TWENTY-ONE
Tricia spent the rest of the hour on the hunt for Brian Woodward. Not that he was difficult to find—at least online. In no time at all she read every bio she could find, plus reviews of his decades of work as an award-winning illustrator. She knew where he lived, had his contact information from his website, and considered leaving him a message. But what could she say? The police would like to talk to you? That was another problem Tricia wrestled with. Should she tell Chief McDonald she’d discovered the identity of Lauren’s mystery man? And then what? If she did, she’d probably never get to speak to the man, which she was sure most people would think was appropriate.
Finally, Tricia decided to put the whole Woodward dilemma on the back burner and instead turn on the oven. She had just enough time to bake a batch of brownies, which she knew to be David’s favorite dessert. He liked them with chocolate frosting, which would also delight Sofia when they were presented as dessert at that evening’s family dinner at the Barbero-Wilson abode. David had already told her he’d be in attendance. Since the previous day’s shopping trip with Angelica, he seemed to have lost most of his anxiety about spending time with her.
Tricia saved a couple of the brownies, dusting them with confectioners’ sugar, as a treat for herself and Mr. Everett. She had the coffee ready when he arrived for work just before noon.
“Good morning, Ms. Miles.” He glanced at the clock. “It still is morning, at least for the next seven minutes.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
In minutes, Mr. Everett had donned his apron and joined Tricia in the reader’s nook. “You baked?” he asked.
“I did. And there’s more where this came from—but just for the family,” she said, indicating the brownies that sat on napkins decorated with cheerful pumpkins.
Mr. Everett smiled. “I shall look forward to this and dessert tonight.”
“David will be joining us again.”
“How nice. He’s a fine young man.”
Tricia tried not to wince every time someone described David in that manner.
The two enjoyed their coffee, brownies, and chatted until the first customer of the day arrived some ten minutes later. Mr. Everett sprang into action while Tricia tidied the large coffee table and washed their mugs. Mr. Everett made the sale, and the shop was quiet once more. Tricia put on another of Pixie’s CDs for background music, while Mr. Everett retrieved his lamb’s wool duster.
As there were no customers, Tricia decided to do a little research into the titles that had been listed on Lauren Barker’s e-reader. Retrieving her laptop, she set it up on the shop’s display case that doubled as a cash desk.
As she suspected, the books were all true-crime titles. Had Lauren used them as inspiration, or was her book to be another take on a murder that had already been dissected by other authors?
A couple of Granite State tour buses arrived in the village, spilling a hundred or so visitors onto the street and eager to visit the stores and eateries on Main Street. Tricia felt sorry for those who chose the Bookshelf Diner, as they were sure to be disappointed with Dan manning the grill.
It was well after four when the activity waned and Tricia examined the gaps on the shelves in her store. It had been a profitable day, but she hoped Pixie had scored big on her thrifting forays.
It was nearly five when Pixie and David arrived at Haven’t Got a Clue, both of them looking extremely proud of themselves.
“So, what did you get?” Tricia asked as Pixie and David both set boxes on the glass display case.
“Remember that sale I went to on Thursday and bought the best of the lot?” Pixie asked.
Tricia nodded.
“I got five cartons of the rest for a great price. They were motivated to get rid of the books. Plus, we found more at the other sales we went to. Seven cartons in all.”
“That’s great. And how did you do?” Tricia asked David.
“I found some wonderful vintage storybooks at the same sale. They sold them for a song, but they’re worth so much more to me.”
“I can’t wait to see them.”
“We already dropped them off at my place, along with everything else I got, but I took some pictures I can show you and, of course, you can see them in person the next time you come to my place.” He grinned. “I may have to do a dramatic reading.”
Tricia laughed. “I’ll look forward to that. “Did you find anything for Angelica?”
“A ginormous and gorgeous Persian rug in fantastic condition,” Pixie said. “It wouldn’t fit in my car, so Angelica will have to figure out how to get it to the mansion.”
“I’m sure with her connections she’ll have it delivered in no time. Can I help you bring in anything?”
“We can handle the rest,” Pixie assured her.
Once inside, and with all hands helping, the books went down the dumbwaiter to the basement for inventory. It pleased Tricia that the gaps in the shelves would be filled within a day or so.
Pixie drove off with a wave, and as it was time to close shop, Tricia, David, and Mr. Everett walked to the municipal parking lot where they picked up Tricia’s car and headed for Antonio and Ginny’s home. Angelica and Grace had already arrived.
It seemed that everyone was in high spirits and Sofia was giggling up a storm as she chased Sarge around the kitchen and family room. The wine was flowing and Angelica’s cheeks were pink with pleasure as she made her way around the family room, offering sausage rolls to everyone. Meanwhile, David showed pictures of the new-to-Angelica rug around. Ginny was particularly interested in hearing all about it.
Antonio held a bottle of wine, ready to top up glasses. “Oh, Tricia, did you hear that they caught the man who”—Antonio paused, catching sight of Sofia, who was within hearing distance, and mouthed the word killed—“Lauren Barker?”
Tricia nearly choked on her wine. “When did that happen?”
“Apparently late this morning.”
Tricia set her glass down on the coffee table before her, her hands shaking. “Was it her illustrator?”
Antonio blinked. “Sorry?”
“B. R. Woodward, the mystery man she was talking to at the library just before—” Her gaze slid to Sofia and back to Antonio. “Before.”
“I do not think so. It’s said the man is an unhoused person.”
Tricia frowned. “Really?”
Antonio nodded.
“But what would his motive be?”
Antonio shrugged. “I’m sure we will learn more in the coming days.”
It all sounded rather fishy to Tricia. It wasn’t unheard of that people with no means of support, and nowhere to go, often confessed to crimes—and the more spectacular the better. Jail wasn’t a particularly nice place to be, but when your options are nil, a person could at least depend on a roof over their head, a shower, clean clothes, and three meals a day.
“I’m always glad to hear when a person who commits crimes is taken off the streets,” Grace said.
“As am I,” Mr. Everett agreed, but he fixed his gaze on Tricia, his expression indicating that he wasn’t quite willing to believe they’d caught the right person.
Angelica had a strict rule that cell phones were verboten during their family dinnertime. Once, she’d even confiscated Antonio’s phone when he went to check his text messages. But Tricia was eager to leave the family room and escape to the powder room to get an update from one of the Nashua TV channels. Her phone was in her purse, which was in the kitchen.
Luckily, an opportunity opened when Angelica suddenly announced, “Oh, dear. We’ve run out of appetizers. I’ll just get the next batch out of the oven and—”
“I’ll get them,” Tricia volunteered, leaping to her feet, grabbing the empty platter, and racing to the kitchen. She picked up a pot holder from the counter, removed the rolls from the oven and turned it off, then returned to the family room, offering the tasty morsels around.
“These are delicious,” Grace said, helping herself to another.
“I seem to make them a lot,” Angelica said, “but you all seem to enjoy them so much. I hope you don’t get bored of them.”
Ginny laughed, taking another. “Not a chance.”
Once she’d made a circuit around the room, Tricia set the platter on the coffee table. “As long as I’m on my feet, I think I’ll visit the restroom.”
Nobody seemed to notice her slip away as the conversation again turned to the rug David had purchased on Angelica’s behalf. Grabbing her phone, Tricia hurried to the powder room just off the kitchen. In seconds, she read the news story chronicling the arrest of one John Mason, a seventy-seven-year-old man who’d confessed to the crime to the Nashua police. A photo showed a grizzled old man in handcuffs looking like a good gust of wind could knock him over.
Tricia frowned. That he’d confessed to the cops in a city at least a twenty-minute car ride from Stoneham was telling in itself. How did a man with presumably no assets—like a car or cash—get from Stoneham to Nashua? Hitchhike? In these days, not likely. Why did he wait over a week to confess to the crime? Would a person that age have the strength to strangle to death a woman more than twenty years younger than himself?
Everything about the confession seemed ridiculous. It would take a day or two for the cops to pinpoint the older man’s whereabouts on the night in question, but eventually they would, either through video or the testimony of his fellow unhoused acquaintances.
Tricia checked two other sources, which mirrored the original, before she heard a knock on the door.
“Tricia, are you all right?” Angelica asked, sounding concerned.
“Yes. Coming right out,” Tricia said, flushed the toilet for effect, and washed her hands before exiting the room. Angelica saw the phone in her hand and was not pleased, but said nothing.
It was time to serve the dinner. Tricia lent a helping hand, as did Ginny, and within minutes the whole makeshift family was sitting at the table passing dishes that had been prepared by the catering staff at the Brookview Inn.
Dinner conversation was lively and laughs abounded, but Tricia found her thoughts kept circling back to the man who currently sat in the county jail. A man who had probably never even heard of Lauren Barker until a day or so ago and had pounced upon the opportunity to improve his lot in life.
“You seemed preoccupied all evening,” David said as he drove Tricia’s car back to his apartment in Milford. “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t good company. When Antonio told us about Lauren’s supposed killer, I just couldn’t wrap my head around it.” She spent the next few minutes explaining why.
“Yeah. It sounds like you could be right. But I’m sure the Nashua cops will figure that out in a couple of days.”
“And it doesn’t bring them one step closer to finding out who actually did kill Lauren.”
“May I remind you that it’s not your problem?” David asked.
“You can do so, but that doesn’t mean my mind won’t stop thinking about said problem.”
“Tricia, my love, sometimes you think too hard.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” she muttered as David pulled into the driveway of his apartment.
He yanked the electronic key from the ignition and handed it over to her. “Well, what do you want to do?”
Tricia pouted. “Eat a pint of ice cream, and that’s not something my former self would have ever admitted, let alone done.”
“We can hit the grocery store if you want, because I’ve only got frozen veggies in my freezer, but I don’t think you mean it.”
Tricia frowned. “No, I guess I don’t.”
David reached up a hand to stroke the left side of her jaw. “Oh, lady, why are you so hard on yourself?”
Tricia shrugged. “Beats me. This whole fake confession has got me discombobulated.”
“Well, you don’t look it. But it’s just as well, I really need to—”
“Study,” Tricia completed for him. He nodded. “By the way, thanks for coming to our family dinner tonight. Do you think you might want to do it on a regular basis?” she asked hopefully.
“Tonight was fun. A lot less tension than I felt other times.” David shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind coming back, especially if the food continues to be this great. It’s a good thing I’m not a sports fan, though. Pixie told me she’s currently a Sunday football widow.”
“Yes, but she makes the most of her time while Fred watches the games.”
David nodded. “She bought a couple of damaged leather purses and is going to merge the two to make one spectacular bag.”
“I’ll have to keep my eye out for it.”
Another silent interlude stretched between them. Finally, David reached out a hand to take Tricia’s. “We really should say good night.”
“We should,” she agreed.
But then they sat there in silence, just holding hands for a long time before David leaned over and kissed her. “Good night, my love.”
“Come to my place tomorrow evening and I’ll have a scrumptious dessert for you.”
“Only me?”
“Well…us.”
David frowned. “I don’t know. I’ve got a project deadline coming up for one of my classes. But we’ll at least talk.” He kissed her again and then they both got out of the car, with Tricia crossing to the driver’s side. She got in and rolled down the window. “Until tomorrow.”
David leaned down and kissed her one last time.
Not bad. Not bad at all.