Murder on the Half Shelf (5 page)

“You’re still planning to open next week after what happened tonight?”

“I’ve got to make a living, if only to bury poor Pippa.”

Poor Pippa indeed. Only he didn’t sound all that sorrowful. Then again, maybe he was in shock. It hadn’t even been an hour since he’d learned of his wife’s death. Maybe he was in denial, and maybe Tricia was being too hard on him.

“I’m so sorry about Pippa. I only spoke to her for a minute or two, but…she seemed like a nice person.”

“She was. Maybe too nice.”

“Did she know about your past life—your other identity?”

Comfort hesitated. “We talked.”

As evasive an answer as Tricia had ever heard, but at least he wasn’t denying his former identity.

“Did you know I was in Stoneham?” she asked.

“Not until a couple of days ago when I saw the Chamber roster, and even then, I couldn’t be sure it was you. And why in God’s name did you have to show up here, anyway? Pippa was expecting Bob Kelly to accompany your sister.”

Footsteps on the stairs made them both turn. An annoyed Baker topped the landing. “Here you are. I’ve been chasing all over the house looking for you. Do you have the passkey?”

Comfort took a ring from his pocket and offered it to Baker.

“Which one opens this door?”

Comfort chose a key and handed it to the chief. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” He turned his attention back to Tricia. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Miles.” He turned away and headed down the stairs.

Tricia’s mouth dropped open in amazement, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. “Don’t tell me he denied being Harry Tyler when you questioned him before.”

“He did,” Baker confirmed. “And if he’s lying about not knowing anything about his wife’s death and then being Harrison Tyler, he’ll be in even more trouble.” He thrust the key into the lock and opened the door to the suite. “Let’s not talk
about this any more tonight. We’ll get your luggage and get you home. I’m sure Miss Marple will be glad to have you back.”

Baker ushered Tricia in. Thankfully, Angelica hadn’t taken time to unpack. Tricia gathered up the white waitress uniform, stuffed it and the shoes into Angelica’s suitcase, and zippered it shut. Grabbing her own duffel and the pink cosmetic case, she let Baker handle the enormous suitcase.

“Did you ever order that pizza?” Baker asked as Tricia preceded him out of the room. He turned off the light and closed the door, and they started down the main staircase.

“No. And it’s probably too late now.”

“I’ve got some leftover pizza at my place,” he offered, and this time there was none of the irritation she’d heard in his tone during the previous hour. Still, after the evening she’d endured, she wasn’t up to being interrogated, and she knew he’d only want to talk about the evening’s events. He could do that tomorrow, during business hours. Right now all she wanted to do was jump into bed with a good book—not her sometime lover, full-time cop.

“No, thank you. Please, just drive me home. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be another long day.”

When they got to the bottom of the stairs they found no sign of Comfort. Exiting the entryway, they found that all but one of the police cruisers were gone. A young officer stood at the bottom of the porch steps. He nodded. “Chief. Ma’am.”

“Give these keys back to Mr. Comfort, will you?”

“Sure thing, Chief.”

“And stick around until the end of your shift, Rogers. Martinez will relieve you when he comes on duty.”

“Yes, sir.”

Baker took the lead, wrestling Angelica’s suitcase through the door and out into the cold night air. Tricia followed him to his car. He hadn’t bothered to arrive in his own police cruiser. Good. The last thing Tricia wanted was for any of her neighbors to see her arrive home in a cop car.

Baker stuffed the luggage in the back of his SUV and opened the door for Tricia to get in. Tricia had buckled herself in by the time he opened the driver’s-side door and got inside. He started the engine.

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” she asked.

“I don’t know what to say right now. I have to be careful, Tricia. I’m the chief of police and I can’t let our relationship get in the way of my investigation.”

Tricia sighed. She hadn’t seen or heard from him in three days. It was hardly what anyone would call an overly close relationship. But then he’d explained at least a thousand times how important it was to get the department up and running, and she knew from reading police procedurals that what he said was true. But why did his work always have to encroach on their time together?

“Well, aren’t
you
going to say anything?” Baker demanded.

Tricia kept her eyes focused on the headlights’ narrow beams, which cut through the darkness. “It seems to me that you’ve said it all.”

They drove through the quiet streets of Stoneham, neither saying a word. And Tricia really didn’t want to talk. It was late, they were both tired and hungry, and the timing wasn’t right.

Baker paused on Main Street, did a U-turn, and pulled up in front of Haven’t Got a Clue. Without uttering a word, they got out of the car and Baker retrieved the luggage from the back of his SUV. “I’ll help you carry this into the store.”

“Thanks. I figured I’d dump it in the Cookery. Otherwise I’m sure Angelica will make me carry it up two flights.”

“Doesn’t she have a dumbwaiter, too?”

“Yes, but that won’t stop her from making me do it anyway.”

Baker shook his head. “I’m glad I only had a brother.” He followed her to the Cookery and waited as she separated the correct key from her ring, opened the door, punched in the security
code on the pad on the wall, set the suitcase inside, then quickly reset the system and locked up again.

Baker walked her to her shop. “I know I don’t deserve it, but can I have a kiss good night?”

“I don’t just kiss anyone, you know.”

“I’ve heard that.” Her eyes widened with surprise, and he smiled. “Okay, I haven’t heard that. But it got you going there for a second, didn’t it?”

She wanted to be angry with him. Some part of her wanted to haul off and hit him.

Instead, she kissed him. And again. And then again…

FIVE

Despite their
amicable parting, Tricia did not invite Chief Baker to accompany her inside her store. She really was too tired for that. Yet by the time she got upstairs, she found she was too restless to even contemplate sleep. Instead, Tricia dug through a box in the back of her closet to find an old photo album. Grabbing a glass of wine, she settled on her couch to study the pictures. After insisting on another helping of kitty snacks, Miss Marple deigned to join her.

The pictures dated from the time of her college graduation until just before she’d met Christopher. Included among those featured were three or four photos of Harrison Tyler—whom, at the time, she’d thought of as her first love. After seeing him again that evening, her emotions weren’t quite that charitable.

The first photo was taken on the night they’d met at a dusty
little bookshop in Soho. A small crowd had gathered to hear Harrison—“just call me Harry, darlin’”—speak about his phenomenal first novel,
Death Beckons
. The others had drifted away after a while, and the storekeeper was eager to close down for the night when Harry invited her out for a coffee. Giggling girlishly, she’d accepted.

It seemed like such a long time ago.

Tricia sipped her wine and thought about their last conversation. He’d made a phone call that, in retrospect, she should’ve realized had been his attempt at a last good-bye. And then of course she’d gone into mourning as soon as she’d heard about the boating accident.

It had taken her a long time to get over Harrison Tyler, and suddenly here he was again—back in her life, however reluctantly. And he was a fool if he thought he could keep his real identity a secret now that Pippa was dead.

Then again, he’d been a fool to fake his own death.

Tricia sipped her wine. Was she destined to love only fools who would never completely commit to her? It was a sad, sobering thought.

Miss Marple nudged her elbow, reminding her it was long past their bedtime. “Okay,” Tricia said, setting the album aside and getting up from her seat. Miss Marple hopped down, too, and trotted off toward the bedroom.

Tricia reached for the lamp switch, giving the photo album one last look before she turned off the lights. She had a feeling she hadn’t heard the last of Harry Tyler.

Sleep was
hard to come by, but at last Tricia fell into a fitful slumber some time near dawn. She’d hit the snooze button three times by the time she was finally able to drag herself out of bed and start what might prove to be a very long day.

Tricia waited to make coffee until she and Miss Marple arrived at Haven’t Got a Clue. She’d just hit the button on the
coffeemaker when she heard a knock at the door. A glance at her watch told her the store wasn’t due to open for another fifteen minutes, but there was also no reason not to let an eager customer in the door, either. But although the woman at the door had bought many books from Tricia, she wasn’t there as a customer on that morning.

“Mary,” Tricia said, letting her fellow shopkeeper in. “Shouldn’t you be getting By Hook or By Book ready to open?”

“I should, but…I just need to talk. Do you have a minute?” she asked, sounding weary.

“Of course. I’ve just put the coffee on to brew. It’ll be ready in less than five minutes.”

“I could sure use a cup,” Mary admitted, and headed for the reader’s nook.

“What’s wrong?” Tricia asked.

“Last night,” Mary said, succinctly.

Tricia took the chair opposite her guest. “I know exactly how you feel.”

“You’re used to being involved in all kinds of murders. People like me are not.”

Tricia wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. “I’m not involved in Mrs. Comfort’s murder. It’s just unfortunate that Angelica’s dog happened to find her while I was taking him for a walk.”

Mary waved a hand in annoyance. “You know what I mean. It was very upsetting to have to talk to the police. The way they looked at all of us, as if one of us were responsible for her death. We were
invited
guests.”

“As raffle winners, I wouldn’t exactly say we were invited. Tolerated. A means to an end—giving the innkeepers the opportunity to use us as guinea pigs for their shakedown before opening. But invited? No.”

Mary sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I feel traumatized by this whole ordeal. I’ve never known anyone who was murdered. I barely knew Mrs. Comfort. We only chatted for a couple of
minutes after Luke and I arrived at the inn. No sooner had she shown us to our room when Chauncey Porter showed up and she excused herself.” She tilted her head to one side and looked thoughtful. “That was weird.”

“What do you mean—weird?” Tricia asked.

“I left our room to ask for more towels. As I rounded the landing, I heard Chauncey say something about her being out of uniform. I didn’t get it. Then Mrs. Comfort gave him quite a dressing-down.”

“What for?”

She shrugged. “But something about his remark distressed her. She stopped talking when I entered the room, asked me what I wanted, and then went to fetch me the towels.”

Tricia considered her words. “Chauncey is such a sweetheart. I can’t imagine him saying anything to upset someone. Did you tell Chief Baker this?”

“It completely slipped my mind until this morning when I started going over everything in my head. The more I thought about it, the more rattled I got. I even considered not opening my shop today—but then realized I’d probably just dwell on it all day, anyway. I need the distraction of customers coming and going or I’ll have a nervous breakdown.”

“How is Luke doing?”

“He’s upset, too, of course, but he got up and went to work this morning just like usual. Men just don’t feel things the same way as women.”

That was an understatement.

The coffeemaker began to sputter, letting Tricia know it had finished brewing. “Let me get you that coffee,” she said, and rose from her seat.

Mary followed, patiently watching as Tricia poured coffee into one of the shop’s paper cups for her, and a china Haven’t Got a Clue store mug for herself. Mary added sweetener and creamer to her own, mixing it with a spoon, and then took a scorching gulp. “Just what I needed.”

The door handle rattled, and Mr. Everett entered the shop. “Good morning, Ms. Miles. Mrs. Fairchild—how nice of you to visit.”

“Good morning,” the women chorused.

“You’re in early,” Tricia said, as Mr. Everett headed for the back of the shop to hang up his jacket.

“I like to keep busy,” he said. Mr. Everett had won the Powerball Lottery just over nine months before. Recently his wife, Grace, had opened an office across the street from Tricia’s bookstore for the Everett Charitable Foundation. In fact, the foundation was located right above Angelica’s café, Booked for Lunch.

Grace, who had never worked for a living and had only ever done volunteer work, had taken on the responsibility as though it were her life’s mission. And, in fact, that was just what the job had become. She’d even found it necessary to hire an assistant to help her sort through all the requests for handouts. This had not pleased her husband of eighteen months, who preferred not to be separated from his wife for so many hours in the day. It had worked out for Tricia, however, because despite her best efforts, she hadn’t yet found a suitable replacement for her former assistant, Ginny Wilson, who now managed the Happy Domestic shop across the street.