Murder on the Half Shelf (8 page)

By the time Tricia returned to the kitchen, Angelica was
busy stirring something in a pot on the stove. She dipped the spoon out and held it out to Tricia. “Here, taste this.”

“I really have to get back to my store. Mr. Everett is waiting,” Tricia said, and quickly let Sarge off his leash, which she hung on a chair. “Gotta go!” she said, then hightailed it out of the kitchen, down the hall, and to the stairs that led back to the Cookery. She hoped she could escape without having to talk to Frannie again, but as there were no customers in the store, Frannie had lain in wait for her to exit the stairway and practically jumped out at her.

“Don’t do that!” Tricia chided. “You could give someone a heart attack.”

“Oh, sorry,” Frannie apologized, but her eyes were alight with mischief. She was ready to dish some kind of gossip.

“I hear tell things aren’t as they seem over at the Sheer Comfort Inn.”

Tricia’s eyes narrowed. “And who told you that? Angelica?”

Frannie shook her head. “She’s too busy working on her new cookbook to stand around with the help these days. No, I got a call from a friend of a friend who said that Mr. Comfort isn’t Mr. Comfort at all. And that you might have known him in the past.”

Since Frannie considered Mary to be a friend, could the friend of a friend be Chauncey Porter? He’d been the only other person at the B-and-B the night before that Frannie might have known.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tricia said, and headed for the exit.

“World-famous mystery author Harrison Tyler,” Frannie said with a lilt in her voice.

That stopped Tricia dead. She turned back to face Frannie.

“Word is that you and he were as thick as thieves just before he disappeared and was presumed dead.” Frannie shook her head. “You poor little thing. Tricia, next to me, you have got to be the world’s unluckiest woman when it comes to love.”

Tricia blinked, startled by that pronouncement. “Well, I—”

“Of course, Angelica has had her share of heartache, too,” Frannie went on. “But no more than me. And I’m sure Chief Baker had to have had something to say about all this. Did you two have words? Are you a suspect? Did you know Mr. Tyler was here in Stoneham all along?”

“No, I didn’t, and I—”

But before she could finish her sentence, Frannie continued. “I’ve gone and entered the twenty-first century. I’ve signed up for computer dating.”

Tricia couldn’t seem to stop blinking. Where was this conversation going, anyway? “You did?”

Frannie nodded. “Why not? I’m not meeting any men here in Stoneham. I don’t mind driving to Portsmouth or Manchester—if the right fella comes along, that is.”

“I—I never gave that a consideration.”

“You should,” Frannie said with authority. She leaned in and lowered her voice. “In case things don’t work out for you with Mr. Tyler or the chief. I’ve already had three dates with three different guys.”

“And none of them worked out,” Tricia guessed.

“Hell no! I’m going to a Celtics game in Boston next week with one of them. And my second fella, Barney, is taking me out to dinner on Friday night. And then the third one wants me to go to a show with him.” Frannie’s grin widened. “I don’t know when I’ve had so much fun.”

For a moment, Tricia thought she might cry. But then she did a quick reassessment of her life and decided,
The hell with romance!
She had a career she loved, Angelica, and many friends. She’d had the princess wedding and things hadn’t worked out. Her two rebound relationships had gone nowhere. But romantic interludes weren’t all there was to life.

“I’m very happy for you, Frannie,” she managed with a smile that she hoped looked genuine. She glanced at her watch. “I’ve
really got to be going. It’s time for Mr. Everett’s lunch break.” She started for the door.

“Just remember what I said about online dating. And don’t you worry one bit. I won’t tell Angelica how you kissed her dog, either.”

Tricia didn’t bother to wave good-bye. And she had no doubt that the next time Angelica came down the steps into her shop, Frannie would go and tell all, and in excruciating detail. Frannie was often a great resource for gossip—except when you were on the receiving end of it.

Mr. Everett’s
lunchtime came and went. He came down from the second-floor break room looking sad and keeping himself to himself, as her grandmother used to say. Since he wasn’t feeling talkative—except when it came to recommending books to customers, of course—Tricia turned on some cheerful Celtic music and tried to concentrate on the paperwork before her. Unfortunately, her conversation with Frannie kept replaying on her mind. How long would it be before Angelica called and taunted her?

Okay, Sarge was very cute. Tricia had entertained the idea of adopting him herself before Angelica practically stole him from the Milford Animal Hospital some eight months before.

But that wasn’t really what was on her mind: Harrison Tyler, aka Jon Comfort. She’d been so shocked—and more angry—to see him that it hadn’t really penetrated that his disappearance just before his wife’s death made him the prime suspect in her murder.

Well, duh! As she’d told Angelica, the spouse is always the first to become a person of interest in a murder investigation.

Part of her wanted to talk to him, commiserate with him. The other part just flat-out wanted to kill him.

She looked around, wondering if any of the customers in the store could read her mind.

The shop door opened, accompanied by the little bell that rang out cheerfully, and Harry Tyler himself walked in.

The part of Tricia that felt sorry for the rat quickly fizzled. “May I help you?” she asked tartly.

For a moment, Harry just stood there, taking in the bookshelves, the beverage station, and the photos of long-dead mystery authors framed on the hunter green walls. His gaze settled on one of them: his own. Tricia had almost forgotten she’d included his face among the no-longer-living legends.

While he was taking in the scenery, Tricia allowed herself to study Harry. He hadn’t changed much. Just a few more lines around the eyes, and streaks of gray in his hair, which was longer, shaggier, too, although it seemed to fit him. His leather jacket was unzipped, and Tricia could see the contour of his muscles beneath a sky blue—and rather tight—sweater. Had he dressed to impress her?

Harry seemed to shake himself and shuffled over to the cash desk. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she said, and actually sounded civil. “What are you doing here? Did you come to see if I stock
Death Beckons
?”

He shook his head. “I was over at the Baker Funeral Home, making…arrangements.”

“Surely the ME hasn’t already released Pippa’s—” She halted, unable to finish the sentence when she saw the stark look of anguish in his eyes. At one time she’d loved those eyes. Or at least she thought she had. It was so long ago…and yet, when she looked at him now, it might as well have been weeks—not years—since they were together. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

He shrugged, as though he’d expected such a comment.

“When will you hold a service?” Tricia asked.

“I won’t. At least not here. Pippa didn’t know anyone here in Stoneham. I’m going to have her cremated and spread her ashes up north. That’s where we lived for the past fifteen years.”

Tricia nodded.

He ducked his head and looked sheepish. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot last night.”

“Have you admitted to Chief Baker who you really are?”

He sighed. “We haven’t spoken today, but there’s no hiding it now,” he said, with a look toward the wall where his portrait hung. He turned back to face Tricia and offered a wan smile. “You’re still a looker,” he said.

Tricia stifled a laugh. “You used to be a lot more loquacious.”

Harry nodded. “That I was.”

“They declared you dead, you know.”

He nodded and shoved his hands into his worn jeans pockets. “I don’t have a problem with that.”

“Well, I’m sure some branch of law enforcement will, if not the IRS, then social security.”

Harry frowned, as though he hadn’t given it that much—any?—thought until she’d brought it up. Was he suddenly a flight risk?

“So, the big question remains. Why did you fake your own death?” She’d been aching to ask that question since the previous evening.

Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders. “You make it sound so…tawdry. I’d just had enough, okay?”

“Enough of what? The money? The adoration?”

“It was all too much. The press. The pressure to come up with another winner. My editor rejected the follow-up to
Death Beckons
. She hated it and told me to start over. Nearly two years’ work down the drain. I couldn’t write. Everything was falling apart. It just seemed easier to…walk away.”

“So, your ego was bruised,” Tricia said, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“I told you about that book. You knew it meant everything to me.”

“More than your family? More than me?”

“Now whose ego is bruised?” Harry asked, sounding not the least contrite.

Tricia said nothing. She wasn’t sure she could trust her voice not to give away how hurt she still was after all these years.

“So what did you do? Get lost in New York or L.A.?”

“I went to Idaho.”

“Idaho? What for?”

“To think. To figure out what I wanted to do next. I found a guy who sold fake IDs. I became Jonathan Comfort. I worked on a farm for a while.”

“Somehow I can’t picture you hoeing potatoes,” Tricia said.

He ignored her sarcastic remark and continued. “Eventually I made my way back east and got lost in Maine for a couple of years.”

“You wanted to stay close to the sea?”

“Yeah, I worked a lobster boat for a couple of seasons and then ended up in Bretton Woods where I met Pippa. She worked in the bar at the big hotel there. I got a job as a groundskeeper. We got married a couple of years later.” He looked up at her. “I take it you never married.”

“Why, because my name is still Miles?” He nodded. “I was married for ten wonderful years, and then he dumped me.”

“Why would anyone want to do that to you?”

“You could ask yourself that same question.”

He shook his head. “I guess in my roundabout way I’m trying to say I’m sorry.”

“You’re about twenty years too late for that,” Tricia said. And then, just as suddenly, she didn’t care about the past. It was over. They’d both gone on with their lives, and, despite a few lows here and there, she wasn’t too dissatisfied.

Most days.

“What will you do now—run away again?” she asked.

“I’ve thought about it. But…I’ve also thought about publishing more of my work.”

“You mean online?”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I’ve still got what it takes to get published by a big New York house?”

“I was just asking. Because…I know a literary agent. He might be persuaded to take a look at your work.”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “You’d do that for me…after what I did all those years ago?”

“I would hope you’re a different person now. And you’re going to need income when the law catches up with you.”

He looked downcast. “There is that, too. But I’m not totally without income. I’ve been teaching a writing course evenings at the Milford high school. I took the job so we’d have some money coming in while we got ready to open the inn.”

“Are you published under the name Jon Comfort?”

“A few short stories,” he admitted. “I’ve got a couple of novels in a trunk that are in pretty good shape, too. I just wasn’t sure I could hack writing on a deadline ever again.”

“The bane of the published author, at least those who want to stay that way,” Tricia said offhandedly.

Harry scowled.

“The agent I’m thinking of doesn’t normally handle mysteries—just the estate of Zoë Carter. But he’s good. He’s my sister’s agent.”

“Angelica is an author?”

She gave him points for remembering Angelica’s name, not that he’d ever met her before. They’d been close but hadn’t gotten to the point of meeting each other’s families. “She writes cookbooks.”

His smile was forced. “Pippa was the one who cooked in our house. I can only handle the barbecue.”

“And I can barely boil water,” Tricia admitted, and they both laughed. “I’ll talk to Angelica about it and get back to you.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” Harry looked at the clock. “I’d better get going. Chief Baker awaits.”

Tricia didn’t envy him the upcoming conversation.

“Could you do me a favor, though?” He nodded over his shoulder. “Take down that picture. I don’t deserve to be up there with all those real authors.”

“You
are
a real author. You just lost sight of it.”

He shrugged. “I guess I’ll see you around, Tricia.”

“I guess,” she agreed.

He kind of hovered in front of her for a moment, and she thought he might lean forward and kiss her. But then he turned, headed for the door, and shut it behind him without looking back.

Tricia just stood there, staring at the empty doorway for a long moment before she heard a stifled, “Ahem.”

She looked to her right to see Mr. Everett with a customer and wondered how long they’d been standing there. “Would you like to ring this up, Ms. Miles?”

Tricia smiled. “I’d be delighted.”

The customer moved to stand before the cash desk, setting her books on the glass, and Mr. Everett turned away. “Could you bring out the stepladder, Mr. E? We’re going to do a little switcheroo with the author photos.”

He nodded. “As you wish, Ms. Miles.”

Tricia rang up the sale, adding a couple of author bookmarks and the store’s newsletter to the shopping bag. She’d take down Harry’s portrait and shuffle the others forward, leaving a gap at the far end of the wall. She’d have to hit the stock photography websites to see if she could find something to fill in the empty space.

She’d miss seeing Harry’s face looking down at her.

EIGHT

Although it
was almost April, Haven’t Got a Clue’s winter hours were still in effect and Mr. Everett was just zipping his jacket to leave for the day when the shop door opened. Thankfully, it wasn’t a customer—Tricia hated to turn anyone away at the end of the day—it was only Angelica, dressed to the nines.