"Jumped the gun at emptying the store?"
"I'm afraid so."
The woman sighed, shook her head, irritated.
Tricia became aware that her palms, resting on her knees, had begun to perspire. She wiped them on the side of her slacks and sat back in the comfortable chair, feeling anything but comfortable. "He had all the books and display pieces moved to a storage unit. I'm afraid they may be smoke damaged."
"Would you happen to know where I can contact this…this landlord person?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I believe I have one of his business cards."
Ginny, who had been unabashedly eavesdropping, spoke up. "I'll get it. It's here in the register." She opened the drawer, lifted the cash tray, and came up with the card. In seconds she'd handed it to Deirdre.
"Thank you." She stowed the card in the pocket of her jacket. "It was always my intention to move to Stoneham to help Doris with the shop. Her death has just hastened my entry into the world of bookselling." She opened her purse, took out a tissue, and bowed her head, looking ready to cry. "I've been a very selfish woman. I should've been there for her in her time of need. I knew she was having cash-flow problems; I knew she wasn't feeling well. And I knew she'd had employee problems-"
At this, Ginny stepped back, looking guilty. She'd quit the Cookery to take the job with Tricia. Doris had never replaced her.
Deirdre faced Tricia once again. "I was always too busy, wasting money on travel and clothes when I should've been here helping my sister."
Tricia wasn't sure how or if she should reply. Deirdre made it easy on her and rose from her seat.
"What will happen to Doris's daughter?" Tricia asked, and also stood.
"Susan is now my responsibility." Deirdre pursed her lips, an effort that failed to stop them trembling. "It wasn't Doris's way to let on that she cared-about anything. But she loved that girl. It broke her heart when Susan had to go live in the group home. But apparently she's happy there. Doris told me she has friends and a job. I don't know how I'll tell her she'll never see her mother again."
The three women stood there, all of them fighting tears for several long moments. Finally Deirdre cleared her throat and straightened, her expression once again impassive. "Thank you for answering my questions. It was traumatic to hear of Doris's death. Finding her had to be even more so."
Odd, Tricia thought, except for Frannie, Deirdre had been the only other person to acknowledge that she might've felt traumatized by the experience. This morning's newspaper story had brought it all back in vivid detail, but it had also bolstered Tricia's determination to clear her name. And yet, she had no clue how to go about it.
"Yes, it was. If only I'd arrived a few minutes sooner."
"You mustn't blame yourself. If you had arrived sooner, Doris's murderer might've killed you, too."
Deirdre's words, spoken with such casualness, made Tricia go cold.
Nine
"Good night, Mr. Everett," Tricia said, shut the door, turned the sign on it to CLOSED , and was about to shut and lock it when she saw the familiar rental car pull up in front of the shop.
Ginny was still tidying up, but she, too, saw the car, turned off the vacuum, and began to wind up the cord. "You don't mind if I leave, do you?" she said, already shoving the cleaner toward the utility closet. "Sorry to say, but your sister really hates me for all the times I screened your calls."
"I know, and I'm sorry. I never thought you two would ever face each other." Tricia crossed to the register, opened it, lifted the money tray, and withdrew an envelope-Ginny's paycheck. "I didn't get a chance to tell you before, but I've given you a raise. Sorry it couldn't be more."
Already shrugging into her jacket, Ginny paused, her surprise evident. "But you gave me a raise only last month."
"Well, you've been so supportive these past few days I figured you'd earned another."
Ginny accepted the envelope. "Thank you, Tricia. I've worked for three booksellers here in the village in the past four years, but you are by far the best." She gave Tricia a quick hug.
"Can somebody help me?" came a muffled, annoyed voice from behind the shop's locked door.
Tricia crossed the store to open the door, letting in Angelica, who scowled as Ginny went out, calling cheerfully behind her, "See you tomorrow."
Once again Angelica was weighed down with a grocery bag full of ingredients. "That girl," she muttered and dumped the sack on the nook's coffee table.
"Ange, I hope you don't think you have to come here every evening and cook for me," Tricia said, although the thought of the leftovers now residing in her freezer was a comfort.
"You work so hard, and it's the only part of the day you have time for me." She patted one of Tricia's cheeks and simpered, "I do so miss my baby sister. We've still got years and years to catch up on."
Tricia didn't reply. It was the memory of Deirdre Gleason's sorrow at the loss of her sister that made her keep quiet. She would try to be a better sister to Angelica. She would.
She turned for the door.
"I've got it," Angelica said, triumphantly.
"Got what?"
She pulled a piece of paper from her jacket pocket and waved it in the air. "Doris's beneficiary."
With everything else going on, Tricia had completely forgotten her quest from earlier in the day. "Don't tell me. Susan Gleason, but in some kind of trust with Deirdre Gleason in control."
Angelica's face fell. "Who told you?"
"I met Deirdre a couple of hours ago. She came into the shop, wanted to know why the Cookery was empty."
Surprise turned to pique. Angelica exhaled sharply. "If you only knew how much trouble I went through to get this."
"Sorry, Ange. I figured you'd come up against the same brick walls I did." Avoiding her sister's gaze, Tricia reached for the door.
"Don't lock it-I've asked Bob Kelly to join us for dinner," Angelica called, rummaging through the grocery bag. "Oh dear. I hope you've got an onion. I don't think I picked one up at the store."
"I wish you'd asked me first."
"Doesn't everyone keep onions?" Angelica asked, looking up from her supplies.
"I mean about inviting Bob. I told you he isn't my favorite person."
"Like you, that poor man is a virtual workaholic. Why I'll bet he hasn't had a home-cooked meal in ages."
"What are you making?"
"Stroganoff."
Like Pavlov's dog, already Tricia anticipated the aroma of one of her most favorite entrées. "Well, next time please let me know when you're going to invite guests to my home."
"That's why I invited him. If I'm going to be staying in Stoneham for the winter, I'll need a place to live. I considered staying in one of the inn's bungalows, but I really want more space and I've heard Bob is the best person to talk to about the local real estate market." And with that, Angelica picked up the sack and headed for the door to the upstairs apartment, where she paused. "Why don't you like Bob, anyway? What's he ever done to you?"
"Have you taken a close look at his face?"
"Yes, and he's a very good-looking man."
Tricia crossed her arms over her chest. "Exactly. And who does he remind you of?"
Angelica thought about it for a moment. "Christopher?"
"Duh! My ex-husband."
"Well, that's certainly not Bob's fault," Angelica said with a shrug and turned. "I'll go get dinner started. Don't let me keep you from whatever you have to finish up."
From her perch on the shelf above the register, Miss Marple looked from Tricia to Angelica. The squeak of the door's hinges promised food, and the little gray cat jumped down to follow.
"Traitor," Tricia hissed, but Miss Marple took no heed and scampered up the steps.