A Killer Edition Read online

  With more free time on her hands, Tricia’s original idea had been to volunteer at the local animal shelter—and she’d hoped to become an integral part of the operation. Unfortunately, her overtures to help had been met with a cool—one might even say glacial—reception, despite the fact that she’d been a generous donor in the past. Had they thought she was trying to buy her way into a position of authority? That hadn’t been the case, but that seemed to be the assumption. The fact that she had successfully run a nonprofit for nearly a decade in Manhattan gave her credentials most organizations could only hope to exploit.

  Tricia closed the store’s door behind her and saw that her cat, Miss Marple, was asleep on her usual perch above and behind the glass display case that doubled as a cash desk. No welcome there. As it was Monday, her other employee, elderly Mr. Everett, had the day off.

  Tricia stood near the register, pretending to inspect the stuffers that went into the bags that would hopefully be filled with vintage and current mysteries. A minute or so later, Pixie had finished speaking with the customer and joined her.

  “Thanks for opening this morning,” Tricia said by way of greeting.

  “It’s never a problem,” Pixie said cheerfully, her gold canine tooth sparkling under the halogen lights above. That day she was dressed in a pumpkin-colored vintage dress that mimicked the carrot color of her hair, which changed with the seasons or Pixie’s whims. “We had a bus at ten and scored at least eight pretty good sales.”

  “I’m sorry you had to handle it on your own,” Tricia said sincerely.

  Pixie waved a hand as though to brush off the apology. “It wasn’t a problem. I always feel psyched when we have a good influx of customers. It’s so invigorating,” she gushed.

  Tricia used to know that feeling when she’d been the one ringing up the sales, but Pixie insisted that it was now her job to take care of customers so that Tricia could concentrate on the more important parts of the business.

  Like what?

  Okay, Tricia had invested in some additional promotional materials, but that had happened long before the tourist season had commenced over Memorial Day weekend. Instead of laboring over promotion, she’d often found herself exiled to her lovely apartment, where she’d restlessly paced or indulged in a new hobby: baking.

  During the previous three or four years, Tricia had depended on purchases of cookies from the Patisserie to accompany the complimentary coffee she provided to her customers. But after a particularly nasty conversation with the bakery’s owner, Nikki Brimfield-Smith, some months before, she decided that she would no longer frequent the business and would bake the treats she gave to her patrons as a thank-you for their support.

  “The mail’s on the counter,” Pixie said, and pointed.

  Tricia had completely missed it. She picked it up and leafed through the envelopes and circulars. Buried within it was yet another flyer for the upcoming Great Booktown Bake-Off. Her gaze lingered over the text.

  “You know, you ought to enter,” Pixie said, her tone sincere.

  Tricia looked up. “Why?”

  “Because you’ve come so far this past year cooking and baking. I think you could give Angelica a run for her money.”

  No way, Tricia thought. Then . . . “Really?”

  “Definitely!” Pixie said enthusiastically.

  Of course, most of what Tricia knew about cooking and baking had come because her sister had mentored her. But then, once you got the hang of it, following a recipe to the letter usually made for a pretty foolproof result. That is, if you could trust the recipe.

  “The deadline is tomorrow,” Pixie pointed out. “I really think you should enter. I mean, what have you got to lose?”

  What did she have to lose? Since Tricia was already known as the village jinx, perhaps some might think her entry could be looked on with suspicion—maybe even poisonous. Then again, maybe if she did well in such a competition, perhaps coming in third or fourth, it might help to repair the unfortunate reputation she had never deserved. It wasn’t her fault that she seemed to be a corpse magnet or that since her arrival in Stoneham, once the safest village in New Hampshire, it had become homicide central—at least when compared to burgs with the same population.

  “I’ll think about it,” Tricia promised, folding the flyer and pocketing it.

  “Do you mind if I take off for an hour or so this afternoon? Joyce over at the Have a Heart bookstore invited me to come over to her house and score some fresh vegetables. I thought it would make a great salad for dinner tonight.”

  “Go right ahead. And if you’re late, closing won’t be a problem. You go ahead and have fun. You deserve it,” Pixie said.

  “I should probably text Angelica to tell her I’ll be contributing to our dinner.”

  “Good idea.”

  Tricia pulled out her phone, tapped the keys, and sent her sister a quick message. Almost immediately she got a reply that said,

  Yay! I never turned down fresh veggies. You can make a salad. It’ll go great with pasta.

  Tricia and Angelica—her sister, fellow bookseller, and entrepreneur—tended to have dinners together so that they could not only share a martini or two but talk about the trials and tribulations of the day as well. In fact, it had become Tricia’s favorite part of the day. They usually had lunch together, too, but that day Angelica had canceled because she was interviewing potential employees for the day spa she intended to open in just weeks. After dinner, Tricia would be seeing Marshall, too. She couldn’t help the smile that crept over her lips. Yes, she certainly had a lot to look forward to.

  The door opened, bringing in a fresh wave of customers. Before Tricia could greet them, Pixie sprang into action. “Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. I’m Pixie. Let me know if you need any help.”

  Tricia sighed and decided to retreat to her basement office until Pixie’s lunch break to see what trouble she could get into there, as she didn’t have to be at Joyce’s house for at least another three hours. And she might just peruse the Bake-Off’s rudimentary web page once again to remind herself of the rules and think about what recipe she might potentially enter. No doubt about it, with Pixie’s encouragement, she felt better about the idea of entering the contest. And despite the unhappy beginning of her day, Tricia was pretty sure the latter part would be well worth waiting for.

  Of course, every time she thought along those lines, something usually went drastically wrong.

  TWO

  Tricia arrived at Joyce’s house no more than two minutes late. She rang the bell and it was only seconds before Joyce answered. “Hey, come on in.” She threw back the door and motioned Tricia to enter.

  Although the house had been familiar on the outside—Tricia passed by it many times on her walks with Angelica’s dog, Sarge—she’d never been inside the little Cape Cod when it had been owned by Frannie Armstrong. Joyce had furnished the place with contemporary pieces, heavy on a particular shade of beige. That is, except for the art that decorated the walls. They were prints of the same sort that hung in her romance bookstore, by artists such as William Waterhouse and Alphonse Mucha. It was definitely a woman’s home, and why not, since Joyce was divorced and lived alone. Perhaps she’d been looking forward to decorating her new home for herself with only objects and pictures she loved. Or maybe she just went to Target and furnished the place in a weekend. Who knew? Maybe one day Tricia would ask; right now they weren’t close enough for that kind of a conversation, but maybe that would change, too.

  “I don’t want to keep you,” Tricia said, “but I’m dying to see your garden—especially your vegetables. I almost wish I had a little garden of my own. I think it would be fun to grow food that I could eat and share with friends and family.”

  “But you can. Before I bought this place, I had a fine container garden. I grew cherry tomatoes, peppers, and plenty of leaf lettuce, as well as herbs. Althou
gh I must admit my patio was bigger than your balcony. Have you thought about hanging window boxes?”

  “No. What a great idea. Maybe I’ll go to the garden shop tomorrow and buy something like that. I wonder if I could have someone install them, too.”

  “What about your friend Marshall?” Joyce asked with the hint of a smile.

  Tricia shook her head. Marshall was a man of many talents, but she wasn’t sure he would be up to that task.

  “Come out back and I’ll show you my little farm,” Joyce said, and led the way through the small but updated kitchen to the door that led to the backyard.

  The smell of sawdust was heavy in the air. While the north side of the yard had obviously been raked, the evidence of wood chips in the grass was unmistakable. So was the raw wound on the now lopsided maple in the yard next door. No wonder Vera had been upset. The once symmetrical tree looked as though it had been butchered. A couple of purple finches hopped from limb to limb, chirping away as though to disparage the destruction. Tricia shook her head and turned away.

  Joyce must have started her garden early, for there were tendrils of beans winding their way up sturdy green metal poles that acted as a curtain in the middle of her yard. In front of them was a row of six tomato plants, which were already standing at least eighteen inches high. Had she grown them from seed or bought half-grown plants at the nursery? At each end of the row were what looked like pepper plants, and, of course, the plot along the fence on the south side of her yard was her herb garden. The chives, parsley, and several large basil plants grew in full sun, as the center garden would now do also. When the basil fully matured, Joyce would be able to make a heck of a lot of pesto. Roses were just about to bloom along the back of the house, but they had obviously been established years before.

  “Oh, my,” Tricia said. “You really are into gardening.”

  Joyce laughed. “But of course.” Then her brow furrowed and she looked to one side.

  Tricia turned. “Is something wrong?”

  Joyce frowned. “The fence gate is open.”

  Tricia looked and saw that indeed there was a gate in the fence between Joyce’s and Vera’s yards and it was ajar.

  Joyce said nothing, but her expression was anything but pleased. Without a word, she stomped over to the gate, slammed it shut, and threw back two shiny silver-hued bolts at the top and the bottom. Then she turned on her heel and started, her mouth dropping open as she let out a stifled scream. Tricia rushed forward, but Joyce pushed her aside, her shaking arm raised and pointing at what could only be a body lying in the grass. Unfortunately, there was a pitchfork thrust through its midsection.

  Joyce seemed frozen in place, and Tricia crept forward, but it was obvious the person was no longer alive.

  And that person was Vera Olson.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was Tricia, of course, who reported the body. Joyce was far too upset to be thinking or speaking coherently. Tricia pulled Joyce over to the patio and pushed her into a seat before the poor woman fainted. And of course, the 911 dispatcher didn’t seem at all surprised when Tricia identified herself. Tricia gritted her teeth but managed to stay calm and gave what few facts she knew, and then ended the call to wait for the sirens of the police cruisers she knew would soon arrive.

  Joyce was too upset to make conversation, and Tricia took the time to go back to look at the body once more. Surprisingly there was very little blood, which could have meant two different things. Either Vera had died very quickly, or she’d been dead before she’d been run through. The dead woman didn’t look much different than she had in life. Her features were twisted in what was either anger or fear or terrible pain when she died—not unlike the angry expression she’d worn at the Have a Heart bookstore earlier that day. Tricia frowned. Could that mean she’d been surprised by the identity of her attacker? Bending low and squinting, Tricia saw that Vera’s neck was ringed with red blotches. Strangulation?

  Trying hard to be dispassionate, Tricia took note of the position of the body, the area surrounding it, and the state of the back side of the garden, which had been hidden from sight when they’d first entered the yard. She was about to walk the perimeter when Joyce called, “Tricia?” her voice sounding shaky.

  Tricia returned to stand beside her business neighbor. “It might be a good idea for me to wait in the driveway for the police. Will you be okay on your own?”

  Joyce looked terrified and reached for Tricia’s arm, clasping it in what could only be called a death grip. “Please don’t leave me alone with that—that—” But she couldn’t seem to finish the sentence.

  “Why don’t I stand by the gate to the front yard. I’ll only be a few feet away. You wouldn’t want them breaking down your front door.”

  Joyce looked horrified, as though she’d already been through enough and couldn’t bear the idea of having to repair the entrance of her home as well. “Go ahead. I guess I’ll be all right. I have to be all right.”

  Tricia knew exactly what she meant.

  As expected, the first police cruiser came screaming down the street and stopped in front of the house, leaving a patch of rubber. The siren was cut off and the armed officer bounded toward the house. Tricia called to him, diverting him to the backyard, but the gate was locked. Ready or not, Joyce was going to have to pull herself together and help the officers begin their investigation. She produced a key and handed it to the officer, who opened the gate and entered the yard. Tricia led him to where Vera lay. With his hand resting on the unfastened clasp over his service revolver, the officer took in the body, pursed his lips, and looked around the yard as though seeking the perpetrator, but said nothing.

  “She can’t have been dead long,” Tricia said.

  “Is this how you found her?”

  “Yes. We both found her.”

  The officer looked from Tricia to Joyce and frowned.

  His question about finding the body was to be asked at least another ten or twenty times during the next hour by a number of sources, and more than once by each. But of course, upon arriving, it was Police Chief Grant Baker who seemed to ask it the most. Tricia and Baker had a history, which everyone seemed to know about, and he was once again very unhappy to be standing by her side and near yet another corpse.

  “You really are a jinx,” he said unkindly. It was an unwelcome word and an equally unwelcome reputation that Tricia seemed to have to bear.

  “And you are a—” But Tricia didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, her blood came near the boiling point.

  “What am I going to do with you?” Baker asked, chagrined.

  “Nothing.” Tricia turned and started to walk away when something on the ground caught her attention. She was about to investigate further when Joyce called her and she headed back to the patio, where the woman still sat huddled in one of the padded lawn chairs. Standing next to her was Officer Cindy Pearson, the same woman who had been in the Have a Heart bookshop earlier that day. There hadn’t yet been an opportunity for either Joyce or Pearson to mention Vera’s visit to the bookshop and her threats. Was it up to Tricia to relay that information?

  Looking at her feet, Pearson seemed as though she wanted to say something but didn’t.

  A male officer Tricia knew to be named Henderson pulled Baker aside and spoke to him in a low voice. Baker looked up and turned his gaze toward Joyce, then nodded. He came to join the women on the patio.

  “I understand you and your neighbor, Ms. Olson, weren’t the best of friends.”

  “Everyone around here knew that,” Joyce admitted.

  “And what was the nature of your problem?” Baker asked.

  Joyce looked outraged. “My problem was that my neighbor didn’t respect my property lines. She was friends with the former owner and was used to coming and going through the gate in the fence whenever she pleased. That changed when I bought the house
this spring, and she didn’t like it and she didn’t like me because I objected to her trespassing.”

  “And why was that?” Baker asked.

  “You had to know who lived here before me,” Joyce said.

  Frannie Armstrong, Tricia mouthed when Baker turned to her for clarification.

  He turned back to Joyce. “I’m assuming you own the pitchfork that pierced her?” Baker asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And why would you own such a tool?”

  Joyce gestured toward her patch of vegetables. “I’m a gardener. It’s a tool I use on a regular basis to turn over the soil and work with my compost pile.”

  Baker frowned, as though unhappy with the explanation. “Perhaps we should talk about this in more detail down at the station.”

  Joyce looked astounded. “Don’t tell me you think I killed her.”

  “I’m willing to hear your story.”

  Joyce shot out of her chair. “My story?”

  Pearson spoke up. “Chief, I happen to have been at Ms. Widman’s bookstore this morning when Ms. Olson paid her a visit. The woman was abusive and rude. Ms. Widman treated her with respect, although there appeared to be some kind of underlying tension.”

  Joyce looked at the officer in disbelief, anger clouding her features.

  “I was there, too, Grant,” Tricia volunteered.

  “Of course you were. You’ve always got your sticky fingers in situations like this.”