Murder On The Half Shelf

Again Tricia scowled. She’d known that from the instant she’d hired Linda. “Did you mention your great idea to Pixie?” she asked.

“Of course not. But I do think she regretted her actions the minute she walked out of your store. She really doesn’t want to go back to jail. And, of course, Grace and Linda would have to be brought on board.”

“What brought on all this altruism?” Tricia asked.

“I want to see people fulfilled in their working life-like you and me.”

Tricia gave Angelica an assessing stare. Her sister had changed during the past couple of years. She wasn’t as self-centered. And while she still drove Tricia crazy on a regular basis, Angelica’s personality had definitely softened since she’d come to live in Stoneham, as evidenced by this situation and her compassion for Chauncey Porter.

“You know,” Angelica continued, “I’d be willing to play mediator for you. And if Linda does leave to work for Grace and it doesn’t work out with Pixie, I’ll help you find a perfect assistant manager. I promise.” She held her fingers up in a Girl Scout salute.

“I don’t know.” Tricia mulled it over, sure she’d end up on the losing end of the deal, but she liked Linda. And it was true she would be better suited working with Grace to guide the Everett Charitable Foundation. With her experience, she could help Grace avoid all kinds of pitfalls and perhaps take over a lot of the work, leaving Grace free to spend more time with her husband. Neither of them was getting any younger-Linda could be the answer to all their problems if Tricia was willing to accept Angelica’s proposed compromise.

Yet the very thought of working with Pixie was totally repugnant. If she hadn’t been willing to apologize to Tricia to save her job at the foundation, she wasn’t likely to do so for a job that probably paid less and with less desirable hours, too.

If she had to let Linda leave, then she darn well would make Angelica live up to her promise to help her find an acceptable replacement.

It wasn’t quite a win-win situation, but it might work in the long run. And if Tricia could appease Angelica with this, it might be time to ask for a few concessions for herself.

“Okay,” she said at last. “But Pixie would have to apologize not only to me, but to Grace and Mr. Everett.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Angelica cautioned. “First let me talk to all parties. If everyone agrees, we’ll meet and talk-maybe even tomorrow. What do you say?”

“I guess.”

Angelica smiled and nodded, looking self-satisfied. “Leave everything to me.”

“Good. Now can we talk about something else?”

“Pick a subject,” Angelica offered, and turned her attention to the baguette that sat on her counter.

“I could use your help on something else. You see, I followed your advice”-Angelica practically beamed at that admission-“and I paid a visit to Clayton Ellington this afternoon.”

“And?” Angelica said, her eyes widening and her voice rising, eager to hear all the dirt.

“He hinted that I should talk to Bob, and that I shouldn’t expect him to talk to the police about his part in the rigged raffle drawing. I’m still trying to decide if I should call Grant. I don’t have any proof, except for your word.”

“I should think that would be enough. I’m a very honest person,” Angelica said, sounding hurt.

“Yes, you are. But how much can we trust Ellington or Bob to tell the truth?”

Angelica shrugged. The smile had definitely dimmed. She withdrew a bread knife from the block on the counter and began slicing the baguette.

“Which reminds me, did anything else out of the ordinary happen at that Chamber meeting?” Tricia asked.

Angelica looked thoughtful. “Bob was so eager to talk to me about my winning the raffle that he practically chased me out of the function room. He caught the sleeve of his jacket on one of the French door handles and tore it as we were leaving. You know, that’s one thing we desperately need and don’t have here in Stoneham-a tailor.”

“He must’ve gotten the jacket fixed by now. I mean, it is the only jacket he owns.”

“Don’t be silly. He’s got half a dozen of them. He keeps them in his office in case he spills something on the lapel. I don’t suppose he’s had time to find someone to repair it. It’s not like he needs it done fast.”

Was it possible Bob had stuffed the real winning business cards in the pocket of his torn jacket and that it still hung in his office? If Tricia could prove that Bob had rigged the draw, it might lead the Stoneham police to Pippa Comfort’s murderer.

Or could it be just a wild-goose chase? She’d never know if she didn’t pursue it. She studied her sister as she piled the bread on a plate. Angelica continued to smile. A smile that could light a room better than a hundred-watt bulb. A smile that mirrored her contentment and her success, and, for just a few hours, could banish all the heartache she’d ever endured.

And Tricia knew she’d have to burst that bubble of contentment if she was to find out what she needed to know.

“As I was saying before we went off on a tangent,” Tricia began.

“You said you needed my help,” Angelica repeated, sounding smug-as though she had all the answers. She grabbed a couple of pot holders, opened the oven, and took out a small ceramic pot.

“I need to put Pippa’s death behind me so that Grant and I can get back to…whatever it is we have going.”

Angelica lifted the lid, revealing the roasted garlic. “You know I’ll do my best,” she promised.

“I want you to lure Bob out of his office so I can check his sport coat pockets.”

“Except that,” Angelica declared, all the sweetness and light now absent from her tone.

“Oh come on, I’m giving you what you want with the Pixie situation. Why can’t you help me with this?”

“I’m just trying to help the poor, bedraggled woman. It’s really for your benefit-not mine.”

“If you’re going to play Mother Teresa helping the downtrodden, you have to expect to get your hands dirty.”

Angelica ignored the remark and called to Sarge, who’d been resting in his small bed. “Come here, boy. I’ll give you a treat.”

Tricia moved to stand by the kitchen window that overlooked Main Street, most of which was bathed in darkness. The lights were on in Amy Schram’s apartment, and at the Dog-Eared Page once again. Was Michele Fowler entertaining another of the booksellers? Once the bar was opened it was hoped the tourists might actually stay in the village past the dinner hour, making the last couple of hours the booksellers were open more profitable. Of course, it was also hoped the bar would build a small local clientele as well. It might be fun to have somewhere to go in the evenings and relax with a glass of wine while a spirited game of darts was played, or hear a musician or singer perform on the tiny stage.

She glanced up the street and saw a solitary figure walking along the sidewalk. She thought she recognized the man as he walked past Booked for Lunch but then halted at the door that led to the Everett Foundation. He disappeared behind it.

Tricia frowned and turned away from the window.

“So, are you going to help me with Bob?”

“Help you how?” Angelica asked, and turned up the heat on a big pot of water.

Good, the fact that she even asked meant Tricia might be able to wear her down.

“You’ve got to lure Bob away from his office so I can check his sport coat pockets.”

“But I don’t want to even look at him, let alone talk to him,” Angelica said, and shuddered, as though Bob might have cooties.

“Please. Pretty please,” Tricia pleaded.

Angelica sighed. “You’re almost as bad as Bob when you prey on my better nature.”

Tricia tried to emulate Sarge’s sad puppy-dog eyes.

Angelica sighed once again. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just lure him out of his office so I can get in there and check his jacket pockets for those business cards from the raffle.”

“First of all, he’s got a part-time secretary. You can’t snoop around his office if Bonnie is sitting at her desk