Not the Killing Type Page 10

  A much younger, handsome man. A man who couldn’t possibly be interested in her in the long haul.

  Like Christopher. Like Grant Baker.

  Tricia crossed the street for home. As she opened the door to Haven’t Got a Clue, she thought about the nearly full garbage can she’d seen inside Stan Berry’s shop. There was something odd about the magazine covers that had been piled in it. She wasn’t sure what the subject matter was, only that it seemed to be … weird. And she wished she could’ve examined them in more detail.

  A sleepy Miss Marple got up from her nest in a chair in the readers’ nook, stretching her long back legs.

  “Ready for dinner?” Tricia asked.

  Miss Marple said, “Yow,” rather enthusiastically, and trotted after her.

  As Tricia started up the stairs for her loft apartment, she wondered what day the garbage was collected on Oak Street.

  TEN

  Tricia had read until the wee hours, occasionally looking up and daring the phone to ring, but it had steadfastly remained silent. She wasn’t surprised. She really hadn’t thought Baker would call.

  She slept fitfully and awakened far too early the next morning, but since it didn’t seem likely she’d fall back to sleep, she got up and started her day. It was only after nine, and she had already finished her exercise routine, showered and dressed, and breakfasted, when she and Miss Marple headed for Haven’t Got a Clue to start their workday.

  Tricia had left most of her end-of-day tasks undone the night before, and Sunday was her day to give the shop’s washroom a thorough cleaning … not her favorite chore. Since the store didn’t open for another three hours, she had plenty of time to do it, too.

  She’d just donned a pair of yellow rubber gloves when she heard someone banging on the shop’s door. The sign still said CLOSED, but she decided to put off the unpleasant job to see if it was a customer. Instead, Grant Baker stood outside her door.

  Tricia peeled off her gloves, then unlocked and opened the door.

  “Can I come in?” Baker asked.

  Without a word, Tricia stood back, ushering him in. He hadn’t arrived bearing gifts, flowers, or even a cup of coffee. Not a good sign.

  “I thought we should talk,” Baker began.

  Tricia sighed and moved to the readers’ nook. She didn’t feel like standing through whatever it was he wanted to tell her. She took a seat and tossed the rubber gloves onto the big square coffee table.

  “I presume I haven’t heard from you because you’re working on Stan Berry’s murder,” Tricia said, keeping her tone even.

  Baker nodded, taking the seat opposite her. Miss Marple trotted up and jumped onto the table, situating herself between the two human beings. Tricia idly wondered if the cat had gone into protective mode, acting as a feline shield should sparks begin to fly.

  “You know the drill. When these things happen—”

  “You mean me finding a body?”

  He nodded and continued. “I have to be very careful about the way I conduct my investigation. I can’t be seen to be playing favorites.”

  “You’ve made that abundantly clear on more than one occasion,” she said. “How’s the case going?”

  “We’re investigating every lead,” he answered evasively.

  “And?”

  He shrugged. “You know I can’t go into details.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Baker eyed her gravely. “And?”

  “We’ve visited this territory before.”

  “You know our relationship puts me in an awkward position.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be a factor in this case, or in any future cases—should my bad luck hold out and I encounter another crime scene.”

  “It sounds like you’ve given the matter some thought,” Baker said.

  “And not for the first time, either,” Tricia admitted. For all the emotion she’d spilled two nights before, she couldn’t seem to muster any right then. Not anger, not sorrow, and especially not love or regret.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Baker said, but he shifted his gaze to take in the floor, not her face. He’d been expecting this, too. Maybe he was even relieved. “I guess there’s a reason why they say that rebound relationships don’t work out.”

  “It’s certainly been my experience,” Tricia agreed sadly.

  “I guess we both know where we stand.”

  “I think I’ve known all along. I just didn’t want to admit it,” Tricia said with regret.

  Baker stood. “I’ll … I’ll give you a call if I need any more information on the case.”

  “I’ll be glad to give you any help I can,” Tricia promised.

  “Thank you.” My but they were being polite, so adult about severing what had been a yearlong relationship. Well, not exactly a year. There’d been plenty of long periods of time when they’d been apart—for various reasons.

  “I’ll let myself out,” Baker said but hesitated. Was he expecting a good-bye kiss?

  Finally he turned and slowly walked toward the door. Again he hesitated, but eventually he had to leave. He opened the door and carefully closed it behind him.

  “Good-bye, Grant,” Tricia said and reached across the table to pet Miss Marple.

  “Yow,” the cat said in what sounded like resignation.

  “I feel the same way,” Tricia admitted. She stroked Miss Marple’s sleek gray fur and noticed she’d been sitting next to a small, bristled Christmas tree, no more than seven inches high, which looked as though it might have ducked behind the cat to try to hide itself from her—and with good reason, too. It looked like it had been sat on more than once. The ribbons that decorated it had once been red, as evidenced by the dark color in the creases, but had faded to a sad faded pink. The gold star that topped the tree had started to peel, revealing a white plastic core.

  Tricia picked up the pathetic little tree. She’d have to speak to Pixie about trying to sneak in sad, worn-out ornaments and scattering them around the shop. The figurines and the little cardboard houses were adorable. This tree was just pitiful. In the event that Pixie might love the thing, she decided to put it behind the cash desk and return it to Pixie when she came into work that afternoon. Sundays were usually Pixie’s day off, but Tricia had too much to do that day, what with her lunch appointment with Christopher and the wedding rehearsal later that afternoon. Pixie and Mr. Everett could handle the store and she wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.

  Worry? At that moment she still couldn’t seem to muster any emotion except perhaps revulsion. After all, she still needed to clean the washroom.

  *

  Tricia had completed her chores and had settled down in the readers’ nook to enjoy a quiet cup of coffee and to start to reread John Dickson Carr’s The Plague Court Murders, when the shop door opened and a pink-cheeked Pixie arrived, all bundled up, holding a thin brown paper bag and humming a Christmas tune.

  “Good morning, Tricia,” she called as she closed the door behind her. She aimed straight for the readers’ nook and set down the bag, before whipping off the red beret from her head and unbuttoning her big furry coat. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” she said brightly.

  Tricia looked over toward the shop’s big display window. She hadn’t even noticed that the sun was shining brightly. “You seem pretty chipper. What’s the occasion?”

  “Just glad to be alive. You know, back in my old life, there were a few times when I wondered if I’d ever make it to this age. And while my mirror isn’t thrilled with what it reflects, I’m not gonna complain. At least, not today. Is that coffee hot?”

  “I just made it.”

  “I’ll hang up my coat and join you for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  By the time Pixie had hung up her coat and poured herself a cup, Mr. Everett had arrived. “Good morning, ladies,” he said in greeting and unzipped his jacket. “It looks like it’ll be a fine day for bookselling.”

  “Han
g up your coat and I’ll fix your coffee,” Pixie called happily. “I’ve got a surprise for the two of you.”

  No doubt it was in the bag she’d put on the coffee table.

  Tricia smiled. She’d had her doubts when she’d first hired Pixie, but the three of them made a great mystery-selling team.

  Once Mr. Everett had settled in one of the nook’s chairs, with his coffee cup in hand, Pixie picked up the bag and withdrew what looked like a thin, but rather large rectangular box wrapped in cellophane. “Look what I got for us.”

  “What is it?” Mr. Everett asked, craning his neck.

  “Is that an Advent calendar?” Tricia asked. The illustration depicted a stately Victorian mansion. Each window in the charming home was shuttered.

  Pixie nodded. “Behind every one of these windows is a little piece of chocolate in the shape of a toy. See”—she pointed to one of the perforated cutouts—“behind this one could be a miniature train. Maybe there’s a tin soldier here. This one might be a little bell… .”

  “Yes, I see,” Tricia said, before Pixie pointed out each and every one of them, speculating on its contents.

  “I figured the three of us could take turns opening one a day right until Christmas. I got it all figured out who should start, too.” She looked directly at Tricia. “Since the shop isn’t open on Christmas day, you can open that door. But that means you also get to be first, too.”

  “Oh, Pixie, it’s okay if either one of you wants to—”

  “No, no—it’s gotta be you. Thanks to you, Mr. E and I have great jobs, with benefits. We have fun working every day. You deserve the extra piece of candy.” She eyed Tricia from her toes to the tip of her nose. “Besides, you could stand to wear a few more pounds. You make the rest of us feel like lardos.”

  “Ms. Poe!” Mr. Everett protested.

  “Okay, compared to you”—she looked at Tricia—“I look like a lardo.”

  Tricia’s mouth dropped, and she wasn’t sure what to say in her own defense. She didn’t mean to be so much thinner than Pixie. Then again, she did work at it.

  “It’s still more than a week until the first day of Advent; perhaps we should put the calendar away until then,” Tricia suggested.

  “But we have to figure out where we’re going to hang it so everyone who comes in can enjoy it, too. Not near the radiator or where the sun can melt the chocolate. That would take away all the fun.”

  Tricia forced a smile for Pixie’s sake. After her conversation with Baker, she simply was not in the mood to have fun. She looked at the clock. “I’d better put some money in the till. We’re due to open in a few minutes.”

  She left Pixie and Mr. Everett and walked purposefully toward the cash desk. Miss Marple was already stationed on her perch behind the register, ready to start her usual day of rest.

  As Tricia counted out the cash, she heard laughter coming from the readers’ nook. Pixie had taken the seat Tricia had vacated and she and Mr. Everett were sharing a story and a laugh. Tricia almost wished she hadn’t left them. She could use a good laugh about now.

  She raised the blinds, turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN, and Haven’t Got a Clue was officially open for business.

  Tricia glanced at the clock. She still had almost an hour before she was to meet Christopher. Unless they had an influx of customers, she could probably get in three or four more chapters of The Plague Court Murders before she had to leave for the Brookview Inn.

  Pixie and Mr. Everett finished their coffee, rinsed their cups, and donned their Haven’t Got a Clue aprons, ready to begin their workday. Mr. Everett had commandeered the lamb’s-wool duster and started on the back bookshelves. Pixie wandered up to the cash desk.

  “I don’t mean to be nosy,” she said, her voice sounding deadly serious, “but …”

  Tricia had known that a but was coming.

  “Why don’t you like Christmas, Tricia?”

  The question caught Tricia off guard. “I do like Christmas. Everybody does.”

  “You coulda fooled me. You don’t like to decorate. You don’t want to eat the great food. Your sister said you don’t even put up a tree or anything.”

  Angelica had told Pixie about Tricia’s lack of a Christmas tree?

  “I figure your heart had to be broken at Christmastime. Why else would you be such a Scrooge?”

  “I’m hardly a Scrooge,” Tricia cried, taken aback.

  “Well, maybe not, but you have had your heart broken—haven’t you?” Pixie asked, her voice filled with sympathy.

  Tricia averted her gaze. Yes, but it wasn’t what Pixie thought. Her heart had been broken on more than one unhappy Christmas. And the fact that she hadn’t spent Christmas with her parents in a very long time weighed heavy on her mind … not that it seemed to bother them. And now that Grant Baker was going to be out of the picture, too …

  “You’re right, Pixie. Not all my holidays have been happy ones.”

  “You should talk about it. If you don’t want to tell me, you could tell a shrink. They’re good at unraveling all that kind of crap.”

  “I don’t think I need … unraveling. I just like to spend the holidays in quiet contemplation. And have dinner with my sister and some friends,” she amended. “That’s what we’ve done for the past two years, and it was very nice.”

  “Well, if you want to talk, I’m sure I can get my shrink to squeeze you in. She mostly works with ex-cons, but I’m sure she’d make an exception for anyone I recommend.”

  So not happening, Tricia thought but said, “That’s very thoughtful of you, Pixie. Thank you.”

  Pixie nodded, smiling … like she’d just done a good deed and expected a reward.

  Tricia changed the subject. “Let me also thank you again for agreeing to work on your day off. Mr. Everett and I—”

  “I know, I know—got that wedding rehearsal thing to go to in the afternoon where that guy died. Creepy, huh? Just think, Ginny and her hunk tying the knot—starting their new lives where a guy ended his.” She shook her head at the irony.

  “Yes, well, I hope you won’t be too bored if it gets slow.”

  “Wouldn’t bother me a bit,” she said cheerfully. “If it’s slow, I’ll just read. If it’s busy, I’ll have fun talking to people about the books. Win-win situation, as far as I can see.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yeah, this has gotta be the best job in the world.”

  Tricia smiled. “I’m glad you think so.” She looked up at the clock. She wasn’t due to meet Christopher for almost fifty minutes, but Antonio had invited her to look at the inn’s holiday decorations, and she wondered if Eleanor had calmed down since the murder two days before. Tricia was sure she could find enough of interest to kill time until her luncheon … date.

  No, she and Christopher were not going on a date. They were meeting for lunch. The man had broken her heart before—she wasn’t about to let him do it again.

  “Did I mention an old friend of mine is in town for the day and wants to have lunch with me?”

  Pixie shook her head.

  “I’d best be on my way.”

  “So soon?” Pixie asked.

  “I’m afraid so.” Tricia headed for the back of the store, grabbed her jacket, collected her purse and keys, and made a dash for the exit. She wanted to get out of there before Pixie pried any more of her secrets from her.

  ELEVEN

  Tricia trotted down the sidewalk, heading for the municipal parking lot. Despite the cold, if she’d been in a better state of mind she might have walked the mile or so to the Brookview Inn, but she felt depressed and decidedly lazy after what she’d already endured that morning. She knew there were others who had real problems—life-threatening ailments, job losses, bankruptcies—to contend with, and in comparison her mild depression was a selfish indulgence. But she could only wear the skin she’d been given, and knew (hoped?) that her feelings of malaise would be short-lived.

  Minutes later, she pulled into the Brookview Inn’
s parking lot, got out of her car, and walked around to the front of the building, and her spirits immediately rose. As Antonio had promised, the inn looked absolutely lovely. Outside, all the windows were bedecked with fresh pine wreathes, and each wreath sported a perky red velveteen ribbon. The front porch rail and banisters had pine boughs twined around them, with twinkling white lights and sparkle-flocked pinecones interspersed here and there.

  The inn’s interior had also been transformed. A ten-foot artificial tree stood in the middle of the lobby. It must have been decorated with close to a thousand tiny white lights that made it glow, while gold ornaments and a gold ribbon garland adorned its branches. Tricia stood there for a long moment, admiring the tree. Was this what Pixie wanted for Haven’t Got a Clue? No, this tree was elegant. Pixie was willing to settle for bright and gaudy.

  Then it occurred to Tricia why the inn’s tree appealed to her. It was reminiscent of the trees her mother had decorated when she was a child. Or rather, that the decorator her mother had hired had put up in their library—where she and Angelica were forbidden to enter without being accompanied by a parent far into their teens.

  Tricia made a slow circuit around the tree. It reminded her of the last time she’d had a Christmas tree in her own home. She’d finished decorating it hours before that last annual Christmas party she and Christopher had thrown for his colleagues and important clients—except Christopher hadn’t been there. An hour before it was to start he’d told her he wanted a divorce, and then abandoned her to “think things over,” leaving her confused and distraught while having to deal with his guests.

  She sighed. Suddenly Pixie’s bright and gaudy version of celebrating the holidays seemed a lot more honest and appealing.

  A familiar voice broke her revelry. “Pretty, isn’t it?” Eleanor called.

  Tricia shook herself out of the dazed moment and quickly moved to join the inn’s receptionist. “The entire inn looks lovely.”