Murder On The Half Shelf

“It must be getting tiresome,” Mr. Everett commented. “I mean, it’s unfortunate that it always seems to be you who finds corpses around our fair village. And to think, we were once the safest village in all of New Hampshire.”

Tricia held her breath. Was he going to voice that ridiculous jinx label that had dogged her since she’d found that first body in the Cookery two and a half years before?

Mr. Everett shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Miles. We both seem to have our share of problems today.”

Problems?

“Is there something you’d like to talk about?” Tricia offered.

Mr. Everett shook his head, but the corners of his mouth drooped and for a moment she thought he might cry. But then he shook himself, stood just a little taller, turned, and headed for the beverage station to get a cup of coffee. “Are we to interview another candidate this morning?” Mr. Everett asked, as he measured out the creamer and placed it into his cup.

“I’m afraid so.” Tricia frowned. “Mr. Everett, do you think our standards are too high? I mean, we’ve both been unhappy with the last three people I’ve hired.”

Mr. Everett sighed. “It’s definitely not just you, Ms. Miles. I, too, thought the last one might be different.” He shook his head. “In this economy, people will say just about anything to get a job. But far too many of the candidates who’ve come through our door seemed more interested in texting than selling books.”

“When Angelica had a hard time finding the right person to work at the Cookery, I blamed it entirely on her. But now I’m not so sure she was completely at fault-and I never thought I’d say that.”

Mr. Everett nodded. “Don’t worry, Ms. Miles. We’ll find someone to permanently take Ginny’s place. And soon. I’m sure of it.”

Tricia wished she shared Mr. Everett’s positive attitude.

The telephone rang, and Tricia hurried to answer it, at the same time dreading that it would be the latest job interviewee canceling at the last minute. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How may I-”

“Tricia? It’s Grant Baker.”

Not the person she wanted to speak to. “What can I do for you?” she said, trying to sound bright and cheerful.

“Will you come down to the station sometime this morning to file a statement about last night, or do you want me to send an officer over?” Why did he even ask? He knew she knew they were short staffed and really couldn’t afford to tie up one of the uniforms with that kind of work.

“Of course I’ll come over. But I’m interviewing another person for the assistant manager’s job this morning. Would this afternoon be okay?”

“Sure.”

“Have you learned anything new about the case since last night?”

“You know I can’t talk to you about the murder investigation.”

“Does that mean you can’t talk to me at all?” Tricia asked.

“It makes things difficult,” he admitted.

Yes, it certainly did.

“Let’s give it a few days-see how things shake out.”

“You mean until you rule me out as a possible suspect?” Tricia asked.

She heard him sigh. “Something like that.”

There was no point in getting angry. In fact, she wasn’t sure she was angry. She’d suspected this was coming, after all.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked.

She turned away, so that Mr. Everett wouldn’t hear any more of the conversation, not that he would actively eavesdrop. And, in fact, he’d disappeared to commandeer the shop’s lamb’s-wool duster. “No. Resigned. When this is over, can we have an honest talk about where we’re going as a couple?” Or, more to the point, where they were not going as a couple. Couple? The word wasn’t even appropriate for the level of commitment he’d been willing or able to show.

Baker sighed again. “Why is it women always want to talk about that kind of stuff?”

“Because it’s important to us. It should be important to you, too.”

“I’m on the rebound,” he admitted.

“So was I after my divorce. I’m not asking for a lifelong commitment, just something more than we’ve got now.”

“You’ve been very patient with me.”

That wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but there was also no point in voicing that sentiment yet again, either.

“Before I hang up, is there else anything you want to tell me about what happened last night? Anything,” he stressed.

“Do you think I’m keeping something from you?”

“No. I’m just doing my job.”

“Well, in the inimitable words of Winston Churchill: carry on.”

She waited for him to say good-bye, but instead, he simply hung up.

Tricia frowned as she put the receiver back into its cradle. Almost immediately, it began to ring again. Good. He’d probably accidentally cut short their call without the pleasantries. She didn’t want to think it might have been deliberate.

She let it ring a third time before picking it up. “Grant?”

“It’s Angelica. What are you doing for lunch today?”

It was Tricia’s turn to sigh. “The same as I always do on a week day. Come over to Booked for Lunch for the tuna plate.”

“I’m not going in today. Come over to my apartment. I’m testing a special recipe for the next cookbook and I need a guinea pig to try it.”

It wasn’t the grandest of invitations but about the only one Tricia was likely to get that day. “Appetizer, soup, salad, entree, or dessert?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Okay, I’ll be there at noon. Can I bring anything?”

“A bottle of Riesling would be nice.”

“No can do.”

“Then anything alcoholic you can lay your hands on. I’m parched.”

“It’s ten fifteen in the morning.”

“I’ve been up since four, and I went to bed late last night. And I want to hear everything that happened at the inn after I left last night, too.”

“Well don’t hold your breath, because there’s not much to tell. I’ll see you around noon.” Tricia hung up-without saying good-bye. But then, she would be seeing Angelica in a couple of hours-not days.

Mr. Everett stood nearby, holding the morning mail. Tricia hadn’t even heard the door open and the mailman arrive. “You’d best look this over before our first customers arrive,” he said, and handed the small pile to Tricia.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll just go back to my dusting,” Mr. Everett said, and headed toward the back of the store once more.

Tricia sorted through the envelopes. Mostly bills, a few useless circulars, and a bubble envelope. Tricia’s heart sank. It was too small to be one of the books she’d ordered. Her ex-husband had been making a habit of sending expensive gifts at the most inopportune time. Was this another one?

She glanced at the postmark and frowned. Nashua, New Hampshire. Christopher lived in Colorado. Her anxiety level dropped and she took out a letter opener to slit the package open. Inside was a white envelope. She slit that open, too, and a photograph fell out, landing on the top of the display case. Intrigued, Miss Marple jumped down from her perch to take a look.

Tricia turned the photo over. A Post-it note was attached. In block lettering it said: We’ll meet again. Tricia peeled off the note and saw a picture of herself, taken some indeterminate time in the past at what looked like a sidewalk cafe. In it she wore a straw hat, sunglasses, and an outfit she didn’t remember