Murder on the Half Shelf (18 page)

Sarge barked, glaring at her as if admonishing her for such morbid thoughts.

“You’re right. I’m just so upset, I don’t know what tangents my mind is liable to wander off on.”

The retractable leash let Sarge sniff a twenty-four-foot radius from the bench, and he must have covered every inch twice by the time Tricia realized she was nearly frozen to the bone. They had probably been in the park a good half hour by the time she stood and started back for Haven’t Got a Clue. She decided she would keep Sarge with her until she heard—either way—about Angelica’s fate. Miss Marple wasn’t going to be happy about that, but she could stay on her perch out of the dog’s way. She’d reward her handsomely with cookies after she closed the shop for the day.

As Tricia neared Haven’t Got a Clue, she saw Chief Baker’s SUV pull up to the curb. She squinted to see who was
with him in the car and did a double take before dashing up the sidewalk to intercept, with Sarge’s little legs struggling to keep up with her. The SUV’s passenger door opened and Angelica got out.

Tricia rushed up to her soot-smudged sister, throwing her arms around her and pulling her into a crushing embrace. “Good grief, I thought I’d lost you,” she said, taking in the stench of smoke that permeated Angelica’s hair.

Angelica pulled back. “I’m pleased you’re glad I’m still among the living, but didn’t Mr. Everett tell you I’d phoned?”

“I’ve been out of the store for over an hour. I was expecting a call from Grant.”

Sarge bounced up and down as though on a trampoline. Angelica scooped him up and kissed the top of his head. “Did your Auntie Tricia take my little man for a walkie-walk?”

“Yes, and he’s been as good as gold. Why didn’t Grant call? He promised me he would,” Tricia said, feeling hurt.

“I’d told him I’d already called your store. Can we go inside? I’m freezing to death.” But instead of slamming the car door, she turned to speak to Baker. “Thank you so much for the ride home, Grant. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t shown up and rescued me.”

Tricia stuffed her ungloved hands into her coat pockets, realizing they were as cold as ice, and she, too, spoke to Baker. “Thank you, Grant. I didn’t expect you to go off to Portsmouth to collect Angelica, but I’m very grateful you did.”

“All part of my job,” he said with a wry smile and gave a small salute. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’ve got a village to take care of.”

Angelica shut the car door and they both waved as the SUV took off for the police station.

Tricia threw her arm around Angelica’s shoulder and bustled her into Haven’t Got a Clue. “Come and sit down and have a cup of coffee with me—it’ll warm us both up.”

She led Angelica to the readers’ nook. Mr. Everett and
Linda approached, both looking concerned. “Is everything all right?” Mr. Everett asked. Angelica was a disheveled sight, after all.

A low growl came from the perch behind the register. Angelica turned to glare at Miss Marple, who’d noticed Sarge’s entrance—although he didn’t seem to notice her.

“I’m fine now, Mr. Everett, but I nearly burned to death during my cooking demonstration this morning.”

Mr. Everett looked aghast. He turned accusing eyes on Tricia. “But you said nothing…”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Can I get you some coffee?” Linda offered, looking stricken.

“Yes, please—for all of us, and then Angelica can tell us all what happened.”

Linda nodded and took off.

Angelica took a seat and set Sarge on the floor. His sniffer went into overdrive as he must have caught Miss Marple’s scent.

“Ange, are you really okay?” Tricia asked, resting a hand on Angelica’s sooty sleeve.

“Yes. But as soon as I drink my coffee I must go home and shower. I don’t think I can stand this burnt smell much longer.”

In less than a minute, Linda returned with a tray filled with cups, sugar, and creamer and set it on the nook’s table.

Angelica looked up at her. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“I’m sorry,” Tricia said. “Angelica, this is Linda Fugitt, my new assistant manager. Linda, this is my sister, Angelica Miles.”

“I’m so sorry to meet you under these circumstances,” Linda said.

Angelica reached for a cup. “No sorrier than me,” she said and doctored her coffee. “What a nightmare. I lost my coat and worse—my purse! It had my car keys, my cell phone—all
my credit cards. It’ll take days—weeks—to pull my life back together again.”

“Thank goodness Sarge wasn’t in it,” Tricia said.

“There is that,” Angelica admitted, and reached down to pet the dog, who was more interested in sniffing the upholstery.

“Now sit back and tell us what happened,” Tricia implored.

“Weren’t you watching the show?” Angelica asked, hurt.

“Yes, and I’ve been panicked ever since. I called Grant as soon as the station went off the air.”

“Yes, he told me.” Angelica took a gulp of coffee. “Got any cookies?”

“I’ll get them,” Mr. Everett volunteered, and took off for the beverage station.

“Ange,” Tricia said, her voice a warning. “All I saw was you lurch and the crepes flambé went flying into the set, which erupted into flames. Then the screen went blank.”

Mr. Everett arrived with the cookies, and Angelica choose one of Nikki Brimfield’s famous jellied thumbprints. “I had everything under control. It was going well, except for that uncoordinated oaf with the boom microphone. I mean, what did they need that for? I was already wired up, which wasn’t all that comfortable, either, let me tell you.”

“Go on,” Tricia urged her.

“Well, he kept swooping over us with that thing, and that last time he swung the thing toward me, he hit me in the head with it. Maybe I should get checked out to see if I have a concussion—there might be a lawsuit in this. Anyway, he nearly knocked me off my feet. The pan of flaming syrup went flying and then—
whoosh!
Suddenly we were surrounded by flames.” She paused to take a bite of cookie. “Mmm. These are heavenly.”

“Then what, then what?” Tricia said. She’d seen all that for herself.

“The lights went off and the sprinkler system came on, and
we stumbled for the exit and stood out in the parking lot, soaking wet and freezing. Thank goodness there was a fire station just around the corner. They took us all there, wrapped us in blankets, and not too long after, Chief Baker showed up to take me home. Let me tell you, Trish, I was never so happy to see a familiar face in all my life. It was so nice of him to come get me—especially with the two of you being on the outs and all.”

“Oh dear,” Mr. Everett said, turning his concern on Tricia now.

“Let’s leave that subject for another time,” Tricia said, and took one of the cups, fortifying herself with a large gulp of coffee.

Angelica drained her own cup, set it down, and then stood. “Well, Sarge and I had better get home. Trish, can you drive me to get my car later this afternoon?”

“Of course.”

“And can I borrow your keys so I can get back into my apartment?”

“Hang on.” Tricia retrieved the ring from her coat pocket and extracted the keys for the Cookery and the apartment.

“Now to hope I can find my extra set of car keys,” Angelica said, and started for the door. “I suppose I’ve got to go through all this again with Frannie now. Oh well. At least I’m here to tell the tale.”

“Call me when you’re ready to go,” Tricia said.

“Better yet, just come and fetch me in half an hour. It’ll give me an excuse to cut my story short and get moving. I still have a lot of things to accomplish today.”

Tricia nodded. “Will do.”

Angelica waved as she strode through the door. After she’d gone, Mr. Everett turned to Tricia. “I wish you’d let me know you were worried about your sister. I would have never asked you to speak to Grace with that hanging over you.”

“I only wish our conversation had gone better. Speaking to her may have made things worse for you.”

He nodded solemnly. “I knew that was a possibility. What did she say?”

“In not so many words? To mind my own business.”

Mr. Everett looked appalled.

“It’s okay,” Tricia assured him. “We’ll get through this.” She wanted to say that she and Grace had been friends a long time, but that wasn’t true. They’d met only two and a half years before. Still, they had a bond that Tricia had thought was strong enough to weather such ripples in a friendship. Only time would tell.

The bell over the door jangled and a couple of customers entered. The phone rang, too. “I’ll get the phone,” Tricia said. “You and Linda handle the customers.”

Mr. Everett nodded.

Tricia stepped over to the cash desk and picked up the old Art Deco phone’s receiver. “Haven’t Got a—”

“Tricia, it’s Angelica. Rescue me! Bob just heard about the fiasco at the TV station and is threatening to come over. I don’t want to talk to him right now—maybe never.”

“I thought you were going to take a shower.”

“It’ll be the fastest one on record. Come over, will you?” she pleaded.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” She hung up the phone and looked toward her customers. Linda was listening to Mr. Everett as he spoke with the women, taking in everything he said like an attentive student. So far she seemed to be doing well and had quickly picked up the routine. Tricia mentally crossed her fingers that she had finally found a worthy replacement for Ginny.

She snagged her purse and bypassed the knot of people clustered around the side shelves. As she headed back for the shop’s entrance, she paused to let Linda know where she was going.

“We’ll be fine,” Linda assured her, sounding much more confident than she’d been the day before.

The clouds had begun to gather. Tricia left the shop and bent her head to avoid the worst of the wind, hurrying to the Cookery. Frannie was alone in the store and looked up at her arrival, putting an
Easy-Does-It Cooking
bookmark between the pages of a book before closing its cover. As expected, it was a copy of
Death Beckons
.

“Where’s Angelica? She just called to ask me to take her to get her car.”

“That was quick,” Frannie said. “Your sister went up the stairs less than ten minutes ago.”

“Did she tell you what happened at the TV station?”

Frannie nodded. “The short version. She promised me all the details later. What a terrible experience. And the station just went on the air, too. I was looking forward to seeing more local newscasts instead of what’s going on in Boston or Manchester.” She shook her head. “Did you see the broadcast?”

Tricia nodded. “It was terrible, but it happened so fast…”

“I DVR’d it, so I can’t wait to get home and see it for myself. I’m just glad Angelica is okay.”

“Me, too.”

“I saw Chief Baker drop Angelica off in front of your store. That sure was nice of him—and to pick her up in his own car instead of using the village’s cruiser, too. That’ll win him points with everybody. I’m sure villagers who voted against reinstating the police force would have kicked up an awful stink if one of our officers used an official vehicle for personal use.”

Would they ever
, Tricia agreed, but not aloud. “Is anything else going on in town?” she asked, if only to change the subject.

“Still no word on an arrest in Pippa Comfort’s death, if that’s what you mean. Goodness knows there’re plenty of suspects.”

“Who’s at the top of your list?” Tricia asked, trying not to sound too eager.

Frannie’s eyes narrowed. “Chauncey Porter.”

“Chauncey? What possible motive could he have for killing Pippa?”

“Don’t you remember—Jim Roth and Chauncey were great pals. That’s why I asked him to give the eulogy at Jim’s funeral gathering last year.” And what a fiasco that was, but Tricia didn’t bring that up.

“I don’t see what that has to do with that poor woman’s death.”

“Chauncey recognized Miz Comfort from a spread in Playboy magazine.”

“But that was years ago, Tricia said.

“Jim told me that Chauncey has quite a collection of pornographic magazines and videos, which he has cataloged on his store’s computer. He told Jim they were all e-rot-ic art, but if you ask me, it’s just plain smut.”

Chauncey Porter into porn?
Well, it kind of made sense. He wasn’t the most attractive male on the planet. He was overweight and balding, and…no longer young. Perhaps he’d settled on a life of voyeurism rather than pursuing any kind of relationship with a living, breathing woman. Your heart didn’t get broken if you never risked loving someone, but oh what an empty life he must lead. Then again, maybe the love of his life had died or deserted him and it just seemed easier to fantasize than risk being hurt again.

“What are you thinking?” Frannie asked.

“Even if what you said is true—why would Chauncey kill her?”

“Maybe he was jealous. Mr. Comfort had a Playboy bunny all his own. Let’s face it, Chauncey never would.”

“Don’t you think that’s reaching for a motive?”

Frannie shrugged. “I haven’t been reading mysteries as long as you have, but I have to admit, I look at strangers and wonder,
Have you committed a crime? Are you capable of committing a crime?
I guess reading mysteries has made me a little paranoid.”

Tricia could second that statement.

Thankfully, Angelica burst through the door at the back of the shop marked PRIVATE. Her damp hair hung in ringlets, and she wore slacks, boots, a puffy pink jacket, and a matching purse. This time, she held Sarge like a football under one arm. “Let’s go!” she called, and headed for the back door. “I’m not sure when we’ll be back, Frannie, and we’re hightailing it out the back door. Could you reset the alarm after we’re gone? And please don’t tell Bob Kelly where we’re heading.”

“Sure thing,” Frannie said, and scrambled from around the sales counter to follow Tricia and Angelica to the rear exit.

The door closed behind them and Tricia struggled to keep up with Angelica, who’d already trundled down the steep concrete steps to the alley. “Hurry up, Tricia,” she said, and began to jog.

“Ange, wait!” Tricia called, but when Angelica was motivated, nothing could stop her. That is, until she came to the end of the line of buildings where the alley ran into the Stoneham Municipal Parking Lot. She crept up to the edge of the building and looked around it, quickly retreated, and pressed her back to the brick wall. “It’s Bob!” she squealed, and quickly put Sarge in her purse.