Tricia and Ginny exchanged glances. "I need a cup of coffee," Tricia said.
"I'd go for something stronger," Ginny muttered.
"Not during work hours-but I agree. Put something cheerful on the CD player and hope we get busy so we don't have to think about what we've just been through."
"You got it," Ginny said.
Tricia poured them both a cup of coffee while Ginny sorted through a stack of jewel boxes, selecting a jazz piano CD.
Peace now reigned, but forgetting the significance of finding that wretched booklet in her store wasn't going to be so easily accomplished.
The hands on the clock finally crawled around to closing time. Despite her hopes otherwise, very few customers had come in during the intervening hours and Tricia and Ginny had completed all their end-of-day tasks, save for counting the receipts. Mr. Everett had checked in, assuring Tricia that Deirdre had left the Cookery for the day, then he, too, departed. Miss Marple sat patiently at the door to the stairs, anticipating her evening routine.
Ginny grabbed her coat and purse from the back closet and headed for the exit. "Night, Trish."
The door opened before she could grasp the handle. Russ Smith stood in the open doorway. "Are you closed?"
"Yes," Ginny said emphatically.
"Not quite," Tricia said. "How can I help you?" Her tone was civil, but cool.
"Want me to stay?" Ginny asked.
Tricia shook her head. "Go on. Have a nice day off. See you Monday."
Ginny looked uncertain, but Tricia waved her off. "It's okay. Now scoot."
As the door closed behind her, Russ walked up to the counter. Shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, he gave the shop the once-over. "I seem to be your last customer."
"Yes, and you're keeping me from my dinner."
"As I recall, I invited you out."
"And as I recall, I turned you down. Come on, you're only here because you heard the book stolen from Doris Gleason's store was found here earlier today."
"Actually, I didn't know that, but thank you for sharing. The special over at the diner is meat loaf and real mashed potatoes."
"How do you know they're real?"
"I wasn't always a small-time reporter. I worked the Boston crime beat for years. And besides, I've seen the peels in their garbage."
Tricia's stomach growled, betraying her.
"See, at least part of you wants to go with me. And what's your alternative: a peanut butter sandwich?"
Had he been scoping out her cupboards and fridge? And although she'd neglected her paperwork for days and needed to catch up, the truth was she really didn't want to be alone tonight and cursed Angelica for having a date.
"Okay," she agreed, "but only if we go Dutch."
Russ shrugged. "Saves me eight-ninety-nine plus tax and tip."
Already Tricia regretted her decision, yet she locked the cash drawer, pocketing the keys. "I have to feed my cat before I can go."
"Do what you gotta do," he said and flopped down into one of the nook's chairs. "I'll wait."
The walk to the Bookshelf Diner had been silent. At least the rain had stopped, but a voice in Tricia's head kept up a litany of "big mistake, big mistake" with every step along the damp pavement.
Russ held the door open for her. A sign on the metal floor stand said SEAT YOURSELF. With only two other booths occupied, they had their pick of the place. Heads turned as the village jinx walked down the aisle, but Tricia aimed for the back of the restaurant with her head held high. She slid across the last booth's red Naugahyde seat and shrugged out of her jacket, folding it and placing it next to her. Russ hung his on a peg and sat down.
A college-age waitress with a quick smile, a pierced brow, and a name tag that said "Eugenia" handed them menus and took their drink orders before disappearing.
Tricia eyed her surroundings. The name over the door did not match the decor. The only books in the Bookshelf Diner were of the trompe l'oeil variety-and then on a commercial wall covering. The waitress returned, setting the stemmed glass down in front of Tricia and pouring coffee for Russ. After quickly consulting the menu she did order the meat loaf, then practically gulped the well-deserved glass of red wine.
"Tough day, huh?" Russ asked.
"I've had better. And I don't want to talk about it."
"Why should you? The sheriff suspects you of murder. I'm sure it's just lack of motive that's keeping her from locking you up. She'll have to turn up the heat after finding that book in your store."
"She did not find it. My sister did."
"Then she's not doing you any favors, either."
Tricia snatched up her glass, gulping down the rest of her wine, then let it smack back down on the table. "I barely knew Doris Gleason. She argued with Bob Kelly, had an appointment to see him on the night she was murdered. He wanted her out of that store, which is at least a credible motive for murder. He left the Brookview Inn before Ange and I did, but he didn't show up at the Cookery until more than an hour after I found Doris dead. Where was he during that time?"
"You tell me."
"He could have murdered Doris, then showed up later feigning no knowledge."
Russ sat back, folded his arms across his chest. "If I was you, I'd quit harping on Bob Kelly as a possible suspect. For one thing, he would've never started the fire at the Cookery and put his property at risk just to get rid of a tenant. And even so, it wouldn't matter if he were caught plunging the knife in the victim's back. Most people around here consider him a savior for how he almost single-handedly brought Stoneham back to life."
"So someone like me, who's innocent, should take the blame?"
"I didn't say that. But in the sheriff's eyes, so far you are the only 'person of note.'"
Tricia picked up her glass, signaling the waitress for a refill. "I did not kill Doris Gleason. I had no reason to kill Doris Gleason."
Heads turned at the sound of her words.
"I'd start looking for reasons why others might've wanted her dead."
"That isn't my job. You said you were once a big-time reporter; isn't there at least a shred of Clark Kent left inside you? Why don't you take up the challenge, or at least direct one of your minions to do it?"
"Honey, I have a staff of two, one of which spends her time soliciting ads to keep us afloat. My chief reporter is a soccer mom who writes most of her copy after her kids go to bed. I do everything else. You own a small business-you know the drill."
"Do I ever."
The waitress returned with another glass of wine and their dinners.
Russ picked up his fork and stabbed at his mashed potatoes. "Besides, you run a mystery bookstore. You've probably read enough of them to get you started. In fact, you may already have bits and pieces of knowledge about the murder you haven't yet put together. I'd be happy to brainstorm with you about it."
"You'd be the last person I'd bare my soul to. I'd see whatever I tell you in next Friday's edition. It's just as likely whoever killed Doris was a transient. Someone who'd canvassed the Cookery, figured any book worth locking up would be of value, killed Doris, and stole it." She took another sip from her glass.
"Is that you or the wine talking? Don't kid yourself. The fact that book was found in your store means someone wants you to take the blame. You can either keep wandering around in denial or ask yourself some tough questions: like who wants you out of the picture and why?"
Twelve
When the check arrived, Tricia and Russ ponied up their shares, donned their jackets, and headed for the exit. The wind had picked up and the clouds had departed, leaving the sky clear and star-strewn. "Walk you home?" Russ offered.