Bookplate Special (2 page)

“You’ve got me,” Tricia said. “But she
is
leaving.”

“
Yow
!” Miss Marple said, in what sounded like kitty triumph.

True to her word, Pammy emerged from the bathroom less than five minutes later, her still-damp hair now gathered in a ponytail at her neck. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” she said. “Or did you think I’d steal your stainless cutlery?” Then she laughed.

“I thought I’d help you with your things.”

“No need,” Pammy said quite affably. She rearranged some of the clothes in the suitcase, latched it, and hauled it off the couch. She slipped her bare feet into her scuffed-up Day-Glo pink Crocs and eyed a carton on the floor. It was filled with books she’d acquired during her stay. “Can I leave this here for a couple of days—just until I get settled? I don’t have room for it in my car right now.”

“Sure,” Tricia said, eager to do whatever it took to get Pammy out of her hair and out of her home. But then, even though her kindness had been abused, everything about this seemed so wrong, so . . . nasty . . . so unlike Tricia. “Where will you go, what will you do?”

“Today?” Pammy asked, and smiled. “I might just go to the opening of the village’s new food pantry.”

“The what?”

Pammy glowered at Tricia. “Don’t you even know what’s going on here in Stoneham? Stuart Paige is in town to dedicate the Stoneham Food Shelf.”

“Who?”

Pammy gave her a withering look. “Do a Google search on the man—see what good he’s done here in New Hampshire. You might want to follow in his footsteps.” Pammy grabbed her purse, slinging the strap over her shoulder before wrestling the heavy suitcase toward the door.

Stuart Paige? The name did sound familiar.

“Do you need some money?” Tricia asked, the guilt already beginning to seep in.

Pammy managed a wry smile. “You already took care of that, thank you. Look, I’m sorry I told you I had nowhere to go. That wasn’t exactly true. I’ve hooked up with some people here in Stoneham. I’m pretty sure I have a place to stay for the night—or maybe a few. You don’t have to worry about me, Tricia. I’ve survived on my own for a long time now, although I may have to actually get a job.”

For a moment, Tricia was speechless. Was it possible she could have tossed Pammy out days—even weeks—earlier, instead of fuming in silence? And what about the threat of actually looking for work? From what she’d said, Pammy had never held a job for more than a couple of months before some catastrophe would occur and she’d be asked to leave. Still, Tricia couldn’t shake feeling like a heel. As Pammy brushed past her, Tricia reached out to stop her. “I’m sorry, Pammy. It just wasn’t working out.”

“Don’t worry, Tricia. I always have a contingency plan.” She dug into her jeans pocket and came up with Tricia’s extra set of keys, handing them over. “Thanks.” And with that, she went out the door.

“Miss Marple,” Tricia called, and the cat dutifully hurried to the door. It was time for work. Tricia closed the dumbwaiter and sent it down, then shut and locked the apartment door as Miss Marple scampered down the stairs ahead of her. By the time Tricia got to the shop, Pammy was waiting for her to unlock the door that faced Main Street. Tricia retrieved Pammy’s second suitcase from the dumbwaiter and carried it to the exit. Pammy’s cheeks were pink, and for a moment Tricia was afraid she might be on the verge of tears. But when she spoke, her voice was steady.

“Good-bye, Tricia.”

“I’m sorr—”

“No, you’re not.” Pammy shrugged. “I’ll be back for those books in a couple of days. Bye.”

Tricia unlocked the deadbolt and waited for Pammy to exit, but her departing guest stayed rooted.

“Did you piss anyone else off?” she asked.

Tricia frowned. “What do you mean?”

Pammy stepped over what had once been a carved pumpkin. Now it lay shattered on the sidewalk just beyond the welcome mat outside the shop’s door.

“It didn’t belong to me.”

“No, carving a pumpkin is fun, and that’s something I’ll bet you haven’t had in a long, long time,” Pammy said, stepping over the orange mess. She continued north down the street, without another word or a backward glance.

Tricia studied the shattered pumpkin; its crushed, lop-sided, toothy grin looked menacing. She closed the door and went in search of a broom and a trash bag.

 

 

“Today is
the first day of the rest of your life.”

Never had an old saw held so much promise—and guilt—for Tricia. Though preoccupied with the whole Pammy situation, she managed to get through the store’s opening rituals. Pammy’s comment, that she might learn something from the likes of Stuart Paige—whoever he was—and the crack about having fun, had stung. She was a productive member of her community, pitched in at community events, and liked to think she treated her employees and customers well. And she had fun . . . sometimes.

Okay, not so much lately. She worked seven days a week, had no time for friends or hobbies, and her love life . . . .

Lost in thought, she barely noticed when her assistant, Ginny Wilson, showed up for work a full fifteen minutes late.

“Sorry,” she apologized, already shrugging off her jacket. “The car wouldn’t start. Brian had already left for work, and I thought the guys from the garage would get to my place quicker than they did. And when I went to call you, the battery in my cell phone was dead.”

Tricia waved a hand in dismissal. “The day started out crappy, so nothing could upset me this morning.”

“Oh, good. Maybe I should ask for an extra day off—with pay,” Ginny said, and giggled.

“You’re not improving my mood,” Tricia said, but didn’t bother to stifle the beginnings of a smile that threatened to creep onto her lips.

“Isn’t Russ back today? That should cheer you up. Have you got a date with him tonight?” Ginny asked, rolling her Windbreaker into a ball and shoving it under the sales counter, along with her purse.

Tricia’s statement that nothing could upset her had obviously been a lie. Things hadn’t been going so well on the romance front. Pammy’s presence these past few weeks hadn’t helped. “I’m not sure if he’s back yet.” Russ had been traveling on business a lot lately, although he hadn’t exactly been candid about what that business entailed. As the owner/editor of the
Stoneham Weekly News
, why did he even need to
go
out of town, when nearly all his revenue came from local ads?

Ginny looked around the store, which was devoid of customers. “Goodness. Are we to have a Pammy-free day, or is she still in bed?”

“She’s gone for good—I hope,” Tricia affirmed. “After what happened yesterday, I felt I had to ask her to leave. I can’t risk a repeat of her carelessness—not when it comes to my customers.” She wasn’t about to mention the forged check.

“Hallelujah! Now the cookies and coffee we put out will actually go to our customers, instead of being hogged by that—that—” Ginny seemed at a loss for words. She scrutinized Tricia’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Tricia sighed. “I feel bad about the way I—”

“Tossed her out?” Ginny suggested.

“I did not toss her out. I merely suggested that two weeks was a tad long for a short visit. Pammy wasn’t the least bit fazed. In fact, she said she’d ‘hooked up’ with some local people.”

Ginny pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Do you think she could’ve found a boyfriend here in Stoneham?” Tricia asked.

“Stranger things have happened.” Ginny cleared her throat.

“Pammy mentioned the opening of a new food pantry here in Stoneham. What do you know about it?”

“Oh, yeah, I heard Stuart Paige is in town to dedicate it,” Ginny said.

“Stuart Paige . . .” Tricia repeated. “I’ve heard the name. I just can’t remember who he is.”

“Some rich mucky-muck. He gives away money. That’s got to be good karma, right?”

“I guess,” Tricia said. The circa-1930s black phone on the sales desk rang, and she grabbed the heavy receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia speaking.”

“Tricia, it’s Deborah Black.” Tricia’s fellow shopkeeper; owner of the Happy Domestic book and gift shop. “I just had a visit from your friend, Pam Fredericks. She wanted to know if I had a job opening. As it happens, I do. Did you know she’s listing Haven’t Got a Clue as her last place of employment?”

“What?”

“I thought that would be your reaction.” Tricia could hear the smile in Deborah’s voice.

“She never worked here. She only annoyed, and perhaps even alienated, a portion of my customer base by her presence.”

“I thought so. I told her I would let her know, but with T-shirts and jeans, she doesn’t dress appropriately for the image I want to convey.”

And that was another reason Tricia had objected to Pammy hanging around Haven’t Got a Clue. “Did Pammy list an address on her application?”

“Yes—yours; two twenty-one Main Street, Stoneham, New Hampshire.”

“She is no longer staying with me,” Tricia said emphatically.

“About time you finally got fed up with her.”

“That happened two weeks ago. I asked her to leave only about an hour ago.”

“You know what they say about fish and house guests: after three days they stink. I’d have asked her to leave eleven days sooner than you did.”

“But I—”

“Felt sorry for her?” Deborah asked, sarcastically.

“I always considered compassion an admirable trait,” Tricia replied.

“It is, sweetie. If you don’t let people take advantage of your goodwill.”

Tricia’s entire body tensed at the dig. Oh, yes, she’d been a real sucker. “I’ll try to remember that,” she said coolly.

“Oh, Trish, don’t get mad. Angelica feels the same way I do—as all your friends do. You do too much for everyone. You’re just too nice. Think of yourself first, for once. You deserve it.”

Talk about a backhanded compliment. At least Deborah thought Tricia was a good person. Pammy had just been upset when she’d tossed off her parting slurs. “I’d better get going,” Tricia said, and glanced at the clock as though it would give her permission to end the call.

“Talk to you later,” Deborah said, and the line went silent.

Tricia hung up the phone. She had better things to think about than Pammy Fredericks. And if Pammy used her name again as a reference . . . Well, she’d deal with it when and if it happened.

And it happened about half an hour later when Russ Smith walked through the door, carrying two take-out cups of the Coffee Bean’s best brew. “Good morning,” he called cheerfully, and paused in front of the sales counter. He leaned forward, brushed a kiss on Tricia’s cheek, and handed her one of the cups.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she said, giving him a pleased smile.

“So are you.” He removed the cap from his cup, blowing on the coffee to cool it. “I had a visit a little while ago from—”

Tricia felt her blood pressure skyrocket and held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t tell me; Pammy Fredericks. And I’ll bet she was not only looking for a job, but listed me as her last employer, and my address as her residence.”

“You’ve developed psychic abilities,” he declared, and laughed.

“No. You’re not the first person to give me this news,” she said crossly.

Russ sipped his coffee.

“Are you likely to hire her?” Tricia asked.

“I asked her if she could type. She admitted to using only two fingers.”

“Did you let her down gently?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t.

“I didn’t need to. I’m not looking for help. In fact . . . things haven’t been going real well on the advertising front. I may have to let one of my girls go.”

Tricia removed the cap to her coffee and frowned. “Yes, I’ve noticed the last couple of issues have had more filler than usual.”

“Tough economic times mean tough measures.” Russ took another sip and stared into the depths of his cup, his expression dour.

Time to lighten the mood. “Why are you wandering around town during working hours?” Tricia asked.

“I’m heading out for the opening of the new food pantry. You going?”

“No. I have a business to run.”

“Stuart Paige will be there,” he said with a lilt to his voice. Was that supposed to be some kind of inducement?

“Why does everyone think I’d care? I’ve met lots of famous people, especially authors. I’m not the least bit impressed by celebrity.”

Russ held his hands up in submission. “Okay, don’t shoot the messenger.” He glanced up at the clock on the wall. “I’d better get going. Maybe I can get a couple of quotes for the next issue.” He leaned forward, again brushing a soft kiss on her cheek. That made twice he’d missed her lips.

He started for the door. “Do you have plans for tomorrow night?”

“No.”

“Good. How about dinner? We could go to that nice little French bistro you like in Milford.”

Tricia shook her head; they’d been apart too much lately, and she didn’t want to share Russ with a room full of other people. “Let’s stay in. My place or yours?”

“Mine.” He recapped his coffee. “Come on over as soon as you close the store. I’ll have dinner waiting.”

“Sounds great.”

“There’s something I want to talk to you about.” He threw a glance at Ginny across the way. She was with a customer, but her gaze kept darting in their direction.

“I’m intrigued,” Tricia said, hoping her inquisitive look would get him to give her more information.

Instead, Russ opened the shop door. “See you tomorrow, then.” And out he went.

The vintage black phone on the sales counter rang once again. Tricia picked it up. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How can I help you?”

“Oh, good, it’s you. I need a favor,” said the disembodied voice of Bob Kelly, head of the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce, president of Kelly Realty, and her sister Angelica’s significant other.