“Ten thousand dollars?” Tricia volunteered.
“Money that was supposed to come back to me when the will was read. That was the deal. But Elaine showed me the will—it had never been amended. I drove that miserable old fart to the attorney’s office myself. But the lawyer made me leave the room when Uncle Monty supposedly signed it. He said it would prove I wasn’t coercing the old man to make the changes.”
“And did you coerce him?”
Brandy snorted. “My uncle was already living under a death sentence. All I did was suggest a way to make it easier on his darling Elaine.”
“And now she’s dead. I suppose under the terms of the original will, you and your sister would only inherit if Elaine were out of the picture.”
“Yeah, and now I have to split my own ten grand with my sister,” she grated.
“But now you get David. And isn’t that what you really wanted all along?”
“I don’t even get him. He’s decided I’d be a liability in the hoity-toity art world. I’m not pretty enough, or thin enough, or educated enough for him. He’s looking to step up—to that old hag Michele Fowler.”
“She’s far from a hag,” Tricia said.
“She’s twenty years older than me! And yet he’d rather be with her than me! After all I did to—”
“Set him free?” Tricia asked.
“Of Deborah—of that rotten kid. Did you know Deborah’s mother plans to soak David for child support even though she knows the kid isn’t his?”
“Is that why you tried to run Davey over the other night?”
Brandy’s eyes grew wide, and she drew back her arm and swung the T-ball bat at Tricia.
Tricia ducked, and the momentum—and her sore leg—threw Brandy off balance. Tricia raced for the door but fell over her own feet, tumbling to the floor. Brandy took advantage and charged at her, but Tricia dove for cover behind the bulky pink plastic child-sized house.
The bat came down again and again, but the plastic was made to withstand the destructive power of ten small children. Still, Tricia cringed with each strike, her eyes darting to look for any avenue of escape. The former parlor, with its high ceilings, seemed almost cavernous.
Bam!
That split second of inattention cost her, as Brandy slammed the bat into Tricia’s upper arm. As Brandy drew back to strike again, Tricia scrambled to her left, but there was nothing there to hide behind.
She grabbed the handle of the flimsy cabinet, yanking it open—an instant shield against Brandy’s fury.
Brandy’s bat came down again and again against the door and the cabinet wobbled, the hinges pulling out of the flake board. Brandy screamed epithets as the bat hammered against the cabinet and it began to come apart in shreds.
Tricia had pulled the handle closer to her body, ducking her head to avoid the blow, when the cabinet tilted crazily forward and fell, squashing Brandy like a bug.
Twenty-Seven
Champagne chilled in a silver bucket, but Tricia felt like doing anything but celebrate. Still, she didn’t think she’d succumb to tears, either. Ginny’s leaving was just another sad passage in life. And it wasn’t like she’d never see her onetime assistant again. Ginny would still live at the edge of town in her little cottage. She’d be working right across the street, and she might even show up at Chamber of Commerce meetings. But it would never be the same at Haven’t Got a Clue. Life moved on, but sometimes it seemed like Tricia was always being left behind. She fingered the diamond stud in her left ear and thought about Christopher.
Had it only been days since the terrible events at the Tiny Tots Day Care? True, Brandy had not succumbed to her injuries, and Grant Baker assured Tricia she would have a long time to recover—in jail.
Worse yet, after Brandy revealed David Black’s betrayal, a deputy had gone to Deborah’s and David’s home to find that Brandy had taken out her revenge on David, too. He would live. No doubt nursed back to health by Michele Fowler . . . until one or the other tired of the obligation.
The shop door opened, but before Tricia could tell the person behind it that the store was closed, in barreled Antonio Barbero with a large cardboard box. “Can you help, per favore?” he called.
Tricia reluctantly went to the door to hold it open, and was surprised to find three more people behind Antonio, all carrying what looked like rental equipment: tables, folding chairs, and a large coffee urn. “What’s all this?”
“I hope you don’t mind my arranging for some food and drink for your guests.”
“Where do you want the table set up?” asked one of the men in white chef togs.
“Is this all stuff from the Brookview Inn?” Tricia asked.
Antonio nodded. “Set up along that wall,” he told his minions. “There will be somewhere to plug in the coffee urn, will there not?” he asked Tricia.
“Yes,” she answered, overwhelmed and a little annoyed that Antonio was hijacking her farewell party for Ginny. “You really didn’t have to do this. I ordered—”
“Sweets for my sweet,” Antonio said, directing the rest of his workers on where to set up other equipment. “I spoke to Nikki at the Patisserie. We coordinated the entire menu.”
“Menu?” Tricia asked, aghast.
“But you must have hot hors d’oeuvres. Nothing is too good for Ginny,” Antonio said, deadly serious.
Tricia could hardly complain because—he was right. But who was going to eat all the food his workers had brought?
As if reading her mind, Antonio reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew a linen envelope. Tricia lifted the flap and withdrew an engraved invitation.
Ms. Tricia Miles requests the honor of your presence . . .
Good grief, it sounded more like a wedding invitation than an after-hours farewell party.
She skimmed the rest of the note. “How many of these did you send out?”
“Only thirty or forty.”
“Thirty or forty?” Tricia squealed. How would they ever fit thirty or forty bodies into Haven’t Got a Clue?
Russ Smith walked through the still-open door. He hadn’t been on Tricia’s invitation list, but as though anticipating her intention of throwing him out, he brandished his invitation. “And where’s the girl of the hour?” he asked with a grin.
“Girl,” Tricia grated, wondering what she had ever seen in this Neanderthal of a man.
“Why, Ginny, of course.”
“She should be here any—” Before she could utter the word moment, Ginny entered Haven’t Got a Clue. She took one look around the room and her lips trembled. “Oh, Tricia, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me.”
Tricia threw a sour look at Antonio. “Well, I—”
“You have had the most wonderful employer. It is so sad you must leave this most welcoming place,” Antonio said, his teeth nearly gleaming. Had he just had them whitened? “But, I’m sure Tricia cannot blame me for stealing you away from her. You are already marvelous as the manager for the Happy Domestic. Do you not agree?” he said, with a pointed look at Tricia.
She forced a smile. “Of course.” She turned a more genuine expression on her now-former employee. “I can’t take all the credit for—” She gestured toward the table now laden with food. “It was—”
“The work of all your friends,” Antonio supplied.
Ginny covered her mouth with her left hand, her eyes swimming with tears. She seemed about to speak, but before she could, the bell over the door jingled, and Angelica stepped over the threshold, carrying a large wrapped gift, with one of her gigantic purses slung over her left shoulder.
“Well, doesn’t it look nice in here,” she said with an admiring smile at the food and the drink. “Tricia, I thought you said this was going to be a simple affair.”
“Well, I—” But before she could elaborate, Nikki Brim-field from the Patisserie swooped in with a large tray piled high with cookies covered in plastic wrap.