“Unless Kimberly dies,” Russ pointed out.
For a second—and only a second—Russ’s argument made sense. “But Artemus said Kimberly will recover. I have faith in the doctors at Southern New Hampshire Medical Center to pull her through, and in no time she’ll be her smiling self again.” She cringed. Kimberly rarely smiled, and now with no front teeth, she’d be even less apt to flash her gums.
“There’s no argument. If you won’t come stay with me, I’m going to stay with you.” Angelica patted her massive purse. “I just happen to have brought along my toothbrush and nightie. I’m all set.”
“But—”
“Good,” Russ said. “Then it’s all settled.”
“It’s not settled.”
“Would you prefer we drop you off at a motel here in Nashua to stay the night?” Russ asked.
“Oh, come on, guys, you’re paranoid—both of you.”
“And you ought to be,” Angelica said.
Tricia thought about how frightened she’d been when the car had forced them off the road. Was she being foolish?
“Okay, Ange, you can stay with me. But only for tonight.”
Angelica eyed Russ. “We’ll see.”
A lot had changed in the six months since Angelica had come to live in Stoneham. The biggest change, of course, had been in Tricia herself. They’d returned from Nashua and Angelica had made herself comfortable on Tricia’s couch. They’d opened a bottle of wine, and Miss Marple had deigned to join them, even contemplating sitting on Angelica’s lap, which, upon further reflection, she decided not to do.
For more than an hour the sisters had chatted and laughed, sticking to subjects that did not include murder, cookbook manuscripts, or personal criticisms. It occurred to Tricia that somewhere between their squabbles and disagreements, the two women had added something else to their ofttimes troubled relationship: they’d become friends.
Angelica acquiesced to sleeping on the comfortable leather couch, and peace reigned during the night.
Tricia awoke the next morning to the heavenly aromas of coffee and bacon coming from her kitchen. She found Angelica standing over the stove, a dishtowel safety pinned to her nightgown, and Miss Marple sitting smartly at her feet, licking her chops.
“Did you know your cat likes bacon?” she asked.
“Where did you find bacon?”
“In the back of your freezer. You really should clean it out more often, Trish. This meat was on the verge of freezer burn.”
“I don’t cook very often,” she defended herself.
“Excuse me; you don’t cook at all.”
Tricia grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured herself a cup of coffee. “I’ve been thinking about that. I think I’d like to take you up on your offer to teach me a few simple things. Just so I could have Russ over now and then and not have to rely on Angelo’s Pizzeria or spaghetti sauce from a jar.”
Angelica paused in turning the crispy slices, her mouth dropping open. “You want me to—”
Words seemed to fail her.
“If you don’t mind. Maybe on a Sunday morning—before we have to open our stores.”
Angelica’s eyes began to fill. “I’d love that,” she managed, turned away, and cleared her throat. “And as a start, I could let you read my cooking manuscripts—use you as my guinea pig.”
Tricia set her cup down, not bothering to hide the smile that touched her lips. “Sure thing. In the meantime, how about I get the toaster out? I’ve already perfected the recipe for toast.”
She’d just plugged it in and taken bread from the fridge when the phone rang. “Tricia?” Portia McAlister asked.
“I didn’t give you this number.”
“I’m not a reporter for nothing,” she said. “Look, I thought you said you’d keep me in the loop.”
“Loop?” Tricia asked, gazing into the toaster to check on the toast’s progress.
“That incident last night. You know, the one that dented your car and nearly did the same to you and your sister.”
“How did you find out about that?”
“Uh-uh. I told you, I protect my sources.”
The police report wasn’t supposed to be available until at least Tuesday. Could it have been the tow truck driver from the Stoneham Garage who’d squealed?
It didn’t matter.
“We weren’t hurt, just shaken up.”
“Where were you going at the time?”
“Is this off the record?”
“Maybe.”
Did that matter, either?
“We were on our way to visit Kimberly Peters at the hospital in Nashua.”
“Did she say anything enlightening? I can’t get to her, and her fiancé won’t talk to me.”
That snippet of information made Tricia smile. “No. She wasn’t awake when we got there, so we went out to dinner. Would you like to know what we ordered?”
“That won’t be necessary.” The line went quiet for long seconds. “I can still use this,” Portia muttered.
“How?” Tricia asked, as the toast popped up.
“I’ll let you know,” Portia said, and hung up.
Mr. Everett was waiting at the door when Tricia came down to prepare Haven’t Got a Clue for another day of commerce. The day was overcast, the clouds hanging low and threatening. Another perfect day for retail!
“Good morning, Ms. Miles.”
“Good morning, Mr. Everett. Lovely weather.”
“Yes, we should have a good day.” Mr. Everett headed for the pegs in the back of the store to hang up his coat. “Shall I straighten up the back shelves? Someone pawed through them yesterday, stuffing the books in every which way.” He shook his head in disapproval.
“That’s fine,” Tricia said, and bent down to open the safe to collect and count out the bills to start the day. She thought about calling the Stoneham Garage to see if anyone had brought in a damaged car, but decided it was probably too early. And anyway, perhaps whoever had come after her the previous evening was smart enough to take their damaged car to Nashua or even Manchester for repairs. It wasn’t likely the Sheriff’s Department would be interested enough to make a few calls to try and locate it.
A knock at the door caused her to look up. She pushed the cash drawer shut with her hip and went to answer it. She lifted the blind; Ginny waited in the cold. Tricia opened the door.
“I think I should’ve brought my umbrella from the house.”
“Yes, but it’s too warm for snow, so that’s something in our favor.”
“Only if you believe the low forties are warm,” Ginny said, pulling off her knit hat and stuffing her gloves into her pockets.
“How’s Brian?” Tricia asked.
“Much better.” Ginny took off her coat, and headed toward the back of the store to hang it up.
The phone rang. Although the store didn’t officially open for another ten minutes, Tricia wasn’t a stickler for such details and picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia speaking.”
“Hi, it’s Brian. Is Ginny there yet?” He still didn’t sound well.
“Brian, Ginny says you’re better.”
Ginny stopped at the sound of Brian’s name.
“Lots. Can I speak with her, please?”
“Sure.”
Ginny hurried to take the phone from Tricia. “Hey, sweetie, what’s up?”
Tricia went back to sorting the bills for the cash drawer, trying not to listen to Ginny’s conversation, which appeared to consist of only three phrases: “Oh, God!” “You’re kidding?,” and “I don’t believe it.”
When she finally hung up, she was ashen faced.
“What’s wrong?” Tricia asked, concerned.
“The lab report came back,” Ginny said, her voice shaking.
“That was quick. How did you get them to turn it around so fast?”
“Brian’s aunt works at the hospital. She pulled some strings. They said it was salmonella that made him sick,”
“It was the ham from the fridge, right?” Tricia asked.
“No, Trish, it could only be Nikki’s cake.”
“What?” Tricia said. Astonished didn’t begin to express what emotion coursed through her.
Ginny nodded. “Brian was so caught up working on the laundry room, he didn’t eat lunch, so when I brought the cake in on Saturday night, he ate a huge piece. Not long after, he was sick.”