Murder on the Half Shelf (16 page)

“Aren’t you going to wish me good luck?”

“Break a leg,” Tricia wished, in true show biz parlance.

Angelica’s frown deepened. “I already did that once—and it was no fun.”

“You broke your ankle, not your leg.”

“Close enough. Gotta go!” She gave a quick wave and got into her car. Tricia watched as it pulled away from the curb and headed for the highway. When she turned to go back into her store, she saw Mary Fairchild coming up the sidewalk, making a beeline for her.

“Good morning,” she called, but as Mary approached she feared this encounter would be anything but good. Mary’s face was drawn with lines of worry.

“Hi, Tricia. Have you got a few minutes?”

Yes, she definitely looked like she needed yet more hand-holding.

“Sure. Let’s get inside my shop. I’m freezing,” she said, and led the way. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Mary said, and followed Tricia to the beverage station.

“What brings you out so early? Your store doesn’t even open for another ninety minutes,” Tricia said, then picked up the coffeepot and poured them both a cup.

“I’m an absolute nervous wreck thinking about a murderer lurking here in Stoneham,” Mary said, tagging along behind her. “I don’t understand how you can remain so calm.”

“Chances are whoever killed Pippa Comfort won’t want to draw attention to himself by committing any other crimes,” Tricia reassured her.

“Luke has gone off to work, and I can’t bear to be at home all alone worrying about a crazed killer running around. You’re close to Chief Baker—is he any closer to catching the killer?”

Tricia took a sip of coffee and shook her head. When did Mary think she’d had time to learn anything new since the book club meeting the night before?

“Do you think it was her husband?” Mary asked, adding creamer to her coffee.

Tricia chose her words carefully. “I knew Harry Tyler a long time ago, but I don’t think he’s capable of murder.”

“Did you think he was capable of walking out on his life, his career, and his family and friends? And,” she added in a low voice, “you?”

Tricia sighed. “Never.”

“Then he’s probably the most viable suspect. He said he wasn’t at the inn at the time of his wife’s death—but was that the truth? And he practically ran away when he saw you arrive.”

“He said he didn’t want me to recognize him.”

“Do you think it’s true?”

“I do. Or I did,” she said thoughtfully. Now that he was pressing her to talk to Angelica’s agent, she wasn’t quite so sure.

“You’ve been through all this before,” Mary said once again. “Isn’t there anything we can do to speed up the police investigation? I just want this person caught so I can go back to my life and not worry who might be lurking in the shadows or plotting another death. I’m scared,” she admitted.

“I know,” Tricia said. She wasn’t sure what else she could say that Mary would find reassuring.

“I saw Angelica taking off. Is she going to the TV station already?” Mary asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s this big surprise Frannie said she concocted?”

“It’s not a surprise, it’s just a flashy recipe. Crepes flambé.”

Mary scowled. “As far as I’m concerned, pancakes are pancakes no matter how thin they are. And they’re no good without good old New Hampshire maple syrup.” She followed Tricia back to the cash desk and watched as she counted out the money for the till.

“It has to be that Harry Tyler who did it,” Mary said, sounding more sure of herself.

Tricia closed the cash drawer and wished Mary would drop the subject.

“What about Clay Ellington? A man who runs a nudist camp is probably capable of anything.”

“Why do you say that?” Tricia asked.

“It’s immoral—everybody running around in the buff. This time of year, they’ll all catch their death from pneumonia.”

“I think they do most of their running around inside the resort at this time of year. It’s supposed to have a spa, an indoor Olympic-sized pool, a restaurant—the works,” Tricia said.

“Have you been there?”

She shook her head. “Who has the time—or the inclination?” she said, and laughed.

Mary didn’t find her statement funny.

Tricia sighed. “I don’t know the man. And the killer doesn’t have to be one of the inn’s guests, either. If Pippa was killed where she was found, someone probably lured her outside.”

“That girl from the Milford florist was just leaving the inn as Luke and I arrived.”

“Yes, so she told me.”

“Then you’ve spoken to her?”

“On Monday morning when she delivered the urns for the spring flowers outside all the bookshops.”

Mary looked thoughtful. “Do you think she’s strong enough to bludgeon someone to death?”

“Mary,” Tricia chided. “She’s a sweet girl. I’m sure she wouldn’t be mixed up in a murder. And what would be her motive?”

Mary shrugged. “I’m just speculating.”

Tricia left the cash desk to retrieve her coffee at the beverage station.

Mary followed her like a puppy.

“Have you spoken to Chauncey since Monday?” Tricia asked.

Mary shook her head. “I wasn’t sure what to say. You’re chummy with him,” she pushed.

“I wouldn’t exactly say
chummy
,” Tricia said. “We’ve spoken at Chamber functions, but that’s about all.”

Again Mary shrugged. “Oh.” She sipped her coffee, looking thoughtful.

Tricia glanced at the clock on the wall. It was still more than an hour before the store was to open. She liked Mary, but she needed to get some work done, too.

Mary noticed where her gaze had strayed and took the hint. “I’d better be going. You must have lots to do. I know I do.”

“It is going to be a busy day,” Tricia agreed.

Mary raised her cup in salute. “Thanks for the coffee. Call me if you hear anything about the investigation.”

“Of course,” Tricia said, but she wasn’t sure she would.

Mary headed for the door and gave a wave before she left the store.

Tricia exhaled a breath, took a fortifying gulp of coffee, and headed for the back of the store to grab the vacuum. She really did have a lot to accomplish before the store opened.

By the time Mr. Everett arrived, ten minutes early, Tricia had vacuumed the store and written out checks for the mail. She was especially pleased to see him, as she wanted to make sure she was in front of her television when
Good Morning, Portsmouth
went on the air at ten o’clock. However, once again his expression was hangdog, and he hung up his coat and put on his apron with the enthusiasm of a condemned man. Miss Marple seemed to notice as well and jumped down from her perch behind the register.

“Is everything all right?” Tricia asked.

“It’s…Grace.” He sounded like a condemned man, too. He allowed Miss Marple to nuzzle his hand. “Would you have time to speak with her today? I mentioned the problem you had yesterday when you came to visit her. She was very apologetic and assured me she’d speak with her assistant.”

Did he even know the assistant’s name?

“Angelica is going to be on TV in a little while. As soon as the show is over, I’d be glad to go visit Grace.”

His expression lightened. “Thank you.”

The door opened, and Linda entered the store. “Good morning,” she called.

“Ready for another day of retail?” Tricia asked.

“Very much,” she said, taking off her coat and heading for the pegs at the back of the store. When she returned, wearing a Haven’t Got a Clue apron, Mr. Everett spoke again.

“Ms. Miles’s sister is going to be on television any moment now.”

“How nice,” she said, and then frowned. “How come?”

“She’s a best-selling cookbook author. She’s going to do a
demonstration,” Mr. Everett explained. “In addition, she’s a very successful businesswoman. She owns the Cookery cookbook store next door, and the café across the street. They make very nice soups,” he added.

“I guess I have a lot to learn about Stoneham—and its residents.”

Tricia closed her checkbook and stowed it under the counter. “I’d better get upstairs.”

“May I get you a cup of coffee, Ms. Fugitt?” Mr. Everett asked.

“Please, call me Linda.”

Tricia left them to it and scooted up the stairs to her apartment with Miss Marple in hot pursuit. Tricia headed straight for the TV, ignoring the cat’s loud yowls for a treat.

Tricia found the remote and turned on the set, switching it to Channel 9. It occurred to her that she should have asked Angelica exactly what time her cooking segment was scheduled to air. It could be a very long hour and she hated to leave Linda and Mr. Everett alone too long, even though she knew Mr. E could handle just about any emergency. And why hadn’t she just added DVR to her cable package? Probably because she rarely watched TV and hadn’t envisioned Angelica being asked to do a televised demonstration.

The show’s host was exchanging banter with another man on the set, who stood before a weather backdrop. A look out her window told Tricia the day was clear and bright. She gazed around the room. She should have brought her bills up with her. Maybe she could dust the room or straighten the bookshelves while she waited. Or she could sit there and laze…read a book in the middle of the day with no one watching over her shoulder—except Miss Marple, who had jumped onto the back of the couch.

A commercial came on, and Tricia left the room to check out the contents of her refrigerator. She’d forgotten to eat breakfast. Miss Marple reminded her that cat snacks could be
eaten at any point in the day, but Tricia resisted the temptation to give her more.

By the time Tricia got back to the living room, with a peach yogurt in hand, the commercial had ended and the program’s host stood holding a copy of Angelica’s book,
Easy-Does-It Cooking
. The shot widened to include Angelica standing behind a boxy counter covered with cooking utensils and ingredients, and looking surprisingly composed.

So far Tricia wasn’t impressed with the show’s production values. The set was pretty basic. Dull gray drapes hung as a backdrop. Angelica wore a white blouse with the Cookery’s sunflower yellow apron over it. As the host spoke to her, her eyes kept darting to the top of the screen. Tricia leaned forward and squinted, noticing the edge of the boom microphone popping in and out of view. But Angelica was a trooper. Even that distraction couldn’t keep her from being a master saleswoman and cook.

“I understand you’ve got three great careers going,” the host continued.

“That’s right, John, and I’m so happy to be here today to show your viewers just how easy it can be for them to make a simple, tasty dish and still amaze their guests with a little bit of showmanship.”

“What are you making for us today?”

“Crepes flambé. My sister suggested it,” she said, and beamed with pride.

“Give me a plug for the store,” Tricia told the TV, but Angelica continued with her patter.

“With all due respect to Julia Child, most people are intimidated by French recipes. But crepes are so easy to make and you can enjoy them for a light breakfast, lunch, or dinner.” And to demonstrate, Angelica began to dump her ingredients into a bowl, giving the instructions and measurements as she went along.

She did make it look easy. So easy, in fact, that Tricia considered
trying the recipe herself. But did she even own a whisk? Angelica stocked all kinds of cooking utensils in her store. Tricia could pick up one later that day.

“Now we’re ready to cook the crepes,” Angelica said, pouring batter into the shallow skillet.

Again Tricia marveled at how relaxed Angelica seemed in front of the camera. She often bragged that she was destined to be the next Paula Deen cooking queen. Could she actually be right?

Again the boom microphone intruded into the frame, dipping a little too low. Angelica’s smile never wavered as she swatted at it as though it were a fly.

“Sorry about that,” John the host said, sounding embarrassed. “Our crew is new and we’re still working through some of the bugs.”

Angelica’s smile tightened, but she continued with her instruction without missing a beat. But no matter how poised she remained, the broadcast was beginning to look like an amateur-night production.

“And now for the crowning touch.” Using a small butane torch, Angelica lit the alcohol and shook the skillet, allowing the flames to leap in dramatic fashion. The camera moved in closer, as did the boom microphone, which dipped into the frame, and this time it actually crashed into Angelica’s forehead, causing her to stumble.

Tricia watched in horror as the flaming syrup flew through the air in a blue arc and splashed against the drapery backdrop. Then—
whoosh!
—it seemed as if the entire set was awash in flames.

FOURTEEN

Tricia launched
off the couch like a rocket. “What happened—what happened!” she hollered at the TV set. She heard screams and hollering as the camera flew sideways and then the picture disappeared, replaced by electronic snow.

Angelica!

Mouth agape, she stared at the screen for long moments, unsure what to do. She couldn’t call the station—they were so new, would they even be listed? Besides, if the whole place was on fire, there’d be nobody at the switchboard. Should
she
call 911? She didn’t even know the address of the place. Surely someone at the scene would do that—and more likely the place was full of sprinklers and everyone was wet and scrambling for the nearest exit. But if the lights had gone out, Angelica wouldn’t know where to go. She had been closest to the fire.