A Fatal Chapter (3 page)

“He’s gone into cardiac arrest,” Danny said, and began CPR.

“Oh, no,” Tricia said, feeling close to tears.

“Well, at least he
started
out alive,” Russ said.

“Hey, don’t count Pete out yet,” she grated, glaring at him.

Russ just shrugged.

They watched as the EMTs worked in a fluid motion to transfer Pete to the gurney and whisk him off to the ambulance. By then they noticed a bunch of rubberneckers that had gathered around the edges of the park and were watching the show. Poor Pete.

Less than a minute later, the ambulance took off with its siren wailing. Sarge began to wiggle in Tricia’s arms, and she set him down on the ground. The firemen packed up their gear, stowed it in their vehicle, and left the scene.

With the show now over, the gawkers began to drift away.

“That’s it,” Russ said. He cocked his head and addressed Tricia. “What were you doing in the park, anyway?”

She brandished Sarge’s leash. “What do you think?”

He shrugged, looking back to the road, then at his watch. “Looks like Pete and I won’t get to talk about that article after all. I sure hope the poor guy makes it.”

Heavy-hearted, Tricia looked toward the road, where the ambulance had receded from sight. “Yes. Me, too.”

Tricia returned
Sarge to Angelica’s apartment, stopping long enough to say hello to the Cookery’s manager, Frannie Mae Armstrong, and Mr. Everett, who was working there part-time. Naturally, both asked about the ambulance and the ensuing commotion in the center of the village, and Tricia told them just the basics before she headed back to the Chamber office.

Pixie and Mariana had just as many questions, and Tricia told them the bare minimum, too.

“Boy, you’ve sure got the knack for finding stiffs,” Pixie muttered, shaking her head.

“He wasn’t dead!” Tricia turned to Mariana, forcing herself to speak calmly. “Have we heard from Angelica yet?”

Mariana shook her head. “She said she wasn’t planning on coming back to the Chamber office today—remember?”

“Oh, that’s right. I’m sorry. I guess I’m feeling a little rattled.” Tricia
settled into the chair in front of her desk, trying to decide if she was able to muster the enthusiasm needed to attack the pile of phone messages waiting for her attention. She’d catch up with her sister later. Angelica often came back to the Chamber office during the evenings to catch up with paperwork or make calls, sometimes bringing a makeshift dinner that she’d share with Tricia and Miss Marple.

Tricia found it hard to concentrate during the rest of the afternoon. In her mind’s eye she saw poor Pete lying on the gazebo’s cold concrete floor, barely holding on to life. She wondered if she ought to call St. Joseph Hospital to check up on him, but would they have information on an emergency case who hadn’t actually been admitted?

Pixie had moved on from putting labels on envelopes to actually stuffing them. For the most part, she worked quietly while soft rock issued from the radio on Mariana’s desk. Occasionally Pixie would sing along off-key, which caused Mariana to start clearing her throat as though she were choking on a bone. Though physically separated by the space between their desks, for the rest of the afternoon Pixie seemed to hover over Tricia, looking worried—even if she never moved from her chair.

At one point, a shiver passed through Tricia, and she looked up and, as expected, found Pixie staring at her. “What?”

Pixie looked away. “Nothing, I was just . . . staring into space.”

A lie.

The Chamber was open until six o’clock, but Mariana only worked until five. At 4:59, she turned off her radio, grabbed her purse from the desk drawer, and rose. “I’ll see you ladies tomorrow,” she said, and headed for the door.

“Have a good evening,” Tricia called.

“One more hour and it’ll be our turn,” Pixie said, and moved on to sealing the envelopes with a wet-sponge dauber. Without the
background noise of Mariana’s radio, the time seemed to drag. The battery-operated clock on the wall seemed to tick louder with the passing minutes, not unlike Poe’s
Tell-Tale Heart
. Tricia couldn’t seem to concentrate on any task she attempted, opening files only to glance at the screen and then close them once again.

Finally, Pixie glanced at the clock, which at last read 5:58. “Holy smoke, is that the time?” she said, and scooped all the envelopes into a box, replacing it under her desk.

“What’s the matter? Have you got a hot date?” Tricia asked, and was surprised when Pixie actually blushed.

“Well, actually . . . yeah. I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Boy? At Pixie’s age? Hardly.

“Pixie!” Tricia called, feeling lighter than she had in hours. “When did this happen?”

“A couple of months ago. I didn’t want to say anything. I mean, knowing how your love life is in the toilet and all.”

In the toilet
wasn’t exactly true.
Flushed and long gone
was a better description. But it had been a conscious decision on Tricia’s part. After losing her home and store, she didn’t want to rush into any kind of relationship. She occasionally had lunch with her ex-husband, Christopher, but she was fairly certain she’d finally convinced him that any future relationship with him was out of the question. And while Chief Baker still dropped by on a regular basis, she thought of him only with friendship in mind—which was pretty much all their relationship had been based on, anyway.

“Don’t be silly,” Tricia chided her. “I’m thrilled for you. What’s his name? What’s he like? Does he—” She stopped herself.

“Know about my past?” Pixie finished for her. She nodded. “Yup. That was a difficult conversation, and things were a little tense for a
while, but they’re better now. In fact, they’re terrific.” She positively beamed. “His name is Fred Pillins—ain’t that a weird name?”

“Pillins? I must say I’ve never heard of it before. It’s unique,” Tricia said. “Are you guys . . . serious?”

“When you’re on the high side of fifty, everything had better be serious,” Pixie said.

“Are you thinking about—?”

“Getting married?” Pixiee shook her head. “But shacking up ain’t out of the question. It would sure save on rent and groceries and stuff. The way things are—I’m either at his place, or he’s at mine.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“At Booked for Lunch. He delivers the meat and cold cuts. We hit it off right away, and then one day he asked me out to dinner. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“And you never said a word,” Tricia muttered.

“Now that the cat’s out of the bag, I’ll talk your ear off about him,” she said with a grin.

“I’d love to hear all about him,” Tricia said sincerely.

Pixie consulted her watch. “But not today. I’m off.” She withdrew her purse from the desk drawer and grabbed the garment bag with her waitressing clothes. Fingering a wave, she mimicked Angelica. “Tootles!”

“Have a nice evening,” Tricia called after her.

Once the door closed behind Pixie, Tricia arranged the yellow Post-it notes chronicling the chores she needed to accomplish the next day in a line on top of her desk in the order of their importance.

As she passed Pixie’s desk, she noticed a folded section of the morning newspaper on top. Tricia scooped it up, intending to toss it into the wastebasket, which she would empty before she closed the office for the day. She paused to look at it. Pixie had finished the
crossword, but she’d only figured out three of the four scrambled words from the Jumble in the
Union Leader
. Tricia stared at the letters before her. U-G-E-H-N-R. She thought about it for a moment. H-U-N-G-E-R. That was easy enough. She thought about the lunch she’d never gotten around to eating. No wonder she felt so empty inside.

Her gaze traveled over to a wrinkled brochure, which also sat on the desk. It was for NRA Realty, a division of Nigela Ricita Associates.

Suddenly the letters of one of the words rearranged themselves in her mind and she smiled. R-I-C-I-T-A rearranged was T-R-I-C-I-A.

Her smile faded as a wave of cold passed through her—like someone walking on her grave.
No, it can’t be
, she thought, her insides seeming to do a summersault. She studied the letters in the other word. There weren’t enough letters in N-I-G-E-L-A to spell out Angelica. Still . . .

Tricia went into the kitchen to get a trash bag, then emptied the four wastebaskets and tossed the newspaper into it as well. For some reason, she couldn’t stop thinking about those jumbled letters. Surely it was coincidence. Angelica
couldn’t
be Nigela Ricita.

But, like Clark Kent and Superman, Nigela and Angelica had never been seen together. Heck, besides Antonio Barbero, no one in the village had ever met the elusive Ms. Ricita. Antonio did all the talking for his boss. She communicated with her employees via e-mail. That was certainly an effective way of keeping any questions about her identity at bay.

It can’t be.

Tricia stared at the headline once more. The words
Angelica Tricia
seemed to jump off the page.

Since Nigela Ricita Associates had come to town, they’d invested in the Brookview Inn, the Happy Domestic, the Sheer Comfort Inn, the Eat Lunch rolling food truck, and the local pub, the Dog-Eared Page. They’d bought the building that now housed the Chamber of
Commerce. And, lucky for the Chamber, NRA had made improvements despite the fact that they intended to raze the building in the not-too-distant future, and charged the organization far less than the going rate for rent. The company also subsidized the flowers that festooned Main Street, which pleased not just the tourists but the shopkeepers as well.

These—all its—investments had been good for Stoneham and for its citizens, too. Nigela Ricita Associates had created not only jobs, but greater prosperity. Angelica was far too selfish to be behind all that altruism.

Tricia frowned and felt instantly ashamed. Maybe she’d felt that way about her sister in the past, but no longer.

Angelica had hired Frannie Mae Armstrong, who’d blossomed as the Cookery’s manager. She’d given an ex-con the chance at a better life when she’d hired him to be a short order cook at Booked for Lunch. He’d moved from that lowly position to that of head chef at the Brookview Inn. Angelica had been the force behind Tricia giving Pixie a chance to excel, working for her at Haven’t Got a Clue, and with the skills she’d picked up working for the Chamber of Commerce during the past six months, she could probably look for a better-paying job. Angelica was also responsible for Michele Fowler getting the job as manager of the Dog-Eared Page. She’d done a lot of good these past few years. Nigela Ricita Associates had done even more.

It can’t be
, Tricia told herself more sternly.

Angelica had an ego the size of Montana. Surely if she was responsible for all the improvements that had taken place in the village, she’d be shouting it from the top of the newly rebuilt village gazebo. What was served by her hiding behind a shell company?

But then Tricia remembered something Angelica had said months before when she’d spilled the beans about the dead brother Tricia had never known about. “You’d be surprised how good we are at keeping secrets in this family.”

But the idea was absurd. How could Angelica be the head of a development company and not tell anyone—especially Tricia—about it? Her life was an open book.

Wasn’t it?

There was only one way to find out.

Tricia reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone, intending to call her sister, when she noticed she’d missed a text message from Angelica.
Free for dinner? Come over at 6:15.

Tricia glanced at her watch. It was six ten. Oh, yes, she had every intention of crossing the street and confronting Angelica with her suspicions.

It took only a minute for Tricia to leave a bowl of kitty treats for her cat, lock up the Chamber office, and leave the quaint little house. As she walked briskly down the sidewalk heading for the Cookery, she rehearsed various conversational openers.

So, are you Nigela Ricita?

No, too blunt.

Anything you need to tell me?

No, too subtle.

Would Angelica laugh and deny the accusation? Would she break down in tears and beg Tricia’s forgiveness? Somehow, Tricia couldn’t see either of those scenarios playing out. It didn’t matter. Tricia was determined to find out the facts, and if what she now suspected was true, she would—

Tricia stopped dead in the middle of the empty sidewalk.

She had no idea
what
she would do.

•   •   •

Tricia unlocked
the big door to the Cookery and entered, locked it behind her, and crossed the shop to the stairs to Angelica’s loft apartment. The layout of this store and her own were so similar that she felt a pang of loss cut a little deeper into her soul every time she entered. When she reached the third floor and opened the door, Sarge bounded toward her, practically apoplectic with joy, despite the fact he’d seen her only a couple of hours earlier that day. “Calm down, calm down,” she chided as the dog bounced up and down as though on a trampoline as they headed up the hall and into the kitchen, where the aromas of onions and garlic wafted.

“Honestly, Sarge,” Angelica chided from her position at the stove, “put a sock in it.”

Tricia looked around on the floor for something to distract the dog. Sure enough, she saw what had once been a knee-high white sock that had been tied in knots and given to the dog as a toy. Tricia picked it up and tossed it to Sarge, who caught it in his mouth, where it stayed, effectively silencing him.

She glanced over at her sister, who was standing over the stove stirring what looked like a pot of spaghetti sauce, still undecided as to what she felt—admiration or total fury. No doubt about it, had Angelica wished for a culinary career, she would have been one of the best. She often said she was happiest with a wooden spoon in her hand. The fact that she did it so well had been a boon for Tricia, who didn’t like to cook and, before Angelica’s arrival, had basically lived on a diet of
yogurt and tuna salad, which was convenient but not particularly healthy. But right now food was the last thing on Tricia’s mind.

“I’ve got a pitcher of martinis in the fridge—as well as a couple of glasses chilling. Why don’t you pour us each a drink?” Angelica suggested as she grabbed a pot from the cupboard, no doubt for the pasta.