Murder On The Half Shelf

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.”

“I told you, I didn’t find her. My sister’s dog found her,” Tricia repeated.

“Whatever,” Baker said, an irritated edge entering his voice. “Ms. Miles”-Tricia was really getting annoyed at him calling her that-“please stick around. I’d like to talk to you again when I’m finished with Mr. Comfort.”

“Then I’m ordering a pizza. I’m starving,” she said, then turned and exited the kitchen. The short walk from the kitchen to the parlor was not long enough for her ire to cool.

Angelica still sat on the couch, looking bored. But she glanced up at Tricia’s arrival, studying her face. “Oh, dear-I can see you’re in a mood.”

“Wait ’til I tell you who I just saw-”

Angelica’s blue eyes went wide in anticipation, but before she could ask, the Fairchilds came trundling down the stairs, suitcases in hand, with the officer bringing up the rear.

“Your turn, Chauncey,” Mary said, and headed for the door. “See you later Tricia-Angelica.”

Angelica waved good-bye, and Chauncey angled his bulk out of the chair he’d been occupying to follow the officer up the stairs.

Angelica moved her purse, making Sarge, who was still inside, give a stifled yip, and patted the couch cushion next to her. “Sit down and tell all.”

Tricia flopped down and let out an exasperated breath. “Do you remember Harrison Tyler?”

“The one-hit wonder who wrote that big novel and then drowned in a boating accident?”

Tricia nodded. “That’s the one. Well, he’s standing in the kitchen-right this minute-pretending to be Jon Comfort, one of the owners of this inn!”

Angelica looked confused. “How does one pretend to own an inn?”

Tricia shot off the couch like she’d been set afire. She was about to lecture at length when she remembered that she and Angelica hadn’t exactly been close during the years she’d been in college-or, in fact, for eighteen years afterward. It was as if her bones had lost their rigidity, and she sank back onto the couch again, feeling like a rag doll who’d been badly shaken.

She sighed. “Harrison Tyler and I were once…close.”

“How close?” Angelica asked.

“Like sticky tape,” Tricia admitted.

Angelica nodded sagely. “Ah.”

“We’d been seeing each other for several months, and I’d been out with him on that boat four or five times before the accident. It broke my heart when the Coast Guard found that lovely sloop empty with the main mast broken and hanging in the water. Harry had gone sailing just before a hurricane struck the coast. And…” She didn’t need to say any more.

Angelica looked toward the swinging door that held the kitchen at bay. “And you say this Jon Comfort is really Harrison Tyler?”

“I’d stake my life on it.”

“Do you think his wife knew?”

Tricia shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“What are you going to do?”

For a moment Tricia wasn’t sure what she wanted to do: hug the man or hit him. She was hurt and angry and-her stomach growled-hungry! “What can I do? I assume he’ll deny it, but eventually they’ll prove I’m right.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“I’m sure of it. I’ll bet that’s why he disappeared the minute we walked through the front door. He wouldn’t look at me in the kitchen, either. And why should he? I’ve blown his cover. But then, his wife being killed might’ve done that anyway. They always suspect the spouse first-and for very good reason.”

“Bob gave the inn’s managers the names of the raffle winners yesterday. He might’ve known since then that you were one of them. Maybe they argued about you.”

“First of all, Bob didn’t know I’d be coming with you. And why would they argue about me, anyway? I haven’t seen Harry in twenty years.”

“Some women are very jealous.”

Yes, like you, Tricia somehow managed not to say. But then Angelica had had reason to be jealous. She always picked men with a wandering eye.

Angelica’s purse began to wobble as a tiny whimper issued from it. “Poor Sarge. He needs a comfort stop. Do you think I’ll get in trouble if I take him outside?”

“Who cares?”

“Well, I do. I mean-I don’t want to be in trouble with the law.”

“You’ll be in trouble with Harry if Sarge pees-or worse-on his oriental rug.”

“He’s in my purse, which is waterproof,” Angelica said, annoyed, and struggled back into her jacket. She grabbed the purse and headed for the front door. As soon as she was through it, Tricia was back on her feet and tiptoed to the swinging door that separated the parlor from the kitchen. She pressed her ear close to the crack around the door and listened, but all she heard was the low murmur of voices.

Frowning, she stepped away. All she needed was for Baker to come flying through the door, knock her over, and catch her eavesdropping. She returned to her seat.

What else would Baker want to know about her former relationship with Harrison Tyler, and would he be asking out of professional or personal interest?

She waited. And waited. Finally Angelica returned, her pink cheeks attesting to the drop in temperature. “I don’t care what the calendar says, it is not spring yet.”

“Anything happening outside?”

“It looks like the medical examiner is about to take off. Good-bye, Pippa.”

“Don’t be so flip. She seemed like a nice person.”

“Nice people get murdered all the time, but nobody here had a motive. Except, I would assume, for her husband.”

“Harry? Why?”

“Jealousy. You watch. Chief Baker is going to be all over you when he’s done with Mr. Comfort. He’ll probably think you killed her to get back with your old boyfriend.”

“I don’t believe it. Sheriff Adams might have come up with that motive, but not Grant. And besides, I didn’t even know Harry was in town until ten minutes ago.”

“Ah, but as they’re Chamber members, he could have known you were in town. They could have argued about you,” she reiterated. “Now, bonk, she’s dead.”

“How does that implicate me?”

“If the cops don’t come to that conclusion, the district attorney probably will. You need a lawyer. Yet again.”

Tricia shook her head. “I do not need a lawyer. If Pippa knew about me and Harry, she sure didn’t show it when we walked in.”

“She was ticked you weren’t Bob,” Angelica reminded her.

“But was she angry at me? I don’t think so. And if you want suspects, for all we know, maybe Pippa was having or once had an affair with Chauncey or Ellington.”

Angelica laughed. “Chauncey? Not on your life. I mean, maybe twenty years ago and a hundred pounds ago-if he had hair.”

“Why not Ellington?”

Angelica bit her lower lip. “He’s a possibility. He’s not bad to look at, and he’s rich.” She pondered the thought.

Tricia shook her head. “Forget it. Let’s leave this up to the local police force.”

“Yes, their first murder-and once again, you were there.”

“I’m starving. How about a pizza? I already told Grant I was going to order one.”

“What about my leftovers at Booked for Lunch?” Angelica cried.

“I was going to have it delivered here.”

“They already said we could go once an officer escorts us to get our luggage.”

“Come on, you know Grant is going to want to talk to me about Harry.”

“Well, I don’t have to be part of that conversation,” Angelica said crossly. She gathered up her purse, marched over to the door to the kitchen, and threw it open. “Chief Baker, I want to go home. Now!”

The chief’s expression went from surprised to a scowl. “Then go.”

Angelica let the door swing shut. “Tricia, you may bring my luggage home.” Without waiting for a reply, Angelica stalked off to the front door, letting it slam behind her.

Chauncey Porter, who had apparently lost his police escort, stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh my,” he said in a low voice. Tricia had completely forgotten he was in the house. How long had he been standing there, eavesdropping on their conversation? Had he heard what Angelica had said about him just minutes before?

Chauncey gripped the handle of his scuffed overnight bag tightly and hefted the book he’d been reading in the other. “I’d-I’d better be going home.” He nodded to Tricia and hurried to the door, looking distinctly guilty. What did he have to hide?

Suddenly the thought struck her as ominous.

What if sweet Chauncey Porter wasn’t quite so sweet after all?

Tricia shook her head and frowned. The fact that a violent death had just occurred encouraged her to think the worst of everyone. And Angelica had been right. When Jon Comfort was proven to be the long-lost best-selling author Harrison Tyler, suspicion was sure to fall on her.

Anger rolled through her for the years she had mourned the loss of her first lover, Harrison Tyler.

Now she could just kill him.