Not the Killing Type Page 4

  “I know that. But I was hoping …” She let the sentence trail off and looked away as though distracted.

  “Hoping what?” Tricia asked.

  “Well, that maybe we could convince Ms. Nigela Ricita to make a generous contribution to the flower fund. I mean, she’s got two businesses on Main Street, plus the Sheer Comfort and Brookview Inns. She’s now vying with Bob as the biggest stakeholder in the village.”

  “She doesn’t own the Brookview. She’s just a partner. And she doesn’t own the building that houses the Happy Domestic, either,” Tricia reminded her.

  Angelica waved a dismissive hand. “She’s got a vested interest in the village.”

  “How are you going to convince her to open her wallet?” Tricia asked. “Do you know how to contact her?”

  “I’ve tried e-mailing,” Angelica admitted, defeat coloring her tone. “Antonio answered it. What’s this woman afraid of, anyway? That we’ll bite her if she actually shows up?”

  “Maybe she just values her privacy. Or maybe a lot of people bug her for money and it’s easier not to talk to them than continue to hear the constant whine of gimme, gimme, gimme.”

  Angelica sighed and shrugged. “You’re probably right. But I sure could cinch this election if I had her support.”

  “You’ve got Antonio’s support. Surely that carries some Nigela Ricita weight.”

  “That’s true.”

  “It still beats me why you want to do this anyway. I thought you wanted to be the next Paula Deen. Why don’t you concentrate on that?”

  “I’ve been rethinking my goals,” Angelica said, looking wistful. “Now I want to be the next Martha Stewart. I like the idea of having a plethora of companies and products to offer the public at large.”

  “A finger in every pie?” Tricia asked.

  Angelica’s smile was wry. “Exactly. And I figure I can learn a lot by networking with other people within the statewide Chamber of Commerce network.”

  “How long would you want to hold the job?” Tricia asked.

  “Oh, only a year or two. That’s all I’d need. I’m a quick study.”

  That she was.

  Angelica stood. “Look, I’d better be going. The lunch crowd will be thinning over at Booked for Lunch and I’d better go help with the cleanup.” She looked down at Tricia. “Are you coming over for your usual tuna plate?”

  Tricia shook her head. “Not today. It’s time for Pixie and Mr. Everett to go to lunch.”

  As if in agreement, Pixie, who’d been unabashedly eavesdropping, headed toward the back of the store to grab her coat.

  “I’ll call you later,” Angelica promised and steered for the exit.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

  “Ta-ta!” Angelica called and exited the store.

  Pixie came back just as the door closed behind Angelica. She carried Mr. Everett’s jacket, too. “We’re going to the Bookshelf Diner. They’ve got liver and onions on the special board today. Want us to bring something back for you?”

  Tricia shook her head. She’d lost her appetite for the day—and maybe tomorrow, too—when she’d found Stan Berry dead on the toilet.

  “We’ll be back in an hour,” Pixie promised, and she and Mr. Everett headed out the door. The phone rang, and Tricia moved to stand behind the cash desk before she picked up the heavy black receiver of her circa-1935 telephone. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How can I help you?”

  “Tricia, my love. It’s so good to hear your beautiful voice.”

  Oh, dear. It was Christopher, Tricia’s ex-husband. The one who had dumped her four years before. Christopher, who’d abandoned his lucrative career as a stockbroker, run away to the Colorado mountains to find himself, and then had reappeared on her doorstep some three months before.

  “All settled in?” she asked hopefully. Christopher had decided Colorado was too far away from his past life, had recently relocated to the East Coast, and was renting a cabin in the White Mountains just a few hours north of Stoneham—at least a few hours as the crow flies. By road, it took a bit longer.

  “Pretty much,” he said. “This morning I went into town for a newspaper. The convenience store had a TV on. There was a story developing about a murder today in Stoneham. I saw you on a piece of news footage leaving the—”

  “You don’t have to remind me. I was there.”

  Christopher laughed, and something inside Tricia ached. Oh, how she had missed that laugh. “Angelica tells me you have a penchant for finding bodies,” he said.

  “When did you speak to Angelica?” Tricia asked suspiciously.

  “A few months back. She said some of your neighbors call you the village jinx.”

  Her sour mood intensified. If Tricia ever heard that word again … “Why did you call?” she asked, perturbed.

  “I’ll be heading your way soon and hoped that maybe we could have lunch or dinner together.”

  “You’re coming to Stoneham?” Tricia asked. She really didn’t want to see Christopher. Memories of his rejection, their separation and eventual divorce, were still all too painful.

  “Portsmouth, actually. I’ve got a job interview.”

  “I thought your new, frugal lifestyle gave you the latitude so that you never needed to work again.”

  “It has, but let’s face it, I was good,” he said, sounding smug. “I still have a few clients and now there’s no stress, no quotas to meet. I feel like a human being once again. And, to be honest, I’m a little bored.”

  “I’m glad to hear you’ve returned to some semblance of your old self,” Tricia said, and she meant it. She would always love Christopher and, indeed, he almost sounded like the man she had fallen in love with. Almost. And almost was no longer good enough. She thought about her relationship with Chief Baker. How come she was settling for what he was able or willing to give? She shook the thought away, concentrating on her ex once more, hoping he would just find somebody else to share his life with and stop popping back into hers.

  “As it turns out,” he continued, “I have a strong desire to feel useful. Everyone needs to feel useful. And all I need to conduct business is an Internet connection to consult via long distance.”

  Did they have broadband in the mountains? Tricia shrugged. It really wasn’t her problem. “When are you arriving?” she asked, resigned.

  “The day after tomorrow. I’m not sure about the timing. Will you meet with me?”

  Tricia looked out the front display window. Up the street, and very much out of sight, was the Stoneham police station. Was Grant Baker there right now? He hadn’t been pleased when Christopher had shown up out of the blue back in August. Tricia had been careful not to mention that he called periodically, and usually for silly reasons—like to wish Miss Marple a happy birthday or to ask a question about someone they’d known back in Manhattan.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’d better call me after you’ve conducted your business,” she said.

  “Does Chief Baker have a problem with us seeing each other?” Christopher asked with reproach.

  “I don’t see why he would,” she said, thinking about the year or more she’d hung around waiting for Baker when his ex-wife was ill and he felt the need to be with her during her recovery. Tricia wasn’t about to tell Christopher that.

  “Then let’s tentatively plan it. I’ll book a room at the Brookview Inn and let you know when I get into town.”

  Tricia sighed. She really shouldn’t encourage him. And yet … “Very well.” There, that sounded like she was just putting up with him—which she was. She had no illusions about them ever getting back together, and if he was smart, he wouldn’t, either. “I’ll talk to you then.”

  “Okay. Give Miss Marple a pat on the head for me,” he said.

  “I will.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Tricia replaced the receiver in its cradle and let out a sigh. Miss Marple jumped up on the counter with a cheerful “Brrrr
pt!”

  “Yes, that was Christopher. He’s coming to town.” She petted the cat. “That’s from him.”

  Miss Marple nuzzled her head against Tricia’s arm, and her purring went into overdrive. The sound brought back a vivid memory from earlier that day. The fan in the inn’s handicapped restroom had been running when she’d found Stan Berry. The low hum should have been rather soothing, like a cat’s purr. The sight of Berry dead had been anything but a balm to the nerves.

  Suddenly the quiet became incredibly unnerving. Tricia pivoted and strode over to the shop’s stereo system, then shuffled through the stack of CDs until she came to a favorite full of cheerful Celtic tunes. She decided to make a fresh pot of coffee, too, just in case the store was flooded with afternoon customers.

  As she filled the pot from the restroom’s tap, she wondered if she could keep busy enough to stop thinking about real death and concentrate on selling the fictional kind to her customers.

  FOUR

  The preholiday shopping season seemed to have skipped that particular Friday in November, at least for Haven’t Got a Clue. It was exactly one week until Black Friday. Things would be different on that day. Tricia—and every other proprietor of a retail establishment in Stoneham—hoped.

  When closing time finally arrived, Tricia was more than ready to pull down the shade on the main display window and turn the OPEN sign to CLOSED. Mr. Everett had already left for the day by the time Pixie finished vacuuming the carpet and grabbed her coat from a hook in the back of the store.

  After the morning she’d had, Tricia wasn’t looking forward to spending the evening alone. She loved Miss Marple with all her heart, but the little gray cat preferred to nap in the evenings rather than chat, and Tricia felt the need for company.

  Tricia turned to Pixie. “We’ve had a long, boring day. How would you like to join me at the Dog-Eared Page for a glass of wine?” she asked, and realized it was the first time she’d ever invited her newest employee to join her in an after-work excursion.

  Pixie’s eyes widened with a hunger like that of a starving puppy. “Oh, I would love to—thank you,” she said, sounding wistful, but then her mouth drooped. “But I can’t. It’s a condition of my parole that I not frequent businesses that serve alcohol. Just in case I’m tempted to … you know,” she said and rolled her eyes.

  Take up her old life as a prostitute? Yes, Tricia could see the danger that frequenting a bar might pose. She forced a smile. “Maybe we’ll do breakfast before the holidays, then. We can invite Mr. Everett to join us, too.”

  “That would be great,” Pixie agreed and shrugged into her moth-eaten fur coat. “But as long as you’re going to the bar anyway, have one for me.”

  “I’ll do that,” Tricia said.

  “Good night,” Pixie called and headed out the door, which seemed to close with a terrible finality.

  Tricia found herself standing in the middle of her too-quiet shop, a feeling of panic building within her. She had to get out of there! She had to be around people—laughter—life!

  Somehow, she managed to finish her end-of-day tasks before she gave Miss Marple a few kitty snacks to hold her over until her dinner, grabbed her coat and purse, and flew out the door.

  The lights were on and Tricia could hear the sound of music as she crossed the street and approached the Dog-Eared Page. Since they’d opened several months before, she found she liked to occasionally visit in the evening after working hours and before dinner. Too often Chief Baker was working late, and she found she couldn’t resist the urge for companionship—but it was usually fellow Chamber members, or even her own sister, who were apt to show up.

  On that night, she entered the warm and inviting tavern filled with boisterous customers and music, looked around, and saw Ginny and Antonio sitting at the bar, conversing with its manager. Angelica was nowhere in sight. Tricia took off her coat, hung it on one of the pegs in the corner, and headed for the bar and the empty seat next to Antonio.

  “Can I join you?” she asked.

  Antonio turned at the sound of her voice and stood. “Ah, Tricia. We would love it. Please sit.”

  Tricia took the offered seat, soaking in the ambience.

  “What brings you out on a cold night like this?” Ginny asked, toying with the plastic stir stick that protruded from her short glass. A gin and tonic, Tricia surmised, by the lime that rested on top of the ice in her glass.

  “There’s nothing good on TV,” Tricia fibbed. She hadn’t even consulted the schedule for that evening.

  “Don’t tell that to the group over there watching the hockey game on TV,” Michele advised. “What’ll you have?”

  “Chardonnay,” Tricia said.

  Moments later, Michele put a cocktail napkin and a stemmed glass of wine down in front of her.

  “So what’s the big topic of conversation tonight?” Tricia asked.

  “Stan’s murder,” Ginny answered.

  Suddenly, coming to the bar didn’t seem like such a good idea. “Oh, no—let’s talk about anything but the murder,” Tricia begged.

  “How about the Chamber of Commerce election?” Michele asked.

  Tricia shook her head and took a sip of her wine. “Too close to the same subject. And anyway, I think I know how the three of you are going to vote.”

  They all nodded, not bothering to suppress smiles.

  Michele looked at Antonio. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, dear boy, what does our boss think about someone getting killed in her inn?”

  Antonio glowered. “She was not at all pleased. This could make for much bad publicity.”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about the murder,” Tricia protested.

  “Oops, sorry,” Michele apologized, but she didn’t look at all guilty.

  “And do we have to talk about our employer, as well? Everybody badgers me about the dear lady. It gets annoying,” Antonio grumbled.

  “Surely you don’t think we’re annoying?” Michele forcefully demanded, straightening up in umbrage.

  Antonio held out his hands in submission. “Ah, never you, dear ladies.”

  “Then will you tell us about her?” Michele asked hungrily. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the bar and her head in her hands.

  Antonio sighed and sipped what looked like Campari on ice. “She is a very private woman.”

  “We get that,” Ginny said. “But you can’t blame us for being curious.”

  “You mean Antonio hasn’t even spilled the Nigela beans with you?” Tricia asked.

  Ginny’s smile was coy. “We try to leave our work lives behind when we’re at home.”

  “Go on,” Tricia urged, grinning.

  Antonio shrugged. “There’s not much to tell.” He looked thoughtful for a few moments. “You see … my father did not marry my mother. It is still a sore point with me.”

  “Oh,” Tricia said, and suddenly wished she hadn’t prodded so hard.

  “But he did marry Nigela. I met her when I was eight. I came to stay with them for a summer. My father … he was not so interested in having a bastard son, but Nigela was very kind to me. Always.”

  “Did you see her much after that summer?”

  “Only when she would come to Firenze. Even after they divorced, Nigela would send me money for school clothes and books. When I was seventeen, my mother died. Nigela brought me to America to go to university.”

  “So she’s an American?” Tricia asked, surprised.

  Antonio nodded. “Sì.”

  Tricia had thought Ricita was an Italian name. Could it be the woman’s current married name?

  “Did you ever live with her?” Michele asked.

  Antonio shook his head. “She had remarried. Her new husband did not want the bastard child of her ex-husband in their home. I’m sure you can imagine the difficulties. But she paid for my schooling and we saw each other often. When I graduated, my heart told me I should go home to Italia.”

  “You were homesick,” Michele sai
d with understanding, her English accent sounding just a wee bit stronger. “I’ve been that way a time or two myself over the years.”

  Antonio nodded. “But I found Italia was no longer my home. You see, there was no one there for me.”

  “Ohhhh,” the three women chorused in sympathy.

  “So, I asked Nigela if I could return to America. She was overjoyed. Not only did she pay my way, but she asked me to work for her, which I have been very happy to do. She is my second mother. She has given me opportunities I never would have had in Italia. I would do anything for her.”

  “Like keeping her private life completely private?” Tricia asked.

  He nodded. “Sì.”

  “Then how about answering a question that doesn’t pertain to her private life,” Michele said. “Why is she investing so much money in Stoneham?”

  Antonio laughed. “She likes it here.”

  “She’s been to Stoneham?” Tricia asked, surprised.

  “Oh, many times,” Antonio said.

  “Why doesn’t she let people know when she comes?” Ginny asked.

  “She believes if people knew she was here, she would be treated differently,” Antonio explained.

  “How?” Tricia asked.

  “That people would … how do you say it? … fall all over themselves.”

  “I’m your fiancée. She could have met with me,” Ginny grumbled. “I’m not about to fall all over her.”

  “So she’s been to the Brookview?” Tricia asked, hoping to deflect her friend’s ire.

  Antonio nodded. “Sì. Under an assumed name.”

  “Does anyone at the inn know her secret identity?” Tricia asked. Good grief. It sounded like they were talking about a superhero!

  Antonio shook his head.

  “So that’s how she knew what colors to paint the lobby, and what rug to choose,” Ginny said thoughtfully.

  “It certainly looks nice,” Tricia agreed.

  “Nigela is gifted with many talents,” Antonio admitted.