"I'm sure you have nothing to worry about," Ginny said, gulped her coffee, and got up to cash out the first of the day's customers.
But Tricia did worry about it-to the point of obsession; it only got worse after she'd given her statement to the young deputy who'd stopped by. She rang up sales incorrectly, punching in three cents instead of thirty dollars for a slightly water-stained dust cover on a first edition of Josephine Tey's The Singing Sands, and asked a customer to pay three hundred ninety-five dollars for a laminated bookmark. And still the telephone kept ringing.
"You ought to take a break," Ginny advised, after soothing the latest irate customer. "Go for a drive in the country. Take your sister shopping in Manchester."
"Being with Angelica is the last thing I need. No, here is where I belong."
Ginny shrugged. "You're the boss."
A gray-haired woman with big sunglasses presented a book for purchase. Ginny rang up the sale and Tricia picked it up to place in the store's plastic bag. A slip of paper fell out and hit the floor. Tricia bent to pick it up and silently cursed: another nudist tract. She shoved it into her slacks pocket and handed across the book and bag to her customer. "Thank you for shopping at Haven't Got a Clue," she said cheerfully, hoping her irritation hadn't been apparent. The woman smiled and headed for the exit.
"Another one?" Ginny asked.
Tricia nodded, removing the paper from her pocket. Ginny pulled more leaflets from her apron pocket, handing them over. "You were right when you said we'd find more."
Tricia read over the text extolling the benefits of a natural lifestyle free from restrictive clothing: "a healthy lifestyle that encouraged body acceptance and self-confidence." Still, she wondered how many people caught cold or cut their toes while romping around in the altogether.
Tricia balled up the leaflets, tossing them in the trash. "Let's hope this is the end of it."
The bell over the door jangled and a dark-haired, middle-aged man in faded jeans and a Patriots sweatshirt charged in. He was a couple of weeks late on a haircut, and his Nikes had seen much better days, although Tricia supposed he was good-looking, in a rustic sort of way.
"Looking for the owner, Tricia Miles," he said.
Tricia raised a hand. "That would be me."
The man offered his hand. "Russ Smith, editor of the Stoneham Weekly News. "
The name sounded familiar. "I believe we spoke on the phone just after my shop opened. You ran a paragraph or two back in the spring, telling the community about the store."
"Oh, yeah." He'd obviously forgotten. "You probably guessed that I'm here about the murder at the Cookery. It's the biggest news to hit Stoneham in-"
"Sixty years, apparently." Tricia's muscles went rigid. She hadn't counted on the local fish wrapper to come calling. The top story in the last issue had been squirrels chewing through the village gazebo's roof. "Mr. Smith, finding Doris was pretty upsetting. I really don't want to talk about it."
He cocked his head. "Why? Did you kill her?"
Tricia gasped and blinked. "Of course not."
"Then why not take the opportunity to tell the whole village so?" He grasped her by the elbow, maneuvered her around the sales counter, and led her to the nook, where three of the four upholstered chairs were empty. He pushed her into a seat and took the adjacent chair. Tricia hadn't noticed that he'd carried a steno notebook in his left hand, which he now opened. He came up with a pen, too.
He looked at Tricia over the rims of his gold-toned glasses. "I've got the facts from Sheriff Adams. You want to give me your take on the murder?"
"I really don't think I should talk to the press. I mean, what if I say something that compromises the sheriff's investigation?"
Mr. Everett, the shop's most regular customer and seated in another of the nook's chairs, peeked over the top of the book he held unnaturally close to his face. At Tricia's pointed stare, his eyes disappeared again.
Smith read through his notes. "You found the body at approximately six forty-eight p.m. Put out the smoldering fire-"
"It was the other way around. I put out the fire first, then found poor Doris."
"Were you two enemies?" he cut in, his eyes narrowed.
Tricia recoiled. "No."
"Talk is the two of you argued last night."
"We did not! She wanted to enlist me in her crusade to renegotiate the booksellers' leases. I told her I couldn't help her. My lease doesn't come due for more than two years."
"Do you think Bob Kelly is responsible for her death? It's known she argued with him, too," he said.
Tricia took a calming breath and straightened in her seat to perch on its edge. "I was not privy to their conversations. I only know she had an appointment to speak with him again last night. Apparently he was delayed." Gosh, she sounded formal. Would that make her sound even more guilty to this Jimmy Olsen wannabe?
"Kelly was delayed by your sister, an-" He consulted his notes. "An Angelica Preston. Was their meeting something you engineered? Something to keep Bob Kelly from meeting Ms. Gleason?"
Tricia stood. "I don't appreciate your inference, Mr. Smith, and I wish you'd leave."
Smith's calculating scowl tempted Tricia to slap him; only her clenched fists and sheer willpower kept her from doing it. He took his time closing his notebook, clipping the pen onto its cover. Finally, he stood. "I think you'll wish you were a bit more candid, Ms. Miles."
"Is that a threat, Mr. Smith?"
He shook his head. "I'm just stating facts." With that, he turned and moved toward the door. It slammed shut behind him.
Tricia glanced down at Mr. Everett, whose eyes were once again peering over the top of his book. Seeing her, he quickly ducked down again.
Too upset to interact with customers, Tricia grabbed her duster and headed for the back shelves, hoping to work off her anger.
As she ran the fleece over the topmost shelf, she puzzled over the sudden void she felt from Doris's death. The woman hadn't been known as the friendliest person on the planet. Her quick-to-judge temperament and an acid tongue hadn't served her well in business and from what Tricia could tell her personal life, either.
What was so special about the cookbook that had been stolen? Yes, it was a rare first edition, but Doris's reluctance to discuss where she'd obtained the book now seemed more sinister than circumspect.
Or was it only paranoia that kept Tricia's thoughts on that circuit? Somebody had killed Doris, had stolen a rare book, and had committed arson to try to hide the crimes.
And just who among the denizens of Stoneham was capable of such wanton acts?
There was only one way to find out. Talk to them. And she knew just where and with whom to start.
Three
Stoneham's chamber of commerce resided in the former sales office of a company offering log homes. Tricia had passed it hundreds of times, and though she'd been a member since before the actual day she'd opened her store, she'd never had time to visit the office.
She stood out on the sidewalk admiring the charming little pseudohome with its stone chimney, folksy rockers on the front porch, and the double dormers poking through the green-painted metal roof. Someone had a green thumb, judging by the welcoming baskets of magenta fuchsias, pink begonias, and colorful pansies that hung suspended along the porch's roofline.
Tricia climbed the steps and entered through the glossy, red-painted door. Like every other business in Stoneham, a little bell tinkled as she entered. Inside, the cabin was just as charming, with its chinked walls and timbered rafters. The outside had hinted of a second floor, but the cathedral ceiling was a good twenty feet above her and sunlight streamed through the dormer windows. A sitting area, furnished in comfortable leather couches and chairs with a rustic flair, gave way to racks of local brochures, file cabinets, and other utilitarian office equipment.