Murder on the Half Shelf (35 page)

Mary glared at her husband. “This morning. I found him looking at newspaper clippings. He kept them in a scrapbook. I’d never seen them before today.” She shook her head. “That’s just sick, Luke. That’s really,
really
sick.”

“I’m not sick,” Luke declared angrily. “It might be sixteen years, but I grieve every day for the loss of my wife—the love of my life.”

Mary’s anguished expression was painful to witness. “In all the years we’ve been together—for all the things we’ve suffered together—didn’t it mean
anything
to you?” she tried again.

“When I said ‘I do’ to Joanna, I meant it forever.”

“And when you said it to me—what was that worth?”

Luke wouldn’t meet her gaze.

Mary took several gulping breaths, her eyes brimming with tears.

Luke glanced over to Tricia and seemed to realize what her being there—hearing that conversation—meant.

Tricia took another step back.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Luke said.

“Are you insane? You can’t hurt Tricia,” Mary said, aghast, and scrambled to step in front of her.

Luke rushed forward, shoving them back and pinning Tricia against the big display window. His arms swung like pistons, aiming for Tricia’s face, but Mary did her best to protect her, taking most of the blows herself. Both women were screaming, trying to shield themselves from his furious bashing, when the door burst open.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Pixie screamed, and rushed at Luke, who shoved her aside, knocking her into a metal rack filled with knitting patterns. It crashed to the floor, with Pixie following.

“Get out, Pixie, get help!” Tricia hollered, but instead Pixie
wriggled out of her big bulky coat and struggled to her feet. She let out a terrible wail and leapt at Luke, her right leg flying high into the air and striking his head with an audible crack, making him stagger into the cash desk.

Pixie was a blur of motion as again and again her legs hit her target—front kicks, side kicks, back kicks—pummeling a quickly punch-drunk Luke, who finally crumpled to the carpet.

“Enough, enough!” Tricia cried, and grabbed Pixie by the arms, hauling her back.

“I was just getting started,” Pixie cried, her chest heaving from exertion.

“Do you always attack first and ask questions later?” she tried again.

“Only when I see my boss being beaten. Take that, you bully.” Her leg lashed out again but this time missed. She made another lunge, and Tricia had to haul her back to keep her from starting in on Luke once again.

“Whoa—whoa!” Tricia cried.

Mary crouched down to help her husband, taking his bleeding face in her hands. “Luke—are you okay?”

“Better call 911, Tricia,” Pixie said, and then seemed to realize that it would mean cops would be arriving. “Holy crap! I think I’ve just blown my parole.”

“No, you haven’t. I’m going to make sure the Stoneham police know you saved us from goodness only knows what.”

Tricia grabbed the wireless phone on the cash desk and punched in the numbers.

“Aw, crap!” Pixie yelled even louder, looking down at her dress. The old threads on the vintage seams had popped on both sides, leaving her standing in her slip and nylons. “That’s the end of this dress.”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Tricia said.

“But I only wear vintage clothes,” Pixie protested.

“Then I’ll buy you an old one.”

TWENTY-NINE

The Dog-Eared
Page wasn’t scheduled to open for at least another month, but three of the bar stools were filled and the liquor was flowing on that cold Friday night in early April.

Angelica and Sarge had been first on the scene after the cops showed up at By Hook or By Book, clucking like a mother hen and worrying about her baby sister, when all Tricia wanted to do was to put an ice bag on her eye where one of Luke’s punches had connected.

Once all the statements had been given and the suspect had been taken away in handcuffs, Michele Fowler had arrived on the scene, reminding Tricia of her invitation earlier that day to join her at the pub for a drink. She extended the invitation to Angelica and Pixie as well.

It was a regular coffee klatch gathered around the bar, but caffeine wasn’t an ingredient in the drinks of choice.

“Can I get you another?” Michele Fowler asked Tricia, who had already finished her second gin and tonic.

“Oh, what the heck,” Tricia said, and drained what was primarily ice water from her short, squat glass. She held it against the side of her face, which didn’t seem to be swelling too badly.

“And again,” said Pixie, and banged her glass down on the old oak bar. She’d already slammed back three drinks. There was no way the woman would be able to drive home that night. Well, Tricia had a pretty comfortable couch. Pixie had saved her from a beating—and possibly worse—so she could crash there. Whether she would be fit to start her first day of work at Haven’t Got a Clue the next day was another matter.

“Oh, this is nice and cozy,” Angelica said, her gaze taking in the entire tavern, while Sarge snoozed at her feet. He felt completely at ease as well. “I can see we’re going to have fun here in the future,” she said, and reached for a pretzel from a bowl on the bar.

“I’ve already got musical entertainment booked through July,” Michele said.

The door opened and pink-cheeked Bob Kelly strode through it. “Are you having a dry run tonight?” he asked hopefully, rubbing his hands together presumably to ward off the cold.

His arrival startled Sarge, who jumped to his feet, growling and baring his teeth.

“Down, boy,” Angelica gently admonished, and Sarge sat back on his haunches but continued to growl at his quarry. “Sorry, Bob, but this is a private party,” Angelica said.

His tone soured. “Yes, I hear Tricia has once again kept Stoneham safe from yet another murderer.” He squinted at her in the dim light. “Is that a black eye you’re sporting?”

Tricia glared at him. “No.”

He returned her glare. “My mistake. Your cop pal came to visit me this afternoon.”

“Are you in trouble?” Angelica asked.

“Not now that they’ve got the killer.”

“Too bad,” Tricia said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kelly, but I can’t sell you a drink. I don’t yet have a liquor license,” Michele said.

“Can’t I just sit here at the bar and visit with you ladies?”

“No,” Tricia and Angelica chorused.

“Hey, fella—are you dense?” Pixie asked, her words beginning to slur. “Your company is not appre-appre-appreciated.”

Bob straightened, taking umbrage at her tone. He looked for help from Angelica and Michele, but the two of them could only shrug.

Michele finished making Tricia another gin and tonic and set it on the bar top.

“You don’t want to rile Pixie here. She’s a kickboxer,” Tricia told Bob.

“Learned it in stir,” Pixie said proudly.

“Pixie?” Bob simpered, giving her a once-over with a jaundiced eye.

Pixie staggered a little as she dismounted her stool and rose to her full height—all five foot two or three of it. “Yeah, you got somethin’ to shay about it?”

Bob took in Pixie’s tattered dress, her torn hose, and her disheveled hair and backed up a step. “You ladies have a nice evening.” He left without another word.

No sooner had the door closed when it opened again, admitting Chief Baker, who held a bouquet of pink carnations—the kind sold by the convenience store up by the highway. This time Sarge stood and wagged his tail. “Are you serving liquor without a license?” Baker asked Michele, and reached down to give Sarge’s ears a scratch.

She sighed.

Tricia took another sip of her drink. “Oh Grant, give it a rest.”

“I’m entertaining a few friends,” Michele explained. “I am
not
open for business. And maybe I should just lock that door.” She
shook her head. “I’d offer you a beer, but someone might say you were on the take. But feel free to help yourself to the pretzels.”

“That could still be construed as a bribe,” Angelica pointed out.

“Good point. No pretzels for you, either,” Michele said, and removed the bowl from the bar.

“These are for you,” Baker said, and handed the flowers to Tricia.

“Thank you,” she said, and made a show of smelling them—not that they had much of a scent. Had the convenience store been out of roses? And why had he decided to give them to her in front of witnesses—so that she’d feel more forgiving? Should she let him off the hook that easily?

Not a chance.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“A small peace offering.”

Tricia glanced askance at Angelica, who frowned.

“You mean now that I’ve found the killer for you, I’m no longer a suspect and you can be seen speaking with me in public?”

Baker looked startled, like a deer caught in headlights.

“I—I—I…”

Tricia sighed, placed the carnations on the bar, and picked up her glass, pressing it to her cheek once more. “So what happened with Luke Fairchild?”

Baker swallowed before answering. “He demanded to see a lawyer and then clammed up. His wife, however, was willing to tell us everything. She’s already agreed to testify against him when the time comes.”

Tricia shook her head. “He should never have told her he loved his first wife more.”

“He told her
that
?” Angelica asked, appalled.

“All men are rats,” Pixie slurred, and rattled the ice in her glass, but Michele made no move to make her another drink. Pixie squinted up at Baker. “You’re probably a rat, too.”

“Shhh! Pixie. Have some respect. He’s
supposed to be
Tricia’s boyfriend,” Angelica grated. She cleared her throat. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. Who mugged Chauncey Porter?”

“Angelica,” Tricia warned. They had promised they wouldn’t say anything about it.

“Luke Fairchild,” Baker answered. “Porter closed his shop early and came to see me this afternoon. After your arrival at the inn, he came down to the parlor to have a glass of sherry. He saw Fairchild grab one of the candleholders and slip out of the inn’s front door.”

“Why didn’t he just tell you that from the beginning?” Tricia asked.

“He was angry. He felt humiliated by Mrs. Comfort’s disparaging remarks. He might not have said anything if Fairchild hadn’t come after him the other night.”

“I suspected he was lying when he wouldn’t talk about it,” Angelica said.

“You knew about the mugging?” Baker asked, annoyed.

Tricia nodded. “But we promised Chauncey we wouldn’t say anything.”

“Why did Luke come after him?” Angelica asked.

“Fairchild says Porter was trying to blackmail him for money. I’ve yet to determine if that’s true.”

“Poor Chauncey,” she said.

Considering his dire financial situation, he might have been driven to blackmail, but Tricia didn’t want to believe it. If Fairchild could kill without conscience, he could certainly lie, too.

Tricia looked up at Baker.

Tricia stood. “Ladies, I’ve got a cat who is hours overdue for her dinner.” She turned her attention to Pixie. “You’re in no condition to drive. You can stay the night on my couch if you like.”

Pixie shook her head, then put a hand to her temple—presumably to keep the room from spinning. “You live on the
third floor. I can’t walk up that many steps when I’m this potted.”

“I’ll be heading home soon,” Michele said. “I’ll give her a lift. And I can pick her up tomorrow to go to work at Haven’t Got a Clue, too. I have a feeling we’re going to become good pals, Pixie.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You must tell me where you got that dress. I’m sure it was lovely before you saved the day.”

“Yeah, it was a beaut. I can tell you all the best places to get vintage togs.”

“I guess I’d better get going, too,” Angelica said. She grabbed their coats from the bar stool next to her and passed Tricia’s along, then stooped to pick up Sarge. “Thanks for the drinks. Talk to you soon,” she told Michele, and headed out the door.

Tricia put on her coat. “I’ll second that. Let’s do lunch soon,” she told Michele, who was already collecting glasses and tidying up the bar.

Tricia picked up her flowers and allowed Baker to walk her across the street to Haven’t Got a Clue. She unlocked the door and realized she’d left the lights on hours before. Miss Marple got up from one of the chairs in the reader’s nook and scolded her for being away so long, while Baker closed the door behind them.

“Have some cookies. That will hold you while I say good night to Grant,” she told the cat, and rounded the beverage station’s counter to grab the bowl and bag of snacks she kept for emergency purposes.

“Does Grant
have
to leave?” Baker asked.

Tricia shook out half a bowl of treats and set them on the floor. Miss Marple wasn’t kidding about her hunger pangs. She dug in.

“Maybe we should talk about that,” Tricia said, resealing the bag of treats and putting them away. “I won’t deny it—I was hurt that you could even consider me a suspect in Pippa Comfort’s death.”

“And I explained more than once that I can’t be seen playing favorites. I owe it to the citizens of Stoneham to act above reproach.”