Текст книги "Book Clubbed"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

FOUR

Tricia watched as the clock’s minute hand inched closer to the hour. Already the east side of Main Street was bathed in shadows. Every day the sun stayed above the horizon for just a minute or so longer, promising that spring was only another five weeks away. Still it gave her hope, however dumb that sounded.

Main Street seemed strangely quiet after the unnatural bustle during the morning and most of the afternoon caused by Betsy Dittmeyer’s death. After the medical examiner had finally removed her body, and all the other official vehicles had departed, the village seemed deserted and forlorn.

“Another eventful day in Stoneham,” Pixie declared and sighed as she placed yet another removable price sticker on a paperback. She’d been working on a box of books Tricia had bought from an online auction.

From her position on the other side of the cash desk, Tricia looked over the top of her reading glasses. “After this morning, I think I could do without any more eventful days, thank you very much.”

Pixie shrugged and slapped a sticker on a Tami Hoag novel. “My parole officer thinks I have a vivid imagination. He doesn’t believe a word I tell him about what goes on here in Stoneham.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t tell him those tales. He might decide the village is a bad influence on you and force you to quit your job and leave us. Then what would Miss Marple, Mr. Everett, and I do?”

“Gee, I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll keep my mouth shut from now on,” she promised.

Tricia gave Pixie what she hoped was a warm smile. She’d actually become quite fond of the ex-prostitute who happened to have an encyclopedic memory when it came to vintage mysteries. Besides her habit of eavesdropping, there was only one other thing about Pixie that Tricia couldn’t abide: her affection for the large, ugly, vinyl baby doll she’d given to Tricia as a gift several months before, and had adopted as the store mascot. Pixie had named her Sarah Jane and liked to dress the doll for holidays and special occasions. Since Valentine’s Day was only a week away, the doll now sported a frilly red dress decorated with pink hearts and black piping. Pixie had recently bought the thing a vintage pram—an item she’d won on an eBay auction. Sarah Jane often held a book in her little plastic hands, but they didn’t stay there for long. For some reason, whatever Sarah Jane recommended was quickly snapped up by Tricia’s customers. Oddly enough, the customers weren’t freaked out by the doll like Tricia was.

“What have you got on tap tonight, Pixie?” Tricia asked, knowing she had no plans of her own.

“I’m taking up the hem on a new dress.” New was a relative term when it came to Pixie’s clothes. “It’s red with a taffeta slip—just gorgeous. Now if I just had a gentleman friend to dress for,” she said wistfully.

“I hear you,” Tricia agreed.

“Oh, come on, you’ve got two guys dogging your tracks. Odds are you’ll have both of them badgering you for a date for the most romantic night of the year.”

Tricia didn’t comment. The fact that one of the guys was her ex-husband who had dumped her to find himself, and the other was a cop who couldn’t make a commitment, had a lot to do with her lack of enthusiasm. Valentine’s Day was less than a week away and, though she’d spoken to both men that day, neither had mentioned it.

Mr. Everett wandered up to the cash desk. “Is there anything you’d like me to do before the end of the day, Ms. Miles?”

“Would you please empty the wastebaskets?”

“I’d be glad to,” he said and she handed him the one that resided behind the cash desk.

The door to Haven’t Got a Clue opened, letting in a blast of cold air, and Betsy Dittmeyer’s sister, a haggard-looking Joelle Morrison, her knee-length coat unbuttoned, wearing no hat or gloves despite the frigid weather, staggered in. “Betsy’s dead,” she cried. “She’s dead!”

Tricia took off her reading glasses, scooted around the counter, and hurried to Joelle’s side, giving her a gentle hug. Joelle stood there, sobbing hysterically. Tricia’s cheeks warmed in embarrassment as Pixie watched her gently pat Joelle’s heaving back. “I’m so sorry,” she crooned over and over again, wondering if it was her day to console weepy women.

The last time Tricia had seen Joelle, she’d been at least fifty pounds heavier, but the weight loss had made her face look gaunt—or did it just seem that way because of her emotional state? She was about the same age as Tricia, but the years hadn’t been so kind. A wedding planner by trade, Joelle had been hired by Antonio Barbero’s stepmother, Nigela Ricita, to help Ginny plan her wedding the previous fall. Joelle had also been a suspect in Stan Berry’s murder. He’d liked his women on the heavier side, and when Joelle would no longer eat the sumptuous chocolates and cupcakes he liked to stuff her with, they’d had a parting of the ways.

Eventually Joelle’s sobs began to subside and Tricia pulled back. “Come sit down,” she encouraged, and led Joelle to the comfortable upholstered chairs in the store’s readers’ nook. “Pixie, would you please get Joelle a cup of coffee?”

“Sure thing,” Pixie said and hurried over to the beverage station.

“Black with two sugars,” Joelle said as if by rote. She sat down and pulled a used tissue from her coat pocket and blew her nose several times, sounding remarkably like a honking goose.

“I wanted to see the spot where dear Betsy died, but the Cookery is closed,” Joelle declared.

Tricia took the adjacent seat. “How did you find out about . . . what happened?”

“Well, it sure wasn’t the Stoneham police who called me. It was Frannie Armstrong,” Joelle said, wiping at her eyes.

“I didn’t know the two of you were friends.”

“We’re not. But it was very kind of her to call. Otherwise I might have found out by watching the six o’clock news, and that would have killed me.”

That seemed unlikely. The thing was, Tricia hadn’t seen a TV news truck roll past her big display window at all that day. Poor Betsy’s death hadn’t been at all newsworthy . . . at least to the nearby TV stations.

“Frannie said Betsy was squashed like a bug by a heavy bookcase,” Joelle went on with a catch in her voice.

“Oh, dear. I hope she didn’t use those words,” Tricia said, appalled.

“Well, no, she didn’t. She said she’d been crushed to death, and that it wasn’t an accident.”

“I’m afraid that might be true,” Tricia admitted.

“But who could have wanted dear Betsy dead?” Joelle cried.

At one time or another, probably every member of the Chamber of Commerce. The woman was not well loved, and Tricia doubted anyone here in Stoneham would miss her, either. “Did Betsy have any enemies?” she asked.

Joelle sniffed. “Well, her ex-husband, Jerry, wasn’t very fond of her. It was a bitter divorce. They fought over everything. In the end, they had to sell a lot of their assets just to pay their attorney fees.”

That certainly wouldn’t have endeared Betsy to her ex. “Anyone else?” Tricia asked.

Joelle wiped away another stray tear that had leaked from her left eye. “Well, there was that nasty incident with her former neighbors.”

“Oh?” Tricia prompted, her interest piqued.

“They put up a fence without having their property surveyed. Betsy couldn’t abide such carelessness and had her own yard surveyed. She found the fence was three inches over the property line. Naturally she had a hissy fit and reported them to the town. They made the neighbors pull down the fence. It cost them thousands. They never forgave Betsy. She could never prove it, but someone would egg her windows on a regular basis and Betsy was sure it was them.”

“Oh, my,” Tricia said. Somehow she felt more sympathetic toward the neighbors than Betsy.

“And then there was the guy who hit her car at a stop sign while texting. She sued him and got all kinds of damages. She was lucky that way.” So Christopher had mentioned. Yet to Tricia it sounded more like Betsy was just spiteful.

“Did Betsy and her husband ever have children?”

Joelle nodded but looked away, her expression dour. “A daughter. Poor little Amy was born with an extra chromosome.” She looked thoughtful. “Or maybe she was born with a missing chromosome. I never could get that straight.” She shook her head. “That little angel was only eight years old when she died.”

“Oh, my. Poor Betsy,” Tricia said, genuinely saddened. Maybe the loss accounted for her sour disposition.

“Betsy was always a little bit loony after she lost Amy. She kept her baby’s room just the way she’d left it. I thought it was kind of creepy, but I guess it wasn’t that unusual.” Joelle sighed. “Betsy was my only living relative. Now I’m all alone in the world.”

From her tone, Tricia surmised that Joelle hadn’t yet heard she’d been cut out of Betsy’s will. “I’m so sorry,” she said sincerely. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Pixie was hovering. Though she’d tried, Tricia hadn’t been able to break her newest employee of the habit. “It’s getting late, Pixie. Could you please finish pricing the rest of those paperbacks?”

“Sure thing,” Pixie said affably, and went back to the cash desk.

Tricia turned back to Joelle. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

Joelle sniffed once again. “No, I guess I just needed to talk to someone. I suppose I need to think about the arrangements. I’m not sure what Betsy would have wanted. We never spoke of it.”

“I’m sure you’ll make the right decisions,” Tricia said kindly.

Joelle nodded. She sighed, and then sat up straighter in her chair. “Have you and Mr. Benson set a date yet?”

Oh, dear. Joelle certainly hadn’t forgotten the fantasy Tricia had spun for her the previous fall that she and Christopher might reconcile. But Joelle had a memory like a steel trap and she reminded Tricia of her promise every time they met. She also mailed Tricia promotional material on a monthly basis.

“Sadly, Mr. Benson and I are still at an impasse when it comes to a reconciliation,” Tricia said; a blatant lie, since not only hadn’t they discussed the topic, but, except for earlier that day when they’d spoken for the first time in several weeks, Tricia had only seen Christopher to wave to—not plan a renewal of vows—and that suited her just fine.

“You will keep me in mind when the time comes,” Joelle insisted.

“Yes, of course.”

Joelle heaved a loud sigh. “I suppose I’d best be on my way. I’m on my way to the gym. Maybe if I work out hard enough, I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Goodness knows I’ll be alone—just like every other night.”

Though she felt like a heel, Tricia did not invite Joelle to join her for dinner. She had no clue about how she’d feed herself, let alone a guest. She stood, hoping the gesture wouldn’t be taken as rudeness. “It’s just about time to close the shop for the day.”

Joelle also rose to her feet. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t noticed how late it is. Thanks for listening to me whine, Tricia. When I get home, I’m going to drown my sorrows in a bottle of pink Catawba.”

Tricia had to restrain herself from shuddering at the thought of drinking such a cheap wine. She walked Joelle to the door. “Get some rest. These next few days are sure to be stressful for you.”

“I will, thank you.” Joelle gave a wave before she pulled the door closed behind her.

Tricia let out a weary breath, feeling ready to collapse.

“That poor woman,” Pixie said from her seat in the readers’ nook.

“Who? Joelle or Betsy?”

“Both. That Betsy sounded like a class A bitch, but I guess having a sick kid die on her coulda been a contributing factor. She was lucky to have a sister who loved her so much. Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” she added under her breath. Then she looked thoughtful. “I feel like I know the sister from somewhere. Do you think she ever did time?”

“I don’t think so,” Tricia said.

Pixie shrugged.

Mr. Everett, who’d made himself scarce since Joelle’s arrival—emotional scenes complete with tears made him extremely uncomfortable—reappeared, returning the empty wastebaskets to their rightful places.

Pixie glanced at the clock then down at the pile of paperbacks in front of her. “These are done. Do you want me to stay and shelve them in alphabetical order?”

“No, we can do that in the morning.”

“Okay.” Pixie headed for the back of the shop and returned with her own and Mr. Everett’s coats. She handed his off, then donned her own, taking a moment to put on her black wooly hat before ducking behind the sales counter to claim her purse. She and Mr. Everett headed for the door. “See you tomorrow,” Pixie called.

“Good night, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

“Good night,” Tricia said and closed and locked the door behind them. She stood for a long moment soaking up the silence.

“Yow!” Miss Marple said loudly. Her kitty stomach could tell time, too.

“Yes, it is time for your dinner.”

The cat jumped down from her perch behind the register and watched as Tricia turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED and drew the blinds. But before she could take more than a couple of steps away from the sales counter, the phone rang. She turned and answered it. “Angelica?”

“How did you know?”

“I just had a feeling. Is everything back to normal at the Cookery?”

“Well, as normal as it can get after someone is murdered on your premises; something you well know.”

Yes, Tricia did.

“The police are all gone. Come over and keep me company for a few hours, will you? I’m only making omelets for supper, but I’m making some nibbly bits as a test for my next cookbook. Are you game?”

That was certainly better than scrounging the cupboards as Tricia had been planning to do. More likely Angelica just didn’t want to be alone, and Tricia couldn’t blame her. “Of course. Let me feed Miss Marple and I’ll be right over.”

“See you in a few,” Angelica said and hung up.

Tricia and Miss Marple headed up the stairs to Tricia’s loft apartment. As she opened a fresh can of cat food and changed the water, Tricia thought back on her visit with Joelle. Something about it didn’t sit right with her. Perhaps it was because in her moment of terrible grief Joelle had pitched her wedding planning services. But then who could blame the woman for her chaotic thinking. She’d just lost her only living relative. If Tricia lost Angelica she was sure she’d suffer an emotional collapse. She’d do it quietly, and alone, but the thought was too painful to contemplate. If it had happened four years before she would have been sad but soldiered on.

Stop it! she told herself. Those types of thoughts were morbid.

She petted Miss Marple, locked her apartment, and went back down to her store.

Unless Angelica really irritated her, she would enjoy her company and try not to think about the terrible expression on Betsy Dittmeyer’s face, or ponder just who wanted the woman dead.

FIVE

Tricia unlocked the door to the Cookery and let herself in. She walked a little slower as she headed up the steps and passed the second-floor landing, pausing a moment to look at the locked door that led to Angelica’s storeroom, where Betsy had drawn her last breath, and then hurried up the rest of the stairs, eager to leave the place of death.

The door to Angelica’s apartment was unlocked and Sarge met her, barking happily and jumping up to try to lick her face. She’d come prepared with an Angelica-approved doggy treat, and he raced back to the kitchen while she hung up her coat. She frowned as the sound of slightly off-key singing wafted through the loft apartment. Shades of Pixie, she thought.

As she entered the kitchen, Tricia found Angelica all dolled up—in a pretty, ruffled pink cocktail dress, makeup, with her hair curled, looking like she’d spent half the afternoon primping.

“Did you get dressed up just for me?” Tricia asked.

Angelica immediately stopped singing “That’s Amore,” but continued to smile, her eyes sparkling with merriment. “I always feel better when I look my best.”

“You do remember that someone died in your building today,” Tricia said.

Angelica’s smile faded. “Don’t you dare go throwing a bucket of cold water on my carefully engineered good mood. Of course I feel terrible about Betsy’s death. Don’t forget, whoever killed her kicked in my door and raced through my home. I have been violated!”

Tricia hadn’t even noticed that the door had been fixed. “I’m sorry. That was really thoughtless of me.”

Angelica pouted. “I forgive you. But please, could we talk about anything but Betsy this evening? Just for a few hours, I’d like to pretend that it never happened.”

Tricia nodded. She could share what she’d learned about Betsy from Christopher and Joelle another time. “Sure.”

Angelica managed a ghost of her former smile. “Thank you.”

“Can I ask what put you in such a happy mood?” Tricia said.

Angelica turned to face the oven, opened the door a crack, and peeked at its contents. Whatever it was smelled heavenly. “I take it you haven’t heard the wonderful news!”

“What news?” Tricia asked, noting two martini glasses on the counter, along with an ice bucket, a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin, vermouth, and olives skewered by frilly toothpicks, the kind Tommy at Booked for Lunch used to skewer club sandwiches.

“There’s a new real estate office opening in Stoneham. Finally someone will give Bob Kelly a run for his money. And you’ll never guess who’s behind it.”

“Not Nigela Ricita Associates,” Tricia said with a groan. That particular development company not only owned a share of the Brookview Inn and another in the Sheer Comfort Inn, but had bought out the local roach coach, and now owned the resident watering hole, the Dog-Eared Page, and the Happy Domestic.

“Yes.”

“Then why are you happy? You hate them.”

“What a terrible thing for you to say. I do not hate them,” she said, picked up the tongs, and placed some ice in the chrome cocktail shaker. “I’m in partnership with them at the Sheer Comfort Inn. And I think it’s brilliant that they’re opening a real estate office. I intend to be their first customer, or at least I intend for the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce to be their first customer.”

“Who told you about it?”

“I do get cc’d on some of their e-mails, you know. As soon as I got that one late this afternoon, I made an appointment to see their new sales manager.” She measured the gin and added it to the shaker. “Her name is Karen Johnson and we’re going to meet for tea tomorrow afternoon. I’ve already got my menu planned. I’ll have Tommy help me pull it together tomorrow morning before we open the café.”

“That’s nice,” Tricia said and leaned against the kitchen island, watching the drink-making operation. “When did all this come about?”

“I called Antonio and he admitted that it’s been in the works for some time.”

“Will they have any clients? I thought Bob had all the sale and rental properties in the area locked in.”

“Yes, but most of those contracts are usually only for three months. And let’s face it, those clients can’t be happy that Bob has deliberately avoided showing their properties to prospective clients—like me. I’ll bet quite a few of them will be ready to jump ship when their contracts run out.”

“And who’s going to tell them?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a little bird,” she said and giggled.

“A five-foot-six-inch bird with blonde hair who sings a trifle off-key?” Tricia suggested.

“Could be,” Angelica said, added the vermouth, covered the shaker, and shook it vigorously. She poured equal amounts into the two martini glasses, added the olives, and then handed one to Tricia, taking the other. “To Betsy. And to the NRA real estate office. May they find the Chamber a home in record time.”

The sisters clinked glasses. “Amen.” They both took a sip, Angelica with relish, and Tricia with a bit of a wince. Perhaps if she drank enough of them, she’d actually come to enjoy a classic martini.

“Have you heard the latest about Nikki and Russ?” Angelica said excitedly, grabbed a pot holder, and turned for the oven door. She withdrew a baking sheet filled with little triangles—spanakopita, one of Tricia’s favorite appetizers.

“Oh, I heard it all right. Nikki came straight to my store to announce her happy news.”

“Mine, too.” Angelica retrieved a couple of plates from the cupboard and transferred several of the appetizers to them while Tricia grabbed some napkins from the holder on the shelf, taking them and her drink to the kitchen island. Meanwhile, Angelica turned for the refrigerator, withdrew a mini muffin tin, and placed it straight into the oven, closing the door once again.

“It’s just as well we’re drinking martinis,” Tricia said when Angelica joined her. “I’ve got a piece of good news to share, too, but you have to promise me you won’t say a word to anyone,” Tricia said.

“Do you think I’m some kind of a blabbermouth?” Angelica asked, wounded, and set her glass down on the island.

“Of course not, but . . . this was told to me in confidence—”

“Most secrets are,” Angelica muttered.

“—and, though I’m sure it’ll be making its way around the village any day now, I think the happy couple ought to be the ones making that announcement to the world in general.”

“Someone’s getting married?” Angelica guessed, delighted.

Tricia took another sip of her martini. “Not married, but the next best thing.”

“Another baby?” Angelica asked.

Tricia nodded and picked up one of the triangles, taking a bite. Terrific!

“But the only ones we know who are young enough to . . . Oh, my God! Ginny and Antonio are pregnant?” Angelica squealed with delight.

Sarge, who’d retreated to his bed, looked up, startled by her outburst.

“Shhh! Don’t say it so loud. But, yes, they are.”

“This is wonderful! We must start making the plans for Ginny’s baby shower. What’s she having? A boy or a girl?”

“She doesn’t even know yet. And knowing her, she won’t want to know before the birth. And you can’t give a baby shower when the baby isn’t even due for at least another six months.”

“We have to wait that long?” Angelica asked, disappointed.

“I’m sure that’s just what Ginny will be saying a few months from now.”

Angelica looked positively delighted and Tricia could almost hear her sister’s thoughts buzzing with plans for a baby shower. If there was one thing Angelica did exceptionally well, it was throw a party—any kind of party.

“That’s not all the news I have to share,” Tricia said.

“Twins!” Angelica guessed.

“No! Will you calm down?”

“I can’t help myself. Our Ginny having a baby.”

“Our Ginny? You didn’t even like her until last year.”

“Well, I like her lots now. What’s behind us is behind us. And anyway, if you hadn’t used her as a living shield from my phone calls to you, I would have liked her a whole lot better right from the start.”

“Let’s not bring up the past,” Tricia implored.

“You started it,” Angelica muttered crossly, taking another sip of her drink.

“Let’s just be happy for her, because she’s not exactly thrilled with the news.”

“Why not?”

“Because. She’s afraid Antonio and Nigela Ricita will force her to stop working.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe out of some outdated sense of morality, or family values, or something.”

“I hardly think so. I mean, Ms. Ricita is a businesswoman, and a shrewd one at that. I can’t imagine anyone with her experience and foresight would force a new mother out of a job. Not in this day and age.”

“I don’t think so, either, but Ginny is terrified someone else will be hired to take over the Happy Domestic.”

“We’ve got to talk to Antonio,” Angelica said firmly.

“No, we don’t. This has nothing to do with us. It’s a family matter.”

“We’re family. Maybe not by blood, but with her mom and dad living down south, we’re all she’s got here in New Hampshire.”

“It’s a nice thought,” Tricia conceded. “Ginny shared her concerns, and now she’s got me wondering if she’ll make the same mistakes Deborah did when she owned the Happy Domestic.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Deborah didn’t know when she had a good thing.”

“I’m not so sure the thing she had was any good at all,” Tricia said, taking another bite of her appetizer.

“Whatever,” Angelica said dismissively. “The circumstances are totally different. As soon as she lays eyes on it, Ginny will love her baby like a mama bear loves her cub. All women feel that way.”

“Not our mother.”

Angelica sighed. “You’re not going to start that again, are you?”

“Start? It’ll never end, not until she tells me what it was that I’ve done wrong. What I am that never suited her.”

“Please, Trish, you’ve got to stop torturing yourself about Mother. She is who she is.”

Tricia glanced at the clock. “What’s the time in Rio? I’ve a mind to just pick up the phone and ask her right now.”

“Please don’t,” Angelica said.

Tricia looked at her sister with suspicion. “Why not? Because it would upset her? What about me? I’ve been upset my entire life by our relationship—or lack thereof.”

Angelica sighed and looked away. “I just have a bad feeling.”

“About what? That she might actually tell me why she treats me the way she does? That she might hurt my feelings if she did? She once told me that she never thought they’d have a second child, but that can’t be it. Couples do get over that. And whatever it is she’d have to say couldn’t hurt much more than years of her indifference.”

“That’s what you say now,” Angelica said quietly, and picked up another appetizer.

“Then you do know what’s at the heart of all this,” Tricia accused.

Angelica sighed. “I suppose you won’t be happy until I’ve told you everything—and broken Mother’s heart once again.”

“How can telling me break her heart?”

“Because you’re going to want to talk to her about it, and I’m telling you right now—she will not talk to you about it. If you call her and bring it up, she will hang up on you. If you flew down there and asked her in person, she would just run away.”

“Good grief. What on earth could be so terrible she can’t even speak about it? Please, Ange, just tell me.”

Angelica sighed and picked up her drink, taking a hearty sip. She set the glass down. “What you don’t know is that after you were born, Mother had what was then called a nervous breakdown.”

“Don’t you mean postpartum depression?”

Angelica shook her head. “No, it wasn’t brought on by a birth; it was brought on by a death.”

“Who died?” Tricia asked. She certainly hadn’t heard this story before.

Angelica sighed. “For years I’ve wrestled with my conscience about telling you the whole sordid tale. No good can come of your knowing, and talking about it to our parents would only reopen old wounds.”

Tricia’s stomach did an immediate flip-flop. “Are you saying Daddy isn’t my biological father? That Mother—?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Angelica chided. “Of course Daddy is your biological father. We’ve both got the Miles nose, after all. And anyway, if that were true, it would’ve been Daddy who’d taken a tailspin, not Mother.”

“Then what in God’s name are you talking about?”

“Our brother!”

Tricia glared at her sister. “We never had a brother.”

“Yes, we did.”

“I’m certain I would have remembered him if we had.”

“Not unless your memory spans back to your time in the womb or shortly after birth.”

“Are you saying . . . ?”

“You were a twin. Fraternal, but you had a twin brother.”

“I did? And he died at birth?” Tricia asked, aghast.

“No, about two months later. Little Patrick was a SIDS baby.”

Tricia had heard all about perfectly healthy babies suddenly dying with no apparent cause. The number of SIDS deaths had plunged once parents were encouraged to never let their babies sleep on their tummies, but when Tricia and everyone else in her generation was born, all babies slept that way.

“Patrick,” she murmured, trying the name on for size.

“Patrick and Patty. That’s what we called the two of you.”

Patty. Tricia grimaced. That was what their mother had called her when she was most exasperated. “Oh, Patty,” she’d lament, which had always set Tricia’s teeth on edge.

“So why did Mother treat me so shabbily after Patrick’s death? I would have thought as the surviving twin she’d have felt I was precious.”

Angelica seemed to squirm. “Patrick was her favorite. I mean, it was obvious even to me, and I was only five. That little prince certainly knocked me off the princess throne.”

As far back as Tricia could remember, their mother had doted on Angelica, while she’d always felt like an unwanted member of the family—that is, except for by her grandmother Miles, who had loved her unconditionally.

“You see,” Angelica continued, “Mother had longed for a son. When she found out she was pregnant with twins, she hoped they’d be identical boys. She bought all kinds of matching outfits. Of course, they didn’t do ultrasounds in those days, so when you were born, she was a bit disappointed.”

“What would my name have been if I’d been born a boy?” Tricia asked.

“Paul.”

Paul Miles. Rather a boring moniker, Tricia decided. “I suppose Mother blamed me for Patrick’s death.”

Angelica nodded sadly. “You were both sleeping in the same crib.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Remember, I was only five years old at the time.”

“Did she think a two-month-old baby would deliberately smother her sibling?” Tricia asked.

Angelica shrugged and reached for her drink once again.

“But Mother once told me that I was a mistake—that she hadn’t wanted a second child,” she reiterated.

“She wanted Patrick,” Angelica whispered.

“And not me,” Tricia finished for her, bitterness gnawing at her soul.

“I’m so sorry, Tricia,” Angelica said with tears in her eyes. “And I feel so ashamed.”

“Why should you feel that way?”

“Because I let Mother’s resentment color the way I felt about you for far too many years. You’re my sister and I love you—no matter what.”

“And our mother doesn’t.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m sorry. Nothing can make up for what she’s done or how she feels.”

Tricia sighed. This was all too much information to take in all at once, and yet it seemed to echo what she’d learned not an hour before from Joelle. Betsy Dittmeyer had changed—soured—after the death of her child. Was it so surprising that Tricia’s mother had had the very same experience? But oddly enough Tricia didn’t feel angry toward her mother. Instead, she felt sorry for her. And more, she felt a strong sense of relief. Nothing she had done in the past or could do in the future would ever make a difference to her mother. If she still loved her dead child . . . well, who could blame her?