped each piece with reverent care and stepped aside to let them work in peace.
“Well, we’re back to square one,” Pixie said quietly. “What are we going to do for our Christmas display?”
“We’ll think of something,” Tricia said, smiling bravely.
“I still have a couple of boxes of stuff I got from the thrift shop in the trunk of my car that we haven’t gone through yet,” Pixie offered.
“Uhh … well, we could take a look,” Tricia said without enthusiasm.
Pixie’s eyes lit up. “I’ll go get them.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Tricia said with dread, but she could tell Pixie wasn’t going to be dissuaded. She’d hit pay dirt with the figurines; maybe she figured it could happen again.
“It’s no trouble,” Pixie said and headed for the back of the store to grab her coat.
Oh, dear. Not again, Tricia thought, unhappy at the prospect of disappointing Pixie by rejecting yet more of her treasures.
The couple up front were wrapping the last of the figurines when Pixie staggered in under the weight of yet another large cardboard carton. She carried it to the now-clear display counter and dumped it. “You guys want to see what else I’ve got?” she offered.
Diane’s eyes lit up, as though anticipating a new prize.
Pixie shucked her coat and opened the carton, dropping it on the floor and started pulling out yards and yards of plastic holly and ivy garland.
“Do you have anything of the same quality as the figurines?” Rodney asked, sounding dubious.
“You never know,” Pixie said eagerly, but it was evident to Tricia that the carton was filled with more useless junk.
“It’ll be dark soon, and we’ve got q
uite a drive back to Providence,” Diane told her associate. She turned back to Pixie. “Thank you again for the figurines. You can see them set up at the museum in about a week, after we’ve cataloged and photographed them.”
“Uh, sure,” Pixie said.
The two strangers each picked up a box and allowed Pixie to hold the door open for them. “Bye!” she called, looking after them until they were out of sight.
Tricia turned to the junky garland on the counter. At the bottom of the box was an assortment of plastic and homemade wooden snowmen, their paint scraped and discolored. They might be able to use them in the display but only if Pixie was able to repaint them and make them cute once more. Now to convince her.
Pixie approached the cash desk, her grin exposing all her teeth. The gold canine flashed. “Wow—what a piece of luck.”
“It sure was,” Tricia agreed.
“Do you like the snowmen? I know they’re kind of shabby right now, but I did a lot of crafts when I was in stir. I figure I can spruce them up with a little paint and they’ll be as good as new.”
“Go for it,” Tricia said.
“Great.” She started tossing everything back into the box.
“I’ll be glad to give you a hand taking that box to your car, Pixie,” Mr. Everett offered.
“I think I can handle it.”
“Since we’re due to close in just fifteen minutes, why don’t you two go now. I can handle closing up.”
“Are you sure?” Pixie asked.
“Positive,” Tricia assured her.
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Pixie said with a grin. “This will give me time to check out another thrift shop on my way home.”
Oh, dear.
“You’re free to leave, too, Mr. Everett.”
“That’s very kind of you to offer, but Grace is meeting me here, and I’m happy to help you with the end of the day’s tasks, Ms. Miles.”
“Very well.”
Mr. Everett held the door for Pixie, who hollered, “See ya tomorrow,” before the door closed on her. Then Mr. Everett retrieved the vacuum cleaner and started on the carpet. He was rewinding the cord when Grace arrived, dressed in a dark wool coat with a matching felted hat.
“Goodness, it’s cold out there,” she said. “I do believe I saw a few snowflakes, too.”
Not the Killing Type Page 16
