Murder on the Half Shelf (6 page)

Mr. Everett’s arrival had put a distinct end to Tricia and Mary’s conversation. “I’d better get going,” she said, and Tricia walked her to the door. “I hate to be a bother, but would you mind if I called you later—I mean, if I’m feeling all rattled again?”

“Certainly.”

Mary rested a hand on Tricia’s arm. “You are a dear. I’m sorry to be such a bundle of nerves, but like I said—this is all so new and strange for me.”

“Don’t give it a thought.”

“Talk to you later. And thanks for the coffee,” Mary said, and Tricia closed the door behind her.

“I see you’ve already made the coffee,” Mr. Everett said as he tied on the green apron with the Haven’t Got a Clue logo and his name emblazoned on it.

“Mary needed a little hand-holding this morning.” She didn’t want to go into why, but she knew it would eventually come up. “Feel free to help yourself.”

Tricia retreated to the cash desk, where she counted out the money for the till. Miss Marple, who’d refrained from joining in the previous conversation, hopped up to her perch on the wall behind the register.

Mr. Everett approached the desk and stood there, waiting expectantly. Tricia looked up. “Is something up?”

“I understand there was another murder last night,” Mr. Everett said, without making eye contact. “Is it true you found the body?” The unspoken word
again
seemed to echo off the tin ceiling.

First Mary, now Mr. Everett. She sighed. “I’m afraid so.”

“It must be getting tiresome,” Mr. Everett commented. “I mean, it’s unfortunate that it always seems to be
you
who finds corpses around our fair village. And to think, we were once the safest village in all of New Hampshire.”

Tricia held her breath. Was he going to voice that ridiculous
jinx
label that had dogged her since she’d found that first body in the Cookery two and a half years before?

Mr. Everett shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Miles. We both seem to have our share of problems today.”

Problems?

“Is there something you’d like to talk about?” Tricia offered.

Mr. Everett shook his head, but the corners of his mouth drooped and for a moment she thought he might cry. But then he shook himself, stood just a little taller, turned, and headed for the beverage station to get a cup of coffee. “Are we to interview another candidate this morning?” Mr. Everett asked, as he measured out the creamer and placed it into his cup.

“I’m afraid so.” Tricia frowned. “Mr. Everett, do you think our standards are too high? I mean, we’ve both been unhappy with the last three people I’ve hired.”

Mr. Everett sighed. “It’s definitely not just you, Ms. Miles. I, too, thought the last one might be different.” He shook his head. “In this economy, people will say just about anything to get a job. But far too many of the candidates who’ve come through our door seemed more interested in texting than selling books.”

“When Angelica had a hard time finding the right person to work at the Cookery, I blamed it entirely on her. But now I’m not so sure she was completely at fault—and I never thought I’d say that.”

Mr. Everett nodded. “Don’t worry, Ms. Miles. We’ll find someone to permanently take Ginny’s place. And soon. I’m sure of it.”

Tricia wished she shared Mr. Everett’s positive attitude.

The telephone rang, and Tricia hurried to answer it, at the same time dreading that it would be the latest job interviewee canceling at the last minute. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How may I—”

“Tricia? It’s Grant Baker.”

Not the person she wanted to speak to. “What can I do for you?” she said, trying to sound bright and cheerful.

“Will you come down to the station sometime this morning to file a statement about last night, or do you want me to send an officer over?” Why did he even ask? He knew she knew they were short staffed and really couldn’t afford to tie up one of the uniforms with that kind of work.

“Of course I’ll come over. But I’m interviewing another person for the assistant manager’s job this morning. Would this afternoon be okay?”

“Sure.”

“Have you learned anything new about the case since last night?”

“You know I can’t talk to you about the murder investigation.”

“Does that mean you can’t talk to me at all?” Tricia asked.

“It makes things difficult,” he admitted.

Yes, it certainly did.

“Let’s give it a few days—see how things shake out.”

“You mean until you rule me out as a possible suspect?” Tricia asked.

She heard him sigh. “Something like that.”

There was no point in getting angry. In fact, she wasn’t sure she
was
angry. She’d suspected this was coming, after all.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked.

She turned away, so that Mr. Everett wouldn’t hear any more of the conversation, not that he would actively eavesdrop. And, in fact, he’d disappeared to commandeer the shop’s lamb’s-wool duster. “No. Resigned. When this is over, can we have an honest talk about where we’re going as a couple?” Or, more to the point, where they were
not
going as a couple.
Couple?
The word wasn’t even appropriate for the level of commitment he’d been willing or able to show.

Baker sighed again. “Why is it women always want to talk about that kind of stuff?”

“Because it’s important to us. It should be important to you, too.”

“I’m on the rebound,” he admitted.

“So was I after my divorce. I’m not asking for a lifelong commitment, just something more than we’ve got now.”

“You’ve been very patient with me.”

That wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but there was also no point in voicing that sentiment yet again, either.

“Before I hang up, is there else anything you want to tell me about what happened last night?
Anything
,” he stressed.

“Do you think I’m keeping something from you?”

“No. I’m just doing my job.”

“Well, in the inimitable words of Winston Churchill: carry on.”

She waited for him to say good-bye, but instead, he simply hung up.

Tricia frowned as she put the receiver back into its cradle. Almost immediately, it began to ring again. Good. He’d probably accidentally cut short their call without the pleasantries. She didn’t want to think it might have been deliberate.

She let it ring a third time before picking it up. “Grant?”

“It’s Angelica. What are you doing for lunch today?”

It was Tricia’s turn to sigh. “The same as I always do on a week day. Come over to Booked for Lunch for the tuna plate.”

“I’m not going in today. Come over to my apartment. I’m testing a special recipe for the next cookbook and I need a guinea pig to try it.”

It wasn’t the grandest of invitations but about the only one Tricia was likely to get that day. “Appetizer, soup, salad, entrée, or dessert?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Okay, I’ll be there at noon. Can I bring anything?”

“A bottle of Riesling would be nice.”

“No can do.”

“Then anything alcoholic you can lay your hands on. I’m parched.”

“It’s ten fifteen in the morning.”

“I’ve been up since four, and I went to bed late last night. And I want to hear everything that happened at the inn after I left last night, too.”

“Well don’t hold your breath, because there’s not much to tell. I’ll see you around noon.” Tricia hung up—without saying good-bye. But then, she would be seeing Angelica in a couple of hours—not days.

Mr. Everett stood nearby, holding the morning mail. Tricia hadn’t even heard the door open and the mailman arrive.
“You’d best look this over before our first customers arrive,” he said, and handed the small pile to Tricia.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll just go back to my dusting,” Mr. Everett said, and headed toward the back of the store once more.

Tricia sorted through the envelopes. Mostly bills, a few useless circulars, and a bubble envelope. Tricia’s heart sank. It was too small to be one of the books she’d ordered. Her ex-husband had been making a habit of sending expensive gifts at the most inopportune time. Was this another one?

She glanced at the postmark and frowned. Nashua, New Hampshire. Christopher lived in Colorado. Her anxiety level dropped and she took out a letter opener to slit the package open. Inside was a white envelope. She slit that open, too, and a photograph fell out, landing on the top of the display case. Intrigued, Miss Marple jumped down from her perch to take a look.

Tricia turned the photo over. A Post-it note was attached. In block lettering it said:
We’ll meet again.
Tricia peeled off the note and saw a picture of herself, taken some indeterminate time in the past at what looked like a sidewalk café. In it she wore a straw hat, sunglasses, and an outfit she didn’t remember ever owning—and she was laughing.

“
Yow!
” Miss Marple said.

Tricia frowned. Who could have sent the picture? And why didn’t she remember where it was taken, who had taken it, or the occasion? Was the note supposed to represent a threat or a wistful remembrance?

Mr. Everett appeared before her, dusting the sill around the display window. He looked over at her. “Is something wrong, Ms. Miles?”

Tricia shook her head and stowed the picture under the counter. Mr. Everett went back to his dusting.

But Tricia couldn’t help but feel unnerved by the photo, and she wondered who could have sent it, and why?

SIX

As expected,
the agency that was to send over the day’s applicant to interview for Ginny’s former job called to cancel. The candidate had apparently found a better-paying job. That worried Tricia. She was already offering two dollars over minimum wage. Maybe she’d have to raise the starting pay. But as the three previous contenders for the job had proven unsuccessful, she wasn’t feeling overly generous. She’d get to that point
after
they’d stayed in the job for more than a couple of weeks.

After snagging a bottle of wine, Tricia grabbed her coat from the back and snuggled into the sleeves. “Mr. Everett, I’m leaving now.”

Mr. Everett paused in his shelf straightening and hurried over to the cash desk.

“Are you sure you don’t mind me taking an early lunch today?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Grace has a lunch meeting, so I’ll be eating alone again today,” he said rather wistfully. That had been happening a lot lately.

“I’m not going to the café, or else I’d promise to bring you back a sandwich. But Angelica always makes enough to feed an army when she’s testing a recipe. I’m sure there’ll be leftovers…I’m just not sure what kind of leftovers.”

“I’ll be fine. I brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

Tricia tried not to shudder at the thought. Oh well…as long as he enjoyed them.

“I’ll try to be back in an hour. But knowing Angelica, she’ll probably try to get me to walk Sarge, too.”

“That’s why I prefer cats,” Mr. Everett said. At that, Miss Marple lifted her sleepy head and blinked at them both. She’d been dozing in the front window, wound around a copy of the latest Tess Gerritsen book.

Tricia smiled. “See you in about an hour.”

Tricia walked the ten feet to the Cookery and entered. Frannie Mae Armstrong, who managed the bookstore for Angelica, was with a customer. She waved a quick hello, and Tricia headed to the back stairs that lead to Angelica’s loft apartment on the third floor.

The door was unlocked, so Tricia let herself in, hung up her coat, and followed the hall to the kitchen, which smelled heavenly.

“Anybody home?” she called.

“In the kitchen,” Angelica hollered.

As usual, Angelica was standing over the kitchen island, making notes on what looked like manuscript pages. Sarge stood next to her and gave Tricia a chipper bark in greeting, the tip of his fluffy tail wagging merrily.

“What smells so good?” Tricia asked, and inhaled deeply.

“Sausage and vegetable strudel. It’s a takeoff on a recipe I’ve made hundreds of times, only this is my pizza version. I hope you’ll like it.”

“I bet I will.” She handed Angelica the bottle.

“Get out the plates and silverware, while I finish this.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

By the time Tricia had set the table, Angelica set her notes aside and took the strudel from the oven, transferring it onto a waiting platter. “It has to sit for a few minutes. Would you like a cup of coffee or a glass of wine to go with it?”

“With the way my day’s going, I’ll take the wine,” Tricia said.

“Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good. Tell me all about it,” Angelica said, reaching for the glasses in the cupboard.

Tricia commandeered one of the island’s stools. “Have you heard anything new about the murder last night?”

Angelica shook her head. “No, but I’ve already been interrogated by Frannie. She missed her calling.
She
should have been a police detective. How about you?”

“Luckily Frannie was busy with a customer when I came in, but I’m sure she’ll try to catch me on the way out. I did have a quick conversation with Grant, though.
Quick
being the operative word. He says he can’t talk to me—as a person—until this whole mess is sorted out. I’m supposed to go to the station to make a report sometime this afternoon.”