Not the Killing Type Read online

  Several people gasped at the reference. Back in August, a small plane had crashed into the village’s picturesque gazebo, killing the pilot and one of the Chamber members. Naturally, the rest of the planned festivities had immediately been canceled—at great expense to those who’d been participating in the event.

  Michele was now frantically waving her hand, trying to gain Berry’s attention, but he refused to look in her direction.

  “I believe Ms. Fowler has something to say,” said Antonio Barbero at the back of the room. Not only was the handsome young man with the lilting Italian accent the manager of the Brookview Inn, but he was a Chamber member and Ginny’s fiancé.

  Stan sat down, but Bob gave Michele the nod to speak. She stood.

  “Mr. Berry, what other plans do you have for the Chamber, especially with a slashed budget to work from?” Her pleasant English accent always seemed to encourage people to listen to what she had to say.

  Berry didn’t bother to stand. “I’ll cut the newsletter down to once or twice a year, and make these breakfast meetings quarterly instead of monthly—and in a much cheaper venue,” he added with a sidelong glare at Antonio, whose expression darkened. Darlene and Henry turned their gazes to their boss and looked worried.

  “But how can we make progress with so little communication?” Michele asked, perturbed.

  “You can always call me at my shop. And that’s another thing. We can get rid of the Chamber office, which would save us thousands of dollars in rent every year.”

  “Excuse me, Stan,” a testy Bob interrupted. “But I own the building the Chamber office is housed in and the yearly rent is exactly twelve dollars. That’s one dollar a month.”

  “Well, then we’ll get rid of the utility costs and that secretary you hired. She won’t have much to do after we downscale the newsletter and cut these meetings by seventy-five percent.”

  No one commented on these last suggestions, and Michele sat down, looking absolutely horrified.

  A slashed budget. Quarterly meetings? A curtailed newsletter? No secretary to take care of the day-to-day operations of the Chamber? Tricia felt as shaken as Michele looked.

  “But most of all, it would be clear that there’d be no conflict of interest with some members getting preferential treatment as there is today.” At this, Stan turned to stare at Bob.

  “I beg your pardon?” Bob demanded.

  “Mr. Kelly, you own most of the storefronts on Main Street. Most of the Chamber’s resources have been funneled into bolstering the businesses located there. You collect the rents and, I might add, raise them on a frequent basis, which makes it harder for the rest of us to compete.”

  As far as Tricia knew, Berry wasn’t competing for business with anyone else in Stoneham. To whom did he refer?

  Before she could ask, Angelica stood and cleared her throat. “If I may speak now, Mr. Kelly,” she said, and the look she gave Bob was enough to sear the hair off the top of his head with laser-like precision.

  Bob seemed shaken by Berry’s accusation and muttered, “Go ahead, Ms. Miles,” and he sat down once again.

  Angelica stood to her full five-foot-six-inch height—plus two inches for heels—poised and confident. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce, it’s my heartfelt ambition to serve you as your next president. Not only would I build on the work by my erstwhile predecessor, but I’d expand upon it.” She leveled her gaze at Berry. “Not only would I increase the floral offerings during the spring, summer, and fall seasons, but I would encourage those businesses not directly on Main Street to do the same.”

  She took in the group at large. “As I’m sure some of you might remember, Stoneham was in the running for the prettiest village in New England and made the list of finalists. The publicity brought in quite a lot of people to our fair village.”

  “That was my idea,” Bob said, raising a hand to claim ownership.

  Angelica ignored the outburst. “Thanks to the opening of several new businesses—the Paige Dialysis Center, the Sheer Comfort Inn, and the Dog-Eared Page, and investment here at the Brookview Inn—we’ve also seen quite a jump in visitors.”

  “All done on my watch!” Bob called out.

  Angelica frowned and leveled an annoyed glare at Bob. “I believe it’s my turn to speak, Mr. Kelly.”

  “Hear, hear,” Michele said, and Tricia and Ginny dutifully applauded.

  Bob glowered.

  Angelica continued. “Not only would I promote our Chamber and its members, but I would seek out and encourage new development to take place here in Stoneham.”

  “And just how would you do that?” Marcella asked with a sneer.

  “Networking. Both online and in person.”

  He turned away with a snort of derisive laughter.

  Russ Smith, the editor of the Stoneham Weekly News, stood. “It doesn’t sound like you’d be offering the Chamber any more than its current president is already doing.”

  Bob beamed with approval at this comment, while Angelica somehow managed to keep her face impassive. Russ had never much cared for Angelica, even during the year or so Tricia had dated him. The feeling was mutual.

  “In closing, I want it known that, as Mr. Berry has pointed out, with me in charge, there’d be no conflict of interest. I don’t own any real estate on Main Street.” With that, she sat down. Polite applause followed.

  Russ turned back to face the front of the room, his steno pad and ballpoint pen at the ready. “And what have you got to say for yourself, Bob?”

  Bob returned to the lectern, his chest puffed out so that it was straining against his Kelly Realty sports coat. “This conflict of interest accusation is totally baseless. I have no financial interest in any of the businesses on Main Street.”

  “I beg your pardon, but isn’t your real estate office located on Main Street?” Marcella accused.

  “Yes, but that has no bearing on the improvements the Chamber has made for the businesses located there.”

  A rumble of mumbling circled the room. Russ waited until it subsided to speak again. “Do you have anything else to add?”

  “I believe my record speaks for itself,” Bob asserted, his head held high. “I brought the booksellers to Stoneham. I made this village a destination spot. I deserve the continued respect of my colleagues, and I deserve to remain the head of the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce.”

  Modesty was not one of Bob’s strengths.

  Everyone looked at each other in the hushed silence that followed.

  An uncomfortable Tricia grabbed the edge of the table and stood. Her bladder was about to burst. “May I make a suggestion? Why don’t we recess for ten minutes to allow us all to think over all the candidates’ platforms, and then we can vote.”

  “Splendid idea,” Michele agreed.

  “Ten minutes it is,” Bob agreed and banged his gavel against the top of the lectern.

  It seemed that quite a few of the Chamber members were in the same predicament as Tricia. Half of those present got up from their seats and made a beeline for the inn’s washrooms, which were located just outside the dining room. Tricia moved to join the crowd, but a tap on her shoulder made her turn. It was Ginny.

  They moved out of the line of stampeding Chamber members. Ginny leaned in closer to speak. “Stan Berry jumping into the race was sure unexpected.”

  “You’re telling me,” Tricia agreed.

  “Still, I think Angelica’s got a good shot. Bob’s long overdue to retire from the job. I know I’m not the only member who’d like to see a breath of fresh air when it comes to leadership. I’m just surprised that the only other viable candidate seems more intent on dismantling rather than enhancing the Chamber’s activities.”

  Tricia tried not to squirm and nodded. “I’m in complete agreement, although I do think Ange could be taking on far too much work. She’s already got her café, her bookstore, and her cookbook-writing career. That’s already more than I could handle.”

  Ginny
nodded. “Me, too, and I don’t even own the store I manage.”

  Tricia smiled. “You have more important things to worry about right now. Like your wedding next Saturday.”

  Ginny frowned. “Yeah.”

  “What’s the matter?” Tricia asked, concerned.

  Ginny waved a hand in dismissal. “I’ll have to tell you later. This isn’t the right time.”

  “You’re still planning on marrying Antonio, aren’t you?” Tricia asked, a bit panicked. She’d already bought her bridesmaid dress, shoes, and a matching bag, plus a lovely gift for the lucky couple.

  “Of course. But things just aren’t going the way I’d like. It’s Joelle,” she said and frowned. The wedding planner hired to take care of the upcoming nuptials. “I saw her outside in the lobby a little while ago. I swear, that woman harasses us more than she helps us. If she’s not calling or arriving unannounced to bug me, she’s doing the same to Antonio.” She glanced at her watch and sighed. “I sure hope we get out of here soon. Brittney’s never opened the store by herself before.” Brittney Sanders had been working at the Happy Domestic for a little over two months. Ginny had once complained that Tricia hadn’t given her enough responsibility—or the keys to Haven’t Got a Clue—but now she seemed to feel the same way about her own store. To make matters worse, Brittney would be on her own for the entire weekend of wedding festivities. Ginny and Antonio had decided to delay their honeymoon until after the holidays and had planned a Caribbean cruise for early January.

  Ginny peered around Tricia. She turned to see Antonio by the table with the coffee urns, beckoning his bride-to-be to join him. “Talk to you later,” Ginny said and scooted away.

  Tricia resumed her course for the ladies’ room. There was sure to be a line. Would Bob hold the election before she could return? It might be one way for him to cheat Angelica out of at least one vote.

  By the time Tricia made it to the lobby, the line for the restroom was indeed long. She wandered over to the inn’s checkin desk where Eleanor McCorvey, the inn’s sixty-something receptionist, seemed to be shuffling all the papers around her workstation.

  “Lose something?” Tricia asked.

  Eleanor didn’t look up. “My letter opener. It was here last time I looked.”

  “When was that?”

  “Ten–fifteen minutes ago,” Eleanor said and sniffed as she shuffled through a pile of file folders. “I can’t have lost it. I’ve had it for years. It’s an antique—brass with a lovely heart on the top. My sister gave it to me for my birthday when I got my first part-time office job at sixteen. She’s gone now, so it’s kind of precious to me.”

  Tricia eyed the line to the ladies’ room, which was definitely not moving, although no one else had joined the queue.

  Eleanor grabbed a tissue from the box on her workspace and blew her nose.

  “Are you okay?” Tricia asked, noting Eleanor’s red eyes.

  “Allergies; someone wearing a lot of perfume walked by earlier.”

  Could that have been Angelica? She was known to splash on a little too much of the stuff.

  Tricia glanced at the line to the restroom, which still wasn’t moving. “How’re things going with you and Chauncey?”

  Eleanor’s romance with the owner of the Armchair Tourist had been the big story around Stoneham during the summer months. Chauncey Porter had undergone quite a transformation since he’d lost more than fifty pounds through a new diet and exercise regimen. Since they started dating, Eleanor, too, had lost weight. Tricia often saw the couple walking hand in hand through the village at night.

  Eleanor set the files aside and finally turned her full attention to Tricia, smiling shyly, although her eyes looked puffy and her nose was rather red. Was she coming down with a cold? Tricia took a step back, just in case.

  “Things are wonderful. I’m having the time of my life. We’ve even talked about going on a cruise next spring, that is if Chauncey can find someone to look after the store for a few days or a week.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Tricia said, biting her lip. Her own situation was getting dire.

  “Are you okay, Tricia? You look rather panicked.”

  “I really, really need to use the ladies’ room, but as you can see, there’s a line out the door. Is there another bathroom nearby I could use?”

  Eleanor looked beyond her to the line of impatient women and then nodded toward the hall in the opposite direction from the restaurant. “There’s a unisex handicapped washroom at the end of the corridor.”

  “Bless you,” Tricia said and hurried off. She passed a small meeting room, complete with a table, computer, and a fax machine, set up for business guests to use. Next to it was a door with the universal sign of a wheelchair-bound figure. To be safe, Tricia knocked on the door. “Anyone in there?” She waited several seconds before she tried the door’s lever handle. It obligingly moved. “Yes!”

  She yanked the door open and, to her horror, found Stan Berry sitting on the toilet. It looked like he’d found Eleanor’s letter opener.

  It was sticking out of his bloodied chest.

  TWO

  “Will this ever stop happening?” Tricia groused and slammed the restroom door. She’d found a body sitting on a toilet once before—in her own store. That time it had been a visiting author, Zoë Carter, who’d been known for a series of historical mysteries. She’d been strangled. Tricia seriously doubted Stan Berry had written anything other than invoices and checks.

  She took a couple of deep breaths to calm her suddenly jagged nerves. Since there was a minimum of blood staining Stan’s clothing, he must have died almost instantly. His expression of slack-jawed surprise was sure to stay with her when she closed her eyes for any length of time during the coming days.

  Torn, she glanced down the hallway. On the one hand, the odds of Angelica winning the election for Chamber president had risen considerably, but on the other, Tricia still needed to find an unoccupied bathroom.

  Instead, she fished her cell phone out of her purse and punched in Antonio’s phone number. He answered almost immediately. “What can I do for you, Tricia?”

  “You’re about to have a terrible PR problem. Meet me down the hall in front of the inn’s first floor handicapped bathroom.” She snapped her phone shut. She should have punched in 911. But then, the dispatcher would probably tell her to stay on the line and guard the body until law enforcement arrived. To do that, Tricia would need to be wearing Depends.

  Tricia was practically dancing in agony when Antonio jogged down the hall to meet her.

  “What is wrong?”

  Tricia threw open the washroom door. “This!”

  Antonio’s olive-toned skin immediately went a shade lighter, and he, too, slammed the door shut.

  “I’ve got to go to the ladies’ room. You call 911 to report it, and I’ll explain everything to Chief Baker when he gets here.”

  “But—”

  Tricia didn’t wait for the rest of his reply and hurried down the corridor. She made it back to the lobby, relieved to see the line to the restroom had dwindled.

  Once her immediate situation was taken care of, shock began to set in, upsetting her stomach, and Tricia wished she hadn’t splurged on a Danish for breakfast. She returned to the restaurant as Bob was calling the meeting back to order.

  “Since we don’t have prepared ballots, we’re going to vote by a show of hands,” Bob was telling those assembled, but Tricia hurried up to the lectern. Her stomach churning, she tugged at Bob’s jacket, pulling him away from the microphone.

  “We can’t hold the election today,” she said softly.

  “Oh, yes, we can,” Bob grated, his eyes blazing. “And the sooner the better.”

  “No, we can’t.” She leaned in closer to whisper in Bob’s ear. “I just found Stan Berry dead in the handicapped bathroom. It looks like he’s been murdered.”

  Bob’s eyes bulged. He turned to look at her, outraged, and put his hand over the lectern’s microphone. �
�What kind of a sick joke is this, Tricia?” he demanded.

  “No joke. And you’d better close the doors to this room and make sure nobody leaves. Chief Baker will be here any moment, and—”

  To prove her right, the sound of sirens cut through the din of those conversing at the freshly cleared tables.

  “Uh, folks, before we begin,” Bob said, nervously, “let’s shut those doors so we aren’t disturbed.”

  Angelica stood. “We can’t start without Stan. Just where is he?”

  Bob turned to Tricia and lifted his hand as an invitation for her to speak.

  Tricia swallowed but stepped up to the microphone. “He’s-he’s … down the hall. Mr. Barbero is with him.”

  “Well, someone should go get him. We need to vote. Our members need to get back to their businesses,” Angelica stated.

  “Yeah,” several members called out in unison.

  “Um …” Tricia looked to Bob for help, but he’d taken a step back, his arms crossed over his green blazer, his expression glib.

  “He’s-he’s … dead.”

  “Very funny, Tricia,” Nikki said, annoyed.

  “No, really. I’ve found other bodies before and I can assure you … Stan is no longer with us.”

  Except for the sound of the furnace rumbling away somewhere in the bowels of the building, the room went absolutely silent. Everyone glared at Tricia until the French doors at the back of the room burst open and Chief Baker of the Stoneham Police Department, who was also Tricia’s sometime boyfriend, significant other—lover—stepped into the dining room.

  “Folks, there’s been an accident. I want everyone to stay in your seats.” He looked directly at Tricia, his expression distinctly annoyed, and raised his right hand. He motioned with his index finger for her to join him. “Ms. Miles, you and I need to have a little talk.”

  *

  “Tricia leaned against the wall outside the dining room, watching as one of the officers cordoned off the building. “I’ve already told you, I didn’t want to be standing in a puddle of my own—”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, but he was clearly unhappy about it. The fact that he’d called her out of the dining room, and then made her wait almost twenty minutes before speaking with her hadn’t improved her mood.