Mike waved. "Stop in anytime."
The line at the register was three deep when Tricia arrived back at Haven't Got a Clue. Wispy hairs had escaped the pewter clip at the base of a harassed Ginny's ponytail. "Where have you been?" she scolded Tricia under her breath. "A bus came through and these people have to be back on it in ten minutes."
"Sorry. I had no idea. I had to make a few stops after the bank." While Ginny rang up two pristine early Dick Francis first editions and an Agatha Christie omnibus, Tricia bagged the order, first checking the books for nudist leaflets before tossing in the current week's stuffers and a copy of the bookstore's newsletter. Within a couple of minutes everyone had been served and the door shut on the last customer's back.
Ginny sagged with relief and headed straight for the coffee station and a caffeine fix. She collapsed onto one of the store's comfy chairs and, still feeling guilty for leaving her alone during a rush, Tricia didn't have the heart to remind her it was against store rules for the help to sit in the customers' reading nook.
Ginny took a gulp from her steaming cup and stretched her legs out before her. "Winnie Wentworth stopped by to see you."
"Finally," Tricia said, circling around to face her employee.
"You want to meet her?" Ginny asked, puzzled.
"Deborah Black told me about her just a while ago. I wondered why she hadn't been offering me merchandise."
"Her stock isn't as good as most of our regulars. She only seems to go to tag sales to find books and other stuff to resell to the shop owners. Her car's a rolling junk mobile. She's been coming around the last couple of weeks. I've tried to discourage her, but today she was adamant; she wants to deal only with the owner-you-and said she'd be back."
"What's she trying to sell us?"
"Mostly crappy old paperbacks-things you wouldn't even put on the bargain shelf. There were too many customers in the store, and I just didn't want to deal with her."
The shop telephone rang and Tricia grabbed it. "Haven't Got a Clue, Tricia speaking."
"Trish, dear, where have you been all morning? That little helper of yours kept saying you were out of the store."
Tricia grimaced, her already haggard spirits sinking even lower. "Sorry, Ange, I was running errands."
"You sound tired. Is everything okay?"
"I got back in time for a rush of customers."
"Good, then you're flush. Let's go shopping. I hear there's an outlet mall not too far from this sleepy little village of yours."
"I can't leave the shop."
"Every time I've called, you've been away from the store. I've been running all over town myself; I'm surprised I didn't run into you." Her sarcasm came through the phone lines loud and clear.
Tricia ignored it. "Yes, well, Ginny was inundated with customers because I have been out most of the day."
"If you can't leave now, can you at least get off early?" Angelica pressed.
"No. Ange, this is my store. It's up to me to-"
Angelica cut her off with a loud sigh. "Have you never heard the word delegation?"
"Yes, and I'm also familiar with the words responsibility and ownership. Pride of ownership," she amended.
"No shopping today?" Angelica whined.
"Sorry."
"How about dinner tonight?"
Tricia's turn for the heavy sigh. "At the inn?"
"Goodness no. I'm going to cook for you. I'll come by at seven with everything I need. Have you got a bottle of red in the fridge?"
"Yes."
"Good. I've got loads to tell you. See you then."
The phone clicked in Tricia's ear. She hung up.
First Angelica showed up for an extended visit. Now she wanted to cook for her little sister. Something about this whole visit didn't feel right. Angelica was a confirmed chatterbox, yet she'd barely spoken of-nor seemed unduly upset about-her impending divorce, merely saying she and Drew would remain good friends. Still, it was unlike Angie to be so nice to Tricia. Something was definitely up, and Tricia was afraid to find out just what Angelica might be plotting.
Winnie Wentworth had her own car, so she didn't actually qualify as a "bag lady." Then again, from the looks of the contents of the backseat of her bashed and battered 1993 Cadillac Seville, maybe she did live in her car.
Winnie raked a grubby hand through the wiry mass of gray hair on top of her head. Her threadbare clothes were gray, too, either from repeated washings or from not being washed at all. She watched, eagle-eyed, as Tricia sorted through the offerings in her trunk. Book club editions, creased and well-thumbed paperbacks, all good-mostly contemporary-authors, but not the kind of stock Tricia wanted to carry at Haven't Got a Clue.
Desperate to find something of worth, Tricia pawed through the books a second time. "I understand you sell to all the local bookshop owners. Did you ever sell to Doris Gleason?"
Winnie pulled back a soiled scrap of old blanket from around another stack of books. Six copies of different Betty Crocker cookbooks peeked out. "She was my best customer. Now what am I going to do with all these stupid books? Nobody else in this town will touch 'em." Eyes narrowed, she scrutinized Tricia's face. "And you don't want any of my books, either, do you?"
Tricia hesitated for a moment. "Did you see the Amelia Simmons cookbook Doris had in her special little case?"
"See it? I sold it to her. She gave me five bucks for it."
"Did you know it was worth much more?"
"Everything I sell is usually worth more than what I can get for it. But I don't have the overhead you people do." She nodded at Tricia. "I don't wear no froufrou clothes. I don't got no fancy house. Maybe she coulda given me more, but then I was only gonna ask a couple a bucks for it anyway. Most people didn't like Doris, but she was always fair to me."
Perhaps Doris would be mourned after all.
"Do you remember where you bought the book?"
Winnie shook her head. "I don't remember where I get stuff, let alone who I get it from. I buy from tag sales, estate sales, and auctions." She leaned forward, squinting at Tricia, who got a whiff of the woman's unwashed body. "But mark my words-whoever I got it from musta seen it in her shop. Outside of the fancy shops, ain't many books like that in and around Stoneham."
Did Winnie realize the implications of what she'd just said? "Doris was murdered by someone who wanted that book. I think you should be careful. That person may think you can implicate him or her in Doris's death."
Winnie waved a hand in annoyance. "Nah. Everybody around here knows I got a mind like a sieve. I ain't worried. Now are you gonna take any of these books or not?"
Tricia selected three and paid Winnie five dollars in cash.
"Don'tcha wanna see what else I got?" Winnie folded back another end of the blanket. A small white box contained a tangle of costume jewelry: bright rhinestones of every color of the rainbow adorned brooches, clip and screw-back earrings, and necklaces. Other metals glinted dully under the trunk's wan lightbulb. Tricia picked through the offerings. She loved the colorful brooches in the shapes of flowers, butterflies, and snowflakes, but they were out of date, not something she could really wear herself. But one little gold pin drew her attention.
"That there's a scatter pin, and an oldie," Winnie said with pride.
Tricia examined it closely. About an inch long and maybe three-quarters of an inch wide, it was made of gold-solid gold-with an old-fashioned clasp. Its face was etched with delightful leaves and curlicues. A faded memory stirred in Tricia's mind. "My grandmother had a pin like this."
"It'd look real nice on a jacket or a hat," Winnie said, smelling a sale.
Tricia held the little pin in her hand, rubbing her thumb in circles against its surface. Grandmother Miles had worn her scatter pin on the collar of a snowy white blouse. As a little girl Tricia had sat on her grandmother's lap, playing with the pin while Grandmother would read to her. Whatever happened to that plain little adornment?