Текст книги "A Fatal Chapter"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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“What kind of service can a dog that small perform?” Polly demanded.

“He’s my emotional support.”

“Where’s his service vest?”

“In the laundry. Now, we’d like to speak to the chief, please.”

“He’s off duty.”

“But he is here,” Tricia said.

“Yes.”

“Would you please tell him we’re here?” Tricia asked.

“We’d like to report a crime,” Angelica chimed in.

Polly looked at them with suspicion. “What kind of crime?”

“Vandalism.”

Polly sighed and pushed the intercom button. “Chief. There are a couple of citizens here who’d like to report vandalism.”

“I’ll be right there,” came Baker’s clipped voice.

Polly glared at the sisters.

Baker appeared from behind his office door, his eyes lighting up when he saw Tricia. “Hello. What’s this about vandalism?” he asked.

“Can we talk in your office?” Angelica asked as Baker reached out to pet Sarge, who growled. He pulled his hand back.

“Sure.”

The sisters followed him inside and took seats in front of his desk. Angelica set Sarge on the floor but kept him on a short leash.

“What’s this about vandalism?” Baker asked again.

“Someone has clipped every flower in the hanging baskets around the village.”

Baker frowned, as though that wasn’t his idea of a major crime. “Is that all?”

“Those baskets cost nearly fifty bucks apiece. If we have to replace them, it will be a substantial cost,” Angelica said.

Baker looked unimpressed. “Do you have any suspects?”

Angelica shook her head.

“Do you know when it happened?”

“No. Tricia noticed all the blossoms were gone just today.”

“Maybe someone’s got really bad allergies,” Baker suggested and laughed.

“They’ve been hanging for over two months,” Angelica pointed out.

Baker’s smile faded and he frowned. “The baskets are still up, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“They haven’t been smashed, right?”

“No.”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” he asked.

“I’m reporting a crime,” Angelica said. “I thought that’s what good citizens were supposed to do.”

“We’ve got more important matters taking up the bulk of our time just now,” Baker said.

“Have you made any headway on Pete Renquist’s death?” Tricia asked.

The chief looked uncomfortable. “We’re pursuing all leads.”

Which meant no!

“Did you have a chance to speak to Toni Bennett?” she asked.

The name caused Baker to start, as though he had to remember it was the owner of the Antiques Emporium and not the singer. “Yes.”

“And?” Tricia pressed.

“Hearsay.”

“Oh, come on. Surely you’re going to try to find out who threatened Pete.”

“Of course, but hearing he was threatened without any corroborating information isn’t much of a lead.”

She supposed not. “Who else have you spoken with?”

“You are not a part of the investigation,” Baker pointed out, obviously annoyed.

Tricia shrugged. “I spoke with Janet Koch at the Historical Society this morning—to convey my condolences,” she quickly added.

“I’ve spoken with her, too. She wasn’t much help.”

“Have Pete’s next of kin been contacted?” Angelica asked.

Baker nodded. “No help there, either.”

“But you’re doing everything you can to solve Pete’s murder,” Tricia stated, though it didn’t seem to be much.

“Of course.”

Tricia again debated mentioning what Mariana had told her earlier in the day. If she didn’t name names, she could at least make a suggestion—just to get Baker thinking along a different line of reasoning. “It’s well known that Pete liked to flirt with women. Is it possible a jealous husband or lover could have come after him?” she asked.

“Anything’s possible.”

Sure. Pigs flew on scheduled routes. The moon was made of green cheese. And a bridge in Brooklyn was sold just about every day.

Angelica picked up Sarge and stood. “I suppose we’d better let you get back to it.” She didn’t sound impressed with the chief’s progress, either.

Tricia followed her out of the office.

“Keep me informed about those flowers,” Baker called after them.

“If I can be bothered,” Angelica muttered.

“Good night,” Tricia called to Polly as she passed the receptionist’s desk. The woman ignored her.

“Now what?” Tricia asked once the sisters were out on the sidewalk again.

“It’s been a long day and I still have a ton of work to do. We may as well go home,” Angelica said, and they started off. They walked in silence until they came to the Chamber office, where they paused.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tricia said, and gave Angelica a hug. Sarge barked. “I’ll see you, too,” she said, and bent down to pat the dog’s head.

“Why did you tell Grant about Pete’s flirting?” Angelica asked.

Tricia shrugged and avoided her sister’s penetrating gaze. “I just want him to investigate all possibilities.”

“Did you have someone in mind?”

Tricia kept scratching Sarge’s ears. “No.”

Angelica didn’t press the issue. “Well, good night.”

“Night.” Tricia called, and hurried up the driveway. She had no proof against Jim Stark. A part of her wanted to pursue that line of inquiry. What was worse, a bigger part of her—the part that wanted to go back to her old life and home—didn’t.

NINE

Her room was still dark when Tricia awoke with a start the next morning. Her heart pounded and she was drenched with cold sweat. The crippling nightmare had returned, although it no longer haunted her sleep every night as it had during those first bleak days after the fire. Flames had poured from Haven’t Got a Clue’s shattered display window, while firefighters in assault gear directed the full force of their hoses on the fire—and the stock inside. Tricia had felt as though she were being slowly smothered as she’d watched helplessly from the street, held back by many arms that refused to let her go back to save her beloved store.

Of course, it hadn’t actually happened quite that way—but it was close enough. The terror she’d felt when she thought she’d lost Miss Marple had been the worst. Then the realization struck that she might have lost everything else she valued. Still, at the time she’d felt lucky, and her friends—and most of all Angelica—had rallied to support her. She would never forget the kindness she’d been shown. Even strangers had stopped her in the street to express their regrets.

But as the days and weeks dragged on and still there was no settlement from the insurance company—and no end in sight for her enforced exile—she found herself growing depressed. She wanted to go home. To her own home.

Throwing back the covers, Tricia got up, disturbing Miss Marple, and quickly dressed for her morning jaunt. Could the soot-covered treadmill that still stood in her loft apartment be refurbished? She supposed she’d eventually find out. Going for a brisk walk was wonderful in good weather, but not so much fun when it rained. Thankfully the weatherman had predicted fair skies for the next few days. Tricia tied her running shoes and took off. She had a lot to think about as she followed her usual route, speed-walking along Stoneham’s residential streets.

After she’d completed her rounds, Tricia usually ended up at the Coffee Bean for her first brew of the day. Coming back to her rooms at the Chamber office was always made a little more pleasant when she had a really good cup of coffee to kick-start the rest of her day.

However, on this day Tricia headed over to the Cookery. Outside the door, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and called Angelica.

“Hope I didn’t wake you,” Tricia said.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been up for hours. What’s new?”

“I’m outside the Cookery. Can I come up?”

“Of course.”

“See you in a minute,” Tricia said, and stabbed the end-call icon. She unlocked the door and quickly disabled the alarm system, then headed up the stairs.

As usual, Sarge made a wonderful welcoming committee, jumping up and down and barking enthusiastically.

“Want some coffee?” Angelica called as Tricia started down the hall that lead to Angelica’s kitchen with Sarge scampering ahead.

“I’ve already got some,” Tricia said.

“How about some toast?”

“Sounds good,” Tricia said, taking a seat at the kitchen island.

Angelica put two slices into the toaster and turned for her own breakfast. “I’ve got some bad news.”

“Another death?” Tricia asked, horrified.

“No! I called the Milford Nursery. They had a big sale over the weekend. Their stock has been decimated. They can’t replace the hanging baskets.”

“Oh, no! The flowers are such a draw for the tourists. What are you going to do?”

“I could call all over the state, but the cheapest and easiest solution just might be silk,” she said flatly.

“You mean . . . fake flowers?” Tricia asked, aghast.

“Some of them look very lifelike,” Angelica said optimistically.

“Yeah, the expensive ones. What’s your budget?”

“There is no budget. It’s coming out of Nigela Ricita’s pockets.”

“At least they’re deep.”

“I’m just worried that whoever decapitated all those petunias and pansies will just yank out the silk replacements.”

“It’s a possibility.”

Angelica looked thoughtful but said nothing more.

“Who’s going to scour the local craft stores?” Tricia asked.

“I’ve got to be in Portsmouth by ten, and I have a meeting in Manchester after lunch. How about Pixie?”

Tricia shook her head, remembering the cheesy Christmas decorations Pixie had fallen in love with and had wanted to use to decorate Haven’t Got a Clue the previous holiday season. “Her heart would be in the right place, but I don’t think she’s a good judge of such things.”

“Would you have time to shop?”

“Only if you think the Chamber can spare me.”

“Yes,” Angelica said emphatically. “Can you go this morning?”

“I guess. I have a lunch date today, but I can check out the big craft store on Route 101 before then.”

“Even if we can only decorate the baskets lining Main Street, it would at least be welcoming to the tourists when they get off the buses.”

“And when is redecorating the baskets going to happen?”

Angelica grimaced. “Tonight.”

“And who is going to do it?” Tricia asked, already knowing the answer.

“Why, you and me of course.”

“Of course. What about Antonio?”

“You can’t expect him to leave Ginny late at night with the baby due to arrive at any moment.”

No, she didn’t.

“Couldn’t Nigela Ricita Associates pull someone from the Brookview Inn to do this?”

“And let it get out that we’re replacing the real flowers with silk?”

“Somebody’s bound to notice.”

Angelica’s lips pursed.

“Okay. Do I even have to ask who’s going to be climbing the ladder?” Tricia asked.

“You know I’m afraid of heights,” Angelica said, appalled at the idea.

Yes, she did.

Tricia drained her cup. “I have just enough time to shower and change before Mariana reports for work at the Chamber.”

“If I haven’t told you lately, I really appreciate all the work you’re doing for the Chamber. I don’t know what I’ll do when you go back to your real life, and it will be all too soon.”

Not soon enough, Tricia thought. “I’m happy I can take on some of the work to make it easier on you.”

“The Chamber is now big enough that it needs a dedicated employee to run it—not a part-time volunteer, and that’s where I’m going to steer it. The membership has already grown faster in the past eight months than I’d considered it would during my two-year tenure.”

“It’s your leadership,” Tricia said. Angelica shook her head in denial, but she did look pleased at the sentiment. “I’ve gotta go,” Tricia said, getting up from her stool and pausing at the sink to rinse her paper cup before placing it in the recycling bin.

“I’ll see you later,” Angelica called as Tricia headed for the stairs.

As Tricia closed the Cookery’s door behind her, she pondered the kind of personality that could deprive the villagers and tourists of the beauty the flowers had brought. Could it have been Bob? Her thoughts had immediately gone to him, but only because he’d been annoying her of late. The truth was that there were plenty of villagers who were unhappy with the changes that had come to Stoneham during the past five years and were quite vocal about it. They were the ones who’d elected Earl Winkler.

Why did the sourpusses in life want to ruin things for everyone else?

•   •   •

The big arts-and-crafts store on Route 101 was running a sale, and Tricia cleaned them out of silk flowers. The manager had come to the register to help bag the sale, pleased that she could put out the Halloween and Thanksgiving stock that was already languishing in her storeroom.

It was getting close to noon when Tricia returned to the village and pulled into the municipal parking lot. Instead of hauling her purchases to the Chamber office, she left the bags of faux flowers in the trunk. They weren’t going to wilt, even under the blistering midday sun.

She had just enough time to stop at Booked for Lunch to pick up the orders she’d phoned in hours before, then carried them two doors down to the Happy Domestic. Technically Ginny wasn’t supposed to be working. She was officially on maternity leave, but staying at home with nothing to do but fret did not sit well with her. “I’d rather stay occupied,” she’d said more than once.

Tricia entered the shop and the bell over the door jangled. The sound was like a knife thrust to her soul. It sounded so like the one at Haven’t Got a Clue. Some days the sound didn’t bother her, and others, like today, the pain from the loss of her store was almost too much to bear.

Ginny’s assistant, Brittney, was helping a customer, but she gestured with her thumb, indicating the backroom. Tricia nodded and headed that way. “Hello,” she called before pushing through the saloon doors that separated the retail operation from the much smaller storeroom that doubled as an office.

Ginny sat at the big beat-up desk with stacks of paperwork before her. She looked up and a grin lit her features. “Thank goodness you’re here. I could eat a bear—raw!”

“And risk trichinosis?”

“I thought you could only get that from undercooked pork.”

“Pork, bears, and other wild game infected with parasites. Do you really want to take the risk?”

Ginny looked down at her bulging belly. “No. Besides, I already know that you’ve got a BLT and a cup of the soup of the day. Which is . . . ?”

“Black bean.”

“Oh, my favorite—except it hasn’t treated me well since . . .” Again she looked down at her belly.

“More information than I needed to know,” Tricia said, and laughed. She took the seat across from Ginny and doled out the foam containers, plasticware, and napkins. Instead of her usual tuna plate, Tricia had ordered a julienned salad. Miss Marple would love some of the excess slices of ham and cheese as an indulgent snack. Since she knew it was Ginny’s favorite dessert, Tricia had also ordered a piece of Angelica’s decadent carrot cake for the two of them to splurge on and share.

“It won’t be long now,” Tricia said.

“A week from today, if the calculations are right.”

“What are your plans after the baby arrives?” Tricia asked, dipping a piece of lettuce into her dressing.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about that,” Ginny said, her voice subdued.

“You’ve changed your mind about working?” Tricia asked, surprised.

Ginny dipped her spoon into the soup and stirred. “Not at all. But I might change my mind about where I work.”

“You’d give up the Happy Domestic? But I thought you were happy here.”

“I have been deliriously happy here, but I’m not sure the hours are conducive to a happy family life.”

“Your boss seems quite amenable when it comes to flexible hours.”

“I’ve been very lucky,” Ginny admitted, taking a bite of her sandwich.

Tricia poked at her salad. She’d known things would change once the baby arrived, but the thought of not seeing Ginny on a regular basis caught her off guard.

“I’ve been thinking,” Ginny said once she’d swallowed. “I might like to try my hand at management of another kind.”

“Oh?”

“While I would love to work with Antonio either at the Brookview Inn or the office down the street, I don’t think it’s good for a couple to be attached at the hip day and night.”

“Is there an opening at NRA?” Tricia asked. Angelica hadn’t mentioned it, but then she hadn’t gone into the details of how her business ran, either.

“I don’t know. I think it could be fun to work on projects that have end dates, not just picking baubles, waiting on customers, and banking the receipts. Maybe NRA will open another business here in town. Maybe they’d let me manage a couple of different stores or other parts of the operation.” She shrugged. “What I’d really like is a job with more regular hours—and weekends off would sure be a treat, too.”

“Have you spoken to Antonio about that?”

“He doesn’t have a problem with it.”

“Has he mentioned it to your boss?”

Ginny shook her head. “I’ve asked him not to. Not just yet, at least. And I’d like to talk to Ms. Ricita directly.”

And you’ll get that opportunity sooner than you know, Tricia thought. She decided to move away from the subject. “Have you come up with names for the baby yet?”

Ginny nodded. “If it’s a girl, Sofia, after Antonio’s mother. If it’s a boy, William, after my father and Mr. Everett.”

It stood to reason Antonio wouldn’t name his son after his own father. The man had abandoned him. It was Angelica who’d bought him clothes and paid for his schooling. “Mr. Everett will like that.”

“As my folks live down south now, it’s likely he’ll be a bigger part of the baby’s life.”

“Will your parents come up to see the baby?”

“Oh, sure. They don’t mind New Hampshire during the summer, but if our next one arrives in winter, they’d wait until spring to visit.”

“How does that make you feel?”

She shrugged. “I’m okay with it. I’ve still got family here,” she said, and smiled. “You and Grace and Mr. Everett. You’re all like family to me.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.” Because I do, too, Tricia thought.

Ginny scraped the last of the soup from her container. “Oh, that was good, but I think I’ll save the other half of my sandwich for later. Especially if we’re going to make a dent in that piece of cake.” She wrapped the sandwich in one of the paper napkins and returned it to the foam container. Struggling up from her chair, she deposited the container in the small fridge she kept under the table that housed the printer and other office supplies.

“We really need to convince Angelica to stop using foam take-out boxes at Booked for Lunch. They’re horrible for the environment.”

“You know, I’ll bet if you pitched a cost-effective alternative, she would seriously take it under consideration,” Tricia said, closing the container on the remains of her salad.

Ginny eyed her speculatively. “That’s a good idea. She’s been awfully nice to me lately. Well, ever since the wedding.”

“Really?” Tricia asked, opening the container that held the slab of carrot cake.

Ginny looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. She picked up one of the plastic forks but waited for Tricia to cut the cake in two. Tricia wasn’t as fond of the sour cream frosting as Ginny, so she took the lower portion, settling it onto one of the paper napkins before pushing the other piece across the desk to Ginny.

Ginny sampled a bite, letting it sit on her tongue for a bit before chewing and swallowing—her usual routine.

“Well?” Tricia asked.

“Nobody makes carrot cake as good as Angelica. I especially like her maple icing.”

“Maple?” Tricia asked. “Since when does she make it that way?”

“She’s always made it this way.” Tricia seldom ate cake and took a bite. It was good, and the maple frosting was a lot less cloying and sweet than that traditionally associated with carrot cake.

Ginny cut another piece but paused before eating it. “So, you found Pete Renquist.”

“He was alive at the time,” Tricia began in her own defense.

“So I heard.”

“Did you know him?”

Ginny shook her head. “But I heard rumors.”

“Oh?” Tricia asked, playing dumb.

“That he was a bit of a letch, but relatively harmless.”

“Did he ever flirt with you?” Tricia asked.

Again Ginny shook her head. She ate another bite of cake. “He seemed harmless enough, and honestly, the guy was old enough to be my father. I heard he hit on older women.”

“You mean like me?” Tricia asked with dread. Pete was always flirting with her.

“Heck, no. Older than you. Ladies in their fifties.”

An age that was only five years ahead for Tricia.

“The ones who’ve got empty nests and time on their hands to volunteer at fudd-dudd places like the Historical Society. That said, I heard the old broads ate up the attention. Their husbands had long ago given up giving them compliments.”

Was that how Toni Bennett felt? Though well preserved, she was probably fifty years old. She said she’d been volunteering at the Historical Society for at least ten years, long before Pete had become its president.

“Do you know anyone like that?” Tricia asked.

Ginny scraped some of the icing from what was left of her cake. “Julia Harrison is one of my regular customers. She’s a widow who often comes in on a Saturday. She hates to drive to Nashua, so she does her gift buying here—lots of figurines and pretty whatnots for her granddaughter. Once she kind of hinted that she was interested in Pete and that they’d dated a few times, but that it didn’t work out.”

“Did she give a reason?”

“Nope.” Ginny slid the last piece of cake onto her fork.

Tricia took a bite of cake. She thought she knew of the woman, half remembering an article that Russ Smith had run in the Stoneham Weekly News about the Historical Society’s Italianate garden.

“Does this woman volunteer for the Stoneham Horticultural Society?” she asked.

“I think so. Why?”

“No reason.” Tricia ate another bite of cake.

“Any word on the insurance coming through for the store?” Ginny asked. She was only being polite—showing interest in Tricia’s problems—but it seemed that Tricia was asked that question at least ten times a day, and after six months it depressed the heck out of her not to have an affirmative reply.

“Not yet,” she answered with a forced smile, and ate the last bite of cake.

“You must be sick of waiting.”

“I was sick of waiting a mere week after the fire—let alone six months later.”

“Well, it can’t be much longer. In fact, I’ll bet you five dollars you hear from them before the baby arrives,” she said, and looked down fondly at her belly.

“If only,” Tricia said wistfully. She gathered up the napkins and cutlery and tossed them away while Ginny shook her head at the waste. “I’d better get back to work.”

“Same time next week?” Ginny asked hopefully.

“If you’re not in the hospital.”

“Hospital?” Ginny asked, confused.

“You are going to have a baby,” Tricia reminded her.

Ginny laughed. “And, boy, will I be glad when it’s over.”

Tricia thought about the proposed dinner she and Angelica were to have with Ginny and Antonio. Since Ginny hadn’t mentioned it, she decided she’d better not.

Ginny struggled to her feet, and Tricia moved around the desk to give her a brief hug. “If the baby comes early, I’ll have Antonio call you right away.”

Tricia pulled back. “I’ll be waiting for his call.”

“Thanks for lunch,” Ginny called as Tricia left the office.

More customers had entered the store since her arrival, and Brittney waved to Tricia from her post at the register.

Lunch with Ginny was always a pleasure, and speaking with her had presented Tricia with a lead on one of Pete’s ex-girlfriends/paramours. Now all Tricia had to do was think of an excuse to meet Julia Harrison.

•   •   •

Mariana’s radio was on when Tricia returned to the Chamber office. She kept it turned to a soft rock station, and though Tricia didn’t dislike the tunes, she did get bored of the station’s limited repertoire. She wondered if Pixie and Mr. Everett got bored of the CDs she’d played at Haven’t Got a Clue—a mix of new age and Celtic-influenced music. They’d never complained, but then, she hadn’t complained to Mariana, either.

As Pixie was occupied with the new membership directory, it was up to Tricia to take care of a few low-priority tasks in her absence before she grabbed the tri-town phone directory and looked up the number for the Stoneham Horticultural Society. Was there a chance Mariana knew Julia Harrison? She decided to ask.

“Mariana, do you know a woman named Julia Harrison?”

“Sure. We go to the same church.”

“She works at the Horticultural Society, doesn’t she?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Volunteers, then?” Tricia asked.

Mariana shrugged. “Maybe.”

“She’s a widow, right?”

Mariana nodded. “Her husband died a few years back. Car wreck. It was an icy night.”

“That’s so sad,” Tricia said with sympathy.

“Yeah, he was a great guy.”

The conversation waned.

Tricia didn’t want to call the woman with Mariana listening, but she pulled up the online white pages website, typed in Julia’s name, and got a message that said, “We did not find a match.” Perhaps Julia didn’t have a landline, or if she did, it was listed under her deceased husband’s name. Tricia decided she’d call the Horticultural Society when Mariana was out of the office.

The phone rang and Mariana answered it. “Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. Mariana speaking. How can I help you?” She listened. “Oh, sure, she’s here. Just a moment.” She stabbed the hold button. “Tricia, it’s for you.”

“A member?”

“He didn’t say.”

Tricia picked up the receiver and pressed the blinking hold button. “Tricia Miles. How can I help you?”

“Tricia, it’s Jim Stark.”

Tricia clutched the receiver tighter. Her contractor. The man who may have been jealous of Pete Renquist’s attention toward his wife. “Jim,” she practically squeaked.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Uh, no.” She forced herself to lower her voice to normal. “No. I’m just surprised to hear from you.”

“I was wondering if you’ve heard from your insurance company yet?” That made about eleven times that day she’d been asked the question. “I’ve got a kitchen remodel to do, and the client wants it done ASAP. It’s a two-week job.”

“Two weeks?”

“I wanted to let you know that my team and I will be tied up ’til the first week in September.”

“Oh, well. Thanks for telling me.”

“I’ll give you a call when I’m at the halfway point with the kitchen to see if you’re ready to schedule my guys on your store.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Okay, talk to you then.”

“Wait!” Tricia said, her thoughts spinning. Did she dare ask him about Pete? Her thoughts raced. “I wanted to express my condolences for the loss of your friend.”

“Friend?” Stark asked.

“Yes, I met your wife, Toni, yesterday, and we shared remembrances of Pete Renquist of the Stoneham Historical Society.”

“Renquist was no friend of mine,” Stark said bitterly.

“Oh?” Tricia asked in what she hoped was an innocent-sounding tone. “I know he had a booth in your wife’s new antiques store. She was so upset at his passing, I just assumed the three of you were friends.”

“In this instance, you assumed wrong. Look, I have other calls to make. As I said, I’ll call you in a couple of weeks to talk about your store reno. Good-bye.”

He hung up before Tricia had an opportunity to say anything more.

The conversation had not gone well, but at least she knew by the tone of his voice that Stark had held some kind of resentment toward Pete. The question was, could Tricia find out just what it was without alienating the contractor?