Murder on the Half Shelf (17 page)

The TV’s static was nearly as aggravating as the sound of
nails on a chalkboard. Tricia stabbed the remote’s mute button and began to pace the confines of her living room. What should she do? What
could
she do? Then it hit her—call Grant. He had connections—he might be able to find out something. Even if they were on the outs, surely he wouldn’t ignore her desperation.

She grabbed her phone and stabbed in his personal cell phone number. It rang and rang and rang.

“Hello.”

“Oh, thank God you answered.”

“Tricia?”

“Grant, Angelica was just doing a cooking demonstration at the new TV station in Portsmouth when the whole place erupted in flames. You’ve got to do something. You’ve got to find out if Angelica is all right!”

“Calm down, calm down!”

Tricia took a breath to do just that and realized she was crying.

“Grant, she’s my sister and I don’t know if she’s still alive. Please,
please
call somebody in Portsmouth—the cops, the fire department,
someone
—and find out if she’s okay?”

“You said it was a TV station—I didn’t know they had one.”

“It’s new. It just went on the air on Monday. I don’t know the call letters or anything else about it.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll find out what I can and get back to you—keep your cell phone with you.”

The line went dead.

Miss Marple sauntered up to Tricia and rubbed against her legs, looking up at her with sympathetic eyes, and gave a quiet, sympathetic “
Yow.
”

“Thank you,” Tricia said, and sniffed. She picked up the cat and dried her tears in Miss Marple’s fur. “She’ll be okay,” she told the cat over and over again. “She’ll be okay. We have to believe that.”

Putting the cat down, she went to the kitchen and stared at the counter, wondering if she should make herself a cup of coffee. Coffee was available at the beverage station downstairs in her shop, she reminded herself, but she wasn’t sure she could tell Mr. Everett and Linda what she’d just witnessed on television. Not without bursting into tears, that is.

She found herself opening the fridge, but there was no bottle of comforting wine, just a few pieces of the leftover saltine candy Angelica had made on Monday night. Tricia withdrew the container and shut the fridge door. She leaned against the counter, opened the container, and ate a piece of the sticky candy, finding its sweetness somehow comforting. Unlike Angelica, she had never eaten for comfort, but at this exact moment she saw the appeal. Before she could stop herself, she’d eaten every last piece. She put the empty container in the sink.

By this time, her hands had stopped shaking and what she wanted most was a breath of fresh air. She decided to go collect Sarge—for surely Angelica would not have brought the dog with her to the television station—and take him for a walk. Sarge loved Angelica—he was a connection to her, however silly that sounded under the circumstances. By walking him she’d be doing something constructive, and if she needed a cuddle, Sarge was sure to oblige. She retrieved her cell phone from the charger and started down the stairs to Haven’t Got a Clue.

Tricia collected her coat from the peg in the back of the shop and headed for the front door. Mr. Everett intercepted her midway.

“How did your sister’s cooking demonstration go?” he asked eagerly.

Tricia swallowed. “She set the house on fire,” she managed, her voice cracking.

“Oh, it went well then,” Linda said, not bothering to look up from the pile of books she was shelving.

“Are you all right, Ms. Miles?” Mr. Everett asked, concerned.

“I’ve—I’ve got a lot on my mind,” she admitted. “I feel the need to get some air, to clear my head, if you wouldn’t mind watching the store for a few minutes longer.”

“Not at all. Perhaps you could make a slight detour to our foundation’s headquarters and visit Grace as well?” Mr. Everett asked politely.

Tricia blinked, forgetting for the moment why she would want to do that—and then she remembered her promise to Mr. Everett and the upsetting encounter with Grace’s receptionist the day before. While she had promised she would again try to speak to Grace on his behalf, was now the right time?

Maybe. If she went to the Cookery, Frannie was likely to interrogate her about the cooking demonstration.

“Great idea,” Tricia agreed. “I’ll go visit Grace now.”

“Thank you, Ms. Miles.”

Tricia retrieved her keys from under the cash desk and hurriedly left the store. There wasn’t much in the way of traffic and she scooted across the road, holding on to her cell phone for dear life. How long would it take Baker to learn what had happened?

Tricia stepped into the building’s entryway and trudged up the stairs to the Everett Foundation’s office once again, idly wondering what Amy Schram’s third-floor apartment looked like.

Tricia’s stomach tensed as she reached for the foundation’s door handle. She would not let Carrot-top rile her. This time Grace was expecting her.

She entered the anteroom once again. Carrot-top, who was once again dressed like an extra from an old B movie, was on the phone. Instead of interrupting her call, she simply glowered as she waved Tricia into the office’s inner sanctum, and it was all Tricia could do not to poke her tongue out at the woman.

Tricia eased the cheap hollow-core door closed behind her and ventured down the hall, past a small conference room, to a door at the end that was ajar. She rapped her knuckles against it.

“Grace? It’s Tricia.” Somehow she’d managed to keep her voice steady, although she still wasn’t exactly sure what she was going to say.

“Come in, come in.”

As Tricia pushed open the door, Grace rose from behind the old mahogany desk, which had been polished until it shone. Behind her were sparkling clean windows that overlooked Main Street. A large portrait of Grace and Mr. Everett hung on the west wall, and photographic prints of Stoneham at the beginning of the twentieth century decorated the other walls.

To the right of Grace’s desk were a computer with a flat screen monitor and a printer. To the left stood a new, tall wooden file cabinet that had been stained to match the desk. Twin chairs, upholstered in a neutral gray fabric, sat before Grace’s desk. In all it was a small, comfortable, yet efficient office.

Grace had changed, at least in appearance, since the last time Tricia had seen her—before she’d moved the Everett Charitable Foundation from her home office to the new digs here on Stoneham’s Main Street. Gone were the shirtwaist dresses. Grace was now attired in a tailored navy skirt, white blouse, and jacket. She still wore more than the requisite amount of jewelry but had toned it down a notch. It wouldn’t look good for the chief administrator of a charity to be dripping in diamonds and pearls.

“Tricia, it’s so good of you to come. Welcome to my home away from home.”

That didn’t sound good. Perhaps Mr. Everett had a right to feel slighted.

“I’m so sorry you couldn’t get by my gatekeeper yesterday,” Grace said with a chuckle, and offered Tricia a chair.

Tricia took her seat. “It was disconcerting not to be able to speak with you yesterday. You were so close, and yet your receptionist was emphatic that you not be disturbed.” That was putting it mildly.

Grace waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, don’t mind Pixie. She has a few rough edges, but she’s got a heart of gold.”

A
few
rough edges? The woman could’ve doubled as a jagged-cut splintering board. And that name sure didn’t go with the plump, overage woman with a severe fashion handicap and an abrasive personality. “Wherever did you find her?”

“From one of our requests for help. She needed a job. I interviewed her for the position, and we worked out a mutual agreement.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Tricia pressed.

Grace sighed. “It’s true that Pixie is on parole, but she was a nonviolent offender and her crimes were not white-collar crimes, so have no fear. She won’t try to embezzle the charity.”

“That wasn’t what I was thinking,” Tricia admitted.

Grace lowered her voice. “She’s an ex–lady of the evening.”

A prostitute? In Stoneham?
That was the last thing Tricia expected to hear. And wasn’t Pixie a little long in the tooth to be practicing the world’s oldest profession?

“The foundation is proud to help give Pixie a fresh start,” Grace continued. Her smile wavered a little. “I just wish she weren’t quite so zealous when it comes to interacting with the public. I’m so sorry she was rude to you, Tricia. I have spoken with her and it won’t happen again.” Grace leaned forward and folded her hands on top of the desk’s blotter. “Now, what was it you wanted to see me about, dear?”

For the briefest of moments, Tricia considering a histrionic recitation of what she’d seen on her television only minutes before, and leaping from her chair and demanding a comforting hug from her friend. The Grace of old would have done so without hesitation. Tricia wasn’t so sure she’d receive that treatment from the businesswoman in front of her. And even
though she’d had a day to prepare, she still wasn’t sure how to approach the subject. Perhaps forging ahead was the best way.

“Mr. Everett asked me to speak to you about a rather sensitive subject.”

Grace looked puzzled and gave a nervous laugh. “William asked you to speak to me? I didn’t think there was anything he couldn’t tell me himself.”

“I would’ve thought so, too. And I must say, I feel very uncomfortable playing go-between.” She looked into Grace’s blue eyes and saw the sudden worry there. “I think your dear husband is jealous.”

“William? Jealous?”

“Of the amount of time you spend here at the foundation’s office. He’s very proud of you and the way you’ve stepped up to take care of the charity, but…I’m afraid he feels you might be putting in too much time here.”

“The work is important and needs to be done,” Grace said quietly but firmly.

“I agree, and so does your husband. But…he misses you.”

“He could have told me that himself without mentioning it to one of our friends.”

“I believe he’s tried.”

Grace pursed her lips. Tricia had never before seen her friend angry, but her current expression distinctly reflected that emotion. Tricia decided she’d said enough on the subject. Whatever else needed to be said, the couple could say to one another without her further intervention.

Luckily the phone rang. Under other circumstances, Tricia doubted Grace would have interrupted their conversation to answer it. This time, she did.

“Grace Harris-Everett.” She listened for a few moments, her frown deepening. Finally, “Just a moment.” She looked over at Tricia. “I’m sorry, but I really need to take this call. Was there anything else you wanted to say?”

Tricia rose from her chair. “I’ll talk to you later, Grace. Thanks for seeing me. I’ll let myself out.” She backed out of the room and closed the door.

Pixie had leaned over the partial wall that overlooked the hall from Grace’s office. “That was a short conversation,” she said with a sneer in her voice.

Tricia didn’t want to get into an argument with her and simply opened the door to the anteroom and left the office.

Once outside, she stood on the sidewalk for a long time, just breathing in the chill fresh air, wondering if she’d just lost a friend.

FIFTEEN

Frannie was
with a customer when Tricia entered the Cookery. She gave a quick wave and headed for the stairs. As she unlocked the apartment door, she heard a sharp yip. Sure enough, Sarge was bouncing up and down like a yo-yo on a string, ecstatic to see her. She picked up the little dog and kissed the top of his head. “Do you want to go for a walk with your Aunt Tricia?”

Good heavens! Just three days earlier she’d admonished Angelica for calling her that.

Sarge wiggled in her arms, trying to stretch up far enough to lick her face.

“Your mama’s in trouble,” she said, “but I’m here to take care of you until—” The breath caught in her throat and she had to swallow. “Until she comes home.”

Sarge whined a little and she retrieved his leash, closed and locked the apartment door, and headed down the stairs.

Frannie was at the register, cashing out her customer, and Tricia gave a wave. “We’ll be back,” she called, and headed out the door. Out on the sidewalk, she set Sarge down and checked her cell phone. She hadn’t missed any calls. She put it back in her pocket and set off for the park, with Sarge jauntily walking beside her.

She passed several people, who gave a nod of acknowledgment, but she was grateful not to meet anyone she knew. All she could think about was Angelica—and at that moment she didn’t even care if Grace was angry with her.

The small village park was empty on this cold April morning, and Tricia allowed Sarge to sniff at the squirrel tracks that were invisible to her. She sat on the forest green bench and brooded. What if Angelica had died? She’d named Tricia the executor of her estate. Had she designated her to receive the proceeds from her cookbooks? What was the status of her latest manuscript? Would she be able to access Angelica’s computer should her editor need it? What would she do about the Cookery and Booked for Lunch?