“More than okay.” Tricia smiled. “And thank you for helping Ange. She doesn’t mean to be . . . mean—”
“She just is,” Ginny finished.
Tricia shrugged. “Yeah.” She reached for her coat, which still lay across the counter where she’d left it when she came in, and now sported a circle of cat hair where Miss Marple had made herself comfortable for most of the afternoon. Ordinarily Tricia wouldn’t have allowed it, but the cat had been cooped up for days and Tricia felt she deserved a treat. And, besides, that’s why she kept a sticky lint roller under the counter at all times, although she’d left it too late to use tonight. “Grab your coat, Ginny, we’re out of here.”
Tricia turned off all but the security lights. “You’re in charge, Miss Marple,” she said, and closed and locked the door.
Tricia and Ginny headed for the municipal parking lot. “They say it might snow tonight,” Ginny said.
The streetlamps made it impossible to see much of the sky overhead. “Spring snow doesn’t last long.”
“We hope. See you tomorrow,” Ginny said.
“You’re going to the Cookery,” Tricia reminded her.
“Shoot, I forgot already. It’s just five hours. Every time Angelica makes me mad, I’m just going to tell myself it’s only for five hours.”
Tricia smiled. “See you Monday.”
“Bye,” Ginny said, and crossed the lot to her own car.
Tricia made it to Russ’s house exactly on time. She hadn’t even had a chance to raise her arm to knock on the front door before it was jerked open. “Tricia!” It sounded like he was greeting a long-lost friend. His hopeful expression and the way he practically bounced on his feet reminded her of a small child desperate to get back into someone’s good graces.
“Hi, Russ.” She stepped forward, planted a gentle kiss on his lips, then another, before he took her hand and pulled her over the threshold and into the brightly lit entryway.
“Let me take your coat,” he said.
She handed him her coat and stepped into the living room.
No dim lights, no unpleasant aroma. In fact, no aroma at all. And, once again, the sound of the police scanner contributed to the lack of ambiance. Tricia sighed. Well, what did she expect? Maybe sending the flowers a few days before was all the romance Russ could muster. He was also probably dying to talk about the statue dedication, and she wasn’t sure she was up to it. “What are we having for dinner?”
“Pizza. After last time, I figured it was a safe choice.”
And easy. “Have you called it in yet?”
“I wanted to wait for you. I didn’t want to take a chance on ordering the wrong toppings.” And, unspoken, risking her ire. Okay, they would both be walking on eggshells with each other for a little while.
“I’ll eat anything but anchovies . . . and maybe those terrible canned black olives.”
“Veggies?” he offered.
“Always.”
Squawk!
“Dispatch to Two-A.”
Russ’s head snapped around as he listened to the police scanner.
“Two-A,” said a disembodied voice.
“Respond to a noise complaint at seventeen Wilder Road. The complainant, who does not wish contact, is a neighbor directly across the street and reports loud music coming from the house for the last three hours.”
“Two-A responding.”
He turned back to Tricia, risked a smile. “Let’s have a drink,” he said, took her hand and led her to the living room couch. Scattered across the books and folded newspapers on the cocktail table were photographs of the vandalized statue he’d taken earlier that day, along with a bottle of white zinfandel and two glasses. He poured, offering her one of the glasses.
Tricia took it, but also picked up a photo. “What made you print them?”
“I thought you might like to see them.”
She studied the picture. “It’s a shame someone had to ruin the statue. If only Bob hadn’t decided to dedicate it to Zoë.” She wasn’t about to elaborate on her theories to Russ. Let him find his own answers about the so-called writer’s life—and her death.
“The whole thing was a fiasco, from start to finish,”
Russ said, leaning back against the cushions. “First of all, Bob should never have contracted with a Vermont quarry for the marble. He should’ve gone with granite. After all, New Hampshire is the Granite State. And as the head of the Chamber of Commerce, he’s the first one to complain when someone doesn’t support local business.”
“Oh, you’re right. A major faux pas,” Tricia agreed.
“And then they ordered the inscription too late for the dedication, which made it easy for them to change the focus of the celebration. Let me tell you, more than a few of the booksellers are annoyed the Chamber would honor a woman who refused to help the village get established as a book town.”
Tricia hadn’t had an opinion on that before now, but she had to admit she agreed with the sentiment.
“Added to that, a bunch of the locals are upset that the Chamber is honoring an ‘outsider.’ At least it wasn’t public money that paid for the statue. That would’ve really landed the Board of Selectmen in hot water.”
“You’re a Stoneham native. What do you think of outsiders?” Tricia asked.
“I love them,” he answered without hesitation. “You in particular.” He leaned forward to kiss her nose. “They’ve saved this burg from dying.”
She set the photo down on the table and sat back on the couch, wishing they were in her own loft apartment. Was that what was wrong? In her own home she could control the atmosphere. Play soft music, dim the lights, light a few scented candles. Okay, she’d probably served pizza way too many times herself, but that was only because she wasn’t very good at—or interested in—cooking, despite Angelica’s offers to teach her a few basic recipes. Maybe she ought to reconsider that decision.
And maybe she should reconsider what she wanted out of the relationship. Russ was the only man she’d dated since her divorce less than two years ago. Could what they had even be called much of a relationship? Was she afraid to risk more heartbreak? If there was any spark between them, she’d spent little effort fanning what might burst into flames.
And he had been the first to say—in writing, no less—the word love.
“Did you read my top story in this week’s issue?” Russ asked.
Tricia looked up at him. He wasn’t at all like Christopher—and maybe that was something she found comforting. “Story?” she asked.
“Yeah, in the Stoneham Weekly News.”
It took a moment for the question to register. Tricia hesitated before answering. She hadn’t. The Stoneham Weekly News had arrived, but what with everything that had happened, it had been shunted into the trash—probably by Ginny. “Not yet,” she said finally. “Didn’t you say it concerned the geese problem?”
“Yes.” He shook his head and frowned. “We have a murder right here in the village, and I come out with a story on goose shit.”
“You’re not psychic. You couldn’t know someone would die,” she said reasonably.
“Of course, the geese are just another one of Bob’s problems.”
“Surely it’s up to the Village Board to deal with them, not the Chamber of Commerce.”
“Yes, and privately Bob is advocating killing them.”
“Frannie mentioned that was an option. She was pretty upset by the idea. But Bob seemed noncommittal when I spoke to him the other night.”
“He knows you’re a bleeding-heart animal lover—despite the inconvenience of cleaning up after the birds. He’s not about to say what he really thinks in front of you.”
“And what do you think?”
“About the geese?”
“No, about Bob.”
Russ looked thoughtful. “Four years ago he almost single-handedly brought the village back from the brink of bankruptcy. That’s pretty amazing.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Personally, I think the guy’s a jerk. But you won’t see that opinion in the Stoneham Weekly News any time soon.”