Текст книги "A Fatal Chapter"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

SEVEN

Angelica wasn’t at Booked for Lunch when Tricia showed up for her usual tuna plate, so she took it to go, intending to return to the Chamber office and retire to her private quarters to eat it and think about all she’d learned that morning. But then she made her second detour of the day and entered the Dog-Eared Page. Its manager, Michele Fowler, stood behind the bar with a stack of what looked like order forms before her. She looked up as Tricia approached. “A bit early in the day for you, isn’t it, love?”

“I wondered if you had a few moments to talk?” Tricia asked.

Michele looked around the empty pub. “All the time in the world. Can I get you something?”

Tricia placed her take-out lunch container on the bar and sat on one of the stools. “Iced tea?”

“Sorry, we don’t serve it.”

“How about ginger ale?” Tricia suggested.

“Coming right up.” Michele half filled a tall glass with ice and poured the soda from a well trigger. She set a napkin down on the bar in front of Tricia before placing the glass on it. “Now, what’s on your mind?”

“By now I’m sure everyone in the village has heard about what happened to poor Pete Renquist.”

“Beer, with a chaser,” Michele replied sadly.

Tricia blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Michele smiled. “I always remember people by their drink orders. You’re Chardonnay, and lately a classic gin martini.”

“And what are you?” Tricia asked.

“Gin or Merlot, depending on the time of day and the company.”

Tricia took of sip of her ginger ale. “You know that the Historical Society has been gung-ho to take on your suggestion of the cemetery ghost walks, right?”

“It’ll be great fun. I intend to be there the very first night they hold it.”

“How would you like to be the docent leading it?”

It was Michele’s turn to look startled. “Me? A docent?”

“The Historical Society is always looking for volunteers. Pete was working on the scripts before he died. It would probably be just a case of learning the material.”

“Me?” Michele said again, sounding incredulous.

Tricia nodded.

“I don’t know. It sounds like lovely fun, but I work evenings.”

“I happen to know that Nigela Ricita is eager to see these ghost walks take off. She feels it would keep the tourists in the village after sunset. That would be good for business for the Dog-Eared Page. Maybe the walks could even start here. It would be a great selling point.”

Michele nodded thoughtfully. “That it might. But I don’t know a thing about the local cemeteries.”

“As I said, Pete Renquist did extensive research on all of them. All it takes is a little memorization of facts and the ability to spin a good tale.”

“Well, I’m certainly good at that.” Michele looked thoughtful, and a smile played at her lips. “When would they need an answer?”

“The walks aren’t set to start until September, so you’ve got plenty of time to think it over.”

“I’d need to talk to Antonio Barbero and get his okay.”

The pub’s door opened, and who should walk in but Antonio himself, looking dapper in a three-piece suit with a crisp white shirt and a dark-striped tie.

“Are your ears burning?” Tricia asked, smiling.

He frowned at her. “I speak pretty good English, but I don’t know what that means.”

“It means we were just talking about you,” Michele explained dryly.

“I hope you were saying nice things.”

“Of course,” Tricia said. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to discuss a new linen vendor with Michele. And you are here because . . . ?”

“The Historical Society would like me to take Pete Renquist’s place giving the upcoming ghost walk tours,” Michele piped up.

“I told her I thought Nigela Ricita would think it’s a marvelous idea,” Tricia said enthusiastically.

Antonio looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps. Is this a decision you’ve already made?” he asked Michele.

She shook her head. “I’ve only known about it for five minutes, but it does sound rather fun. Do you think there’d be a problem with me helping out?”

“Probably not,” Antonio answered, but his tone wasn’t as convincing as his words. “We shall see.”

“Would this be at the Stoneham Rural Cemetery?” Michele asked Tricia.

She nodded. “And possibly the cemetery at St. Rita’s church.”

“I haven’t checked out that one, but there are some wonderful Victorian monuments in the Stoneham cemetery. I’ve visited a number of spectacular cemeteries in Western New York and Massachusetts. Some of them are like lovely old parks. In Victorian times, people would go there for picnic lunches.”

“Sounds terribly morbid to me,” Antonio said, his discomfort evident. “But you are right. My employer is eager to encourage the tourist trade to remain in Stoneham after the sun goes down. I will mention it to her the next time we speak.”

“Thank you,” Tricia and Michele said at the same time.

“I don’t want to interfere with your linen conference, but do you have a few minutes?” Tricia asked Antonio.

“I always have time for you, dear Tricia. That is, unless Ginny calls to say the baby is on its way.”

“It won’t take more than a couple of minutes,” she said.

“I have things to do in back,” Michele said, and left the area, giving them some privacy.

Tricia picked up her foam take-out box and glass of ginger ale and led the way to a booth at the side of the pub, slipping into it with Antonio following.

They looked at each other for a long moment before Tricia said, “I know.”

Antonio stared at her, looking confused.

“I’m a bit disappointed that you never told me,” Tricia said.

“Told you?” he hedged.

“That Angelica is Nigela Ricita and your stepmother.”

Antonio’s eyes widened and he swallowed, yet he didn’t confirm or deny what she’d said. Perhaps he thought she was baiting him.

“This isn’t a trick. I figured it out and confronted her about it last night. I take it she hasn’t spoken to you since.”

Antonio wouldn’t look her in the eye. “No.”

That seemed odd. She’d have to ask Angelica about it later.

Finally, he looked up at her, looking sheepish. “I wanted to tell you. I’ve wanted to tell Ginny, but Angelica has been very specific about her wishes.”

“I can understand that. The more people who know, the more likely it is that everyone in the village will find out—and for some reason she doesn’t want that to happen.”

“For myself, I don’t see the problem, but I must respect her wishes. She has been very good to me over the years. Not just these past few years—since I was a child. When my mother was sick and dying, Angelica paid for the hospital and the doctors. She did not have to do that, but it is her nature to help where she can.”

“It’s a bitter truth, but until recently, I didn’t know that.” More poignant, Tricia might not have even believed it.

“Are you angry with her?” Antonio asked.

“I should be, but I suppose I understand. And I am very happy about one thing.”

“And that is?” he asked.

“Well, we’re kind of like family now. Angelica and you and Ginny and . . . now me. And the baby, of course.”

Antonio beamed. “Our bambino could not have a finer aunt in you. But for now, it must be our secret, no?”

Tricia nodded and sighed. “Yes.”

“Now that you know, I hope that Angelica will finally let my wife in on the secret.”

“It’s got to come from her, don’t you think?”

He nodded. “And if Angelica warns me in advance, I will remove all breakables from the room. My sweet wife will not be pleased.”

“No, I don’t suppose she will. I wonder if I should be present, too. Maybe I can help soften the blow.”

“I agree. Now to decide on the timing. I would like it to happen before the bambino arrives.”

“I’m having dinner with Angelica tonight. I’ll push her to do it soon—perhaps tomorrow.”

Antonio nodded. “Perhaps we can all have dinner at the inn. It’s a neutral location, no? We can use the private dining room.”

Tricia blinked. “There’s a private dining room?”

“Of course. It can be very romantic—but I will have a table for four put in there before we meet.”

“Good idea.” She smiled and realized that her former admiration for Antonio now caused her to feel something entirely new: affection. “Angelica loves you as if you were her own son.”

“I love her, too. My mother is gone. I am a lucky man to have had two mothers.”

Tricia felt a sudden twinge of jealousy. Neither she nor Angelica would have biological children, but Angelica had the next best thing, and what a rarity it seemed to be to have a stepchild who actually loved his stepmother.

“Well, either Angelica or I will be in touch about dinner. I just hope that things will work out.”

“Oh, gee, I hope so,” Antonio said, although he didn’t sound all that optimistic.

Tricia stood and moved into the aisle. Antonio did likewise. Tricia leaned forward and gave him a hug and was happy that he reciprocated in kind. “I never had a nephew before. It feels rather nice.”

“I never had an aunt before, either.”

Tricia’s grin widened. “I’d better let you get back to work. Angelica—I mean, Nigela Ricita—is a hard taskmaster.”

“She is, but she’s also fair and well compensates her employees,” he reminded her.

“So I’ve heard,” Tricia said. She picked up the foam container, headed for the door, and gave a wave.

Outside, Tricia looked both left and right, glad to see so many tourists crowding the sidewalk. But then she caught sight of one of the hanging baskets of flowers and stopped dead. Like those in the park, the one before her was devoid of blossoms. She looked ahead, and every basket on the block was a mass of green—but no colorful flowers.

“Good grief,” she muttered. “They’ve all been stripped!”

•   •   •

Mariana and Pixie were hard at work collating the inserts for the upcoming newsletter when Tricia arrived back at the Chamber office. “Did you notice anything unusual about Main Street when you went out to lunch?” she asked Mariana.

She looked thoughtful. “Now that you mention it, yes. There was a big black limo double-parked outside the Patisserie. I wondered if a rock star or maybe Nigela Ricita herself was in town today.”

Knowing Angelica didn’t travel around in a limo, Tricia muttered, “Probably a rock star. No, I meant the hanging flower baskets. I just walked past twelve of them on my way back from Booked for Lunch and not one of them had a flower in it.”

“None?” Mariana asked.

“Where’d they go?” Pixie asked.

“That’s what I’d like to know.” Tricia looked at her boxed lunch. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

“Sure thing.”

Miss Marple jumped from Sarge’s basket. Tricia figured she liked to leave her scent there to drive the poor dog crazy. Miss Marple followed Tricia into the kitchen, waiting patiently for a few cat treats, which Tricia had promised herself she wasn’t going to give the cat on demand but always seemed to do so anyway. She poured herself a glass of iced tea and sat down at the bistro table with little appetite. She retrieved her cell phone and called Angelica, but got only her voice mail. She decided not to leave a message. The missing flowers were too big an announcement for that.

Picking up the plastic fork that came with her salad, Tricia picked at a piece of iceberg lettuce. She used to get annoyed when Angelica didn’t immediately answer her calls. Now she realized that her sister must have to juggle a lot of responsibilities controlling not only her three in-village business plus all her Nigela Ricita obligations. Antonio was the public face of Nigela Ricita Associates, but Angelica was the mastermind. She’d even put her publishing aspirations on hold when she’d taken up the Chamber presidency. She didn’t stop from the minute she got up until the minute she closed her eyes at night, and she was happier than Tricia had ever seen her. Somehow, working so hard seemed to be her preferred method of relaxation.

Tricia stabbed a hunk of tuna, shoving it into her mouth. She felt so ineffectual—as she had for a good portion of her life. Of course, Angelica wasn’t doing it all alone. Her solution had been to hire really good people and pay them accordingly. Meanwhile, Tricia had one store with two employees and sometimes felt overwhelmed. Of course, if she was honest with herself, those times usually came after a sudden, violent death.

Of course, she knew why she felt so powerless. It was the seemingly endless wait for the insurance company to make a settlement on the fire damage to her store. She had no doubt that the minute the check came through she’d be feeling on top of the world. In the meantime, she, at least, had her volunteer duties for the Chamber.

But what Mariana had told her earlier came back to haunt her. She’d enjoyed working with her contractor, Jim Stark, during the initial renovation at Haven’t Got a Clue and had thought him easygoing. Now to find out he was a jealous kind of guy—who collected a variety of firearms—and that he may have believed his wife had had an affair with a man who had just been murdered . . . Well, it was a bit too much to take in all at once. Preposterous as it would have seemed scant hours before, Tricia now wondered how her future would be affected if Jim actually had done the deed.

Would anyone mention to Chief Baker that Stark might have had a motive for murdering Pete? If no one volunteered that information, should she? And how would Stark react to her betrayal? There were other contractors in the area, but everyone agreed Stark was the best. He came highly recommended, he came up with cost-saving solutions when the reno ran into problems, and he and his men did good work on schedule. Tricia wanted to go home as soon as possible. Stark had promised that, when the insurance company finally came through with a check, he would make her renovation a top priority. Would he even deal with her if she dared mention his name in connection with Pete’s death?

How badly did she want to return to her home and workplace?

Pretty damn bad.

Tricia set her fork down and closed the carton on the salad. She’d had enough.

Feeling terribly depressed, she placed the foam container in the fridge and headed back to the office without making a decision on what she should do with what she now knew.

EIGHT

Once again, the Chamber did not get a full day’s worth of work from Tricia. Why was she obsessing over a rumor—and that’s all it was—that her contractor may have been jealous of the attention another man paid his wife? Much as she tried to distract herself with Chamber work, she could not concentrate.

What she wanted to do was haul out her book and read. When life got tough, she could always count on getting lost in a mystery novel, but since Pixie was getting paid by the hour, Tricia couldn’t very well rub her nose in the fact that an unpaid volunteer had leeway to goof off on a whim. That Tricia had allowed Pixie to read on the job at Haven’t Got a Clue had been a perk her assistant had practically wallowed in. And yet, Pixie wasn’t afraid of work. She seemed to look at every task as a chance to excel—and she did.

At 5:57, Pixie began to gather her purse, shoes, and waitress uniform in preparation for leaving.

“What have you got on tap tonight?” Tricia asked.

“Fred’s coming over to my place to barbeque some steaks. His boss gives him the stuff that’s just about to turn.”

“Oh, how awful,” Tricia said, appalled.

“No, it’s not. Fred’s dad was a butcher. He said you have to hang meat for it to get full-flavored. They don’t do that nowadays and the meat tastes like sh—” She paused and seemed to think better of her descriptor. “Crap. I asked Mr. E, and he agreed. He used to be a butcher, you know.”

Yes, she did know.

“What are you having?” Pixie asked.

“I’m going to Angelica’s. She said something about shrimp pastasalad.”

“That sounds like lunch.”

“I prefer to think of it as light,” Tricia said. If carb heavy. “It doesn’t matter what she makes; it’s always good.”

“No doubt about it. She’s good in the kitchen. She’s shown me a few tricks over at Booked for Lunch. She said your grandma taught her.”

“That she did.”

Pixie frowned. “My granny ran a brothel. Is it any wonder I ended up the way I did?”

Tricia wasn’t sure how to reply to that piece of news. Luckily, Pixie continued.

“We’re having a salad and baked potatoes. Making them is gonna be my job, so I’m off to Shaw’s in Milford to get the stuff.”

“Have a good evening,” Tricia called as Pixie headed out the door. Once she was gone, Tricia locked the office and immediately headed to the Cookery for dinner with Angelica. She had a lot to tell her—and really felt the need to unload. She just hoped Angelica would be in a receptive mood.

As usual, Sarge was ecstatic to see Tricia. It had been almost twenty-four hours, and he let her know that her absence had been keenly felt. She rewarded him with two biscuits that she slipped him, which did not go unseen by his mistress.

“He’ll get fat if you keep indulging him,” Angelica scolded her.

“They’re small biscuits,” Tricia said in her own defense.

Angelica scowled and turned back to her cutting board, which was covered in good-sized cooked, peeled shrimp she’d been in the process of cutting into bite-size pieces.

“What else is on tap tonight?” Tricia asked, swiping one of the tails before Angelica had a chance to stop her.

“Besides the shrimp pasta salad? I’m almost finished making it. I snagged a few of Nikki’s snowflake rolls from the Patisserie. I just have to mix the shrimp with the pasta, mayo, and veggies, then let it cool for a while. Meanwhile, the martinis are already chilled.”

“Why don’t we drink wine anymore?’ Tricia asked.

“Don’t you like martinis?” Angelica asked, sounding surprised.

“Not particularly.”

“Not even mine?”

“No.”

“Oh. Does that mean I have to drink the entire pitcher myself?”

“I didn’t say that,” Tricia said, and retrieved the crystal pitcher, chilled glasses, and olives from the fridge. She poured and gave Angelica a glass before reaching for another tail. This time Angelica was ready for her and slapped her hand. Tricia backed off, retreating to the kitchen island with her drink. She commandeered a stool.

“So, how was your day?” Angelica asked conversationally, putting the now-finished salad in the fridge.

“Awful.”

“What happened?” Angelica asked, concerned.

“Where do you want me to start?” Tricia asked, and took a sip of her martini. It wasn’t horrible. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t horrible, either. She must be getting used to them.

“Chamber business, if that’s what’s got you so down.”

Tricia sighed. “Who takes care of the hanging baskets around the village?”

“The Milford Nursery, why?”

“Because just about all of them are devoid of flowers.”

“What?” Angelica cried, horrified.

“You heard me.”

Angelica dropped her knife and rushed to the bank of windows that overlooked Main Street. “They can’t all have died.”

“The greenery looks very healthy, but where are the flowers? Surely they couldn’t all have fallen off at one time, either.”

“Vandals!” Angelica cried, and turned back to face Tricia. “Oh my God! I hope the committee for prettiest village in New Hampshire has already been through to check us out. Otherwise, we’re out of the running for yet another year.”

“I thought they came through last month.”

“I’m not sure of the timing. If all they saw was green, we’re toast!”

She turned back to look at the vast sea of greenery where days before there had been a riot of color. “Perhaps now that we have a police force, we can catch whoever is doing this. Not like when someone was smashing all those pumpkins a few years back, although that seemed to stop after a while.”

“There’s a reason it stopped. I caught the culprit.”

Angelica turned back to face her sister. “You did? You never said anything.”

“At the time, I didn’t think you’d want to know.”

“Know what? Who was behind it? Why wouldn’t I want to know?”

“Because it was Bob.”

Angelica turned back to face her sister. “No! I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it. He was jealous that Milford’s Pumpkin Festival was so successful and drawing the tourists away from Stoneham, and he took out his anger on the free pumpkins he was giving away to those who listed with Kelly Realty.”

Angelica looked thoughtful. “At the time I did think he must have had a rush of clients, as the pumpkin pile did go down rather quickly.” She shook her head and shrugged. “Do you suspect Bob of denuding the hanging baskets?”

“Could be. He’s got a lot on his mind right now and none of it appears to be pleasant. But I would hope he’d think twice about doing something else that could get him in trouble with the law.”

“I’ll call the nursery first thing in the morning to find out what it will cost to replace the flowers. Maybe they can give the village a deal as it’s getting late in the season.”

“What if it happens again?”

Angelica frowned. “After we eat, we can go look at one of the baskets. I want to make sure it is vandalism and not just some horticultural blight. Are you game?”

“Sure. I’ve got nothing else to do.”

Angelica returned to the island and picked up her drink. “Have you heard anything else about Pete’s death?”

Tricia shook her head, deciding not to yet share what Mariana had told her about Jim Stark. “Grant came to the Chamber office to ask me about finding Pete. He said he couldn’t really start an investigation until he knew what the actual cause of death was. But he was also going to have a lab team search the gazebo and the area around it for clues.”

“Clues to what?”

Tricia shrugged. “To see if there was anything suspicious.”

“You said there was a needle mark and a suspicious bruise on Pete’s body, which would mean somebody injected him with something. What’s obtainable that could stop someone’s heart—and do it pretty quickly? Or what about an air bubble in the blood?”

“I’ve seen that threatened on TV and in movies, but I don’t know if you could actually kill someone that way.”

“You could look it up online,” Angelica said, and looked toward her computer.

“I’m about to eat dinner, and that kind of information could have a negative effect on my digestive system,” Tricia said.

“I’ve seen you eat while reading a book featuring a graphic autopsy,” Angelica said sourly.

“Well, I don’t want to look it up right now.”

“What else could kill someone so quickly?” Angelica pressed.

“Poison, I suppose.”

“How about arsenic?”

“It isn’t a fast acting poison. Generally the victim is fed the substance over a long period of time.”

“You mean like feeding them a steady diet of apple seeds? Are there any orchards around here?”

“It wouldn’t have to be an exotic poison. Maybe something as simple as a vial of super-strength vinegar.”

“Ya think?” Angelica said.

“I’m guessing.” It was time to change the subject. “I also spoke to Antonio today.”

Angelica lifted an eyebrow. “Did you?”

Tricia nodded. “I told him I’m very glad he’s a part of our family.”

Angelica’s smile was tentative. “Thank you. What did he say?”

“Not much. But he made sure I understood that he respected your wish to keep your secret quiet.”

“I’m thankful for that.”

“It’s time to tell Ginny—and before the baby arrives, especially if you want to be its grandma.”

Angelica let out a long breath. “I suppose I’ll have to. And as she’s Antonio’s wife, it really should come from me.”

“Agreed. And she will not be pleased.”

“Neither were you, but you seem to have gotten over it much quicker than I would have guessed.”

“What choice do I have?”

“And what choice does Ginny have, too?”

“Very little.”

“Antonio suggested we all have dinner soon at the Brookview Inn’s private dining room.”

“That would be lovely. I’ll set up a menu tomorrow and call him.”

“Why don’t you let him decide on the menu. I’m sure he’ll pick something Ginny is particularly fond of—you know, to get her in a receptive mood.”

“Great idea.”

Tricia eyed her sister critically. “You know, it almost seems like you have some kind of master plan in mind for all of us. Would you care to share it?”

“You make me sound like some kind of dictator or puppeteer,” Angelica said.

“I’m afraid that’s how some of the villagers view Nigela Ricita.”

“I haven’t done anything that didn’t benefit Stoneham in one way or another, and I wish you’d stop trying to make me feel guilty.”

“I’m sorry, Ange. I guess I still feel hurt that you kept it from me for so long.”

“I admit, it was a mistake, and I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do to change the past. Can’t we just move forward and accept the present?”

“We will. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?” Angelica asked, her expression blank.

“Do you have some kind of master plan for all of us?”

“Well, of course I do,” Angelica answered matter-of-factly.

Tricia started.

“Oh, don’t look at me like I’m some kind of megalomaniac. I want us all to be healthy and happy and successful. Period.”

“And who does this theoretical us entail?”

“You, me, Antonio, Ginny. Grace, Mr. Everett, Frannie, Pixie, Mariana, Bev, Tommy—everybody.”

“And how do you propose to deliver that magic pill?”

“No pill. People who are happy in their work are happy in life. It’s as simple as that. And I want the people who arrive in this beautiful little town in New England stressed and careworn to leave happy and uplifted.”

“You hope.”

“So far, so good.”

Tricia couldn’t argue with that.

“What are you plotting for the future?”

“Not plotting, considering. Now that you know, you could be a wonderful sounding board. In fact, it would be oodles of fun if you and Antonio and Ginny and I all sat down and made a wish list for the village: things we’d like to see happen. Stores and services we’d love to see arrive. Needs that aren’t yet being met.”

“Like a shoe store?” Tricia suggested.

Angelica shook her head. “That’s been on my wish list for years. We’re much too small for a chain store, and a boutique would be too expensive for the residents.” She shook her head. “It’s a pipe dream.”

“A tea shop?” Tricia suggested.

Again Angelica shook her head. “Not enough trade to keep one in business through the lean times. But I have thought about offering afternoon tea at the Brookview Inn during the summer months. Maybe just on weekends to start. We also need more daycare. Ginny wants to go back to work after the baby arrives, and my grandchild must have the very best.”

“You wouldn’t hire a nanny?” Tricia asked.

“Children need to interact with other children. It’s good for them.”

“What makes you the expert when it comes to child care?”

“Google is my best friend,” Angelica said wryly.

“What about the ghost walks?”

“They could be great fun—and quite lucrative, not only for the cemetery, but for the Dog-Eared Page and the Bookshelf Diner. Before Pete died, he sent a report to NRA looking for backing.”

“Did you give him any money for them?”

“It was included with the check Antonio gave them.”

Tricia nodded. “When I spoke to Janet Koch at the Historical Society this morning, I suggested Michele give the talks.”

“What a great idea!”

“Of course, her boss would have to okay it,” Tricia said.

Angelica’s smile was more a smirk. “I’m sure I can arrange it. Anything else happen today I should know about?”

Tricia hesitated, then shook her head.

Angelica considered her empty glass. “We’d better not have another. Not if we’re going to check out those flower baskets.”

Tricia downed the last of her drink, then placed the olive in her mouth, slid it off the pick, and chewed.

“You set the table and I’ll get the food ready,” Angelica said, heading for the fridge.

Tricia carried her glass over to the sink, then scooped flatware from a drawer and placed it on the table, her thoughts straying back to the subject of Jim Stark. The idea of her store renovation possibly being derailed had her feeling disheartened and depressed.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it, she ordered herself.

She just wished she could pay more attention to that little niggling voice inside her brain that advised her to look at worst-case scenarios.

Sometimes she hated that stinking little voice she called her conscience.

•   •   •

It wasn’t quite dark, but unlike in years past when the streets of Stoneham had emptied at six o’clock, several cars still lined the south end of Main Street. The Dog-Eared Page was the draw, but farther down the street a few cars were also clustered near the Bookshelf Diner. “We really need more eateries here on Main Street,” Angelica said as they, along with Sarge, headed north on the sidewalk. “We need at least one fine dining restaurant here in the village.”

“Where would it go?” Tricia asked.

“It could go where the Chamber office is currently located, but that’s a bit close to the eyesore that is Kelly Realty.”

“You’d think Bob would have done something to the outside of that building to spruce it up. Gray-painted cinderblock has no curb appeal and is not at all conducive to the ambiance he’s always tried to encourage from the people he rents to.”

Angelica didn’t comment.

They continued down the block, passing more and more denuded hanging baskets. “What we need is a ladder so we can look into the baskets to see if the blossoms have been broken off or cut.”

“Does it matter?” Tricia asked. “None of them have flowers.”

“I guess you’re right,” Angelica groused.

A few other people ambled down the sidewalk, and the sisters greeted them with smiles but didn’t bother with conversation. Tricia rather enjoyed the walk, and Sarge certainly did. However, Angelica was far too quiet.

They walked as far as the Antiques Emporium, crossed the street, and headed back south toward the town square. Every single hanging basket had been hit. “This kind of petty vandalism makes me so angry,” Angelica muttered.

“The police station is just ahead. Do you want to report it?”

“Yes, I do.” Angelica sped up, and Tricia and little Sarge had a hard time keeping up with her. “Do you think Grant is working late tonight?”

Tricia had seen his car parked in the municipal lot when they’d passed minutes earlier. “Probably. He doesn’t have much to do in the evenings, either.”

Arriving at the station door, Angelica grabbed Sarge, tucking him under her arm, and they entered.

Polly Burgess, the station’s elderly dispatcher and receptionist, was also working late. She eyed Sarge with disdain. “No dogs allowed. You’ll have to take it outside.”

“He’s a he, not an it—and he’s my service dog,” Angelica said.