"You can have it for five bucks," Winnie offered.
Tricia's gaze rose from the pin to the old woman before her. Winnie's wispy hair was rustled by the breeze, her eyes red-rimmed but bright at the prospect of another sale.
Tricia gave her ten.
Back inside the shop, Tricia tossed the paperbacks into the trash barrel and headed for the sales counter and a group of waiting customers. She opened the cash drawer and deposited the scatter pin in the left-hand, empty change hole before ringing up the next sale.
Winnie was foolish if she thought her poor memory would keep her safe from whoever had killed Doris Gleason. It might be something Tricia should report to Sheriff Adams.
And she did.
But her warning came too late to save Winnie.
Four
Sheriff Adams squinted down at Tricia, her piercing gaze sharper than a stiletto. "Two people have died in the last twenty-four hours after speaking with you, Ms. Miles. Why do you think that is?"
Tricia exhaled a slow breath through her nose, surprised steam wasn't escaping from her ears. "I talked to a Deputy Morrison in your office only minutes after speaking to Winnie, warning that she could be in danger from the same person who killed Doris Gleason."
The sheriff consulted her notebook. "That was at eleven-oh-three this morning. And have you left the premises since that time?"
"No, she hasn't," Ginny answered curtly.
A flush of gratitude warmed Tricia. Ginny just earned herself a twenty-five-cent-an-hour raise.
Sheriff Adams frowned. "Odd all the same."
"How did Winnie die?" Tricia asked.
"Car accident. She hit a bridge abutment and wasn't wearing a seat belt. No skid marks. I'm having the car's brakes checked."
"You think they were tampered with?"
"It's possible."
"Well, Tricia certainly didn't cut the lines," Ginny said hotly. "Look, there's not even a pill on her sweater, let alone a speck of dirt or grease."
Tricia fought the urge to show Sheriff Adams her grease-free fingernails.
This is ridiculous, she thought. I am not responsible for anyone's death. Yet the heat of Sheriff Adams's scrutiny had caused sweat to form at the back of her neck.
"Will there be an autopsy?" Tricia asked.
"To rule out drug and alcohol use. It's also possible she had a heart attack-or simply blacked out while behind the wheel. Who knows if she even ate regularly?"
"Then why come here and practically accuse Tricia of murder?" Ginny demanded.
Tricia laid a hand on her assistant's arm. "Now, Ginny, I'm sure Sheriff Adams is only doing her job." Which should include clearing me! "Are there any leads in Doris's murder?"
"Not so far." Sheriff Adams slapped her notebook closed. "I'll be in touch."
Tricia and Ginny, along with the six customers who'd been eavesdropping on the conversation, watched as the sheriff got into her double-parked cruiser and took off.
"The music has stopped," Tricia told Ginny, trying not to focus on all those pairs of eyes. "Let's put on something cheerful. Maybe Celtic?"
"You got it." Ginny crossed the room for the CD player and the customers went back to perusing the shelves.
Miss Marple jumped up on the sales counter, rubbed her little warm face against Tricia's hand. "Good girl," she murmured, and yet even the comfort of petting her cat couldn't ease the knot of apprehension that had settled in Tricia's stomach. Two deaths less than twenty-four hours apart and both connected to that antique cookbook. Had the sheriff started looking for it on online auction sites or had she or one of her deputies called Sotheby's? Would the killer be dumb enough to try to sell it or would he or she now dump the book to avoid drawing attention to themselves? Perhaps a third party would be enlisted to sell it in a year or two.
Tricia's gaze was drawn to the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes until closing, and then Angie would show up to cook her dinner-and no doubt spoil what was left of her day.
With one last scratch behind the ears, Tricia left Miss Marple to begin her end-of-day tasks.
Main Street was bathed in shadows as the last of the customers departed, with Mr. Everett bringing up the rear. "Good. All gone," Ginny said, turning the sign to CLOSED and throwing the dead bolt. She diverted on her way to the register to close the blinds over the shop's window. "Another good day."
"That depends on your point of view," Tricia said, thinking about Winnie, although she knew Ginny meant the cash drawer stuffed with bills, checks, and credit card receipts.
Ginny stopped before the counter and fished in her apron pocket.
"Don't tell me-" Tricia said, dreading what she knew she was about to see.
"Yep. I found a lot more. And I've got a theory," she said, slapping ten or more of the nudist leaflets on the sales counter. "Somebody's been hiding these things in a lot of books. Pretty much everybody who comes in here is a stranger, except for-"
"Mr. Everett?" Tricia said, aghast. She shook her head. "No, I won't believe that sweet old man-"
"Runs around in the buff?" Ginny finished. She thought about it and shuddered. "Have you got any ideas?"
"No," Tricia admitted. "I wonder if we're the only business being targeted."
"We'll have to make some calls tomorrow to find out. If we have time." Ginny hit the release button on the cash drawer, which popped open. "Look at all that wonderful money!" She grinned.
Tricia took out the day's receipts, counted them, and placed them in the little blue zippered bank pouch. By then Ginny had retrieved her jacket, said a cheery good-bye, and departed. Tricia locked the money in the safe; that left only the nudist leaflets on the counter.
She tried to imagine prim and proper Mr. Everett in his birthday suit and, thankfully, failed.
She trashed the leaflets.
The clock ticked. Miss Marple had parked herself at the door leading to the back stairs and the loft apartment and cried, impatient for her dinner. "I'm hungry, too, but we have to wait for Angie."
Miss Marple turned her back on Tricia, licked the pads on one of her white boots.
The street lamps glowed and most of the parked cars had disappeared when the sound of an engine drew Tricia to draw back the shade on the front window to see Angie's rental car pull up in front of the store. She got out, waved a hello, and opened the car's rear door, crouching down for something. Tricia headed for the shop's door to intercept.
"Here, take this," Angelica said, handing Tricia a large, heavy Crock-Pot along with funky chili pepper potholders. Tricia set it on the sales counter, heading back to the door to hold it open for Angelica, who juggled her large purse and a big brown grocery bag, with a crusty loaf of Italian bread poking over its rim.
"How much food did you bring?"
"You can freeze the leftovers. Besides, you're much too thin. I'll bet you haven't had a decent meal in months. Now lead me to the kitchen, and then you can tell me how it is you became Stoneham's jinx of death."
Miss Marple sat before her now-empty food bowl, daintily washing her face. After a brief tour of the loft apartment, with its soaring ceiling and contemporary decor, which Angelica had declared gorgeous, she'd commandeered the kitchen, demanding various utensils that had gathered dust from months of disuse. The pasta water was already bubbling on the stove when Tricia located her corkscrew and opened the wine. She poured, handing a glass to Angelica.
"Just who in town thinks I'm a jinx, and how are you privy to that kind of gossip? You've only been in town one day."