TEN
As Tricia left the Cookery, she saw Larry Harvick of the Bee’s Knees unloading stock for the store from the back of his car. “Larry!” she called and waved, hurrying past her store to meet the man at his.
Harvick turned at the sound of her voice. “Tricia. Good to see you.”
Tricia soon joined him on the sidewalk. “Hey, I heard about the hives you’ve got scattered around the village, and what a great success they are.”
Harvick practically beamed. “So far, so good.” Then his expression darkened. “Well, mostly.”
Tricia knew the problem. “I understand Amelia Doyle isn’t happy about the bees atop the library’s roof.”
“She says she’s allergic to beestings,” he said with chagrin.
“You don’t believe her?”
“Oh, I do. But my bees keep pretty much to themselves—unless provoked. There’s not much chance of that happening when they’re on the roof, but I promised the Board of Selectmen that I’d remove a hive if there were a complaint. So, I’ll bring them home in the next few days.”
“Can I help with that?” Tricia asked eagerly.
Harvick scrutinized her face. “You’re not afraid of getting stung?”
“I’ve been stung before with no bad results, although I think they were wasps, not bees. I’m rather fascinated by the whole idea. I mean, I’ve been following the news stories about bee colony collapse disorder for the past couple of years and I now know how important they are to our food chain.”
“Unless riled, they’re really quite gentle creatures. I often work with them without protection. You just have to know how to handle them.”
“I’d love to at least observe you in action.”
“That can be arranged—no pun intended,” he said, smiling.
Tricia returned the grin. “That sounds great. When would be a good time?”
“I’ll check with the wife on our schedule and get back to you later today.”
“Wonderful. Thanks.” Tricia smiled and nodded in the direction of her store. “I guess I’d better get back to work.”
“Time is money,” Harvick said, agreeing and grinning. “And for me, time is also honey.”
“Talk to you soon.” Tricia gave him a nod and continued on her way. She felt pretty good until she remembered her recent conversation with Becca.
Again, Tricia put the woman out of her mind and instead glanced at her watch, calculating how many hours it would be until she could again connect with David.
Until then, she had a store to run.
Upon returning to Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia found it empty of customers. Pixie sat behind the cash desk while Ella Fitzgerald’s voice bathed the air like a jar of the Harvicks’ warmed honey.
“Pretty boring around here,” Pixie proclaimed, and pushed aside the catalogs she’d been flipping through.
“Is it my imagination, or has this been the longest day of my life?” Tricia asked.
“Mine, too. I wonder what Mr. E is doing on his day off. I’ll sure be glad when he returns tomorrow.”
“Anything happen while I was gone?” Tricia asked.
“We had a few customers, but nothing very interesting.” Before Tricia could ask, Pixie said, “I got a call from Ginger over at the Stoneham Weekly News giving me a heads-up on an estate sale outside of Milford. It starts Thursday, which is a day before their next issue comes out. Apparently, the poor dead guy was quite the reader, and they’re advertising a lot of books. Depending on what the old boy was interested in, I could make a killing for half the booksellers in the village—maybe buy out the whole place.”
“Do you think you should go on the first day of the sale?” Usually Pixie visited estate and tag sales on the last day, when the sellers were ready to make deals.
“It wouldn’t hurt.”
“Okay, then let’s plan on it.”
“It starts at eight, so I wouldn’t even have to miss work.”
“Yes, but that means you’ll be standing in line for at least an hour before the sale even starts.”
“You know me well,” Pixie said, cracking a smile.
“You can leave early that afternoon to make up for your time.”
“You’re the best! And I figure I can always go back on Sunday and pick up the dregs—if they’re worth having.”
Tricia nodded, and her smile returned. For the past couple of years, and as a side hustle, Pixie had been employed to buy books from estate and tag sales for a number of used bookstores on Main Street. “You really do provide a wonderful service for the booksellers in the village.”
“Eh, not everybody,” Pixie muttered. “I picked up books for Barney’s Book Barn a few times. Kids either destroy them or never touch ’em, and you can often find ’em in mint condition. But after she stiffed me twice, I stopped looking for stuff for Ms. Barnes.”
“She didn’t pay you?” Tricia asked, aghast.
“Nope. Looked me straight in the eye and insisted she had—plus had written me a receipt—which was another big fat lie.”
“What did you say to her?”
“Nothin’—literally. She called and left messages and texted me a few times, begging me to keep picking for her, but I blocked her. She always seems to be staring out her big display window, so I don’t go past her store when I walk home from work, either. I don’t need her badgering me in person.”
“I’m sorry she treated you so badly,” Tricia said sincerely.
Pixie shrugged. “Stuff like that happens to people like me all the time. Cuz we’ve got a record, crappy people think they can take advantage of us cuz they know we won’t call the cops. Who’s gonna make a fuss over ten or twenty bucks?”
Betty had never been Tricia’s favorite person, but it said a lot about her character that she would cheat someone with little opportunity to demand justice.
“I’m so sorry,” Tricia apologized once again. “That should’ve never happened. I wish you’d told me sooner so we could have done something about it.”
Pixie shook her head. “Like I said, she’d get the benefit of the doubt—not me.”
What Pixie said was true. Upon their first meeting, Tricia had expected the worst from Pixie, and she now felt ashamed. Pixie had never lied to her, and Tricia trusted her to make bank deposits and handle the store’s cash sales. And the till had never been short while Pixie was on the job.
After the excitement of the bus earlier that morning, the afternoon trade was practically nonexistent. Tricia and Pixie decided to move one of the stand-alone shelves, rearrange the stock, and bring up a box of books on the building’s dumbwaiter.
The store’s phone rang and Tricia crossed the expanse of carpet to pick up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue—”
“Hey, Tricia, it’s Larry Harvick.”
Wow—that was fast.
“I’ve got to be at the old homestead tomorrow afternoon. Could you come over around three o’clock?”
“Sounds perfect. Where do I show up?”
He gave her the address, which she dutifully committed to memory.
“Great, I’ll see you then.”
Tricia put the phone down, unable to suppress the smile that curved her lips.
“Well, don’t you look happy?” Pixie said as Tricia returned to the shelves.
“I’m going to visit the Harvicks’ beehives tomorrow.”
Pixie grimaced. “Why would you want to do that? Aren’t you afraid of getting stung?”
“If necessary, I assume Larry will provide me with protective gear. I’m curious, but I don’t want to be stung, either.”
“A wise move,” Pixie agreed.
“You know,” Tricia said as they continued their work, “I was thinking…What do we want to do to decorate the shop for the holiday season?” Pixie latched on to the new topic, and they spent a happy ten minutes discussing their past decorations and how to incorporate them with new ideas. By the time the workday ended, they had a list of wonderful ideas, and Tricia’s and Pixie’s spirits had been raised.
“Time for you to go home.”
Pixie didn’t argue, hung up her apron, and donned her coat.
“One of us can inventory the new stock tomorrow,” Tricia said.
“One of Mr. E’s favorite jobs,” Pixie agreed, grabbing her keys from her purse. “Hitting the trail!”
“See you in the morning,” Tricia called, and closed the shop’s door and got ready to go to her sister’s, feeling more than ready for a happy hour martini and the last meal of the day. And then her cell phone rang. She looked at the screen and saw it was Angelica calling.
“What’s up?” Tricia answered.
“Do you mind if we don’t have dinner tonight? I was going to order something for us but I’m absolutely exhausted.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Tricia lamented.
“How was the rest of your day?” Angelica asked.
“Long,” Tricia replied. “Don’t worry, I can rustle up something for myself.” And maybe see if David was free to stop by earlier. He knew better than to intrude on Angelica’s happy hour/dinnertime with Tricia. This way, he wouldn’t have to.
“Hey, Pixie’s going to a book-heavy estate sale on Thursday morning to scope things out and maybe pick up the best of the books she finds. Then if it’s worth going back, she’ll buy whatever’s left the last day.”
“I can always use more vintage copies of The Good Housekeeping Cook Book and The Joy of Cooking. And speaking of acquiring books reminds me that the big library sale is coming up in January, which the Chamber is co-sponsoring,” Angelica said offhandedly. “We need to coordinate the publicity for the event.”
“I hate to say it, but I get some of my best bargains there,” Tricia lamented. “It’s sad how many books the library purges from their shelves every year.”
“If people don’t check them out, it makes sense to trade them out for newer stock, and their loss—pennies on the dollar—is your gain,” Angelica said pragmatically.
“Yours, too.”
“So, would you like to spearhead the PR effort on the Chamber’s behalf?” Angelica asked.
Tricia sighed. “Sure.”
“Good.”
That would mean Tricia would most likely have to work with Amelia Doyle. Tricia had met the woman only once at a Friends of the Library sale two weeks before, where Tricia purchased almost a hundred dollars’ worth of books, mostly paperbacks and book club editions, that had been collected from local patrons. The books weren’t exceptional, but they were mysteries by authors such as Sue Grafton, Elizabeth Peters, and John Mortimer. Not vintage, but with recommendations from herself and her staff, these books would help keep the shop in the black. Amelia had seemed like a perfectly nice person. David was giving her some bad press—and she believed every word—but she also knew that there were two sides to every story. She was more than willing to give Amelia the benefit of the doubt.
Angelica’s tone changed. “Did you get the invitation?”
Tricia frowned, confused. “To what?”
“Lauren Barker’s memorial service.”
Tricia’s frown deepened. “How?”
“It was an e-mail, which I found rather gauche,” Angelica confided, and Tricia could imagine she’d accompanied the words with an eye roll. “But I suppose these days it’s better than a text message.”
“I haven’t checked my inbox in a couple of hours. Who sent it?”
“Betty Barnes.”
“She’s hosting the service?” Tricia said, incredulous. “Why?”
“I suppose because she had a recent connection with Lauren. Perhaps the family will have one in another place, but Betty couched this as a local tribute to one of our own,” Angelica said.
“Except Betty was recruited to open a store here, just like us and, also like Lauren, isn’t a native to New Hampshire,” Tricia pointed out.
“Whatever,” Angelica said carelessly. “Do you want to go?”
“Of course—if only to see who else shows up.”
“Do you think her killer will be there?” Angelica asked.
“It’s not without precedent in these situations.”
Angelica sounded unconvinced. “I suppose.”
“So when is this service—and where?” Tricia asked.
“Betty has booked the Stoneham High School auditorium.”
“I wasn’t aware they did such things.”
“Apparently, it’s a done deal.”
“And when is the memorial?” Tricia asked.
“Saturday morning at ten. Will you go?”
That was opening time for Haven’t Got a Clue and all the other shops on Main Street, but Tricia blurted, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world—invitation or not.”
“I thought you’d say that. What do you think it will entail? I mean, from what I understand, Lauren left the village right after graduating from high school. I’m not sure she has any family left here in Stoneham. And she made an enemy of her high school English teacher the night she died.”
“And?” Tricia quizzed her sister.
“Well, I don’t like to think bad of people, but I also wonder if Betty might have an ulterior motive for hosting the affair.”
“Such as?”
“To sell that load of books she had Lauren sign before she died.”
“Angelica!” Tricia admonished.
“I’ve been watching Betty’s eBay and Etsy shop listings, and the prices have dropped on the offerings for Lauren’s books.”
“Isn’t it rather soon for her to do that?” Tricia asked.
Angelica shrugged. “Perhaps she thought they’d bring in big bucks fast and was disappointed when she didn’t immediately get a lot of bites.” Betty had certainly been bragging about it earlier in the day.
“Perhaps. I imagine her credit card bill for the books will be due fairly soon.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Angelica agreed.
Did that fact make Betty a strong suspect in the case? Murder for profit wasn’t unheard of. But signing Lauren up for the event had been a very recent occurrence. David had been on the job for only a little over a month. Had Lauren been hungry for such an appearance? And the library (or at least David) had probably connected Barney’s Book Barn and Lauren to collaborate on the project. That wasn’t much time for a nefarious plot to be designed by either Lauren or Betty. Still…
“I’m going to make myself a cocktail, kick off my shoes, and read a good cookbook,” Angelica declared.
“Yeah, maybe I’ll do the same,” Tricia said. “Well, have a good evening. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Sleep well.”
Maybe Tricia would and maybe she wouldn’t. But as soon as she disconnected, Tricia immediately powered up her laptop with a curious Miss Marple monitoring the situation. Sure enough, upon checking her e-mail, Tricia found the invitation to Lauren Barker’s memorial service that had been cc’d to every member of the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce.
Tricia hit reply—and not reply all—to let Betty know she would indeed be at the service. Would she ever! Tricia hit the send button and sat back in her chair.
Then, Tricia’s phone pinged. A text message from Ginny.
Thought you might want to see this.
A link accompanied the sentence. Tricia tapped it and was taken to a website where she found the video Patti Perkins had taken the night of Lauren’s signing. She watched in discomfort to again witness the ugly exchange between the elderly woman and the person she’d thought of as a sort of protégé. It bothered Tricia that there was no context to ground the clip. How on earth had Ginny found it?
She asked.
Antonio saw it on his newsfeed.
Tricia answered, Thanks.
Tricia Googled and soon found that a national news service had picked up the clip and posted it on their website, which was probably where the social media outlet had picked it up. The story didn’t accuse Stella of the murder, but it didn’t do much to debunk the theory, either.
Poor Stella. Tricia envisioned the poor old lady stuck in her home, afraid to open her door in case a bunch of reporters decided to camp on her front lawn hoping to get a quote. No comment was more likely, if Stella even deigned to utter those two words.
Tricia tried to call Stella but was rewarded with the message that the customer’s voice mail box was full. Tricia sent a text and wasn’t surprised to receive no reply.
Miss Marple sat at Tricia’s feet, looking expectant. It was too early for her dinner, but most pets were ever hopeful.
“Except for your perpetually empty belly, you don’t have a care in the world, do you?” Tricia asked.
Miss Marple said, “Yow!”