Текст книги "Book Clubbed"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

THREE

With all the chaos going on at the Cookery, Tricia was happy to return to her own store and its relative peace. Relative because her assistant, Pixie Poe, was singing. As she studied the order forms before her, Tricia desperately tried to ignore her employee’s slightly off-key rendition of “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” As it was, Tricia had been afraid Angelica might wait out the police presence at her own store by hanging out at Haven’t Got a Clue, but instead she’d chosen to go across the street to Booked for Lunch, the tiny retro café she owned and operated.

Pixie dressed exclusively in vintage togs, so one never knew what era she was likely to represent on any given day. Today she seemed to be channeling the Andrews Sisters, looking like a rather long-in-the-tooth Patty, with shoulder-length blonde hair, pancake makeup, and ruby-colored lips and nails. The customers loved her, and sales had skyrocketed since she’d come to work at Haven’t Got a Clue. Tricia had rewarded her with several raises and was thinking of giving her another.

While Tricia’s other employee, Mr. Everett, dusted the back shelves, Pixie once again wandered over to the big display window to look outside, checking out what she could see of the mix of official cars and people, and the investigation into Betsy Dittmeyer’s death.

“They haven’t taken the body out yet,” she said with what sounded like disappointment.

“And when they do, there’ll be nothing to see,” Tricia chided her.

“I know. It’s just . . . well, with the screws blocking the sidewalk, we aren’t going to have any customers, so I’ve gotta do something to keep from getting bored.”

“Why don’t you go read a book,” Tricia encouraged.

“Really?” Pixie asked with delight. “Great. I’m working my way through Dashiell Hammett once again. Love that Maltese Falcon.” Tricia watched her go over to one of the shelves, pluck out a book, and then flop down into the readers’ nook.

Tricia sighed and went back to her paperwork. Pixie might not be working, but neither was she singing.

The little bell over the door rang cheerfully, causing both Tricia and Pixie to look up, but instead of a customer it was Ginny Wilson-Barbero who entered Haven’t Got a Clue. Unfortunately, her demeanor was anything but cheerful. Tricia didn’t bother with the usual pleasantries. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Ginny said, her voice high and squeaky.

“Hi, Ginny!” Pixie called without looking up from her book.

“Hi, Pixie. How are you?”

“Just Yankee Doodle dandy!” she said and, unfortunately, began to hum as she read. From the back of the store, Mr. Everett waved his lamb’s-wool duster in greeting and went back to work.

Ginny inched closer to the sales desk. “I saw the police cars. Well, who could miss them? Rumor has it that Betsy Dittmeyer was killed this morning over at the Cookery.”

“I’m afraid it’s true.”

“By a bookcase?” Ginny asked.

Tricia nodded grimly. “Fully loaded.”

“Messy,” Ginny said and winced.

“Yes,” Tricia agreed. She noted that Ginny’s eyes were bloodshot and her nose was red, although she didn’t sound like she had a cold. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

Ginny’s eyes filled with tears. “Have you got a couple of minutes to talk?”

Tricia looked over at Pixie, who had turned to look their way. “Sure, Mr. E and I can hold down the fort,” Pixie said. As usual, she’d been eavesdropping.

“Come on,” Tricia said and came out from behind the cash desk and wrapped an arm around Ginny’s shoulder. “We’ll go upstairs and have a nice cup of cocoa.”

Ginny sniffed and allowed herself to be guided through the shop. Miss Marple joined them, scampering up the stairs, while Tricia and Ginny followed until they reached the third floor and Tricia’s loft apartment. Tricia unlocked the door and let them in. “Let me take your coat.”

Ginny shrugged out of the sleeves of her coat, handing it to Tricia, who hung it on the coat tree by the door. She hurried over to the kitchen counter and filled the electric kettle with water, then got out mugs and packets of cocoa mix. “I hope you don’t mind instant. Of course, Angelica would make it from whole milk, and the finest Swiss ground chocolate.”

“She does tend to go overboard,” Ginny admitted, then dug for a tissue in the pocket of her skirt and blew her nose.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to serve a guest. I don’t really keep cookies or desserts up here. But we’ve got some thumbprint cookies down in the store. I could dash down and—”

Ginny shook her head. “No, thanks. The last thing I need right now are more calories.”

“What’s wrong?” Tricia asked. “Have you and Antonio had a fight?”

“Oh, no. He’s the sweetest, nicest man in the world—well, apart from Mr. Everett. I love him to death. I’ve never had an unhappy minute with him.”

“But you don’t look very happy right now. Is it the job?” Tricia prompted, since Ginny didn’t seem to be in a hurry to explain.

Again Ginny shook her head. Her gaze fell and her lower lip trembled, and then she nodded. “I guess it is my job I’m worried about.” She nodded once more. “Yes, that’s exactly it. I’m afraid I’m going to lose the Happy Domestic.”

“Why? I thought it was doing well. That you were in the black and your boss, Nigela Ricita, was very happy with your work.”

“She is. Or so Antonio tells me.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

The kettle chose that moment to come to a boil, and Tricia turned her attention to the cocoa at hand, pouring the water into the cups and mixing the contents with spoons. She grabbed a couple of paper napkins from the holder, set them on the kitchen island, and placed the mugs on them.

Tricia waited, but Ginny didn’t seem able to meet her gaze.

“Ginny, please, tell me what’s wrong.”

Ginny looked up, her eyes filling with tears, her face screwing into an expression of total misery. “I’m . . . I’m pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” Tricia cried and leapt forward to embrace her friend. “That’s wonderful. Oh, I’m so happy for both of you.”

But Ginny didn’t move. She stood rock still.

Tricia pulled back, studying Ginny’s face. “This is wonderful news. Why aren’t you happy?”

“Part of me is happy,” she cried, “but most of me didn’t plan for this to happen for another couple of years.”

“What does Antonio think about it?”

Ginny looked away. “I haven’t told him.”

“Oh, Ginny.”

Ginny waved her hands in the air as though to stop an oncoming scolding. “I can’t tell him. Not when I feel this way.”

“Okay, so the timing isn’t what you’d originally planned, but you’ll make the best mama in all of Stoneham.”

“But what about the Happy Domestic?” she cried.

“What about it?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it belongs to me. Maybe not on paper, but I’ve put my heart and soul into that store.”

“And you’ve done a wonderful job—”

“But what if they take it away from me?”

“Who?”

“Antonio and Nigela Ricita.”

“Why would they take it away from you?”

“Because,” she said and sat down at the island, placing her hands around the steaming mug, “I just have this feeling . . . maybe it’s the name of the store . . . the Happy Domestic. I don’t want them to force me to be just a housewife.”

“What makes you think they’d do that?”

“Let’s face it; the former owner didn’t have a happy domestic life. She and her husband fought about the business after their son arrived. And then a plane dropped out of the sky and killed her. What if the place is cursed?”

“Hey, I’m supposed to be the village jinx, not you,” Tricia reminded Ginny.

“Deborah Black wasn’t good at juggling her business and her home life. What if I can’t do it, either?”

Tricia sighed, exasperated. “I have faith in you. And if you’ll let them, I’m sure Antonio and Nigela Ricita will, too.”

Ginny picked up her cup, blew on the hot liquid, and took a tiny sip. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now. The timing just isn’t right.”

“You weren’t thinking of . . .” Tricia found she couldn’t even say the words.

Ginny raised her gaze just a trifle, looking guilty. “I did . . . for about a second and a half. This is something I want. But not right now.”

“Why did you tell me first?” Tricia asked. “Are you looking for advice?”

“Not exactly,” Ginny admitted, taking another sip. “I know what you’re going to say: ‘Talk to Antonio.’”

“He is your husband,” Tricia reminded her.

“Like I could forget that,” Ginny said with a shadow of her old laugh.

“Talk to him. I’m sure your fears are all blown out of proportion. It’s probably the hormones.”

Ginny shrugged, and drank more of her cocoa. “I feel so selfish.”

“Motherhood is a big responsibility,” Tricia said. “It will change your life, but not for the worse.”

“You think?”

“I’m sure of it.”

Ginny nodded wearily and tipped her head to take in the last of her cocoa. “I really need to get back to my store.”

“Me, too.”

The women set their dirty mugs in the sink and Ginny retrieved her coat before they headed to the stairs that took them back to Haven’t Got a Clue. Still seated in a chair in the nook, Pixie looked up over the top of her book. “Is everything okay?”

“It will be,” Tricia said and forced a smile. Before she and Ginny made it halfway to the exit, the door burst open and Nikki Brimfield-Smith entered.

“I’ve got the most wonderful news!” she cried, zeroing in on Tricia and rushing forward. “Russ and I are having a baby!”

Stunned, Tricia stood rock still with her mouth agape. Ginny, the poor soul, burst into tears.

Nikki appeared unsure of herself. “Isn’t anyone going to say anything?”

“Congratulations,” Tricia managed, but Ginny made a break for the door Nikki had just entered. She and Tricia watched as Ginny slammed the door behind her.

Nikki frowned. “She could have at least pretended to be happy for us.”

“I’m sure she is,” Tricia said, “but Ginny is pretty upset this morning. If you’d told her the moon was made of green cheese she probably would have had the same reaction.”

Nikki stared at the closed door, miffed, then turned back to Tricia. “And what do you think about my news?”

Tricia forced a smile. “I think it’s terrific. How far along are you?”

“Two months.”

“Have you picked out any names?” she asked, trying to sound thrilled.

“We won’t even consider names until after we find out the baby’s gender.”

Tricia nodded. She wasn’t sure what to say next.

“Since I found out earlier this morning, all I can think about is selling the Patisserie and becoming a stay-at-home mom.”

“Oh,” was all Tricia could think of to say.

“You don’t think I should?” Nikki challenged, not sounding at all sure herself.

“You should do whatever makes you happy. But are you sure you want to do that? You trained so hard to become a pastry chef. You worked so hard to take possession of the bakery.”

“Nothing is more important to us than giving our child the most nurturing environment. And that means devoting my entire life to him or her.”

The door opened and an older man entered, his cheeks chapped from the wind. He paused, pulled off a pair of brown leather gloves, and retrieved a slip of paper from his coat pocket. “Can someone help me find these books?”

Pixie was about to get up from her chair, but Tricia shook her head and she sat back down. Likewise, Mr. Everett, who’d been about to bound forward, did an abrupt about-face.

“I’d be glad to.” Tricia turned back to Nikki. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a customer—and as I’m sure you already know, they seem to be a rarity these days. Congratulations to both you and Russ. You’ll make fine parents.”

Nikki frowned and turned for the door without another word. She’d obviously expected a more enthusiastic reception to her announcement. Shoulders slumped, she left the shop without another word and quietly closed the door behind her.

Tricia sighed. Two women, two announcements—two very different reactions. And Tricia found she didn’t envy either Ginny or Nikki.

*   *   *

The morning’s only customer turned out to be a good one. After browsing for just under an hour, he’d purchased nearly three hundred dollars’ worth of books. Since it was nearly their lunchtime anyway, Mr. Everett and Pixie helped carry the books to the customer’s car before they headed off for the Bookshelf Diner to eat.

Tricia settled behind the cash desk, determined to battle the pile of paperwork before her when the shop door opened once again. This time, it was not a customer but Christopher Benson, Tricia’s ex-husband, who’d taken up residence across the street in the apartment over the Nigela Ricita Associates office where he worked.

“What brings you to Haven’t Got a Clue?” Tricia asked, looking straight into Christopher’s mesmerizing green eyes. She always thought they were his best physical trait. Dressed in jeans, a bulky sweater, and a ski jacket, he looked like he might be about to pose for a spread in an L.L. Bean catalog.

“I happened to be looking out my office window when I saw Pixie and Mr. Everett go out for lunch. I thought you might want some company.”

Tricia looked over her shoulder at Miss Marple, who was asleep on her perch behind the cash desk. “I’m never lonely when I’m with my cat. You see, she stuck with me through thick and thin. Like when my husband left me,” Tricia said, keeping her tone light and even.

“Touché,” Christopher reluctantly agreed.

“Now, why did you really come here today?”

“I’ve seen the police and rescue vehicles come and go, and I’ve heard all the gossip. And I know how wrapped up you get whenever there’s a crime in Stoneham.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Everybody knows you like to think of yourself as a much younger and prettier Agatha Christie.”

“I do not.” She frowned. “Well, I will accept the ‘prettier’ part.”

“From what I hear, you’ve helped the cops solve several crimes in the past couple of years.”

“I was just being a good citizen.”

“I hoped that when your employees return from their lunch that we could go somewhere to eat and maybe talk about Betsy Dittmeyer.”

“And what did you know about Betsy?”

“I am the only financial advisor in town. You’d be surprised how many clients I’ve accumulated in such a short period.” He’d moved to town only two months before.

“I thought you worked for Nigela Ricita Associates.”

“Not exclusively. I’m on a retainer, but I still have several hours free every day.”

“What about client confidentiality? Aren’t you afraid that if you talk to me about a client’s financial situation that your other clients might find out and take their business away from you?”

“I happen to trust you. I know you wouldn’t go blab whatever I tell you to anyone—except maybe Angelica, and she can keep a secret, too.”

“How would you know that?”

He shrugged. “We’ve talked.”

“Has Angelica hired you to give her financial advice?” Tricia asked, surprised.

“Yes.”

“Okay, so what is Angelica’s financial status?”

Christopher shook his head. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Why, because she’s still alive?”

He nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Have you spoken to Chief Baker about Betsy?”

He nodded. “I thought it might be pertinent.”

“And was it?”

“He seemed to think so. And so will you.”

“Okay, I’m game.”

“Great, then you’ll go out to lunch with me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You do need to eat,” he said reasonably.

“Why can’t you just tell me now?”

“I don’t mind being seen with you. Do you mind being seen with me?”

Tricia sighed. She was getting tired of the runaround. “Level with me. Please?”

“Okay.” Christopher shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “But only because I feel I owe you. I realize now it was downright cruel of me to leave you the way I did.”

“Yes, you hurt me, but I’m over it now. I like my life the way it is. Believe it or not, I’m not pining for you. You don’t have to buy me expensive jewelry or do anything else to make up for it. It’s behind us now. I’ve moved on. It’s time you did, too.”

“You’re absolutely right. But is it wrong for me to still enjoy your company? We have a history. If nothing else, I’d like us to be friends.”

“We are friends. Just not close friends.”

Christopher frowned. “I suppose you’re right.”

“And does this mean you aren’t going to tell me about Betsy’s finances?”

He sighed. “I guess I could, at least until a customer comes in.” He straightened. “You might not believe it, but Betsy Dittmeyer was a multimillionaire.”

Dumpy, unattractive, Betsy? The one who was afraid the Chamber of Commerce might reduce her from a full-time to a part-time employee? “You’ve got to be kidding,” Tricia said, flabbergasted.

Christopher shook his head. “It seems she’d had several large judgments from civil suits. Not only that, but not long ago she’d changed the beneficiary for nearly all of her accounts.”

“And who was the unlucky person to lose Betsy’s favor?”

“Her sister.”

“Joelle Morrison?” Tricia asked.

“Do you know her?”

“We’ve spoken on a number of occasions,” Tricia admitted, neglecting to add that she’d led the wedding planner to believe she and Christopher might be on the verge of reconciliation—all in the name of gathering information on a previous murder investigation. “Do you know if Betsy told Joelle she’d been cut out of the will?”

Again, Christopher shook his head.

“Do you think the loss of such a large inheritance could be the reason Betsy was murdered?” Tricia blurted.

“Not necessarily. Betsy assured me her sister had no idea of her personal worth, but Chief Baker was sure interested. Apparently he thinks it makes a good motive for murder.”

It certainly did. “Who was the lucky new benefactor? Anyone we know?”

“The Stoneham Food Shelf, several charities involved in cancer research, and a living trust.”

“Wait a minute. Betsy always acted like she was broke. She certainly didn’t dress the part of a millionaire—or flaunt the fact she had the kind of money you’re suggesting. So unless she was just spiteful, Joelle had no real reason to kill her sister.”

“Perhaps Betsy taunted her about the disinheritance. If she did, I have no knowledge of it—and maybe no one else did, either. They may never have spoken about it. Do you talk money with Angelica?”

Angelica had once told Tricia that she’d written a will leaving all her worldly goods to Tricia—and vice versa, but they hadn’t spoken of it since. “No. And she rarely mentions it to me, either.”

“There you go.”

“So does this make Joelle a truly viable suspect, or would you rule her out?” Tricia asked.

“That’s not up to either of us to decide. But I’m sure your boyfriend, Chief Baker, will.”

Tricia felt her insides tighten. “I wish you wouldn’t refer to him that way. We are no longer an item . . . not that we ever really were.”

“Too bad for him. You’re a remarkable woman, Tricia. The kindest I’ve ever come across.”

She certainly didn’t feel that way today. Not after her encounter with Nikki . . . and now with Christopher. Still, she replied, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“No, I really mean it.”

But before he could elaborate, the shop door opened and an elderly female customer entered.

Tricia made eye contact with the woman and managed a smile. “Good afternoon. Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. I’m Tricia. Please let me know if you need any help.”

“Thank you,” the old lady said and moseyed over to one of the bookshelves.

“I guess that’s the end of our conversation,” Christopher said with yet another shrug.

“I guess,” Tricia agreed, and for some unfathomable reason she actually felt a pang of regret.

“That lunch invitation is still good. I mean, you do need sustenance to stay alive. If none of the local restaurants appeal to you, I make a mean risotto.”

There was no way Tricia would allow herself to visit her ex-husband’s apartment. She worried that, plied with enough wine, she might finish the evening in his bed—and she really didn’t want that to happen. “Thank you, but no thank you.”

“No matter how much you deny it, it’s not over between us, Tricia. One day we will get back together.”

Tricia said nothing. She didn’t want to encourage him. And she didn’t want to admit that somewhere in her heart of hearts she still cared more for him than she wanted or would ever admit. She didn’t want to give him that much power over her ever again.

Christopher cast a glance toward the back of the shop where Tricia’s lone customer still browsed. “Well, I guess I’d better go. If you won’t eat with me, can I at least bring you a sandwich or something?”

“I usually have lunch with Angelica at Booked for Lunch after it closes.”

“I know. I often see you cross the street around two o’clock.”

“Have you been spying on me?” Tricia asked, although she wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had. He certainly lived close enough to observe her comings and goings.

“Not spying. I just happen to look out my window when I’m not busy. If you’re there—I see you. If you’re not, I don’t.”

“And do you find yourself without something to do on a regular basis?” she asked and found herself smiling. Good grief, was she actually flirting with her ex-husband?

Christopher’s smile was wistful. “Sometimes.”

The door opened and another customer entered the store. Tricia gave her usual canned line about giving assistance before turning back to Christopher.

“Are you sure I can’t get you something? A cappuccino? Espresso? A big greasy burger and a slice of cheesecake?”

“No, nothing, thank you.”

Christopher’s smile morphed into something a little more sly. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around, then.”

“I guess so,” Tricia said.

“I’m going now,” he said, backing toward the door.

“I see that you are.”

“Honest, I’m almost out of here.”

“Have a nice lunch.”

With nowhere left to go, Christopher opened the door, gave her a cheerful wave and a smile, and then he was gone.

Tricia sighed. After all the unhappiness he’d caused her, why did she still love that man so much?