A Just Clause Read online

  “Er, yes. A man can always depend on his loving children in a time of crisis.”

  “What’s the crisis?” Angelica asked, none too kindly. “You said you came back to make full restitution to the area merchants.”

  “Well, yes—”

  “It’s not a health scare, is it?” Tricia asked, and this time she was concerned.

  “Oh, nothing of the sort.”

  “That’s good,” Angelica said, but her gaze was still sharp.

  “Why don’t we go over to the Dog-Eared Page and get a drink and talk things over,” John suggested.

  Tricia nodded toward the front of her store, where the author talk was still in full swing. “I’ve got a business to run.”

  “And I’m helping her,” Angelica said.

  Actually, Pixie was helping Tricia run the event, but she didn’t contradict her sibling.

  “I could go over and wait for you both, but there’s a tiny problem. The proprietress doesn’t seem to want to serve me.”

  So, his first stop after being refused accommodations hadn’t been to seek out his darling daughters.

  “That’s because you left the village with a very large tab,” Angelica said.

  “What’s a few dollars?” John said, shrugging.

  “A few thousand dollars,” Angelica corrected him. “Surely you didn’t think the people you owed money to wouldn’t come asking Tricia and me about your whereabouts and expecting to be paid.”

  “It’s all a big misunderstanding,” John insisted.

  “I’m listening,” Angelica insisted.

  But before John could explain, the group of people at the front of the shop broke into enthusiastic applause.

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” Tricia said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “And I’ve got to help her,” Angelica insisted, and followed in her sister’s wake.

  By the time Tricia made it to the middle of the shop, Richardson had already taken his seat at the book table with pen in hand, while Pixie readied the books, handing them to him open at the title page, ready for him to sign.

  “I’ll take care of the cake,” Angelica said, and marched around the goodies table. “Do you want me to wait until Steven has his picture taken with it before I cut it?”

  “Let’s not bother.” The hands on the clock were already marching toward eight. “I’d better go man the register.” Tricia turned, but Mr. Everett was already stationed behind the sales desk, waiting for the first customer.

  She hurried over to him. “Oh, Mr. Everett, it’s your night off. I’ll take care of the sales.”

  “I saw that you were engaged, Ms. Miles, and I thought it best to cover all bases.”

  “You’re a dear. Angelica’s about to cut the cake. Why don’t you get a slice for yourself and Grace?”

  “I will, thank you.”

  Tricia watched her friend stroll over to the goodies table, but saw that her father was already there—stuffing his pockets full of cookies and speaking to one of the store’s customers—Carol Talbot. The fifty-something woman’s heavily lined features no doubt were the result of years of heavy tanning and reminded Tricia of an angry bulldog, which matched her personality. It was her body that was the envy of women decades younger. This evening she’d dressed in a form-fitting pink floral sundress with a bolero jacket, accented by a string of faux pearls around her neck. A cutthroat darts player, Carol had often played against Tricia on tournament nights at the Dog-Eared Page. Carol wasn’t one of Tricia’s favorite people, nor a regular customer, so it was surprising she had made the effort to attend the signing.

  “I’d like to check out now, please,” said a woman in a floral top with dark slacks.

  “I’m sorry. I’d be glad to help you,” Tricia said, then rang up the sale, adding a few of the bookmarks that had been dropped off by other mystery authors. By the time she’d finished with her first customer, two more stood in line. She looked back to the table where Angelica was serving cake and noticed that John and Carol had moved to one side, apparently engaged in animated conversation—at least her father seemed in great spirits. Tricia rang up another two sales before she had another opportunity to look up—only to see Carol raise her hand and deliver a hearty slap across her father’s left cheek. Then, she turned on her heels and stalked toward the front of the store.

  Richardson was no longer sitting at the signing table. Tricia saw him standing outside the store’s display window and under the awning, smoking a cigarette. Funny, she hadn’t known he was a smoker. Carol barreled through the door, turned, and ran straight into the author. Another customer set down a copy of A Killing in Mad Gate, as well as another couple of vintage mysteries, and Tricia busied herself taking care of that sale, too. When she looked up again, she watched as—once again—Carol raised her hand, slapping Richardson’s cheek, as well.

  Angelica hurried over to the register, leaving the cake duties to Pixie. “What’s with all the slapping?” she whispered, and placed the books into a bag, then plastered on a smile. “Thanks for shopping at Haven’t Got a Clue!”

  “We’ll talk as soon as we finish all these sales,” Tricia muttered, and turned back to her work.

  Richardson returned to the shop, and Tricia wondered what he’d done with his cigarette butt, hoping he hadn’t tossed it on the sidewalk. His left cheek bore a red blotch where he’d been struck, and he gave her a pained smile as he passed by the cash desk, making his way over to the cake table, where he stopped to speak with several of his readers.

  Ten minutes later, the shop had pretty much emptied, and at least thirty of the fifty books Tricia had ordered for the signing had been sold—as well as another twenty or thirty paperbacks. It had been a very good signing indeed.

  “That was a good night’s worth of sales,” Angelica said, echoing Tricia’s thoughts.

  “I’m ready for a martini.”

  “What are we going to do about Daddy?”

  “I don’t know. But I’d like to find out why Carol Talbot slapped him—and Steven.”

  “Isn’t that the woman who you always beat at darts in the Dog-Eared Page?”

  Tricia nodded. “And also one of my not-so-favorite customers. The only other time she came in, we had a register jam and couldn’t give her a proper printed receipt. Mr. Everett patiently wrote out a receipt by hand, and she made him add up the numbers three times just to make sure he hadn’t made an error.”

  “Poor Mr. Everett. I can’t imagine anyone questioning his—or your—honesty.”

  “Is there really no room at either of the inns?” Tricia asked.

  Angelica shook her head. “Not for Daddy.”

  “I suppose we could put him up at the Motel 6 on the road to Nashua. At least there he can’t steal much more than the towels.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Angelica muttered.

  But when Tricia looked around the store, she saw only Pixie and Fred, who were tidying up the food table, and Richardson, who’d returned to the table to sign the rest of his books.

  Angelica elbowed her sister. “You should invite Steven to accompany us to the bar—where I promise I’ll make a discreet exit so you two can get to know one another better.”

  “You’re right, I should invite him—but I’m not sure I want to get to know him better. At least not tonight. I’m pooped. It’s been a long day. And Miss Marple”—Tricia’s cat—“has been alone for almost twelve hours back at the bungalow.”

  Angelica, in her Nigela Ricita role, had invited Tricia to stay at one of the Brookview Inn’s bungalows for a deeply discounted rate after it had been made clear to Tricia that a work zone—her loft—was detrimental to her (and her cat’s) nerves and peace of mind. She’d been bringing Miss Marple to work, but because of the signing, she’d left her back at the Brookview for the day.

  “I’m game for o
ne drink, then I’m going to my temporary home.” She frowned, looking around. “And where did Daddy go?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see him leave. Maybe Pixie or Fred did. I’ll ask. You go invite Steven.” And with that, Angelica gave her sister a mild shove in that direction.

  Richardson was just finishing signing the last book with a flourish when Tricia approached. He closed the cover.

  “It was a great signing,” Tricia said. “Thanks so much for coming all the way to Stoneham. Will you be driving straight back to Boston?”

  “I have some other business here in the village. I’ve booked a room for the night at the Sheer Comfort Inn. I’ve got a meeting set up in the morning, but I’m free for lunch. How about you?”

  “That would be very nice. In fact, I was going to invite you across the street to the pub for a drink.”

  “I’d love to—but it’s been a long day. I’m beat. How about we have one at lunch tomorrow?”

  “Sounds lovely. The Brookview Inn, not a mile from here, has great cuisine.”

  “I’ll pick you up here at noon tomorrow.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  Richardson picked up one of his books, rose, and came around the table. “Can I bum a copy off you? I’ve got an interview scheduled tomorrow and my publisher didn’t send the reporter a copy.”

  Publishers sent authors a certain number of free copies of their books for just that kind of situation, but Tricia hid her annoyance behind a smile. “Sure.” She hurried to get one of the store’s bags so that the book wouldn’t get ruined by the rain. She handed it to him, and Richardson leaned forward, planting a pleasant kiss on Tricia’s lips.

  “Until tomorrow, then.”

  She smiled, then watched as he left the store.

  Once the door closed on his back, Pixie began to sing, “Tricia and Steven sitting in a tree; k-i-s-s-i-n-g . . .”

  Tricia turned. “Pixie!”

  Pixie blushed. “Love is in the air!”

  Hardly.

  What was left of the cake was back in its box. Pixie had previously negotiated for the leftovers to go home with her and Fred. She held it while Fred collapsed the table. “Shall I put this in back?”

  “Yes, please,” Tricia said.

  Fred nodded and hauled the table away.

  “Pixie didn’t see Daddy leave, either,” Angelica said. She held a plastic bag containing the leftover plastic cups and cutlery.

  Tricia sighed. “I’m sure we’ll hear from him before too long.” She turned to her assistant. “Would you and Fred like to join Angelica and me for a drink across the street?”

  “We’d love to—but, uh”—Pixie eyed her groom-to-be—“we’ve sort of made other plans.” She lowered her voice. “If you know what I mean.” She waggled her eyebrows à la Groucho Marx. Love certainly was in the air.

  Fred returned, heading for the other table.

  “Don’t worry about that, Fred. Pixie and I will put everything to rights in the morning.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You two lovebirds run along,” Angelica said, sounding besotted herself.

  “We don’t mind hanging around a few more minutes,” Pixie assured her.

  Tricia shook her head. “I’m going to turn out the lights and lock up. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night,” Fred called, and held the door open for his bride-to-be.

  “Good night!”

  The door closed, the bell over it tinkling cheerfully.

  “I’ll just get my purse and umbrella, and then we can go to the pub,” Tricia said.

  Less than a minute later, the sisters crossed the darkening street, heading for the Dog-Eared Page, where several cheerful neon signs glowed in the windows, brightening the gloom.

  “What a soggy night,” Tricia said.

  “But you’re going to have a beautiful day tomorrow—starting with lunch with Steven.”

  “Oh, don’t start on that. We’re barely acquaintances.”

  “And that’s why you’re having lunch together—to become friends. And perhaps friends who become lovers?”

  “You’re pushing!” Tricia chided her.

  “Just a little nudge,” Angelica admitted, and reached up to close her umbrella before entering the pub, where they could hear music and laughter.

  “Wait a second, Ange. Do you see that?” Tricia said, craning her neck.

  “See what?”

  “Down the street. There’s something lying on the sidewalk at the end of the block by the Armchair Tourist.”

  That something looked like an open hardcover book, its pages fluttering in the light breeze—which meant it hadn’t been there long enough to get soaked.

  Tricia charged down the sidewalk, hoping that whoever owned the book had either put their name in it or had pasted in a bookplate. She stooped to pick it up: a brand-new copy of A Killing in Mad Gate. She opened it to the title page—and sure enough, Steven’s looping signature adorned it.

  “What is it?”

  “Someone who was at the signing must have dropped it.” Tricia passed the book to her sister, then looked around. Almost instantly, her breath caught in her throat.

  “What is it?” Angelica asked.

  There, nestled at the side of the three-story brick building’s empty brick patio, was what looked like a bundle of wet rags. In the dim light, it was hard to see exactly what it was, but Tricia had a pretty good idea. She dug in her purse, pulled out her cell phone and switched on its mini flashlight. She ventured forward and nearly slipped. She bent down and picked up what looked like a pearl. Waving the flashlight’s beam across the brick patio outside the Dog-Eared Page, she saw more of the beads scattered before her. “Uh-oh.”

  “Oh, please don’t tell me you’ve found another—”

  Body.

  Yes.

  Tricia aimed the narrow beam of light on the now-smooth features of Carol Talbot’s face.

  TWO

  “Don’t you ever get tired of this?” Stoneham’s chief of police, Grant Baker, asked Tricia. His voice was weary. He looked weary in the glow of the flashing blue lights from his cruiser and those of the Stoneham Fire and Rescue Unit’s truck, the visor of his hat beaded with droplets.

  “Yes. Especially when it means that not only don’t I get to go home to bed but I didn’t get my reward for the day in the form of a lovely gin martini.” Tricia sat in the backseat of a Stoneham patrol car, which she shared with an impatient Angelica.

  “I’ll second that,” Angelica groused, inspecting the faux leather upholstery that looked none too clean—no doubt wondering if something on it would stain her ivory suit. “I do hope we can wrap this up soon, because now I really need a drink.”

  “Let’s go over it again,” Baker said.

  Tricia sighed. “When Carol left my shop, she wasn’t holding a copy of A Killing in Mad Gate.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Tricia thought about it. “Definitely.”

  “Did you sell any copies of the book before this evening?”

  “Maybe half a dozen, but they weren’t signed like the one you’re holding.”

  “Could one of those customers have come to your store this evening to have the author sign it?”

  “Possibly. I didn’t sell any of those copies, but Pixie or Mr. Everett may be able to answer that question.” Tricia knew what she needed to tell the chief next, but she felt like a bit of a tattletale doing so. “We did have an incident just after the signing.”

  Baker’s brow furrowed. “Oh?”

  “Yes. Carol and Steven Richardson apparently had words, and she slapped him.”

  Baker’s eyes widened. “What brought that on?”

  “I don’t know. Steven apparently stepped outside the store to smoke a cigarette, and when Carol l
eft, she stopped to speak to him. I don’t know what was said, but Carol looked extremely angry and”—Tricia waved her hand in the air for dramatic flair—“slapped him across the cheek. It must have hurt. She left a mark.”

  “And what did Richardson say about it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And you didn’t ask?” he pressed.

  “I didn’t want to embarrass him.”

  Baker looked decidedly unhappy. He opened the book to the title page once more. Richardson had signed the book, but only with his name—it hadn’t been personalized. “At these signings,” he began, “doesn’t the author usually write more than just their name?”

  Tricia shrugged. “It depends on the author. Many times customers will buy a book and read it, then give it as a gift. Also, when it comes to the secondary market, a personalized book isn’t worth as much as one with only a signature. These books are first editions. They’re always worth more than those from additional print runs.”

  “If you say so.”

  Tricia bristled. “If you don’t want to know the facts about publishing, don’t ask.”

  “I didn’t say that at all.”

  “Your tone was dismissive.”

  Baker opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to think better of it. “Never mind.”

  “Chief,” Angelica said, her own tone mirroring Tricia’s pique, “when can we leave?”

  “When I’m satisfied you’ve told me everything I need to know.”

  Angelica’s gaze hardened. “We walked up the street, saw the book, and then found Carol. There’s not much more to tell.”

  “I’ll be the one to determine that,” he said, then slammed the book shut and stepped away from the patrol car.

  Angelica stuck out her tongue at his back.

  “Oh, Ange,” Tricia chided.

  “He’s punishing us.”

  “What for?”

  “Because you dumped him.”

  “I didn’t dump him,” Tricia said emphatically. “I chose to no longer go out with someone who wasn’t ever likely to make a commitment.”

  “And now it seems you feel the same way.”

  “I do not.”