"I know," she said and sighed. "I didn't get to vacuum or anything." She retrieved her purse from the cabinet under the display case, slipped past the register, and noticed Doris's glasses still sitting on the counter. "You would've thought she'd miss these," she said and stuffed them into her bag. "I better drop them off on the way to meet Angelica."
"Better you than me-on both accounts."
"I'll give you a hundred dollars-cash-if you do both."
Ginny laughed and shook her head. "Maybe for a hundred thousand, but nothing less."
Miss Marple meowed from her perch on the shelf above the register. "Don't worry, you'll get your dinner when I come home." Miss Marple rubbed her head against the security camera. "And stop that. You keep messing up the camera's angle."
Miss Marple threw her entire eight-pound body against it, knocking it out of alignment, and purred loudly.
"I told you so-I told you so," Ginny sang. Yes, she had told Tricia the camera wasn't high enough on the wall. But it would've interfered with the decorative molding if it was mounted any higher.
Tricia scooped up the cat and set her on one of the comfortable chairs. "Stay down," she ordered.
Miss Marple tossed her head, dismissing the command.
Tricia rolled her eyes and headed for the door once again. She locked it, then realized she hadn't lowered the window shades. She'd have to do it on her return.
The lights in the Cookery bookshop were already dimmed, but Tricia could see Doris still standing behind the sales counter.
"See you tomorrow," Ginny called brightly and headed down the street toward the municipal lot where she'd parked her car.
Tricia gave a wave and turned back for the door, giving it a knock. Doris looked up, had on another pair of outsized specs, but motioned Tricia to go away before she bent back over the counter again. Tricia retrieved the glasses from her purse and knocked once more. This time, she waved them when Doris looked up.
The annoyed shopkeeper skirted the sales counter, lumbered to the door, and unlocked it.
"I'm glad you're still here. You left these in my store this morning," Tricia said.
"So that's where they went. I'm always losing them. That's why I keep an extra pair here at the shop." She pocketed them in the same ugly sweater she'd worn earlier in the day, but the rest of her attire had changed. Dressed in dark slacks and a red blouse, she looked pounds lighter, years younger, and, except for the sweater, almost elegant.
Tricia had never actually been in the Cookery before. It seemed like all her encounters with Doris had been in her own shop. Since all the storefronts were more or less the same-give or take a few feet in width-the Cookery was set up in the same configuration as Haven't Got a Clue, except that where the mystery store had a seating area, the cookbook store housed a cooking demo area: a horseshoe-shaped island with a knife block, complete with ten or twelve chef knives, a small sink, burners, and an under-the-counter refrigerator. Overhead hung a large rectangular mirror so that an audience would see the hands-on instruction. A thin film of greasy dust covered the station, which obviously hadn't been used in a while.
"Nice store," Tricia said.
"It ought to be," Doris groused. "I put a lot of money into it, and if Bob Kelly and I can't come to an agreement on it tonight, I'll lose it all."
The cost of doing business, Tricia thought, but didn't voice what would obviously be an unpopular opinion.
Doris glanced at the big clock over the register. "Bob should've been here ten minutes ago-the inconsiderate jerk."
Atop the main sales counter sat an oblong Lucite container that housed what looked like an aged booklet. The little hinged door sported a sturdy lock. "The prize of your collection?" Tricia asked, her curiosity piqued.
Doris's eyes lit up, and for the first time Tricia saw beyond the sour expression to the woman's true passion. "Yes. It's American Cookery, by Amelia Simmons, the very first American cookbook ever published back in 1796. A similar copy recently sold for ten thousand dollars at auction."
Calling the little, yellowing pamphlet a book was stretching the definition.
Doris exhaled a shaky breath, her expression akin to a lovesick teen. "I wish I could keep it myself, but-"
Tricia knew that "but" only too well. Like every other collector she, too, had coveted the holy grail for her own collection. She'd been close a few times, but had never been able to obtain an original copy of Graham's Lady's and Gentleman's Magazine containing Poe's short story "The Murders in the Rue Morgue."
"What are you asking for it?"
Doris hesitated. "I haven't actually set a price. I only obtained it a couple of weeks ago. The lockbox arrived just yesterday. But I couldn't resist putting it on exhibition." She gazed fondly at the booklet. "Of course I have a facsimile of it at home and have read it many times, but to actually hold an original copy in my hands has been the thrill of a lifetime."
Tricia nodded.
Doris shook her head. "It's sad how few people really appreciate a well-written cookbook. Most of the slobs who come in here are looking for the latest Food Network star's most recent atrocity. And I can't tell you how much money I make on old Betty Crocker books from the fifties and sixties. Not even first editions, mind you. I can sell a tenth or twelfth edition for twenty bucks." She shuddered. Clearly, the woman hated the books, but she'd sell them to pay her rent-it was something else Tricia understood.
"How did you score such a find?" Tricia asked.
Doris's expression curdled. "Private sale."
The fact that she wouldn't elaborate must've meant the former owner had since had an inkling of what the booklet might be worth.
Tricia forced a smile. "I'd better get going."
"Thank you for returning my glasses," Doris said, her tone still clipped.
"No problem."
Doris followed Tricia to the door and locked it behind her without even a good night.
Tricia headed down the sidewalk with no thought to the snub-now to face Angelica. Of the two, she ruefully admitted that she'd probably rather spend time with Doris.
She'd parked her own car in the municipal lot earlier in the day. By this time it was mostly empty. Now that school was back in session, the bulk of the summer tourist trade had evaporated. That would change when the autumn leaves began to turn and tour buses and crowds would return for another few weeks of superior sales. Thank goodness for the cruise ships that moored in Portsmouth and Boston harbors, which often brought in more customers. Once winter arrived they, too, would be gone. Still, the business slowdown would give Tricia time to establish a storefront in cyberspace, something she'd been meaning to do since she'd opened some five months previous.
Stoneham wasn't very large and it only took a minute or two for Tricia to drive to the Brookview Inn, lit up like a Thomas Kinkade painting with warm yellow light spilling from every window. Soft pink roses flanked steps leading to the entrance, the last of the summer's offerings crowding against white-painted wrought-iron railings. Tricia hesitated, taking in the delicate scent. No doubt Angelica would have doused herself in the latest overpriced perfume with a celebrity's name attached to it.
Stop it, she ordered. Yet she'd spent her whole life finding fault with her older sister. Was it natural that even as an adult she hadn't been able to let go of her childhood animosity? If she was honest with herself, she should blame their mother for fostering such an unhealthy atmosphere.
Then again, Mother never took the blame for anything.
Tricia took a breath to control her anxiety. It was really her own reactions to her sister that upset her. Angelica wasn't likely to change anytime soon. It was up to Tricia to ride out the visit and not let it turn her into the jealous child she thought she'd long outgrown.