That story fell apart when prosecutors showed it was Norton who squirreled away the missing funds in an offshore bank account, not Zoë. Zoë had never had so much as a speeding ticket, and was the sole support of her recently orphaned niece. Her testimony was enough to convict Norton, while she got off with a suspended sentence, a hefty fine, and an order to make restitution. While out on appeal, Norton skipped the country and died in a car accident in the Austrian Alps—no doubt on his way to tap a Swiss bank account.
Tricia shook her head, folding down her laptop and setting it aside. It sounded like the plot of a bad movie.
Miss Marple scolded Tricia for disturbing her, but settled right back down as Tricia grabbed her library copy of Dead In Red and picked up where she’d left off reading some hours before. Sometime later, the sound of Miss Marple’s purr lulled her to sleep.
Much later in the night, Tricia awoke to find her book removed and her cat gone, the lights out, and Angelica on the other side of the bed, once again snoring quietly. She rolled over and fell back into an exhausted sleep.
When she awoke in the morning, Angelica was gone, Miss Marple was back, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. Tricia found her robe, grabbed her book, and staggered into her sister’s kitchen.
“Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” Angelica said, pouring a cup of coffee and handing it to her sister.
Tricia sat on a stool at the kitchen island and took a deep gulp of the fortifying brew.
Angelica scrutinized her face. “Okay, what’s up?”
Tricia refused to meet her gaze. “Nothing.”
“You ate your dinner and snuck off to bed. And the corners of your mouth never lie. Something’s making you unhappy. What did Russ do that you couldn’t tell me about in front of Bob?”
Tricia ignored the question. “I’m sorry I showed up on your doorstep, especially after I told you I probably wouldn’t. I must’ve spoiled your plans for the evening.”
Angelica waved her hand in dismissal. “Don’t give it a thought. I already told Bob that as long as your business is closed and you’re staying with me, there wouldn’t be any fun stuff going on here.”
Tricia eyed her sister. More information than she wanted to know. She turned her attention back to her coffee.
Angelica, still clad in a robe, headed toward the bathroom. “I’m off to take a shower. Help yourself to anything you want. There’s oatmeal, eggs—” Whatever else she suggested was lost in Doppler echo as she disappeared down the hall.
Tricia looked around the otherwise spotless kitchen, still cluttered with the booty from the emptied boxes. She missed her nice, uncluttered home. She missed her favorite blend of coffee. She even missed her treadmill.
Beethoven’s Pastorale Symphony chimed from inside Tricia’s purse. She whipped her head around, wondering where she’d left it and if she could find it before she missed the call. Aha! She located it on one of the stacks of boxes lined against the wall. She flipped open the phone and stabbed the button. “Hello?”
“Tricia. It’s Ginny.” Her tone was as cold as an iceberg. “What is it going to take to reopen Haven’t Got a Clue? I don’t think I can stand another day with your sister at the Cookery. He hasn’t said so out loud, but I think Mr. Everett feels the same way.”
Tricia’s stomach roiled. Angelica had been so kind to her during the past thirty-six hours and yet she didn’t seem able to engage that gene when it came to her—or Tricia’s—employees.
“I don’t think we’re going to see the store reopen until at least the weekend. But I’ll speak to Angelica. Again.”
“Will you be at the Cookery today? She isn’t as mean to us when you’re there.”
Tricia thought about her quest to speak with Zoë’s ex-high school English teacher. She could probably do it by phone, but her results weren’t likely to be as satisfying. Selfishly, she knew that if Ginny and Mr. Everett didn’t show up, she’d have to stay at the Cookery all day and help until Angelica could hire yet another clueless temp from the Milford employment agency.
Another truth was that the subject of food preparation bored Tricia to tears. The colorful photos in many of the books were great, she supposed, if you were into that kind of thing, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the magic of losing oneself in the pages of an enthralling story.
“Tricia?”
“Don’t worry, Ginny. We’ll work something out. See you in a little while.”
“Bye,” Ginny said, and disconnected. She didn’t sound pacified.
Tricia put her phone away, then searched the fridge and found some whole wheat bread for toast. She was nibbling her second slice, her nose in her library book when Angelica reappeared in her robe, her head swathed in a peach-colored towel. “That looks good. Put a slice in for me, will you?”
“We have to talk,” Tricia said, extracting bread from the wrapper and pushing the lever on the toaster. “You’re about to have a mutiny on your hands if you don’t treat Ginny and Mr. Everett nicer.”
Angelica looked aghast. “Moi?” she asked innocently.
“Oui, toi,” Tricia countered. She softened her voice. “Ange, you’ve got a big heart. Why do you lose it the minute you walk into your store?”
Angelica turned her back on her sister, grabbing her coffee cup and pouring the cold contents down the sink. “I’m a perfectionist. Is it wrong to demand the same from the people I hire?”
“When you’re paying them minimum wage or just above—yes. If you’re lucky, you’ve got two more days with Ginny and Mr. Everett, but if things don’t improve this morning, they’re ready to walk.”
“But Ginny said she needs the money.”
“She apparently doesn’t need it that badly.”
Angelica poured herself another cup, leaned against the counter, and sighed. “Okay. I’ll play nice.”
“Good. Unfortunately, I have some errands I have to run today, and may not be available to play referee. So make sure you keep your promise, or they will walk out.”
“What kind of errands?”
“First off, I want to talk to someone who knew Zoë back when. Someone who might have influenced her . . . writing career.”
“And who would that be?”
“Her high school English teacher.”
Angelica nodded. “Makes sense. Where did you come up with the idea?”
“From the village librarian. You know, for such a small town, Stoneham really has a nice library. Cutting-edge, I’d say.”
“I’ve only driven by it. Looks nice.”
“It’s the best value you can get for your tax dollars,” Tricia said.
Angelica blinked, looking confused. “What?”
Tricia laughed. “Frannie told me that.”
Angelica took another swig of her coffee and swallowed. “Okay. What else have you got on tap for today that’s going to keep you from helping me in my shop?”
“The thing I don’t want to do is run into that TV reporter, Portia McAlister. She hunted me down yesterday morning in the municipal parking lot.” The memory made her shudder.
“She hasn’t come to talk to me,” Angelica said, sounding miffed. “I wish she would. I’d love to get in a plug for the Cookery.”
“Call the station. I’m sure they’d be glad to give you Portia’s cell number.”
“Maybe I will. After all, I was at the scene of the murder. I’m sure I can add loads of color to her story.”
“But you didn’t actually see anything. Not even Zoë’s body.”
“Yes, but you did. Maybe I can milk that angle.”
“Please don’t. That’ll only get her interested in talking to me again.”