Scowling, Angelica backed off and stepped up to the coffee station. "I really didn't know Ginny wanted that house," she hissed.
"She'll get over it. Have a cup of coffee." Tricia poured the last of the pot into one of the store's cups and gave it to Angelica.
Angelica swirled the dregs, then glanced over the assortment of creamers, choosing hazelnut. "How did it go at the lawyer's office?"
"Better than I thought. And he's going to try to help Grace, too."
"That's great. I wonder if he does real estate closings."
Ginny cleared her throat, glared at Angelica. "Have you finished unpacking that case of Dashiell Hammetts yet, Ange?"
"Don't call me Ange. And no, I haven't."
Tricia wasn't about to get caught up in a Ginny/Angie catfight and headed to the back of the store where Mr. Everett was already happily rearranging the biographies. "Mr. Everett, you mentioned Deirdre was grumpy. Just what was bothering her today?"
The older man straightened, holding on to a biography of Anthony Boucher by Jeffrey Marks. "That woman is just as disagreeable as her sister ever was. In fact, if I didn't know she was dead, I would swear I'd spent time with Doris, not Deirdre Gleason."
"Did you know Doris well?" Tricia asked.
"Not well, but I'd observed her enough times. I was a grocer. I knew how to cook a few basic dishes, and when my wife died I attended a number of the Cookery's demonstrations to learn more. Macaroni and cheese from a box palls after a few meals," he confided.
"Would you say the sisters' personalities were interchangeable?" Angelica asked from behind Tricia, who hadn't heard her sister approach.
"Ms. Deirdre puts on airs when she thinks she's got an audience, but in private she's just as irascible as her late sibling."
Angelica gave her sister a jab. "Didn't I tell you? I'd bet my Anolon cookware the woman next door is really Doris, not Deirdre."
"Don't be absurd. We've been over this before."
"And I'm still right. I'll bet when they were kids those identical twins switched personalities whenever it suited them. And if that's so, why wouldn't they do that later in life?"
"Nobody in their right mind agrees to change identities, especially if they're about to be killed."
"Well, of course Deirdre wouldn't agree to the idea-not if she was the victim. But if Doris did take her identity, she'd have it all. The insurance payout would cover her debts and she'd also have access to whatever assets Deirdre, a successful businesswoman, had owned, which would save her failing shop and also help support her daughter. And why should she feel guilt? Her sister had a fatal illness, she would've died anyway. Doris may have justified the act believing she'd saved Deirdre from the horror of a painful death."
The idea made sense, but Tricia didn't want to embrace it. Not only did it negate her own theory that Mike Harris killed Doris, but there was no way on Earth she wanted Angelica to be proven right-again.
"Maybe I should go next door and talk to Deirdre. I know a fair bit about cooking. If she does, too, it would only help prove my point."
"Do what you want," Tricia said and waved a hand in dismissal. "Talking about all this isn't getting the work around here done."
Mr. Everett bent over his task once more as Angelica rolled her eyes theatrically. "Says she who's been away from the store all day."
"There won't be a store if I can't get Sheriff Adams off my back," Tricia countered.
"Well, even if you do go to jail, I'm still here to pick up the pieces. And isn't that what family is for?"
Tricia found her fingers involuntarily clenching-her body's way of saving her from another murder rap by preventing her from choking the life out of her only sibling. Meanwhile, Angelica stood before her, waiting for some kind of an answer.
Tricia turned away. "I'm starving, I haven't had a thing to eat since breakfast. Where's the bakery bag? There must be a few cookies left."
"Sorry," Angelica apologized. "I ate the last one just before you came back."
Suddenly fratricide seemed like a wonderful solution to all life's problems.
Twenty-Two
Tricia tried not to keep an eye on the clock, but after Angelica had been gone for almost an hour she began to worry. What if Angelica said or did something to tip Deirdre off about her suspicions? What if Deirdre threatened Angelica? The what-ifs in her mind began to escalate and she was glad to wait on the few customers who'd braved the elements to patronize Haven't Got a Clue.
The rain had not let up and the street lamps had already blinked on. Tricia let a still-distraught Ginny leave early, and she and Mr. Everett were discussing the merits of doing more author signings and the possibility of staring a reading group when Angelica finally returned.
"Well?" Tricia asked.
Angelica pushed up her sweater sleeves and shrugged. "That woman would make a pretty fair poker player."
"What was her attitude?" Mr. Everett asked. "Polite or had she reverted to type?"
Tricia blinked, surprised. That made twice in one day Mr. Everett had shown irritation.
"She was polite, but she has absolutely no clue how to sell a room," Angelica said and made an attempt to fluff up her rain-dampened hair. "Then again, her house was no better."
Mr. Everett frowned, puzzled by the remark.
"That's because she's selling books-not a room," Tricia grated, hoping Mr. Everett wouldn't ask Angelica how she knew about Doris's home.
"Yes, but if you want to be successful," Angelica continued, oblivious of her gaffe, "you've got to have atmosphere, which you've achieved here with your hunter green accents, sumptuous paneling, the copper tiled ceiling, the oak shelves-you've even got great carpet. This room makes you want to sit down with a good book, a glass of sherry, and a cigar."
Mr. Everett blinked at this last.
"Well, not me personally-I don't smoke-but you know what I mean. Whoever that woman is next door-she's clueless when it comes to selling."
"And what would you do to entice a customer to buy old cookbooks?" Mr. Everett asked.
She turned to face him. "I'd offer more than just books. Exotic gadgets-even just as decor. I'd have samples of dipping sauces, tapanades, mustards, relishes, jams, jellies, and chutneys. I'd feature different cuisines, from Indian to Irish to Asian fusion."
"Doris used to have cooking demonstrations. And don't forget, the lure of Stoneham is rare and antiquarian books," Tricia told her.
"So why can't you offer the new with the old? Tricia, people love to eat. For a big segment of the population, food is more important than sex. Why else would there be an obesity crisis in this country? When life hands you lemons, you make a meringue pie or a luscious curd."
Had Angelica found solace in food? Then again, she'd recently lost a lot of weight. Maybe she'd made the effort to appear more attractive to the husband who no longer wanted her.
"My point is," Angelica continued, "her shtick is food. She ought to play it up."
"Did you tell her that?"
Angelica frowned. "Not exactly. I did tell her I was thinking of opening a restaurant, and we had a nice discussion about food prep."
"Did she seem to know a lot about cooking?" Tricia asked.
"She asked a lot of questions. The kind someone might ask if they weren't sure what they were getting into."
"Where does this leave your theory about her?"
"I don't know," Angelica admitted. "She may have been testing me, or maybe just giving me a snow job."
"I didn't know you wanted to open a restaurant, Mrs. Prescott," said Mr. Everett. "I'm an old hand when it comes to fresh produce. I'd enjoy having a dialogue on it with you some time, if you wouldn't mind."