Spine still rigid, Deirdre gave a curt nod. "Thank you, Ms.-?"
"Call me Tricia. After all, we are neighbors."
Deirdre nodded and stepped closer to the ladder. "I must get back to work if I'm going to reopen next week. Thank you for stopping by."
Tricia knew a dismissal when she heard it. She gave a quick "Good-bye," and headed out the door.
Soft, mellow jazz issued from Haven't Got a Clue's speakers as Tricia reentered the store. Stationed at the sales counter, Ginny flipped the pages of a magazine, while sitting in the nook. Mr. Everett's nose was buried in a book without a dust jacket. Tricia hung up her coat, stowed her umbrella and purse, and headed for the coffee station, where she made a fresh pot and set out a new plate of cookies before heading for the sales counter.
Ginny looked up from her reading, quickly closing the big, fat magazine and turning it over. Tricia leaned close. "What would you think about me asking Mr. Everett to come work for us?"
Ginny's gaze slid to the closed magazine and then up again. "What a great idea. I've always felt bad about you being all by yourself here on Sundays. Business is good and he sure knows his mystery authors. Go for it."
Tricia caught sight of the magazine's name on the spine: Bride's World. Was there a wedding in Ginny's future? She nodded and smiled at the thought, also happy Ginny approved of her decision.
Tricia approached the elderly gent. "Mr. Everett?" He made to stand, but Tricia motioned him to stay put and took the seat opposite him. "Mr. Everett," she began again. "You've become a bit of a fixture here at Haven't Got a Clue."
Mr. Everett's eyes widened, his mouth dropping open in alarm. "I don't mean to be a pest, Ms. Miles. I won't take any more of your coffee and cookies, I promise-"
It was Tricia's turn to be alarmed. "Oh no-you misunderstand me. I'm not trying to throw you out. I'd like to offer you a job, Mr. Everett."
Alarm turned to shock. "A job? Me? But what can I do?"
"Sell books. You're very good at it. You know as much as I do-and probably a whole lot more-about our merchandise, and goodness knows you're dependable about showing up every day."
Color flushed the old man's cheeks. "A job?" he murmured in what sounded like disbelief.
"I won't ask you to lift heavy boxes, and your hours would be flexible, but you've already proved to be an asset to Ginny and me when the store is busy. I can't offer you a lot of money, and unfortunately I'm not in a position to give benefits of any kind, but-"
"A job-" he repeated, as though warming to the idea.
"I'd be glad to give you a couple of days to think it over. You wouldn't have to give me your answer until-"
Mr. Everett suddenly stood, a fire lighting his bright eyes. "No need for that. When do you want me to start?"
Tricia laughed. "How about an hour ago?"
The old man's lips quivered, his eyes growing moist. "Thank you. Thank you, Ms. Miles." He shook himself, then his head swiveled back and forth. "What do you want me to do first? The back shelves are in a terrible state. Customers have no sense of order. They take books out and then put them back every which way. Or I could rearrange the biographies in chronological order, versus alphabetical, so that customers would have a better understanding of how the genre grew. Perhaps it should have been done long before this."
Tricia stifled a laugh. "I'm glad you have so many good ideas. But right now I have a different kind of request. Would you be willing to go next door and make sure Ms. Gleason doesn't fall off a ladder? I don't want you to do anything that puts you in a position of getting hurt yourself, but just make sure she doesn't hurt herself in trying to get ready to reopen her sister's store."
"I could do that," he said, sounding less than enthused.
"Great. And tomorrow we'll figure out what your regular hours and duties will be."
Mr. Everett held out his hand. Tricia took it. "Thank you, Ms. Miles. Thank you for making an old man feel useful again. I'll go next door right now and make sure Ms. Gleason stays safe."
"Thank you."
Mr. Everett started for the door, which opened, admitting Angelica, who paused in the entryway, barring Mr. Everett's escape. They did a little dance with muttered "sorry's" and "excuse me's" while they tried to maneuver out of one another's way. At last Angelica stepped over to where Tricia still stood in the nook.
"I've never been here when the store was open," she said, without even a hello. She took in the clusters of browsing shoppers and Ginny at the register waiting on a customer with a stack of books. Angelica nodded approvingly. "You've created a nice atmosphere here, Trish. And it doesn't stink of old paper like some used bookstores do, either."
Trust Angelica to spoil a compliment. "Thank you. I think. What brings you here so early?"
Angelica picked up one of the well-thumbed review magazines. "I wanted to let you know I can't fix dinner tonight."
Tricia hated to admit it, but in only three days she'd come to enjoy and look forward to one of Angelica's delicious entrées. "What's up?"
Angelica actually blushed. "I've got a date."
Tricia's stomach tightened. "Not with Bob Kelly."
"But of course. I haven't met any other eligible men in this burg."
"Where is he taking you?"
"Some divine little bistro called Ed's. I hear they've got the best seafood and that it's charmingly intimate."
"Charming for sure," Tricia admitted. Intimate as in small. But she didn't want to spoil her sister's anticipation.
"You've been there?"
She nodded. "The food is very good." An idea came to her: Bob and Angelica, dinner, a relaxed social atmosphere…"Ange, when you're with Bob tonight, see if you can get him to spill where he went after he left us at the Brookview on Tuesday night."
"I will not," she said sharply.
"Why? Don't you want to help prove me innocent?"
"Of course, but I also don't believe Bob killed the woman."
"Ange, please?" Tricia found herself whining.
Angelica turned away, refusing to meet her sister's gaze, and glanced out the front window and at the street beyond. "I'll think about it."
A couple of women walked past, clutching shopping bags, but they didn't enter Haven't Got a Clue.
"I circled the block three times before I gave up and parked in the municipal lot," Angelica said, annoyed. "Who owns that car out front with the Connecticut license plates? They've been hogging that spot all morning. Surely you have parking restrictions along the main drag during business hours."
Tricia hadn't noticed the car. "The sheriff's department is pretty busy these days; at least I hope they're busy trying to solve Doris Gleason's murder."
"Mmm," Angelica muttered, her attention still on the offending vehicle. "That's the third or fourth time I've seen it."
"Excuse me, miss, could you help me?" asked a middle-aged woman, clutching a handwritten list. "I'm looking for Malice with Murder, by Nicholas Blake. Do you have a copy?"
Tricia gave the customer her full attention. Angelica mouthed, "Later," and wandered off toward the back shelves.
Ginny popped a more lively CD into the player, and between them she and Tricia waited on four more customers who paid for their purchases. The crowd had thinned by the time a puzzled-looking Angelica stepped up to the counter, slapping a booklet onto the glass top. "What are you doing with an old cooking pamphlet on one of your shelves?"
Awestruck, Tricia gaped at the booklet's title: American Cookery, by Amelia Simmons. "Good grief, it's the book that was stolen when Doris was murdered."
Eleven
Curious onlookers lurking under umbrellas peered through the plate-glass windows of Haven't Got a Clue, the closed sign and locked door did nothing to deter them from rubbernecking. And despite the lack of customers, the shop seemed crowded with Sheriff Adams, a deputy, Angelica, Ginny, and Tricia, as well as Deirdre Gleason and Mr. Everett, who'd followed along after Ginny had called Deirdre over.