Murder On The Half Shelf

“The cocktail napkin and the scarf?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” This time, she believed him.

“I gotta go. I’m packed and ready to meet that agent first thing Monday morning. Look for me on the Times best sellers list in about eighteen months.” He flashed his teeth one last time and sauntered out the door.

“Good riddance,” Tricia called after him.

“Gee, you’re having a lousy day,” Pixie said. Of course she’d been eavesdropping.

“You have no idea,” Tricia muttered.

“What was all that talk of murder?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time to listen,” Pixie offered.

Tricia shook her head. “Not tonight. Maybe I’ll feel more talkative in the morning.”

“Look, the place is dead. Hell, the whole town is dead,” Pixie said. “Shut the door, go up to your apartment, kick off your shoes, and have a snort. It’ll make you feel better.”

“That does sound pretty good right now,” Tricia admitted.

Pixie bit her lip and looked thoughtful. “I really am sorry about what happened over at the Everett Foundation. The truth is, I was in over my head at that job and I knew it. I thought I was being a good employee, and I screwed up. Mrs. H-E should’ve just fired me, but she gave me a chance and I blew it. And now you’ve given me a chance, too. I’ll try not to let you down, Tricia.”

“Thank you, Pixie. I hope this works out for both of us.”

Pixie smiled. “I guess I’d better get going.” She grabbed her big brown coat from the chair in the reader’s nook where she’d left it, and put it on. “I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.”

“Have a good night,” Tricia said, and walked her to the door.

From her perch behind the register Miss Marple said, “Yow!”

“Good night to you, too, Miss Marple,” Pixie said, and headed out the door.

Tricia locked it behind her and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

“Brrrpt?” Miss Marple inquired. If the store was closing, that meant a kitty snack or even her dinner might be in the offing.

“Not yet,” Tricia chided her.

As Tricia closed the blinds, Miss Marple jumped down from her perch. “Yow!”

Tricia had intended to go get the vacuum cleaner, but instead she paused to pet her cat. “Who do you think killed Pippa?” she asked.

Miss Marple nuzzled her hand, purring loudly.

“I don’t really think it was Harry. He probably was with his latest conquest. Apparently he doesn’t know that a zipper can stay up as well as go down.”

“Yow!” Miss Marple agreed, walking back and forth on the counter, letting Tricia pet her from top to tail.

“Clayton Ellington was on the phone-probably having a fight with his wife-for the fifteen or so minutes between the time Ange and I saw Pippa and Sarge and I found her dead.”

Miss Marple bristled at Sarge’s name.

“And then there’s Chauncey. But somebody hit him. Was it to keep him quiet? Do you think he could have seen something and now the killer is out to get him?”

“Yow!” Miss Marple agreed.

“That only leaves one person who could have done it.”

Mary Fairchild.

But Tricia really couldn’t believe Mary was responsible for Pippa’s death. What was her motive? Still, what was she doing standing on the landing? She’d held the liqueur glasses, so she might have just been down in the parlor availing herself of the sherry-but she’d been breathless, as though she’d run up the stairs. And she’d been startled when Tricia appeared before her. Had she dumped the candlestick, run back to the inn, grabbed the glasses for her alibi, and hoped someone would see her?

Tricia glanced at the clock. Most of the stores on Main Street closed at six. She still had a few minutes to catch Mary-talk to her about it.

And say what? Everyone else has been accounted for-did you kill Pippa Comfort?

“I’ve got nothing better to do,” she told Miss Marple.

“Yow!” Miss Marple admonished, but whether it was to ask her to stay or demand an early dinner, Tricia didn’t know.

She retrieved her jacket from the back of the shop, grabbed her keys, and headed out the door. “I’ll be back in a little while. You’re in charge.”

“Yow!” Miss Marple protested again.

But Tricia didn’t listen. One way or another, she was sure she’d learn the truth about Pippa Comfort’s death before the day was done.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Like Haven’t Got a Clue, By Hook or By Book had no customers this late in the day. Mary sat behind her cash desk, crochet hook and yarn in hand, working on a baby blanket. She looked up as Tricia entered.

“What brings you here?” She looked at the wall clock. “There’s still five minutes until your store closes.”

“I’ve given up for the day. I wanted to talk to you about Sunday night at the inn.”

Mary cocked her head, looking puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ve been thinking about how strange it was to find you standing on the landing. You looked…furtive.”

“Furtive?” Mary repeated, and her hands stopped moving.

“Yes, you were also out of breath, as well as being pink-cheeked. Like you’d been outside and had just run up the stairs.”

Mary laughed nervously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. And I’m here to encourage you to go talk to Chief Baker.”

“About what?” Mary said, growing a little testy.

“I’ve ruled out everyone else, Mary. It’s got to be you who killed Pippa Comfort, although I’m not exactly sure why.”

“What are you talking about?” Mary asked, fear entering her eyes.

“You’ve been very interested in the case. Asking a lot of questions, running around the village looking over your shoulder. And you quit the book club because you said murder made you uneasy. I could understand that, especially if you’d recently committed one and were afraid of getting caught.”

Mary shook her head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You bribed Bob Kelly to win the raffle for the night’s stay at the Sheer Comfort Inn. There’s no use denying it; Bob’s already admitted you gave him money to announce your name as one of the winners.”

Mary’s cheeks flushed red, and Tricia thought she might be about to burst into tears.

“I think you should leave right now, Tricia,” Mary said, standing. “Please, leave right now.”

Tricia shook her head. “Not until you tell me everything.”

“Why? So you can go to the police?”

“I’ve already shared everything I know with Chief Baker.” Okay, that was a lie. But Mary didn’t know that. “It’s just a matter of time before he comes to arrest you.”

Mary’s face crumpled. “Please, Tricia-go home. Now!”

Before Tricia could do more than shake her head, the curtain that covered the doorway to the store’s back room parted, and Mary’s husband, Luke, stepped into the store. “Is something wrong, dear?” he asked.