Bookplate Special (32 page)

Ginny leaned forward and poured more whiskey into her cup. “Nah, Brian will probably only go to jail for manslaughter. The bastard!”

Tricia leaned forward and capped the bottle. “Sorry, ladies, but we’ve got a wedding to put on tomorrow, and this place needs a thorough cleaning.”

Angelica stood. “And I’ve still got food to make.”

None of them moved.

“I don’t know if I can go to the wedding,” Ginny said, her voice breaking.

“Oh, yes, you can,” Tricia said.

“But my heart is broken.”

“And what better way to reaffirm that you will find someone worthy of your love one day, than to attend the wedding of two people who truly love each other? They may not have much time left in their lives, but tomorrow they’re going to commit to be together—for better or for worse, ’til death do them part.”

Ginny sniffed. “Does it make me a terrible person because I didn’t follow Brian to the jail? He betrayed me,” she reminded them.

“Honey, I’ve been betrayed four times, and I sure haven’t given up looking for someone,” Angelica said.

“Does that mean you’d like to marry Bob?” Tricia asked, taken aback.

“Hell, no.” Angelica thought about it for a moment. “Well, maybe. But not anytime soon. I’ve rushed into too many relationships. This is
my
time in life. That’s why I took over the Cookery, and why I opened the café.” She nodded sagely. “I’ve learned from my past mistakes. You ought to think about what you’d really like to do, Ginny. This could be your golden opportunity to do exactly what you want to do—maybe for the first time in your life.”

Ginny blinked a few times. “I’d like to own my own business—just like you and Tricia,” she blurted.

It was Tricia’s turn to blink. “You would?”

Ginny nodded. “I’ve seen what you’ve done here. I know just about every aspect of the business. I could do the same thing—I know I could. I just don’t have the money to get one started.”

“You might if you sold your house,” Angelica said.

“I’d never be able to afford the rents here in Stoneham.”

Angelica’s gaze rose to the ceiling. “You might if the land-lord’s girlfriend could persuade him to give you a break.”

Ginny blinked in disbelief. “You’d do that for me?”

“Why not? Tricia says you’re the best assistant in the village. Why shouldn’t you try to be the best bookseller—or toy seller—or whatever you want to be?”

“That’s all very good, but then
I’d
have to break in someone new,” Tricia complained.

“I’m not saying any of this would happen tomorrow,” Angelica muttered. “But Ginny needs a goal—one that doesn’t include matrimony. What do you say, Ginny?”

For the first time in hours, a smile brightened Ginny’s tear-swollen face. “I’d like that.”

“And we’ll help you, won’t we, Trish?”

“We sure will.”

“My own business,” Ginny said, warming to the idea. “I like that thought. A lot.”

Angelica held out her hand. “Then it’s all for one.”

Tricia put hers on top. “And all—”

Ginny did likewise. “For one—me!”

Their combined hands bounced once—twice—three times before springing high into the air.

TWENTY-THREE

The bridal
bouquet of white calla lilies and baby’s breath looked lovely against Grace’s soft pink linen suit, and the maid of honor’s bouquet was made of lavender chrysanthemums, which complimented her mauve, raw silk dress. Tricia also held a wadded tissue to wipe away the tears that filled her eyes. Weddings always made her cry.

Dressed in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, and navy tie, Mr. Everett wore a solemn expression as he slipped the simple gold band onto Grace’s waiting finger. “With this ring, I do thee wed.”

Judge Milton smiled. “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” To Mr. Everett, he said, “You may kiss your bride.”

A resounding round of applause broke out among the guests as Mr. Everett landed a gentle kiss on Grace’s lips—and promptly turned an attractive shade of pink.

Haven’t Got a Clue had never looked as lovely. White chrysanthemums and pale pink roses decorated the counters. Ginny had arrived early that morning with a bit of a hangover and many rolls of white crepe paper, which she’d artistically draped along the bookshelves. Angelica had set up a long, linen-draped table against the wall of nonfiction titles, and lavished it with hot and cold breakfast foods. Pale pink rosettes spiraled up Nikki Brimfield’s gorgeous three-tiered cake, which had taken up residence at the store’s coffee station. They’d chosen their initials, G and W, in brushed silver, for their cake topper.

Half an hour before the ceremony, Russ arrived with his camera to take posed and candid shots of the bride and groom and the cake. He kept looking at Ginny, who kept her distance, and Tricia warned him that he was not to talk to her about Pammy’s death, or what had occurred at the store the evening before. He frowned and instead took Tricia’s picture. And he kept making excuses to be near her—asking about the food, the decorations, and any other inane thing he could think of. Tricia was civil, but soon found other places to be.

Although appointed the honorary ring bearer, Miss Marple declined to participate in the ceremony, instead watching it from her perch on the shelf behind the register, purring all the while.

While Russ snapped pictures, Tricia stepped away from the happy couple, who were receiving best wishes from their guests. Everyone from the Tuesday Night Book Club was there, including Frannie, who kept showing anyone she could corner pictures of her new cat—just like any proud parent. Nikki Brimfield looked out of place in a skirt and blouse, instead of her white baker’s uniform, and Julia Overland had worn the same color as Tricia. Great minds did indeed think alike. As best man, Bob had for once forgone his Kelly green sports coat and donned a dark suit. He looked . . . weird . . . out of his usual uniform.

Tricia traded good wishes with her lawyer, Roger Livingston, and Lois Kerr from the library. Though the ceremony was over, Stuart Paige remained seated in one of the rented chairs, looking pale, but smiling, while his flunky, Turner, stood nearby, wearing sunglasses and still trying to look like a Secret Service agent.

Angelica flitted around the room with a silver tray filled with mini quiches, offering them to one and all.

Among the missing, of course, were Libby and Joe Hirt, and Brian Comstock. No surprises there.

Distracted by the crowd, Tricia was caught off guard when Russ insinuated himself next to her once again. “I’ve been trying to get you on your own for the past hour. Are you avoiding me?”

“You made your feelings toward me quite clear. And after what happened at the inn on Friday, I don’t think we have anything to say to one another.”

“I left several messages for you to call me before then. You ignored them.”

“Yes, I did.”

He frowned. “Okay, I admit I made a mistake in calling off—us.”

Tricia turned a level glare at him. “I take it you’ve had a change of plans?”

Russ frowned. “Okay, so the job in Philadelphia fell through. And I’ve decided not to put the paper up for sale. It looks like I won’t be leaving Stoneham after all.” He gave a weak laugh. “I know it’s asking a lot, but I was hoping we could . . . still be friends.”

Tricia said nothing.

“Actually, more than friends. Is there a chance things could go back to the way they were before I opened my big, stupid mouth?”

Tricia still said nothing.

“I’d like to think we could try.”

“You
are
asking a lot.”

The shop door opened, the little bell overhead ringing cheerfully. A stranger entered and paused. “I’m sorry. I thought the store was open today,” he said.

Tricia strode over to the door—anything to get away from Russ. “We’re opening late. As you can see, we’re hosting a wedding.”

Tricia did a double take. The man in front of her was Grant Baker. She hadn’t recognized him out of uniform. He looked . . . nice.

He also looked uncomfortable. “I don’t want to intrude,” he said, already backing away.

“Don’t be silly. Come on in; have some coffee and a piece of wedding cake.”

He shook his head. “I only came to . . . to get a book.”

“I thought you didn’t read mysteries or true crime.”

“Maybe I decided to broaden my horizons.” He let the door close on his back and stepped closer to Tricia, lowering his voice. “Or . . . maybe I came just to see you. To see if you were free for dinner tonight.”

Tricia looked to her right and left. Was he actually speaking to her?

“Um . . .” At the edge of her peripheral vision, she saw Russ nearby, eavesdropping. Tricia smiled. “I think that would be very nice.”

“And I also wanted to tell you what you did for Pam Fredericks was decent and noble. Especially since you were only . . . sort of . . . friends.”

Tricia’s spine stiffened. She hadn’t mentioned this to anyone. How had he found out? “I don’t know what you mean,” she bluffed.

“Claiming her body, paying to have it buried. Apparently she wasn’t a very good friend to you, but you proved more than once you were probably the only true friend she ever had.”

Tricia grabbed his elbow, and pulled him away from the other guests. “How did you find out?” she hissed.

“You dealt with Baker Funeral Home, right? My cousin Glenn owns it.”

The breath caught in Tricia’s throat. “I assumed Mr. Baker would’ve been more discreet.”

“Don’t worry; he didn’t say a word. Our office was notified by the Medical Examiner when the body was released.”

Okay, she could believe that.

Angelica made a pass with her tray. “Hi, Captain Baker. Try one of these delicious spinach mini quiches.”

“Captain Baker?” Bob repeated, worry tingeing his voice—no doubt remembering Tricia’s threat to turn him in to the law. He stepped away—fast.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Baker said, taking an offered napkin and two of the quiches. He bit into one, chewed, and swallowed. “Hey, these are terrific.”

“Tricia helped make them,” Angelica said, beaming, then moved on to another guest.

“And you can cook, too,” he said, impressed.

Tricia shook her head and sighed. “My helping consisted of squeezing the water out of cold, wet spinach until it was dry. I’m not bragging when I tell you that I can barely boil water.”

Baker laughed, but his expression soon became serious again. He nodded toward Stuart Paige. “How did he get invited to this little shindig?”

“Mr. Paige and Grace—she’s the bride—have been friends for years.”

Baker nodded. “I understand you showed him a page from the diary.”

Tricia felt a squirm crawl along her spine. “Yes. I wanted to verify my suspicions on its author.”

“What have you done with the rest of your copy of the diary?”

“Copy?” she asked, in all innocence.

“Yes, all ninety-seven pages.”

She sighed. “Nothing, yet. I thought I might offer it to Eugenia Hirt. It’s not a very flattering portrayal of her birth mother—but it might give her an even greater appreciation for her adoptive mother. But I’ll wait a while before I mention it to her. She’s had enough upsets for now.”

“It’ll give her something to read while she awaits her trial.” Baker wiped his fingers on his napkin. “I’ve had a chance to go through all those letters we found in the shoebox in Pam Fredericks’s car. She was related to M. J. Collins, all right. The woman was Pam’s aunt—her mother’s sister.”

Tricia sighed. “That made Eugenia and Pammy first cousins. Imagine that—she tried to blackmail her own cousin.”

A burst of laughter came from the crowd around the buffet table, reminding Tricia that this was supposed to be a happy occasion. “Do we have to talk about Pammy anymore?”

“I still want to know why you did what you did—taking care of her in death,” Baker pressed.

Tricia gave another long sigh. “Because . . .”

She didn’t need to say anything. Officially, he needed no explanation.

Still . . .

She looked into his mesmerizing green eyes. “It was the right thing to do.”

The hint of a smile touched his lips. “Yes, it was.”

“Did you ever get that letter addressed to her at General Delivery?”

He nodded. “It was from her brother. It said, in no uncertain terms, that she was not to contact him or any other member of the family again. Apparently she’d taken not only the diary and the letters we found in the trunk of her car, but she’d cleaned out her mother’s jewelry box and taken other valuables the last time she’d visited.”

“Oh, my. Poor Pammy.”

“I’d say poor Pammy’s family.”

The sound of a champagne cork popping was a welcome distraction. Bob Kelly held the bottle of fizz aloft. “Time for the toast!”

Angelica worked the room, tray in hand, offering glasses that were already filled. She paused in front of Tricia and Baker, gave her sister a knowing wink, and then moved off to serve the rest of the guests.

Bob filled flutes for Mr. Everett and Grace before clearing his throat. He held his glass before him. “Friends, I’m sure everyone here will join me in wishing William and Grace a long and joy-filled life together. May they always be as happy as they are at this moment.”

“Hear, hear,” came the chant as everyone raised his or her glass in salute.

When everyone had taken a sip, Mr. Everett offered his glass. “To my beautiful bride.”

Again, those assembled raised their glasses and cheered.

Mr. Everett raised his glass once again. “And now, I’d like to say thank you to the person who made this all possible. To my employer and my friend, Ms. Tricia Miles. Thank you, Ms. Miles. You’ve not only made an old man feel useful again, but if it weren’t for you, Grace and I would never have”—he paused, and seemed unsure of his next words—“hooked up.”