Miss Marple butted Tricia’s hand, knocking it away from her wireless mouse. She disliked using the laptop’s built-in mouse pad, preferring something with a little more heft. Miss Marple saw it as a toy and more than once had batted it off the desk and onto the floor. “Don’t be naughty,” Tricia admonished, but Miss Marple continued to nudge her hand with her cool, damp nose.
Despite the cat’s persistence, Tricia clicked the top link and the NRA Website popped up on her screen. Like the acronym for the National Recovery Act, Nigela Racita Associates had cribbed a version of the winged motif as its logo. The site still boasted only a few pages and had no information on its owner or its local rep, Antonio Barbero, and clicking the contact us link only brought up a blank e-mail form addressed to contact@NRAssociatesNH.com.
Tricia clicked on the Current Projects page. It, too, had been updated, to include the Brookview Inn and its renovation, with a picture and a link to that dedicated Website. Of course, it was too early for the company to list the Happy Domestic among its assets, and nothing was posted except the address of the empty lot where History Repeats Itself had once stood.
She closed the page, frustrated. There must be other sources of information she could tap. But if the company was privately held, it had no obligation to the public to make any kind of disclosures.
Tricia clicked on each of the rest of the links and read through the news reports but found nothing new or of particular interest. Talking to Antonio had not been productive in the past. Could he have confided company chitchat to Ginny? If so, was there a possibility she might be willing to discuss it? Tricia vowed to ask Ginny the next morning.
It was getting late. Tricia shut down her computer, lifted the cat from her lap, and placed her on the floor. Miss Marple let out a disgruntled “Yow!” but Tricia rose from her chair before the cat could jump on her again.
“Time for bed,” Tricia said, and Miss Marple trotted off toward the bedroom. Five minutes later, an exhausted Tricia climbed between the cool sheets on her bed and turned off the light. She didn’t feel like reading and lay in the dark staring at the ceiling.
It bothered her that everyone dismissed her belief that Deborah had been murdered. The stars just didn’t align to bring one person—David Black—that kind of good fortune. Not unless they had help. He was taking a little too much pleasure from his so-called loss, and no one but Tricia seemed the least bit suspicious.
Twelve
Tricia wasn’t the only one up early the next morning. When she went down to the shop to retrieve her morning paper, she saw Elizabeth Crane, with little Davey straddling her hip, unlocking the door to the Happy Domestic.
The Coffee Bean was already open, so she grabbed a ten from the cash drawer, locked the store, and headed across the street. A couple of minutes later, she took the two cups of coffee she’d purchased and knocked on the door to the Happy Domestic. “We’re closed,” Elizabeth called out, her voice muffled.
“It’s Tricia. I brought you some coffee.” She had to yell three times before Elizabeth came out of the back of the store, saw her, and hurried to open the door. “Goodness, you’re up early,” she chided, and took the offered cup. “I think I have some cookies in the back. They might not be at their best—”
“Nothing for me, thanks,” Tricia said. Once again, Tricia saw Davey behind the childproof gate, already playing with some wooden blocks—or rather, hurling them against the wall, each of them leaving a dent. Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice. She pulled a stool out from behind the counter and sat on it, leaving Tricia to stand.
“Have you heard anything from the investigators?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t expect to. But I don’t like the rumors going around town about David and that Fowler woman.”
“I went to her gallery last evening to see David’s sculpture.”
“Junk—all of it,” she said, bitterly.
“I haven’t seen his yard sculptures, but the piece I saw there was truly magnificent.”
Elizabeth scowled and took another sip of coffee. She looked around the tidy shop with its cheerful merchandise and the lovely displays. “David can’t wait to unload this place. I should have bought into the business when I had the chance—right when Deborah started it. Later, when she was in a tight financial spot, she couldn’t let me. She didn’t want to be responsible for me losing my nest egg should the business—fold. And now David’s selling it right out from under me,” she said bitterly. “It’s like he wants to erase all trace of Deborah.”
Tricia had to bite her tongue not to spill her suspicions about David. Now isn’t the time, she reminded herself.
“And worst of all—I’ve heard the new owners have hired your Ginny to be the manager. She’s younger than Deborah was. How can I take orders from her when I know the shop and its stock better than she ever will?”
“Please don’t blame Ginny for any of this. She was offered the job and it was in her best interests to take it. I’ve worked with her for two and a half years. She’s good. And she’ll do right by Deborah’s store.”
“I know. It’s just”—Elizabeth grabbed a tissue from a box under the counter and pressed it to her leaking eyes—“it’s all happened so fast. Four days ago, Deborah and I were making lists for our holiday orders. Now she’s dead, and the store has been sold, and I’ll be relegated to part-time assistant. That is until the new owners decide I’m excess baggage and get rid of me altogether.”
Tricia didn’t know what to say, how to comfort the woman. She looked away, taking in the tall spindle card rack. It was turned so that the sympathy cards faced her. She’d been so busy she hadn’t thought to send Elizabeth—or David—a sympathy card. And would it be in bad taste to buy one from Deborah’s own store?
Elizabeth took a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry to dump all this on you, Tricia. I simply don’t have anyone else to talk to about it.”
“What about your other children?”
“They say I should walk away from the store—let David do what he wants to do and not make a fuss. They’re afraid if I make waves he’ll keep me from seeing Davey—and none of us want that.”
“Do you think David would actually be that cruel?” Tricia asked.
Elizabeth sighed. “I don’t know what to think. I’ve already lost Deborah. I don’t want to end up without Davey in my life, too.”
“But you’ve had Davey since—” She bit her tongue to keep from reminding Elizabeth about Deborah’s death. “Since Thursday, right? Hasn’t he spent any time with his father?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “But that doesn’t mean David might change his mind in an instant and take him away from me.”
“Shouldn’t he be with his father?” Tricia asked.
“David never wanted children,” Elizabeth spat.
That wasn’t what Deborah had said. Earlier in the summer, she’d told Tricia that David wanted more children and that she was the one who wasn’t prepared to have another child. Had she shared that information with her own mother?
“Please don’t tell Ginny my real feelings about her taking over the store,” Elizabeth said.
“I won’t,” Tricia promised, but Ginny was perceptive. She’d know exactly how Elizabeth felt. Still, managing a staff—or in this case one part-time person—was what Ginny needed to learn if she was either going to climb the Nigela Racita Associates corporate ladder—or own her own store one day.
Elizabeth drained her cup and stood, which seemed like a not-so-subtle hint that it was time for Tricia to leave.