Murder On The Half Shelf

TEN

Tricia’s morning started as most mornings did. A run on the treadmill, a shower, getting dressed, feeding the cat, and drinking half a pot of coffee with a breakfast of black cherry yogurt. Only this morning Tricia extracted most of the candy Angelica had made the night before, put it on a plate, and took it down to the shop with her. It was too tempting to keep it all in the apartment. And as Angelica said, Mr. Everett and her customers would probably enjoy it.

Down in the shop, Miss Marple settled herself on a chair in the reader’s nook while Tricia checked voice mail and found a message from the employment agency. They were sending over a new candidate at ten thirty and awaited a confirmation. She quickly returned the call. Would this person be the one to finally replace Ginny? All she could do was hope.

Tricia had just hit the button on the coffeemaker when Mr. Everett arrived for work several minutes early, still looking as sad as he had the day before. “Good morning,” he greeted Tricia, but there was no heartiness in his voice.

Tricia waited until he’d donned his Haven’t Got a Clue apron to approach him on what might be a sensitive subject. Mr. Everett wasn’t usually one to wear his heart on his sleeve. That he was visibly unhappy meant something was definitely out of kilter. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“It’s hard to keep anything from you, Ms. Miles. Like the protagonists in many of your favorite mysteries, you would have made a fine detective.”

“It doesn’t take great sleuthing skill to see that you haven’t been your usual chipper self of late. Is there something I can do to help?”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps you can. A man my age has outlived most of his friends,” Mr. Everett admitted. “Except for Grace, I have no one else to confide in.”

Oh dear. It didn’t sound like an announcement of good news was on the way. “Why don’t you tell me about it?” Tricia said in all sincerity.

His cheeks colored, and he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “It’s…my marriage to Grace.”

Oh no! Trouble in paradise. They were the one couple she thought would never experience marital strife.

“You see, Grace is so preoccupied with running the charitable foundation, she has very little time for me any more.”

Hmm. “Have you spoken to her about it?”

“On several occasions. She laughed it off.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I hate to put you in the middle of our marital discord, but…is there a possibility you could speak with Grace? She values your opinion.”

“Oh, Mr. Everett. If it were on any other subject…” But then the old man’s bottom lip began to tremble, and if there was one thing Tricia didn’t think she could handle, it was Mr. Everett’s tears. She sighed. “I’d be glad to.”

His eyes widened but were still watery. “Thank you, Ms. Miles. She’s in her office right now,” he said, looking hopeful.

“Now?” she asked, her voice rising. That didn’t give her much time to prepare something to say.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he encouraged.

She sighed again. “Of course.”

“I’ll get your jacket,” Mr. Everett volunteered, and headed for the back of the shop.

If she had to go out anyway, Tricia decided she’d combine the visit with a trip to the bank to deposit the previous day’s receipts. Stuffing her blue bank pouch into her purse, she was ready to go after Mr. Everett helped her on with her jacket.

“Thank you, Ms. Miles. I really appreciate this.”

“While I’m gone, help yourself to a piece of chocolate toffee. It’s homemade.” She indicated the plate sitting on the counter of the beverage station.

A look of panic came over Mr. Everett’s face. “Did you make it?”

Tricia frowned. “Don’t worry-it’s safe to eat. Angelica made it last night.”

Mr. Everett looked relieved, took a small piece of the candy, chewed, and brightened. “Your sister is a marvelous cook.” Tricia could envision the thought balloon over his head that might’ve said, Why can’t you cook, too?

“I’d better get going,” Tricia said, then smiled wanly and headed out the door.

The air was brisk as she crossed the street, heading for Booked for Lunch. She peeked through the window, but all was dark in the dining room, although she could see a glint of light in the back where the kitchen was located. No doubt Tommy the cook was already preparing the day’s soup.

Tricia stopped at the door that led to the building’s other tenants on the second and third floors. The wall inside the small alcove held mailboxes and a short directory for the tenants. The Everett Charitable Foundation had offices on the second floor.

Tricia trudged up the stairs to the second floor, dreading the confrontation to come. She hadn’t had a chance to visit the newly opened office, and if it weren’t for the imminent conversation, she would have been looking forward to it. She opened the frosted glass door. Inside was a small carpeted area, a door leading to the inner sanctum, and a reception desk behind a half wall with a glass window that was closed. The atmosphere was reminiscent of a doctor’s office, and not at all welcoming, which surprised her.

Tricia didn’t recognize the woman who sat behind the window, sorting through an enormous pile of unopened mail. She had to be in her late forties or early fifties, clad in a vintage dress from the 1940s, with carrot-colored hair done up in a pompadour, heavy makeup, and a tattoo of a rose with a dagger through it on her left forearm. Queen of the Roller Derby, Tricia thought, and instantly felt ashamed for making such a quick value judgment.

The woman looked up at Tricia, and her face crumpled into a sneer. She reached to open the window. “Can I help you?” she said, her tone nasal and unwelcoming.

Trouble with a capital T. Tricia adopted what she hoped was a friendly smile. “My name is Tricia Miles. I’m a friend of Mrs. Harris-Everett’s. Could you please tell her I’m here to see her?”

Carrot-top glared at Tricia for at least ten incredibly long seconds before answering, “No.” She reached up and closed the window once again.

Aghast, Tricia stood there in disbelief. Then she shook herself and tapped on the glass with the knuckles of her right hand. “Excuse me.”

Carrot-top ignored her and reached over to a small radio on the desk, turning up the volume on an oldies station.

Tricia rapped on the glass harder. Carrot-top continued to ignore her and swung her chair around so that she could no longer see Tricia.

“Miss, miss!” Tricia insisted.

She reached over and opened the glass. “Excuse me, but I’m a friend of Mrs. Everett’s. Her husband asked me to come here to speak with her.”

Carrot-top finally stood and turned back to the window. “Yeah, right. If I had a buck for everybody who came in here or called with that story, I’d be a millionaire myself. Now beat it, before I call the cops.”

“I’ll have you know Chief Baker of the Stoneham Police Department is my…my boyfriend.” Whoa! That was firing the heavy artillery, and not exactly true at the moment, either. Likewise, Carrot-top was not impressed.

“And Santa comes down my chimney on Christmas Eve,” the woman replied.

Furious, Tricia turned for the door to the inner sanctum and grasped the handle. It was locked.

Carrot-top leaned across her desk and raised her voice. “I’m not kidding, lady. Get out of here or I’ll come out there and bust your face myself.”

Tricia’s jaw dropped in shock. “Does Grace know you speak to visitors in that tone of voice and with such malice?”

Carrot-top smiled sweetly. “Who do you think told me to keep out the riffraff?”

Tricia just stood there, speechless.

“Shut your mouth, honey. Ain’t no flies in here to catch.”

Tricia did, and found herself puffing great breaths through her nose. She turned, very ladylike, and exited the office. However, the minute she closed the door behind her, she stuck out her tongue at it. It was stupid, it was childish, and it felt good.

Once outside, Tricia stood on the sidewalk and took a few moments to ground herself, glad she had the trip to the bank to help her decompress after her unpleasant encounter with old Carrot-top.

Before she had time to move, the door behind her opened again. She turned, wondering if Carrot-top was about to make good on her threat, but it was Amy Schram who nearly ran into her.

“Tricia! What are you doing blocking the door?”

“Sorry. I just came from the Everett Foundation.” She found she didn’t have the words to say any more about that unpleasant encounter. “What are you doing here?”

“I just rented the apartment on the third floor. It’s my first place,” she said, and beamed with pride. “What a relief to get out from under my mom and dad’s thumb.”

“You still work for them, though.”

“Of course. But now I can come and go as I please without a lot of questions. I love my freedom.”

Tricia well remembered her first apartment and the enjoyment she’d experienced while decorating-and entertaining whom she wanted when she wanted.

“Congratulations. I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you around the village.”

Amy laughed. “You sure will. I’d better get back to work. Have to check on my bulbs.” She gave a wave and took off down the sidewalk. It was then Tricia saw the Milford Florist and Nursery van parked near the Happy Domestic. She started off in the same direction, heading for the bank.

By the time she got back to Haven’t Got a Clue, she found an impatient Mr. Everett waiting for her. “I’m sorry, Mr. Everett, but I wasn’t able to get in to-”

But he cut her off before she could explain. “There’s a person from the employment agency here to see you,” he said, and nodded toward a thin woman of about fifty with windblown brown hair browsing among the books. She wore a buff-colored trench coat, hose, and black flats, and carried a leather briefcase.

“I’d better go introduce myself to her,” she whispered, but first stowed her purse behind the cash desk. She took off her jacket and was about to stuff it under the counter when Mr. Everett reached for it.

“I’ll hang it up,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Tricia made her way across the store. The woman looked up. “Hello. I’m Tricia Miles, owner of Haven’t Got a Clue.”

The woman offered her hand. “Linda Fugitt. I’m here about the assistant manager’s job.”

“Won’t you sit down and we’ll talk,” Tricia said, with a wave of her hand toward the readers’ nook. “Can I take your coat and get you a cup of coffee?”

“Oh no, I’m fine,” the woman said.

They took adjacent seats in the nook and the woman pulled a résumé from her briefcase. “I haven’t had retail experience in quite some time, but I learn fast and I’m good with people,” she explained.

Tricia looked over the résumé, her stomach tightening. Linda Fugitt, whose last job was assistant director of the Anderson Foundation for the Arts in Manchester. With a master of science degree in nonprofit management, she was vastly overqualified for the position of assistant manager, and Tricia reluctantly told her so. “You’d have to work Saturdays as well.”

“I’m more than willing to do so,” Linda assured her.

Tricia couldn’t keep from reading the title of assistant director over and over again.

“Ms. Miles, I’ll be frank,” Linda said. “I need this job. Since the economy tanked, charitable giving for the arts has taken a terrible tumble.”

That was no exaggeration. For many years Tricia had worked for an NPO in Manhattan. She’d lost her job under similar circumstances.

“I’ve been unable to find any employment,” Linda continued. “It’s always the same story, too. I’m overqualified for every position I’ve interviewed for in the past six months. If you could just let me work for you for minimum wage for even a couple of months, if you’re dissatisfied with me you could let me go, but at least then I could get a job with one of the other big-box retailers on the highway outside Milford.”

Tricia looked down at the paper on her lap once more. Nicely typed, no misspellings or stray marks. It was a far cry from most of the recent applicants-most of whom hadn’t even offered a résumé. She looked up and into Linda’s hazel eyes and saw true desperation in them. “What do you know about vintage mysteries?”

Linda smiled. “Not much, I’m afraid. But contemporary mysteries and romantic suspense novels have always been my secret vice. I’m a big fan of Wendy Corsi Staub, Carla Neggers, and Karen Harper. But I’m a quick study and I can search Google with the best of them. I’m more than willing to learn. And I’d sure rather sell books than burgers and fries,” she said eagerly.

Tricia looked down at the résumé. If she hoped to keep this employee from bolting to another minimum-wage job, she’d have to offer more than the competition. And maybe, just maybe, this one would stay longer than a couple of weeks.

“You aren’t allergic to cats, are you?” Tricia asked.

Linda shook her head. “I have two of my own.” Another good sign.

“How does two dollars over minimum wage strike you?”

Linda sighed with relief. “It sounds pretty darn good right now.”

“When can you start?” Tricia asked.

“How about today?”

“Great.” Tricia offered her hand, and they shook on it. “Now, how about that cup of coffee while you fill out the paperwork?”

“That sounds wonderful.”

Tricia noticed that Mr. Everett had been waiting discreetly at the cash desk. He didn’t look cheered. She motioned him to join them at the nook. “Mr. Everett, this is Linda Fugitt. She’s going to be joining us here at Haven’t Got a Clue.” At this news, he looked positively panicked.

“Oh. Well. Nice to meet you, Ms. Fugitt.” His gaze darted to Tricia. “May I speak to you for a moment, Ms. Miles?”

Tricia stood and gave a cautious smile to her new employee. “Excuse me. I’ll get the paperwork for you to fill out and be back in a minute.” She motioned Mr. Everett to follow her to the cash desk.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s just that-I’ve just realized having a full-time employee working here will cut my hours.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to continue to work nearly forty hours a week.”

“That was before Grace made our charitable foundation her life’s work. Speaking of which, what did she say when you spoke to her?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Everett, but I couldn’t get in to see Grace. Her receptionist wasn’t at all welcoming and practically threw me out of the office. She seemed to think I was trying to run a scam by saying I knew Grace. I’m sure her attitude is not the impression either Grace or you want the public to receive when they visit your foundation.”

“Good heavens,” Mr. Everett said, taken aback. “I’ll speak to Grace about it tonight when I get home. Or rather, later tonight-whenever she gets home.”

He could speak to her about that, but not about the problems they were experiencing in their marriage?

“Too often these days, Grace has after-hours meetings,” he continued. “She’s trying to set up an endowment for the foundation so that after our lottery winnings are depleted, the good work can go on for many years to come.”

“That’s admirable.”

“Yes, but time-consuming. At our ages, we don’t have a lot of time left. I’d prefer we spend it with each other.”

Tricia couldn’t blame him for feeling that way. When Grant Baker left the Sheriff’s Department, Tricia thought she might see more of him, and on a regular basis. That hadn’t happened, either. He didn’t listen to his police scanner, as Russ Smith had done during their dates, but his cell phone was always nearby, and his dispatcher felt free to call him for the slightest reason. That he always took the calls had been a constant source of irritation. Of course, that would no longer be a problem if they weren’t going to be seeing each other for the foreseeable future.

“I’d better get Linda to fill out the payroll information. After that, I’ll give her a tour of the store and then the three of us can talk about how you both want to split your hours. Of course, I’d be very happy if you’d continue to work your full schedule until Linda feels comfortable being here.” And please let her feel comfortable and happy and not leave us! she mentally amended.

Mr. Everett nodded. “I will not take advantage of the situation.” He sighed. “Perhaps Ginny needs some part-time help at the Happy Domestic. I believe I’ll give her a call during my lunch break.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Everett, but Linda seems like she could be a good fit, and we have been looking for someone for a long time now.”

Again he nodded.

The door opened, and a customer entered. Mr. Everett perked up. “May I help you find something?” he asked, and Tricia left him to help the customer while she found the papers she needed and returned to the nook, where she found Miss Marple and Linda getting acquainted. The cat was sitting on Linda’s lap, purring loudly. She looked up at Tricia’s approach, her cheeks coloring.

“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Mr. Everett. Um…does he have a first name?”

Tricia laughed. “I’m sorry, it’s William. I call him Mr. Everett, as do most of our regular customers, just out of respect.”

“You did say the job was for forty hours, though-or did I misunderstand?”

“No, you’re correct. It’s just that…” She lowered her voice. “Mr. Everett is going through a rough patch just now and had hoped to maintain a full workload. I’m sure things will straighten out any time now.”

Linda nodded and accepted the papers Tricia handed her.

“I should also mention that we host a Tuesday night book club,” Tricia said. “It would be wonderful if you could join us now and then, but attendance certainly isn’t mandatory-especially as it’s outside your regular working hours.”

“It sounds interesting. I already have plans for this evening, but perhaps I can attend a future meeting,” Linda said, and bent to retrieve a pen from her purse.

The door opened once again, but instead of a customer it was Frannie Armstrong who entered the store. “Howdy, Mr. E. How goes it?” she called, her Texas twang quite pronounced. That often meant she had some good gossip to spill. But what was she doing at Haven’t Got a Clue at midmorning when she should be running the till over at the Cookery? The fact that she wasn’t wearing a coat gave Tricia a clue.

Frannie walked up to the nook. “Hey, Tricia. Angelica sent me over here to ask if you could give us some small bills. We had a couple of customers paying with cash who only had fifties and hundred-dollar bills.”

“Sure thing,” Tricia said, but before she started for her own register, she introduced Frannie and Linda.

“Pleased to meet you,” Frannie said with a grin. “You’re gonna love working for ole Tricia here. She’s the best-well, next to my boss, of course. She and Tricia are sisters.”

Linda gave a weak smile. “How nice.”

“I’ll get you that change,” Tricia said, and Frannie gave Linda a nod and followed her to the register. She handed Tricia a hundred-dollar bill, and Tricia counted out the equivalent in twenties, tens, fives, and ones.

“So what’s new?” Tricia asked, giving Frannie an open invitation to spill her guts.

Frannie leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “The rumor mill is alive and well this morning,” she confided. “There’s another suspect in the Comfort murder case.”

Tricia’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Frannie nodded. “I’ve heard tell that Miz Pippa Comfort once had a relationship with that Ellington fella who owns the Full Moon Nudist Camp and Resort. In fact, they got together when she was a Playboy bunny.”

“A Playboy bunny?” That had to be years ago. The last club shut down back in the late 1980s…although, hadn’t it been resurrected in Las Vegas some time ago? Tricia wasn’t quite sure. “Where did you hear all this?” she asked.

“I have a friend who works at the nudist camp. I won’t name names,” Frannie said with pursed lips, “but she had a relationship with Ellington-had being the operative word. When the relationship soured, she threatened a sexual harassment lawsuit. She kept her job and got a big fat raise, and now the two of them pretend that nothing ever happened.”

“So what did she say?” Tricia asked, since it was apparent that Frannie was dying to finish her story.

“What she told me was all pillow talk. They’d spoken about ex-lovers, and how many women do you know with the name of Pippa, anyway?”

None, Tricia admitted to herself.

“Anyway, it seems Mr. Ellington had contacted Miz Pippa and told her that Stoneham was in need of hotel rooms.”

“Why would he do that?”

“After her bunny days, Miz Pippa went to Cornell University and got a degree in hotel management. I guess she spent the past five years as an assistant manager at the Mount Washington Hotel and Resort until the opportunity arose for her to manage the Sheer Comfort Inn.”

Tricia knew of the Mount Washington Hotel by its reputation and was dutifully impressed. Had Pippa become tired of working for a large hotel chain and found the thought of managing a much smaller operation more appealing?

“Did Ellington have a stake in the inn?” she asked.

Frannie shook her head. “Not that my friend said. But she also said that, despite the name, the Comforts didn’t own the inn. They just ran it for someone else.” So, maybe Ellington did want to buy the property. And Kelly Realty was the most likely agency to list the property.

And could the current owner of the property be Nigela Ricita Associates? If so, had its local representative, Antonio Barbero, spoken to Ellington to arrange such a deal? Tricia wondered if she ought to pay a visit to the Happy Domestic to see what Ginny knew about the situation. After all, she was engaged to Antonio. Then again, Tricia hoped to see her at the book club that night. Good old Ginny continued to patronize the gathering even after moving on with her career. If nothing else, it gave her and Tricia a chance to catch up on things while the rest of the group discussed the chosen book.

“Will you be at the meeting tonight?” Tricia asked.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. We’re going to decide our next few reads, and I’ve already got my list typed up.” Her tone was almost a challenge, and Tricia couldn’t think why she would speak that way.

“I’d better get back to the Cookery. See you later.” Frannie gave a wave good-bye and left the store.

Tricia stared at the closed door for a long time. She heard a brrrpt! from behind her and turned to find Miss Marple regarding her from her perch on the shelf behind the cash desk. “Yes, it does seem like a bad omen.”

Again Miss Marple said “Brrrpt!” and seemed to nod toward the display case. Tricia looked over to see a small stack of mail on the counter. It must have arrived while she was out. She shuffled through the circulars and found a square envelope addressed to her in care of the bookstore. The address was printed as though by a computer, but there was no return address and the postmark was smudged. She grabbed the letter opener from the mug of pens on the desk and slit it, withdrawing a piece of copy paper that had been placed around something else. Unfolding the paper, she discovered a stained cocktail napkin. Embossed in gold was the name of what she assumed to be a bar: the Elbow Room.

The Elbow Room? The name held no significance for her.

She sighed, frowning. First the photo, now this. Someone was playing with her, and she didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

Was she supposed to be intrigued, upset, or frightened by this second mysterious offering in the mail?

At that moment the only emotion she could muster was annoyance.

Paperwork in hand, Linda approached the cash desk. “I think I’ve filled everything in properly. Would you like to go over it and then give me the grand tour of the store? I’m eager to get started.”

Tricia shoved the envelope and its contents under the cash desk, forced a smile, and accepted the paperwork, giving it a brief glance. “Everything seems in order. Let’s get another cup of coffee and I’ll explain how we operate here at Haven’t Got a Clue.”

She managed to give the tour sounding cheerful and enthused, despite the growing disquiet within her.