A Deadly Deletion Read online

  Tricia frowned. “You mean like me?”

  Becca shook her head. “From what I understand, you once ran a powerful nonprofit in Manhattan. What made you want to give that up to come here?” With the hint of a sneer she looked around the basement office/storeroom.

  Tricia took a calming breath before answering. “I thought the pace would be a lot slower.”

  “And is your life quiet and peaceful?” Becca asked pointedly.

  How much had Marshall—er, Gene—told her?

  “Not exactly.”

  Again Becca nodded.

  “You seem to know a lot about me, whereas I know nothing about you,” Tricia ventured.

  Becca blinked incredulously. “You don’t recognize my name?”

  “I’m sorry, but . . . no.”

  “Rebecca Dickson-Chandler,” the woman said pointedly. When Tricia didn’t react, she clarified her response. “The tennis player,” she said as though to avoid calling Tricia a complete dunce.

  Tricia’s eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, yes. The two-time US Open women’s singles champion.”

  “Three-time,” Becca corrected, “among other just as prestigious titles.”

  “And what are you doing here in Stoneham?” Tricia almost added the word slumming to the question, but held her tongue.

  “Once the marshals contacted Gene’s attorney, he immediately contacted me. I’m the executrix of his estate. He never changed that when he went underground.” Becca pulled out her phone and tapped the photo gallery icon. She turned it and flipped through a number of pictures Tricia readily recognized as the Armchair Tourist and the Stoneham Weekly News. Something about them seemed off, but she wasn’t quite sure why. “Although,” Becca continued, “from what I gather, we dodged a bullet—if you’ll pardon the rather bad analogy—when it came to that little newspaper. It turns out the owner hadn’t cashed the check, so we’re off the hook.”

  “We?” Tricia inquired.

  Becca gave a little laugh. “Me. Gene seems to have done all right for himself these past few years. I was glad when he dumped that horrid little porn shop for a more respectable business.”

  “You seem to know a lot about his time here in Stoneham,” Tricia said, suddenly feeling ignorant of the finer points of her lover’s time in the village.

  “We weren’t supposed to keep in touch, but like I say . . . Gene got lonely. He found a way for us to communicate.”

  And was that how whoever killed Marshall traced him to Stoneham? Did Becca realize she might have been of use to her ex-husband’s killer? Her attitude so far seemed rather remote, as though attending to the aftermath of Marshall’s death was just another item on her list of things to do.

  “How long were you married?” Tricia asked.

  “Eight years. Probably six of the best years of my life.”

  Were the first or last two years of that marriage unhappy? Tricia wasn’t prepared to ask.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll be staying long in our”—again, Tricia bit her tongue to keep from saying crummy—“little village.”

  Becca shrugged, her expression bland. “I don’t know. Gene liked it here. Maybe I would, too.”

  “We’re rather a quiet hamlet.” Except for being the murder capital of New Hampshire, that was. “You’d probably be bored in an hour.”

  Becca nodded. “Maybe.”

  “Where will you be staying?”

  “I booked a room in a place called the Sheer Comfort Inn, but I may just bunk in Gene’s apartment for a few days. Is it nice?”

  “Yes,” Tricia answered guardedly.

  “Did you help him decorate it?” Becca asked, her voice hardening.

  Was Becca on a fishing expedition?

  “Uh, no. The former tenant had a hand in it. Marshall, er, Gene, kept it as it was.”

  “I understand the former tenant was your ex-husband. He, too, was murdered . . . wasn’t he?” Becca asked, her tone suspiciously innocent.

  Tricia answered honestly. “Sadly, yes.”

  Becca cocked her head and squinted at Tricia. “Maybe you are the village jinx,” she said, her voice growing hard once again.

  Tricia stood. “It’s been nice speaking with you, Becca,” she said, and glanced at her watch. “but I have a business to run. Perhaps we can talk again another day.”

  Becca’s mouth twitched into something that resembled a smile . . . or was it a smirk? She rose from her chair. “Oh, we’ll talk again,” she said rather snidely, and turned for the stairs. Tricia hesitated before following.

  She didn’t like Becca Dickson-Chandler.

  * * *

  * * *

  It was late in the afternoon when the phone rang at Haven’t Got a Clue. Pixie answered it. “Haven’t Got a—” She stopped. “Oh, sure, she’s right here. Tricia!”

  Tricia had been helping Mr. Everett restock shelves, but approached the cash desk.

  “It’s Ginny,” Pixie whispered, and handed Tricia the phone.

  “Hey, Ginny, what’s up?”

  “I’m sorry, but I need to postpone our Thursday lunch. Can we do Friday instead?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. I’ve been trying to sweet-talk the owner of a new-to-us print shop to give us a price break for all the printing costs this holiday season and I finally nailed him down. He wants to do a lunch meeting over subs and soda. I want to talk shop on my lunch hour like I want a tooth pulled, but if it saves us ten percent, it will be well worth it.”

  “Friday’s fine. Anything else new?”

  “Just the usual. We’ll catch up on Friday, okay?”

  “Sure thing. Talk to you then.” Tricia hung up the phone.

  “Ginny’s always so busy,” Pixie commented.

  “Yes, she is. I always feel like our lunches are stolen time from her job. I don’t know what they’ll do when she goes out on maternity leave in the spring.”

  Pixie shrugged. “Cope.”

  Tricia glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly time to close. While Pixie cleaned the beverage station and washed the pots and mugs for the next day, Tricia finished stocking shelves with Mr. Everett.

  The shadows were growing long as they all donned their jackets and headed for the door.

  “Are you sure I can’t drive you home, Pixie?” Mr. Everett offered.

  “Aw, thanks, Mr. E, but it’ll only take me ten minutes to walk and the sun won’t set for another fifteen minutes after that. Give me a couple more weeks, though, and I’ll gladly take you up on your offer. I intend to keep walking to work as far into the fall as I can. It keeps me toned—and I don’t have to feel guilty if I eat a handful of chips.”

  Tricia liked that kind of thinking. “You two have a wonderful evening. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, and watched as her employees waved and started up the street.

  The door to the Cookery swung open as Tricia approached and its manager, June, stepped onto the sidewalk.

  “Don’t close the door,” Tricia called.

  June turned. “Oh, Tricia.” Her smile quickly switched to a frown. “I haven’t had a chance to offer my condolences on your loss. It was such a shock.”

  “Thanks, June. Marshall was a good man.” Yeah, and he was also a man with a past. Had news of that past started making the rounds? Tricia wasn’t about to ask.

  “Sarge went out about an hour ago, so he should be good for a while,” June said, sounding just a little nervous. Maybe she did know the scoop on Marshall.

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, uh, have a good evening,” June said, and practically fled down the street, heading toward the municipal parking lot.

  Tricia entered the store and locked the door behind her, headed for the door marked private, and up the steps to Angelica’s apartment. A joyful, barking Sarge greeted her at the land
ing.

  “Mommy’s little boy loves his auntie Tricia,” Angelica simpered. Usually, she just implored the dog to “Hush!” She must have been feeling pretty chipper.

  Tricia hung up her coat, gave Sarge a couple of biscuits, and settled onto one of the barstools. “Something smells good.”

  Angelica’s knee was once again perched on the little scooter. “I made us garlic cheese dip and didn’t spare the garlic. After all, we’re not kissing anyone tonight.” Then she winced as though suddenly remembering Marshall’s untimely death. “Oh, Trish—”

  Tricia raised a hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry about it. How about our martinis? Can I give you a hand?”

  “Of course. You know where everything is,” Angelica said as she removed a ceramic bowl from the oven and moved the steaming dip onto a waiting platter that already contained a stack of crackers. “I’m sorry we don’t have a baguette. We’ll just have to make do.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine.”

  Tricia placed the glasses and the platter on a waiting tray already decked out with napkins, and they moved into the living room, taking their favorite spots.

  “How was your day?” Angelica asked as she grabbed a cracker and dunked it into the goopy dip, its aroma intoxicating to any garlic lover.

  Tricia passed a glass to her sister. “Just the usual. I took my walk, opened my store, met Marshall’s ex-wife.”

  “What?” Angelica cried, nearly dropping her cracker.

  “Yeah. And you won’t believe who she is.”

  “Who—who?”

  “Rebecca Dickson-Chandler. She introduced herself as Becca Chandler.”

  Angelica’s mouth dropped open, her eyes wide with delight. “The world-famous tennis player? Rod,” her ex-husband, “and I saw her win the US Open in Flushing Meadows.” She shook her head, her gaze dreamy. “What a power player she was—probably still is, although she retired from the game a few years back after her terrible injury.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Angelica rolled her eyes. “Rock-climbing. She fell. Really messed up her leg.”

  “I didn’t know you followed the sports celebrities so closely.”

  “Back in the day, I was a pretty good tennis player myself.” She clasped her hands together as though holding a racket. “I had a wicked backhand.” She sighed. “But then I got a wicked case of—”

  “Tennis elbow?” Tricia suggested.

  Angelica frowned. “Tendinitis. I’d stop playing for a few months until it healed, but it kept coming back. I had to give up the game.” She sighed again, this time wistfully. But then she brightened. “What in the world was Marshall doing married to such a wunderkind?”

  “We didn’t get into that. But she didn’t seem terribly upset to learn he was dead.”

  “Some people hold in their grief,” Angelica remarked.

  “She didn’t seem to be grieving at all,” Tricia said, and took a sip of her martini. “She booked a room at the Sheer Comfort Inn.”

  “Oh? That’s funny. Marina didn’t tell me we had such a distinguished guest.”

  “Maybe Ms. Dickson-Chandler isn’t as well remembered as she’d like to think.”

  Angelica scowled. “Oh, Tricia. That’s rather catty of you.”

  “I’m sorry. It seems like someone ought to grieve for poor Marshall.”

  “Even if it isn’t you?” Angelica prodded.

  “I’m grieving. In my own way,” Tricia amended. If nothing else, she’d valued Marshall as a friend—and a good one. A man she could talk shop with. Who’d understood her. Or at least he’d given her that impression. She’d have to Google his former persona to learn what he’d concealed from her and the world at large.

  “So, what’s new with you?” she asked her sister.

  “Nothing.” Angelica gave a weary sigh. “Until I get rid of this boot, I’m more or less stuck here at home. You can’t imagine how lonely and isolated it is to be in the same place day after day, week after week.”

  Tricia didn’t want to contemplate it.

  “But thanks to my phone, I’m in touch with the people I care about most and can talk to and text them throughout the day.”

  “Then, is there anything new in their lives?” Tricia asked.

  Angelica’s mouth quirked into a smile. “The architect has given Antonio and Ginny the preliminary plans for the renovation of their house.”

  “Wow, that was fast. It was only a week or so ago that they even started talking about it.”

  “Well, I may have helped in that regard,” Angelica said with relish. “I knew they’d eventually want to renovate that little cottage into a big family home. I had seven—count them—seven Pinterest boards just devoted to the project.”

  “Have you shown them all to Ginny?” Tricia asked.

  “Well, no. I didn’t want to come off as pushy or anything.”

  “Of course not,” Tricia agreed sarcastically.

  “But after we spoke the other day, Ginny and I had a Zoom meeting with Trevor Hanlon, the architect.”

  “Admit it: you already had the plans half made up in advance,” Tricia accused.

  “Um, that may have happened, but you’ll never get me to admit it in court. Besides, Ginny loved just about every idea I pitched to them last week.”

  “I suppose you’ve already picked out the furniture, too,” Tricia stated.

  “I do have good taste, don’t I?” Angelica said, and looked around the room as though to illustrate how she’d decorated it.

  Yes, Tricia had to admit that her sister did have good taste. In fact, Angelica did just about everything well. If she weren’t her sister, Tricia might hate her just a little bit.

  “With Ginny and Antonio working full-time, and me just killing time for the foreseeable future, I could be on-site and act as general contractor.”

  “Have you ever done that before?” Tricia asked.

  “Twice, as a matter of fact.” Angelica pointed to a folder on the coffee table. “I’ve already done the preliminary work of gathering up the contact info for the various trades. Once we have some finalized plans, we can get the building permits and get going. My new grandbaby will be here in six months—and we’ve got the weather and the holidays to deal with. I want that job finished weeks before Ginny goes into labor.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all planned.”

  “Rather exciting, isn’t it?” Angelica gushed, grinning.

  After living with a whole-home renovation the year before, Tricia wasn’t eager to go through it again anytime soon. Angelica, however, seemed to thrive on that kind of thing.

  “My lunch with Ginny tomorrow is off. She’s working,” Tricia said, and sipped her drink.

  “I swear I’m not an unreasonable employer,” Angelica said defensively.

  “No one said you were. Apparently, she’s going to sweet-talk a vendor into a lower price.”

  “I wish her luck. I’m sure she’ll tell me about it after it’s a done deal. I’ll act duly surprised. But if she’s busy, we can have lunch together.”

  “Here or at Booked for Lunch?”

  “At the café. I’m sick and tired of looking at the same four walls.” Angelica picked up another cracker, plunging it into the dip before taking a bite. “So, what’s Becca Dickson-Chandler like? Can I meet her?”

  Tricia shrugged. “I don’t know. She gave me the impression she was only going to hang around the village until she can pick up Marshall’s ashes from the funeral home.”

  “Did she mention what’s going to happen to the Armchair Tourist?”

  “I don’t even know if the store will stay open. I guess Becca will make that decision.”

  Angelica shook her head sadly. “There are always so many loose ends when someone dies.”

  “Even more when it’s
unexpected. But I got the impression Becca will handle things just fine.” Tricia waved a hand in the air. “Let’s talk about something different. Tell me more about Ginny’s renovation.”

  Angelica took the subject change and ran with it with glee, although Tricia only half listened. Marshall’s death and everything she’d learned about his past had cast a pall. In contrast, everything about Tricia’s everyday life seemed so trivial. What she’d taken for facts about her relationship with Marshall had proven to be false. It made her look at her life through a filter. Could she trust what she had come to consider truth?

  At that moment, she just wasn’t sure.

  SIX

  Tricia arrived back at Haven’t Got a Clue just after eight, but instead of heading up to her apartment, she trundled down the stairs to her basement office. After switching on the computer, she wiggled out of her jacket and sat in front of the big monitor. Out of habit, she checked her e-mail first and found a note from Mary Fairchild announcing that the first meeting of the Chamber recruitment committee would be held the next morning at eight thirty in the makeshift office Russ Smith had established in a warehouse at the edge of the village. That gave the retail members some ninety minutes until they needed to be back at their shops for a ten o’clock opening.

  Tricia sent Pixie a text telling her she might be late for opening Haven’t Got a Clue and could she come in early?

  She could.

  Next, Tricia opened a browser window and did what she’d proposed hours before: typed in Marshall’s real name and hit the search button. In no time at all a number of links flooded her screen. She clicked the first, which was a news story about Eugene Chandler testifying against business mogul Martin Bailey, a sleazy Baltimore real estate developer who had a habit of neglecting to pay the people who worked for him—contractors, plumbers, electricians, etc.—and made dubious financial transactions with scores of unsavory businesses in the US and abroad. Marshall had been asked to cook the books, and he’d done it for a couple of years until he apparently grew sickened by the depths of depravity Bailey was willing to delve into. The account said it was Marshall who’d gone to the feds with copies of the incriminating second set of books. Bailey had been convicted and sent to jail for twenty years.