Текст книги "A Fatal Chapter"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

TEN

Late that afternoon, Angelica phoned to say she was swamped with NRA business and could Tricia fend for herself for dinner?

She could.

“Eatin’ alone tonight, eh?” Pixie asked.

“Looks like it,” Tricia said.

“Too bad I made other plans, or I could hang out with you.”

“What’re you doing tonight?”

“Fred and me are going for burgers, and then he’s taking me to the roller derby.”

“Where?” Tricia asked.

“In Manchester at the JFK Memorial Coliseum. It’s the Queen City Cherry Bombers versus the Petticoat Punishers. Aw, man, it’s gonna be great.”

“I didn’t know you were into roller derby.” There was a lot about Pixie she didn’t know.

“There was a time I used to skate with the best. That was way too many years ago.”

Tricia shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, Pixie was a kickboxer. She was husky but toned.

“Sounds like fun.”

“Aw, you’re just saying that. You’d be bored stiff.”

“No, really. I should get out more. Do more interesting . . . stuff.”

“Do you want to come?”

Tricia shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on the time you get to spend with Fred.”

Pixie’s smile was dreamy. “He’s awfully sweet.”

“When will I get to meet him?”

“Maybe my next day off I’ll bring him around,” Pixie said, but her tone wasn’t exactly positive. Was she ashamed of her new boyfriend, or did she think Tricia might look down on him? She hoped not.

“That would be nice,” Tricia said, and hoped she sounded enthusiastic.

Pixie gathered up her things. “I’m off. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

Once the door had closed on Pixie’s back, the Chamber seemed terribly quiet.

Tricia shut down her computer and turned off the lights, and the Chamber was officially closed for the day. Miss Marple was again asleep in Sarge’s basket, and she didn’t even look up as Tricia left the office, went upstairs to grab her purse, and then left to find sustenance.

She got a salad to go from the Bookshelf Diner, brought it back to the Chamber, and ate it in the silence of the Chamber’s small kitchen. It was only seven when she finished, but she didn’t have to meet Angelica at the municipal parking lot until midnight.

It would be a long evening.

After finishing her meal, Tricia went up to her stuffy upstairs quarters, turned on the air-conditioning unit in her bedroom, put a CD in the one-disk player she’d acquired, and settled down in the sitting room with another Agatha Christie novel. This time she was in the mood to revisit Hercule Poirot and chose Evil Under the Sun.

The hours had flown by, and Tricia’s eyes had grown heavy, when she set the book aside. She got up to look out the window that overlooked the street. All was quiet.

Though it had taken a while, after her divorce Tricia had learned to enjoy living alone with Miss Marple. However, since the fire, she found she sought out company more often. Besides her standing lunch date with Ginny, she often joined Mr. Everett and his wife, Grace, on a regular basis just to keep in touch. As a consequence of all these lunches out, she’d gained five pounds, which her daily walks—with or without Sarge—had not eradicated. But even that didn’t bother her as much as it would have before that terrible day in February.

She turned back from the window and glanced at the clock. It was late, but she still had more than an hour to go before she was to meet Angelica. The idea of pacing the apartment or watching reruns held no appeal, and the truth was she felt starved for company. Even if it was also Christopher’s favorite watering hole, of late Tricia often found herself patronizing the Dog-Eared Page, showing up for a game of darts or to compete on Trivia Night. Seeing her ex there couldn’t be helped as, apart from the Brookview Inn’s dining room, the pub was the only game in town when it came to social drinking. She enjoyed the Dog-Eared Page. Between the music and the conversations, sometimes she almost forgot about the fire.

Almost.

It was just after eleven when Tricia donned her light jacket, grabbed a pair of wire cutters from the Chamber’s toolbox, and stuffed them into her pocket; she’d need them later. She locked the Chamber’s side door and headed off on foot for the village pub.

Main Street was silent, but Tricia wasn’t afraid as she walked past the darkened businesses. Still, the thought that one of her fellow citizens had probably killed Pete Renquist did cause her to listen carefully as she walked, and to keep a sharp eye out for movement in the shadows. Less than three minutes later, she arrived at her destination.

Though the pub was sparsely populated on that Wednesday night, a boisterous song issued from the hidden speakers in the ceiling. A middle-aged couple sat huddled in one of the booths, nursing half-empty beer glasses, while another, older couple played a game of darts in back.

Michele Fowler sat at the bar with a sheaf of papers spread out before her. She looked up when Tricia shut the door.

“Welcome, Tricia. Come sit down.” She patted the empty stool beside her. Tricia gladly took it. “What can we offer you?”

“Truth be told, I’d really like a cup of coffee.”

“How about an Irish coffee?” Michele offered.

A smile quirked the edges of Tricia’s mouth. “I think I could be talked into that.”

“I think I’ll join you,” Michele said.

Shawn, the bartender, who’d cocked an ear in their direction, nodded and turned to make their drinks.

“What have you got there?” Tricia asked, tapping a finger on one of the printed pages spread across the bar.

Michele frowned. “Janet over at the Historical Society has given me copies of all of Pete’s notes on the ghost walks.”

“And?” Tricia prompted.

“I don’t understand some of the references.”

Tricia thought back to Pete’s last words. They hadn’t made sense, either. Michele handed her one of the papers. Tricia looked at the words and frowned. Cemetery real estate. What did that mean? Probably cemetery plots. And for which cemetery? As far as Tricia knew, the two Pete had been dealing with were both still accepting—she almost winced—clients. Were all the cemeteries in the area doing the same?

“Which is the oldest cemetery in town?” she asked Michele.

“The Stoneham Rural Cemetery—although it’s hardy rural anymore, but I suppose when it was established in 1838, it was.”

“Had Pete found any ghoulish stories to share?”

“I wouldn’t say ghoulish, more historical. But there are a few recent murder victims”—Tricia could name several of them—“as well as murderers buried there. But I don’t suppose it would go over well to talk about those souls, although it would be easy to fabricate something about those long gone to give the visitors a shiver or two.”

“Yes, I suppose it would.”

Shawn delivered their steaming coffees in tall glass mugs topped with blasts of whipped cream. Michele raised hers in salute. Tricia did likewise and took a sip. Lovely. Tricia’s gaze returned to the papers scattered across the bar, her expression pensive.

“You don’t like talking about this, do you?” Michele asked quietly.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been reading murder mysteries most of my life. But I have to admit, I’m not really sure how I feel about ghosts.”

“Oh, I believe in them completely. With so many of the houses in England being centuries old, it would be strange not to run into a ghost or two during a lifetime.” She laughed. “Mine, not theirs.”

Tricia nodded toward the papers. “Surely there’s enough material for you to work with to come up with a twenty– or thirty-minute talk.”

“Oh, I’m sure there is. I’ve even been practicing my patter on Shawn.”

“And what does he think?” Tricia asked, taking another sip of her coffee.

Michele eyed the thirtysomething hunk, who was listening as he dried the glasses he’d just washed. “He’s bored. Not at all a receptive audience.” She turned back to Tricia. “Perhaps you’d be willing to help me with my presentation?”

“I’d enjoy it.”

“Lovely. Shall we start later this week? The talks are due to begin less than a month from now.”

“I’ve got nothing else on my calendar,” Tricia said, and it was true. Except for dinners with Angelica, she had nothing scheduled and would probably make no long-term plans until she had a timeline for returning to her home and reopening her store.

“Brilliant,” Michele said.

They spent the next half hour in pleasant conversation as first one, then the other couple finished their drinks and waved good night.

“Looks like I’m closing down the bar tonight,” Tricia said, taking the last sip of her tepid Irish coffee. It was then she realized she hadn’t brought her purse or any money with her. “Oh, dear. I can’t pay for my drink. I feel like a piker.”

“Don’t worry, love, it’s on the house,” Michele said.

“Thank you,” Tricia said, and donned her jacket against the chilly August night air. It was almost midnight and time to meet Angelica. “Good night,” she called as she left the bar.

She found her sister sitting in her car in the municipal parking lot with the engine running and little Sarge in the passenger seat, riding shotgun. Angelica hit the control and the power window rolled down.

“Am I late?” Tricia asked.

“No, I’m early,” Angelica said. She closed the window, shut off the engine, and joined her sister.

Tricia opened her car’s trunk and withdrew one of the bags. “I had hoped to find petunias, but they were in short supply. I don’t know all that much about flowers, but at least I know that roses would not be appropriate in a hanging basket.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Angelica said, but as she pawed through the rest of the flowers in the bag, her frown deepened. “A lot of these are tropical flowers.”

“I know, but they’re colorful and pretty—or at least they will be ten feet off the ground.”

“Maybe I should alert Russ Smith to the vandalism and ask him to write a short article for the Stoneham Weekly News. Maybe if I offer a reward to find the culprits, it might squash the impending outrage.”

“Outrage is rather a strong term when it comes to the merchants’ reaction to fake flowers, but I think you’re right.” Tricia withdrew a plastic stem that sprouted four red carnations. “I brought a pair of wire cutters.” She took them out of her jacket pocket. “We can cut these off and stuff them into the dirt in the baskets.”

Angelica sighed. “Oh, dear. I guess we should have cut and sorted them earlier this evening. It’s going to take all night for us to get this done.”

“Then we’d better get started.”

They decided to empty all the bags and sort and cut the flowers there in the parking lot under Tricia’s car’s trunk light. Angelica chose a palette of colors for the baskets before retrieving Sarge. She wore the end of the leash like a bracelet over her left wrist and grabbed a big flashlight and several of the bags, leaving Tricia to struggle with the ladder.

The whole project had sounded like a lark, but Tricia had never done any flower arranging, and after far too many unhelpful suggestions from Angelica, it soon became apparent that her efforts weren’t going to cut it, and she knew that unless Angelica did the arrangements herself, she wouldn’t be satisfied. “Ange, you’re going to have to conquer your fears and climb this ladder.”

“Oh, but I can’t!” she cried, suddenly panicked.

“Yes, you can,” Tricia said firmly. “You’re Nigela Ricita. You have accomplished the impossible,” she bluffed. “You have two successful businesses in your own name and you’re a published author who single-handedly transformed the Chamber of Commerce in a mere eight months. And you can climb this ladder and make beautiful floral arrangements to spread happiness and cheer throughout the whole village.”

Talk about laying it on thick!

Angelica’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she swallowed. “Well, I guess I could try,” she said, her voice trembling. “Will you lean against my legs so I don’t fall?”

“Yes, I will,” Tricia said patiently.

Angelica blinked away her tears and straightened, taking a deep, steadying breath before handing off the leash. Slowly, she approached the ladder, grasped it, and carefully placed her right foot on the first rung.

“You can do it,” Tricia encouraged her.

“Yes, I can,” Angelica said, swallowed and pulled herself up. It took another minute or two for her to force herself up the next two steps. “Okay,” she said at last. “Hand me a couple of the flowers.”

It wasn’t as easy a task as it sounded, since Tricia had to juggle the leash, the bags, and the flashlight, and after fumbling for nearly a minute, she hefted a bag in Angelica direction. “Take this. I can’t do it all.”

Angelica snorted an impatient breath and snatched the bag from Tricia’s grasp. Tricia aimed the flashlight in the general direction of the basket. Soon, Angelica became absorbed in the work, and Tricia could feel the tension in her sister’s legs subside.

After several minutes, Angelica called, “Well, what do you think?”

Tricia squinted up at the basket. “Looks a lot better than what I could have done.”

“You could learn to arrange flowers. I could teach you.”

“You’re stretched too thin as it is,” Tricia said, which was true.

“You’re right.” Angelica sighed. “Okay, how do I get down from here?”

Tricia stepped back and grabbed Angelica’s left hand, helping her down. “I guess I’d better carry the ladder,” Angelica said, and proceeded to fold it for transport.

Sarge, who’d been sitting patiently, was eager to take off, and he had to be restrained when they only went as far as the next lamppost. Angelica unfolded the ladder, took a deep breath, and climbed the first step. “I can do this,” she muttered, and took the next step. Half a minute later, she was engrossed in her second floral arrangement.

By the time they’d finished the fifth basket, Angelica seemed to have forgotten her fear of heights. “You know, maybe Nigela Ricita Associates should open a floral shop here in Stoneham.”

“You wouldn’t want to hurt the Milford Nursery’s bottom line, would you, especially after you encouraged them to join our Chamber of Commerce?”

“I guess you’re right,” Angelica said. “If it ever got out that I was Nigela, it could look like a conflict of interest.”

They did another two baskets before they ran out of silk flowers.

“Oh, dear,” Angelica said. “If you’ve hit all the local stores, what are we going to do about all the other baskets?”

“Maybe you could order some online and pay for express shipping?”

“That means we wouldn’t see them until at least Friday.”

“It beats bald baskets,” Tricia said.

“I guess,” Angelica said with resignation.

Suddenly Sarge’s ears perked up and he began to growl, straining at the leash. Tricia looked up the road and saw a figure advancing toward them. “Ange,” she whispered nervously, wondering, should the need arise, if they could defend themselves with the stepladder.

“Tricia!”

Tricia immediately recognized the voice: Christopher.

“What on earth are you two doing skulking around the village at this time of night?” he demanded.

“Replacing the flowers,” Angelica said, and scooped up a still-growling Sarge before he could start barking and wake the neighborhood. “What are you doing up this time of night?” she asked, inspecting his attire: a jacket over what looked like silk pajamas.

“I was thirsty and got up for a drink. I looked out the window and saw you two.”

“If you’d looked five minutes later, we’d have been gone,” Tricia said.

Christopher looked up at the hanging basket above them. “Why did you need to replace the flowers?”

“Because someone has snipped every last bloom,” Angelica explained.

“Then how—?”

“They’re fake,” Tricia explained.

“Silk,” Angelica insisted.

Christopher again looked up to take in Angelica’s handiwork and shrugged. “Oh.”

“What are you doing here?” Tricia asked.

“I told you.”

“Yes, but what compelled you to come down to check on us?”

“There’s a murderer running around here. You girls shouldn’t be out on the street in the middle of the night.”

“We’re women, not girls,” Tricia reminded him.

“And we have Sarge to protect us,” Angelica asserted, and the little dog growled in agreement.

“That little squirt? He’s hardly protection,” Christopher said.

“No, but he can bark up a storm if he feels we’re threatened,” Tricia said.

“Well, I’d feel better if you two would let me walk you home—that is if you’re ready to call it a night.”

“Since we’re out of flowers, I certainly am,” Angelica said.

“Me, too,” Tricia agreed.

“Good.” Christopher reached for the ladder, folded it, and then carried it as he led the way back to the Cookery. Angelica took out her key and unlocked the door. “Where do you want me to put the ladder?” Christopher asked.

“Just leave it inside the door. I’ll put it away in the morning.”

Tricia handed over the empty bags and the flashlight. “I’ll see you at the Chamber office in the morning.”

“If I remember correctly, we have nothing going on, so I might not make it in until the afternoon.”

“I’ll see you then,” Tricia said, and gave her sister a brief hug before Angelica entered the Cookery and locked the door.

Tricia turned to find Christopher standing before her with a big dumb grin across his face. “I can walk back to the Chamber without an escort,” she assured him.

“I don’t get to play good guy very often these days,” he said. “And I’ll sleep much better if I know you’re safe.”

Tricia looked down the well-lit, empty street and sighed. “Suit yourself.” She turned and started off at a brisk pace. Christopher had to jog a few steps to catch up.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

“You think so?” she asked, not bothering to look at him.

“Yes. Ten years ago you needed me.”

“Ten years ago I thought we needed each other.”

“Ten years ago I was arrogant. Five years ago I was even more arrogant.”

“And now?” she asked, looking askance at him as they walked.

“I hope I’ve learned humility.”

“You? Humble?” she asked, skeptical.

“Yes. I thought I could move to the mountains and live alone, but all I could think about was you.”

“Funny, it took several years before you contacted me.”

“I was living in denial.”

Tricia stopped suddenly. “You’ve got some nerve coming here, bugging me, suggesting we get back together.”

“It’s because I realized I still love you.”

“I suppose it was a case of ‘you don’t know what you’ve got until you lose it’?”

“That’s right. And now I want to do whatever it takes to get you back.”

“Unfortunately, you can’t go back in time and rectify things.”

“And I can’t keep apologizing for the biggest mistake in my life, either.”

“Why not?” Tricia asked.

“It hasn’t done much good so far.”

She stared at him for a long moment before she started off again. At the corner, she looked both ways, even though no cars had passed by in more than an hour, and crossed the street with Christopher following.

They didn’t speak until they approached the Chamber office. “I can take it from here,” Tricia said.

“I’ll see you in,” he insisted.

As they approached the side door, the motion-detector light clicked on, blazing. Tricia fumbled in her jacket pocket for her keys, finding them and then selecting the proper one to unlock the door. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“I’d feel better knowing there’s no one inside. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait and make sure there’s no one lurking in the shadows.”

She sighed.

“A man was killed only two days ago,” he reminded her.

“All right,” she reluctantly agreed. Christopher followed her inside the house. Once inside, Tricia turned on the lights, first leading him into the kitchen, then showing him the empty conference room, and finally the living room. “There. I’m safe and sound.”

“We haven’t checked upstairs.”

“I don’t think we need to,” Tricia said firmly.

“I insist,” Christopher said, and before she could stop him, he’d pivoted, opened the door to the stairway, and headed for the second floor.

“Wait!” she called, but he ignored her, bounding up the darkened stairs. Once at the top, he fumbled for a light switch. The overhead light glowed.

“Christopher,” Tricia called, pounding after him.

He was already in her bedroom when she arrived at the landing. “Get out!” she shouted.

“Nobody in there,” he said, turned on another light and inspected the tiny bathroom. “Or there.” He pushed past her, heading for her sitting room. He turned on the light and stood in the center of the room. Miss Marple had been sleeping on the room’s only chair, a wingback decked in pastel floral upholstery. The cat blinked up at him, and said, “Yow!”

“Yes, it is late,” Christopher told her. “But I just wanted to make sure you and your mom are safe.” He turned back to face Tricia. “You can’t blame me for that.”

“I can blame you for forcing your way into my home,” she said.

“I didn’t force my way; you unlocked the door.”

“To the Chamber’s office. You are now trespassing in my personal space.”

He peeled off his jacket and tossed it on the footstool. Before she could protest, Miss Marple stood and Christopher scooped her up, taking her place on the chair and putting her down on his lap, where she promptly settled, tucking her feet under herself. “A fellow could sure go for a cup of cocoa before he goes back out into the cold.”

“It’s not that cold.”

“It is when you’re wearing pajamas.”

“Come down to the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup,” she said, seeking a compromise.

“But Miss Marple is so comfortable,” he said, and sure enough, Miss Marple’s eyes were closed in pleasure, and she purred like a buzz saw as he petted her head.

Traitor! Tricia thought.

“I’ll be right back,” she grated. And so help me, if I find you in my bedroom, I’ll call the police.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Christopher assured her, looking up at her with those green eyes that almost always made her melt inside. This time she was determined to ignore their often-mesmerizing quality.

Tricia turned abruptly, lest she lose her resolve. She stomped down the stairs, went into the kitchen, and grabbed a mug from the drainboard. She filled it with water, which she nearly spilled when she thrust the mug into the microwave, hitting the timer for a minute. While she waited for it to heat, she got out the canister of cocoa and a clean spoon, her anger reaching the boiling point faster than the water. She didn’t wait for the microwave to count down the last twenty seconds and punched the door release. She didn’t want Christopher to say the cocoa needed to cool, thus delaying his departure. She dropped some of the powdered cocoa in her haste to get it into the mug, and slopped more of it onto the counter when stirring. When most of the cocoa had dissolved, she poured a little into the sink. She didn’t want to spill it on the floor or carpet.

Tricia ascended the stairs with more care and quiet than she’d descended them less than two minutes before. “Here’s your cocoa,” she called as she entered the sitting room, but Christopher sat slumped in the chair and was quietly snoring. Miss Marple appeared to be deep in dreamland as well.

“Christopher!” Tricia called sharply, but he didn’t rouse. She shook his shoulder, but he only nuzzled his head deeper into the wing of the chair.

For a moment she was so angry she considered pouring the chocolate over him, but she decided she liked the chair too much to risk such damage, and she wasn’t eager to frighten her cat half to death, either.

“I hope you get a backache,” she grumbled, and switched off the light before heading for her bedroom. She set the chocolate down and undressed, still grumbling to herself.

At last she sat on the bed, considered the mug of cocoa, and decided to drink it. She was so upset, she needed something to calm her jangled nerves. She shouldn’t have had the Irish coffee so late in the evening. And didn’t cocoa have caffeine in it, too?

She drank the last of it, set the mug on the nightstand, and set her alarm for seven, an hour later than she usually got up. It was after three. If she could fall asleep fast, she’d get just under four hours of sleep.

Climbing into bed, she turned off the light. She lay there for a few moments, fuming, wondering if she should lock her bedroom door. What if Christopher got up in an hour or so and climbed into bed with her?

She’d scream, and then she would definitely call the police. She’d have Baker arrest him. Maybe she’d get a restraining order against him, too. Yes, that was it. Christopher needed to be restrained from caring about her. He’d given up that privilege when he’d asked for the divorce.

Tricia squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to sleep, but blessed oblivion would not come—she was listening too hard for creeping footsteps approaching from the other room.

It was after four when she finally let her guard down and allowed herself to feel drowsy.

The nightmare returned with a vengeance. Flames licked the inside of Haven’t Got a Clue, the smoke thickening until it choked her. “Miss Marple! Miss Marple!” she called as she crawled along the carpet, searching for her beloved cat.

But it was only a dream. She knew it—she’d saved the cat and herself, and soon she’d begin to rebuild and refurbish, but the sense of danger still seemed closed—as someone frantically called her name.

“Tricia! Tricia!” came the shrill cries.

Tricia opened her eyes to see light streaming in her bedroom window.

“Tricia!”

The voice calling her name wasn’t part of a dream. It was real!