Murder on the Half Shelf (7 page)

“Me, too. But I didn’t get a call from the chief himself,” Angelica said wryly. “Have you heard from Harry yet today?” she added, with a sly lilt to her voice.

“Of course not. Why would I?”

“Well, if he was sweet on you once. And now he’s suddenly available…”

“Oh, Ange, that’s a terrible thing to say. His wife was just murdered.”

Angelica shrugged and cracked the cap on the bottle of wine.

“Mary Fairchild came to see me this morning. She’s terribly upset about the whole situation,” Tricia said.

“Why not? Like the rest of us she got cheated out of a night in a lovely inn.”

“That wasn’t her complaint. She wanted some hand-holding. She seemed to think finding corpses doesn’t bother me.”

“Well, you
have
had more experience than the rest of us.”

Tricia glowered at her sister. “I’ve been mulling all this over since last night. Do we know who recruited Pippa and Jon/Harry/whoever to Stoneham?” Tricia asked as she accepted a glass of wine from Angelica.

“What makes you think they were recruited? It’s been obvious for some time that there’s a lack of hotel space in the vicinity. Maybe they just did their homework. Or maybe they came to Milford’s pumpkin festival and found nowhere quaint to stay in the area and thought,
Oh, this is an opportunity
. If I weren’t overwhelmed with the Cookery, Booked for Lunch, and my writing career, I might have stepped up to the plate,” Angelica admitted. There was something odd about the lilt in her voice.

“That’s possible,” Tricia agreed. “I understand they bought the place last fall and have been working on it for the past few months, but I’m not sure they actually own it.”

“If you’re so interested, why don’t you talk to Jon Comfort?”

“Harry Tyler,” Tricia corrected.

“Whatever. Maybe he’s interested in selling now that he’s lost his wife. I mean, he may need the money for his legal defense.”

“Why would I want to talk to the man? He walked out on me.”

Angelica waved a hand in dismissal. “That was over twenty years ago. You’re not still carrying a torch for him, are you?”

“Of course not. But let’s face it, it’s the ultimate snub to walk out on your family, friends,
and
girlfriend, fake your death, and disappear into obscurity.”

“Girlfriend or lover?” Angelica asked, ignoring the last part of Tricia’s sentence.

“Both.”

Angelica’s smile was smug as she shook her head and tsked. “And Daddy always bragged how you were such a
good
girl.”

Tricia gave her sister a sour look. “Let’s get back to the subject at hand. Why was Pippa murdered?”

“I’d say it’s up to the police to figure it out, but knowing you, you’ll wrestle with it like a terrier with a rat.” Sarge gave a solid yip in agreement. Angelica blew him two kisses and said, “Your mommy knows bichons are better. But I’m not sure your Auntie Tricia does.”

“I’m no aunt to a dog.”

“Well, of course you are.”

“Do you consider yourself Miss Marple’s aunt?”

“Definitely not. Dogs are man’s best friend. Cats are…not.”

“In case it escaped your attention, you are not a man.”

“And glad of it,” Angelica said.

Tricia sighed. Sometimes—okay, almost always—it was useless to argue with Angelica.

Angelica carried the strudel to the table, cutting it with a knife and placing slices on the waiting plates. She placed one before Tricia and took a seat opposite. They both cut pieces of the still-steaming strudel. Tricia blew on hers before taking a bite. She chewed and swallowed.

“Oh, this is decadent.”

“Kind of like a pizza without the heavy crust, huh?” Angelica asked, pleased at Tricia’s reaction.

Tricia ate another bite, then reached for her wineglass. “As if all these conversations weren’t enough to spoil my morning, the mail brought something rather puzzling.” She reached for her purse and withdrew the photograph. “Take a look.”

Angelica leaned over to glance at the photo. “Nice shot of you. Who sent it?”

“I don’t know. The postmark on the envelope was Nashua.”

Angelica shrugged. “Who do you know in Nashua—besides customers and vendors, that is?”

“No one. It was taken quite a while ago. I don’t remember where or when. And it came with a note that said,
We’ll meet again
, and no signature.”

Angelica studied Tricia’s face. “You look kind of spooked.”

Tricia shook her head. “It just bothers me that I don’t remember anything about a day that someone seems to remember well. And why be so secretive about it?”

“Just to bug you? Do you think your Harry could have sent it?”

Tricia squinted at the picture. “Maybe.”

“Ask him.”

“Maybe,” she said again, returning the picture to her purse before she turned back to her lunch and cut another piece of strudel.

“I am just swamped this afternoon,” Angelica said, and grabbed her wineglass. I have so much to accomplish and could use a teensy favor from you before you go back to your shop.”

Tricia had a feeling she knew what the request would be.

“It’s almost time for Sarge’s walkie-walk. Could you take him out while I type up this recipe?”

“I already told you, I’m supposed to go to the police station. I don’t want to hold up Mr. Everett’s lunch.”

“Couldn’t you combine the two? Pleeeeeease,” she said with girlish pleading.

“I am
not
a dog walker,” Tricia said with authority.

“Yes, but I’ve got three more recipes to test today, and if Sarge has to wait much longer his little eyes will turn yellow.”

As if to back her up, Sarge whimpered piteously. Angelica had probably slipped him a command under the table to elicit the performance.

Tricia looked down at Sarge, who cocked his head and looked terribly sad. She took her last bite of strudel and stood. “Oh, all right. But this is the second time in less than twenty-four hours. The next time you come over to my place, I’ll expect you to clean Miss Marple’s litter box.”

She grabbed Sarge’s leash from the peg on the wall. The little dog began to dance around in circles, making it even more difficult to attach it to his collar. “Calm down. We’re
only going for a walk, not to Saks.” She scooped up the dog and headed for the door.

“Thank you! See you in a few,” Angelica called behind them.

Tricia put on her coat and started down the steps to the shop below. Usually Angelica just took Sarge out back to the alley for his comfort stops, but Tricia felt like she’d been cooped up long enough. The day was brisk but bright, and she decided to head toward the village park instead. She would combine the errands—unless the cops wouldn’t let her enter their office with the dog. Then she’d have to come back another day to sign her statement. Or maybe Baker would be forced to come to Haven’t Got a Clue and take her statement in person after all.

She carried Sarge through the Cookery and was stopped by several customers who wanted to admire the dog. Luckily Frannie was busy at the register—no time for an interrogation after all. “Sorry, ladies, but I’m afraid Sarge has a date with a fire hydrant. If you’ll excuse us.”

They gave Sarge one last pat on the head, and Tricia exited the store.

Once outside, Tricia set Sarge on the pavement, and he took off like a shot. Obviously he knew exactly where he was heading and even paused and sat at the curb to wait for the command to cross the street. “You really are a clever little boy,” she told him, and Sarge wagged his tail as if to say,
Of course!

Tricia guided Sarge across the street, and they headed for the village square. The granite gazebo with its copper roof, which had stood in ruins behind a rickety construction fence since August, was finally undergoing renovation. The business owners had sponsored a campaign to rebuild the structure, with the Board of Selectmen matching funds. It had taken a lot less time than anyone had imagined. Once it was rebuilt, maybe the sad incident that had caused its destruction could be forgotten—although certainly not the people who’d died
as a result. Members of the Chamber of Commerce had already pledged to erect a plaque to be mounted on the gazebo itself.

Sarge moseyed up to his favorite hydrant, and Tricia looked the other way. After giving him a moment of privacy, she started off, intending to make a circuit of the park, and Sarge happily trotted along beside her.

As Tricia and Sarge neared the corner, Tricia saw a familiar figure heading toward Kelly Realty: Clayton Ellington. What could he possibly want with Bob Kelly?

Perhaps to discuss the fate of the Sheer Comfort Inn? Could Harry have put it up for sale already? What if it was Ellington who actually owned it? After a murder had taken place, he (or whoever owned it) might want to promptly dump the property. And honestly, would Jon/Harry want to live there after Pippa’s death? And if Ellington didn’t own the property, maybe this was the opportunity he’d been looking for to obtain it.

It was something to consider.

A gust of chilly wind ruffled Tricia’s hair, and she decided not to include a trip to the police station on this errand after all. Instead, she and Sarge headed back toward the Cookery. She had just enough time to get the dog home before Mr. Everett’s appointed lunch hour.

As she neared her store, she saw Amy Schram from Milford Nursery and Flowers pull up in her family’s delivery van and park outside of the Have a Heart romance bookstore. Amy got out of the van and waved before she headed for the back of the vehicle and opened the door.

“Hi, Amy,” Tricia called, and paused, watching as Amy withdrew a large plastic urn from the back of the van.

“Hey, Tricia. That doesn’t look like Miss Marple,” she said, and stooped to offer her hand for Sarge to sniff.

“Miss Marple doesn’t like the cold. And she wouldn’t stand still for a collar, let alone being walked on a leash.” Sarge barked in agreement, and the women shared a laugh. “What’s going on?”

Amy nodded at the gray planter with its faux patina of age, filled with fresh dirt. “New from the Chamber of Commerce and the Board of Selectmen. They thought it would be nice if every storefront had an urn filled with spring flowers.”

“Shouldn’t they have been planted last fall?” Tricia asked.

“We had a bunch of bulbs ready for just such an order behind our greenhouses. Once I’ve got all the urns in place, I’ll dig them up and put them in the planters. They’ll be very pretty in a couple of weeks—just in time for the tourists to return. Then after they’re finished, I’ll come by and put in some pansies once the threat of frost is gone.”

“That sounds pretty ambitious.”

“Anything to please the tourists. Happy tourists spend money. And we’re sure glad for the business, too.”

“Speaking of business, I saw a lovely arrangement at the Sheer Comfort Inn last night. Your family does such beautiful work.”

“That was my mom’s handiwork.” Her smile of pride soon dimmed. “It’s a shame about Mrs. Comfort being killed. I spoke with her when I made the delivery.” She shuddered, and Tricia was sure it wasn’t a result of the stiff breeze. “We were going to have a standing order to deliver flowers twice a week. Now…who knows?”

“Has Mr. Comfort already canceled the order?” Until the rest of the world knew Harry’s story, Tricia thought it best to keep up the charade.

“Not yet. But if nothing else, the inn isn’t likely to open as planned—if it opens at all. That’s a shame, too. Stoneham could really use the extra accommodations.” She turned back to the van and took out another planter.

“I won’t keep you,” Tricia said. “And I’ll look forward to seeing my new planter.”

“I should make it down to Haven’t Got a Clue in another five or ten minutes. I’ll wave at Miss Marple through the window.”

Tricia smiled. “See you around, Amy.”

Tricia started back down the pavement. She had just enough time to drop Sarge off and still get back to her shop by the stroke of one.

She halted before she got to the Cookery’s door, picked up the dog, and, on impulse, gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head. “You’re such a good boy. Don’t tell Angelica, but I’d love to take you on a walk any time. You just ask.”

Sarge yipped and licked her face. Tricia giggled and reached for the door handle, turned it, and stepped inside.

“I saw what you did!” said a commanding voice.

Caught!

SEVEN

“Haw-haw!” Frannie
said with glee, as Tricia shut the Cookery’s door. She straightened and, with great dignity, placed Sarge on the carpet, where he promptly sat, looking up at her expectantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she told Frannie, but she could feel the color rising up her neck to her cheeks.

“You kissed Angelica’s dog—right on the head. Wait ’til Miss Marple smells that dog on you. She’s going to be mighty upset.”

“I only took Sarge for a walk to help Angelica out. It’s not like I’m swearing off cats forever.”

Frannie crossed her arms over her pink and white aloha shirt. “Uh-uh.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take Sarge upstairs,” Tricia said, then tugged on the leash, and Sarge jumped to his feet and happily followed.