Not the Killing Type Page 5

  “Is she or isn’t she going to be at our wedding?” Ginny asked with a slight edge to her voice.

  He shrugged. “I would hope so. But I cannot blame her if she does not come. As I said, she does not want people to be sicko … sicko—” He struggled with the English word.

  “Sycophants?” Michele suggested.

  Antonio nodded. “Sì.”

  “I’ll be very hurt if she doesn’t come,” Ginny said, sounding just a little childish. “After all, you said she was like a second mother to you. What loving mother would skip her son’s—even a stepson’s—wedding day?”

  “If she does, she has her reasons, and I would respect that,” Antonio said solemnly.

  “You can always send her pictures—and the wedding video,” Tricia suggested.

  Antonio smiled. “That is true.”

  Ginny’s gaze returned to the oak bar top and what remained of her drink. It wasn’t hard to fathom what she was thinking. It was time to change the subject.

  “Has everybody finished decorating for the holidays?” Tricia asked.

  Michele waved a hand around the bar. “As you can see, I haven’t even started. I’ve got a big box of lights, garlands, and faux greenery in the back room. I thought I’d wait a few more days before I transform the place.”

  “The Happy Domestic is all decked out,” Ginny volunteered. “How about Haven’t Got a Clue?”

  Tricia sighed. “Pixie is eager to start. She wants floor-to-ceiling decorations. I think I’ll have a fight on my hands to keep things simple and dignified.”

  Ginny laughed. “Oh, go ahead and indulge her. You might see an uptick in sales this year.”

  Tricia thought about what Ginny wasn’t saying. “Do you think I’ve been too restrained in the past?”

  Ginny turned her attention back to what was left of her drink. “A little.”

  Tricia felt her mouth tighten. Had Ginny been too intimidated to say so when she’d worked for Tricia—or hadn’t she cared? “What would you suggest?”

  Ginny’s eyes widened. “Ribbon. Lots of it. Put some bows on the books that don’t have dustcovers. The portraits on the walls have glass over them. Get some colored dry-erase markers and draw on Santa beards and hats. Liven the place up a little bit.”

  Liven the place up? Tricia found the very idea of belittling the famous—and long-dead—authors absolutely abhorrent.

  “Miss Marple might like to help you, too,” Michele suggested. “I used to put a bell on my cat’s collar at Christmastime. It was very cheerful.”

  “Miss Marple doesn’t wear a collar,” Tricia said, knowing her cat would not like one, either.

  “You could dress her up as Santa, too,” Ginny suggested. “She’d look really cute in a little red coat and hat. They’re made with elastic so that you can tuck them under her chin and around her belly.”

  “I don’t think she’d like that, either,” Tricia said. Defacing portraits—dressing up her cat? What were they thinking?

  Antonio eyed her, his mouth set. “Tricia is like me. She likes dignified decorations. Nothing over the top. The inn will be decorated this weekend. I invite you to arrive on Sunday, before the wedding rehearsal, to see how lovely it all looks.”

  “I’d almost forgotten about the rehearsal,” Tricia admitted. “I’ll look forward to seeing everything all spruced up for the holiday.”

  “Did Nigela choose the decorations?” Michele asked.

  Antonio nodded. “Our guests will feel as though they have come home for the holidays. And since we are fully booked through the rest of the month, as well as December, there will be plenty of people to enjoy them.”

  Tricia didn’t want to jump back on the Nigela Ricita bandwagon once again, and decided she’d had enough companionship for one night. She took one last sip from her glass, set it on the bar, and stood. “I’ve got a hungry cat waiting for me at home. I’d best be going.” She paid for her drink, leaving the change on the bar for the tip jar.

  “Good night,” her friends chorused. Tricia gave them a smile and a wave and headed for the door where she’d left her coat. She put it on and exited the pub.

  The cold air hit her with the force of a sucker punch. She looked left and right for traffic, but there was none. She also noted that most of the storefronts on Main Street had already been decorated for the holiday season. The white fairy lights on By Hook or By Book were utterly charming. Tricia wouldn’t mind adding a string of lights to her front display window, and maybe around the front door. They were attractive yet dignified, just like Haven’t Got a Clue.

  Pixie might want to deck the halls with far too many decorations, and Tricia decided she must stand firm. That settled, she crossed the empty street. Less than a minute later she was inside the store and heading for her loft apartment, with Miss Marple trotting up the stairs after her.

  Despite the fact she’d spent the better part of the last hour with friends, Tricia realized she still felt unsettled. There were things she needed to talk about, but not with Ginny, Antonio, or Michele. As she fed Miss Marple and set out a bowl of fresh water, she made a decision and picked up the kitchen extension. It rang twice before it was answered.

  “Hello,” Angelica said.

  “What are you doing tonight?” Tricia asked.

  “Not a damn thing. I was thinking about making myself a vegetable stir-fry. Why?”

  “Do you want to go somewhere for dinner?”

  “What have you got in mind?”

  Tricia hadn’t had anything in mind, but stir-fry sure sounded good. “How about we go out for Chinese? But you have to drive. I’ve just come from the Dog-Eared Page.”

  “Oh, and you didn’t invite me?”

  “Sorry. How about that dinner?”

  “I’ve already got my keys in my hand. Let’s go.”

  FIVE

  The drive to Merrimack, where a fine selection of Chinese restaurants could be found, would have been pretty quiet if Angelica hadn’t blathered on and on about her campaign strategy. Tricia wasn’t sure what it was she wanted to tell her sister, only that she had to get something off her chest.

  The white linen tablecloths were protected by table-sized plate glass, and the napkins were linen instead of paper for the nighttime crowd. The restaurant was filled with people, conversation, and cheerful ethnic music played in the background. A large saltwater fish tank divided the dining room, where a variety of colorful fish swam lazily back and forth, probably wondering why they were held prisoner in such a tiny space when they—or their forebearers—had once had an ocean in which to roam free.

  Angelica perused Madam Lu’s menu with the same level of concentration she gave her literary contracts.

  “It’s only food,” Tricia reminded her.

  Angelica looked over the top of her reading glasses and glowered. “I suppose you’re going to choose the steamed vegetables—sans rice, soup, or egg roll.”

  Tricia shrugged. “I splurged on a Danish for breakfast, so I really should rein in my dinner choice.”

  “You’re not overweight. You don’t have high cholesterol or blood pressure. Can’t you ever just let go and enjoy yourself?”

  Tricia looked down at her menu and fought sudden tears.

  The waiter returned with a sweating pitcher of water and filled the glasses that sat before them, his expression eager to please. “You like something else to drink?”

  “I’ll have a Beefeater martini, up, with two queen olives,” Angelica said without hesitation. She looked at her sister expectantly. “Tricia?”

  “I’ll have the same,” Tricia blurted.

  Angelica blinked, startled.

  “You order now?” the waistcoated waiter asked.

  Angelica shook her head and set her menu aside. “Not yet. Please bring our drinks. We might need some time to think this over.”

  The waiter nodded enthusiastically and hurried away.

  All kinds of emotions seemed to be bubbling up inside Tricia, and she fought
the urge to burst into tears. Angelica reached across the table and rested her hand on Tricia’s. “Trish, honey, something is terribly wrong. I think it’s time you told me what’s going on.”

  Tricia bit her lip and shook her head. She wasn’t sure she could articulate what was on her mind—not without crying, anyway. That she felt picked on by Ginny? That wasn’t it. That Christopher’s imminent arrival had triggered both anger and nostalgia, while Stan’s murder was sure to drive Grant Baker away? And why had she wanted to go to a public place when she could have unburdened herself quite nicely in Angelica’s—private—kitchen?

  Angelica’s fingers curled around Tricia’s and the touch brought a flood of memories from the past. How many times had their beloved grandmother done the same thing when her childhood problems had seemed so overwhelming? Tricia’s vision blurred as she looked up at her sister and noticed how much Angelica resembled their father’s mother.

  “Please tell me what’s wrong,” Angelica whispered. “Maybe I can help.”

  It was then Tricia burst into tears.

  Suddenly Angelica was beside her in the booth, her arms encircling Tricia’s shoulders, their heads resting against each other. “Tricia, Tricia,” Angelica soothed. “Come on, tell your big sister all about it,” Angelica implored and pressed a paper napkin into Tricia’s hand.

  “My life is such a mess,” Tricia blubbered and blew her nose.

  Angelica squeezed her tighter. “Tell me all about it.”

  Tricia shook her head and Angelica pressed a kiss against her cheek. “Come on. We can’t solve this unless you bare all.”

  Tricia knew she was right, but the vast ocean of emotion she’d been denying for such a long time engulfed her like a tsunami. She cried and cried and cried.

  The drinks arrived, and she was sure that the other restaurant patrons around them were staring at them in discomfort, but for the very first time in her life, she didn’t care. Crying in a public place was embarrassing, and yet somehow very liberating. Angelica held on to her, kissing her head, rocking her, and cooing comforting words into her ear. When at last the tears started to subside, Tricia found herself wiping her eyes with the other cocktail napkin. She looked up into her sister’s worried face to find compassion, not derision.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Angelica assured her. “We’re going to figure out what’s wrong and make it right. I promise.”

  Tricia blinked back the last of her tears and returned her sister’s hug. Angelica planted one last kiss on Tricia’s head—not unlike the ones she gave her dog—before she moved back to the other side of the booth.

  The waiter was suddenly there, offering Tricia a fistful of clean paper napkins, his expression wary.

  “We’re going to need a few minutes,” Angelica said. “Maybe ten or fifteen,” she elaborated.

  The little man bowed and scurried away.

  Angelica lifted her martini glass. “Now, tell me what’s wrong. But first, I think we should toast.”

  “To what?” Tricia asked miserably.

  “The future, of course. And may it be fabulous for both of us.”

  Fabulous? Both of them were probably considered murder suspects by the chief of the Stoneham Police Department—and not for the first time, either.

  Tricia studied her sister’s face. Except for the time she’d witnessed Angelica’s ordeal dealing with her fear of closed-in spaces, Tricia had never seen Angelica crumble—and especially not in public. Panic, maybe. Crumble? Not a chance. Angelica never even blinked in the face of adversity. For the first time, Tricia envied her sister for that quality.

  Tricia took a tiny sip of her drink. It was watered down, as most restaurant drinks seemed to be. She set her glass back down on the paper napkin.

  “Something set you off,” Angelica said quietly, setting her own glass on the table. “Now what was it? And let me remind you that everything in your life isn’t in ruins.”

  “Oh, but it is. And the worst is my situation with Grant.”

  “Oh, it’s always a man,” Angelica commiserated.

  “I can predict what’s going to happen,” Tricia began. “Tomorrow morning he’s going to come into the shop—or worse, call me—and say, You found the body. I have to consider you a suspect, and will treat me like—”

  “Like shit,” Angelica supplied.

  Tricia nodded. “Until the truth comes to light, and then he’ll want to pick up where we left off as though nothing happened.”

  “The skunk,” Angelica cried and took another sip of her drink.

  Tricia swiped one of the rough napkins against her nose once again. “I don’t think I can do that anymore.”

  “Of course you can’t,” Angelica agreed. “So what will you do?”

  Tricia thought about it for a moment. Baker was a sweet, tender man—when he was emotionally available, but that was far too infrequently. How many times had he canceled a date? Date? What were they? More often than not the times they got together he’d come to her loft with a pizza or a sub sandwich, stay the night, and then disappear for a week or two.

  Tricia had been reluctant to admit it, but the fact was that being with Grant Baker was not much better than being alone. It had been eons since she’d spent a night at his place. They’d had a few hurried lunch dates during the past few months, but not much more.

  “Are you ready to call it quits?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia eyed her drink, picked it up, and took a fortifying sip. She nodded. “I should have known where we stood when he chose to stand by his sick ex-wife.”

  “I don’t think you can fault the man for that,” Angelica admonished.

  “No, I don’t. But it’s now obvious to me that he’d choose anything—job, ex-wife, maybe even his car—over me.”

  Angelica sighed. “I’m sorry you have to go through this.”

  Tricia shrugged. “That’s not the half of it. Christopher has resurfaced again.”

  Angelica frowned. “What does he want?”

  Tricia shook her head. “He’s got a job interview—but it’s on the weekend. Who holds interviews on a weekend?”

  “Not a corporate client. Maybe someone with big bucks who needs an honest financial advisor. You did once speculate that was the reason Christopher gave up his career. That he couldn’t stand misleading clients into making risky investments that his superiors were pushing.”

  Tricia sighed and nodded. “If nothing else, Christopher never lied to me, and I do believe if he’d had to stay in that gonzo Wall Street environment much longer he would have gone crazy. But instead of just giving up his job, he gave up his whole life!”

  Angelica took another sip of her drink. “The thing is, you don’t have to see him. You don’t even have to talk to him.”

  “I know. But bottom line, I’ll always care for him. I like the idea that we can still be friends, if not life partners.”

  “Maybe Grant Baker feels the same way about his ex-wife,” Angelica suggested.

  It was Tricia’s turn to nod. She, too, took another sip of her drink. She didn’t really enjoy a martini, and wished she’d ordered something a bit more tame, since that apparently was her style. These days, she wasn’t quite sure what her style was.

  “Anything else bothering you?” Angelica asked sincerely.

  Tricia shrugged. “Ginny intimated that my decorating style—well, that I’m—stuffy.”

  “Tricia, dear, you are stuffy,” Angelica confirmed. “That said, you command a lot of respect in Stoneham—that village jinx label not withstanding. You have dedicated employees, wonderful friends, Miss Marple, and of course Sarge and me.”

  Tricia ran her index finger around the bottom of her glass and nodded. She felt beaten, exhausted from exorcising her demons. But she also felt a lot calmer after giving in to the tears that had been hanging around the periphery of her soul for far too long.

  Tricia became aware of the hopeful waiter standing nearby. As she glanced directly at him, Angelica said, “N
ot yet,” in the same voice she used to admonish Sarge.

  The waiter went away.

  She turned back to her sister. “Trish, answer my next question from your gut—and not the part of your brain that wants to censor all you say or do.”

  Tricia looked up. “That sounds ominous.”

  “Not at all.” Angelica removed the little pink sword that skewered the olives in her martini. She bit down on the first olive, pulled it free, and chewed, then put the sword and remaining olive back in her glass. She swallowed. “What would make you happy?”

  World peace.

  A cure for cancer.

  No cruelty—ever—to animals, children, or the elderly.

  “Time,” she answered simply. “Time for myself. Time to do as I please. Time enough to read all day. Time to repair all the old books I’ve collected that need some TLC. Time to do what I damn well please.”

  Angelica nodded, took another sip of her drink, and set down her glass. “Did you notice that nothing in your want-to-do list was spending time with a man?”

  Tricia blinked, taken aback. Angelica was right. Her off-the-cuff answer had not included Grant Baker or Christopher Benson.

  “Maybe what you need to do is take a day off once in a while,” Angelica said reasonably. “Have you had one day off since you opened the shop?”

  Tricia thought about it. Yes, she had. Well, almost. When she’d taken care of Angelica after she’d broken her foot three years before, she’d opened and closed the store, leaving Ginny in charge during the intervening hours. And of course, she’d had the last two Christmas days off. But other than that …

  “Do you think I’m burned out?” she asked Angelica. The thought had never occurred to her.

  Angelica shrugged. “You tell me.”

  Tricia considered the idea. Hell yes, she was burned out! She loved her store, but she hadn’t really built a life that included it, but didn’t revolve around it. She ran four miles on her treadmill every day. Ate the same yogurt breakfast, tuna plate lunch, and a makeshift dinner—unless, of course, Angelica invited her over … or she invited herself. Most nights she read herself to sleep.

  Of course, she didn’t want her old life back, either. In those days, she and Christopher would go out to eat or bring home take-out food—every night! Either that or they dined with people she thought had been friends. People who seemed too busy to talk or spend time with her after the divorce.