Lorna Barrett - Sentenced to Death

“We were quite fond of Deborah,” she said, and handed the check to Tricia. One thousand dollars—the biggest contribution to date.

“Thank you very much, Grace,” Tricia said. “I’ll make sure this goes into Davey’s account when I do my banking—probably tomorrow. Are you still enjoying the work you do for the foundation?”

“Heavens, yes,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Dear William suggested I take over my late husband’s home office and make that our headquarters. It’s worked out nicely. I so enjoy working on the Website and researching the requests. And we’re going to establish a job bank in connection with the Food Shelf. Libby Hirt is coordinating the effort.”

“It’s something that’s needed. Haven’t Got a Clue may be the first to sign up. I’m going to need to replace Ginny, but I can’t hire just anyone.”

“We’d only send suitable candidates,” Grace assured her.

“Whatever you do, please don’t send me Cheryl Griffin. She’s already interviewed—if that’s what you could call it. I don’t think she’d work well selling mysteries.”

“Cheryl is looking for work?” Grace asked.

“Yes. She was working part time at the Happy Domestic, but Elizabeth had to let her go when Deborah died.”

Grace nodded. “I see.”

“I guess she’s in pretty dire straits. She said she’s about to be evicted.”

“Oh my. Well, I’ll have to see about the foundation giving her a helping hand. There’s also an opening for a clerk at the Clothes Closet. Do you know her telephone number? Perhaps she’d like to interview for the job.”

Tricia was about to say no but then remembered she had a copy of Cheryl’s résumé. She bent down to look under the counter and came up with the paper. She scanned the text, but the telephone number had been crossed out. “Oh dear. It’s not on her résumé.” Perhaps Cheryl had her phone service cut off for nonpayment. How was an employer supposed to contact her if there was a job opening?

“Let me write down that address. Perhaps I can stop by her home and tell her about the job bank and how she can list herself.”

“I don’t need this résumé. You can have it,” Tricia said, and handed Grace the paper.

She read it over. “My, with all this retail experience, it sounds like she’d be perfect for the Clothes Closet.” She folded the résumé and placed it in her purse.

“How can I list my opening?” Tricia asked.

“Go to the Food Shelf’s Website. There’s a link for the job bank. Fill out the form, and Libby will contact you.” She gave Miss Marple’s head another pat. “Well, I must be off. Lots to do.”

“I’m glad you stopped in. It’s always so nice to see you.”

“And you, too, dear.” Grace gave a wave and headed for the door.

“Yow!” Miss Marple said in parting.

With Grace now gone, once again the store seemed . . . empty. The lack of customers was disconcerting. Tricia glanced at the clock. It was hours before she and Angelica were to meet with Michele Fowler. Hours and hours of not much to do, and lots of things she’d rather be doing.

Tricia was going to have to hire someone to take Ginny’s place pretty darn quick. She brought out her laptop, followed Grace’s instructions, and posted the opening on the job bank’s site. Now to wait—and hope—she got more than just one referral.

As she closed her computer, Tricia happened to glance out the shop’s front window. Bob Kelly was just leaving the Happy Domestic. Was he paying a courtesy call on Ginny, or had Deborah been behind in her rent and he’d come to nag for his money?

Bob bypassed the Coffee Bean. He was too cheap to pay for gourmet coffee, and no doubt the Kozlovs were current on their rent. He paused in front of Booked for Lunch, which had been closed for some time. Was that a wistful expression on his face as he turned away? His infidelity had been the cause for the less-than-warm reception Angelica had been giving him of late.

Bob’s next stop was the Armchair Tourist; Chauncey Porter must be late with his rent. Back in June he’d told Tricia that times were hard.

With nothing better to do, Tricia stared at the storefront, waiting for Bob to leave. Miss Marple appeared at Tricia’s elbow, took up the vigil beside her, and began to purr.

“I’ll bet Bob knows more than he’s telling about Monty Capshaw,” she told Miss Marple.

“Yow!” the cat agreed.

“And he’s sure kept a low profile since the Founders’ Day celebration was canceled.”

Miss Marple rubbed her head against Tricia’s arm, as though in agreement.

“And why does he have Betsy Dittmeyer running interference for him over at the Chamber of Commerce?”

Miss Marple had no answer for that, either.

“I’m going to intercept him when he comes back down the street. Maybe I can get him to talk.” She looked down at the cat, whose whiskers twitched skeptically. “I grant you, it’s a long shot—but I’m sure somehow Bob knows something that could help us solve what happened to Deborah.”

That was apparently too much speculation for Miss Marple, who jumped off the cash desk and trotted over to the reader’s nook, settling herself on one of the comfortable chairs.

“ ‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ ” Tricia quoted, and went back to waiting.

Bob certainly took his time—twenty minutes, in fact—before he exited the Armchair Tourist and started back up the street. Had all the booksellers on the east side of Main Street paid their rent, or did Bob have a sixth sense that told him Tricia would be gunning for him?

Tricia scurried around the counter and out the door. “Bob! Bob!” she called.

An eighteen-wheeled truck lumbered by, cutting off her sight of Bob. She waited for the truck to pass—but after it had, she couldn’t even see Bob. At first. For a man who had no formal exercise routine, Bob jogged up Main Street at an astounding speed. “Bob!” Tricia hollered, but he didn’t look back. As Tricia couldn’t leave the store unattended, she stalked back to Haven’t Got a Clue.

If ever a man looked guilty about something, it was Bob.

Tricia picked up the receiver. If she couldn’t track him down in person, the next best thing was to try to get him on the phone.

The only question was—would he answer?

“He’s deliberately avoiding me,” Tricia said, and braked for a red light. “And I left messages for him at his home, his office, the Chamber of Commerce, and on his cell phone.”

“Bob can be stubborn,” Angelica admitted from the passenger’s side of Tricia’s car as she inspected the polish on her nails.

“Maybe you could call him and ask him to get back to me.”

Angelica sighed, turning her attention to the road ahead of them. “Trish, how are you going to convince Bob—or the authorities—that Deborah’s death was premeditated when you still haven’t convinced me?”

“You could be a little more supportive,” Tricia said, as the light turned green. At least traffic wasn’t heavy at this hour.

“I set up this meeting with Michele Fowler, didn’t I? That’s got to count for something.”

“It does,” Tricia grudgingly agreed.

“I think the bar is down on the left. Snag that parking space just ahead, and we’ll walk.”

Tricia did as she was told, and the sisters got out of the car. Sure enough, the bar was only a couple of doors down. “How did you know?” Tricia asked.

Angelica gave a knowing shrug. “I drove it on my computer earlier this afternoon using Google Street View. A great little program.”

They paused in front of the bar. Nemo’s Deep Sea Dive sounded like it might be a dump, but instead it was a charming little tavern around the corner from the Foxleigh Gallery. Pseudo-portholes, lit from behind, suggested the life of the submariners depicted in Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea . That is, if they ate a lot of fried seafood and guzzled beer and cocktails on a regular basis. The lighting was subdued, but the ambience was welcoming, as was the painfully thin hostess with the skintight sailor suit and jaunty cap.