Текст книги "A Fatal Chapter"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Tricia stepped away from the gazebo, walking fast to close the space between them. “It’s Pete. I found him.”

“He’s dead?” Russ asked, shocked.

“No!” Tricia asserted.

“Well, you’re not known for finding live bodies,” Russ said with irony.

Tricia glared at him. “It looks like he might have suffered a heart attack.”

Russ looked toward the gazebo. “Poor guy. Did he say anything to you?”

“Nothing that made sense.”

They turned their attention to the road, where an ambulance pulled up at the curb. Another set of EMTs hurried to join the firemen, hauling a gurney along with them.

Tricia and Russ edged away, yet remained close enough that they could hear the EMTs.

“He’s gone into cardiac arrest,” Danny said, and began CPR.

“Oh, no,” Tricia said, feeling close to tears.

“Well, at least he started out alive,” Russ said.

“Hey, don’t count Pete out yet,” she grated, glaring at him.

Russ just shrugged.

They watched as the EMTs worked in a fluid motion to transfer Pete to the gurney and whisk him off to the ambulance. By then they noticed a bunch of rubberneckers that had gathered around the edges of the park and were watching the show. Poor Pete.

Less than a minute later, the ambulance took off with its siren wailing. Sarge began to wiggle in Tricia’s arms, and she set him down on the ground. The firemen packed up their gear, stowed it in their vehicle, and left the scene.

With the show now over, the gawkers began to drift away.

“That’s it,” Russ said. He cocked his head and addressed Tricia. “What were you doing in the park, anyway?”

She brandished Sarge’s leash. “What do you think?”

He shrugged, looking back to the road, then at his watch. “Looks like Pete and I won’t get to talk about that article after all. I sure hope the poor guy makes it.”

Heavy-hearted, Tricia looked toward the road, where the ambulance had receded from sight. “Yes. Me, too.”

TWO

Tricia returned Sarge to Angelica’s apartment, stopping long enough to say hello to the Cookery’s manager, Frannie Mae Armstrong, and Mr. Everett, who was working there part-time. Naturally, both asked about the ambulance and the ensuing commotion in the center of the village, and Tricia told them just the basics before she headed back to the Chamber office.

Pixie and Mariana had just as many questions, and Tricia told them the bare minimum, too.

“Boy, you’ve sure got the knack for finding stiffs,” Pixie muttered, shaking her head.

“He wasn’t dead!” Tricia turned to Mariana, forcing herself to speak calmly. “Have we heard from Angelica yet?”

Mariana shook her head. “She said she wasn’t planning on coming back to the Chamber office today—remember?”

“Oh, that’s right. I’m sorry. I guess I’m feeling a little rattled.” Tricia settled into the chair in front of her desk, trying to decide if she was able to muster the enthusiasm needed to attack the pile of phone messages waiting for her attention. She’d catch up with her sister later. Angelica often came back to the Chamber office during the evenings to catch up with paperwork or make calls, sometimes bringing a makeshift dinner that she’d share with Tricia and Miss Marple.

Tricia found it hard to concentrate during the rest of the afternoon. In her mind’s eye she saw poor Pete lying on the gazebo’s cold concrete floor, barely holding on to life. She wondered if she ought to call St. Joseph Hospital to check up on him, but would they have information on an emergency case who hadn’t actually been admitted?

Pixie had moved on from putting labels on envelopes to actually stuffing them. For the most part, she worked quietly while soft rock issued from the radio on Mariana’s desk. Occasionally Pixie would sing along off-key, which caused Mariana to start clearing her throat as though she were choking on a bone. Though physically separated by the space between their desks, for the rest of the afternoon Pixie seemed to hover over Tricia, looking worried—even if she never moved from her chair.

At one point, a shiver passed through Tricia, and she looked up and, as expected, found Pixie staring at her. “What?”

Pixie looked away. “Nothing, I was just . . . staring into space.”

A lie.

The Chamber was open until six o’clock, but Mariana only worked until five. At 4:59, she turned off her radio, grabbed her purse from the desk drawer, and rose. “I’ll see you ladies tomorrow,” she said, and headed for the door.

“Have a good evening,” Tricia called.

“One more hour and it’ll be our turn,” Pixie said, and moved on to sealing the envelopes with a wet-sponge dauber. Without the background noise of Mariana’s radio, the time seemed to drag. The battery-operated clock on the wall seemed to tick louder with the passing minutes, not unlike Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart. Tricia couldn’t seem to concentrate on any task she attempted, opening files only to glance at the screen and then close them once again.

Finally, Pixie glanced at the clock, which at last read 5:58. “Holy smoke, is that the time?” she said, and scooped all the envelopes into a box, replacing it under her desk.

“What’s the matter? Have you got a hot date?” Tricia asked, and was surprised when Pixie actually blushed.

“Well, actually . . . yeah. I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Boy? At Pixie’s age? Hardly.

“Pixie!” Tricia called, feeling lighter than she had in hours. “When did this happen?”

“A couple of months ago. I didn’t want to say anything. I mean, knowing how your love life is in the toilet and all.”

In the toilet wasn’t exactly true. Flushed and long gone was a better description. But it had been a conscious decision on Tricia’s part. After losing her home and store, she didn’t want to rush into any kind of relationship. She occasionally had lunch with her ex-husband, Christopher, but she was fairly certain she’d finally convinced him that any future relationship with him was out of the question. And while Chief Baker still dropped by on a regular basis, she thought of him only with friendship in mind—which was pretty much all their relationship had been based on, anyway.

“Don’t be silly,” Tricia chided her. “I’m thrilled for you. What’s his name? What’s he like? Does he—” She stopped herself.

“Know about my past?” Pixie finished for her. She nodded. “Yup. That was a difficult conversation, and things were a little tense for a while, but they’re better now. In fact, they’re terrific.” She positively beamed. “His name is Fred Pillins—ain’t that a weird name?”

“Pillins? I must say I’ve never heard of it before. It’s unique,” Tricia said. “Are you guys . . . serious?”

“When you’re on the high side of fifty, everything had better be serious,” Pixie said.

“Are you thinking about—?”

“Getting married?” Pixiee shook her head. “But shacking up ain’t out of the question. It would sure save on rent and groceries and stuff. The way things are—I’m either at his place, or he’s at mine.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“At Booked for Lunch. He delivers the meat and cold cuts. We hit it off right away, and then one day he asked me out to dinner. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“And you never said a word,” Tricia muttered.

“Now that the cat’s out of the bag, I’ll talk your ear off about him,” she said with a grin.

“I’d love to hear all about him,” Tricia said sincerely.

Pixie consulted her watch. “But not today. I’m off.” She withdrew her purse from the desk drawer and grabbed the garment bag with her waitressing clothes. Fingering a wave, she mimicked Angelica. “Tootles!”

“Have a nice evening,” Tricia called after her.

Once the door closed behind Pixie, Tricia arranged the yellow Post-it notes chronicling the chores she needed to accomplish the next day in a line on top of her desk in the order of their importance.

As she passed Pixie’s desk, she noticed a folded section of the morning newspaper on top. Tricia scooped it up, intending to toss it into the wastebasket, which she would empty before she closed the office for the day. She paused to look at it. Pixie had finished the crossword, but she’d only figured out three of the four scrambled words from the Jumble in the Union Leader. Tricia stared at the letters before her. U-G-E-H-N-R. She thought about it for a moment. H-U-N-G-E-R. That was easy enough. She thought about the lunch she’d never gotten around to eating. No wonder she felt so empty inside.

Her gaze traveled over to a wrinkled brochure, which also sat on the desk. It was for NRA Realty, a division of Nigela Ricita Associates.

Suddenly the letters of one of the words rearranged themselves in her mind and she smiled. R-I-C-I-T-A rearranged was T-R-I-C-I-A.

Her smile faded as a wave of cold passed through her—like someone walking on her grave. No, it can’t be, she thought, her insides seeming to do a summersault. She studied the letters in the other word. There weren’t enough letters in N-I-G-E-L-A to spell out Angelica. Still . . .

Tricia went into the kitchen to get a trash bag, then emptied the four wastebaskets and tossed the newspaper into it as well. For some reason, she couldn’t stop thinking about those jumbled letters. Surely it was coincidence. Angelica couldn’t be Nigela Ricita.

But, like Clark Kent and Superman, Nigela and Angelica had never been seen together. Heck, besides Antonio Barbero, no one in the village had ever met the elusive Ms. Ricita. Antonio did all the talking for his boss. She communicated with her employees via e-mail. That was certainly an effective way of keeping any questions about her identity at bay.

It can’t be.

Tricia stared at the headline once more. The words Angelica Tricia seemed to jump off the page.

Since Nigela Ricita Associates had come to town, they’d invested in the Brookview Inn, the Happy Domestic, the Sheer Comfort Inn, the Eat Lunch rolling food truck, and the local pub, the Dog-Eared Page. They’d bought the building that now housed the Chamber of Commerce. And, lucky for the Chamber, NRA had made improvements despite the fact that they intended to raze the building in the not-too-distant future, and charged the organization far less than the going rate for rent. The company also subsidized the flowers that festooned Main Street, which pleased not just the tourists but the shopkeepers as well.

These—all its—investments had been good for Stoneham and for its citizens, too. Nigela Ricita Associates had created not only jobs, but greater prosperity. Angelica was far too selfish to be behind all that altruism.

Tricia frowned and felt instantly ashamed. Maybe she’d felt that way about her sister in the past, but no longer.

Angelica had hired Frannie Mae Armstrong, who’d blossomed as the Cookery’s manager. She’d given an ex-con the chance at a better life when she’d hired him to be a short order cook at Booked for Lunch. He’d moved from that lowly position to that of head chef at the Brookview Inn. Angelica had been the force behind Tricia giving Pixie a chance to excel, working for her at Haven’t Got a Clue, and with the skills she’d picked up working for the Chamber of Commerce during the past six months, she could probably look for a better-paying job. Angelica was also responsible for Michele Fowler getting the job as manager of the Dog-Eared Page. She’d done a lot of good these past few years. Nigela Ricita Associates had done even more.

It can’t be, Tricia told herself more sternly.

Angelica had an ego the size of Montana. Surely if she was responsible for all the improvements that had taken place in the village, she’d be shouting it from the top of the newly rebuilt village gazebo. What was served by her hiding behind a shell company?

But then Tricia remembered something Angelica had said months before when she’d spilled the beans about the dead brother Tricia had never known about. “You’d be surprised how good we are at keeping secrets in this family.”

But the idea was absurd. How could Angelica be the head of a development company and not tell anyone—especially Tricia—about it? Her life was an open book.

Wasn’t it?

There was only one way to find out.

Tricia reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone, intending to call her sister, when she noticed she’d missed a text message from Angelica. Free for dinner? Come over at 6:15.

Tricia glanced at her watch. It was six ten. Oh, yes, she had every intention of crossing the street and confronting Angelica with her suspicions.

It took only a minute for Tricia to leave a bowl of kitty treats for her cat, lock up the Chamber office, and leave the quaint little house. As she walked briskly down the sidewalk heading for the Cookery, she rehearsed various conversational openers.

So, are you Nigela Ricita?

No, too blunt.

Anything you need to tell me?

No, too subtle.

Would Angelica laugh and deny the accusation? Would she break down in tears and beg Tricia’s forgiveness? Somehow, Tricia couldn’t see either of those scenarios playing out. It didn’t matter. Tricia was determined to find out the facts, and if what she now suspected was true, she would—

Tricia stopped dead in the middle of the empty sidewalk.

She had no idea what she would do.

•   •   •

Tricia unlocked the big door to the Cookery and entered, locked it behind her, and crossed the shop to the stairs to Angelica’s loft apartment. The layout of this store and her own were so similar that she felt a pang of loss cut a little deeper into her soul every time she entered. When she reached the third floor and opened the door, Sarge bounded toward her, practically apoplectic with joy, despite the fact he’d seen her only a couple of hours earlier that day. “Calm down, calm down,” she chided as the dog bounced up and down as though on a trampoline as they headed up the hall and into the kitchen, where the aromas of onions and garlic wafted.

“Honestly, Sarge,” Angelica chided from her position at the stove, “put a sock in it.”

Tricia looked around on the floor for something to distract the dog. Sure enough, she saw what had once been a knee-high white sock that had been tied in knots and given to the dog as a toy. Tricia picked it up and tossed it to Sarge, who caught it in his mouth, where it stayed, effectively silencing him.

She glanced over at her sister, who was standing over the stove stirring what looked like a pot of spaghetti sauce, still undecided as to what she felt—admiration or total fury. No doubt about it, had Angelica wished for a culinary career, she would have been one of the best. She often said she was happiest with a wooden spoon in her hand. The fact that she did it so well had been a boon for Tricia, who didn’t like to cook and, before Angelica’s arrival, had basically lived on a diet of yogurt and tuna salad, which was convenient but not particularly healthy. But right now food was the last thing on Tricia’s mind.

“I’ve got a pitcher of martinis in the fridge—as well as a couple of glasses chilling. Why don’t you pour us each a drink?” Angelica suggested as she grabbed a pot from the cupboard, no doubt for the pasta.

Tricia was going to need a hardy swig of that alcoholic rocket fuel to get through the upcoming conversation. She opened the fridge and found everything sitting on a tray. Even the skewered olives sat in the glasses. While Angelica filled the pot with water and put it on the stove, Tricia moved the tray to the counter and poured. She handed one of the glasses to Angelica, who barely looked up as she lit the burner.

“What shall we drink to?” Angelica asked, grabbing a spoon and giving the sauce another stir.

Ah, the perfect opening. “Why don’t we drink to Nigela Ricita?” Tricia suggested.

“Why would we want to do that?” Angelica asked diffidently.

“She’s changed the lives of everyone in Stoneham, wouldn’t you agree?”

Angelica shrugged, her back still to Tricia. “I guess.”

“In fact, she’s got to be the best thing that ever happened to Stoneham.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” Angelica said, and took a sip of her drink.

“You can’t deny she’s brought a lot of changes to the village.”

“So have you.”

“Me?” Tricia asked, stunned.

“So has everyone who opened a store and managed to keep it afloat. The dialysis center has brought in a lot of new blood, too. Oh, my, that was a good pun, wasn’t it?” Angelica said, and laughed.

Tricia didn’t join her.

“Let’s talk about something different. For instance, me,” Angelica suggested.

“If we’re talking about Nigela Ricita, we are talking about you,” Tricia said, unable to keep the anger out of her voice.

Angelica’s back stiffened, but she didn’t face her sister. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do. I finally figured it out, and I feel really stupid that it took me all this time to do it.”

Angelica finally turned to face her. “And just what exactly did you figure out?”

“That Nigela Ricita is an anagram for Angelica and Tricia.”

Angelica frowned. “Aren’t you a couple of letters short?”

“So you fudged it. I want to know why.”

Tricia studied her sister’s face, and for a few seconds she thought Angelica might burst into tears, but then her eyes narrowed and she smiled before tipping her glass back and taking another sip. “Damn, I make a fine martini.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“What do you want me to say?” Angelica repeated.

“Admit it! Admit that you’ve been living a lie.”

“What lie?”

“A lie of omission—for keeping the truth about your secret identity to yourself.”

“You make me sound like Clark Kent, although I think I’d prefer to be Diana Prince.”

“Who?”

Angelica let out an exasperated breath. “Wonder Woman!”

“Oh, please,” Tricia groused, and took a slug of her drink. Her mind was awhirl with chaotic thoughts that bordered mostly on anger.

Angelica turned back to the stove.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Tricia demanded.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Sorry would be a good start.”

“But I’m not sorry.”

“Can’t you at least be sorry for not telling me?”

Angelica stirred the pot. “Not really.”

Again Tricia’s mouth dropped open, but she was absolutely speechless.

Angelica tested the sauce. “Another triumph,” she declared, and took another sip of her drink.

“I can’t believe you,” Tricia started, but Angelica turned and held up a hand to stop her.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you—”

“Who else knows?” Tricia demanded.

“Less than you’d think,” Angelica said under her breath.

“Who?” Tricia roared.

“Antonio. My lawyers. And Christopher.”

“Christopher?” Tricia cried, anguished. “You told my ex-husband but you didn’t tell me?”

Angelica took another long pull on her martini and then set down the glass. “I went to see him the summer before I moved here to Stoneham.”

Tricia looked at her sister, remembering that Angelica had gone to a fat farm in Aspen not long after she’d broken up with her fourth husband. Aspen wasn’t all that far from where Christopher had gone to live after their divorce. “So, he gave you financial advice?”

“Yes. He advised me to set up my corporation in New Jersey, and helped me pull together some financing for a loft conversion I was about to undertake.”

“You told my ex-husband, but you didn’t tell me,” Tricia angrily accused.

“It was just a lark. The whole thing was just supposed to be fun.”

“Fun?”

“Yes. Serious fun.”

“And what about Antonio?” Tricia asked.

Angelica’s eyes lit up and a smile erupted across her lips. “He’s the light of my life. The best thing that came from my marriage to Rod—come to think of it, the best thing that came from any of my marriages.”

“You have what amounts to a son and you never told anyone about him?”

“Of course I told people. You just don’t travel in the same circles.”

“Do Mother and Daddy know?”

“Yes,” Angelica grudgingly admitted.

“And you never told me?” she cried again, devastated.

“Well,” Angelica hedged, “we weren’t exactly close for a long time.”

And I’m so angry with you right now, we may never be close again, Tricia thought. “And this whole Nigela Ricita thing came about because . . . ?” she demanded.

“I wanted to give Antonio a job so he’d live nearby and I could see him every day if I wanted. I don’t care who his biological parents were; he is my son and I love him as much as I love you.”

“How can you say you love me when you’ve kept so much of your life a secret from me?”

“How did I know I was going to be so fantastically successful?”

“Yes, how did you manage that?”

Angelica shrugged, noted that the water was boiling, and took out a box of penne from one of the cupboards. “After my divorce from Gary, I bought some property.”

“That was husband number three, right?”

Angelica nodded. “I held on to the building for a couple of years without knowing what I wanted to do with it. Then when Antonio said he wanted to return to the states, I offered to hire him as a general contractor. He learned a lot and we had a great time working together. We sold it, split the profit, and kept working together.”

“And did you have some kind of master plan in mind when you came to Stoneham?”

“Yes, to be closer to you.” Angelica dumped some of the pasta into the water. “You are my family.”

“But you lived here for almost three years before Antonio came to Stoneham.”

“We had a big, complicated project that took far longer to complete than we thought. But we made a modest profit and he learned a lot, so it worked out in the end.”

“And now he manages Nigela Ricita Associates for you?”

“More or less. He’s very good at his job, too. I’m so proud I could burst. And now I’m going to be a grandma. Don’t I look in great shape for such a monumental milestone?” she said, and laughed, but Tricia didn’t find the statement funny.

“Who besides me will know?” Tricia demanded.

Angelica frowned. “Well, I suppose we should finally let Ginny in our little secret.”

“Little secret?” Tricia repeated. “Ginny’s going to be just as angry as me.”

“Maybe for a day or two,” Angelica conceded, “but she’ll get over it—just like you will.”

“And what about the rest of the village?”

“Why do they have to know?” Angelica asked, and checked the pasta water, which had come back to a boil. She adjusted the flame.

Tricia had no answer for that. “It just seems wrong.”

“Why? It didn’t take long for me to discover that I can do far more for Stoneham and its citizens as Nigela than I can as me. And there’s nothing illegal about what I’ve done.”

“But don’t you want the credit?”

“I’ve got it.”

“Under a pseudonym,” Tricia pointed out.

“So what?”

Tricia stared at her sister, openmouthed. “I don’t get it. I don’t get you.”

“I like things the way they are. I get far more cooperation the way things are now. Do I have your word that you won’t tell a soul?”

Tricia felt like slapping her sister, but instead she balled her fists. “You do, but grudgingly.”

“Why? Don’t you see how much easier it is for me this way?”

“Not really.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Diva.”

Angelica smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

That wasn’t how the jibe was meant to be received.

“Now, shall I tell you how my meeting went with the Chamber presidents this afternoon, or do you want to tell me what I missed this afternoon at the office?”

It took Tricia a few moments to remember what had happened just hours before. “Well, there was some excitement, but it wasn’t at the Chamber. Sarge and I had an unfortunate encounter during our walk in the park.”

Angelica looked down at her dog, who was resting with his head on the knotted sock. “Not with a skunk. I would have smelled that.”

“No, but, Sarge found—”

“Not another dead body,” Angelica practically wailed.

“Of course not. At least, he wasn’t dead when we found him.”

“Who?”

“Pete Renquist.”

“Oh, no! Is he okay?”

“He was in cardiac arrest when the paramedics loaded him into an ambulance and whisked him off to the hospital.”

“Oh, my! And he seemed perfectly fine this morning. Are you sure he had a heart attack?”

“I’m not sure of anything, but I didn’t see any sign of trauma. The poor man. I’m afraid I didn’t give the Chamber its money’s worth this afternoon while I sat around thinking about him.”

“Since we pay you nothing, I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Angelica said kindly, draining her glass and turning to the fridge to pour herself another martini. She offered to top up Tricia’s glass, but she hadn’t yet finished the one she had. Angelica held her glass aloft. “To Pete. May he make a speedy recovery.”

“To Pete,” Tricia agreed, and took a sip of her drink.

She’d barely swallowed when Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” broke the quiet, and Tricia grabbed her cell phone from her pocket. She recognized the number: Russ Smith.

“Hello?”

“Trish? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but—”

“It’s about Pete?” she asked anxiously.

“Yeah. Sorry, but I just got word that he died.”

Dead? Angelica mouthed.

Tricia nodded.

“I’m so . . . bummed,” Tricia told Russ.

“Yeah, me, too.”

“And here’s something that will bum you even more. It may not have been of natural causes.”

“What are you saying?”

“There was a suspicious bruise and a puncture mark on Pete’s right arm.”

“I don’t like the way this conversation has turned,” Tricia said.

“That yet another murder has taken place in Stoneham? No, I guess you wouldn’t. And of course, you found him.”

“I’ll remind you he was alive when I found him.”

“Tell that to your buddy, Chief Baker.”

Tricia let out an exasperated breath.

“I gotta go. I’m still at the office and have to keep the line free in case Nikki calls.”

“Thank you for calling. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Right.”

Tricia stabbed her phone’s off icon.

“I change my toast,” Angelica said, raising her glass once again. “Rest in peace, Pete.” She took a healthy slug. “But there’s more, isn’t there?”

Tricia nodded. “Pete may not have died of natural causes.”

Angelica raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Tricia took a sip of her martini. She wasn’t sure she would ever really like them.

She hadn’t told Angelica what Pete had muttered before losing consciousness, but she’d have to tell Grant Baker when he came to talk to her—and he would. Not that what Pete had said made sense. He’d died with his secret, and now no one would ever know what it meant.

Angelica sampled a piece of pasta, declared it al dente, and enlisted Tricia to set the table. She did so on autopilot, but she had no appetite. She’d been wounded to learn Angelica’s secret and now shocked to hear of Pete’s death.

She wasn’t sure she could take any more shocks that day.