Tricia adopted her bravest smile and prepared to spend the next five hours hand-selling—she nearly shuddered—cookbooks.
But before she had a chance to dive into the world of cookery, a Milford Florist Shop truck pulled up outside and double-parked in front of Angelica’s store. Tricia watched without interest as the driver got out, went to the back of the truck, and opened the gate. He consulted a clipboard, then pawed through his inventory and withdrew a large white box. He jogged to the door and opened it. “Delivery,” he called.
Angelica rushed forward, her face flushed with pleasure. “Oh, that Bob! He’s such a sweetheart.” Her grin soon disappeared as she looked at the card on the top of the box. She turned, annoyed. “They’re for you, Trish. Seems to be your week to receive gifts.”
Tricia stepped forward, unsure she wanted to accept the box. They had to be from Russ, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to accept an apology. She took the card, opened it, and frowned. Please forgive me. Love, Russ.
Love? He hadn’t uttered that word to her in person.
She set the card aside and removed the red ribbon that bound the box. Drawing back the green tissue, she gasped. She’d expected roses, but instead found nine perfect calla lilies—her favorite. Had she ever told him? How else could he have known?
She glanced at Angelica, who seemed reluctant to meet her gaze. Was there a conspiracy in the works?
“Ooooh,” Ginny cooed, coming up behind her. “Someone thinks a lot of you.”
“Possibly,” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral, and lifted the card to read it once again.
“I think I’ve got a vase in back,” Angelica said, and disappeared to find it.
“Are you going to call him?” Ginny asked.
“Who says they’re from a ‘him’?”
“Oh, come on, Tricia, they’ve got to be from Russ.”
Angelica returned with a tall, clear, pressed-glass vase. She stopped at the little sink in her demonstration area to fill it with water, then set it on the counter. “You are going to call and thank him, I hope.”
Tricia blinked innocently. “Who?”
“Russ.”
She frowned. “Why does everyone assume these flowers are from Russ?”
“Well, who else have you been dating for the past five months?”
Tricia turned up her nose. “I have a lot of admirers.”
“Not in this burg,” Angelica quipped.
The door opened, and several customers entered. Angelica and Ginny both sprang into action, leaving Tricia at the sales counter with her flowers. She lifted them one by one and placed them in the vase.
Love, Russ.
She didn’t love him, at least not yet, but, she admitted to herself, she was quite fond of him. She didn’t like there being tension between them. Still, she didn’t want him to think he could buy her affection with a vase of flowers—beautiful though they might be.
Love, Russ.
She glanced around, saw Angelica, Ginny, and Mr. Everett were busy, and turned back to her lilies, allowing herself a small smile.
It was after six, and the sun hadn’t yet begun to set as Mr. Everett buttoned his coat, getting ready to leave for the evening. Ginny had grabbed her purse and jacket. “Are we coming back here tomorrow?” she inquired, her voice almost a whine.
“I didn’t hear from the sheriff that I could open tomorrow—so I guess we’re stuck here at least one more day.”
Ginny let out a long breath and almost looked like she wanted to cry.
Since there were no customers in the store, Angelica flounced around the bookshelves with her lamb’s wool duster, humming happily.
“Today wasn’t so bad, was it?” Tricia asked.
Mr. Everett looked to Ginny, who seemed all too ready to speak for the two of them. “No, but that’s only because you were here. You will be here tomorrow, won’t you?”
“As far as I know.”
“I shall say good night now,” Mr. Everett said. He called to Angelica. “Good night, Mrs. Prescott.”
Angelica looked up from her dusting, and frowned. “That’s Ms. Miles,” she reminded him. “Good night. And good night to you, too, Ginny!”
“Good night,” Ginny growled, and turned her back on Angelica. “I’d better leave before she finds one more thing for me to—”
“Oh, before you leave—” Angelica said, hurrying to the front of the store.
“Go!” Tricia ordered, and Ginny and Mr. Everett quickly made their escape.
“Hey,” Angelica protested, “I wanted Ginny to post a couple of bills for me.”
“I’ll do it when I leave to go to dinner. I’m meeting Kimberly at the Bookshelf Diner.”
“You’re not eating here?”
“Kimberly insisted we meet there. I want to please her. If she’s happy, she might be more open with me about her aunt.”
“What more do you need to know about the woman? She’s dead. Seems like you’ve talked to everyone in town who knew her. Whoever killed her isn’t going to just walk up to you and say, ‘Hello, I killed Zoë Carter.’ ”
“Have you seen Sheriff Adams—or even a patrol car—roll by even once today, let alone enter Haven’t Got a Clue?”
“No, but what’s that got to do with—”
“As long as Wendy Adams isn’t breaking a sweat to investigate this murder, it’s up to me to do all I can. I want my store to reopen. Now!”
Angelica backed off. “Okay, okay!”
The door opened and Nikki Brimfield stepped inside. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Not at all,” Angelica said with relief.
Tricia remembered yesterday’s box of goodies and flushed with guilt. “Nikki—I meant to drop by and thank you for the cookies. That was so sweet of you.”
Nikki waved a hand in dismissal. “I just felt so bad for you. What rotten luck. And I see the sheriff still hasn’t let you reopen. Are you on for tomorrow?”
“No, which is what we were just discussing when—”
The door opened, the bell above it jingling. There stood Russ.
Angelica gave Nikki a nudge. “Let me show you this marvelous new cake cookbook that just came in,” she said and grabbed Nikki’s arm, pulling her away, apparently willing to temporarily forget that Nikki competed for her customers.
Russ didn’t even seem to know they were there. He stepped forward. “Hi, Trish,” he said shyly.
“Hi,” she answered.
His eyes were drawn to the flowers still sitting on the sales counter. “Oh, good. They arrived okay.”
“Yes, thank you, they’re lovely.”
“Like you.”
Their gazes held for a few long seconds, then Tricia turned to admire the flowers. She picked up the card. “I wondered about this. Did you mean it?”
He studied the card in her hand for a moment, then his gaze met hers. “I’m pretty sure I did.”
“Pretty sure?” she asked.
“That’s about as definite as I can be right now. How about you?”
“I’m not at all sure, but I’m willing to hang around to see if it happens.”
He took her hands and pulled her forward, pressing a gentle kiss against her lips before pulling away. “Can we try dinner again?”
The thought made her throat constrict. “On one condition. No more tuna noodle casseroles—ever.”
“I think I could pull that off.” He smiled, and tugged on her hand. “Get your coat. Let’s go.”
She stood firm. “I can’t. I promised Kimberly Peters I’d have dinner with her tonight.” Disappointment shadowed his eyes for a few brief seconds, and then they flashed.
“No,” Tricia said resolutely, “you’re not invited.”
“I didn’t say a word,” he protested.
“No, but I could read the thought balloon over your head. You’re still working on your story,” she accused.
“It’s not much of a story until something breaks. Did you notice the Boston and Manchester TV vans have left town, although they might be back for the statue dedication on Saturday? Bob Kelly has sent press releases to half the East Coast news outlets.”
“Only half?”
“He’s still got another day,” Russ added dryly. “When can I see you again?”
“I’m not doing anything for lunch tomorrow.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of dinner, remember. How about Saturday?”
“Saturday’s fine.”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “And then maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?”
“We could . . . become friends all over again.”
She felt the edges of the card still clutched in her hand.
Love, Russ.
Out the corner of her eye, Tricia noticed Nikki and Angelica peeking around a bookshelf, eavesdropping. She cleared her throat, and they disappeared. Turning her attention back to Russ, she said, “Saturday night it is.”