Bookplate Special (4 page)

Tricia settled on one of the red, round-cushioned stools. “How do you always know what I want?” she asked, delighted.

“I’ve known you your whole life.” Angelica laughed. “I can read you like a book—you’re not a mystery to me.”

Tricia wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

Angelica supplied a napkin, fork, and knife. “Coffee or something else?” she asked.

“The chill in the air these past couple of days has put me on a hot chocolate kick.”

“Hot chocolate it is,” Angelica said, reaching under the counter and coming up with a paper packet. She grabbed a Booked for Lunch mug, which sported a stack of old-fashioned books along with Day-Glo pink lettering that matched the sign out front. After shaking the packet, she tore off the top, spilled the contents into the mug, and added hot water from the urn on the shelf behind her. “You can take off your jacket and stay awhile, you know.”

“Oh. I hadn’t even noticed.” Tricia shrugged out of the sleeves, parking the garment on the empty stool beside her.

Angelica poured herself a cup of coffee and leaned against the rear-end-high shelf behind her. “I had to pull waitress duty again today—me, an about-to-be famous author,” she said, and blew a loose strand of hair away from her cheek.

Since Angelica’s literary agent had sold her cookbook,
Easy-Does-It Cooking
, last spring, Angelica somehow managed to remind everyone—in nearly every conversation—that she was about to be published. “About” being relative, since the book wasn’t slated to appear for another eight months. Tricia ignored the reminder. “What happened to Ana?”

“Immigration came after both her and José. It’s too bad—he was really good at food prep, and she was wonderful with the customers. I don’t know what I would’ve done if it wasn’t for my new hire.”

Tricia speared a piece of lettuce, more concerned with her lunch than the immediate conversation.

“Jake”—the cook—“was in a tizzy,” Angelica continued rather theatrically. “Luckily my
new hire
”—she stressed the words—“had done salad prep before. Breaking in a new person during the lunch hour would’ve been too much to take. Thank goodness I didn’t have to train her
and
handle the customers.”

The tuna salad had chunks of celery mixed in, just the way Tricia liked it. She swallowed a mouthful. Angelica had seen herself in more of a hostess-cum-manager role, a raconteur more than a hands-on member of her kitchen or waitstaff. But honestly, did a café the size of Booked for Lunch need a manager and three employees? Still, Tricia didn’t want to get involved in
that
conversation.

“Did you know there was a food pantry in Stoneham?” Tricia asked, thinking about her earlier conversation with Pammy.

“But of course. They dedicated it earlier this morning.”

“Yes, I know. I was there. Bob bullied me into going.”

Angelica ignored the assault on her boyfriend’s character. “Libby Hirt is a wonder. And she can write a mean grant request, too.”

Grant? “How do you know about all this?”

“I’ve talked with her dozens of times at the Cookery. She’s one of the few locals who actually patronize my store. Like many of my customers, she’s a frustrated amateur chef. Besides, your boyfriend just ran a big story about her and the Food Shelf in the last issue of the
Stoneham Weekly News.
Don’t you ever read it?”

Though she usually glanced at it, the local weekly rag wasn’t on the top of Tricia’s to-be-read pile. Not when there were hundreds of new mysteries published every year, and thousands of her old favorites to be read and reread again.

“Stuart Paige himself was in town for the dedication,” Angelica went on, sounding just a little catty.

“Everybody seems to know about this guy except me. Who is he?”

“You don’t remember the scandal?”

“Scandal?” Tricia echoed.

“Yes. Senator Paige’s playboy son. The guy who crashed his Alfa Romeo into Portsmouth Harbor. He saved himself and let his father’s secretary drown.”

Something about that did sound familiar. “When was that?”

Angelica exhaled a long breath. “Oh, must be twenty or so years ago now. Rod and I were living in Boston at the time. You were still in college.”

Rod had been Angelica’s husband number one.

“Paige was so consumed with guilt, he practically became a monk,” Angelica continued. “And he’s spent the rest of his life doing good deeds.”

“Good deeds?” Tricia asked skeptically, poking at the lettuce on her plate.

“Oh, you know what I mean. He’s made giving away his family’s fortune into a lifestyle.”

Tricia vaguely remembered the story, which hadn’t fazed her at the time and had obviously had no lasting impact on her, either. Although it was refreshing to know the former bad boy had had a personality turnaround.

Thinking about Paige reminded Tricia about Pammy. “I may as well tell you; I asked Pammy to leave this morning. I mean, two weeks was way too long for a drop-in visit.”

“And?” Angelica drew out the word.

“She seemed okay with it. She also put in applications around the village listing me as her last employer.”

“Really.” It wasn’t a question.

“Pammy also showed up at the Food Shelf’s dedication.”

“No!”

“Yes. She was hauled off and asked to leave.”

“Why?”

Tricia shrugged. “I don’t know. The last I saw her, she was walking back to the village. She’d apparently been trying to talk to Mr. Paige.”

“Is that so?” Angelica said thoughtfully. She glanced at the clock above her work space, then stretched her neck to look back through the swinging half-doors that separated the kitchen from the dining area. She sighed. “My goodness, my new hire’s been on her break a long time.”

Tricia pushed aside the orange-slice garnish on her plate.

Angelica sighed and again glanced at the clock. “It may have been a mistake to take on my new hire. It’s . . . it’s . . .” She stammered. “Oh, I may as well just tell you. I hired Pammy.”

Tricia nearly choked on her tuna. “You what?” she spluttered, and started choking.

Angelica clumped around the counter in her black high-heeled shoes to slap Tricia on the back. “Do you need me to do the Heimlich maneuver? I learned how to do it properly at my county-sponsored safety course, you know.”

Tricia pounded on her chest, and then took a sip of her cooling cocoa to help control the urge to cough. “Why on earth did you hire Pammy?”

“I felt sorry for her, what with you throwing her out and all.”

“I did not throw her out!” Tricia took another sip of her cocoa. “I simply asked her to leave, and she agreed it was past time.”

“Really.” Again, it wasn’t a question.

Tricia took in her sister’s guilty expression. “What did she tell you?”

“Not much. But when she spoke about it, she sounded quite wounded.” And Angelica sounded quite judgmental. Trust Angelica to take someone’s—anyone’s—side against her.

Tricia glared at her sister for a long moment before returning to her lunch.

“Why don’t you go out back and apologize to Pammy? I’m sure she’d forgive you. And it wouldn’t hurt to let her come back and stay with you for a few more days—just until she gets settled.”

“I don’t have anything to apologize for,” Tricia said, viciously stabbing a chunk of tuna. “And I do
not
want her staying with me for even one more night. You’ve got just as much room in your apartment—she can stay with you, if you’re that worried about her.”

Angelica ignored the suggestion. “Well, then, just go talk to her. You two have been friends for way too many years to just throw it all away.”

Would she feel that way if Tricia told her about the stolen check?

“I’d seen her maybe three times in the last eighteen years, before she camped out in my living room for two weeks, so it’s not like we’ve been close.”

“Yes, but it’s important to maintain old friendships—especially as we age.”

Tricia eyed her sister’s getup; she looked like she was more than two weeks early for Halloween—hardly an example of aging gracefully. Angelica had added on years, but her outlook hadn’t caught up with the inevitable march of time.

Angelica nudged Tricia’s arm. “Go on. And while you’re out there, you can see if they’ve delivered my one-and-a-half-yard Dumpster. It was supposed to arrive by this afternoon—two weeks late.”

“I don’t want to go out there at all.”

“Tricia,” Angelica said, using the same tone of voice their mother had employed when she’d tried to shame the girls into doing something she wanted.

“What?”

“Go out there and make nice with Pammy while I call my soda distributor. I think they shorted me by a case. I’m going to need it for tomorrow’s crowd. Now, where did I put the business card with their phone number?” she said, and crouched down to search the shelf under the counter.

“Okay, I’m going. But when I get back, I’m going to finish my lunch and then I’m going back to work.”

“Of course, of course,” Angelica muttered, her voice muffled as she leaned further under the counter.

Tricia sidled past the lunch counter and pushed through the swinging half-doors into the narrow kitchen. For a short-order cook, Jake was fairly temperamental. Angelica had complained that he’d often leave without fully cleaning his work space. As expected, he was already gone for the day and had left the place a mess of unwashed pots and pans. Angelica, or more likely Pammy, had her work cut out for her.

The door to the back alley was closed. Tricia opened it and stepped onto the concrete pad. It was obvious no Dumpster had yet been delivered. Nestled close to the building were two large gray, bulging ninety-five-gallon trash carts. Sticking out of one of them was a pair of jeans-clad legs, with a worn pair of pink Crocs on the feet.

THREE

Yet another
white-and-gold Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Department car pulled up outside Booked for Lunch. A tall, sandy-haired man got out of the driver’s side, then stooped down to grab his flat-brimmed Mounties hat, settled it on his head, and marched purposefully toward the café. Distracted, Tricia watched him as he paused outside the entrance and then spoke to one of the other deputies for several minutes. By the number of bars on his uniform sleeve, he outranked all the other officials on the scene. Finally, the deputy pointed at the café.

The newcomer nodded his thanks, opened the café’s door, and stepped inside. He bypassed everyone else, making a beeline for Tricia. “I’m Captain Grant Baker, and I’ll be handling this investigation. I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances, Ms. Miles.”

“Where’s Sheriff Adams?” Tricia asked.

“Busy, I’m afraid. I hope you won’t mind dealing with me.”

Tricia found herself drawn to Baker’s green eyes. Her ex-husband, Christopher, had green eyes. That relationship hadn’t worked out, and—

Tricia shook her head to rid herself of the flood of memories that threatened to engulf her.

“No. Not at all,” she found herself saying. Any time she didn’t have to deal with Sheriff Wendy Adams was worth celebrating. They’d had run-ins before, and those experiences were not ranked among those Tricia cherished.

Baker glanced around Booked for Lunch, his gaze settling on Angelica, who perched on the end of one of the booths’ bench seats; a high-heeled shoe discarded on the floor, she was massaging her left foot as she conversed with another deputy. “I understand this isn’t your first encounter with the law here in Stoneham,” Baker said to Tricia.

She frowned. “Uh, no.”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Are you okay, ma’am? You look a little pale. Would you like to sit down?”

“No, thank you.” Tricia studied his kind face, and her frown deepened. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

His eyes narrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Sheriff Adams—”

“Ah.” He nodded. “The sheriff explained there’d been some conflict between the two of you. That’s why she suggested I handle this investigation.”

“Maybe I
should
sit down,” Tricia breathed. She’d never expected Sheriff Adams to cut her any slack. Then again, Baker could be trying to lull her into a false sense of security. He might be playing good cop in contrast to Sheriff Adams’s bad cop routine.

Captain Baker ushered Tricia to one of the stools at the counter. “I know you’ve already told your story several times to the other deputies, but would you indulge me as well?”

Polite, too.

Tricia nodded and sobered. “Pammy Fredericks—”

“The deceased,” Deputy Placer supplied.

“—was my friend. Sort of.” Tricia shivered as she glanced over her shoulder to the café’s back door, which had been wedged open, letting in drafts of cold air. Thankfully, the garbage cart was no longer visible. The image of Pammy’s legs sticking out of it . . . Tricia shuddered involuntarily.

“Can you explain that ‘sort of’ comment?” Baker asked, not unkindly.

“We were roommates at Dartmouth and sort of kept in touch over the years.”

“I take it you were no longer friends as of this afternoon.”

Tricia’s insides squirmed. “Until this morning, Pammy had been my houseguest for the past two weeks.”

“And what changed that?” Baker asked patiently.

“I . . . asked her to leave,” she said, her voice growing softer. “I didn’t really throw her out. I swear! She’d simply overstayed her welcome. If you know what I mean.”

“Go on,” he encouraged.

Tricia sighed. “Pammy took it well. She said she had made friends here in Stoneham and assured me she’d be all right.”

“When was that?”

“About nine forty-five this morning.”

“And you didn’t see her again?”

“Yes, I did see her. But I didn’t speak to her.”

“Where was this?”