Tricia glanced at her watch. “I’d better get back to my store. I’ve been missing half the day. Ginny’s probably . . .” She hesitated. Happy about it, she thought, but aloud she finished, “Wondering if I fell off the planet.” She stood.
“Thank you again, Tricia.”
Tricia bent down and gave Elizabeth a hug before leaving the cubicle.
Billie met her halfway to the door, and paused to speak to her. “It’s a good thing you’re doing, Tricia, setting up that trust fund for Davey Black. The whole village will be behind you.”
“The whole village?” Tricia asked.
Billie shrugged. “I know some of the villagers don’t like the booksellers, but nobody likes to think of a baby losing his mother. I think you’ll find the people of Stoneham have large hearts.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’d better get back to Elizabeth,” Billie said, and sketched a wave good-bye before heading back to her cube.
Tricia watched her, then started when someone touched her on the shoulder. She whirled. A woman who looked about thirty, with short-cropped dark hair, stood in front of her. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help overhearing you talking about a bank account for Davey Black.”
“Yes. After what happened to his mother, her friends and colleagues want to establish an education fund for her son.”
“I didn’t know Mrs. Black well. Davey was with us for only six weeks.”
Tricia looked at the woman, puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
The woman gave a tired smile. “I’m Brandy Arkin. My sister and I run Tiny Tots Day Care over on Fifth Street.”
“Oh.” Tricia had heard of their business. Deborah had placed Davey in their care—and that’s where he’d broken his arm, falling from a piece of outdoor play equipment. Deborah felt the owners had been negligent, and while she decided not to sue, she had filed a complaint with the county.
“We’d like to make a contribution to the fund. Can I write you a check?” Brandy asked.
“Um, sure.” Tricia said.
Brandy stepped over to the customer counter, set her purse down, rummaged through it, and pulled out a checkbook. She scribbled for a few moments before handing Tricia a check. Ten dollars. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something—especially as Deborah and Tiny Tots Day Care hadn’t parted on happy terms. “Thank you. I’m sure Deborah would’ve been pleased.”
“I wish it could be more, but under the circumstances . . .”
The economy had picked up some, but Tricia knew a lot of small businesses were still suffering. And laid-off workers didn’t send their children to day care.
“It was very nice meeting you, Ms.—”
“Arkin,” the woman supplied. She smiled. “See you around the village.”
Tricia watched as the woman headed for the door. She turned back for the counter and picked up a deposit slip. She may as well add the check to the new account.
Five minutes later, she exited the building and headed back to Haven’t Got a Clue, dreading that she’d have to walk past the park yet another time.
Steve Marsden was still on site, only now he sat on one of the park benches that had been pushed to the side, balancing a laptop on his knees. In front of him stood Captain Baker. He saw Tricia, turned back to Marsden, and mouthed a few words before hurrying to intercept her.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“How are you doing?” he asked, concern coloring his voice.
She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” Her gaze drifted to the uneven ground and dry dirt where only yesterday had been healthy lawn.
“I was wondering, do you have anything planned for this evening?” Captain Baker asked. She shook her head. “I was thinking . . . maybe you’d like to go out to dinner?”
Tricia sighed. Baker was just as bad as Russ when it came to issuing last-minute invitations.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” Baker continued, “and I’d rather do it in person than over the phone. Now isn’t a good time.” He looked back at Marsden for a few seconds.
What could he possibly have to tell Tricia? That his estranged wife’s condition had worsened and he needed a shoulder to cry on. Or maybe he was retiring from the Sheriff’s Department and taking a job in Florida or Timbuktu.
Or maybe he was just lonely and wanted a sympathetic ear.
She could be that person. Heck, she’d been doing that for almost a year now.
“Sure, I had nothing planned for this evening.” The whole truth and nothing but the truth.
“Fine. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty. Why don’t you wear that peachy-colored dress.”
It was the nicest dress Tricia owned. So, this dinner engagement—she couldn’t really call it a date; they hadn’t had one of those in a long, long time—was to feature more than just diner fare. “I’ll see you then,” Tricia said, and smiled as Baker tipped his hat before turning back to Marsden.
Tricia started down the street again but decided that instead of crossing, she’d stop at the Coffee Bean. Haven’t Got a Clue’s coffee supply was getting low.
She entered the Coffee Bean and inhaled deeply. She never tired of the rich, mingled aromas of coffee on offer. She’d picked a good time to stop in—the store was empty, which meant its owners would have time to talk.
Alexa and Boris Kozlov had emigrated from Russia to the United States a decade before. Alexa reminded Tricia of the Soviet women weightlifters of old; tall, muscular, and a little bit more than androgynous, with a rather husky voice to go with the package. Tricia always envisioned someone with the name of Boris to be big, beefy, and jovial, but this Boris was none of those things. Alexa had worked hard to eradicate her accent; Boris had not. Alexa joked with her customers, making them feel at home. Boris brooded and seldom looked his patrons in the eye.
Tricia preferred to deal with Alexa.
“Good to see you, Tricia,” Alexa said. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll take two pounds of the French roast ground coffee and a cup of it to go, please.”
“Coming right up,” Alexa said, and stepped over to the big rack that housed at least twenty different flavored coffees. She poured the beans into a specialty bag with the Coffee Bean logo emblazoned on it and then transferred them to the coffee grinder to her left. “What’s new?”
“I’m collecting money for an education fund for Deborah Black’s son, Davey. Would you like to donate something?”
Alexa hesitated.
“Nyet,” Boris growled, and let go of a case of their store’s paper cups. It banged against the side of the counter. “Why should we give a ting to that dura?”
Tricia didn’t speak Russian, but she knew an epithet when she heard one.
“Boris!” Alexa admonished, and looked embarrassed.
“Something wrong?” Tricia asked in all innocence.
Alexa’s face colored. “Our neighbor was not our favorite person.”
That didn’t seem right. Everyone loved Deborah.
“That vor dura,” Boris snarled, and for a moment Tricia thought he might accentuate that statement by spitting. Bewildered, she bounced her gaze between the husband and wife.
Again, Alexa hesitated before speaking. “We had a problem. . . .” She paused, as though trying to think of a polite way to phrase something unpleasant. “Garbage.”
Tricia blinked, startled. “Garbage?”
“That dura always put her trash in our Dumpster,” Boris said, his voice rising. “Then she’d lie about it. She’d blame her help, she’d blame teenagers.”