Текст книги "A Fatal Chapter"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

SIXTEEN

By the time Tricia made it back to the Chamber office, Pixie had arrived for her afternoon stint, and Mariana was full of questions about the cemetery lunch.

“It wasn’t that big a deal. We ate fried chicken and potato salad and did a lot of girl talk.”

“About what?” Mariana pressed.

Tricia shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t record our conversation.”

Mariana pursed her lips and went back to her desk, looking disappointed. Had her day been so dull that she wanted to live vicariously through someone’s—anyone’s—adventure, however dull?

“I think it’s a cool place to have lunch,” Pixie said. “I heard the Historical Society is going to have ghost walks this fall. I’m going to sign up. I wonder if they’ll have a special Halloween ghost walk? Do you think they’d want people to come in costume? I love to dress up.”

Tricia inspected Pixie’s costume of the day, which was a navy-themed dress with white piping and a jaunty sailor’s cap to top it off. For a stocky, dyed-redheaded, gold-toothed woman on the high side of fifty, Pixie looked quite cute.

Luckily, the subject was soon dropped, and the rest of the afternoon was lost to phone calls, paperwork, and envelope stuffing.

Mariana left right on time at five o’clock, which gave Tricia and Pixie time to talk, and it was then she realized she’d been waiting all afternoon to live vicariously through Pixie’s new adventures in love land. “Are you spending the evening with Fred?” she asked.

“Yep. It’s a big day for us. Our two-month anniversary. We’re celebrating by getting tattoos.”

Tricia gaped. “But . . . isn’t it early in the relationship for that?”

Pixie shrugged. “We talked about that. So I’m getting the sun, and he’s getting the moon. They’re usually done together as one tat. Later, if things work out, I’ll get the moon, and he’ll get the sun. It’s kind of like a promise we’re making to each other.”

Promise rings wouldn’t be half as permanent.

“You ever think of getting a tat?” Pixie asked.

“I can honestly say no.”

“Everybody gets ’em nowadays. You could get a little book on your arm or ankle. It would be cute, but you need to go to a place that does quality work.”

“It sounds like you’ve done your homework on this.”

“Ya gotta. Otherwise, you end up looking like an old rummy sailor who got drunk and went to a hack. I’m wearing this tat to the grave and it has to look good.”

“You’re braver than me,” Tricia said sincerely.

Pixie waved a hand in dismissal. “Are you kidding? You’ve stared down killers. That’s not something I could do, so a tattoo would be pretty easy stuff for a stand-up chick like you.”

Stand-up chick, huh? Tricia liked the sound of that.

Pixie waxed poetic on all the tattoos she’d seen in prison and beyond, then segued into her latest pedicure and wax—more information than Tricia really wanted to know, but she listened transfixed nonetheless. No doubt about it, Pixie could spin a story. Maybe she’d be interested in volunteering to be a docent for the Historical Society, too, some day.

All too soon it was time for Pixie to leave. Tricia watched as she grabbed her things and headed for the door.

“Hey, wait a minute.” Pixie paused. “When am I going to get to meet Fred?”

“You really want to?”

“Well, of course I do,” Tricia said.

“Gee, maybe you could stop by Booked for Lunch around ten thirty some morning. That’s when he makes his delivery.”

“Sounds good. Maybe I could scrounge a cup of coffee from Angelica at the same time.”

Pixie grinned. “I’ll bet you could.”

“All right. How about we plan it for some time next week?”

“Great.” Pixie headed for the door once more. “See ya tomorrow. And I’ll show off my tat as soon as I get in.” And out the door she went.

Tricia frowned. Pixie hadn’t mentioned just where this tattoo was going to go. Tricia just hoped it wasn’t going to be on an embarrassing body part.

With time to kill before she was to meet Angelica at her loft apartment, Tricia went out back to water the perennials that some previous owner had planted along the west side of the house.

Distracted by thoughts of possible tattoos she might one day get, she was halfway through the job, facing away from the drive, when a noise from behind caused her to turn with a start.

“Bob Kelly, what are you doing here at this time of day?” Tricia asked, nearly watering his shoes with the hose. He took a step back.

“I need you to make a decision, and I need it now,” Bob demanded, his tone formidable.

“Bob, what’s gotten into you?” Tricia asked, turning so that the water ran into the grass.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Yes!”

“I need the money. I’m going to jail unless I can keep paying that shark of an attorney of mine.”

“You mean because you ransacked your own property?”

“No, because I never finished my community service.”

“I thought that all blew over.”

“It didn’t. I’ve tried to keep it quiet, but it looks like they’re going to make me do time, and when I get out, I’ll be on probation, and not only will I have to finish my community service, but I’ll be stuck with even more of it.”

Oh, what a tangled web, Tricia thought without pity.

“What about all the rent you collect? You own half the village.”

“Make that past tense.”

“You’ve sold some of your properties?”

“Not on Main Street, except for the lot where History Repeats Itself used to be. And now maybe your building, but only because it’s a wreck and I might have to put a lot of money into it if you leave without fixing it.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that,” Tricia said evenly.

“You’ve got the money,” Bob said.

Tricia did have the money, but she didn’t like being pressured. And she didn’t want to pay more than fair-market value, either. He’d already stuck her for more than fair-market rent. “And how would you know about my financial situation?” she bluffed. Angelica had probably told him. It seemed like she’d shared an awful lot of information with him.

“I have my ways.”

Tricia looked at him with suspicion. “Have you hacked into the bank’s files?”

Bob looked away.

Nobody knew how Betsy Dittmeyer, the Chamber’s former receptionist, had established so many bogus accounts in banks all over the country to hide her ill-gotten gains. Had she confided to Bob how she’d done it when she’d worked for him? Had they worked together? Probably not. If Bob could have gotten his hands on that money, he would have already done so. And once the accounts had been turned over to the district attorney, they were frozen so no one would have access to them.

“I haven’t done anything illegal,” he said at last.

“Since you vandalized Stan Berry’s home you mean?”

“Yes,” he said bitterly. “But I’ve considered doing something very stupid if I can’t buy my way out of this conviction.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m not about to tell you.”

Was he bluffing, or was he actually that desperate?

Tricia studied Bob’s face. The skin along his jaw was taut with worry, and the strain he was under was evident by his stooped posture.

“Come on, Tricia, buy the damn building.” He reached into the inner breast pocket of his rumpled green sports coat and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I’ve filled out the sales contract, all you have to do is—”

“No!” Tricia cried.

Bob slammed his fist against the home’s shingles, and Tricia jumped back, dropping the hose, afraid he might hit her, too. She’d never before been afraid of Bob Kelly, but at that moment she was. She took a shaky breath. “You’d better leave, Bob. Now. I don’t want to be forced to call the Stoneham Police Department to drag you away.”

Bob shoved the papers back into his pocket. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Tricia.”

Tricia took another shaky breath but stood tall. “Are you threatening me?”

But Bob didn’t answer. Instead, he pivoted and stormed off.

Still feeling shaky, Tricia realized the grass all around her was wet from the still gushing hose. Her hands were trembling as she turned off the water, coiled the hose, and replaced it on the rusty metal holder attached to the house. Taking a deep breath, she walked around the side of the building and walked up the ramp to the side entrance, which she’d left unlocked. For a moment she worried that Bob might have gone inside and was waiting for her, but Miss Marple sat in the middle of the hall leading to the office and didn’t seem at all alarmed.

Tricia stepped forward and picked up the cat, which nestled its head against her chin and began to purr with enthusiasm. “Thank you for being here, Miss Marple. At this moment, I need a kitty hug.” Miss Marple did not hug back, but her obvious affection helped Tricia to feel calmer.

All too soon, Miss Marple jumped down from Tricia’s embrace. Just as well. Tricia was going to be late meeting Angelica. She grabbed her keys, made sure she left the outside light switched on, and left the house. It would be late when she returned from Pete’s wake—or from replacing the silk flowers. Would Bob be waiting for her? She tried not to think about it as she made her way down Main Street toward the Cookery.

The store had been closed a good half hour before Tricia arrived. She unlocked the door and let herself in. By the time she climbed the stairs to Angelica’s loft, she heard Sarge announcing her arrival with shrill barks and remembered that she’d forgotten to grab one of his dog biscuits before leaving the Chamber office. Oh well, she’d give him two the next time she saw him.

“Hello!” she called over the sound of barking. Once Sarge realized who the intruder was, his barking immediately switched from menace to welcome.

“Come on back to the kitchen,” Angelica hollered.

Tricia cautiously made her way down the hall with Sarge bouncing along at her side. As they entered the kitchen, Angelica said, “Hush!”

The barking immediately stopped, and Sarge looked at Tricia with hopeful eyes, his pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. “I forgot his biscuit.”

“You know where I keep them,” Angelica said, and Tricia helped herself to one from the canister on the counter. Sarge sat up pretty and accepted the biscuit, then scurried off to his bed to enjoy it.

“What’s for dinner?” Tricia asked as Angelica piped yolk mixture into half of an egg.

“Just leftovers from the café, I’m afraid. Salads mostly. And we had a lot of eggs left over, so I’m making deviled eggs.”

“Quite a few. What’s that, two dozen halves?”

Angelica nodded. “I thought I could take them to the Dog-Eared Page for Pete’s wake later on.”

“Good idea,” Tricia said. “Who told you about the wake?”

“Nobody. I kind of suggested it.”

“You did?”

“Well, Michele Fowler is the one who got the word around. I just put a bug in her ear.”

“She said Nigela Ricita authorized eats for Pete’s wake.”

Angelica shrugged. “Sad people drink too much. We don’t want anyone to get drunk, have an accident, and sue us.”

That sounded like the words of a businesswoman, but Tricia didn’t believe it for a minute. Angelica equated food with love. It was so like her to want to feed people—especially those who were grieving.

“What kind of a day did you have?”

“Busy. I had lunch with Michele at the Stoneham Rural Cemetery.”

“Not my kind of lunch venue,” Angelica said, wrinkling her nose.

“It was quite nice, actually. She already knows quite a bit of local history—and good gossip, too.”

“And what was the occasion?”

“She doesn’t want me talking to anyone about the ghost walks.”

“And so you’re telling me,” Angelica said, looking up from her handiwork.

“You won’t repeat it. She’s worried that whoever killed Pete and came after Janet might mark her next.”

“I can’t say I blame her,” Angelica moved on to another egg half. “Anything happen at the Chamber today that I should know about?”

“Everything’s putting along just fine, but I did have a bit of a scare just before I came here. Bob came to visit me, and he wasn’t friendly.”

Angelica looked up. “What do you mean?”

“He shoved a sales contract for my building in my face, and when I wouldn’t sign, he slammed his fist into the side of the house.”

“Bob threatened you?” Angelica repeated incredulously.

Tricia nodded. “And he meant to frighten me. He’s determined not to go to jail. He said he might be forced to do something stupid. What do you think that means?”

Angelica shrugged. “I don’t know. Liquidate his assets?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Angelica said. “Bob’s family had nothing. Everything he has he earned through hard work.” She shook her head. “It upsets me to think he threatened you. I didn’t think he would stoop that low.”

“I’ll admit, I was actually afraid.”

“Have you told Grant Baker about this encounter?” Angelica said, and piped the remaining yolk mixture into the last egg half.

“No, it happened just before I left to come here. But maybe I should.”

“What about Christopher?”

“No. And I don’t want you telling him, either.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to have someone tall and imposing to act as your bodyguard for a few days or weeks,” Angelica said, and bent down to retrieve paprika from her spice stash.

“No,” Tricia reiterated.

“All right. I’ll promise not to tell him, but only if you do speak to Grant. Now, promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Good. I’m sure we can get a couple of people to walk you home after the wake. Perhaps Antonio, if he shows up,” Angelica said, and sprinkled a good measure of paprika over the eggs.

“Why wouldn’t he come?”

“Oh, Ginny had an upset stomach this afternoon. He may not want to leave her . . . just in case it’s time for the baby to arrive.”

“Oh, dear. Keep me posted, will you?”

“Of course.”

“I hear you spoke to the Koslovs about their camera.”

Angelica nodded and pulled the plastic wrap from one of the drawers. “Boris wasn’t keen to set it up, but Alexa is furious about the flowers being destroyed. She had him set it up right outside their door, so I thought we could start there with our replanting.”

“Fine with me.”

“Good.” She covered the eggs and put them into the fridge. “Now, let’s eat. We don’t want to be late for Pete’s wake. I’ll pass the leftovers and you can choose what you want.”

Tricia stood to receive the bounty and was nearly overwhelmed by the foam containers Angelica handed her—five in all. Tricia placed them on the big granite island and opened them. Angelica hadn’t been kidding when she said salads. Egg salad, tuna salad, ham salad, chicken salad, and a leafy green salad.

Angelica supplied plates, serving spoons, forks, and a couple of rolls. “Dig in.”

Tricia picked up a spoon and doled out greens, then topped them with a small helping from each of the other salads. “This is my second picnic of the day,” she said.

“Picnics to me mean fun,” Angelica said. “Nothing to do with the pressures of the day, just relaxation.” She held up a finger. “Hang on, I forgot the best part.” She reached into the cupboard behind her and bought out a bag of barbeque potato chips.

“Good Lord—the calories!” Tricia cried.

“You don’t have to eat any,” Angelica said, opening the bag and spilling some onto her plate.

“The hell I don’t,” Tricia said, and took the bag from her sister, dumping a small portion onto her waiting plate. Then she paused, staring at the bag and the bounty before her. “This reminds me of the time Grandma Miles took just the two of us to Cove Island Park.”

“I remember,” Angelica gushed. “Oh, we had so much fun that day. She brought along a couple of plastic bottles of bubbles, and we blew them at each other until we were both sticky.”

Tricia smiled. “You know, I think that’s my happiest childhood memory.”

“Really?” Angelica asked.

Tricia nodded. “At the time, Grandma was the person I loved the best, and now it’s you.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Angelica said, and grabbed one of the rolls.

“I’m not. I’m being honest.”

“I’m sorry to say that it took us both too long to appreciate each other. But you know, now that you know about my secret life, I think we could have a helluva good time together.”

“You want to share it with me?”

“I thought I made that clear the other day. And now with Antonio and Ginny and their kids . . . Just think of the fun we all could have.” She eyed Tricia with a sly grin. “Are you game?”

Tricia’s mouth curved into a smile, and she remembered what Pixie had said. “You bet your ass.”

SEVENTEEN

The Dog-Eared Page was quite literally hopping—or at least several couples were dancing quite energetically to the beat of music that blared from the pub’s sound system when Tricia and Angelica arrived. Tricia held the door open for her sister, who carried a large tray with the deviled eggs and a full-sized carrot cake.

“Ah, there you are,” Michele called over the cacophony issuing from the speakers. “You can set that down over on that table in the corner.”

Angelica nodded and threaded her way through the crowd, which was at least three-deep at the bar. The eats table was loaded with platters of cold cuts, various rolls, condiments, pasta and potato salads, grapes, berries, and pineapple, different cheeses, and cookies. Nigela Ricita had been very generous.

Suddenly, the music ended, catching several people off guard, who’d been yelling to be heard. Looking sheepish, they lowered their voices. Within seconds an old Beatles tune—and much quieter—issued from the sound system: “In My Life.”

The crowd stopped talking, listening to the haunting lyrics, growing somber. When the music ended, Michele raised her glass. “To Pete. God rest his soul.”

“To Pete,” the majority of patrons echoed, raising their glasses. Tricia didn’t even know most of the people who’d come to pay their respects to Pete. She and Angelica snaked their way through the crowd to get to the bar, where they ordered drinks: a martini for Angelica and a glass of Chardonnay for Tricia. With glasses in hand, they again made their way through the crowd to a booth on the side where Grace and Mr. Everett sat across from each other. Tricia sat next to Mr. E while Angelica eased in beside Grace.

The music hadn’t come back on, but the murmur of many voices made it difficult to hear.

“Glad you could join us,” Grace practically shouted. Before her sat a half-finished glass of her favorite sherry. Before Mr. Everett was a tall glass of what looked like ginger ale.

“Did you have something to eat?” Angelica asked.

“Not yet. What did you bring?”

“Curried deviled eggs and a carrot cake.”

Grace Harris-Everett’s eyes widened in delight. It was no secret that, like half the village, she loved Angelica’s carrot cake. “That sounds delightful.”

Suddenly the air was pierced with the sound of someone hitting a glass with a spoon, which effectively cut through the din. The murmur of voices died to nothing, and Michele again addressed the group. “A few of Pete’s friends would like to speak. First, his next-door neighbor, Sandra Marshall.”

An elderly woman sidled up to the bar. There wasn’t a sound in the room when she started to speak. “Ten years ago, Pete Renquist bought the house next to mine. My husband, Donald, had had a stroke and could no longer take care of our yard or driveway, but Pete stepped up to help. In the spring, summer, and fall, he’d cut my grass. In the winter he and his snowblower cleared my drive. I don’t know what I would have done without him. I don’t know how I’ll manage without him. I’ll miss his kindness. I’ll miss his sweet smile, his generosity. I don’t believe anyone ever had a better neighbor than Pete Renquist—” Her voice broke, and tears filled her eyes. She raised her glass, and everyone drank in Pete’s honor.

“We have others who want to toast Pete, too,” Michele said.

This time, a man of about thirty approached the bar. At Michele’s nod, he spoke. “I’m sorry, I don’t know a lot of you. My name is Rob Weber. I worked with Pete for the past two years at the Historical Society. He’s been a mentor to me, a real friend. I didn’t know a soul when I took the job and moved here, but he helped me find a place to live, even fed me for the first couple of weeks while I struggled to figure out a new town. He was a great guy.” Rob raised his glass, and everyone toasted.

Michele nodded in their direction, and Angelica picked up her glass and stood, then made her way over to the bar. Everyone quieted down once again.

“As president of the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce, I was privileged to spend time with Pete Renquist these last eight months. During that time we formed a solid working relationship that brought benefit to not only the Historical Society, but the people of Stoneham and its merchants. Though at times Pete could have a bit of a sharp tongue, he was never a bully. Like me, he came to love our little adopted village and had only its best interests at heart. We shall miss him.” She raised her glass. “To Pete.”

“To Pete.”

Angelica returned to the table. Michele nodded toward the back of the room, and a number of people stepped aside to let the next speaker move up to the bar. Tricia’s eyes widened in surprise as she recognized Toni Bennett. She looked around, but the antique dealer’s contractor husband was nowhere in sight.

Toni’s face was flushed and her eyes were red-rimmed. She’d obviously been crying.

She spoke a few words too low for Tricia to hear. She cupped her ear as a male voice called out, “Can’t hear you!”

Toni started again. “Pete Renquist was my friend.” She stopped, wiping a tissue over her eyes, mopping the tears that leaked from them. “We worked together at the Stoneham Historical Society. He as an employee, me as a volunteer,” she managed, her voice breaking.

“Her performance is a little over the top, don’t you think?” Angelica whispered from across the table. Tricia held a finger to her lips and shushed her sister.

“I never met such a kind, considerate, and funny person,” Toni continued.

Kinder, more considerate, and more fun than her husband? Tricia wondered. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as Toni took a moment to collect her thoughts—and emotions—and Tricia turned to glance at the pub’s front entrance, where she saw Jim Stark standing, his shoulders hunched, his lips pursed, his face flushed with what could only be anger. His gaze was riveted on his wife, who seemed oblivious to his presence.

“Pete had his faults—we all do—but I choose to remember only the good, and I hope you will, too,” Toni said, and raised her glass.

Those all around her raised their glasses, too, and chorused, “To Pete.”

This time, Tricia didn’t raise her glass. She looked back to the pub’s entrance in time to see that Stark was no longer there, and she heard the door shut with a bang.

“That was weird,” Angelica said, just loud enough for Tricia to hear.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Tricia said.

“Will I?” Angelica asked coyly.

Tricia looked at the bottom of her rapidly diminishing drink. “Perhaps.”

Toni drained her glass, placed it on the bar, and, without further adieu, headed for the exit. Tricia watched her go. By the time the door closed behind Toni, the next speaker stood before the bar.

They listened as four more of Pete’s friends got up to give their heartfelt farewells. Afterward, Michele invited everyone to partake of the refreshments, and people swarmed the eats table.

“You’d better hurry if you want to get something to eat,” Tricia encouraged her tablemates.

Angelica shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

“Nor am I,” said Mr. Everett.

“I’d love a small slice of your wonderful carrot cake,” Grace said.

“I’ll go get you a piece,” Tricia volunteered, and got up from the table. She made her way through the crowd, waiting for her turn. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bob Kelly standing at the back of the pub with a beer in hand. He didn’t seem to be with anyone, and he had the expression of a hunted man. She turned away, only to find her ex-husband standing uncomfortably close.

“That was a nice speech Angelica gave,” Christopher very nearly hollered over the din.

“Yes.” Tricia didn’t want to make eye contact and looked around the person standing in front of her, hoping there would still be cake by the time she made it to the table.

“I thought I might run into you here, Trish.”

She said nothing, still staring ahead.

“I wanted to apologize again for the other night.”

“I forgive you,” Tricia said, still not looking at him.

“Can we talk?”

Finally she turned to him. “We are.”

“I mean really talk.”

“It seems like all we do is spar.”

“We need to clear the air.”

A man juggling a plate of food moved past them, allowing Tricia to step forward. Maybe she should just let Christopher talk and get it out of his system. Then maybe she could finally convince him that she wasn’t interested in resuming any kind of relationship with him.

“Okay,” she said at last. “I’m sitting with Grace and Mr. Everett. Once they leave, I’ll talk to you.”

Christopher immediately brightened. “Thanks, Trish. I’ll leave you alone until then.”

“Thank you.”

Christopher stepped away, heading for the bar.

“What a crowd,” the woman next to Tricia grumbled. “I had no idea Pete had so many friends.” The woman was attractive, albeit a little overweight, but she knew how to dress to overcome that obstacle. Her hair was a pleasant shade of blonde, and the makeup she wore accentuated her pretty blue eyes, downplaying the wrinkles from years of smiles.

“Me, either,” Tricia said.

“Were you a long-time friend of Pete’s?” the woman asked.

Tricia shook her head. “I only met him in March. My shop burned down. While I wait for the insurance company to pay my claim, I’m volunteering at the Chamber of Commerce. My sister is its president.”

“How nice. I mean about your sister. You must own the mystery store.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I met Pete during the restoration of the garden behind the Historical Society.”

“It’s lovely. I was just there the other day.”

Several people peeled away from the eats table, and Tricia and the woman were able to advance two steps closer.

“It was a lot of work to get it back to the way it was when Hiram Stone lived in the house, and it will take a lot of work to keep it that way, but well worth it.”

“It’s very peaceful. Before her”—Tricia hesitated—“accident, Janet Koch said Pete’s ashes would likely be scattered there.”

The woman’s smile was bittersweet. “He’d like that. He loved that house and the garden. I hope Pete rests in peace.”

“Me, too,” Tricia agreed with regret.

“I’m sorry. I should introduce myself. I’m Julia Harrison.” The woman offered Tricia her hand, and they shook.

“Tricia Miles.”

Julia Harrison—the woman Mariana had told Tricia about—just the person she had been hoping to meet. But how could she ask Julia about the relationship she’d never quite forged with Pete? She thought about it for a moment before an idea came to her.

“Pete was a sweetheart, but such a flirt,” Tricia said, and shook her head, plastering what she hoped was a wry smile across her lips.

Julie laughed and shook her head, too.

Another few people—plates heaped with food—turned away from the table and sidled through the crowd. Tricia and Julia stepped forward once again.

“What’s so funny?” Tricia asked.

“Pete. He was a great guy. Had a wonderful personality, but had an Achilles heel when it came to dating.”

“Oh?” Tricia asked.

“I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but—” Julia leaned closer and lowered her voice. “He suffered from ED.”

For a moment Tricia was befuddled. Ed?

Julia seemed to note her confusion and whispered, “Erectile dysfunction.”

Tricia’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Julia nodded sadly. “Pete and I dated for a while. He was such a joy to be with. We could talk forever about the Historical Society, art, food, music—just about everything. But when it came to intimacy, we ran up against a brick wall.”

“But there are medications for that,” Tricia said.

“That’s what I told him, but he wouldn’t even consider it. He was too embarrassed to discuss it with even his doctor.” She shook her head sadly. “I may have hit the big five-oh, but I’m not dead yet. It broke us apart.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I was, too, but I got back into the dating game and met a great guy. I don’t know if we’ll end up together for the rest of our lives, but we enjoy each other’s company and have fun—in and out of the sack.” Julia giggled.

So, Pete’s flirting was just an over-the-top attempt to make people believe he was some kind of lothario when in fact he was ashamed of a treatable medical condition. Tricia felt even sorrier for the poor man.

Finally, the last few people ahead of Tricia moved away from the decimated food table. Tricia was able to snag the last piece of carrot cake for Grace. She grabbed a plastic fork and some napkins while Julia scored a deviled egg, a roll, and a slice each of ham and cheese.

“It was nice to meet you, Julia.”

“Same here. I’ll make a point to visit your store when you reopen.”

“Thank you,” Tricia said, and turned, heading back for the table.

“Here you go,” she said, handing Grace the plate.

“Thank you, dear,” Grace said, and cut a small piece of cake. She sampled it and closed her eyes in bliss. When she swallowed, she said, “This has got to be the best carrot cake I’ve ever eaten. You are amazing, Angelica.”

“I can’t take credit for this one. Tommy, my short-order cook, took my recipe and bakes them on the side to make a few extra dollars. But don’t tell Nikki Brimfield over at the Patisserie.”

Grace smiled. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“I didn’t know Tommy baked, too,” Tricia said.

“Yes. In fact, I’m worried that he’ll soon leave me for another job. I’m paying him a lot, but if he’d be happier baking, then I don’t want to stand in his way, either.”

It was then Tricia remembered that Booked for Lunch’s former short-order cook had been snatched up by the Brookview Inn to be its head chef. Angelica must have masterminded that, too, since she now owned most of the inn. Tricia frowned. It surprised her how many little good deeds Angelica had performed, and not only hadn’t she flaunted her generosity, she’d managed to stay anonymous. Tricia smiled at her sister.

“What?” Angelica asked.

“Nothing.”

“Shall I go get the car, dear?” Mr. Everett asked. “You’ll be finished with your cake by the time I bring it around.”

“Yes, why not?” Grace said.

Tricia got up from her seat so that Mr. Everett could leave.