Murder on the Half Shelf (20 page)

“Hey, Tricia. Long time no see.”

Tricia clutched the white bakery bag and braved a smile. “I’ve been busy. How about you?”

“Still employed,” she said, nodding toward the door to Russ’s office. “You wanna see the boss?”

“If he’s in.”

“Russ!” she called. “Tricia’s here to see you.”

Seconds later, Russ shambled into the doorway. His hair always seemed to need a trim, and his glasses were perpetually sliding down his long thin nose. A plaid shirt—in shades of red today—and wrinkled jeans seemed to be his standard uniform. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked Tricia, smiling.

“I just stopped by to say congratulations on your engagement and to bring you a little present to celebrate the event.” She held up the grease-stained bag.

Russ’s head dipped and his cheeks colored in embarrassment. He had to push his glasses back up his nose to keep them from falling off. “Nikki mentioned that she’d told you.”

“It’s wonderful news. You’ve got yourself one fine lady—and all the goodies you can eat, I’ll bet.”

“That turned out to be quite the unexpected perk,” he admitted, and his eyes slid over to the counter that stood against the wall, housing a coffeemaker and a plate of Nikki’s thumbprint jam cookies. “I’ll probably have to start going to the gym in Milford if she keeps feeding me like she has. Cakes, cookies, breads.” He patted his stomach, which was straining against his belt more than it had when the two of them had been a couple. But then Tricia had rarely—if ever—cooked for him. Still, she knew Russ’s preferences for bad fast food would not be usurped by Nikki’s decadent desserts.

“Come on in and sit down,” he said, ushering her into his office. “Can I take your jacket?” Russ glanced at the coat rack that stood in the corner and held his own bomber jacket.

“I can’t stay long,” Tricia said, then handed him the bag of fried cakes and took one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Have you made any headway on a venue for the wedding reception?”

Russ took the faux leather chair behind his desk, opened the bag, and took out one of the doughnuts. “Not yet. We’re not in any great hurry.”

No, she doubted
he
was. Especially if Nikki was going to move in with him ahead of the ceremony. But she wasn’t going to mention that. His commitment difficulties with her were ancient news. She really
did
want to see the two of them happy. She got a glimpse of pure bliss when he bit into the doughnut, betting he hadn’t had anything as common as a fried cake in months.

“I get the feeling your good wishes aren’t the only reason for your visit,” he said, and brushed a stray crumb from his mouth. “Whenever a crime happens in Stoneham, you’ll always find a way to be involved.”

“Just the luck of the draw that I always seem to be present when someone is killed around here.”

“Maybe you
are
the village jinx,” he said, and seemed to enjoy it when she winced at the phrase. “And now you’ve come to me to see what I know about the investigation. What’s the matter, your cop boyfriend won’t talk to you about it?”

“That’s exactly it. Because I knew Pippa Comfort’s husband some twenty years ago, he seems to think that makes me a viable suspect. He thinks there might be some kind of conflict of interest if we see or talk to each other in the interim.”

He laughed. “I’ll bet that didn’t go over well with you.”

“You got that right. Still, I’m rather surprised
you
haven’t come to see me to pump me for information about Harry Tyler’s resurrection.”

Russ shrugged, took another bite of doughnut, chewed, and swallowed. “I edit a piddly weekly rag. It’s not a blip on anybody’s radar.”

Tricia scrutinized his smug face, and understanding dawned. “You’ve already spoken to Harry Tyler, otherwise you would’ve been over to see me pretty darn quick.”

He took another bite, swallowed, and grinned. “You got it.”

“Did he give you an exclusive?”

Russ shook his head. “Not exactly. But I brokered a deal for him for a cut of the money.”

She should’ve seen that coming. “Who did you sell the story to?”

“
People
magazine.”

It figured. She had nothing to trade and had wasted four dollars and change for the fried cakes. He wasn’t likely to give her any information now.

“I can read your mind,” he said in a low voice. “I always could.”

“I don’t think so.”

He gave another slight shrug. “Okay, I could read your mind maybe seventy-five percent of the time, then.”

That was a definite possibility.

“So, who are your suspects in Pippa Comfort’s death?” he asked, and wiped the sides of his mouth with his thumb and index finger.

“Harry Tyler, of course. He’s bound to get the most scrutiny, too.”

“With you coming in second?”

Tricia hated to acknowledge it, but he was probably right, too.

“Chauncey Porter and Pippa had words not long before her death,” she said, to divert him from that subject. Russ straightened ever so slightly, his eyes widening in real interest. Aha! He hadn’t heard
that
nugget of information. “Did you know that years ago Pippa was a Playboy bunny?”

“I did hear that in passing,” he admitted.

“Chauncey recognized her as soon as he laid eyes on her. It seems he has quite a
Playboy
magazine collection.” Okay, that was a guess. If he was into porn he probably started off with
Playboy
and worked his way to the harder stuff. “He made a flip remark about Pippa’s change of uniform and she gave him a thorough dressing-down.”

“And you witnessed it?”

Tricia shook her head. “Mary Fairchild did.” She could almost see him make a mental note to call Mary the minute Tricia left his office. And he’d probably take a walk down the street to visit Chauncey at his store, the Armchair Tourist.

“Anyone else?” he asked.

“They say Clayton Ellington suggested Pippa take the job as manager of the inn. Was he doing a favor for an old friend, or did he have other motivations?”

“More than one?” Russ asked.

It was Tricia’s turn to shrug. “And other people visited the inn the day Pippa died.”

“Besides you and Angelica?”

“Amy Schram from Milford Nursery and Flowers, for one. There may have been other deliveries that day, too.”

Russ shook his head. “I might believe that if the murder happened on Saturday. But on a Sunday? I don’t think so.”

“I’ve told you my suspects; who’s on your list?”

“What makes you think I have a list?”

“Russ, you always have a list.”

A sly smile crept onto his lips. “I do.”

“And?” she prompted.

“
People
deal or no, Tyler’s the most likely suspect. As far as I know, he hasn’t got a firm alibi for when his wife was murdered, and he didn’t return home for an hour or more after the cops showed up.”

“I know. I was there.” It did look bad for Harry, but somehow…Tricia couldn’t believe he’d kill his wife. Or was it that she didn’t
want
to believe Harry was capable of killing her—or anyone. But how trustworthy was a man who faked his death and walked away from his family and friends—and his life—because he was under stress? Were Harry and Pippa stressed simply because of the challenges inherent in opening a new business—even if it didn’t belong to them?

Russ ducked his head and waved a hand in front of Tricia. “Hey, what are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” she said with a shake of her head. “Do you plan on talking to anyone else about the murder?”

Russ shrugged. “Probably not. It’s a pretty boring case.”

“A former Playmate of the Month being bludgeoned to death is boring?” What did a victim have to do or be to warrant a little interest from the media these days?

“She wasn’t a Playmate,” Russ went on. “She was a Playboy bunny and was featured in a story about the New York club. The pictures weren’t the least bit provocative.”

“Then you’ve seen them?”

He sheepishly nodded. “They came up on a Google search.”

If the pictures weren’t memorable, why had Chauncey remembered them after so many years?

Russ reached for the bakery bag, rolled the top down, and
stowed it in his desk drawer, leaving no obvious evidence of her visit.

“Harry Tyler’s new in town. How could he know to come to you with his story?” Tricia asked.

“I may have given him a call,” Russ admitted.

“And you just happen to have an in with
People
magazine?”

“I wasn’t always just some hack at a weekly rag, you know. I’ve got contacts—big contacts.”

“So you’ve said,” Tricia said, unimpressed.

That was the thing. Russ had always had an ego that seemed to eclipse his journalistic talent. What had she ever seen in the man? But then she had a talent for choosing the wrong guy. There were plenty of wonderful men in the world who made great lovers, great husbands, and great dads. Why did she attract men who were just the opposite?

She stood. “Thanks for your time, Russ. I wish you and Nikki all the happiness in the world.”

“Thanks. And thanks for the great fried cakes, too. And I’m sorry, old girl, you just weren’t the one.” His smile was crooked.

Old girl?

Somehow Tricia held on to her temper. “Good-bye, Russ.”

She turned and left his office—and hoped she’d never have to speak to him again.

SEVENTEEN

It was
well past two o’clock when Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue. Linda’s smile was tight when she greeted her new boss.

“What’s the matter?” Tricia asked.

Linda’s gaze darted to Mr. Everett, who seemed to be assaulting the books in the biography section with his lamb’s-wool duster.

“I think you’d better go talk to him. He came back from lunch quite upset. I tried to draw him out to find out what was wrong, but I’m afraid it’ll take time before he considers me a friend, and I think he could use one right now.”

Tricia nodded. “Thanks. I’ll speak with him now.” She gave Linda a smile. “It’ll be okay,” she said, but had little faith in her words.

She approached Mr. Everett, who looked up from his task. “Welcome back, Ms. Miles.” His words were correct but held no warmth.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Everett? You look like you’ve lost your best friend.”

“I’m afraid that’s exactly what has happened.” He sighed and his mouth drooped. “The situation is dire, Ms. Miles. I’m afraid my actions have done irreparable damage to my marriage.”

“Irreparable?” Tricia echoed, horrified—and just as frightened about what he might say next.

“I met Grace for lunch and we had a terrible exchange of words.”

“Oh, Mr. Everett, I’m so sorry. I had no idea my speaking to her would cause you so much trouble.”

He shook his head. “It’s my fault. I asked you to do so. If I had had the courage to talk to her myself, all of this might have been avoided.”

Tricia bit her lip, her stomach tensing. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He shook his head sadly. “I’m sure it will all work out,” he said without conviction. “Grace and I have weathered worse storms when we lost our first spouses. I just never anticipated how winning that damn lottery could cause us so much trouble.”

It was the first time Tricia had ever heard Mr. Everett curse, which proved how upset he really was.

Tricia heard the phone ring, and Linda answered it. She rested a hand on Mr. Everett’s. “I’m so sorry.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Tricia—phone call,” Linda said, holding out the receiver.

Tricia hurried to the cash desk, “Tricia Miles, can I help you?”

“It’s Grant. You were supposed to record a statement about the Comfort murder on Monday. This is now Wednesday.”

“I was on my way to the station and got sidetracked. I can be there in five minutes.”

“I’ll time you,” he said, but there was no humor in his voice.

She hung up the phone. “I’ve got to run yet another errand,” she told Linda. “I’m sorry to keep leaving you to fend for yourself.”

“Don’t worry about it. That
is
why you hired me,” Linda said. “Mr. Everett and I can manage.”

Tricia nodded, happy she hadn’t taken her coat off. “I’ll try to be back within the hour,” she said, and out the door she went.

Chief Baker wasn’t waiting for her when she arrived at the station, but his administrative assistant was. And it took just about an hour before she took Tricia’s statement, let her read through it for mistakes, and then had Tricia sign it. By the time she headed back to Haven’t Got a Clue it was after three o’clock, and not only did Tricia feel like she’d gotten nothing accomplished that day, but she felt terribly frazzled, wondering what else could go wrong.

She found out upon entering the store when a distraught Linda met her at the door.

“I’m terribly worried about Mr. Everett. He came over all flushed a while ago and started to sweat. I wanted to call his wife or an ambulance, but he wouldn’t let me.”

Ambulance?

Tricia hurried over to the old man sitting in the reader’s nook. “Mr. Everett, are you okay?” The flush Linda had spoken of had left his sweating face, but he looked pale and Tricia could see he was having trouble breathing.