“Hear, hear,” someone echoed.
Tricia’s cheeks flushed. She glanced at Frannie to find her tight-lipped, and her complexion just as rosy.
The woman sat down.
“Of all the nerve,” Frannie muttered under her breath.
Though this wasn’t the first time Tricia had experienced the undercurrent of an us-against-them mentality from some of the denizens of Stoneham, she hadn’t ever heard anyone voice that sentiment so blatantly.
Nikki stood and cleared her throat. “Thanks, Linda. I can’t thank everyone—and I mean everyone—enough for coming here today.” She focused her attention on Tricia and Frannie, and laughed nervously. “You guys are the best.”
Everyone at the table broke into applause, with Frannie clapping the loudest.
It wasn’t hard to get back into the groove of hand-selling mysteries, and Tricia fell in love with her store all over again. Mr. Everett was back to his cheerful self, and Miss Marple luxuriated in the afternoon sunshine that poured through Haven’t Got a Clue’s front display window. Trade was brisk for a Sunday, and only a few people loitered around the washroom, hoping for some titillating clue about Zoë Carter’s murder. The fingerprint powder had been nearly impossible to fully clean, and every time Tricia shooed away some curious gawker, she saw another spot of the stuff that needed eradicating.
She’d just shut the washroom door for the fifth time when Mr. Everett signaled her from the register. “We’re out of coffee, Ms. Miles. I made a pot before the last crowd of customers came in. It won’t last until closing. Shall I go get another couple of pounds?”
Tricia shook her head. “I’ll go. And I’ll pick up a few goodies from the patisserie. Can you handle everything here for ten or fifteen minutes?”
He nodded, always dignified. “Certainly.”
“I’ll just grab my coat, then.”
Though the temperature was only in the forties, the sunshine felt warm on her cheeks as she stopped first at the Coffee Bean, then made her way down Main Street to the Stoneham Patisserie.
For the first time in a long time, the patisserie was not overflowing with customers. Nikki stood behind the counter, waiting on a customer who bought a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread. She rang up the sale. “Have a nice day,” she said, and turned to Tricia.
“I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t Haven’t Got a Clue back in business?”
“Yes, thank goodness. Mr. Everett is holding down the fort. I just came to get some cookies for our customers.”
“I’ve got some nice raspberry thumbprint cookies.” She leaned forward, lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think they’re Mr. Everett’s favorites.”
“Then how about two dozen of those? If any are left over, he can take them home.”
“Sure. Let me wrap them up.”
The door opened and another customer entered. “Nikki, I need three loaves of Italian bread—now! I’ve got guests arriving in ten minutes, and—”
Nikki looked from her new customer to Tricia, who waved a hand. “Take care of her first. I’m not in a rush.”
“Thanks,” Nikki said gratefully.
Tricia wandered the store, peeking through the display cases at the bread, cookies, cakes, and pies. Pretty pedestrian fare for someone who’d trained in Paris, but if that was what the local traffic demanded, that’s what Nikki had to supply.
The door from the shop to the working bakery beyond was propped open with a rubber wedge, and Tricia noted the now-silent industrial-size mixer and bowl, which currently sported a bread hook. Angelica had a regular-size model on her kitchen counter. She recognized a bread slicer and saw a metal cabinet filled with trays of baked goods. It was from there that Nikki gathered the cookies. Steve stood at a counter with what looked like a nail in one hand and a pastry bag in the other, magically producing a beautiful rose out of pink icing. He plopped it on the frosted cake in front of him and started another.
Tricia’s bored gaze wandered, but soon stopped on the floor against the far wall, focusing on something she hadn’t expected to see in a bakery: a satchel of tools. Sticking out of the top were a can of spray paint and what looked like a . . . sledgehammer. But it couldn’t be. Sledgehammers had long handles, and this hammer’s head stuck out of a bag that could be only nine or ten inches in height. And why did Nikki have a bag of tools in the working part of her bakery?
Nikki finished plucking cookies from the tray and brought the bakery box back into the shop, setting it on the counter and tying string around it. Tricia handed her a ten and Nikki made change.
“Thanks,” Tricia said, pocketing the money.
“Are you okay?” Nikki asked, concerned. “You look kind of funny.”
Tricia forced a smile. “I’m fine.”
“Thanks for coming to the diner this morning. Only I can’t apologize enough for Linda’s rude comments about ‘the wrong element’ here in Stoneham. Honest, Tricia, not everyone in the village thinks like her. I tried to give Frannie a call and apologize to her, too, but she wasn’t home.”
“No, she’s helping Angelica at the Cookery this afternoon.”
“She’s got a big heart.”
The door opened and another customer wandered in.
“I’d better go,” Tricia said, sounding nervous even to herself.
“See you on Tuesday at the book club,” Nikki called, as Tricia made good her escape.
“Is something wrong, Ms. Miles?” Mr. Everett asked as Tricia closed and locked the shop door on the last of their customers. The clock read five o’clock even.
“No.” That wasn’t true, especially not when her suspicions about Nikki had so recently been ignited. “Yes, there are several things wrong. One of them concerns you, Mr. Everett.” It was time to clear the air at last.
“Me?” he asked, puzzled.
“Something you said the other day. You told me Grace had to leave town to take care of a sick sister. When I mentioned to her that I was sorry to hear about it, she told me she didn’t have a sister.”
Mr. Everett lowered his head so that his gaze was focused on the carpet.
“It’s none of my business what Grace was doing or where she went, but I am concerned that you—”
She hated to say that four letter word.
He said it for her. “I lied. And I’m not proud of it.”
“But why?”
“I didn’t feel it was up to me to discuss another’s personal business.”
“I understand that. And I would never ask you to betray a confidence, Mr. Everett. But I don’t appreciate it when someone I work with breaches my trust. You’ve been a businessman, I’m sure you can understand where I’m coming from.”
He nodded. “If Grace wants you to know her business, she will tell you. I can’t betray her trust.”
Tricia nodded. “I accept that. But please, Mr. Everett, don’t lie to me again. Next time, just tell me it’s none of my business.”
He nodded. “Then I must respectfully tell you that this is none of your business, Ms. Miles.”
Tricia straightened to her full height. “Thank you, Mr. Everett. We won’t speak of this again.”
“Thank you, Ms. Miles.” Mr. Everett turned away.
And Tricia knew no more now than she had before they’d started the conversation.
Eighteen