Untitled (32 page)

   "Placer, take care of him," the sheriff said.

   Another vehicle pulled up—the News Team Ten van. Portia hopped out before it came to a complete halt.

   Angelica broke away from Russ, hurrying to her sister. "Trish, Trish, are you okay?"

   "Ange, your coat is torn," Tricia said, her voice sounding high and squeaky.

   "That doesn't matter. Let me see," she said, pulling the tissues away from Tricia's face. She recoiled. "Oh, Trish, I think your nose is broken."

   The deputies pulled a handcuffed Fenton to his feet.

   "Get him out of here," Sheriff Adams said.

   "What's the charge?" Placer asked, as Portia stuck a microphone into the store.

   "Apparently the murder of Zoë Carter and the attempted murder of Kimberly Peters. I'm sure we'll have a few more charges to add before the night is over."

   "Wonderful!" Portia squealed, as the cameraman's lights flashed behind her. "Why did you kill Zoë Carter?" Portia asked Fenton. "Did you attack Kimberly Peters? Did you—"

   "Get out of my face!" Fenton roared.

   Wendy Adams straightened her uniform jacket, stood an inch or two taller, and prepared to meet the press.

   "She's going to take credit for finding Zoë's killer," Angelica said, annoyed.

   Tricia held the bloody wad of tissues to her nose and winced. "She can take all the credit she wants." She turned to face Nikki. "I'm so sorry I thought you—"

   Nikki held up a hand to stop her. "Not now, Tricia. It's all too new. I need some time to think about it." She gazed at her mother. "To think about a lot of things." She moved to stand near the wall.

   "Fiona, I'm afraid I've ruined whatever relationship you could've recaptured with Nikki."

   Fiona glanced after her daughter, who stood, arms folded over her chest, looking lost and forlorn. "I'm not ready to give up yet," she said, and crossed the room to stand beside her daughter. Nikki didn't turn away, so perhaps there was some hope of reconciliation, after all.

   Yet another vehicle rolled up across the street from the store. The rescue truck from the Stoneham Fire Department. Two EMTs hopped out, gear in hand, and jogged across the road, headed for Haven't Got a Clue.

   "I think your dates have arrived," Russ said.

   "I don't need—"

   "No arguments," he said, grabbed her arm, led her to the nook, and forced her to sit before he signaled the paramedics to come over.

   Angelica consulted her watch. "Where is Bob? Our reservations are for seven."

   "You're going to leave me?" Tricia cried, clutching for Angelica's hand.

   "Of course not. Bob will have to cancel them. I hope they send you to Southern New Hampshire Medical Center instead of that rinky-dink hospital in Milford. Then we can order off the take-out menu from that little French bistro we went to the other night. At least the onion soup was palatable." She glanced down at her manicured fingers. "Oh, darn, I've broken a nail."

   "Good grief," Russ said, "Tricia's gushing blood, her nose is broken, and you're worried about a broken nail?"

   Angelica frowned, looked down at her shoeless feet. "I've got a run in my stockings, too."

   "Angelica," Russ said sharply.

   "Don't, don't," Tricia pleaded. "She saved me from Steve."

   Angelica smiled. "All in a day's work, my dear sister, all in a day's work."

"I thought
you were going to call me last night," Ginny scolded Tricia before she'd even shucked her jacket the next morning. She'd arrived at Haven't Got a Clue half an hour before the store was to open—much earlier than usual. She took in Tricia's bruised face, and winced.

   "It was late when I got home from the hospital. I didn't want to wake you," Tricia said, and tried to sniff. She couldn't breathe, at least not through her swollen nose. Already the skin around both of her eyes was turning a lovely shade of purple. The concealer she'd applied wasn't meant for that degree of discoloration and failed to disguise it. "I didn't get home until nearly midnight. And I have to go back in two days for them to reset my nose."

   "I had to find out all about it from the eleven o'clock news last night. You picked the wrong killer," Ginny accused. "Wasn't that really embarrassing?"

   "You bet," Tricia said. "I don't see how Nikki can ever forgive me. If I was her,
I'd
never forgive me. And to make the accusation in front of her long-estranged mother . . ." She shook her head in disgust.

   "So, are you okay?" Ginny asked.

   "I feel like I've got a really bad head cold because of all the gauze packing my sinuses. But as I handed over my insurance card before I got treated, I remembered that you and Brian have no insurance. That's why—" Tricia reached under the cash desk and handed Ginny an envelope.

   Ginny stared at it. "What's this?"

   "Open it."

   Ginny worked at the flap, removed the check that was inside. "Oh, Tricia—a thousand dollars." She looked up, tears filling her green eyes.

   "I promised you a bonus for all your help this past week, and I wanted to make good on it."

   Ginny shook her head. "I can't accept—"

   "Oh, yes, you can. And not only that, I don't want you and Brian ever to be in a situation where you might put off a hospital visit because of the cost. That's why I've decided to get health insurance coverage for you and Mr. Everett through a local group health plan."

   "Tricia, I don't know what to say. Thank you seems so inadequate." She threw her arms around her boss.

   "It's enough," Tricia said, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.

   Ginny pulled back, wiping tears from her eyes.

   "I'll tell Mr. Everett as soon as he gets in," Tricia said.

   "What a wonderful surprise. I can't wait to tell Brian," Ginny said, and put the check into her purse.

   The door opened and Angelica burst into the shop, balancing a tray. "My poor baby sister. How are you feeling this morning?" she cooed. On the tray was a plate covered with a clean dishtowel. "I'll bet you didn't have a thing for breakfast, so I've made you some muffins."

   "Ange, you know I don't like sweet—"

   "Who said they were sweet? These are sausage and cheese muffins." She removed the towel, allowing the aroma to escape. "Like to try one, Ginny?"

   "Sure," she said, and plucked the top muffin from the plate.

   The door opened again. This time it was Russ, carrying two insulated cups from the Coffee Bean. "Hey, if I'd known you guys were here, I'd have brought some more," he said, and paused beside Tricia, bending to give her a soft peck on the cheek. "Wow, you look terrible."

   Tricia faked a smile. "You sure know how to sweet-talk a girl."

   "And she sounds like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer when he had the false nose on," Ginny chimed in. "I'll get the coffee going. You want a cup, Angelica?"

   "I'd love one. Try one of these muffins, Russ."

   "Thanks, don't mind if I do."

   Tricia took a muffin as well, brought it up to her nose, and tried to sniff it. "I can't smell anything. I don't think I can taste, either."

   The door opened again, this time admitting Mr. Everett. "Ms. Miles! I heard on the news you'd been hurt," he said. In his hands he held a brown paper sack. "I brought you some poppy seed bagels. I know they're you're favorite. I even brought you some dental floss to get the seeds out of your teeth."

   "That's very sweet, of you, Mr. Everett, but—"

   "I've already brought fresh-made muffins," Angelica broke in. "Would you like to try one?"

   Mr. Everett removed his gloves. "Thank you, Mrs. Prescott."

   "Miles," she reminded him. "I'm Ms. Miles again. And I think I'm going to remain Ms. Miles, no matter how many more times I get married. Did you bring butter or cream cheese with those bagels?"

"Both."

   "Excellent. Give me that muffin, Trish, I'll butter it for you."

   "But I don't think—" The door opened again. "What is this, Grand Central Station?" Tricia muttered, straining to turn to see who'd arrived this time.

   Nikki and Fiona each held a tray as they descended on the nook. "Looks like a party," Nikki said. "And what's better than partying on fresh-baked Danish? Mom and I made them together."

   "I brought bagels," Mr. Everett said, brandishing the paper sack.

   "Nikki, I—"

   Nikki held out a hand to stop her. "Tricia, don't you dare apologize. Mom and I talked until almost one last night. Added all together, the evidence—"

   "All circumstantial—" Tricia interrupted.

   "Was pretty convincing," Nikki finished. "Sheriff Adams called me this morning. Steve made a full confession. He admitted he handled goose droppings before he frosted those cookies, and when they didn't make Tricia sick, he actually put some in the red frosting on the cake."

   Ginny blanched. "Oh, Lord! No wonder Brian was so sick."

   Nikki nodded. "The Health Department came in first thing this morning and shut me down. I'm afraid the patisserie is closed for the time being."

   "Oh, no," Tricia said.

   "To tell you the truth, I'm surprised they didn't do it yesterday. Apparently there was a paperwork holdup, or they would have. And it might actually be a good thing in the long run—at least for me," Nikki added, trying not to smile. "You see, I got a call from the owner this morning. He's already lowered the price, and if the patisserie stays closed for any length of time—which means no income for him—he'll be really eager to unload it. By then I should have my new finance package assembled."

   "Then at least one good thing has come of this," Tricia said.

   "There are still some things I don't get," Angelica said. "Everybody knows Steve doesn't drive. So who tried to run Tricia and me off the road?"

   "It
was
Steve," Nikki said. "It wasn't that he couldn't drive—he just didn't. He lost his license years ago from a DWI conviction. He never tried to get it back."

   "But whose car did he use?"

   "Apparently he stole one in Milford, then returned it to the same house he'd taken it from. If it weren't for the smashed windshield—"

   "From where the goose hit it," Tricia piped up.

   "The owner probably wouldn't have known it was even taken."

   "Don't tell me Sheriff Adams figured that out."

   Nikki shook her head. "Once Steve got talking, he couldn't shut up. He told the deputies ever
ything
."

   "Can I try one of those Danish?" Russ said, dusting the muffin crumbs from his fingers.

   "Oh, sure." Nikki held up the tray, offering him the pastries.

   Angelica was still shaking her head. "But I don't understand where Zoë got the manuscripts. Tricia, didn't you say she got them at an estate sale? Did they come in a box lot?"

   "I can answer that," Fiona said. "My husband didn't approve of my writing, so I had to hide the manuscripts. I lived in fear he'd destroy them, so I kept them in an old trunk. It sounds stupid and corny, but I put a false bottom in the trunk. If he'd ever thought to look carefully, he would've found them."

   "Did you know about the trunk?" Tricia asked Nikki.

   She nodded. "And I told Steve about that, too."

   "The night Kimberly was attacked, I saw an old trunk in Zoë's home office. Steve did a real number on it. I doubt it can be repaired."

   "I don't care about that. I left it—and the manuscripts— behind a long time ago," Fiona said.

   "But aren't you furious that Zoë took the credit and made all that money from your work?" Ginny asked.

   "Of course. I've got two kids who will head off to university in two years. I'll probably consult a lawyer, but I don't have the kind of money to wage a long legal battle— and that's most likely what would end up happening."

   "So no happy ending there," Ginny said.

   "Perhaps not, but I'll never regret you sent me that e-mail, Tricia. It gave me a way to reconnect with my daughter." Fiona gazed at Nikki with loving eyes.

   Nikki, however, wasn't as easily placated. "We've still got a lot of issues to resolve. A one-night chat-a-thon can't solve everything."

   "But at least we've agreed to talk everything through and try to remain civil," Fiona added.

   Nikki nodded. "Hey, it takes some getting used to, finding out the mother you thought was dead is still alive, and you've got a whole new family you never knew about. I've got a brother and sister to meet sometime in the near future."

   Fiona gazed at her watch. "And I've got an interview in less than half an hour. Tricia, that friend of yours, Portia McAlister, wants to make me the feature on her newscast tonight, talking about how I wrote the Jess and Addie books, and what I think of all that's happened in the last week."

   "That ought to give your Bonnie Chesterfield series a push, too," Tricia said.

   Fiona laughed. "At the very least, I'm determined to prove that there's no such thing as bad publicity."

   The door opened yet again, this time admitting Artemus

Hamilton, whose leather-gloved hand held Kimberly's. Her face was still swollen and bruised, but her toothless smile would've brightened a cold, dark night.

   "Tri-ah," Kimberly managed, "Oo loo li me."

   "Not too much talking, now," Hamilton warned her gently. "Kimberly got released from the hospital first thing this morning, and we made a stop before coming here," he said.

   Kimberly pulled off her left glove. "-ook!" She wiggled her hand, showing off what was probably a two-carat diamond on the ring finger of her left hand. "An Ar-ie's gonna sell my ook."