Bookplate Special

TWELVE

Tricia let herself into the Cookery, then trailed through the darkened interior to the back of the store and the stairway that led to Angelica’s loft apartment. Then she thought better of just appearing on her sister’s doorstep-or threshold, or whatever you wanted to call it.

She reached into her pocket and withdrew her cell phone. She pushed the button that autodialed Angelica’s number. It was answered on the first ring.

“Trish? Where are you?”

“Inside the Cookery. I wanted to let you know I’m on my way up. That is, if it’s convenient.” She hadn’t seen Bob’s car parked outside, but she didn’t want to interrupt a romantic interlude-should one be going on.

“Sure, come on up,” Angelica said cheerfully. “Are you hungry? I was just going to make some cocoa and cinnamon toast.”

“Cinnamon toast?” Tricia repeated, brightening. “I haven’t had that since I was a kid.”

“Then you’re in for a treat. I’ll put another two slices of bread in the toaster. Hurry on up.”

Angelica had unlocked the door, which was open for Tricia. She could already smell the heavenly aroma of the ultimate comfort food as she entered the hallway and followed it to Angelica’s kitchen.

“Sit down,” Angelica encouraged. She was clad in a pink robe and matching bunny slippers, with her hair hanging in damp ringlets around her shoulders. She’d been letting it grow out. Tricia wasn’t sure that was a good idea, since Angelica looked great in short hair, but it did suit her when she wore it up, dressed in her vintage togs while working at the café.

Tricia peeled off her jacket and settled at the dining room table just as Angelica thrust a mug of cocoa at her. She could smell the nutmeg Angelica had no doubt just grated on the top. She took a sip, savoring the taste. Before she could swallow, Angelica settled a plate of cinnamon toast in front of her.

“Hey, you made this for yourself. I can wait for the new toast to pop up.”

“Don’t be silly. Eat. You’re too skinny.”

“Hey, I work at it.”

“You may as well enjoy yourself. Life is too short to deny yourself anything. Particularly diamonds.”

“Diamonds. Where did that come from?”

“Oh, I’ve been thinking about Mr. Everett and Grace. I think I’m going through marriage withdrawal,” she said, and glanced at the ringless fourth finger on her left hand. “I have to figure out what to give them for a wedding gift. What are you giving them?”

“I haven’t decided yet, either.”

Angelica leaned aginst the island counter and took a sip of her cocoa. “What do you give the elderly bride and groom? A membership in AARP?”

“I’m sure one or both of them already has that.”

“Do you think Grace is registered anywhere?”

“No. I’m sure they don’t want or need anything.”

“Maybe I could make some of the food. I’ve never made a wedding cake before.”

“And when would you have time to do that?”

Angelica shook her head. “I’d make the time. Now, weren’t you going out with those freegan heathens or something tonight? Tell me all about it.”

“Yup,” Tricia said, and took a sip of her cocoa. This was no ordinary hot chocolate. Besides the nutmeg, something else had to have been added. It tasted too rich, too thick, and… extremely fattening. And for once, she wasn’t going to worry about it.

“I did go along with Ginny and her friends. So far, they haven’t convinced me to bypass the grocery store checkout. I prefer to buy the food I eat, thank you. But I was surprised that some of the stuff they found didn’t look all that bad.”

Angelica wrinkled her nose. “Did they smell?”

“The Dumpsters? Not too bad. The chilly temperatures keep the odor down, but I wouldn’t want to do this on a hot summer night. And I didn’t see any rats, which was really good, because I’m sure I would’ve freaked out.” She gazed at the little bubbles on the sides of her mug. “I feel so bad that Ginny and Brian feel they have to do this to keep their expenses down. That house they bought really turned into a money pit.”

“I am so thankful I didn’t end up with it. I think I’ve made the right decisions since I came to Stoneham, what with renting the storefront and then living above it. My accountant is pleased, at any rate.”

“It’s certainly been a financial drain for them. And added to that, Brian got a speeding ticket on the way home.”

“What was he speeding for?”

“Somebody was fooling with us. Brian speeded up, and the next thing you know-”

“Been there, done that!” Angelica said.

“Sometimes I do feel like the village jinx.” Tricia sighed. “I told Brian I’d pay for the ticket, but that won’t help him if his car insurance goes up. I wish I could help them more.”

Angelica frowned. “Tricia, will you stop feeling guilty? You’ve already done too much for Ginny. You pay her well above minimum wage; you pay for her health insurance; and you give her bonuses at the drop of a hat. What next? Are you going to adopt her?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Well, really,” Angelica said, scowling. “Tricia, you are just too nice for your own good.”

“Ginny has been an exceptional employee. She didn’t know the mystery genre when I hired her, but she’s done enough reading and research to-”

“Fake it!”

Tricia exhaled a long breath. “Possibly. But the fact remains, she’s an asset to me. When you were having employee problems at the Cookery, you wanted to steal her from me.”

“Where did you get that idea?” Angelica asked, offended.

“Ginny told me.”

Angelica let out several short breaths, as though she didn’t know what to say. “She must have misinterpreted our conversation.”

“What part of ‘I’ll give you a dollar more an hour than Tricia is paying you’ did she misunderstand?”

Angelica opened her mouth to answer-apparently thought better of it-and shut it again. Her scowl deepened. “She wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

“Sorry, but she felt no loyalty to you.”

“And I paid her for a week’s work,” Angelica groused.

“Which she more than earned. You know your profits rose that week.”

“Maybe,” Angelica grudgingly agreed. “Nevertheless, your profits would be higher if you didn’t share the wealth so generously with your employees. You’re not running a charity, you know.”

Tricia’s accountant had voiced the same opinion on more than one occasion. “You’re one to talk. You pay Frannie well, too.”

“Well, she deserves it.”

“Let’s get back to the main subject.”

“Which I’ve forgotten at this point,” Angelica said. “Oh, yes, what did you learn on your little field trip?”

“Not as much as I’d hoped. Pammy was considered a flirt. Eugenia Hirt didn’t like her, which makes me think Pammy might have batted her eyes at the girl’s father. Ginny thinks Eugenia is a flirt because she kissed Brian on the lips. And that Lisa I met was so crabby she might turn red and walk sideways.”

“Eugenia’s last name is Hirt? Like Libby Hirt?” Angelica asked.

Tricia swallowed a bite of toast, and nodded. “Libby’s her mom. Her dad works at a PR firm in Nashua. Sounded deadly dull. I wonder why he got into Dumpster diving. I should’ve asked him that. Wouldn’t you know, I talked to everyone but the person who invited Pammy to come along on these scavenging trips. His name is Pete Marbello, and he works at the convenience store on the highway. I’m going to give him a call tomorrow.” She glanced at the kitchen clock. “And if I want to be half awake tomorrow, I’d better get home now.”

She grabbed her cup, gulped the last of her cocoa, and rose from her seat.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Angelica said, and popped the last bite of her toast into her mouth.

Angelica followed Tricia down the stairs and through the darkened shop. “Come by the café for lunch tomorrow. Jake’s making potato-leek soup-from my recipe, of course.”

“Okay. See you then.”

Before Tricia could exit, Angelica pulled her into a hug and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Be good-and if you can’t be good, be careful,” she said, and closed the door behind Tricia.

She walked the ten or so feet to her own store and let herself in, threading through the shop and up the stairs to her own loft apartment.

Miss Marple was behind the door, and scolded Tricia for leaving her alone for so long.

“Well, I’m home now, and it’s time for bed,” she told the cat.

As though agreeing with that statement, Miss Marple turned and led the way through the apartment to the bedroom that overlooked Main Street.

As Tricia reached for the light switch, she noticed the light blinking on her phone-indicating she had missed several calls. No doubt her crank caller. She didn’t feel up to listening to the messages and flipped off that light, then headed for the living room to do the same.

She’d just bent to turn off the last light when she heard what sounded like a thwok in the room ahead of her. She extinguished the lamp. The apartment was silent. But she had heard something. Fumbling in the dark, she stayed out of the line of the row of windows that faced the street. Sure enough, several small holes dotted one of her windows in a characteristic pattern she recognized: a small entrance hole with a much bigger exit hole-classic BB shots. Not exactly a lethal weapon, but maybe the shooter had wanted to scare rather than hurt her. After all, she hadn’t even been in the room when the shots had been fired. If someone had wanted to hurt or kill her, they could’ve done it as she walked from the Cookery to her own store.

Tricia kept to the far side of the line of windows and stared into the darkness. Lights blazed in the windows of the top floors of the buildings across the street. Like her, some of the shopkeepers lived above their stores; the rest of the space was rented out as apartments or offices. She didn’t for a minute believe one of her neighbors would pull such a stupid stunt, and there were no preteen boys or even teenagers living on Main Street-just the demographic that would own such a firearm. All those buildings sported metal fire escapes, as her own did. Someone could have climbed a fire escape, broken into an office and gotten onto the roof, taken a few potshots-and was probably already long gone.

She hoped.

For some reason, she wasn’t really afraid-more annoyed, perhaps. Someone had decided to crank up the fear factor. If the person on the phone could shoot at her windows with a BB gun, they certainly could have done so with a high-powered rifle. And thanks to the Supreme Court, any crank with a desire to start his own well-armed militia had the go-ahead from the country’s top lawmakers.

She should probably call the Sheriff’s Department and report this. But at this time of night, she’d have to deal with some deputy pulled off patrol. She glanced at the glowing numerals on her bedside clock. She didn’t want to wait the hour or more it might take for one to arrive, and decided instead to just call Captain Baker in the morning.

Tricia sidled along the wall, reached for the drapery pull. Before she did, she peeked out the window one last time… and saw a dark shape scurry into the shadow-filled doorway of Booked for Lunch. Could it be the shooter?

Heart pounding, she watched and waited.

A car rolled by, its headlights cutting through the darkness and then receding into the gloom.

Suddenly the figure darted out-its arms raised above its head-and hurled something round into the street.

The pumpkin exploded onto the asphalt. Tricia stared at the resulting mess, entranced-and missed seeing where the figure went.

She watched and waited as another car drove past, skirting what was now just refuse.

After a good five minutes with no other sign of the vandal, she pulled the cord and the curtains closed across the bank of windows. Even with them closed, Tricia decided not to turn on her bedside lamp. As she undressed and got ready for bed in the dark, she kept thinking about the demolished jack-o’-lantern, wondering if the shooter and the vandal could be the same person. She also contemplated the holes in her bedroom window, and worried what her caller’s next move would be.