Not the Killing Type Read online

  From her vantage point, Tricia could see Eleanor was still at her post, quietly sobbing into a damp tissue.

  “Did you talk to her yet?” Tricia asked, nodding in Eleanor’s direction.

  “No. She’s still pretty upset. I’ll speak to her when she gets herself under control. Meanwhile, the murder weapon belonged to her. Do you think she’s capable of killing someone?”

  “Not a chance. In fact, before I found Berry in the washroom, I stopped to talk to Eleanor. She was about to open the morning mail and was looking for her letter opener. She said she’d had it only minutes before. The lobby was pretty crowded with people heading for the johns and milling around; anyone could have picked it up.”

  Baker nodded.

  Tricia glanced at her watch. It was already ten thirty. Thank goodness her assistant, Pixie Poe, and her part-time employee, Mr. Everett, both had keys to Haven’t Got a Clue and would open the store without her. In the past she hadn’t been so generous when it came to giving that kind of access to her employees. The booksellers who didn’t have employees were probably furious to still be detained. Every minute away from their shops meant lost income. And there was a tour bus scheduled to arrive before noon.

  “What can we do to expedite the police interviews?” Tricia asked Baker. “Some of us need to get back to our stores. It’s well past opening.”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience, but I’m sure Mr. Berry was looking forward to opening his shop as well—that is before one of you killed him.”

  Tricia bristled. “How do you know it was one of the Chamber members? It could easily have been a guest here at the inn. Or someone who walked in off the street.”

  “That’s what we need to ascertain. And we can’t do that without interviewing everyone who was in the building at the time of the murder.”

  “At least I have someone minding my store. You’d better interview the others before Angelica, Ginny, and me.”

  “I asked my men to do just that.” He threw a look in Eleanor’s direction. Her sobs were winding down to hiccupping sniffles. “I’m going to talk to the receptionist now,” he said and glanced in Eleanor’s direction. She grabbed a fresh tissue from the box on her desk and wiped at her swollen eyes. One of the uniformed officers stood by, guarding her. Had they already decided on her as their chief suspect?

  Baker turned back to Tricia. “By the way, isn’t this the second time you’ve found a body on a toilet?”

  “Yes, it is, and I’m sure I’m going to hear that same question thirty or forty times in the next couple of hours—complete with leering looks and snickers.”

  Baker shrugged and moved away.

  With nothing better to do until it was her turn to be questioned, Tricia reentered the dining room. Every eye turned to look at her. To say they were unhappy was putting it mildly. If their expressions were to be believed, they blamed her for Berry’s death. As she walked toward the table where she, Angelica, Ginny, and Michele had been sitting, she heard more than one person mutter, “jinx.” Head held high, she ignored them.

  She sat down. Ginny looked anxious, but Michele immediately leaned forward, placing a hand on Tricia’s. “You poor thing. Are you all right?”

  Tricia nodded, grateful for the kind words. So many of the others were staring daggers at her. “Where’s Angelica?”

  Michele nodded toward the front of the room. A somber Angelica stood speaking to one of the patrolmen, with Bob nodding in agreement, and Antonio standing nearby. Had the former lovers called a truce?

  “Was it too terrible?” Michele probed.

  Before Tricia could answer, another uniformed patrolman, who stood by the lectern, leaned over the microphone, his gaze centered on their table. “No talking, please.”

  Tricia sighed and Michele sat back, looking chagrined. Tricia knew the drill. The cops didn’t want the potential witness pool to contaminate each other’s version of their whereabouts or what they may or may not have seen before the body was found. Still, she knew she wasn’t the only one who felt like she was being held hostage.

  It was going to be a very long morning.

  Tricia watched as Angelica turned and walked back to their table, while the officer pulled out a cell phone.

  “What’s going on?” Tricia asked, as Angelica took her seat. But Angelica shook her head and then pressed her index finger against her lips to shush her sister.

  The officer flipped the phone shut, consulted with Bob for a moment, and then Bob stepped up to the lectern once again.

  “We have a big problem. The election was supposed to take place today, but obviously that can’t happen now.”

  A man was dead in the washroom and he was worried about the election!

  “However,” Bob continued, “our charter says it must happen in the month of November. Our next meeting is scheduled in late December. If we wait more than a week, we’ll be into the high holiday season, and none of the retail merchants can afford to abandon their business to come to a Chamber meeting. I’ve already cleared it with Mr. Barbero, and therefore, I propose we hold a short meeting right here next Wednesday morning.”

  John Marcella raised his hand. “You realize that’s the day before Thanksgiving, don’t you?”

  Bob nodded. “I sure do. But many of you will be opening your doors early on Black Friday. It’s the biggest sales day of the year, and I doubt I could get any of you to gather back here for a meeting.”

  “You got that right,” Marcella said.

  “Then let’s have a show of hands,” Bob suggested. “Those who agree?” Just about everybody’s hand shot up. “Those opposed?”

  Tricia could only see Marcella’s hand raised. Why would he care about the timing of the meeting? His was a 24/7 business with plenty of employees to keep it running during his absence.

  “Motion carried,” Bob said and banged his gavel on the lectern.

  It wasn’t a good solution to the election problem, but it would have to do. Tricia looked at Angelica, who seemed resigned to the situation.

  “The officer says we’ll have to remain here until everyone is questioned,” Bob continued, “but they’ve called in the Sheriff’s Department to come and help take our statements. Hopefully we’ll all be out of here by one or two o’clock.”

  The room erupted into a cacophony of groans and complaints. Bob banged his gavel five or six times until order was once again restored. “Now, now—let’s show a little restraint. After all, one of our members has been killed.”

  At least he finally seemed to have taken note of that fact.

  Henry entered the room, pushing a cart with a couple of tables and chairs on it. He set them up at the front of the room, and then stood to one side. Most likely he was going to be interrogated, too. It was then a couple of uniformed deputies entered the dining room, no doubt there to help with the interviews. With only two of them, it was going to take a long, long time.

  Tricia sighed, disappointed in herself for not tucking a book into her purse that morning. Just in case …

  THREE

  Lunchtime came and went. If circumstances had been different, Tricia would have ordered the inn’s luncheon special, which the menu board out in the lobby had said would be honeycrisp apple salad. It sounded delicious. Of course, thanks to Stan Berry’s murder, they weren’t serving that day, Tricia would just have to make do.

  When Baker had finally allowed her to leave, she’d tried sneaking out the inn’s back entrance, but a TV crew from Manchester’s Channel 9 News had been lying in wait, hoping to get a quote from the notorious Stoneham Jinx of Death. She managed to get in her car without making a comment and went straight back to Haven’t Got a Clue and hoped she could scrounge a container of yogurt from her refrigerator.

  Tricia parked her car in the municipal parking lot and walked to Haven’t Got a Clue. She peeked in through the big display window to see that things were quiet at the store. Her cat, Miss Marple, dozed among the books in the front display before her. Since the stor
e was bereft of customers, Mr. Everett walked between the shelves with his lamb’s-wool duster, making sure everything was spotless, and Pixie was stationed behind the register, her nose buried in a book.

  When the bell over the door rang, Pixie looked up and smiled. “I see the screws finally sprung you.”

  Pixie’s nomenclature was always colorful, no doubt because she’d not only spent a great deal of her life reading vintage mysteries, but also because of what she’d picked up when she’d been a guest of the state in the New Hampshire Prison for Women. Before she’d turned her life around, Pixie had been what Mr. Everett would call “a lady of the evening.” Not that Mr. Everett would even utter such a phrase in reference to his fellow employee. At least not to Pixie’s face. He was a gentleman, after all.

  “Are they close to an arrest?” Pixie asked, her eyes wide with interest.

  Tricia shrugged out of her jacket. “I doubt it. There’s no motive for the murder. At least, not that anyone I know could tell. But I’m sure the police will be looking at Angelica and Bob Kelly as their chief suspects. They were running against Stan for Chamber president—if that’s what you could call it. They must’ve known for all of ten minutes that he was in the running before the poor man was killed.”

  “And did you find the body, Ms. Miles?” Mr. Everett asked, although from the tone of his voice he already seemed to know the answer.

  Somehow Tricia managed a nod, feeling ashamed and not meeting his gaze.

  Pixie shook her head, her dyed black pompadour bobbing. While her hairstyle remained the same from month to month, Tricia never knew what color Pixie’s hair might be on any given day. She’d gone from carrot orange to blonde to red to brown, and now to black. She’d been humming Elvis tunes of late, so Tricia suspected that’s why she’d gone to a shade to match that of the King of Rock and Roll.

  Pixie should have been born in another age. She dressed exclusively in vintage clothes that were popular from Glenn Miller’s heyday up to the golden age of rock, and wore her hair to match. She gazed at Tricia and shook her head sadly. “Lady, you got the worst luck in the whole friggin’ world.”

  “Tell me about it,” Tricia said and sighed, and unbuttoned her coat.

  “Who would want to kill Mr. Berry?” Mr. Everett asked, aghast.

  “No one I know,” Tricia admitted, “but then I barely knew him.”

  “Ya think his death really had anything to do with the Chamber election?” Pixie asked. “I mean, honestly, what would the other candidates gain?”

  Miss Marple seemed to levitate onto the cash desk; her head suddenly appeared in Tricia’s hand, desperate to be petted. Of course, Tricia complied. “Bob’s ego is all tied up in wanting to control how the commercial side of the village runs. And there’s no doubt about it, Angelica wants the job, but she honestly has the merchants’ best interests at heart, and she certainly doesn’t want it enough to kill someone.”

  “Yow,” Miss Marple said, as though in confirmation.

  Again, Pixie shook her head. “Yeah, well, the cops will probably think otherwise. No offense to your boyfriend or nothin’, but I ain’t met a flatfoot yet who wasn’t crooked at least once or twice in his career and willing to look away from hard evidence in order to make a collar.”

  “Let’s hope that only happens in vintage mysteries,” Tricia said. She wanted nothing more than to change the subject. “Have you had many sales today?”

  Pixie shook her head. “It’s been slow going. Mr. E tells me that things will pick up the closer we get to the holidays. I can’t wait. I’ve got me some really cute Christmas sweaters that I found at a thrift store in Nashua. I can’t wear them the rest of the year, so I plan to give ’em a good workout between now and New Year’s.”

  Oh, dear. At least Pixie’s Haven’t Got a Clue green work apron would cover the worst of them.

  “When are we going to decorate the store for the holidays?” Pixie asked, suddenly sounding as excited as a child on December 24.

  “We haven’t done too much in the past,” Tricia admitted, as Miss Marple settled down on the counter, resting her head on her front paws and purring contentedly. “Just some artificial greenery and a small tree in the window. We decorate it with paper stars. People buy them for a dollar or more donation and we contribute the money to a literacy organization.”

  “Oh. That’s nice … I guess,” Pixie said, sounding less than enthused.

  “The children who benefit from our customers’ generosity seem to enjoy the books,” Mr. Everett said. “Last year Ms. Miles allowed me to deliver them to a party for underprivileged youth. We sent along cookies from the Patisserie, too.”

  “Cookies are good,” Pixie agreed unenthusiastically, “but don’t you think if we did a super job of decorating that we might sell a lot more books? You know, get people in the holiday spirit and in the mood to spend, spend, spend.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Tricia asked, dreading the answer.

  Pixie’s eyes widened. “Let me give it some thought and get back to you in a couple of days.”

  “Okay,” Tricia said and smiled, all the while dreading whatever Pixie might come up with. Pixie had a tendency to throw herself wholeheartedly into things.

  The shop door opened and thankfully it was Angelica who swooped in. “Sorry I didn’t wait for you at the inn, Trish, but I just had to get away from those vultures,” she said dramatically.

  “You mean the cops?” Pixie asked with glee. She loved to disparage any branch of law enforcement.

  “Yes.” Angelica hung her head and let out a loud theatrical sigh. “I’m afraid poor Sarge”—Angelica’s bichon frise—“couldn’t wait. It looks like I need to buy a steam cleaner for my rugs. And now I’ve got to suffer until the next meeting before I know if I’ll be the next Chamber president or just a fashionable sore loser.”

  “Perhaps you could use the interval to campaign,” Mr. Everett suggested.

  Angelica’s eyes widened as her frown turned upside down. “Why, that’s a wonderful idea, Mr. Everett. I’m surprised I didn’t think of it myself.”

  Mr. Everett smiled, apparently not taking in the last part of Angelica’s statement. Tricia could envision Angelica’s mental gears churning away. “Did you have any other reason for dropping by?”

  “Of course. I need your opinion.” Angelica grabbed Tricia’s arm and hauled her off toward the readers’ nook. Miss Marple raised her head from her front paws and took this as an invitation to join them. She jumped down from the counter and trotted over to the big square coffee table just as the sisters sat down.

  Angelica’s eyes were wide. “What if I do become the next Chamber president? I was wondering what to do about Frannie.”

  Frannie Mae Armstrong managed the Cookery, Angelica’s cookbook store, located right next door to Haven’t Got a Clue. Frannie had taken the job, and a fat pay increase, after ten years as the secretary/receptionist at the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. Bob hadn’t treated her with the respect she deserved, and with her new responsibilities at the Cookery, she’d positively blossomed.

  “You weren’t thinking of offering Frannie her old job back, were you?” Tricia asked.

  “Let’s face it, Betsy Dittmeyer”—the current Chamber receptionist—“is about as welcoming as a mistreated pit bull. Frannie has a way with people. She can charm all kinds of information out of them.”

  “Yes, but won’t she think you’re offering to demote her?”

  “Why?” Angelica asked, petting Miss Marple, who seemed to enjoy it.

  “Her job title, for one. You’ve got to admit, store manager is much more appealing than receptionist. That’s about the lowest of the low when it comes to pink-collar jobs.”

  “She could be the Chamber’s office manager,” Angelica countered.

  “And will the Chamber pay her the same wage she was making before she came to work for you?”

  Angelica’s face fell. “Oh. That is a sticky subject.”

  “
And she’s got affordable health care now, too, thanks to you. She didn’t have that when she worked for the Chamber.”

  Angelica seemed to sag. “Oh, dear, I hate it when you’re right. But what a terrific asset she’d be back in her old Chamber position. If I do win, I’ll be stuck working with Betsy. That is if I kept her.”

  “Unless you’ve got a plausible reason to fire her, you’d be looking at a possible lawsuit for unjustified termination.”

  Angelica stopped petting the cat, shaking off the accumulation of loose hair from her hand. “Oh, dear. Trust you to have a logical mind.”

  “I’m just looking out for your best interests, dear sister.” Tricia frowned, watching the cat hair gently land on the carpet, knowing she’d be getting out the carpet sweeper as soon as this visit was over. “Ange, are you really sure you want to take on the job of Chamber president in addition to everything else you’ve already got going?”

  “We’ve talked about this over a hundred times during the last few months. Bob has done a credible job, but it’s time for a change. I could take Stoneham to the next level. If we had the right marketing plan, we could be welcoming customers year-round instead of just six months of the year.” She sighed. “I should’ve gone into more detail about my plans at the meeting, but as Mr. Everett says, I can be out there campaigning for the next five days. Of course, now that Bob knows he’s got competition, he’s going to be out there beating the bushes with a plank. Lucky for me, and thanks to his materialistic nature, he’s persona non grata with a number of the Main Street business owners.”

  Tricia laughed. “Especially you.”

  Angelica fought a smile. “Yes.” She quickly sobered. “You’ve got to help me plan my campaign strategy.”

  “What strategy? You’ve made your pitch. You’ll either win or lose. And I’m afraid that those who agreed with Stan will probably vote for Bob over you. You didn’t say you’d raise membership dues, but if your agenda is as ambitious as you outlined at the meeting, you’ll probably have to do just that. And not everyone who runs a business here in Stoneham is in the black like the two of us.”