A Just Clause Page 3

“Then why are you so prickly when it comes to dating Steven Richardson?”

  “I’m not prickly. I am going to lunch with him tomorrow, although as far as I’m concerned it’s definitely not a date.”

  “Well what would you call it, then?”

  “Lunch!”

  “You’re going to lunch with him?” Baker asked.

  When had he returned? Had he been eavesdropping?

  “Yes, tomorrow. I’m assuming you’ll want to speak with him. He’s staying at the Sheer Comfort Inn, at least for tonight. He said he was going there straight after the signing. He said he had other business in the village tomorrow morning, too—talking to Russ Smith.” The owner and editor of the Stoneham Weekly News.

  “Thanks. I’ll be sure to track him down.”

  “And now can we leave?” Angelica asked, sounding just a little desperate.

  “Yes, you can go. Although I may have more questions for you at a later time.”

  “You know where to find us,” Tricia said, and eased her legs out of the backseat. Baker gave her a hand to get out, but then turned away, apparently uninterested in helping Angelica. Tricia opened her umbrella and then stepped forward to give her sister a hand. Baker’s indiscretion had not gone unnoticed.

  “There’s one cop who won’t be getting a donation in his name to the policeman’s benevolence fund,” Angelica groused as she tottered to stand on her stilettoes. “Can we still stop in at the Dog-Eared Page? After this little interlude, I dearly feel the need of a libation.”

  “Me, too,” Tricia agreed, and the sisters turned in the direction of the pub, sharing Tricia’s umbrella.

  It had been at least ninety minutes since they’d found Carol’s body, and while there was a small crowd of rubberneckers standing on Main Street’s sidewalks, from the sound of the music and laughter inside the tavern, not many of its patrons had bothered to check out the excitement.

  Then again, when the sisters entered the cozy bar they were hailed with a not-so-welcome greeting of, “Found another stiff, eh, Tricia?”

  “That was uncalled-for!” called Michele Fowler, the manager, from behind the bar. “I’m sorry, Tricia.”

  “Maybe I should just go home,” Tricia muttered, already turning for the door, but Angelica grabbed her arm and pulled her farther into the pub.

  “Oh, no you don’t. I’m getting my drink—or else!”

  “You can have a drink—but you don’t have to have my company.”

  “Well, I want it. And I usually get what I want.”

  Tricia knew it didn’t pay to argue with her older sister, so she let herself be dragged to the first empty booth. Once they were settled, Michele appeared. “I’m sorry about Marshall,” she said.

  “Oh, was that who was so rude,” Angelica said and rolled her eyes.

  Marshall Cambridge was new to Stoneham. Despite his short tenure in the village, he’d no doubt heard about Tricia’s penchant for finding lifeless bodies and her being branded the local jinx.

  Though the man’s name seemed rather lofty, his vocation bordered more on the vulgar. Just two months earlier, he’d opened a shop just over the village line—not far from the highway—that dealt with old magazines, most of which were pornographic in nature, as well as some true crime periodicals. His shop, Vamps, with its stock and clientele, had not endeared him to a large number of villagers—mostly those of the female persuasion. Tricia couldn’t say she knew of anyone who bought such reading (or, rather, ogling) material, but then all his customers left the store with their purchases in brown paper bags.

  “Is it true that you found Carol Talbot?” Michele asked.

  Tricia nodded.

  “Oh, dear. And do they suspect you?”

  “Of course not!” Angelica cried.

  “I’ve heard it’s happened before,” Michele said quietly. She shook her head and glanced at Tricia. “Poor Carol. Her death brings you that much closer to being named Stoneham’s ultimate darts champion.”

  “Of course we’re upset about Carol,” Angelica began, “but you make it sound as though Tricia might have had a motive to get rid of her.”

  “Oh, no—I didn’t mean that at all. But surely Chief Baker is going to ask about it . . . won’t he?”

  Tricia was about to refute that statement, but then thought better of it. Even when she and the chief had been in the midst of a serious relationship, he’d suspected her more than once of being involved in a death. That was another reason their relationship had fizzled.

  “It’s not like Carol and I were going to play against each other anytime soon,” Tricia said.

  “Didn’t you hear? We’ve been challenged by the Purple Finch pub in Nashua. They’re coming to play next Monday. Of course, you’ll want to defend your status as one of our best players.”

  “Of course,” Angelica said.

  “Wait a minute—maybe I wouldn’t. Not if people think I may have whacked Carol to get rid of the competition.”

  “We both know that’s not true—so I don’t see what the problem could be.”

  “The problem is my reputation.”

  “Which won’t suffer—especially if you win.” Angelica turned her attention back to Michele. “What’s the prize involve?”

  “The Finchers don’t play for money; they play for honor—and a few rounds of drinks. But because of Tricia and Carol, we’ve gained a reputation in these parts.”

  That was news to Tricia. She just liked to play the game. The fact that she’d gotten good at it was as much a surprise to her as it was to the rest of the Dog-Eared Page’s patrons.

  “You will play, won’t you Tricia?” Michele asked, not only sounding sincere, but looking awfully darned hopeful.

  “What time next week?”

  “Nine o’clock, sharp!”

  Tricia heaved a sigh. “Only because it would be good publicity for the pub.” Yes, that’s the answer she would give if anyone else asked. Nobody had to know just how much she’d come to enjoy the game—and especially winning. It was silly, really. She’d been an average tennis player, but she had never excelled in any sport. Okay, throwing darts wasn’t exactly an athletic pursuit, but it did require a certain level of skill. Soon after the pub opened, she’d actually ordered a dartboard and darts and practiced in the evenings. Even Angelica hadn’t been aware of how much time she’d devoted to the game. It was her little secret. She’d even packed the board and darts and taken them with her to the Brookview so she could practice. Miss Marple seemed to love to watch the darts sail through the air and puncture the board.

  “Now, what can I get you ladies to drink—as if I didn’t know,” Michele muttered under her breath.

  “My usual,” Angelica said.

  “Make it two,” Tricia chimed in.

  Michele gave a curt nod, pivoted, and headed back toward the old oak bar.

  “Do you think she’ll bring us some chips or popcorn?” Tricia asked.

  “Feeling peckish?”

  “I had only half a veggie sub for supper. It tasted great, but didn’t stay with me long.”

  “You could have had some cake or some cookies at the signing.”

  Tricia wrinkled her nose. “I must admit, I’ve got a hankering for salty rather than sweet tonight.”

  “I’d take them both. Wouldn’t a salted caramel sundae be good right now?”

  “Not with a martini.”

  Angelica shrugged. “Maybe after? I just so happen to have the makings over at Booked for Lunch. Can I entice you?”

  A year before Tricia would have answered with an emphatic “No!” These days . . . she just might be persuaded. She shook her head. “Not tonight. I’m pooped. But I’ll take a rain check.”

  That seemed to please Angelica, who smiled. “I’ll hold you to it.”

  They turned at the sound of ice, gin,
and vermouth swishing inside a cocktail shaker and watched as Shawn, the bartender, deftly poured the drinks into two chilled stemmed glasses. As hoped, Michele set a napkin-lined basket on a tray, picked up the drinks, and headed toward their table.

  “Thank you. You’re a mind reader,” Tricia said, pleased when Michele set down the bowl of popcorn.

  “Not really. I just know what you like.”

  “Me, too!” Angelica said. “Thanks.”

  Michele set their drinks on cocktail napkins. “Cheers!”

  The sisters watched her head back to the bar before turning to their glasses.

  Tricia picked up hers. “What shall we drink to?”

  “Your upcoming victory at the darts tournament.”

  “Don’t you start, too.”

  “No—you’re going to win for the honor of the Dog-Eared Page. I’m sure we can get Russ”—editor of the Stoneham Weekly News, and another of Tricia’s ex-lovers—“to cover the event with his camera.”

  “I don’t need my picture splashed across the front page of the village’s weekly rag.”

  “I wasn’t thinking front page, but I’ll take it,” Angelica said. Unbeknownst to most of the villagers, she not only owned the little retro café, Booked for Lunch, the Cookery bookstore, and a share in the Sheer Comfort Inn, she was also the CEO and owner of Nigela Ricita Associates, which owned not only the Dog-Eared Page, but the Brookview Inn, the Happy Domestic gift and bookstore, and the newly opened Stoneham Salon and Day Spa.

  “Why don’t we drink to poor Carol. May she rest in peace,” Tricia said.

  Angelica clinked her glass against Tricia’s, but she looked as though she’d have preferred a happier toast.

  Before the sisters could even take a sip of their drinks, the pub’s door opened and Chief Baker strode inside, making a beeline for them. “Oh dear,” Tricia muttered.

  “What?”

  Tricia didn’t have time to answer, because suddenly Baker towered over them. “I thought you said Steven Richardson was heading straight for the Sheer Comfort Inn.”

  “That’s what he told me.”

  “Well, he isn’t there. In fact, they don’t even have a reservation in his name.”

  “Did he use a pseudonym?” Angelica asked.

  “No. All their scheduled guests have checked in, and Richardson isn’t among them.”

  “That’s strange. I wonder why he lied,” Tricia said.

  “That’s a very good question.”

  “Well, don’t look at us to answer it for you,” Angelica said, and reached for a handful of popcorn. “If nothing else, you can speak to him when he picks up Tricia for lunch at noon tomorrow.”

  Baker glowered. Why was he acting so possessive? They hadn’t dated in nearly two years.

  “I spoke with Pixie,” Baker said. Had he interrupted her romantic evening?

  “And?”

  “She said Richardson took a signed book with him when he left Haven’t Got a Clue this evening.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Which sounds awfully suspicious.”

  “Was Carol beaten to death with the book we found?” Angelica asked.

  “No. It looks like strangulation.”

  “Then how can you assume—?”

  “I don’t assume; I deal in facts.”

  “And do you deem it a fact that just because Steven had a copy of his book that it was the same one that was found on the ground not far from Carol’s body?”

  “Since she and Richardson had had words, it’s something to consider.”

  “I sold about thirty copies of the book tonight. I’m sorry, but I don’t know the names of all the people who bought copies.”

  “I assume you have charge receipts.”

  “Some of my customers paid in cash.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d try to help me with this case.”

  “Oh, Tricia—how exciting. Now the chief is actually asking you to help. Isn’t he usually telling you to mind your own business?” The last part of that sentence was delivered with a cutting edge.

  “I will do all I can to help you, Chief.”

  “You used to call me Grant.”

  “Yes, I did.” Tricia left it at that.

  Baker glowered. “I have work to do. I’ll speak with you again tomorrow.”

  “Until then.” Tricia picked up her martini, held it aloft, and toasted him.

  Baker’s expression hardened, and he turned and stormed for the exit.

  Angelica didn’t bother to strain her neck to watch him go, and she, too, picked up her glass. She took a sip before speaking. “It just occurred to me that there’s something one of us probably should have mentioned to Chief Baker.”

  “And that is?”

  “That Steven Richardson wasn’t the only one Carol slapped tonight.”

  THREE

  Cat carrier in hand, Tricia arrived at Haven’t Got a Clue the next day just before opening. Thank goodness Pixie and Mr. Everett had already arrived and had not only vacuumed and moved the reading nook’s furniture back into place but had erased all signs of the book signing the previous evening—even the baseboard was now dust free. The shop never looked better, although Tricia knew that wouldn’t last. Too bad the sound of saws and hammering from the floors above already marred all that perfection.

  “Good morning,” Tricia shouted above the clamor.

  “Coffee’s made,” Mr. Everett hollered in reply, waving hello.

  “I’ll put out the leftover cookies from last night,” Pixie called.

  Tricia stowed her purse under the cash desk, put the cat carrier down behind it, and opened the door, but Miss Marple made no move to exit. The past couple of days had been fairly quiet, but on that bright Wednesday morning it sounded like Jim Stark’s entire crew had showed up for work. The noise had definitely had a negative impact on business, which was another reason Tricia had been so happy about the previous evening’s sales. It was lucky that the workmen didn’t show up on weekends, which was when sales were at their peak.

  Mr. Everett met Tricia at the glass case where the cash register stood. “Ms. Miles, I bought a gross of these at the big-box store on the highway. I thought we might offer them to customers.” He handed her a package of disposable earplugs. It was a good idea, but she doubted they’d have many takers.

  “Thank you. We’ll put them here so that any customers who come in have the opportunity to take them. What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. I see it as a public service,” Mr. Everett said gravely.

  Pixie joined them. “I was thinking,” she shouted over the shriek of a power saw. “What if we set up a table outside and featured our sale items? We might actually make a couple of bucks a day that way.”

  “Good idea. But I might have to get a permit from the village to do so. I’ll check with Angelica.”

  “Would you like me to cull some of the stock, just in case?”

  “Great idea.”

  A loud bang issued from the floor above, giving all three of them a start.

  Why, oh why did I ever decide to renovate my home? Tricia thought. The demo had been finished two weeks before. She’d had so much to think about while setting up the signing during the previous days that she hadn’t even looked at the progress on her apartment for almost a week. She’d renovated the top floor when she’d first moved into the building. As she’d originally been leasing the place, her modular kitchen was constructed so that it could be moved if she decided to relocate in the future. Of course, now that she owned the building she would have a bigger kitchen and living space, since the top floor would become one large master suite with a comfortable reading nook.

  “I’m going to go upstairs to see what I can do about the noise,” Tricia said, or, rather, shouted.

  Her employees nodded
enthusiastically.

  She retrieved her cell phone from her purse, pocketed it, and set off.

  “I’ll get Miss Marple some water,” Mr. Everett offered, and followed Tricia to the back of the shop. He continued to the washroom and the tap and she entered the door to the stairwell that was marked PRIVATE—NO ENTRY.

  The air-conditioning had already cooled the shop, but as Tricia climbed the steps she could feel the heat rise. At the landing to the second floor, she darted through the plastic barrier that was supposed to keep the dust in the shop to a minimum, but often failed to do so. Tricia took in the five or six workers dressed in T-shirts, jeans, and hard hats. The bones of the living room were starting to take shape, what with the floor-to-ceiling bookcase that was in the process of being installed on the south wall, but it seemed like most of the work was being done in the kitchen. Some of the cabinets had been installed, but most of them were still sitting in the middle of the room. She’d chosen to put down ceramic tile, which had arrived and was piled in the living room. The flooring in that room would remain the original oak—sanded, stained, and finished. When that was scheduled to happen was anybody’s guess. Every time she’d asked, she’d gotten the runaround.

  “Ma’am—this is a work area. You need to wear this hard hat,” said one of the T-shirted guys, who was already sweating profusely.

  “Thank you,” Tricia called over the din, and put the hat on, then charged for the kitchen, where her contractor stood over the island, its granite surface covered with a heavy canvas tarp to protect it from damage. Pencil in hand, Stark seemed to be going over a set of figures.

  “Hi, Jim,” she called.

  Stark looked up, but didn’t smile. Their relationship had suffered the previous August after Pete Renquist’s death, but once they’d straightened things out, he’d taken the renovation job and neither of them had mentioned the past. “Hey, Tricia. Come to check on the progress?”

  “Yes. Is there a more quiet place we can talk?”

  He nodded toward the stairs, indicating they should move to the third level. Leaving his paper and pencil behind, he headed for the door. She followed.

  In the old configuration, the stairs led to a landing and a locked door, but the door had been removed. Eventually a wrought iron safety gate would be installed, but for now it was open to the stairwell.