NINE
Tricia entered her store, which seemed to be stuffed with customers, glanced at the cash register, and saw that Pixie, who was usually unflappable, seemed to be overwhelmed.
“Help!” Pixie called, and Tricia quickly circled the big glass display case that was piled with paperback editions of classic mysteries, shoving books into the store’s logo-emblazoned paper bags with handles.
“A bus arrived right after you left,” Pixie explained between customers.
“That’s good.”
“It’s better that David and I came up with so much new inventory over the weekend,” Pixie said before greeting yet another customer. It was total chaos for the next hour until the crowd had to return to the bus.
“Whew! That was a successful morning,” Pixie exclaimed as she flopped onto her favorite chair in the reader’s nook. Tricia joined her.
“Thanks for your hard work.”
Pixie eyed her critically. “We have a serious problem.”
“Oh?” Tricia asked.
“Inventory. I think it might be time for us to admit that we aren’t a vintage mystery store anymore.”
Tricia averted her gaze, turning it to the carpeted floor that could use a good clean—a testament to the thousands of customers who’d walked upon it over years of inclement weather. “Go on.”
“Let’s face it, these days, our oldest stock is Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys novels. As for classic adult mysteries, we’re only finding mass-market paperbacks from the 1980s forward, and most of them aren’t anywhere near pristine condition.”
Tricia heaved a sigh. “I know.”
“My suggestion—and I know you didn’t ask for it,” Pixie began, “is to concentrate on new reprints and new titles. We could still sell the vintage Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, and Hardy Boys titles that I find at yard and estate sales, but anything of any real worth should be sold on auction sites where they’ll bring in the most money.”
For someone who’d never even graduated high school, Pixie’s knowledge and experience in retail sales were worth her weight in gold.
Tricia contemplated her reply for long seconds. “I don’t like what you’ve just said.”
Pixie’s eyes widened in what could only be described as horror.
“But,” Tricia began, “you’ve voiced what I’ve been trying to deny for quite some time.”
Pixie let out a breath and sank deeper into her seat. “Thanks,” she whispered.
Tricia laughed. “Did you think I would fire you for voicing an honest opinion?”
“No, but…”
Maybe she had.
“Why don’t we go through the most recent publisher catalogs and make lists? And we’ll ask Mr. Everett for his input, too.” He was a lot more hip than Tricia had given him credit for.
“I’m not saying we can’t still sell used books,” Pixie said. “It’s just that we should only sell stock in near-pristine condition. Otherwise…”
Tricia knew what Pixie meant. She’d often shopped in used bookstores whose owners dumpster-dived their stock from mainstream stores that had stripped the covers from books in lieu of returns, receiving credit from the publishers. And those “stolen” books that were resold cheated both authors—many of whom couldn’t pay their mortgages on their writing incomes—and publishers, who paid advances to authors, money they might never recoup, making them less likely to buy another book from said author and curtailing many promising careers. It was a vicious cycle.
“Do you want to go through the catalogs now?” Tricia asked.
Pixie shook her head. “After the last couple of hours, my brain is scrod.”
Fish? Tricia didn’t ask.
“I’d be glad to take a couple of them home and go through them tonight while Fred watches football. That way, we can spend time together and both be happy.”
“Thanks,” Tricia said, gratefully.
“Not a problem.” Pixie glanced at the clock and winced. “I’m a little late for lunch.”
“That’s okay. I’m meeting Angelica at her place instead of Booked for Lunch. We’re both too pressed for time today to sit back and be waited on.”
Pixie nodded, grabbed her coat and purse, and left the store. She soon returned with a white paper bakery bag from the Coffee Bean. “There’s no buses in sight. I thought I might eat my lunch at the cash desk and peruse some of those catalogs. Why don’t you hit the trail for Angelica’s?”
“Are you sure?” Tricia asked.
“Positive. Just let me hang up my coat.”
Less than a minute later, Tricia flew out the door.
Unlike earlier in the day, Sarge was ecstatic to see Tricia. How she wished she could feel as joyful as that playful pup. Everything he encountered brought him immense happiness. If only his human counterparts could experience that level of glee.
After she tossed him a couple of dog biscuits, Sarge retreated to his comfy bed and Tricia faced her sister. “Did you get some work done?” she asked.
Angelica glared at her sister. “Not really.”
“Why?”
Angelica heaved a theatrical sigh worthy of a Barrymore. “I got a call from Becca Chandler. It seems she hired Lauren Barker in some capacity back in her early days as”—Angelica struck a pose—“a tennis star.”
“Why did she call you?”
Angelica shrugged. “A fishing expedition, although I’m not really sure what she was fishing for.” She frowned as she wiped the counter. “You have a better connection with Becca than me. I thought you might want to follow up on that.”
Did she ever!
“I’ll give her a call tomorrow,” Tricia said. She’d do so early. Perhaps the two of them could talk over lunch at the Brookview Inn. It was possible Becca might—and only might—spill her guts to Tricia. That said, the woman had reached out—albeit to Angelica and not Tricia, with whom she had a closer relationship. And why was that?
Probably because the Chamber membership still saw Angelica as a leader and Tricia as a follower, thanks to her previous volunteer position in the organization. But Becca hadn’t even been a member during that time. It irked Tricia, but not enough that she wouldn’t grill Becca for what she knew about the newly departed.
“On second thought, I think I’ll text her and ask her to lunch tomorrow—if she can pencil me in. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Good.” Angelica looked wistfully toward the balcony and shook her head. Mid-October in New Hampshire was just a little too chilly for sitting outside without a fire pit and a lap robe.
“What’s for lunch?” Tricia asked.
It seemed like Angelica had forgotten the reason for Tricia’s visit. “Oh, I got a couple of orders of the quiche of the day and soup,” she said. Tricia could smell the tomato soup that was simmering on the stove.
“And the quiche?”
“Broccoli and cheese.”
Tricia sighed. Wasn’t it always broccoli and cheese?
Angelica took out two plates from the fridge, and placed one in the microwave to heat. “Marina called. She still hasn’t heard from Chief McDonald about Lauren’s next of kin. You’d think after nearly four days someone would have contacted him about her belongings.” Angelica looked thoughtful. “The national media covered the news of her death. I wonder if anyone has stepped forward to claim her body—if not a relative, even a lawyer.”
“That we know of,” Tricia pointed out.
Angelica shook her head and took two bowls from the cupboard, ladling soup into each. “It seems odd. Someone as beloved to the nation’s children ought to get at least some kind of send-off.”
“Sadly, her death is yesterday’s—or at least last Friday’s—news. The media’s moved on.”
Angelica carried the bowls to the kitchen island, and then grabbed a couple of spoons. “What do you want to drink?”
“Water’s fine.”
Angelica poured two glasses and set them on the island just as the microwave chimed.
Tricia raised her glass. “To Thursday’s Chamber meeting.”
Angelica looked stricken and turned to retrieve the first of the plates. “Oh, no! I completely forgot about it.”
How could she forget such an important event? But then Angelica was juggling far too many balls in the air.
“We have leftover business from last month’s meeting,” Tricia pointed out, trying to decide if she should try the soup or quiche first.
“Oh, don’t remind me,” Angelica said, and took a healthy gulp of her water.
“It’s your turn to chair the meeting, which is why I brought it up.”
Angelica sighed theatrically. “Why did we ever volunteer to take the job?”
“Because Russ Smith destroyed everything you did to build the Chamber—and in so little time.”
“That’s the thing,” Angelica said. “We could build it back up and the next person to take to the job could destroy it again.”
“That’s true,” Tricia reluctantly admitted. “But…we’re helping every member of the Chamber with tips to maximize their business’s potential. We’re two smart women with a lot of business sense we can pass on to others. Together, our members are making this out-of-the-way burg into a destination point. People enjoy visiting Booktown, and now we’ve ventured past that moniker. We’re luring in a more diverse demographic with businesses like the Bee’s Knees and the Bashful Moose tasting room. And when Becca’s tennis club finally opens, it’ll bring in even more people.”
“You’re right,” Angelica said, and raised her glass. “To us. And to all the Chamber members who subscribe to our philosophy of working together for the greater good.”
“Hear, hear,” Tricia said. Too bad government didn’t always work that way.
A sharp ping pierced the space between them. Tricia looked at her cell phone to see a text from her sort-of friend, Becca.
We need to talk.
Tricia glanced at Angelica. “It’s Becca. Do you mind if I reply to this text?”
“Go ahead.”
Busy right now. Can I call you later tonight or tomorrow?
Not really.
Tricia could almost hear the disdain in Becca’s voice—had the woman said the words aloud.
“She wants to talk.”
“Good grief,” Angelica muttered. “You may as well get it over with.”
“You don’t mind?”
“I’d mind more if it was me who had to speak to her again!”
Tricia tapped her phone’s contact icon, found Becca’s entry, and hit the call button. Becca picked up right away.
“Hey, Becca. It’s Tricia. What’s up?”
“I dunno. I just thought I’d call you for a little girl talk.”
Tricia couldn’t help but roll her eyes, grateful the woman on the other end of the connection couldn’t see her reaction. When Becca Dickson-Chandler, former world champion tennis player, called to chat, she usually had some kind of agenda.
“On what subject?” Tricia asked blithely.
“Well, I thought you might be interested to know that I had lunch with Lauren Barker last Friday.”
Tricia’s mouth dropped. Suddenly, Becca commanded all of Tricia’s attention. “Uh, I’m having my lunch right now. Do you mind if I put you on speaker?”
Angelica nodded vigorously.
“As long as you’re not in a public place,” Becca agreed.
“Oh, I’m not. So tell me more.”
“Lauren worked as my admin for a couple of years before chasing fame and fortune as a children’s author.” She sighed. “To be candid, I think she was writing those books on my time, but that’s another story for another day. Anyway, we had quite a lot to talk about,” Becca teased.
“Anything that might help the authorities solve her murder?” Tricia asked anxiously.
“I don’t know about that….” Becca’s voice trailed off. She didn’t seem all that broken up by the death of a former employee.
“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend,” Tricia said sincerely.
“Oh, Lauren and I were never friends,” Becca proclaimed.
“Then why did you meet for lunch?”
“Believe me, I didn’t seek her out. She sought me.”
“And why was that?”
A long silence greeted that question before Becca answered. “Let’s just say she asked my advice about security.”
“Her own?”
“That and other things.” Becca let the sentence hang.
“So, what have you got to tell me?” Tricia asked, dipping her spoon into her soup.
As suspected, Becca wasn’t about to immediately drop her bombshell. Instead, she launched into a lengthy recitation about the obstacles she’d encountered with the Board of Selectmen and the county’s zoning entity on what she could and couldn’t do with the major tennis complex she intended to build on the village’s outskirts.
“It’s been so much harder than I ever thought it would be,” Becca wailed dramatically.
Becca, O she of fame and fortune, expected results at the snap of her fingers. Perhaps it might have happened at the height of her fame, but now some might call her a has-been.
“I’m sorry it’s taking so much longer than you anticipated,” Tricia said solicitously, “but I’m sure it’ll be worth the wait.”
“It had better be,” Becca grated.
Tricia took the conversational lead. “So, you mentioned Lauren Barker was interested in obtaining some kind of personal security.”
“She seemed to think she was in danger.”
“In what way?”
“A cyberstalker. Someone sent her a number of threatening e-mails of late.”
“What kind of threat?”
“I will kill you,” Becca said, enunciating each word.
Tricia’s eyes widened. “Have you told Chief McDonald about that conversation?”
“Why would I?” Becca asked blankly.
Was the woman crazy? “Because whoever sent the threat obviously went through with their plan and strangled the poor woman!”
“You don’t know that,” Becca exclaimed. “I’ve been receiving death threats for decades, and I’m still here.”
“Yes, because you had a security force.”
Becca didn’t dignify Tricia’s protest with a remark.
“When was the last time someone threatened you?” Tricia demanded.
Becca sighed dramatically. “A couple of years ago. I have a much lower profile these days.”
The word has-been again echoed in Tricia’s mind.
“But once my tennis clubs take off, I’m sure some resentful tennis wannabe I’ve never met will decide I’ve deprived them of fame and fortune and will come after me.”
Angelica rolled her eyes and polished off the last of her soup.
Tricia frowned. Just because Becca hadn’t succumbed to a crazed fan didn’t mean it hadn’t happened to other celebrities in the past. Rabid fans often evolved into stalkers if they felt the object of their devotion had dissed them in some way. Some people just didn’t get that individuals with public personas deserved to keep some—often the largest—parts of their lives private.
“You need to tell Chief McDonald about your conversation with Lauren.”
Becca didn’t comment.
“If you don’t,” Tricia continued, “I will.”
Becca hesitated before speaking. “Do you have to be so…so bitchy?”
Tricia’s mouth dropped. “A woman died. She voiced she’d been threatened. How can you be so complacent?”
The silence lengthened before Becca sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Perhaps I should have taken Lauren’s concerns a little more seriously.”
“Perhaps?” Tricia had to bite her lip so as not to let loose the volley of vitriol that threatened to explode from within her. Tricia picked up her fork and took a bite of quiche. It had gone cold. She got up and placed the plate in the microwave again, knowing another thirty or forty seconds in it would reduce the once-soft pie to a rubbery mass. “So, when are you going to call Chief McDonald?” Tricia asked.
“When I get a chance.” Becca seemed distinctly annoyed by the question.
“Today,” Tricia said firmly.
Again, Becca sighed theatrically. Perhaps instead of playing tennis, she should have become a thespian. “If you insist.”
“I do. It’s the right thing to do.”
The microwave pinged once again and Tricia retrieved her plate, taking it back to her seat at the island.
“So, how are you and your little boyfriend getting on?” Becca finally said, as though remembering that conversations were supposed to be a two-way street.
Tricia wasn’t about to react to Becca’s slur. “Quite happily.”
Becca’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“We have a lot in common.”
“And?” Becca pressed.
Angelica leaned in, paying close attention.
“What do you want me to say?”
Becca laughed. “That the sex is great. That you’re happier than you’ve ever been.”
“Well,” Tricia said, cutting another bite of quiche with her fork. “There is that.”
Another long silence fell between them. Tricia guessed Becca might be just a tad jealous. As far as she knew, Becca had no one in her life to depend on, to make her days better…to love her. And for that, she felt pity for the woman. Still, she wasn’t about to divulge anything more about her relationship with David—or anyone else. Instead, Tricia asked for more details about the upcoming tennis club. If nothing else, she could use the information for a short update in the Chamber’s newsletter’s next issue.
Angelica got up and began clearing their places.
After Becca yammered on for another five minutes, Tricia interrupted her. “I hate to cut this short,” Tricia lied, “but I need to get back to my shop.”
“Ah, yes. How tedious it must be to be a working stiff. Well, it was so good to talk to you, Tricia,” Becca said without sincerity. “We’ll have to do this again soon.” And with that, she ended the call.
Tricia fought against but succumbed to the urge to stick out her tongue at the phone before she shoved it away.
Angelica returned to the island. “Well, that was quite the conversation.”
“Yeah,” Tricia agreed. “Tomorrow, I’ll follow up with Ian McDonald, because I’m not sure Becca will do the right thing and tell him about Lauren’s concerns and how they might be why she was killed.”
Angelica said nothing and instead regarded the nails on her left hand.
Tricia’s brows furrowed. “What?”
Angelica shook her head. “You could have couched your threat in much softer language.”
“Threat?” Tricia asked, feeling heat rise from her neck to color her cheeks.
“Yes, a threat. I understand your passion—and I agree that the chief should be told about Lauren’s concerns—but you could have encouraged Becca to report what she knows without being confrontational.”
Tricia clutched her glass. Had she been too forceful when speaking with Becca? Possibly. “You know, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to encourage Becca to do the right thing.”
“What a bitch,” Angelica muttered, frowning.
“That’s what Becca accused me of when I said I’d speak to Ian.”
Angelica shrugged, and then her gaze narrowed. “So, the sex is great, huh?”
Tricia glowered at her sister.