THREE

The next morning, Tricia distracted herself from thoughts of murder by going through her usual morning rituals: a long walk, a shower and change, and then baking a batch of thumbprint cookies for her customers all before ten o’clock, when her elderly employee, Mr. Everett, showed up for work on that chilly October Saturday morning. Her assistant manager, Pixie Poe, had the day off—which meant she would work at Angelica’s day spa, Booked for Beauty, for a few hours as a nail artist, before heading out to tag or estate sales in search of vintage clothes for herself, and acting as a picker looking for vintage books and other items for Haven’t Got a Clue and several other merchants.

Mr. Everett’s greeting was subdued, and Tricia had a feeling she knew why.

“Is everything okay?” Tricia asked as she poured coffee from the carafe at the store’s beverage station set up for customers and staff.

“I think I should be asking you that question,” he said, accepting the cup she handed him.

“You heard what happened after the signing at the library last night.”

“Grace saw it online as soon as she logged in to the computer this morning.”

Tricia nodded and watched as Mr. Everett added creamer and sugar to his mug.

“I understand it was young David who found the body.”

“I was there, too,” Tricia admitted.

“So I gathered.” Mr. Everett turned toward the reader’s nook, where they both took their accustomed seats. “Was the poor lad traumatized?”

“I wouldn’t use that descriptor,” Tricia admitted, but that was as far as she was willing to attest.

“Are there any viable suspects?” Mr. Everett asked, and sipped his brew.

“Several.” Tricia related the events of the previous evening, with Mr. Everett nodding with each revelation.

“It would seem that Chief McDonald has enough to start his investigation.”

Tricia nodded but was glad the shop’s door opening to admit the day’s first customers would keep her from elaborating.

Mr. Everett sprang to his feet with remarkable agility for someone his age and intercepted the man and woman, offering to help them with the selection of a book or books. Tricia took her half-drunk mug of coffee to the store’s vintage glass display case that doubled as a cash desk and wondered if she ought to call David. Actually, she was surprised he hadn’t called her upon waking. They often chatted before work, and he usually joined her on her Saturday-morning walks. That he hadn’t that day was telling. Or was she just looking for a problem where there was none?

It wasn’t until after eleven when she finally got a text from David. It simply said: Lunch?

Tricia usually had her midday meal with Angelica, but after the events of the evening before, she was pretty sure Angelica would cut her some slack to reconnect with her boyfriend.

Boyfriend. Tricia always cringed at the word. David was hardly a boy, but sometimes—on days like this—she felt their age difference keenly.

Where? She texted.

Your place?

Time?

1?

Okay.

Tricia hadn’t had the opportunity to hit the grocery store that week and wondered what she might have in her larder that she could use to concoct some kind of meal. She could just repeat Angelica’s offering the previous evening and make a couple of omelets. She had eggs, some sharp cheddar, and a half loaf of white bread in the freezer that would thaw in seconds in her microwave and easily be transformed into toast. She could set everything up before Mr. Everett took his lunch break and pull it together in minutes, giving them at least a forty-minute window to talk before each had to be back at work.

See you then.

Glancing at the clock, Tricia decided she had better hightail it up to her apartment and kitchen to get things started.

The shop was busy while Mr. Everett was gone. He’d joined his wife for a box lunch at her office across the street at the space they leased for the Everett Foundation, a philanthropic organization they’d founded and she’d managed after Mr. Everett had won big in the state lottery some years before. Thanks to the Bashful Moose craft brewery tasting room that had opened only a few weeks before, autumn weekend traffic in Booktown had picked up. It seemed that beer drinkers were also rabid readers, which suited Tricia and the other bookstore owners—and especially their bottom lines. Years before, tourism had dropped off after Labor Day, resuming at peak leaf-peeping season.

Mr. Everett had returned only a minute or so before David showed up at Haven’t Got a Clue’s door. The younger man did not look happy.

“I’m going to take my lunch break now,” Tricia told her employee.

“I can manage here,” Mr. Everett said brightly, and Tricia led David up to her apartment, with Tricia’s cat, Miss Marple, scampering up the stairs ahead of them, probably figuring she might finagle a few treats from either of them—knowing what suckers they were for wide eyes and a plaintive cry.

“I’m sorry I haven’t got much to offer you,” Tricia apologized. “How about a cheese omelet?”

“I’d take bread and water about now,” David said sourly as he slumped into one of the stools in front of her kitchen island, looking utterly miserable.

“What’s wrong?” Tricia asked, resisting the urge to draw him into an embrace. There was a time and place for such actions. She sensed that this was not the time.

“Oh, just about everything.” David’s gaze wandered to the cabinet where Tricia kept her liquor. This was also not the time to imbibe.

“Talk to me as I make us lunch,” she said.

David leaned his elbows on the marble counter and looked depressed, a state she’d never seen him in.

“Amelia,” he began, and Tricia knew he was speaking of his boss, the library’s new director, Amelia Doyle, “reamed me a new—”

Tricia held up a hand to stop him. “I get it.”

“Yeah, well, she was upset that I didn’t immediately call her after the whole situation at the library last night.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” he asked.

Tricia paused in breaking eggs into a bowl. “Uh, I just assumed you would have done that as soon as you got home last night.”

“Why?”

“Well, because if nothing else, it’s got to be a PR nightmare for the library.”

David sighed. “I guess. I mean, yeah, it is. But I just wasn’t thinking about that last night.”

“Because you were traumatized?” Tricia asked, echoing Mr. Everett’s thoughts.

David’s expression was bland. “Not really. I mean, I’m sad that Lauren was killed, but I don’t feel guilty about it. I mean…it wasn’t my fault so many people seemed to have grudges against her.”

No, but maybe if he’d escorted her to her car, she might still be alive. David had spoken to her, and she seemed to have gotten over the sandwich. Then again, Lauren had made herself scarce after the signing. At least, that had been Tricia’s perception. Still, the signing had been David’s first time in the trenches, and he’d been handed a few wrenches to muck up the signing’s works. While Tricia could forgive him for such a transgression, she could understand why his boss might not.

“How deep in trouble are you?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“At least six feet,” he said sadly.

“Surely you won’t lose your job over this. I mean, it’s hardly your fault that Lauren was killed. There was enough drama last evening to cast suspicion on a number of people.”

“That’s what I tried to tell Amelia. She wasn’t buying it.”

“Then you ought to suggest she talk to Chief McDonald.”

“I didn’t get the feeling the guy was in my court, if you catch my drift.” And his words made Tricia feel guilty. She and McDonald might have connected if things had worked out differently. Ian was close to her age, and they had a lot in common. But. Those three letters held a lot of baggage.

“Anyway, the chief showed up at the library before we even opened, wanting to see the footage taken at the circulation desk.”

“And?” Tricia asked hopefully.

“It caught Lauren, but not the person she was speaking to. Looks like you’re the only eyewitness.”

“Is Amelia going to punish you?” Good grief—now Tricia sounded like a stern schoolmarm.

David nodded. “I’m to present all my programs to her to approve before I can implement them—including every book I order. Amelia apparently agrees with Dan Reed that a creature who changes color might be too subversive for young minds.”

A flood of anger roiled through Tricia. “The biological functions of a chameleon are subversive?”

David nodded.

Tricia broke the eggs into a glass bowl and beat them, probably with unnecessary force, before speaking again. “Is your job in danger?”

“Kind of. Amelia has extended my probation period by another six months. That means I won’t be eligible for a raise until I’ve been on the job for a full year.”

It seemed awfully unfair to punish David for circumstances beyond his control, and she said so.

“Yeah, well…I’ve got a year’s lease and not enough experience under my belt to look elsewhere for a job. Yet.”

Tricia’s stomach did a bit of a flip-flop. Would David scrap what they shared to find less restrictive employment? He said he was devoted to her, and yet they’d only been together for less than two months. Two glorious months. Young as he was, David not only made her feel desirable, but they could talk for hours on just about any subject. Even her late ex-husband, Christopher, whom she’d previously considered her best match, had been bored to tears by the subject of vintage mysteries. However, David had embraced her love of those tomes and was making his way through her personal library of favorites. And now he could not only talk to her about the genre, but he made a point to speak to Mr. Everett and Pixie, too. She didn’t want that to end.

David watched as she placed the egg mixture into the hot, buttered pan. “Should I get some toast going?”

“Yes, thanks.”

He knew where she kept the bread—and the toaster. Within minutes, they sat kitty-corner at the kitchen island, eating their lunches. Miss Marple sat between them, staring up at Tricia and looking hopeful.

“You still have crunchies in your bowl,” Tricia admonished the cat.

“She wants cheese, don’t you, Miss?” David asked.

Miss Marple turned her attention to their guest, momentarily closed her eyes as though in agreement, and answered him with a soft “Yow.”

It pleased Tricia that her cat had readily accepted David’s addition to her life. Miss Marple had been fond of Christopher but had acted aloof with Tricia’s other male companions.

David cut a small cheesy piece from his omelet and offered it to the cat, who thoroughly sniffed it before swallowing it whole.

Tricia sighed. “I’ve asked you not to feed her people food.”

“I’ve never met a cat who considered cheese as strictly a human food. And, honestly, what harm does it really do to give your little princess a treat?”

That schoolmarm persona seemed to swoop over Tricia like a smothering cloth, but she held her tongue and watched as her cat rubbed her body against David’s legs. How could she complain when his small act had given her cat such pleasure?

All too soon, they’d finished their meals, and it was time for David to return to work.

“Will I see you tonight?” he asked.

“After—”

“Yeah, yeah—after you have dinner with Angelica. I wish we could have more meals together,” he muttered. “It seems like too often the time we spend together is stolen.”

“Would you like to have dinner with us?”

He shook his head and she knew why. The few times she’d invited him, times when she’d been the hostess, Angelica had acted cool toward him, even though they got along quite well when left on their own. Angelica was definitely jealous of the time Tricia spent with her new love, but she had no trouble blowing Tricia off when an opportunity arose to spend more time with her grandchildren.

Hmmm. Perhaps she ought to speak to Ginny about arranging more such time. New moms needed downtime from their little bundles of joy, and doting grandmothers often were eager to take on such tasks. And if nothing else, Angelica was a doting nonna.

“We can get together afterward,” Tricia said. She nodded toward the ceiling and her bedroom above. “My place or yours?”

David’s gaze strayed to the cat, still rubbing her cheek along his pants leg, marking him as her own. “I always feel guilty when you leave little Miss alone overnight. People say that cats aren’t as devoted as dogs, but I know from experience that isn’t true. This little girl needs you.” He glanced down at the cat. “Don’t you, little Miss?”

As though understanding, Miss Marple answered, “Yow!”

Tricia nodded. “My place it is.”

“I’ll bring the fixings for breakfast,” David said.

“You don’t have to,” Tricia protested.

David leveled a stern look in her direction. “Tricia, my love, your cupboard is bare.”

He was right.

“Okay. What do you have planned?”

He gave her a sly smile. “It’ll be a surprise.”

She rewarded him with a grin. “I’ll look forward to it.”

She gave him a kiss that hinted at things to come, and reluctantly said good-bye. And once he’d left, it felt like all the life had been leached from her home.

Feeling just a little down, Tricia washed the dishes, tidied her kitchen, and looked forward to the evening to come.

Knowing David’s financial situation, Tricia always felt guilty when he insisted on paying for meals or treats. At her stage of life, she was in a much better position to pay for such things, but she let him do so to spare his feelings. That said, he was right; her cupboards were pretty bare.

Mr. Everett was fine with handling Haven’t Got a Clue’s customers while she headed to the nearest grocery store to replenish her supplies. She first aimed for the produce department. David wasn’t a food snob, but he was into eating fresh. The farmer’s market had already shut down for the day, so the grocery store’s products were as good as she was going to get. And, honestly, lemons, avocados, and out-of-season berries were all going to be trucked or flown from farms much farther than ten miles away.

Moving on from Veggieland, Tricia pushed her cart in the direction of the store’s bakery department, thinking she might pick up a sweet treat to enjoy with David along with a glass of wine or two since she didn’t have time to concoct a home-baked delicacy. However, her mission was diverted when she saw Stella Kraft loading her cart with a quarter sheet cake, a cardboard carton filled with a dozen doughnuts, and several plastic containers filled with pink-frosted sugar cookies.

“Stella?” Tricia called.

The woman froze at the sound of her name. Slowly, she turned. “Tricia?”

Tricia advanced and stopped her much smaller cart next to Stella’s. “Hey, are you okay?”

Stella’s brown eyes widened with indignation. “Of course I am! Why wouldn’t I be?” she answered sharply.

Tricia took a step back. “I thought that after learning of Lauren Barker’s death, you might—”

“What? Be responsible?” Stella’s voice kept rising. “Was it you who turned the cops onto me?” she shrilled.

Perhaps.

Tricia dodged the question. “The reporter from the Stoneham Weekly News caught your conversation with Laura on her cell phone.”

Stella looked horrified. “I didn’t know.” Looking panicked, she broke open one of the plastic containers, grabbed a cookie, and practically shoved it whole into her mouth, chewing violently.

Again, Tricia asked, “Are you okay?”

Stella swallowed and coughed. “No, I’m not! This morning, that new chief of police grilled me for over an hour, wanting to know what my relationship was with Lauren and whether I felt any animosity toward her. I told him I did not—and in no uncertain terms!”

That was a bald-faced lie, and Patti Perkins’s recording of the altercation would prove the lie.

Stella grabbed another cookie, taking a monster-sized bite from it. Tricia’s gaze again dipped to the retired teacher’s cart, and she hoped the woman wasn’t a diabetic. Consuming all that sugar could bring on a diabetic coma.

As though sensing Tricia’s concern, Stella blurted, “I’m a stress eater, and after what I was put through this morning I can verify I’m acutely stressed!”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yes! Your reputation precedes you. Find out who killed Lauren and get Chief McDonald off my back.”

“Well, I—”

“Don’t tell me you can’t do anything to help me. You’ve been integral in solving every murder that’s occurred since you moved to Stoneham. Some people think it’s your fault, but not me. Too often, people—and why don’t I just come right out and say it—men aren’t as capable as they think they are. If women ran the world, there’d be food, education, health care, and, most of all, peace for all. No one will ever convince me otherwise.”

It was a pretty cynical point of view, even if Tricia might agree…for the most part. Still, it was Chief McDonald’s job to investigate every avenue open to him. And Stella’s antagonistic responses the night before had certainly spotlighted her as a suspect. But when she thought about it, Tricia immediately discounted Stella as a suspect. Lauren could have allowed her killer to enter the passenger side of her car. After the sparks that had flown during her conversation with Stella, Tricia doubted Lauren would have deigned to speak to her former teacher in close proximity.

Stella’s dark eyes were moist with unshed tears. “Do you honestly think I could have killed Lauren?”

“No, I don’t.”

Stella’s relief was palpable. “Thank you. Now, what will you do to prove me innocent?”

“I can give the chief a character reference.”

“That’s not enough,” Stella said. “If McDonald pins this murder on me, we’re talking about the end of my life. Promise me you’ll try to find out who killed Lauren and prove me innocent?”

“Oh, Stella, you know I can’t do that.”

“I’m only asking you to try. Try and do your best. As the voice of reason in this burg, it’s kind of your duty.”

Tricia’s thoughts were instantly whisked back to her childhood interactions with the Girl Scouts. She’d pledged to do her duty, to do her best. Looking at Stella’s worried, creased face, her heart felt heavy, but she didn’t quibble. “I’ll do my best,” she promised.

Stella’s mouth quivered, and, for a moment, Tricia thought she might burst into tears, but then the older woman straightened. “Would you like one of my cookies?”

Tricia stifled a laugh. Should she consider the offer a bribe? “No, but thank you.”

“Will you keep in touch with me?” Stella asked earnestly.

“Yes, I will. Would you like me to phone you?”

“You can text me,” Stella said, and Tricia was surprised—but only for a moment. Stella was a teacher. Learning new things—and technologies—was in her blood. Stella recited her number, and Tricia dutifully entered it into her phone’s contact list. On the other hand, it was with reluctance that she gave out her own number. Would Stella hound her?

Stella crimped the edges of the cookie receptacle closed, signaling she probably wouldn’t eat another while still in the store. “Thank you. I look forward to hearing from you in the coming days.”

Tricia reached out a hand to clasp the older woman’s shoulder. “I know it’ll be hard, but try not to let this consume your life. I’ll do my best to find out what happened.”

Stella nodded, apparently not noticing that Tricia hadn’t promised to try to prove her innocence. She had way too much to learn before she could do that.