Murder on the Half Shelf (10 page)

Miss Marple bolted up the stairs and was impatiently waiting for Tricia to arrive and unlock the apartment door. Once inside, the cat went straight for her bowl. Tricia hung up her coat and hat and picked up the food and water bowls. She prepared the cat’s meal while Baker hung his jacket over the back of one of the island’s stools. He got plates out of the cupboard. “Glass of wine?” he asked. She nodded. He grabbed a glass, then retrieved the wine and a beer for himself from the fridge.

Miss Marple sat up pretty for her food, and then Tricia joined Baker at the island.

Baker unwrapped the sandwich, eased the smaller portion onto a plate, and handed it to Tricia.

“Since you’ve got his house staked out, I take it Harry is a
viable suspect,” she said, lifting the sesame roll to peek at the sandwich’s contents.

“Everyone who was at the inn last night is a possible suspect, but we’ll be looking especially hard at Mr. Comfort—or Tyler, or—whoever he is. We talked earlier today and he verified your story about his identity.”

“Thanks for all your trust,” Tricia said sarcastically. Why had he asked for oil instead of mayonnaise on the sandwich? “Do you think he’s a flight risk?” she asked, removing the onions from the ham.

“Gut feeling?” Baker shook his head. “No.”

“Are you ever wrong about these things?”

“Not lately. Why? Do you want him to stay here in Stoneham?”

For a moment Tricia wasn’t sure how to answer, but she didn’t have time to sort through her feelings just then. “I really don’t care either way.”
Lies, lies
, her conscience taunted.

Baker said nothing.

“I talked with Harry earlier today, too,” Tricia admitted. “I need to put my hurt aside from so long ago. It doesn’t matter anymore. And if there was anything concerning Harry Tyler that I loved, it was his writing. Hundreds of thousands of people have read
Death Beckons
. I think I can speak for them all when I say how much I’ve longed to read more of his work. His prose was luminous. His plotting flawless. His characterization superb.”

“No mere mortal can compare with this paragon. Is that why your marriage failed? Could your ex hold a candle to Harrison Tyler?” he asked, and took an enormous bite of his sandwich—onions and all.

Tricia felt like she’d been slapped. “Grant—why would you say such a hurtful thing to me?”

He swallowed, then ran his tongue over his teeth to dislodge a piece of bread. “I’m sorry. It’s just…maybe I’m a little jealous.”

“Of Harry?” That was ludicrous. “I was twenty-two. I loved his book—his characters—probably much more than I ever cared for him.”

“Would you have said that twenty years ago?”

Probably not, but if Baker might have to present her as a suspect in Pippa Comfort’s death, she wasn’t about to admit it.

She changed the subject. “On the walk home, I kept thinking about that candlestick. Why would someone dump it so close to the inn?”

“They wanted it found, probably to incriminate someone else.”

“Exactly,” Tricia agreed. “Now all we have to do is figure out who had the motive.”

“Now all
I
have to do is figure out who had a motive. I don’t want you to butt your nose into this. You’re in enough trouble.”

“How can I be in trouble when I haven’t done anything wrong?”

“You have no eyewitness as to where you were between the time you spoke with Mary Fairchild and the body was found.”

“It couldn’t have been more than two or three minutes.”

“Plenty of time for you to kill the poor woman, hide the candlestick in the hedge, and then very innocently call 911.”

She was about to protest, but he held out a hand to stop her. “I’m not saying that’s how it went down. I’m saying that’s how it could be interpreted. I listened to the 911 call. You didn’t say she was dead. Just that you wanted to report an accident. You knew she was dead, didn’t you?”

“I suspected it,” Tricia admitted, and that was all she was willing to admit without a lawyer present, and it was beginning to sound like she needed that lawyer. “You’ve known me for a year and a half. Do you seriously think I’m capable of killing anyone?”

“No. But I have to present all the evidence to the district attorney—”

“We’ve been over that ground before,” Tricia said, interrupting him. She pushed her half of the sandwich away. Her appetite was long gone.

Baker stared at his food for a long time, then picked up the paper the sub had been wrapped in, folded it over his half, and put it back in the bag. “Until this case is solved, I think it best that we only speak to each other in an official capacity.”

“Fine.” Tricia said no more. She didn’t trust herself to keep the growing anger out of her voice.

Baker shrugged back into his jacket, grabbed his sandwich, and headed for the door. Tricia followed. Miss Marple wanted to accompany them down to the shop, but Tricia nudged her back with her foot and followed Baker down the stairs and through the store. Baker unlocked the door, opened it, and paused. “I’m sorry, Tricia. This isn’t how I’d like it to be, but it’s as much for your protection as mine.”

“Good night, Grant.”

He hesitated, and for a moment she thought he might try to kiss her, but—he didn’t. Instead, he turned and she shut the door behind him.

He’d been kind to her in the past, but no matter what, he’d never been able to commit to her—be it his ex-wife or his jobs that had kept them apart.

Fine.

As far as she was concerned, they were done. Kaput. Over.

She didn’t look after him, just turned and headed back for the stairs to her loft and tried awfully damn hard not to cry.

NINE

No sooner
had Tricia closed her apartment door than the phone in the kitchen began to ring. She was tempted to let it go to voice mail, but then decided if it was Baker calling from his cell phone in his car, she might just give him a piece of her mind anyway.

She grabbed the phone. “What other jolly news do you have to tell me?”

“Oh, Trish, you are psychic! How did you know I have good news to share?” said Angelica, her voice filled with excitement. “I was going to come right over and tell you but wondered when Sarge last went out.”

Tricia looked at the clock. “About fifteen minutes ago.”

“Oh good, then I’ll be right up.”

The line went dead, so Tricia hung up the phone.

True to her word, Angelica let herself into Haven’t Got a
Clue and practically bounded up the stairs to the apartment within a minute of hanging up.

“I’m going to be on TV!” she squealed in delight, and actually jumped up and down a couple of times.

Miss Marple made a daring leap from the kitchen stool and hightailed it into the living room to escape the histrionics.

“What?” Tricia said.

But Angelica had already opened the fridge, rooting around until she found a bottle of Chardonnay. She grabbed a couple of glasses from the cabinet, removed the screw cap, and poured the wine.

She held up her glass. “Here’s to my TV debut!” she said, and took a healthy swig.

“What TV debut?” Tricia repeated. “Take your coat off and tell me everything.”

Angelica set her glass on the kitchen island and wiggled out of the sleeves of her coat. “At dinner tonight, Michele and I ran into the station manager and producer of
Good Morning, Portsmouth
.”

“I never heard of it.”

“Of course not. It’s only been on the air since this morning. It’s on the new start-up affiliate that just came to Portsmouth and began broadcasting today.”

“If nobody knows the station is even on the air, how will that sell cookbooks?”

“Do you have to be such a stick in the mud?” Angelica snapped.

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

“Can’t you just be happy for me?” Angelica insisted.

Tricia sighed and sank onto one of the stools. “I
am
happy for you. In fact, I’m ecstatic. Tell me more.”

Angelica’s mood instantly returned to euphoric. “Well, it turns out this station manager, Bill Haskins, and Michele are old friends. She sold him a bunch of artwork for his condo in Tucker’s Cove.”

Tricia raised an eyebrow. She wouldn’t have thought the manager of a start-up television station could afford to live in such a tony neighborhood. Or was that why he could afford to start up a new TV station in a city that had none?

Angelica settled herself on one of the island stools and took a more ladylike sip of her wine. “When Bill learned I was a nationally best-selling cookbook author, he immediately invited me to do a segment on the show Wednesday morning.”

“That doesn’t give you much time to prepare, does it? And what are you going to cook?”

“I have no idea. But it’ll probably be a recipe from my first book—as the second one won’t be out for another four months.”

Angelica poked at the sandwich still on the island and picked out a piece of cheese, nibbling on it. It was then that Tricia saw a bit of ham on the edge of the island. Had Miss Marple helped herself to a little snack while Tricia let Baker out? Without a word she grabbed a napkin, scooped up the ham, and discreetly hid the evidence. Angelica didn’t even notice.

“What are you going to wear?”

“I have no idea. I’ll call Artemus tomorrow and see what he suggests.”

It seemed to Tricia that Angelica bothered her literary agent, Artemus Hamilton, far too often with trivial questions. “Why don’t you just Google it?”

“You know how Artie loves to hear from me,” she said, then picked up the sandwich and took a bite.

Did
Artie love hearing from her?

Angelica finished chewing and swallowed. “Besides, maybe he can send out a press release.”

“Isn’t that your job—not his?”

Angelica frowned. “I
am
one of his more successful clients. I’m sure he’ll just ask his assistant to draft something.”

“It’s rather short notice—one day in advance.”

“You worry too much,” Angelica said, and drained her glass.
She got up from her seat, grabbed the wine bottle, and poured herself another. “And why are you so grumpy, anyway?”

Tricia offered her own glass to be topped up. “Oh, I don’t know. The fact that Grant suspects me of Pippa Comfort’s murder and said we can’t see each other—let alone talk to each other unless it’s about the case—until this whole situation is resolved.”

“Why?”

Tricia took a fortifying swallow of wine before she related how she and Sarge had spent the evening.

“Oh dear,” Angelica said, sobering. “Then I guess you won’t be interested in buying advertising on Channel Nine. I mean, not if it looks like you’ll actually be going to jail this time.”

“I am
not
going to jail!”

“It doesn’t sound too hopeful right now. Why did you take Sarge back to Maple Avenue, anyway? I told you he had an hour or more before he needed to go out. If you hadn’t jumped the gun, someone else might have found that candleholder and you might not be looking at a stint at the New Hampshire State Prison for Women.”

“I’m going to call Roger Livingston in the morning. Hopefully with his help—”

“You mean the help of one of his criminal attorney colleagues,” Angelica interrupted.

“—I
will
clear my name,” Tricia finished.

Angelica shrugged. “Let’s get back to this TV show. This could be my big break—a one-way ticket to the Food Network.”

Tricia sighed. How like Angelica to be more concerned with her own welfare. “Says who?”

“Me, of course.”

“Only if you can get someone from the Food Network to watch the show.”

“Hmm. That might be a bit hard. But I bet if I charm Bill,
he’ll let me send a tape to an exec at the network.” With that little detail worked out, Angelica took another big bite of the sandwich.

“Why are you eating my dinner?” Tricia asked. “You just got back from a restaurant.”

Angelica chewed and swallowed. “Once I heard Bill was station manager, I was too nervous to eat. I’m starved. And where did you get this sandwich? It’s delish.”

“Grant brought it over…just before he told me we shouldn’t see each other.”

“Where’s the rest of it?” Angelica said, and polished off the last bite.

“He took it with him.”

Angelica swallowed. “Well, that wasn’t very nice.”

“It
was
his sandwich,” Tricia pointed out.

“What else have you got to eat?”

“Not much.”

Angelica went rummaging through one of the cabinets. “Let’s see, saltines, brown sugar, an almost-full bag of chocolate chips. Where’d you get this stuff?”

“If you must know, I eat a lot of soup—which explains the crackers. As for the other, last Christmas I thought I might try my hand at baking again. I just never got around to it. I keep the chocolate chips in case of an emotional emergency. Actually, now that I think about it—now could be a chocolate emergency.”

“If you’ve got real butter squirreled away, we’ve got candy.”

“Candy?” Tricia repeated.

Angelica checked the freezer. “Oh, you do. Smart girl, giving up the processed crap that’s disguised as butter.” With that, Angelica found a saucepan, tossed in the butter, and turned the burner on low. “In about forty minutes, we’ll have a delightful treat.”