Murder On The Half Shelf

“On several occasions. She laughed it off.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I hate to put you in the middle of our marital discord, but…is there a possibility you could speak with Grace? She values your opinion.”

“Oh, Mr. Everett. If it were on any other subject…” But then the old man’s bottom lip began to tremble, and if there was one thing Tricia didn’t think she could handle, it was Mr. Everett’s tears. She sighed. “I’d be glad to.”

His eyes widened but were still watery. “Thank you, Ms. Miles. She’s in her office right now,” he said, looking hopeful.

“Now?” she asked, her voice rising. That didn’t give her much time to prepare something to say.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he encouraged.

She sighed again. “Of course.”

“I’ll get your jacket,” Mr. Everett volunteered, and headed for the back of the shop.

If she had to go out anyway, Tricia decided she’d combine the visit with a trip to the bank to deposit the previous day’s receipts. Stuffing her blue bank pouch into her purse, she was ready to go after Mr. Everett helped her on with her jacket.

“Thank you, Ms. Miles. I really appreciate this.”

“While I’m gone, help yourself to a piece of chocolate toffee. It’s homemade.” She indicated the plate sitting on the counter of the beverage station.

A look of panic came over Mr. Everett’s face. “Did you make it?”

Tricia frowned. “Don’t worry-it’s safe to eat. Angelica made it last night.”

Mr. Everett looked relieved, took a small piece of the candy, chewed, and brightened. “Your sister is a marvelous cook.” Tricia could envision the thought balloon over his head that might’ve said, Why can’t you cook, too?

“I’d better get going,” Tricia said, then smiled wanly and headed out the door.

The air was brisk as she crossed the street, heading for Booked for Lunch. She peeked through the window, but all was dark in the dining room, although she could see a glint of light in the back where the kitchen was located. No doubt Tommy the cook was already preparing the day’s soup.

Tricia stopped at the door that led to the building’s other tenants on the second and third floors. The wall inside the small alcove held mailboxes and a short directory for the tenants. The Everett Charitable Foundation had offices on the second floor.

Tricia trudged up the stairs to the second floor, dreading the confrontation to come. She hadn’t had a chance to visit the newly opened office, and if it weren’t for the imminent conversation, she would have been looking forward to it. She opened the frosted glass door. Inside was a small carpeted area, a door leading to the inner sanctum, and a reception desk behind a half wall with a glass window that was closed. The atmosphere was reminiscent of a doctor’s office, and not at all welcoming, which surprised her.

Tricia didn’t recognize the woman who sat behind the window, sorting through an enormous pile of unopened mail. She had to be in her late forties or early fifties, clad in a vintage dress from the 1940s, with carrot-colored hair done up in a pompadour, heavy makeup, and a tattoo of a rose with a dagger through it on her left forearm. Queen of the Roller Derby, Tricia thought, and instantly felt ashamed for making such a quick value judgment.

The woman looked up at Tricia, and her face crumpled into a sneer. She reached to open the window. “Can I help you?” she said, her tone nasal and unwelcoming.

Trouble with a capital T. Tricia adopted what she hoped was a friendly smile. “My name is Tricia Miles. I’m a friend of Mrs. Harris-Everett’s. Could you please tell her I’m here to see her?”

Carrot-top glared at Tricia for at least ten incredibly long seconds before answering, “No.” She reached up and closed the window once again.

Aghast, Tricia stood there in disbelief. Then she shook herself and tapped on the glass with the knuckles of her right hand. “Excuse me.”

Carrot-top ignored her and reached over to a small radio on the desk, turning up the volume on an oldies station.

Tricia rapped on the glass harder. Carrot-top continued to ignore her and swung her chair around so that she could no longer see Tricia.

“Miss, miss!” Tricia insisted.

She reached over and opened the glass. “Excuse me, but I’m a friend of Mrs. Everett’s. Her husband asked me to come here to speak with her.”

Carrot-top finally stood and turned back to the window. “Yeah, right. If I had a buck for everybody who came in here or called with that story, I’d be a millionaire myself. Now beat it, before I call the cops.”

“I’ll have you know Chief Baker of the Stoneham Police Department is my…my boyfriend.” Whoa! That was firing the heavy artillery, and not exactly true at the moment, either. Likewise, Carrot-top was not impressed.

“And Santa comes down my chimney on Christmas Eve,” the woman replied.

Furious, Tricia turned for the door to the inner sanctum and grasped the handle. It was locked.

Carrot-top leaned across her desk and raised her voice. “I’m not kidding, lady. Get out of here or I’ll come out there and bust your face myself.”

Tricia’s jaw dropped in shock. “Does Grace know you speak to visitors in that tone of voice and with such malice?”

Carrot-top smiled sweetly. “Who do you think told me to keep out the riffraff?”

Tricia just stood there, speechless.

“Shut your mouth, honey. Ain’t no flies in here to catch.”

Tricia did, and found herself puffing great breaths through her nose. She turned, very ladylike, and exited the office. However, the minute she closed the door behind her, she stuck out her tongue at it. It was stupid, it was childish, and it felt good.

Once outside, Tricia stood on the sidewalk and took a few moments to ground herself, glad she had the trip to the bank to help her decompress after her unpleasant encounter with old Carrot-top.

Before she had time to move, the door behind her opened again. She turned, wondering if Carrot-top was about to make good on her threat, but it was Amy Schram who nearly ran into her.

“Tricia! What are you doing blocking the door?”

“Sorry. I just came from the Everett Foundation.” She found she didn’t have the words to say any more about that unpleasant encounter. “What are you doing here?”

“I just rented the apartment on the third floor. It’s my first place,” she said, and beamed with pride. “What a relief to get out from under my mom and dad’s thumb.”

“You still work for them, though.”

“Of course. But now I can come and go as I please without a lot of questions. I love my freedom.”

Tricia well remembered her first apartment and the enjoyment she’d experienced while decorating-and entertaining whom she wanted when she wanted.

“Congratulations. I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you around the village.”

Amy laughed. “You sure will. I’d better get back to work. Have to check on my bulbs.” She gave a wave and took off down the sidewalk. It was then Tricia saw the Milford Florist and Nursery van parked near the Happy Domestic. She started off in the same direction, heading for the bank.

By the time she got back to Haven’t Got a Clue, she found an impatient Mr. Everett waiting for her. “I’m sorry, Mr. Everett, but I wasn’t able to get in to-”

But he cut her off before she could explain. “There’s a person from the employment agency here to see you,” he said, and nodded toward a thin woman of about fifty with windblown brown hair browsing among the books. She wore a buff-colored trench coat, hose, and black flats, and carried a leather briefcase.

“I’d better go introduce myself to her,” she whispered, but first stowed her purse behind the cash desk. She took off her jacket and was about to stuff it under the counter when Mr. Everett reached for it.

“I’ll hang it up,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Tricia made her way across the store. The woman looked up. “Hello. I’m Tricia Miles, owner of Haven’t Got a