Текст книги "Book Clubbed"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Are you okay, Trish?” Angelica asked, sounding worried.

“Yes. I am. And thank you for finally telling me.”

“You have to promise me that you won’t tell Mother I told you.”

“I promise.”

“And that you’ll never bring it up.”

Tricia wasn’t sure about that one. “I don’t know.”

“Please,” Angelica pleaded.

“I don’t know!” Tricia repeated. “I’m going to have to think about this long and hard. And I do mean long. Days. Weeks. Maybe even months.”

Angelica lifted her glass and drained it, her expression distraught. “I knew I should never have told you.”

“How could you keep such terrible secret to yourself for so long?” Tricia asked.

“You’d be surprised how good we are at keeping secrets in this family,” Angelica said tartly.

“Does that mean there are more?” Tricia demanded.

Angelica pursed her lips, not taking the bait.

“Did Mother make you swear not to tell me?”

“No, she didn’t.”

If that was true, had their mother been waiting for decades for it to come out? What if she had? What if she’d wanted Angelica to tell the truth so she wouldn’t have to? And why had their father never said a word?

“What are you thinking?” Angelica asked.

“That our family might have healed from that terrible loss if only someone had spoken the truth a long, long time ago.”

“I don’t disagree with you. But it wasn’t my secret to tell; it was Mother and Daddy’s.”

Tricia turned away, taking another sip of her drink. Did the news of her infant brother’s death really change things between her and her parents? Their father had always been pleasant but distant. Why hadn’t he insisted her mother get counseling? But then her mother was not known for taking suggestions from anyone.

Tricia heard Angelica open the oven door, felt the rush of heat on her back, and inhaled the aroma of something wonderful. She took another sip of her drink. It was all too much to take in in one evening. She needed to think it all through, but now wasn’t the time.

Tricia turned back to the kitchen and found Angelica standing with a silver tray in hand, a dainty white paper doily offsetting the golden popovers she’d taken from the oven. She looked like she was about to cry.

“I’m sorry, Tricia. Mother was wrong not to tell you. But I may have been wrong to tell you. Please don’t do anything rash.”

Tricia sighed. “I will not mention any of this to Mother. At least not tonight. And not tomorrow, either. With everything that’s already happened today, it’s all just too much to contemplate.”

“Here, have a blue cheese popover. It’ll make me feel better.”

Tricia reached out and took one of the still-steaming appetizers. She blew on it, and then nibbled. As with almost everything Angelica cooked, it was delicious, and she said so.

Angelica blew out a harsh breath. “I think I could use another martini. How about you?”

Tricia shook her head. “I’m still working on mine.”

Angelica nodded and turned back to the counter, picking up the gin bottle.

Tricia stared into her glass, admiring the golden frill on the toothpick that pierced the olives. It looked so festive . . . the way Angelica had felt before Tricia had come over and ruined her mood, and probably her evening. Feeling the need to lighten the mood, she started to hum.

As Angelica shook the cocktail shaker she absently joined in . . . and Tricia was sure if she looked outside, the moon might just look like a big pizza pie.

SIX

Despite hearing the distressing news about a deceased baby brother the night before, Tricia slept heavily and ended up waking later than she’d anticipated. She tried to put those thoughts out of her mind as she went through her usual morning routine and concentrated on the tasks that needed to be accomplished during the day. One of them was to stock up on coffee for her customers, and to purchase some kind of tasty treat to go along with it. Mr. Everett was particularly fond of the Patisserie’s thumbprint cookies, but Pixie had grumbled the last few times Tricia had put them out for her staff and customers. It was time to find something that Pixie would enjoy as well.

Tricia donned her knit hat and wrapped a heavy scarf around her neck before she braved the fierce wind and trudged down the sidewalk toward the Patisserie. She glanced across the street and saw the lights were already on at the Happy Domestic and decided she’d visit Ginny to see how she was doing before she returned to Haven’t Got a Clue to open for the day.

She paused to look through the heavy glass door before entering. The bakery was empty, save for Nikki, who sat on a stool behind the big glass display case filled with all sorts of wonderful baked goodies. The day before she’d been ecstatic when spreading her happy news. Now she looked anything but happy.

Tricia wrestled with the door before she could wrench it open, and had to jump inside before the door slammed on her hand. Startled, Nikki looked up. “Good morning, Tricia.” The words were cheerful, but the delivery was not. It looked like she’d been crying. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy and Tricia wasn’t sure she should mention it.

“Hi, Nikki. Boy, that’s some wind. I hope it doesn’t keep potential customers from visiting us today.”

“Same here. I’ve been open for more than an hour and you’re only my second customer.”

“Things will pick up soon,” Tricia said optimistically. In reality, she knew sales wouldn’t get better until April—a full two months away—but there was no sense dwelling on what couldn’t be changed.

“What can I get you this morning?” Nikki asked.

Tricia looked over the offerings. There were gaps in the big glass refrigerated case that also served as Nikki’s sales counter. Instead of several dozen cupcakes, only twelve were displayed, and they were plain—with no beautifully piped decorative flowers in pastel shades. Several loaves of bread were stacked on the shelf behind the counter, but nowhere near the usual amount or variety. What was going on? Worst of all—there were absolutely no thumbprint cookies! Mr. Everett would be so disappointed, but that so much was absent meant something was definitely up.

“I’ll take a couple of bran muffins and how about a dozen of those almond cookies.”

“Coming right up,” Nikki said, her voice cracking.

Tricia could no longer ignore Nikki’s beleaguered state. “Is everything okay?”

Nikki shook her head. “I thought I’d be beyond morning sickness by now. But I’ve felt queasy all morning.” Was that all?

“When’s your due date?”

“September eighth,” Nikki said as she plucked two muffins from the rack behind her. “It seems so far away right now, but we have a lot of decisions to make before the baby comes.”

“What kind of decisions?”

“Mostly financial.” Nikki sniffed several times as she loaded the cookies into a separate white bakery bag. As she handed Tricia the sacks, she burst into tears.

Tricia moved closer to the case, wishing she could get around it and give the poor distraught woman a hug. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Nikki looked up and shook her head. “Not unless you’ve got the name of a good marriage counselor.”

Tricia clamped her teeth shut and tried not to wince. Nikki and Russ Smith had been married just over three months and already they were in trouble? Tricia didn’t want to get in the middle of their marital problems, but if she didn’t say anything—would that make her seem cold and indifferent to the poor woman’s suffering?

“Things can’t be that bad,” she said.

“But they are. Russ says I have to keep working after the baby arrives. That we can’t afford to live on only one income. I think he’s wrong, but he’s adamant. I want to be with our baby every moment of the day. I don’t want to miss that first step or first word. I’m going to breast-feed and later make my own baby food. Nothing will be too good for my child.”

Did she intend to be a helicopter mom—constantly hovering over the poor kid? Oh, well, it wasn’t Tricia’s place to judge. “I’m sure the two of you will work everything out—and soon.”

Nikki shrugged, looking unconvinced, and sniffed again.

Tricia paid for her purchases and started for the door. She needed to give Nikki a shot of hope—or at least the promise of another sale. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I hope you’ll be feeling better by then.”

“I’d sure appreciate the business,” Nikki said as she commandeered the stool once again.

The door closed with another bang and Tricia hung on to her bakery bags for dear life as she battled the wind and crossed the street, heading for the Coffee Bean, where she bought a cup of French roast for herself and a decaf for Ginny. She had to work up her courage to leave the shop and slog through the gale to the Happy Domestic. She rang the bell and quickly turned her back to the wind. Seconds later, Ginny came out from the store’s back room, crossed the shop, and unlocked the door.

“I thought it might be you,” she said in greeting. “Come in out of that wicked cold before you shatter.”

Tricia welcomed the warmth that enveloped her, not completely sure if it was the temperature or the pretty merchandise that was for sale all around her. “I bring you a decaf coffee and a bran muffin. No more cupcakes for you—you’ve got to eat healthy for the next few months.”

“How did you know I skipped breakfast this morning?” Ginny asked.

Tricia smiled. “Just a hunch.”

Ginny took the coffee tray from her. “Come on back to the office where we can sit.”

The Happy Domestic’s combination storeroom and office was tidy, with a place for everything. The folding metal seats weren’t exactly comfortable, but they’d do. Ginny doled out the coffee while Tricia took off her coat, tossed it onto a stack of cartons, and sat down. She opened the bag and removed the muffins, handing one of them to Ginny.

“Thanks. I think I’ve got some napkins,” she said, scrounged through her desk, and came up with a couple stamped with the Coffee Bean’s logo.

“How’s business?” Tricia asked.

“Slow.”

“Same here. Same everywhere in Stoneham. Nikki said I was only her second customer of the day.”

Ginny nodded. She and Nikki hadn’t talked much since Ginny had scored the Brookview Inn for her wedding reception, the same day as Nikki’s. Nikki had had to settle for the party room at the American Legion hall, which wasn’t anywhere near as swank. “How’s Angelica holding up after yesterday?”

“She’s fine. You know what a trouper she is.”

“That she is. If it were me who’d had to deal with an employee being killed on the premises, I think I’d be ready for a padded room.”

“Angelica is made of tough stuff. Her biggest problem now is keeping things together for the Chamber until she can hire someone to do Betsy’s job.”

“What about Frannie?”

Tricia shrugged. “She has her duties at the Cookery.”

Ginny nodded and sighed. She broke off the top of her muffin but instead of eating it, just stared at it. “I’m so embarrassed about the fuss I caused at your store yesterday. But when Nikki came busting in with her happy news, it just made me feel like such a heel.”

“You are not a heel. And Nikki isn’t as happy as you might think.”

“What do you mean? When I saw her she was absolutely ecstatic.”

“Apparently Russ didn’t share her joy. It seems they’re having financial difficulties. Unless things change, Nikki probably won’t be able to stay home with the baby as she’d like.” Tricia didn’t care to say more.

Ginny frowned. “Here she wants to stay home with her baby and can’t, and I can afford to, but don’t want to. What a pair we make.”

Tricia took a sip of her coffee. “Have you told Antonio yet?”

Ginny shook her head and looked guilty. “But I’m going to have to soon. I know he’ll be happy about it, but I can’t tell him until I feel happy about it.”

“Give yourself a few more days. Once the shock wears off, you’ll be fine.” Tricia broke off a piece of her muffin and nibbled on it.

“Since I haven’t been able to work up the courage to say something about the baby, I’m actually glad Antonio has been working late almost every night lately. Something very hush-hush”—she rolled her eyes at the words—“is going on at NRA and there’s going to be an announcement at any time now.”

“He hasn’t let you in on the big secret?” Tricia asked, surprised.

Ginny shook her head. “The big boss—Nigela Ricita—says it’s on a need-to-know basis, and I don’t need to know.”

Oh, dear. How was it Angelica knew about the NRA real estate agency and not Ginny? Perhaps they weren’t copied on the same e-mails.

Ginny took another bite of her muffin and swallowed. “I suppose it’s too soon to hear if Chief Baker has any good leads on Betsy Dittmeyer’s murder.”

“He hasn’t shared any news with me,” Tricia admitted.

“I’ve tried to remember when I last spoke with her. I guess it was at the January Chamber breakfast. She chided me for not finishing my third cup of coffee. She told me in future I should finish everything I took from the buffet table or not take seconds at all.”

“That sounds like Betsy all right,” Tricia agreed.

“But what’s funny is, after the meeting was over, I hung back to talk to Antonio and saw Betsy pilfering paper napkins. She must have stuffed about a hundred of them into her purse.”

“That is rather rude,” Tricia said, especially for someone who she’d been told had millions squirreled away.

“I mentioned it to Antonio, but he said to forget it. That she always took something after every Chamber breakfast. Once, she swiped a linen tablecloth. He said paper napkins were cheaper and easier to replace.”

They both polished off the last of their muffins and Ginny glanced up at the clock, stood, and sighed. “I hate to be a killjoy, but we both need to get to work.”

Tricia rose, too. Good old Ginny, always the pragmatist. Tricia disposed of her coffee cup, buttoned her coat, and headed for the door, with Ginny right behind her. “We’ll talk again soon,” Tricia promised, gave her former employee a quick wave, and headed out the door.

*   *   *

The sky was overcast with the threat of snow when Tricia arrived back at Haven’t Got a Clue. No sooner had she hung up her coat when the shop door opened, the little bell over it tinkling cheerfully. “Good morning,” Chief Baker called as Tricia approached from the back of the store.

“What brings you out bright and early this not-so-fine morning?” Tricia asked.

“Not much. I just thought I’d pay you a visit. We are friends. And besides, you seem to know everything that goes on around the village.”

“I hope you don’t think of me as the resident gossip.”

“Not at all. We all know Frannie Armstrong has that title cinched. But you do seem to get around, and people are far more willing to talk to you than they are to me.”

“And you want me to share what I’ve heard?” she asked.

“If you think it might help my investigation, yes. Have you heard anything of interest?”

“I’m not sure I know anything you don’t already know. Are you willing to compare notes? Have you got any suspects?” she asked.

“I’ve spoken to your friend Charlie, the mailman.”

“Charlie? How can you even suspect him? He’s a sweet old man.”

“You, Angelica, and Frannie all said he was in the Cookery before Mrs. Dittmeyer’s death. But no one can corroborate where he was at the time she was actually killed.”

“What do you mean? He delivers to all the stores. He walks into every store and hands the shop owner his or her mail. Somebody has to have seen him Saturday morning.”

“The shopkeepers know they got their mail that day, but none of them can seem to remember the exact time he delivered it.”

“What possible motive does he have for murdering Betsy?”

“We don’t know. We’re still investigating.”

Tricia couldn’t imagine Charlie hurting a fly—let alone dumping a heavy bookcase on anyone. And running up the stairs to Angelica’s apartment, kicking in the door, and then fleeing down the fire escape to escape? The rather chubby, older gent wasn’t any kind of an athlete.

“Do you have any other suspects?” Tricia asked.

“We’re continuing to investigate,” Baker reiterated, which meant he wasn’t going to share whatever else he knew—despite his hint just minutes before. “There is another reason I stopped by. I wanted to let you know that I’ve heard from the state crime lab with their analysis of the fingerprint evidence from the break-in at Stan Berry’s home last fall.”

Tricia had to think about what he’d said before she remembered the incident. Three months before, Stan Berry had been murdered at the Brookview Inn. Days later, his home had been broken into and ransacked in what appeared to be an attempt to eradicate evidence.

“And?” Tricia asked.

“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but the fingerprints match a set already on file with the state: Bob Kelly.”

“Bob?” Tricia repeated, aghast.

Baker nodded.

“Are you going to arrest him?”

“If I can track him down—yes. If you see him, would you please call me?”

Tricia scrutinized Baker’s face. “Why are you telling me this? Shouldn’t this be confidential until after the deed is done?”

“I felt I owed it to you. You were involved in the case, and you helped bring Berry’s killer to justice.”

And he wanted very desperately to get back in her good graces.

“What else?” she asked, knowing there had to be more to it.

“The man seems to have gone to ground. I went to his office on Thursday. He saw me coming and slipped out the back, as though he knew why I had come to see him. Since then, neither I nor my officers have been able to pin him down. Not at his house or his place of business. His business, home, and cell phone numbers all go to voice mail.”

Tricia digested all that he’d said. “It won’t work, you know.”

“What won’t work?” Baker asked, sounding puzzled.

“Telling me about Bob. And all the other silly excuses you make to see me. Grant, we’re not getting back together again.”

“I know that. But I consider us friends. Can’t a man talk to his friend? Can’t he elicit her help to track down a criminal? Can’t he invite her to lunch once in a while just to talk? And maybe to dinner, too?”

Tricia frowned; it sounded like he and Christopher were quoting the same script. “As long as that’s all there is to it.”

“Are you free for dinner tonight?” he asked hopefully.

“As a matter of fact, no.”

“Is it true, or are you just saying that to blow me off?”

“I’m telling you I am not free for dinner tonight. I’ve made other plans.”

“Will you be free tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would you be free if Christopher asked you?” he asked, sounding like a willful child.

“We’re not talking about Christopher.”

“Have you been talking to him?”

“This is beginning to sound an awful lot like an interrogation,” Tricia said unhappily.

“I’d just like some company when I eat. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Have you considered adopting a pet?”

It was Baker’s turn to frown. “Very funny.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“I’m sorry I brought up the whole subject,” Baker said diffidently.

Tricia sighed. “Grant, have you noticed that every time we talk lately it ends up feeling like an argument?”

“I don’t mean for that to happen,” he said, defending himself.

“And neither do I. I just wish . . .” She let the sentence hang for a long moment. “I just wish things had turned out differently. It seems like we connected at the wrong times in our lives.”

“You mean we never quite connected,” he said.

“Exactly.”

“Are you absolutely sure there can never be a future for us?”

Tricia felt a smile creep onto her lips. “I never say never.”

“But?” Baker asked.

“Your job doesn’t make it easy.”

“Nor does your propensity to find trouble. Trouble in the form of murder.”

“My life revolves around solving puzzles—be it in a mystery book or in life.” She shrugged. “And I’m beginning to think I really was born under an unlucky star.”

“Is that why they call you the village jinx?”

Tricia sighed once more. “I guess so.”

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe it. Not for a minute.”

“Thank you.”

The shop door opened once again, this time admitting Pixie. “Good morning!” she called, sounding insanely cheerful.

“Hi,” Tricia called back.

Baker pursed his lips. “I’d best get back to work. I’m sure we’ll speak again in the coming days.”

“No doubt,” Tricia said.

Baker touched the brim of his hat in good-bye and left the store.

Pixie returned from hanging up her coat. “What did he want? To take you out to dinner—again?”

“Yes.”

“And you said no.”

“Yes.”

Pixie shook her head. “It’s been so long since either one of us has been with a man, I’ll bet we’ve both forgotten how to do it.”

“Do what?” Tricia said, knowing full well what Pixie was getting at.

“The deed. Getting our bones jumped. Having red-hot, sweaty, wonderful sex.”

Tricia sighed. She wasn’t about to talk about her sex life with someone who had performed the act for a living. “Why don’t you shelve those bargain books you priced last night?” Tricia suggested.

Pixie’s smile was wide. “I don’t know why you don’t want to talk about sex. I mean, it’s as natural as . . . well, getting laid.”

“Pixie, conversations such as that are not conducive to maintaining a good employer-employee relationship.”

Pixie frowned. “Gee, I thought we’d gone beyond all that. I thought by now we might actually be friends.”

Again Tricia sighed. “We are, but—”

Pixie held up a hand to stave off the explanation, but Tricia could tell by her expression that Pixie’s feelings had definitely been hurt. “Never mind.” She turned, picked up an armful of books, turning her back on Tricia, and headed for the bargain shelf, leaving Tricia to feel like some kind of repressed prude.

Three of the four conversations she’d had that morning had ended on rather unhappy notes, and Tricia wondered if that was an omen of things to come.