Murder On The Half Shelf

The Dog-Eared Page wasn’t scheduled to open for at least another month, but three of the bar stools were filled and the liquor was flowing on that cold Friday night in early April.

Angelica and Sarge had been first on the scene after the cops showed up at By Hook or By Book, clucking like a mother hen and worrying about her baby sister, when all Tricia wanted to do was to put an ice bag on her eye where one of Luke’s punches had connected.

Once all the statements had been given and the suspect had been taken away in handcuffs, Michele Fowler had arrived on the scene, reminding Tricia of her invitation earlier that day to join her at the pub for a drink. She extended the invitation to Angelica and Pixie as well.

It was a regular coffee klatch gathered around the bar, but caffeine wasn’t an ingredient in the drinks of choice.

“Can I get you another?” Michele Fowler asked Tricia, who had already finished her second gin and tonic.

“Oh, what the heck,” Tricia said, and drained what was primarily ice water from her short, squat glass. She held it against the side of her face, which didn’t seem to be swelling too badly.

“And again,” said Pixie, and banged her glass down on the old oak bar. She’d already slammed back three drinks. There was no way the woman would be able to drive home that night. Well, Tricia had a pretty comfortable couch. Pixie had saved her from a beating-and possibly worse-so she could crash there. Whether she would be fit to start her first day of work at Haven’t Got a Clue the next day was another matter.

“Oh, this is nice and cozy,” Angelica said, her gaze taking in the entire tavern, while Sarge snoozed at her feet. He felt completely at ease as well. “I can see we’re going to have fun here in the future,” she said, and reached for a pretzel from a bowl on the bar.

“I’ve already got musical entertainment booked through July,” Michele said.

The door opened and pink-cheeked Bob Kelly strode through it. “Are you having a dry run tonight?” he asked hopefully, rubbing his hands together presumably to ward off the cold.

His arrival startled Sarge, who jumped to his feet, growling and baring his teeth.

“Down, boy,” Angelica gently admonished, and Sarge sat back on his haunches but continued to growl at his quarry. “Sorry, Bob, but this is a private party,” Angelica said.

His tone soured. “Yes, I hear Tricia has once again kept Stoneham safe from yet another murderer.” He squinted at her in the dim light. “Is that a black eye you’re sporting?”

Tricia glared at him. “No.”

He returned her glare. “My mistake. Your cop pal came to visit me this afternoon.”

“Are you in trouble?” Angelica asked.

“Not now that they’ve got the killer.”

“Too bad,” Tricia said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kelly, but I can’t sell you a drink. I don’t yet have a liquor license,” Michele said.

“Can’t I just sit here at the bar and visit with you ladies?”

“No,” Tricia and Angelica chorused.

“Hey, fella-are you dense?” Pixie asked, her words beginning to slur. “Your company is not appre-appre- appreciated.”

Bob straightened, taking umbrage at her tone. He looked for help from Angelica and Michele, but the two of them could only shrug.

Michele finished making Tricia another gin and tonic and set it on the bar top.

“You don’t want to rile Pixie here. She’s a kickboxer,” Tricia told Bob.

“Learned it in stir,” Pixie said proudly.

“Pixie?” Bob simpered, giving her a once-over with a jaundiced eye.

Pixie staggered a little as she dismounted her stool and rose to her full height-all five foot two or three of it. “Yeah, you got somethin’ to shay about it?”

Bob took in Pixie’s tattered dress, her torn hose, and her disheveled hair and backed up a step. “You ladies have a nice evening.” He left without another word.

No sooner had the door closed when it opened again, admitting Chief Baker, who held a bouquet of pink carnations-the kind sold by the convenience store up by the highway. This time Sarge stood and wagged his tail. “Are you serving liquor without a license?” Baker asked Michele, and reached down to give Sarge’s ears a scratch.

She sighed.

Tricia took another sip of her drink. “Oh Grant, give it a rest.”

“I’m entertaining a few friends,” Michele explained. “I am not open for business. And maybe I should just lock that door.” She shook her head. “I’d offer you a beer, but someone might say you were on the take. But feel free to help yourself to the pretzels.”

“That could still be construed as a bribe,” Angelica pointed out.

“Good point. No pretzels for you, either,” Michele said, and removed the bowl from the bar.

“These are for you,” Baker said, and handed the flowers to Tricia.

“Thank you,” she said, and made a show of smelling them-not that they had much of a scent. Had the convenience store been out of roses? And why had he decided to give them to her in front of witnesses-so that she’d feel more forgiving? Should she let him off the hook that easily?

Not a chance.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“A small peace offering.”

Tricia glanced askance at Angelica, who frowned.

“You mean now that I’ve found the killer for you, I’m no longer a suspect and you can be seen speaking with me in public?”

Baker looked startled, like a deer caught in headlights.

“I-I-I…”

Tricia sighed, placed the carnations on the bar, and picked up her glass, pressing it to her cheek once more. “So what happened with Luke Fairchild?”

Baker swallowed before answering. “He demanded to see a lawyer and then clammed up. His wife, however, was willing to tell us everything. She’s already agreed to testify against him when the time comes.”

Tricia shook her head. “He should never have told her he loved his first wife more.”

“He told her that?” Angelica asked, appalled.

“All men are rats,” Pixie slurred, and rattled the ice in her glass, but Michele made no move to make her another drink. Pixie squinted up at Baker. “You’re probably a rat, too.”

“Shhh! Pixie. Have some respect. He’s supposed to be Tricia’s boyfriend,” Angelica grated. She cleared her throat. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. Who mugged Chauncey Porter?”

“Angelica,” Tricia warned. They had promised they wouldn’t say anything about it.

“Luke Fairchild,” Baker answered. “Porter closed his shop early and came to see me this afternoon. After your arrival at the inn, he came down to the parlor to have a glass of sherry. He saw Fairchild grab one of the candleholders and slip out of the inn’s front door.”

“Why didn’t he just tell you that from the beginning?” Tricia asked.

“He was angry. He felt humiliated by Mrs. Comfort’s disparaging remarks. He might not have said anything if Fairchild hadn’t come after him the other night.”

“I suspected he was lying when he wouldn’t talk about it,” Angelica said.

“You knew about the mugging?” Baker asked, annoyed.

Tricia nodded. “But we promised Chauncey we wouldn’t say anything.”

“Why did Luke come after him?” Angelica asked.

“Fairchild says Porter was trying to blackmail him for money. I’ve yet to determine if that’s true.”

“Poor Chauncey,” she said.

Considering his dire financial situation, he might have been driven to blackmail, but Tricia didn’t want to believe it. If Fairchild could kill without conscience, he could certainly lie, too.

Tricia looked up at Baker.

Tricia stood. “Ladies, I’ve got a cat who is hours overdue for her dinner.” She turned her attention to Pixie.