Murder on the Half Shelf (3 page)

Tricia glanced around the yard, noting how the branches
in the tall bare trees danced in the slight wind, and waited impatiently as Sarge started his sniffathon of the Comfort’s backyard. The small patio promised many afternoons relaxing in the shade—perhaps with that sweating pitcher of lemonade she’d thought about earlier. The idea was certainly appealing. She’d spent most of her adult life living in an apartment. It would be nice to have a yard with trees and flowers…especially if someone else maintained it for her.

The lease on her mystery bookstore, Haven’t Got a Clue, was soon to run out, and if she didn’t find competent help soon to replace her former assistant, Ginny Wilson, she might as well close shop. Okay, that was an overreaction. Still, the past few months had seen a parade of men and women who just didn’t fit in at the store.

She thought again about her digs above Haven’t Got a Clue in the third-floor loft, where she’d lived for the past three years. She hadn’t given any thought to trading it in for a real home, and she’d left it too late to start looking for a house should she lose her lease. So many of the homes in Stoneham were behemoths like the Sheer Comfort Inn—much too big for one person and a small cat. And she wasn’t sure she could be happy in a tiny cottage like where her former employee currently lived.

A noise off in the darkened part of the yard startled her out of her daydream. It was Sarge, growling.

She extended her arm to reel in a couple of feet of Sarge’s leash and tugged it, to signal the dog it was time to come back to her, but Sarge wouldn’t budge.

“Sarge,” she whispered.

The dog yipped and growled again.

She tugged harder on the leash and called again, but the dog only yipped louder. They’d be found out for sure if this continued.

Tricia walked across the yard to intercept the dog, who had his nose firmly planted between two of the pickets. “Sarge!”

The dog pulled his head back, looked up at Tricia, and barked—loudly!

“Shhh!”

She hit the button on the leash, reeling all but the last four feet in, and bent down and scooped him up. “Naughty dog! You must be quiet.”

She put Sarge back into Angelica’s purse, but before she turned back toward the house, she glanced over the fence and saw a mound of what looked like clothing on the other side. Taking out her keys, she pushed the little button on the fob and a little beam of light shot out. She dragged the beam over something purple—a bulky sweater—and it came to rest on a bloodied mass of tangled blonde-gray hair.

Pippa Comfort’s hair.

TWO

“Oh, no,
not again!” Tricia said aloud to Sarge, who had started to whine. Tricia’s heart pounded, and she fought to keep from hyperventilating.

She hurried to the gate several feet to her left, struggled to open it, and raced to where Pippa lay in the darkened grass. She set Angelica’s purse down and fumbled to find a pulse along Pippa’s neck, but of course there was none.

Pippa was definitely dead.

Tricia stood and swallowed. This was the fourth body she’d found in three years. After she’d found the first one on the floor of the Cookery, and then another person had died shortly afterward, a rumor had circulated through Stoneham that she was the village jinx. Now she wondered if that might not be true.

“It’s for sure we’ll get caught for bringing you here tonight,” she told Sarge, who yipped in agreement. Then Tricia realized
how absurd the thought truly was. Nobody was going to get to stay at the inn for its shakedown run.

She took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself, reached for her cell phone, and punched in 911. “I’d like to report an accident.”

Accident? A body bludgeoned to death was no accident. It couldn’t have been ten minutes—fifteen at the most—since Tricia had spoken to the poor woman. And now she was dead. But Tricia didn’t want to report that to the dispatcher. It would be much better for some official to make that determination.

She answered all the questions the dispatcher asked and stayed on the line until she heard the wail of sirens in the distance. Would it be the fire rescue squad or a member of the newly formed Stoneham Police Department who made it to the scene first?

Sarge had been trained to stay in the purse until retrieved. Tricia had almost forgotten about him until he let out another yip to remind her of his presence. She picked up Angelica’s purse and retreated to stand beside the steps next to the house. The late March evening dampness seemed to be settling in her bones, and she shivered. She could feel the heat of Sarge’s body through the purse and wished she had a coat similar to his, cursing herself for grabbing only a light jacket when she’d left home.

The handle above her rattled and the kitchen door opened. “Where have you been?” Angelica asked, clearly annoyed. “I’ve been back to the car twice now looking for you. Let’s get going or it’ll be midnight before we get anything to eat.”

The sirens abruptly halted and within seconds a young officer dressed in a navy blue uniform rounded the corner of the house and skidded to a halt. “Where’s the injured party, ma’am?” he asked, rather breathless.

Tricia pointed. “Behind the fence. I…think she might be dead.”

“Oh, no,” Angelica wailed. “We’re not going to get to eat for hours now.”

All the
guests had been rounded up and separately questioned, but so far no one had been allowed to leave. They all sat in the front parlor in various states of boredom. After the first few minutes, the stilted, if polite, conversation had waned. As usual, Mary Fairchild had a bag of craftwork with her. She concentrated on crocheting a pink baby blanket while her husband held an e-reader, his eyes darting back and forth as he pursued his novel. He’d downloaded the book soon after they’d been told to sit there for an indefinite time period. Tricia tried to stifle a pang of jealousy. Her purse—and the paperback she was currently reading—was still up in the master suite.

It seemed that no one had seen Pippa leave the house. More telling, Jon Comfort was nowhere to be found. At least that gave the police someone other than Tricia to concentrate on as the chief suspect—for the time being. For some reason the local law enforcement community always seemed to want to blame her for every dead body that appeared in the village.

Tricia’s gaze traveled around the room for at least the hundredth time. It was a nice room, with a white-painted fireplace surround with an oak mantel. A large oil painting of a working quarry graced the space above—no doubt an artist’s interpretation of one of Stoneham’s own. She would have rather seen a prettier landscape or a still life of flowers or fruit. The original floors looked to have been recently refinished, while an oriental carpet in rich hues blanketed the sitting area. Her gaze drifted to the large floral arrangement, seeing something underneath that she hadn’t noticed before: a small embossed card with the words
Courtesy of Milford Nursery and Flowers
.

“I’m so hungry I could eat my foot,” Angelica practically growled into Tricia’s left ear. “I’m never going to get any work done tonight, either.”

“And you’ll be sleeping in your own bed tonight, too,” Tricia added.

“That, too,” Angelica muttered. “I was hoping to give that Jacuzzi tub a try. Now…” Her words trailed off as her stomach growled—loudly.

Everyone’s head jerked up as a figure appeared in the doorway. At last, the chief of police, Grant Baker, was on the scene. Now finally Tricia and Angelica could leave. But instead of a welcoming smile, his expression was grim.

“Folks, thank you for your patience. I understand you’ve all got luggage in your rooms. One of my officers will accompany each of you as you return to your rooms to pack your things. Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild, why don’t you go first.”

The couple rose from the couch and headed for the stairs, with an officer dogging their heels.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Baker said, and then turned. “Mr. Porter, you’re next, and Mr. Ellington will follow.”

“What about us?” Angelica asked.

Baker ignored her, glaring at Tricia. “Ms. Miles, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with you privately.”

Tricia felt her cheeks redden. Was she to be scolded like a naughty child?

“I haven’t got time for this,” Clayton Ellington said, and rose from his chair. “I’ve already been inconvenienced for the past two hours when I had nothing to tell your men. I’ll send one of my employees over to pick up my belongings tomorrow morning. If you’ll excuse me.”

They all watched as he headed for the door. Baker didn’t stop him, and instead he beckoned Tricia to follow him.

She trotted after him into the empty kitchen, which had recently been filled with officers and other officials, as evidenced
by the dirt, leaves, and mud that covered what had been an immaculate floor just hours before.

Baker turned to face her. “Tricia,” he said with a shake of his head, his voice weary.

“I did not kill Pippa Comfort.”

“You found her,” he as much as accused.

“I did not. Angelica’s dog found her. I only reported it.”

“It amounts to the same thing.”

“It does not,” Tricia cried, sounding incredibly defensive. “I wouldn’t have gone out back if Sarge hadn’t needed a pee break.”

Baker sighed. “Tell me what you know.”

Tricia crossed her arms over her sweater set. “I took Sarge out of Angelica’s purse and put him on the ground. He did his business and then did what all dogs do—he started sniffing around until he found something interesting. Unfortunately, it was Pippa.”

Baker shook his head.

The outside door rattled and opened, and the man in the blue plaid shirt whom Tricia had seen earlier walked in, followed by one of the uniformed officers. “What’s going on? Why are the police here? What’s happened?” he demanded, saw Tricia standing by the counter, and then quickly looked away.

Something about the man’s voice hit Tricia like a shock wave. A familiarity—a sound she never thought she’d hear again. She stared at him, but he was looking at Baker, not her.

“Mr. Comfort. I’m very sorry to be the one to tell you, but your wife was found murdered tonight,” Baker said.

“Murdered,” he repeated in disbelief. If he was acting, he was doing a damn fine job of it.

Baker looked back at Tricia. “Will you excuse us, Ms. Miles?”

She hated it when he called her that. But she nodded. However, as she went to turn away, she saw Comfort’s profile and
despite the well-groomed beard, a memory from long ago surfaced—shattering in its intensity.

“Ms. Miles,” Baker repeated, a bit more firmly.

Tricia ignored him, her heart pounding as recognition dawned. “Wait a minute. Your name’s not Comfort,” she told the man in the plaid shirt. “And you’re supposed to be dead. Long dead.”

THREE

“Dead?” Chief
Baker repeated.

Comfort raised his hands in a defensive pose and shook his head in denial. “You’re mistaken, lady. My name is Jon Comfort.”

“You can’t hide behind that beard, Harry. I’d know your face anywhere. Why did you do that to me? How could you fake your death and put your family and friends through all that grief? How could you do that to your
fans
?” she demanded.

“Hold on,” Baker said. It was his turn to raise his hand—if only as a gesture of disbelief. “Tricia, what are you talking about.”

“This man,” she pointed at Comfort, anger filling her voice, “is a fraud. His real name is Harrison Tyler, the author of
Death Beckons
, who supposedly drowned twenty years ago after a sailing accident near Martha’s Vineyard.”

“
Death Beckons
,” Baker repeated. “Hey, I read that book. It was a best seller. A movie was made from it. And wasn’t there a TV show in England based on it, too?”

Comfort’s gaze was focused on the kitchen floor; beneath his full beard, his cheeks had gone a bright pink. “You said my wife is dead. I want to know what happened—who could have killed her.”

“That’s just what we want to ask you. Ms. Miles here told us that she saw you as she and her sister entered your inn. You hightailed it down the hall and disappeared. Within minutes, Ms. Miles found your wife murdered in the backyard.”