Mr. Everett was happily dusting the back shelves, and Ginny took Tricia’s place behind the register. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, but offered no explanation. Late to arrive, late from lunch. A pattern seemed to be developing. If it continued, Tricia would have to bring up the subject. She decided to wait another few days before mentioning it.
It was well after three, and Tricia’s stomach growled furiously. “I’m going to slip over to Booked for Lunch to grab a bite. That is, if they have anything left,” Tricia said, and donned the jacket she’d taken from the peg some twenty minutes before.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be fine,” Ginny assured her, as a woman carrying a stack of books by Josephine Tey arrived at the register.
Though the sun had reappeared from behind a bank of clouds, the crisp October air was a bit of a jolt after the drowsy warmth inside Haven’t Got a Clue, but it also felt invigorating. Any sunny fall day was worth celebrating. All too soon the winter chill would be upon Stoneham. A long, cold, gray-dull-season of ice and snow. Of course, the months before the holidays were the bright spot for retailers, but after New Year’s, Tricia knew she’d find herself counting the days until spring-and the influx of tourists-would return to her adopted hometown.
Tricia waited for a lull in traffic before jaywalking across Main Street, heading for Booked for Lunch. Once again, she passed a flattened carved pumpkin. Was there a crime wave in Stoneham, or just a vendetta against small, round squashes?
Tricia’s older sister, Angelica, had opened Booked for Lunch with great fanfare only two weeks before. But she hadn’t given up owning Stoneham ’s charming little cookbook store, the Cookery. After hiring an exceptional manager six months before, she figured she could extend her entrepreneurial empire. It was her love of cooking and the long-held ambition to open a restaurant that had encouraged her to open the little bistro. “Little” was right-the storefront she’d rented was the smallest on Main Street. It had previously been used as office space. The village depended on the tourist trade and boasted only a small diner, so adding another venue to the lunchtime crunch had been encouraged by the head of the local Chamber of Commerce-Bob Kelly, who also had been dating Angelica for just over a year.
The tourists were happy. The booksellers were happy. Everyone was happy.
Except Angelica.
“This is a lot harder work than I thought,” she’d confided to Tricia after her first week in business. Now, seven days later, she looked even more haggard.
Ignoring the CLOSED sign that hung on the plate-glass door, Tricia entered the charming 1950s retro café with its chrome-edged, white Formica tables, the red-and-silver-sparkled Naugahyde booths, and the counter with six matching stools to her right. It wasn’t what she’d expected in the way of decor when Angelica had first told her of her plans to open an eatery. But then Angelica was always a bundle of surprises.
Angelica stood behind the counter. Her blond hair was pinned in a chignon; crimson lipstick gave her face color, along with a matching scarf tied around her neck. A black-and-white polka dot blouse and tight black slacks completed the outfit. She looked like she’d stolen her costume from an I Love Lucy rerun.
“About time you showed up,” Angelica said. She wiped her hands on a towel, reached for the undercounter fridge, brought out a plastic-wrapped plate, and set it on the counter. “I saved you a tuna salad plate.”
Tricia settled on one of the red, round-cushioned stools. “How do you always know what I want?” she asked, delighted.
“I’ve known you your whole life.” Angelica laughed. “I can read you like a book-you’re not a mystery to me.”
Tricia wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
Angelica supplied a napkin, fork, and knife. “Coffee or something else?” she asked.
“The chill in the air these past couple of days has put me on a hot chocolate kick.”
“Hot chocolate it is,” Angelica said, reaching under the counter and coming up with a paper packet. She grabbed a Booked for Lunch mug, which sported a stack of old-fashioned books along with Day-Glo pink lettering that matched the sign out front. After shaking the packet, she tore off the top, spilled the contents into the mug, and added hot water from the urn on the shelf behind her. “You can take off your jacket and stay awhile, you know.”
“Oh. I hadn’t even noticed.” Tricia shrugged out of the sleeves, parking the garment on the empty stool beside her.
Angelica poured herself a cup of coffee and leaned against the rear-end-high shelf behind her. “I had to pull waitress duty again today-me, an about-to-be famous author,” she said, and blew a loose strand of hair away from her cheek.
Since Angelica’s literary agent had sold her cookbook, Easy-Does-It Cooking, last spring, Angelica somehow managed to remind everyone-in nearly every conversation-that she was about to be published. “About” being relative, since the book wasn’t slated to appear for another eight months. Tricia ignored the reminder. “What happened to Ana?”
“Immigration came after both her and José. It’s too bad-he was really good at food prep, and she was wonderful with the customers. I don’t know what I would’ve done if it wasn’t for my new hire.”
Tricia speared a piece of lettuce, more concerned with her lunch than the immediate conversation.
“Jake”-the cook-“was in a tizzy,” Angelica continued rather theatrically. “Luckily my new hire”-she stressed the words-“had done salad prep before. Breaking in a new person during the lunch hour would’ve been too much to take. Thank goodness I didn’t have to train her and handle the customers.”
The tuna salad had chunks of celery mixed in, just the way Tricia liked it. She swallowed a mouthful. Angelica had seen herself in more of a hostess-cum-manager role, a raconteur more than a hands-on member of her kitchen or waitstaff. But honestly, did a café the size of Booked for Lunch need a manager and three employees? Still, Tricia didn’t want to get involved in that conversation.
“Did you know there was a food pantry in Stoneham?” Tricia asked, thinking about her earlier conversation with Pammy.
“But of course. They dedicated it earlier this morning.”
“Yes, I know. I was there. Bob bullied me into going.”
Angelica ignored the assault on her boyfriend’s character. “Libby Hirt is a wonder. And she can write a mean grant request, too.”
Grant? “How do you know about all this?”
“I’ve talked with her dozens of times at the Cookery. She’s one of the few locals who actually patronize my store. Like many of my customers, she’s a frustrated amateur chef. Besides, your boyfriend just ran a big story about her and the Food Shelf in the last issue of the Stoneham Weekly News. Don’t you ever read it?”
Though she usually glanced at it, the local weekly rag wasn’t on the top of Tricia’s to-be-read pile. Not when there were hundreds of new mysteries published every year, and thousands of her old favorites to be read and reread again.
“Stuart Paige himself was in town for the dedication,” Angelica went on, sounding just a little catty.
“Everybody seems to know about this guy except me. Who is he?”
“You don’t remember the scandal?”
“Scandal?” Tricia echoed.
“Yes. Senator Paige’s playboy son. The guy who crashed his Alfa Romeo into Portsmouth Harbor. He saved himself and let his father’s secretary drown.”
Something about that did sound familiar. “When was that?”
Angelica exhaled a long breath. “Oh, must be twenty or so years ago now. Rod and I were living in Boston at the time. You were still in college.”