TWENTY-FIVE

Perhaps it was her conversation with Brian Woodward that gave Tricia an unsettled night with dreams of Lauren’s dead body slumped over the steering wheel of her car. That morphed into depictions of Tricia running away from an unknown, faceless assailant. She’d wake up, take what seemed like eons to fall back to sleep, and fall into the same pattern.

Upon waking, Tricia needed something to distract her…something that might take one of the worrying bricks off her shoulder. First, she texted Pixie and asked her to come to work half an hour early. Of course, Pixie was agreeable. Then Tricia decided to once again bake. She found it soothing to measure ingredients and savor the aroma that filled her kitchen and lifted her spirits, if only a little bit.

The coffee was brewing, and the fresh batch of cookies sat on one of the pretty floral plates David had thrifted and gifted to Tricia when Pixie arrived at Haven’t Got a Clue. Tricia poured coffee and moved the cookie plate to the reader’s nook. Except for the kelly green apron, Pixie was dressed in all black, from her shirtwaist dress to her stockings and her pumps. She looked positively grim as she took her seat.

“Good grief, you look serious,” Tricia commented.

“You hardly ever call me in early to talk,” Pixie said gravely. “What’s up?”

Tricia bit her lip. “I probably shouldn’t say anything, but it’s not betraying a confidence, so…”

“What?” Pixie asked, anxiously.

Tricia let out a heavy sigh. “Angelica may be buying the Bookshelf Diner.”

Pixie looked puzzled. “I didn’t know it was for sale.”

“It’s not a done deal. But if she does buy it, she was thinking of asking you to be her front of the house.”

Pixie blinked. Then she sat back in her seat and laughed loud and long.

“What’s so funny?” Tricia asked, confused.

“Me taking care of a restaurant? Angelica must be pretty desperate to think of me for the job.”

“No, she’s not. She thinks you’d be perfect. You’re good with customers; you’re good with handling money. She thinks you’d be great hiring staff and everything else that goes with managing it for her.”

Pixie reached for a cookie. “I’m flattered she thinks so. But what about my job here?”

“You know I wouldn’t stand in your way,” Tricia said, desperate to sound noncommittal.

“Oh, yeah. I know that, but it’s not something I’d be interested in.”

Tricia felt like heaving a sigh of relief, but she kept her composure. She waited as Pixie took a bite of her cookie and washed it down with a sip of coffee.

“We went through all this when Angelica offered me a full-time job at Booked for Beauty. I haven’t changed my mind. I love my job here at Haven’t Got a Clue. I love you and Mr. E and Miss Marple. Why would I want to risk all that to take on more work? And believe me, I know how much work it takes to be successful at managing a restaurant. I was a waitress for way too many years. It’s not an industry I want to be around at this point in my life.”

“It would probably involve a substantial raise in pay,” Tricia remarked.

“For the first time in my life, money isn’t the most important thing to me. I’ve got Fred, our cute little house, and the best job in the world. I’m happy where I am.”

Tricia swallowed, relief draining away the angst she’d been shouldering. “I’m glad you feel that way. What will you tell Angelica if the deal goes through?”

“The same thing I just told you. And I won’t let her know that you mentioned it to me,” Pixie added.

Relief coursed through her, and Tricia offered her friend and employee a grateful smile. “I’m so glad you feel that way. Haven’t Got a Clue wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Just then, the bell over the door tinkled, and Mr. Everett stepped over the threshold. “Good morning, ladies. Isn’t it a fine day?”

Tricia had so much on her mind that morning that not only hadn’t she checked the weather, she’d forgotten to take her daily walk. If things were slow, perhaps she’d work one in after lunch.

In the meantime, Mr. Everett donned his apron, poured himself a cup of coffee, and joined them in the reader’s nook.

Unless a bus descended upon the village, sales before noon were often few and far between. So Tricia decided that once the Haven’t Got a Clue morning coffee klatch had ended, she would catch up on an errand, leaving Pixie in charge.

Tricia hadn’t heard from Larry Harvick about the article she’d written for the Chamber newsletter. Since she and Angelica were both getting low on honey, she decided to visit the Bee’s Knees and hope Larry was on-site, although she was sure his wife, Eileen, had probably read the article as well.

The Bee’s Knees was the smallest retail space on Main Street, and the scent of honey inside it was intoxicating. However, if the shop had more than three or four customers, it could feel positively claustrophobic, but on that morning, Tricia was their only customer.

“Tricia, great to see you,” Eileen Harvick greeted her. “What brings you here?”

“Besides needing honey and a few candles, I was wondering if you and Larry have had a chance to read my article for the Chamber newsletter.”

“We did, and it’s wonderful. You even got the Latin name for our bees correct. We wouldn’t change a thing, thanks.”

Tricia’s gaze took in the tiny retail space. “Is Larry around? I was wondering when he will remove the bees from the Stoneham Public Library.”

“Sorry, he’s working on the property today. We haven’t yet decided when the bees are being moved. Why?”

“Well, I know he wouldn’t need my help, but I would love to see the whole retrieval operation. I’m fascinated with everything to do with beekeeping.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but to be truthful, I’m not keen on anyone being around when we move our hives. I guess I’m just paranoid that there could be a problem,” Eileen said gravely.

“You mean beestings?”

“I’m not afraid of the bees, and, of course, neither is Larry. But…” Her sentence trailed off. Amelia Doyle was afraid, so the bees had to go.

“I understand,” Tricia said, feeling more than a little disappointed.

“You said something about honey and candles,” Eileen prompted eagerly.

Tricia bought a large jar of honey for Angelica and a medium-sized jar for herself, happy the containers were glass and not plastic, so that when the honey began to crystallize, she could pop it in the microwave to refresh it. She also purchased a box of eight tapers, intending to split it with her sister. She paid for her purchases and headed for the exit. “We’ll be e-mailing the newsletter on the first of November, so please look for it then.”

“I will. And I’ll cross my fingers that it’ll inspire fellow Chamber members to visit our store.”

“That often happens,” Tricia said. “See you again soon.”

Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue, removing the items she intended to keep to take to her apartment and placing the decorative bag with the Bee’s Knees logo and the things she’d purchased for Angelica behind the display case that doubled as a cash desk. She’d ask David when the bees were to be removed, as she wanted to at least observe the operation. Surely, the Harvicks would have to schedule a time—either before the library opened or closed—to do the deed.

Thankfully, another Granite State tour bus arrived at about eleven thirty, disgorging some fifty or sixty potential customers, and a number of them visited Haven’t Got a Clue, giving the store a handsome sales day. But it wasn’t only books that sold. Other items, such as store-logo mugs, bookmarks, and even a couple of T-shirts, which had been Pixie’s suggested promo item, sold, too. Angelica was right: Pixie was almost as PR-savvy as Ginny!

When it was her turn to leave for lunch with Angelica, Tricia grabbed the string-handled paper bag Eileen had packed the honey and candles in, and started off for Angelica’s home for her midday meal.

Sarge must have conked out, for he didn’t bark as Tricia mounted the steps to Angelica’s apartment.

“Howdy Doody,” Tricia called as she entered her sister’s home.

“Buffalo Bob,” Angelica answered the call. It wasn’t something the women knew about from their childhoods, but something their grandma Miles used to say and they’d adopted, not knowing until adulthood that it related to an old TV show their parents had seen in childhood.

“What have you got there?” Angelica asked as Tricia set the bag onto the kitchen island. Taking out each item, she placed them on the counter and folded the bag for reuse.

“I visited the Bee’s Knees this morning.”

“How much do I owe you?” Angelica asked.

“Nothing. Think of it as an early Christmas present.”

Angelica laughed. “I was hoping for a little more, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“I got you the larger jar of honey because you seem to use more of it than I do.”

“I like it in my tea.”

“I like it on hot biscuits,” Tricia countered.

“And fried chicken,” Angelica responded.

“Really?” Tricia asked.

Angelica actually winked. “Try it sometime.”

Tricia decided she would. “The Harvicks loved my article.”

“That’s nice. So what else is new?”

“I figured out who Lauren met at the library the night of her death.”

Finally, Tricia caught her sister’s attention.

“A serial killer?” Angelica asked anxiously.

“No, the guy who drew the Cuddly Chameleon.”

Angelica frowned. “Well, that’s hardly exciting.”

“I agree, and I don’t think he had anything to do with Lauren’s death.”

“So, who are the viable suspects?”

Tricia thought about it. “I would think the police might suspect Betty Barnes because she had Lauren sign a mountain of books. If Betty thought she could make a proverbial killing on the books when the author suddenly died, it would make a compelling reason for murder.”

“But?” Angelica asked.

“But Lauren was no Chris Van Allsburg, Maurice Sendak, or Dr. Seuss.”

“So, your next best guess?” Angelica asked.

“I think the police might suspect Stella Kraft. The confrontation between Lauren and her was pretty brutal.”

Angelica looked unconvinced. “But Stella is an old lady. I hardly think she would have the physical strength, let alone the passion, to kill a former student, no matter how obnoxious Lauren was.”

“Maybe.”

“So, who’s left?”

“Dan Reed?” Tricia offered.

Angelica nodded. “He’s just crazy enough to lose it and do something as extreme as murder. But…”

“But what?”

“Have you got another suspect?”

“I wish I could say I did. The thing is, Lauren was getting multiple threats. Just because there are people here in Stoneham who were angered by her appearance at the library doesn’t mean she didn’t alienate just as many people across the country. People like Dan, who looked for hidden, horrific meanings in something as innocent as a children’s book.”

Angelica looked thoughtful. “I didn’t think Lauren’s books were exemplary, but they weren’t subversive, either. They were just stories that entertained little kids.”

“I agree,” Tricia said. She bit her lip, thinking. “But if I were into comics, my spidey sense would tell me that her killer either came here to murder Lauren or has been here all along.”

“Gut instinct?” Angelica asked, skeptical.

Tricia nodded.

Angelica puttered around in the kitchen.

“What are we having for lunch?”

“Your favorite: a tuna salad plate.”

“Oh, lovely,” Tricia deadpanned. Since birth, she’d eaten probably a thousand pounds of tuna and far too much of it canned and without mayonnaise.

“It’s on a bed of romaine lettuce with all the celery and onion crunchies you adore.”

Adore? No, but that made it tolerable.

“Is there soup to go with it?”

“Yes, I made a pretty big pot of leek-and-potato soup. What we don’t have today, I’ll freeze in single portions. You can have some to take home, if you want.”

“I’ll definitely want,” Tricia said. “I just wish I’d brought an empty pickle jar to put it in.”

Angelica ignored the comment. And while she doled out their soup and salads, Tricia reflected on their conversation. It seemed that no one on her suspect list had a strong enough reason to murder the children’s book author. Then again, there was no telling what it would take for a warped mind to kill, especially these days. People were murdered for the most frivolous of reasons. The world seemed to be spiraling out of control and there was nothing Tricia—or anyone she knew and trusted—could do to stop it.

At last, Angelica set bowls of soup and the salad plates on the kitchen island and took her seat. “Bon appétit,” she said.

As Tricia poked at her soup and salad, she kept thinking about the suspects associated with Lauren Barker’s murder and felt that she’d missed something—something pretty big, with no clue how to suss the motive or suspect out.

As she dipped her spoon into the soup or her fork into her salad, Tricia contemplated what she knew about the crime and the terrible gap of missing information. She knew that, on average, only 51 percent of murder cases ever brought the killer to justice. Would Chief McDonald—or the county or state police—be able to suss out who was responsible for Lauren Barker’s death?

Sadly, it was anyone’s guess.