Untitled (19 page)

   As though on cue, Kimberly dabbed a tissue at her dry eyes.

   "Is there anyone here who'd like to offer a fond memory or words of praise for Zoë?" Bob cleared his throat, looking hopefully at the assembled audience, but no one stepped forward. "Mr. Hamilton?" Bob implored.

   All eyes turned toward the literary agent, who blushed.

   "Go on," Kimberly mouthed, and gave him a nudge.

   A reluctant Hamilton stepped up to the microphone. "Uh . . ." He cleared his throat. "Uh, Zoë Carter was my very first client." His gaze wandered the crowd, lighting on Tricia. He frowned, no doubt remembering their conversation the night before. He looked away. "Zoë, uh, never missed a deadline. The world is a . . . a different place without her."

   Different? That's all he could come up with? Perhaps he was afraid to gush, leery of what the press might say about him when the truth about Zoë came to light.

   He nodded at those assembled and stepped away from the microphone.

   "Thank you," Bob said to the sound of weak applause. "Anyone else?"

   Not a soul stepped forward.

   "Anyone?" he begged.

   As if on queue, the air was broken by the sound of flapping wings and the fierce honking of Canada geese as a portion of the flock took flight from the pond, making a low pass over the crowd, who seemed to duck as one.

   When the cacophony receded, Bob cleared his throat, stepped away from the microphone, and moved over to the monument. He grasped the tarp with both hands and yanked dramatically. The wind caught the canvas, whipping it into the air like a sail. The crowd backed off as it came straight at them. Nikki gasped, and for a moment Tricia thought she might have been injured, but she stared straight ahead, her mouth open in astonishment. Tricia turned, and immediately her expression mirrored Nikki's.

   The carving of the opened book had been shattered into several large chunks. Below, scarlet spray paint marred the brilliant white marble base, spelling out the word thief!

"What does
it mean?" Nikki gasped. "This is an outrage!" someone called out. "What kind of security measures were taken to protect the statue?" said someone else.

   Bob Kelly stood transfixed, his gaze focused on his brainchild, utterly flabbergasted at the devastation, while Wendy Adams and her deputy tried to keep the crowd away from the ruined marble.

   The TV cameras continued to roll while photographers' flashes strobed. Russ scribbled madly on his steno pad.

   Among those not speculating on the vandalism: Kimberly Peters and Artemus Hamilton, who stood staring mutely at the desecrated monument. Was it because they understood what the graffiti meant?

   "Wendy," Bob bellowed, "how could you have let this happen?"

   "You can't blame the Sheriff's Department—we never got a request to protect the statue."

   "Maybe not, but it's your responsibility to keep the village safe."

   The sheriff's brows inched menacingly closer. "My deputies and I have eight hundred and seventy-six square miles to protect. We can't be everywhere at once, Bob."

   Bob turned to face Kimberly Peters. "I—I don't know what to say, how to apologize—" he stammered.

   Tight-lipped, Kimberly replied, "Try, Mr. Kelly."

   Bob stood there, mouth agape, his gaze returning to the defaced monument.

   Tricia backed away. "I think it's time to go," she told Nikki.

   "Yeah. To think I left Steve alone in the shop for an hour for this. Then again . . ." She let the sentence trail, looking thoughtful.

   "You don't trust Steve?"

   "Of course I trust him. He's got a lot of talent, and he works harder than anyone I've ever hired. But sometimes I just need a break from him. He doesn't have a lot of friends, so I'm afraid he sees me as a confidante, and I'd really rather not play that role."

   "Have you let him know this?"

   She sighed. "He doesn't always listen to me."

   "Yet he wants to bend your ear?" Tricia nodded, knowingly. "I've met a few men like that myself."

   Nikki looked to the south, toward the patisserie. "Well, I hope they find the creep who wrecked the statue and nail him. Then again, Wendy Adams couldn't find herself in a fun house mirror, let alone locate a vandal." She shook her head. "See you on Tuesday at the book club, if not before," she said, and gave Tricia's shoulder a quick pat before heading for Main Street.

   Tricia headed in the opposite direction. At least she wasn't the only one in the village who questioned Sheriff Adams's qualifications.

   Most of the crowd had already dispersed, deserting the square and definitely not visiting any of the vendor tents or food kiosks. Talk about a disaster. Her bottom line for the week was already red, and this event had plunged it into an even deeper scarlet.

   Ginny stood at the tent's opening, arms wrapped around her, stamping her feet to keep warm. "I saw everyone leaving. What happened?"

   Tricia explained while Ginny craned her neck and stood on tiptoes, looking across the square in a vain effort to see the ruined statue. "I miss out on all the fun," she groused.

   "We may as well pack up. I don't think we'll sell another book here today."

   "Tricia, we didn't sell
any
books today."

   Tricia grimaced at the thought, bending to grab one of the empty boxes from under the table.

   "What will you do with Nikki's cake?"

   "I can't take it to the Cookery. Ange doesn't want to serve anything she didn't make herself."

   "Can I take a slice home to Brian? He could use a treat. With the stove on the fritz, he's pretty sick of sandwiches and microwaved soup."

   "Take the whole thing. I'm not going to eat it. It's very sweet of Nikki to keep giving me sweet treats, but I'm just not into them."

   "And that's how you stay so thin," Ginny said, and poked at the padding on her own hip.

   Tricia grabbed another couple of books. "It would also aggravate Angelica if I brought it home."

   Ginny laughed. "Well, that alone might be worth it. Are you sure you can't take even half of it?"

   Tricia pushed the cake box toward her assistant. "No. Until the sheriff lets me back into my store, I have to live with Angie."

   "It'll be a hardship, but I think between the two of us, we can eat the whole cake." Ginny set the cake aside and started packing books.

   Fifteen minutes later, Tricia pulled her car in front of the tent, and they loaded it. She waved at her nearest neighbor, who was packing up her fried dough stand. "What a bust today turned out to be," she said to Tricia, who nodded and offered a wan smile.

   Ginny decided to walk back to the Cookery so that she could put Nikki's cake in her car trunk. Mr. Everett met Tricia on the sidewalk with a dolly and helped her take a case of books from her car's trunk.

   "Did you notice the crime scene tape is gone?" He nodded toward the door of Haven't Got a Clue.

   "When did that happen?"

   "Just after you left. I tried to call, but your cell phone must be turned off."

   Roger Livingston's call to the Medical Examiner's Office must have done some good. "Are we allowed inside?" she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

   "Yes," he said eagerly, and shot a glance at the Cookery, where Angelica stood behind the closed door, disapproval etched across her face.

   Tricia flashed her a smile. "Mr. Everett, I know it's a terrible imposition, but would you be willing to stay at the Cookery, at least for the rest of the day, while Ginny and I get things going again next door?"

   He sighed, as though he'd known she'd ask this question. "Yes. But, tomorrow is Ginny's day off, and you'll need me at Haven't Got a Clue." It wasn't a question; it was a statement.

   "Yes, of course."

   That was sure to start a fight with Angelica. But really, shouldn't she have been looking for a new employee during the past week anyway?

   Tricia plucked the store key from among the others on her ring and placed it in the lock, savoring this moment. She opened the door and breathed in the scent of her store, a mix of old paper, furniture polish, and . . . fre
edom
. How she'd missed days spent in the long, narrow shop with its richly paneled walls decorated with prints and photos of long-dead mystery authors, the comfy tapestry-upholstered chairs in the readers' nook, and the restored tin ceiling— the only original feature she'd been able to keep during renovation. She took in all her favorite features and sighed. She was home.

   Mr. Everett cleared his throat, reminding her that he stood, coatless, directly behind her. "Where do you want me to put these?"

   "Oh, anywhere. I don't think we'll be able to reopen today."

   "Why not?" said Ginny, coming up from behind. "We've still got five hours. It won't take us that long to get the coffee on and the register open."

   "Yes, but I need to give that washroom a thorough cleaning and I need to rescue Miss Marple," Tricia said, hearing the joy in her voice and realizing, for the first time in days, that she actually felt something other than angst.

   "Come on, Mr. Everett, help me get these books inside while Tricia gets her cat," Ginny said. "It's time for us all to go back home."

   Not exactly.

   Angelica pounced on Tricia as she reentered the Cookery. "What are you doing with my employees?"

   "
Your
employees?" Tricia said, taken aback.

   "Yes. I'm paying them. At least, I'm paying Mr. Everett for today."

   "And he will be right back, as soon as he helps Ginny unload my car."

   "You can't have him tomorrow."

   "Yes, I can. I'm going to reopen, and it's his regular day to work. It's Ginny's day off. Maybe you can talk her into working for you."

   Angelica exhaled loudly through her nose, her mouth immediately settling into a pout.

   "Ange, the minute Stephanie quit, you should've called the temp agency."

   "I did. They . . . they've—" Her cheeks colored and she lowered her voice to a whisper. "They've blackballed me."

   "What?"

   "They said I have a bad reputation, and they will no longer supply me with candidates."

   "What are you going to do?"

   "Tricia, you've got to let me have Ginny or Mr. Everett. Just for a couple of weeks. Please.
Please!
"

   "It's not up to me, it's up to them. And let's face it, you haven't exactly endeared yourself to them in the past couple of days."

   "I've been a lot nicer to them than I was to my own employees."

   "That's only because you were desperate."

   Angelica opened her mouth to protest, apparently thought better of it, and closed her mouth once more.

   "Mr. Everett has already told me he's coming back to Haven't Got a Clue tomorrow. You can try and sweet-talk Ginny, but I don't know if you'll have any luck."

   "I could offer her a bonus."

   "That might work." Tricia turned and headed for the back of the store.

   "Where are you going?"

   "Upstairs to get my cat and the rest of my things. It's time for me to go home."

The circa-1935
black telephone by the register rang. From her perch on the sales counter, Miss Marple batted her little white paw at the offending jingle.

"Not again," Ginny wailed.

   "You don't know it's Angelica," Tricia said, reaching for the receiver. The ringing stopped and she said, "Haven't Got a Clue, Tricia speak—"

   "It's me," Angelica interrupted.

   "Stop calling. Ginny told you she'd let you know in the morning. I'm hanging up now. Good-bye." She replaced the receiver and looked at her watch. "Whoa! Look at the time." It was nearly seven. "I've got a date tonight with Russ."

   "And I've got a date tonight with a paintbrush," Ginny said. "We're working on the laundry room. Hopefully Brian got the right color this time. Men!" She reached for the duster.

   "Leave that. You know it's Mr. Everett's favorite job.

It'll give him something to do
and
make him happy tomorrow. Now, are you going to make Angelica happy and work for her tomorrow?"

   Ginny sighed. "Yes. But she's going to have to sweat for it. I don't intend to call her until at least eleven tomorrow morning. Then Monday morning, I'm back here. That is, if it's okay with you."

   "More than okay." Tricia smiled. "And thank you for helping Ange. She doesn't mean to be . . . mean—"

   "She just is," Ginny finished.

   Tricia shrugged. "Yeah." She reached for her coat, which still lay across the counter where she'd left it when she came in, and now sported a circle of cat hair where Miss Marple had made herself comfortable for most of the afternoon. Ordinarily Tricia wouldn't have allowed it, but the cat had been cooped up for days and Tricia felt she deserved a treat. And, besides, that's why she kept a sticky lint roller under the counter at all times, although she'd left it too late to use tonight. "Grab your coat, Ginny, we're out of here."

   Tricia turned off all but the security lights. "You're in charge, Miss Marple," she said, and closed and locked the door.

   Tricia and Ginny headed for the municipal parking lot. "They say it might snow tonight," Ginny said.

   The streetlamps made it impossible to see much of the sky overhead. "Spring snow doesn't last long."

   "We hope. See you tomorrow," Ginny said.

   "You're going to the Cookery," Tricia reminded her.

   "Shoot, I forgot already. It's just five hours. Every time Angelica makes me mad, I'm just going to tell myself it's only for five hours."