Murder On The Half Shelf

FIVE

Despite their amicable parting, Tricia did not invite Chief Baker to accompany her inside her store. She really was too tired for that. Yet by the time she got upstairs, she found she was too restless to even contemplate sleep. Instead, Tricia dug through a box in the back of her closet to find an old photo album. Grabbing a glass of wine, she settled on her couch to study the pictures. After insisting on another helping of kitty snacks, Miss Marple deigned to join her.

The pictures dated from the time of her college graduation until just before she’d met Christopher. Included among those featured were three or four photos of Harrison Tyler-whom, at the time, she’d thought of as her first love. After seeing him again that evening, her emotions weren’t quite that charitable.

The first photo was taken on the night they’d met at a dusty little bookshop in Soho. A small crowd had gathered to hear Harrison-“just call me Harry, darlin’”-speak about his phenomenal first novel, Death Beckons. The others had drifted away after a while, and the storekeeper was eager to close down for the night when Harry invited her out for a coffee. Giggling girlishly, she’d accepted.

It seemed like such a long time ago.

Tricia sipped her wine and thought about their last conversation. He’d made a phone call that, in retrospect, she should’ve realized had been his attempt at a last good-bye. And then of course she’d gone into mourning as soon as she’d heard about the boating accident.

It had taken her a long time to get over Harrison Tyler, and suddenly here he was again-back in her life, however reluctantly. And he was a fool if he thought he could keep his real identity a secret now that Pippa was dead.

Then again, he’d been a fool to fake his own death.

Tricia sipped her wine. Was she destined to love only fools who would never completely commit to her? It was a sad, sobering thought.

Miss Marple nudged her elbow, reminding her it was long past their bedtime. “Okay,” Tricia said, setting the album aside and getting up from her seat. Miss Marple hopped down, too, and trotted off toward the bedroom.

Tricia reached for the lamp switch, giving the photo album one last look before she turned off the lights. She had a feeling she hadn’t heard the last of Harry Tyler.

Sleep was hard to come by, but at last Tricia fell into a fitful slumber some time near dawn. She’d hit the snooze button three times by the time she was finally able to drag herself out of bed and start what might prove to be a very long day.

Tricia waited to make coffee until she and Miss Marple arrived at Haven’t Got a Clue. She’d just hit the button on the coffeemaker when she heard a knock at the door. A glance at her watch told her the store wasn’t due to open for another fifteen minutes, but there was also no reason not to let an eager customer in the door, either. But although the woman at the door had bought many books from Tricia, she wasn’t there as a customer on that morning.

“Mary,” Tricia said, letting her fellow shopkeeper in. “Shouldn’t you be getting By Hook or By Book ready to open?”

“I should, but…I just need to talk. Do you have a minute?” she asked, sounding weary.

“Of course. I’ve just put the coffee on to brew. It’ll be ready in less than five minutes.”

“I could sure use a cup,” Mary admitted, and headed for the reader’s nook.

“What’s wrong?” Tricia asked.

“Last night,” Mary said, succinctly.

Tricia took the chair opposite her guest. “I know exactly how you feel.”

“You’re used to being involved in all kinds of murders. People like me are not.”

Tricia wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. “I’m not involved in Mrs. Comfort’s murder. It’s just unfortunate that Angelica’s dog happened to find her while I was taking him for a walk.”

Mary waved a hand in annoyance. “You know what I mean. It was very upsetting to have to talk to the police. The way they looked at all of us, as if one of us were responsible for her death. We were invited guests.”

“As raffle winners, I wouldn’t exactly say we were invited. Tolerated. A means to an end-giving the innkeepers the opportunity to use us as guinea pigs for their shakedown before opening. But invited? No.”

Mary sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I feel traumatized by this whole ordeal. I’ve never known anyone who was murdered. I barely knew Mrs. Comfort. We only chatted for a couple of minutes after Luke and I arrived at the inn. No sooner had she shown us to our room when Chauncey Porter showed up and she excused herself.” She tilted her head to one side and looked thoughtful. “That was weird.”

“What do you mean-weird?” Tricia asked.

“I left our room to ask for more towels. As I rounded the landing, I heard Chauncey say something about her being out of uniform. I didn’t get it. Then Mrs. Comfort gave him quite a dressing-down.”

“What for?”

She shrugged. “But something about his remark distressed her. She stopped talking when I entered the room, asked me what I wanted, and then went to fetch me the towels.”

Tricia considered her words. “Chauncey is such a sweetheart. I can’t imagine him saying anything to upset someone. Did you tell Chief Baker this?”

“It completely slipped my mind until this morning when I started going over everything in my head. The more I thought about it, the more rattled I got. I even considered not opening my shop today-but then realized I’d probably just dwell on it all day, anyway. I need the distraction of customers coming and going or I’ll have a nervous breakdown.”

“How is Luke doing?”

“He’s upset, too, of course, but he got up and went to work this morning just like usual. Men just don’t feel things the same way as women.”

That was an understatement.

The coffeemaker began to sputter, letting Tricia know it had finished brewing. “Let me get you that coffee,” she said, and rose from her seat.

Mary followed, patiently watching as Tricia poured coffee into one of the shop’s paper cups for her, and a china Haven’t Got a Clue store mug for herself. Mary added sweetener and creamer to her own, mixing it with a spoon, and then took a scorching gulp. “Just what I needed.”

The door handle rattled, and Mr. Everett entered the shop. “Good morning, Ms. Miles. Mrs. Fairchild-how nice of you to visit.”

“Good morning,” the women chorused.

“You’re in early,” Tricia said, as Mr. Everett headed for the back of the shop to hang up his jacket.

“I like to keep busy,” he said. Mr. Everett had won the Powerball Lottery just over nine months before. Recently his wife, Grace, had opened an office across the street from Tricia’s bookstore for the Everett Charitable Foundation. In fact, the foundation was located right above Angelica’s café, Booked for Lunch.

Grace, who had never worked for a living and had only ever done volunteer work, had taken on the responsibility as though it were her life’s mission. And, in fact, that was just what the job had become. She’d even found it necessary to hire an assistant to help her sort through all the requests for handouts. This had not pleased her husband of eighteen months, who preferred not to be separated from his wife for so many hours in the day. It had worked out for Tricia, however, because despite her best efforts, she hadn’t yet found a suitable replacement for her former assistant, Ginny Wilson, who now managed the Happy Domestic shop across the street.

Mr. Everett’s arrival had put a distinct end to Tricia and Mary’s conversation. “I’d better get going,” she said, and Tricia walked her to the door. “I hate to be a bother, but would you mind if I called you later-I mean, if I’m feeling all rattled again?”

“Certainly.”

Mary rested a hand on Tricia’s arm. “You are a dear. I’m sorry to be such a bundle of nerves, but like I said-this is all so new and strange for me.”

“Don’t give it a thought.”

“Talk to you later. And thanks for the coffee,” Mary said, and Tricia closed the door behind her.

“I see you’ve already made the coffee,” Mr. Everett said as he tied on the green apron with the Haven’t Got a Clue logo and his name emblazoned on it.

“Mary needed a little hand-holding this morning.” She didn’t want to go into why, but she knew it would eventually come up. “Feel free to help yourself.”

Tricia retreated to the cash desk, where she counted out the money for the till. Miss Marple, who’d refrained from joining in the previous conversation, hopped up to her perch on the wall behind the register.

Mr. Everett approached the desk and stood there, waiting expectantly. Tricia looked up. “Is something up?”

“I understand there was another murder last night,” Mr. Everett said, without making eye contact. “Is it true you found the body?” The unspoken word again seemed to echo off the tin ceiling.

First Mary, now Mr. Everett. She sighed. “I’m afraid so.”

“It must be getting tiresome,” Mr. Everett commented. “I mean, it’s unfortunate that it always seems to be you who finds corpses around our fair village. And to think, we were once the safest village in all of New Hampshire.”

Tricia held her breath. Was he going to voice that ridiculous jinx label that had dogged her since she’d found that first body in the Cookery two and a half years before?

Mr. Everett shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Miles. We both seem to have our share of problems today.”

Problems?

“Is there something you’d like to talk about?” Tricia offered.

Mr. Everett shook his head, but the corners of his mouth drooped and for a moment she thought he might cry. But then he shook himself, stood just a little taller, turned, and headed for the beverage station to get a cup of coffee. “Are we to interview another candidate this morning?” Mr. Everett asked, as he measured out the creamer and placed it into his cup.

“I’m afraid so.” Tricia frowned. “Mr. Everett, do you think our standards are too high? I mean, we’ve both been unhappy with the last three people I’ve hired.”

Mr. Everett sighed. “It’s definitely not just you, Ms. Miles. I, too, thought the last one might be different.” He shook his head. “In this economy, people will say just about anything to get a job. But far too many of the candidates who’ve come through our door seemed more interested in texting than selling books.”

“When Angelica had a hard time finding the right person to work at the Cookery, I blamed it entirely on her. But now I’m not so sure she was completely at fault-and I never thought I’d say that.”

Mr. Everett nodded. “Don’t worry, Ms. Miles. We’ll find someone to permanently take Ginny’s place. And soon. I’m sure of it.”

Tricia wished she shared Mr. Everett’s positive attitude.

The telephone rang, and Tricia hurried to answer it, at the same time dreading that it would be the latest job interviewee canceling at the last minute. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How may I-”

“Tricia? It’s Grant Baker.”

Not the person she wanted to speak to. “What can I do for you?” she said, trying to sound bright and cheerful.

“Will you come down to the station sometime this morning to file a statement about last night, or do you want me to send an officer over?” Why did he even ask? He knew she knew they were short staffed and really couldn’t afford to tie up one of the uniforms with that kind of work.

“Of course I’ll come over. But I’m interviewing another person for the assistant manager’s job this morning. Would this afternoon be okay?”

“Sure.”

“Have you learned anything new about the case since last night?”

“You know I can’t talk to you about the murder investigation.”

“Does that mean you can’t talk to me at all?” Tricia asked.

“It makes things difficult,” he admitted.

Yes, it certainly did.

“Let’s give it a few days-see how things shake out.”

“You mean until you rule me out as a possible suspect?” Tricia asked.

She heard him sigh. “Something like that.”

There was no point in getting angry. In fact, she wasn’t sure she was angry. She’d suspected this was coming, after all.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked.

She turned away, so that Mr. Everett wouldn’t hear any more of the conversation, not that he would actively eavesdrop. And, in fact, he’d disappeared to commandeer the shop’s lamb’s-wool duster. “No. Resigned. When this is over, can we have an honest talk about where we’re going as a couple?” Or, more to the point, where they were not going as a couple. Couple? The word wasn’t even appropriate for the level of commitment he’d been willing or able to show.

Baker sighed again. “Why is it women always want to talk about that kind of stuff?”

“Because it’s important to us. It should be important to you, too.”

“I’m on the rebound,” he admitted.

“So was I after my divorce. I’m not asking for a lifelong commitment, just something more than we’ve got now.”

“You’ve been very patient with me.”

That wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but there was also no point in voicing that sentiment yet again, either.

“Before I hang up, is there else anything you want to tell me about what happened last night? Anything,” he stressed.

“Do you think I’m keeping something from you?”

“No. I’m just doing my job.”

“Well, in the inimitable words of Winston Churchill: carry on.”

She waited for him to say good-bye, but instead, he simply hung up.

Tricia frowned as she put the receiver back into its cradle. Almost immediately, it began to ring again. Good. He’d probably accidentally cut short their call without the pleasantries. She didn’t want to think it might have been deliberate.

She let it ring a third time before picking it up. “Grant?”

“It’s Angelica. What are you doing for lunch today?”

It was Tricia’s turn to sigh. “The same as I always do on a week day. Come over to Booked for Lunch for the tuna plate.”

“I’m not going in today. Come over to my apartment. I’m testing a special recipe for the next cookbook and I need a guinea pig to try it.”

It wasn’t the grandest of invitations but about the only one Tricia was likely to get that day. “Appetizer, soup, salad, entrée, or dessert?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Okay, I’ll be there at noon. Can I bring anything?”

“A bottle of Riesling would be nice.”

“No can do.”

“Then anything alcoholic you can lay your hands on. I’m parched.”

“It’s ten fifteen in the morning.”

“I’ve been up since four, and I went to bed late last night. And I want to hear everything that happened at the inn after I left last night, too.”

“Well don’t hold your breath, because there’s not much to tell. I’ll see you around noon.” Tricia hung up-without saying good-bye. But then, she would be seeing Angelica in a couple of hours-not days.

Mr. Everett stood nearby, holding the morning mail. Tricia hadn’t even heard the door open and the mailman arrive. “You’d best look this over before our first customers arrive,” he said, and handed the small pile to Tricia.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll just go back to my dusting,” Mr. Everett said, and headed toward the back of the store once more.

Tricia sorted through the envelopes. Mostly bills, a few useless circulars, and a bubble envelope. Tricia’s heart sank. It was too small to be one of the books she’d ordered. Her ex-husband had been making a habit of sending expensive gifts at the most inopportune time. Was this another one?

She glanced at the postmark and frowned. Nashua, New Hampshire. Christopher lived in Colorado. Her anxiety level dropped and she took out a letter opener to slit the package open. Inside was a white envelope. She slit that open, too, and a photograph fell out, landing on the top of the display case. Intrigued, Miss Marple jumped down from her perch to take a look.

Tricia turned the photo over. A Post-it note was attached. In block lettering it said: We’ll meet again. Tricia peeled off the note and saw a picture of herself, taken some indeterminate time in the past at what looked like a sidewalk café. In it she wore a straw hat, sunglasses, and an outfit she didn’t remember ever owning-and she was laughing.

“Yow!” Miss Marple said.

Tricia frowned. Who could have sent the picture? And why didn’t she remember where it was taken, who had taken it, or the occasion? Was the note supposed to represent a threat or a wistful remembrance?

Mr. Everett appeared before her, dusting the sill around the display window. He looked over at her. “Is something wrong, Ms. Miles?”

Tricia shook her head and stowed the picture under the counter. Mr. Everett went back to his dusting.

But Tricia couldn’t help but feel unnerved by the photo, and she wondered who could have sent it, and why?