Not the Killing Type Read online

  What she did miss was fun—or at least enjoying simple pleasures. Shopping with girlfriends. Taking in a museum or a movie. Having an occasional manicure.

  “Yes,” Tricia said at last, “I am burned out. I love my store. I love every aspect of running it, but it has become my life. Since I opened it, I don’t even have time to read all the mysteries I love, in addition to keeping up with what’s new in the marketplace.” She looked up at her sister. “What do you think I should do?”

  Angelica leaned back against the tufted Naugahyde banquette, waved her hands in denial, and shook her head. “Oh, no. It’s not up to me to tell you what to do with your life. If you sit quietly for an hour or so and listen to what your heart is telling you—and not rely on anybody else’s expectations or suggestions—you’ll find your own key to happiness.”

  “That was pretty profound,” Tricia commented with the ghost of a smile. “Are you speaking from experience?”

  Angelica shrugged. “It can’t hurt.” She seemed to shake herself and grabbed her menu once again. “We really should decide what we want to order.”

  Tricia picked up her menu and stared at the photo of steamed vegetables. She was sick to death of eating healthy all the time. She’d had a fruit Danish for breakfast and had spent the rest of the day feeling guilty about it. “I think I’ll have shrimp with black mushrooms.”

  Angelica raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. “I’m going to have the yu hsiang beef.”

  They both closed their menus and placed them on the outside edge of the table so that the next time the waiter made his circuit he’d see they were ready to order.

  Tricia looked at her sister—the person she’d always considered bossy and condescending, and realized that not once during their entire conversation had Angelica voiced her opinion or volunteered a suggestion on what Tricia should do to change her life for the better. For once, she’d actually treated Tricia as an equal.

  Tricia managed a weak, pleased smile.

  “Feeling better now?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia nodded—let out a deep, cleansing breath—and allowed her smile to widen. She did feel better. Perhaps one needed a meltdown every now and then to clear the fog that settled around one’s brain.

  Angelica raised her glass.

  “Another toast?” Tricia asked.

  Angelica shook her head. “No, the same one. The future. May it be fabulous for both of us.”

  Tricia raised her glass and clinked it against Angelica’s. She took a sip. The gin and vermouth tasted so much better than it had just minutes before. She savored it. She hadn’t savored much in her life of late, and was determined she wouldn’t miss the opportunity in the future.

  SIX

  After such a soul-wrenching evening, Tricia had climbed into bed, closed her eyes, slept deeply, and didn’t awake until the alarm clock woke her the next morning. As she completed the daily four-mile brisk run on her treadmill, she considered what Angelica had asked the previous evening. What was it going to take to make her happy?

  She’d made up her mind about several things, and with the decisions made, she knew she’d have to start implementing them. That said, she thought it best to deal with the tasks that had the lowest priority in her life. She had plenty of time to think more about, and tackle, the larger issues.

  One thing, she knew: when it came to decorating for the holidays, she was not going to draw Santa hats and beards on the portraits of long-dead authors that lined the walls of her shop. What was wrong with dignified decorations? They’re boring, Ginny had hinted. Tricia had seen the decorations at the Happy Domestic, but she hadn’t really taken note of them. She had plenty of time before she needed to open Haven’t Got a Clue and decided to pay Ginny a visit.

  After showering, dressing, and feeding an eager Miss Marple, Tricia reached for the phone in her kitchen. It was too early to call the Happy Domestic’s number. Ginny wasn’t likely to answer it, so instead Tricia dialed her former assistant’s cell phone number. She picked it up right away. “Tricia? This is early. What’s up?”

  “Need a coffee break? I’m buying. It’ll only take five or ten minutes out of your day.”

  Ginny laughed. “I’m sure I can make the time.”

  “Great. I’ll be there as fast as Alexa can pour.”

  “See you in a few,” Ginny said and broke the connection.

  After grabbing her coat, Tricia stopped at the Coffee Bean, bought two cups of their holiday blend, and headed to the Happy Domestic. The sign hanging on the door was still turned to CLOSED, but she tested the handle and it turned easily. Ginny was waiting for her, standing behind the cash desk, pen in hand, pricing Dolly Dolittle figurines, the extremely cute Victorian-esque angels that sparkled. “How did you know I didn’t have time to make coffee this morning?”

  “Maybe I’m psychic.” It’s better than being considered a jinx, Tricia thought, or stuffy, but wasn’t willing to voice either opinion. She handed Ginny one of the paper cups. “We’ll have to work extra hard to save the planet the rest of the day.”

  Ginny laughed, but then her expression sobered. “Have you heard anything more about Stan Berry’s murder?”

  Tricia shook her head. “Not since—we talked last night. Speaking of which, you seemed a little upset.” Nothing compared to what she’d gone through herself, but it made a good conversational opening.

  “Did I?” Ginny asked.

  “Yeah. At least when the conversation turned to Nigela Ricita.”

  “I’m more than a little tired of hearing about that paragon of virtue,” she grated.

  “But you hinted that—”

  Ginny shook her head. “Antonio doesn’t open up to me about her. But all I ever hear from everybody else are questions, like what is she like, who is she? I have no idea, and I can’t help feeling annoyed by it all.”

  Tricia was sorry she’d even mentioned the woman’s name.

  “I’m really grateful she sent Joelle to work on our wedding, but I’m more than a little suspicious about Ms. Ricita’s motives.”

  Joelle Morrison just happened to be the sister of Betsy Dittmeyer, the receptionist at the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. She was also a wedding planner from Nashua who’d been working with Ginny on all aspects of the upcoming nuptials, from picking out the cake topper to the socks Antonio would wear on their big day. Yet everyone involved with the wedding thought of her as a dour, past-her-prime woman—although she was probably no older than Tricia—who loved to nag. She expected the wedding to come off without a hitch, and that everyone would step into line to make it happen. And that voice! It was often a squeal.

  “How so?” Tricia asked.

  “Well, with Joelle around we can keep our noses to the grindstone. She shows up with some product or other, lets me choose, and hightails it out of here. And she’s awful pushy. I was looking forward to visiting shops and going through catalogs and having a good wallow while planning my wedding. Joelle’s taken all that away from me.”

  “But you really don’t have the time for all that—especially now,” Tricia pointed out.

  Ginny nodded. “No. But I feel like I’m missing out on a lot of the fun stuff that happens when you plan a wedding.”

  Tricia could relate to that. She’d made planning her wedding into a second job.

  “As if that wasn’t enough, Ms. Ricita keeps sending us tacky wedding gifts,” Ginny continued.

  “Oh?”

  “Stupid stuff. What kind of wedding gift is an autographed photo of Lucille Ball in a bathing suit?”

  “I hope you’re kidding.”

  Ginny shook her head. “That was for Antonio. He’s a big fan. If he can’t sleep at night, I’ll find him in the living room watching an episode of I Love Lucy. He has them all on DVD. He said he learned English watching them as a kid and still loves them.”

  “That makes sense,” Tricia said, although not sure she believed it.

  “The great and powerful Nigela sent me a tablecloth.”<
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  “Was it nice?” Tricia asked.

  “Italian lace—handmade. I suppose it’s very nice. I haven’t actually taken it out of the packaging yet, but I did send her a thank-you note.”

  Trust Ginny to cover all bases. “Well, she doesn’t really know you … yet,” Tricia said, in what she hoped was an encouraging tone.

  Ginny glowered.

  “What else has she sent?” Tricia asked.

  “Boxes of Italian chocolates—like I need that when I’m supposed to fit in my wedding dress in seven days. Oh, and a couple of cases of wine.”

  “Chianti?” Tricia asked.

  “No. Dom Pérignon for us to use as we see fit, either at the wedding or at home, and Domaine Chandon for our guests.”

  “A case of each?” Tricia sputtered in disbelief. “That’s a pretty pricey gift.”

  Ginny shrugged. “She probably got it wholesale. She’s got connections.”

  “Nevertheless, it sounds like she wants only the best for you both.”

  Ginny’s expression was positively sour. “Yeah, but for all the stuff she’s done, she still won’t give us an answer as to whether she’s going to show up for our wedding.”

  “Have you considered that maybe she knows her presence could take the spotlight off of you and Antonio?”

  Ginny frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s your day to shine. Any loving mother—step or otherwise—wouldn’t want to disrupt the happiest day of her child’s life. Maybe her not showing up could be the greatest gift she could give the two of you.”

  “Maybe,” Ginny said, but she didn’t look convinced. She took a long sip of her quickly cooling coffee.

  “Are you all set for the rehearsal tomorrow afternoon?”

  Ginny shrugged. “I guess. It kind of burns me that we have to have it six days before the wedding.”

  “Logistics,” Tricia said. It made sense. The inn couldn’t shut down operations to accommodate the rehearsal on a day it would be booked solid with guests.

  “Yeah, this is the biggest mishmash of a wedding I’ve ever seen.”

  “That may be, but with Angelica throwing you a party, you know whatever she serves is going to be delicious, and everyone will have a wonderful time—especially if you bring a couple of those bottles of champagne along.”

  “I was planning on doing that. And yes, it was very generous of Angelica to do this for us. I was a little surprised, to tell you the truth. We didn’t exactly hit it off when we first met.”

  “All water under the bridge,” Tricia said, grateful her sister and her good friend had managed to become more than acquaintances in the past year or so.

  Tricia sipped her coffee and looked around the Happy Domestic. For all Ginny’s teasing the night before, the decorations in her own shop were hardly over the top. They were feminine, dainty, and quite conservative. A pink tabletop feather tree was loaded with pastel ornaments on a myriad of subjects; pink flamingos, green and yellow fruit, and delicate white dogs and cats were just a few of the baubles on offer. White fairy lights were artfully draped across the display pieces, with a touch of artificial greenery here and there. Instead of the usual potpourri, the shop smelled of evergreen, although Tricia wasn’t sure how Ginny had pulled that off, and truthfully, she wasn’t interested enough to even ask.

  She glanced at her watch. “Oh, my. The day is getting ahead of me. I’d better say good-bye and open my own store.”

  “Thanks for the coffee—and the chat. I really miss them every day. Brittney’s a great kid, but … she’s just a kid.”

  Tricia suppressed a smile. She’d thought the same thing about Ginny almost four years before. “If we don’t talk before tomorrow, I’ll see you at the Brookview for the wedding rehearsal.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Ginny grumbled and gulped the rest of her coffee before waving good-bye as Tricia headed out the door.

  Tricia just had time to turn her CLOSED sign to OPEN and put the cash in the till before the shop door opened and Pixie backed into the store, looking like an enormous bear wrestling with a bulky cardboard box. The vintage fur coat had seen better days, but Pixie didn’t seem to care, and since she hung it out of sight at the back of the store, it wouldn’t offend Tricia’s customers who were anti-fur.

  “Good morning!” Pixie called as she staggered under the weight of the box on her four-inch heels. She dropped the carton on the sales counter with a loud thud. Miss Marple, who’d been sitting on her perch behind the register, jumped down and scampered away in fright.

  “Sorry,” Pixie called and shrugged.

  “What have you got there?” Tricia asked, dreading the answer.

  “Christmas decorations. Of course, this is just the first box.”

  The first box?

  “How many more are there?” Tricia asked.

  “Just three.”

  Tricia took in the size of the box, which could have housed a small oven. “The same size?”

  “Just about,” Pixie said with pride and unfastened the buttons on her coat.

  “Just what’s inside?” Tricia asked, fearing the answer.

  “Oh, all kinds of neat stuff. Garland, ornaments, and I’ve got a big artificial tree out in the car. It must be eight feet tall when it’s put together.”

  “Where are we going to put it all?” Tricia asked, her stomach tightening with dread.

  “I thought I’d put some nails up near the ceiling—”

  “No!” Tricia said, rather emphatically.

  “No?” Pixie asked, taken aback.

  “I hate to be a killjoy, but I paid a lot of money to restore the walls and add the crown molding.”

  “Oh, yeah. I hadn’t thought about that,” Pixie said. “I guess I could tape them up.”

  Tricia shook her head. “I don’t want the tape to take off any of the paint, either.”

  “Oh. Well.” Pixie’s joy had evaporated like water in the desert.

  “Why don’t we go through the box and see what would be appropriate for a mystery bookstore,” Tricia said.

  “Appropriate?” Pixie asked suspiciously.

  “We are a shop that specializes in murder. And while we do want our customers to buy, buy, buy—we need to make sure the decorations are tasteful,” Tricia explained.

  Pixie frowned, turned away, and tossed her coat on one of the seats in the readers’ nook. When she returned, she opened the carton’s flaps. Inside was a tangled mess of ratty pink and blue garland, artificial greenery that was crushed and bent at odd angles, and colorful balls that had been wound with synthetic silk thread. Unfortunately, the threads were snagged and frayed.

  Pixie’s expression grew more and more dour. “You don’t like any of this stuff, do you?”

  Tricia tried not to squirm. “I’m very conservative when it comes to decorating,” she admitted. That sounded a lot better than being stuffy. “What other kinds of things do you have?”

  “A bunch of figurines. Some carolers, Santas, reindeer. The usual Christmas stuff.”

  “Why don’t you bring those in and we’ll take a look,” Tricia said.

  “Don’t you want any of this stuff?” Pixie asked, exasperated, and for a moment Tricia thought she might burst into tears.

  Tricia bit her lip as she gazed at the junk that littered her sales counter. “Maybe we could use some of the greenery. In the back of the shop,” she amended.

  Pixie’s lower lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears as she repacked the box.

  “I really appreciate you going to all this trouble,” Tricia started but decided she’d better not make the situation any worse by saying more. “Would you like some help bringing the other boxes in?”

  Pixie shook her head. “Maybe I should just forget the whole thing.”

  “I’m sure there’s something we can use,” Tricia said, not that she believed it. Couldn’t Pixie see the items in the box for what they were—someone else’s cast-offs? But then, after spending so many years in the
penal system, maybe she found anything of a holiday nature to be cheerful. A jail cell had to be the most miserable place on earth to spend the joyous season.

  “Well, maybe we could go through another one of the boxes,” Pixie said as she retrieved her coat. She gathered the carton in her arms and started for the door. “Could you give me a hand?”

  Tricia hurried across the shop, opened the door, and held it as Pixie went out, letting in two customers. “Can I help you?” Tricia asked.

  “Oh, nice store,” the first woman said, looking around. The sixty-something woman was bundled in a buff-colored coat with a thin, pink handcrafted scarf, reminding Tricia of a toaster pastry. The woman’s gaze landed on the string of portraits of long-dead authors. “Are those all famous chefs?”

  “Chefs?” Tricia repeated. “Were you ladies looking for the Cookery cookbook store?” They nodded enthusiastically. “That’s right next door. This is Haven’t Got a Clue. We sell vintage and new mysteries.”

  The second woman, who wore a rather dramatic flowing scarlet cape, frowned. “I told you it was next door. But no—you never listen to a word I say.”

  “Louise!” the first woman admonished, embarrassed. “Please forgive my sister. She’s been testy ever since the menopause hit.”

  “I am not!” said the other, who yanked open the door and stormed out.

  Her sister’s cheeks colored in embarrassment. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “No trouble,” Tricia said and closed the door behind her. Had she and Angelica sounded like those two siblings? Unfortunately, she had to admit they had. After the previous evening, she was still basking in their sisterly bonding, but no doubt she’d soon be annoyed with Angelica for some reason. Only the next time it happened, she might not get quite as irritated. The two of them would never see eye to eye on everything, but their relationship was the best it had ever been—and she wanted to keep it that way.