A Fatal Chapter Page 7

  SIX

  Angelica’s spirits always soared after a successful Chamber event, and she chattered on about the various conversations she’d had after the ceremony, but Tricia only half listened, pondering what Toni had told her about Pete. She’d tell Angelica about it—when her sister finally wound down.

  They arrived back at the Chamber office to find Earl Winkler impatiently waiting for them. “What took you so long?” he barked.

  “I’m sorry,” Angelica said. She spoke in that sickly sweet tone of voice again. “Did we have an appointment?”

  “No,” Earl admitted, “but your receptionist thought you should have been back long before this.”

  Angelica glanced at Mariana, who vehemently shook her head.

  “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding,” Angelica said politely. “Now, what was it you wanted, Earl?”

  “Selectman Winkler, if you please,” he insisted.

  Tricia had to cover her mouth and clear her throat in an effort to keep from laughing, but Angelica merely smiled. “Selectman.”

  “I want it made clear, and in front of witnesses,” he added, eyeing Tricia and Mariana, “that I had nothing to do with Pete Renquist’s death.”

  “Does anyone suspect you of it?” Angelica asked.

  “Well, no. But we had words the morning of his death—you were a witness to it—and I don’t want the situation misconstrued.”

  “By whom?” Angelica pressed.

  “The police, for one.”

  “Did they contact you about it?” she asked.

  “Well, no. But it’s well known that you—and your sister”—he looked accusingly at Tricia—“are always getting mixed up with the police when there’s been a serious crime here in Stoneham.”

  “What does that have to do with Pete’s death?” Tricia asked.

  “Nothing. But I don’t want the two of you suggesting that I might make a good suspect.”

  “Do you make a good suspect?” It was Tricia’s turn to be annoyed at the jerk.

  “Of course not. I serve the citizens of Stoneham, not kill them.”

  “Are you accusing anyone in this office of killing him?” Angelica asked pointedly.

  “Well, no,” Earl said yet again.

  “Then I suggest you take your umbrage and return to your regular job.”

  “I’m semiretired.”

  “Then go home,” Angelica said firmly.

  Earl glared at her, pivoted, and then stormed from the office, slamming the door behind him.

  Mariana looked scared. “Honest, Angelica, I never told him when you’d be coming back. He must have just assumed—”

  “Don’t worry, sweetie. I believe you. People like Earl are too busy being important to actually listen to what’s being said to them, so they make things up as they go along.”

  Mariana offered a weak smile, obviously glad to be exonerated. She rose from her chair. “I think I need a fortifying cup of coffee. Can I get you anything?”

  Both Tricia and Angelica shook their heads and watched as Mariana headed for the kitchen. Angelica was the first to speak. “So, what was that all about?”

  “Obviously Earl thinks we think he’d make a fine suspect in Pete’s death.”

  “They did clash on more than one occasion, but half the village has clashed with Earl at one time or another.”

  “They haven’t turned up dead, either,” Tricia pointed out.

  “What does he want us to do? Tell Grant he’s innocent, or point the finger at him?”

  “Why would he want that?”

  “To make us look bad. It seems to be what he tries to do most.”

  Tricia thought about it for a moment, but Angelica had turned back to the mail littering her desk. Why had Earl shown up when he had? Why had he insisted on speaking to them in front of Mariana?

  “I didn’t tell you what else Toni said,” Tricia began.

  Angelica snatched her letter opener and looked up. “About what?”

  “Pete. She said someone had threatened him.”

  “But not Earl?”

  “Pete didn’t tell her who—or exactly why. Just that he’d found something suspicious in some old records and he’d confronted someone about it.”

  “You should tell Grant.”

  “I already left him a message.”

  “Good. Then let him handle it,” Angelica advised, and slit the envelope in her left hand.

  “I am. But I wonder what kind of records Pete was going through and who he might have contacted about it.”

  “Not your business,” Angelica sang, and pulled a letter from the envelope.

  “What kind of records does the Historical Society keep, anyway?” Tricia asked.

  “Anything old, I suppose.”

  “Deeds? Marriage certificates? Death certificates?”

  “I would assume most of what they’ve got has been donated.”

  “Diaries? Maps?”

  “Stop speculating and get back to work,” Angelica said mildly.

  “Aren’t you even curious?”

  “I would be, but I have too much to do and only so many hours in the day to accomplish it.”

  “Speaking of the Historical Society, I visited Janet Koch this morning. She’s taking over for Pete until the board meets,” Tricia said.

  “That’s nice,” Angelica muttered, distracted, her gaze still on the paperwork before her.

  “She said the moon was made of green cheese.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And that she has swamp land for sale in Florida.”

  “How about that?” Angelica muttered.

  “Janet also told me that Nigela Ricita made a generous donation to the society.”

  That got Angelica’s attention; she looked up sharply.

  “Half a million bucks,” Tricia said.

  “It was supposed to be anonymous,” Angelica grated.

  “For the most part, it is.”

  They heard a noise from the kitchen, where Mariana seemed to be making a fresh pot of coffee.

  “We won’t speak of this—or Ms. Ricita—here at the Chamber office.”

  “When will we speak about it?” Tricia pushed.

  “If I have my way, never,” Angelica said, and turned back to her work.

  Tricia sat down at her desk. She’d much rather be reading a mystery. She opened her desk drawer, where she’d squirreled away Death in the Air. Her personal library may or may not have been ruined by the smoke damage after the fire in Haven’t Got a Clue. She’d walked through the apartment twice since the fire. Despite the soot, it didn’t look too bad, but the smoky odor had been nauseating. She had studied how to clean smoke-damaged books but wondered how many she could salvage. Most of them weren’t worth the cost of restoration, and thanks to eBay, she’d done a good job replacing scores of her favorite comfort reads. Just about everything in the store had been ruined by flames, water, or smoke. Still, she’d lined up her original contractor, Jim Stark, to come in and repair the damage, and he’d been amassing supplies, like replacements for the tin ceiling and the classic molding. Tricia had found duplicate copies of most of the author portraits that had adorned the walls, too. They and the books she’d bought as replacement stock sat in a climate-controlled storage unit until the day they could replace their damaged counterparts.

  On impulse, Tricia picked up her desk phone and called the number she’d memorized months before. “New Hampshire Mutual. John Martin speaking.”

  “John, it’s Tricia Miles.”

  “Hi, Tricia. No news yet,” he said, sounding quite cheerful. Sure, he didn’t have his life on hold.

  “I guess I don’t have to remind you how exasperating it is to have to wait so long for a settlement.”

  “You and everyone else. But we’re n
ot dragging our feet. Just trying to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s.”

  And strain my patience to the breaking point, Tricia thought. She sighed. “So you’ve said. Can you give me any hope that a decision will be made soon?”

  “As soon as I hear anything, I’ll call. I promise.”

  “Thank you,” Tricia said, feeling anything but thankful.

  “I’ll talk to you soon,” John said, and ended the call.

  “Not soon enough,” Tricia grumbled.

  “Darling, Trish,” Angelica said with sympathy, “you must distract yourself. Have you had a chance to finish the Chamber newsletter? I sent my column like you asked.”

  “I saw it. I did a little judicious editing, but I think it’s fine. Do you want to read it now or wait until the layout is finished?”

  “I trust that you only want me to shine for the Chamber, so I’m sure it’s fine, and I’ll look at it when I do the final read-through.”

  “I’ll finish it by day’s end and e-mail you a copy at home.”

  “Thanks.” Angelica scooped up the papers on her desk and deposited them in a drawer. “There’s nothing that’s screaming for my attention, so I think I’ll head on back to the Cookery. I have a ton of e-mail that needs attending to.”

  Of course. Not only did she have to run her own little empire, but Nigela Ricita’s as well.

  “Will I see you for dinner tonight, Trish? I’m making shrimp pasta salad.”

  “I’d love it.”

  “See you at the usual time, with martini glasses chilled,” Angelica called, and headed out the door.

  I’d prefer a glass of Chardonnay, Tricia thought, then remembered what Pixie had said the evening before. “Wait a minute!”

  Angelica paused at the entrance to the hall.

  “Did you know that Pixie had a boyfriend?”

  “Oh, sure. Fred Pillins, the guy who delivers meat to the café. Nice guy, but not what you’d call handsome,” she said, and winced.

  “What does that mean?”

  “He’s got a little scar on his face. But what does that matter? Pixie is smitten. It’s so funny to see them together. They get all shy and giggly.”

  Giggly?

  “How long have you known about them?”

  She shrugged. “Since the day they met. Gotta go. Tootles!”

  Tootles. It seemed to be Angelica’s new favorite word.

  Tricia tapped the escape key on her computer and it came back to life. She pulled up the file for the newsletter and stared at the screen, thinking about all that had already transpired that day—and it was only 11:14. No wonder she felt exhausted.

  Mariana came back into the office and settled on the chair in front of her desk, putting her cup down on the mouse pad.

  Tricia stood and wandered over to join her. “I meant to ask you before this, did you know Peter Renquist?”

  Mariana shook her head. “Not well. I talked to him on the phone when he’d call for Angelica. I’d see him in the grocery store. That kind of thing.”

  “Did he have a girlfriend?”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” she said coyly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He flirted with everyone—well, women,” she clarified. “Most of us kind of blew it off, but . . . not everybody.”

  “Oh?”

  She shrugged. “For a while, a lot of people thought he and Toni Bennett might be having an affair.”

  Was that the reason Toni had shed tears when they’d talked about Pete?

  “But?” Tricia pressed.

  Again Mariana shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been a good idea. Toni’s husband is a big supporter of the second amendment. I’ve heard he’s got an arsenal. If he’d thought Pete was messing around with Toni, he’d have shot him for sure.”

  “Toni said her parents had named her after the singer. I take it she didn’t take her husband’s name when they married.”

  “That’s right. Not so many women do that anymore. It’s a shame. Still, she belongs to him, and he doesn’t let people forget it.”

  So, there was a jealous husband hanging around. But Pete hadn’t been shot, he’d been shot up—quite a difference.

  “What’s her husband’s name?”

  “Jim Stark.”

  Tricia blinked.

  Her contractor.

  SEVEN

  Angelica wasn’t at Booked for Lunch when Tricia showed up for her usual tuna plate, so she took it to go, intending to return to the Chamber office and retire to her private quarters to eat it and think about all she’d learned that morning. But then she made her second detour of the day and entered the Dog-Eared Page. Its manager, Michele Fowler, stood behind the bar with a stack of what looked like order forms before her. She looked up as Tricia approached. “A bit early in the day for you, isn’t it, love?”

  “I wondered if you had a few moments to talk?” Tricia asked.

  Michele looked around the empty pub. “All the time in the world. Can I get you something?”

  Tricia placed her take-out lunch container on the bar and sat on one of the stools. “Iced tea?”

  “Sorry, we don’t serve it.”

  “How about ginger ale?” Tricia suggested.

  “Coming right up.” Michele half filled a tall glass with ice and poured the soda from a well trigger. She set a napkin down on the bar in front of Tricia before placing the glass on it. “Now, what’s on your mind?”

  “By now I’m sure everyone in the village has heard about what happened to poor Pete Renquist.”

  “Beer, with a chaser,” Michele replied sadly.

  Tricia blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Michele smiled. “I always remember people by their drink orders. You’re Chardonnay, and lately a classic gin martini.”

  “And what are you?” Tricia asked.

  “Gin or Merlot, depending on the time of day and the company.”

  Tricia took of sip of her ginger ale. “You know that the Historical Society has been gung-ho to take on your suggestion of the cemetery ghost walks, right?”

  “It’ll be great fun. I intend to be there the very first night they hold it.”

  “How would you like to be the docent leading it?”

  It was Michele’s turn to look startled. “Me? A docent?”

  “The Historical Society is always looking for volunteers. Pete was working on the scripts before he died. It would probably be just a case of learning the material.”

  “Me?” Michele said again, sounding incredulous.

  Tricia nodded.

  “I don’t know. It sounds like lovely fun, but I work evenings.”

  “I happen to know that Nigela Ricita is eager to see these ghost walks take off. She feels it would keep the tourists in the village after sunset. That would be good for business for the Dog-Eared Page. Maybe the walks could even start here. It would be a great selling point.”

  Michele nodded thoughtfully. “That it might. But I don’t know a thing about the local cemeteries.”

  “As I said, Pete Renquist did extensive research on all of them. All it takes is a little memorization of facts and the ability to spin a good tale.”

  “Well, I’m certainly good at that.” Michele looked thoughtful, and a smile played at her lips. “When would they need an answer?”

  “The walks aren’t set to start until September, so you’ve got plenty of time to think it over.”

  “I’d need to talk to Antonio Barbero and get his okay.”

  The pub’s door opened, and who should walk in but Antonio himself, looking dapper in a three-piece suit with a crisp white shirt and a dark-striped tie.

  “Are your ears burning?” Tricia asked, smiling.

  He frowned at her. “I speak pretty good English, but I don’t k
now what that means.”

  “It means we were just talking about you,” Michele explained dryly.

  “I hope you were saying nice things.”

  “Of course,” Tricia said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to discuss a new linen vendor with Michele. And you are here because . . . ?”

  “The Historical Society would like me to take Pete Renquist’s place giving the upcoming ghost walk tours,” Michele piped up.

  “I told her I thought Nigela Ricita would think it’s a marvelous idea,” Tricia said enthusiastically.

  Antonio looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps. Is this a decision you’ve already made?” he asked Michele.

  She shook her head. “I’ve only known about it for five minutes, but it does sound rather fun. Do you think there’d be a problem with me helping out?”

  “Probably not,” Antonio answered, but his tone wasn’t as convincing as his words. “We shall see.”

  “Would this be at the Stoneham Rural Cemetery?” Michele asked Tricia.

  She nodded. “And possibly the cemetery at St. Rita’s church.”

  “I haven’t checked out that one, but there are some wonderful Victorian monuments in the Stoneham cemetery. I’ve visited a number of spectacular cemeteries in Western New York and Massachusetts. Some of them are like lovely old parks. In Victorian times, people would go there for picnic lunches.”

  “Sounds terribly morbid to me,” Antonio said, his discomfort evident. “But you are right. My employer is eager to encourage the tourist trade to remain in Stoneham after the sun goes down. I will mention it to her the next time we speak.”

  “Thank you,” Tricia and Michele said at the same time.

  “I don’t want to interfere with your linen conference, but do you have a few minutes?” Tricia asked Antonio.

  “I always have time for you, dear Tricia. That is, unless Ginny calls to say the baby is on its way.”

  “It won’t take more than a couple of minutes,” she said.