Lorna Barrett: Bookmarked For Death

“Not Miss Marple!”

Angelica shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you’ll be banging that carrier into your knees for two flights, and probably give the cat motion sickness. And I am not cleaning up any cat barf.”

Tricia looked up the brightly lit stairwell. What Angelica said made sense. “Okay, but don’t send it up until I get upstairs and can unload her. I don’t want her terrified by the ride.”

“All right.”

Miss Marple didn’t travel light; it would take two trips on the lift to bring up everything.

Angelica pulled her keys from her pocket. “Here’s the apartment key. Holler when you get upstairs, and I’ll send up the lift.”

“Okay.” Tricia trudged up the stairs, opened the apartment door, flicked on the lights, and breathed in the ever-present smell of Angelica’s perfume. She tended to use too much scent, making Tricia glad she wasn’t prone to respiratory problems.

Angelica’s loft apartment was completely different from her sister’s next door. Where the stairs up to the third floor opened directly into Tricia’s kitchen, Angelica’s opened into a narrow hallway which ran the length of the building. Near this end was the bedroom. Beyond was a spacious living room. Or, rather, it would have been spacious if it weren’t stacked with cartons and furniture. Angelica had reopened the Cookery with great fanfare in time for the Christmas rush only six weeks after acquiring the property. The loft conversion had taken over three months. A rented bungalow at the Brookfield Inn had been Angelica’s home during that time.

In the time since Angelica had moved in, she’d been working ten-hour days in her store, which hadn’t left her a lot of time to set up her home. Retaining employees had quickly become her single biggest problem. Angelica blamed them all for laziness, but it was her own perfectionism (or perhaps anal retentiveness) that had them quitting in droves. The fact that she’d lost five employees in the past two months should have given her a clue as to what the problem was.

Miss Marple survived the trip in the dumbwaiter just fine, and Tricia had unloaded everything and sent the lift down for the rest of her baggage, which made the return trip in record time. She’d carried some of it into the living room by the time Angelica made it to the third floor.

“Throw your stuff anywhere,” she told Tricia as she picked up the last few items and headed for the living room, but there wasn’t anywhere to put it.

“I need to set up Miss Marple’s litter box. And it’s way past her dinnertime.”

Angelica frowned. She was definitely not a cat lover. “The box can go in the bathroom. You can put her food and water bowls on the kitchen floor—home place I won’t step on them, if you please.”

Tricia looked around the warehouse of a living room.

She hadn’t seen the apartment in at least a month, but it didn’t seem to have changed a bit. “Where am I going to sleep?”

“The couch is a sofa bed . . . but I don’t think there’s room to pull it out. It would take too long to restack these boxes. And anyway, I have no clue where the sheets and blankets are. In one of these boxes . . . somewhere. I have a king-size bed. You can either bunk with me or sleep on the floor.”

“Ange, how can you live like this? It’s so not you.”

“Tell me about it. I haven’t exactly had all the time in the world to sort through everything and find a home for it. And there’s no one around here I can hire to do it. Believe me, I’ve asked.”

Soon a wary Miss Marple had been freed from her carrier and shown where to find her litter box and her food. But the cat had concerns other than eating, and disappeared among the jungle of boxes to explore the confines of her temporary home.

The kitchen overlooked Stoneham’s quiet main drag, but Tricia was drawn to the center island with its low-hung, Mission-inspired chandelier and its high-backed stools. Though not the most comfortable places in the world to perch for any length of time, the chairs at the dining table currently offered the apartment’s only functional seating.

The alternative was the bed, and Tricia was too wired to sleep. “Got any wine, Ange? After what I saw tonight, I need something.”

“And I’ll bet you haven’t eaten all day. I’ll whip you up some comfort food. What would you like?”

“Something totally bad for me. Fried chicken.”

Angelica turned to inspect the refrigerator’s interior. “No can do. How about I make you an omelet? At least the eggs came from a chicken.”

Too weary to suggest anything else, Tricia nodded. She plunked one elbow on the counter and rested her head in her hand. “What if the sheriff keeps Haven’t Got a Clue closed for a week? That woman hates me,” she groused. Angelica pulled out a carton of organic brown eggs and a half-empty bottle of chardonnay, shoving the fridge door shut with her hip. “Well, you did steal her boyfriend.”

Tricia sat bolt upright, remembering the incident from the previous September. “I did not. I had lunch with him. Once. It wasn’t even a real date.”

Angelica shrugged, snagged a couple of glasses from the cupboard, poured, and handed Tricia the wine. “What do you want in your omelet? Veggies? Cheese? A big scoop of pity?”

“Hey, be nice to me. You said yourself I’ve been traumatized by finding poor Zoë dead on the toilet.”

“Not where I want to be found when it’s my turn,” Angelica said, and opened the fridge once again. “I’ve got cheddar or mozzarella. Which do you prefer?”

“Mozzarella. It’s gooey and probably more fattening. Toss in peppers, onions, and anything else you’d find on a pizza.”

“Right. Mushrooms, and I think I’ve got a tin of anchovies in the cupboard.”

Tricia shuddered. “Let’s not get too crazy.” She tapped her right index finger on the granite counter. “The sheriff is going to make this as unpleasant for me as she can.”

“Then I suggest you hold onto your temper,” Angelica said, as she grabbed a knife from the block to chop an onion.

“I don’t have a temper.”

“No, but it wouldn’t be hard to develop one if you’re forced to interact with Sheriff Adams for any length of time.” She waved the knife in warning. “I don’t care how long she keeps your store closed. Don’t rile the woman. I’ll talk to Bob. We’ll let him handle it.”

“What?” And be beholden to him? “No way.”

“Yes, way! Or do you want Wendy Adams to shut you down indefinitely?”

“She can’t do that.”

“Do you really want to take the risk?”

Tricia looked away. No, she didn’t. Somehow, she’d have to make nice with the sheriff, or be prepared to wait a very long time to reopen her shop.

The telephone rang at six a.m., waking both sisters. Angelica groped for the bedside phone. “H’lo?”

Tricia rolled over onto her stomach, squeezing her eyes shut.

“What?” Angelica said, sounding a bit less sleepy. The bed jostled as she sat up. “Yes, I was.” Pause. “No, I didn’t.”

Pause. “She’s my sister, why?”

Tricia opened one eye.

“Oh. Well, okay. Yes, I will. Have a nice day,” she replied by rote and hung up the phone.

“What time is it?” Tricia asked. The clock was on Angelica’s side of the bed.

“Six oh two.”

“And what was that all about?” Tricia asked.

The telephone rang again.

“The Manchester Union-Leader . They wanted to know about—”

“Zoë’s death,” Tricia finished for her, and pulled herself into a sitting position.

“Yes.” Angelica reached for the phone again.

“Don’t answer that!” Tricia said, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.