Lorna Barrett - Murder On The Half Shelf

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 washard 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.