Lorna Barrett - Murder On The Half Shelf

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?

As expected,the agency that was to send over the day’s applicant to interview for Ginny’s former job called to cancel. The candidate had apparently found a better-paying job. That worried Tricia. She was already offering two dollars over minimum wage. Maybe she’d have to raise the starting pay. But as the three previous contenders for the job had proven unsuccessful, she wasn’t feeling overly generous. She’d get to that point after they’d stayed in the job for more than a couple of weeks.

After snagging a bottle of wine, Tricia grabbed her coat from the back and snuggled into the sleeves. “Mr. Everett, I’m leaving now.”

Mr. Everett paused in his shelf straightening and hurried over to the cash desk.

“Are you sure you don’t mind me taking an early lunch today?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Grace has a lunch meeting, so I’ll be eating alone again today,” he said rather wistfully. That had been happening a lot lately.

“I’m not going to the café, or else I’d promise to bring you back a sandwich. But Angelica always makes enough to feed an army when she’s testing a recipe. I’m sure there’ll be leftovers…I’m just not sure what kind of leftovers.”

“I’ll be fine. I brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

Tricia tried not to shudder at the thought. Oh well…as long as he enjoyed them.

“I’ll try to be back in an hour. But knowing Angelica, she’ll probably try to get me to walk Sarge, too.”

“That’s why I prefer cats,” Mr. Everett said. At that, Miss Marple lifted her sleepy head and blinked at them both. She’d been dozing in the front window, wound around a copy of the latest Tess Gerritsen book.

Tricia smiled. “See you in about an hour.”

Tricia walked the ten feet to the Cookery and entered. Frannie Mae Armstrong, who managed the bookstore for Angelica, was with a customer. She waved a quick hello, and Tricia headed to the back stairs that lead to Angelica’s loft apartment on the third floor.

The door was unlocked, so Tricia let herself in, hung up her coat, and followed the hall to the kitchen, which smelled heavenly.

“Anybody home?” she called.

“In the kitchen,” Angelica hollered.

As usual, Angelica was standing over the kitchen island, making notes on what looked like manuscript pages. Sarge stood next to her and gave Tricia a chipper bark in greeting, the tip of his fluffy tail wagging merrily.

“What smells so good?” Tricia asked, and inhaled deeply.

“Sausage and vegetable strudel. It’s a takeoff on a recipe I’ve made hundreds of times, only this is my pizza version. I hope you’ll like it.”

“I bet I will.” She handed Angelica the bottle.

“Get out the plates and silverware, while I finish this.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

By the time Tricia had set the table, Angelica set her notes aside and took the strudel from the oven, transferring it onto a waiting platter. “It has to sit for a few minutes. Would you like a cup of coffee or a glass of wine to go with it?”

“With the way my day’s going, I’ll take the wine,” Tricia said.

“Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good. Tell me all about it,” Angelica said, reaching for the glasses in the cupboard.

Tricia commandeered one of the island’s stools. “Have you heard anything new about the murder last night?”

Angelica shook her head. “No, but I’ve already been interrogated by Frannie. She missed her calling. She should have been a police detective. How about you?”

“Luckily Frannie was busy with a customer when I came in, but I’m sure she’ll try to catch me on the way out. I did have a quick conversation with Grant, though. Quick being the operative word. He says he can’t talk to me-as a person-until this whole mess is sorted out. I’m supposed to go to the station to make a report sometime this afternoon.”

“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.