"If you hadn't discovered it. Besides, I wouldn't have died. My smoke alarms work-and I have an excellent sprinkler system."
"You discovered the fire?" Bob asked, zeroing in on Angelica.
She waved a hand in dismissal. "It was nothing, really. I only wish we could've saved that poor woman."
"It wasn't nothing," Bob said. "The whole block could've gone up, and then the village would've-" He let the sentence fade, his face blanching. No doubt he was already thinking about the upcoming zoning board meeting, and how he could force through new rules for fire safety. The costs would no doubt be passed on to the lease owners. Tricia knew that, like Doris, several other bookstore owners were already living on the precarious edge of profitability with the possibility of folding. And trust Bob Kelly to care more for the buildings than the potential loss of a human life.
Bob's gimmicky idea of basing the village's economy on used bookstores luring in tourists had been inspired by the town of Hay-on-Wye. That little Welsh town had been in the same financial boat as Stoneham: picturesque but fallen on hard times. The original leases had been written in favor of the booksellers, but as Doris had found out, success came with a price. The signs were already evident that Doris's business was on the slide. Fewer food-prep demonstrations and the fact her best-selling product was at the low end of the profit spectrum.
That will not happen to me, Tricia thought. For years she'd daydreamed about every aspect of her store, from the stock to the decor. She'd written and rewritten her business plan, had goals for expanding the business and a timetable to do it. Her divorce a year earlier had presented her with the money and all the time in the world to pursue her lifelong dream of entrepreneurship. After five months in business, Tricia was exactly where she expected to be: paying her rent, her employee, covering her overhead, and making a modest profit. Only time would tell if word of Doris's murder would have an impact on the whole village's revenue stream. The thought depressed her.
As though anticipating her owner's solemn thoughts, Miss Marple appeared at Tricia's side. She gave a muffled "yow," and dropped her favorite, rather ratty-looking catnip sock at Tricia's feet.
"Oh, thank you, Miss Marple," she said, patting the cat's furry gray head. "You are a very thoughtful kitty." Miss Marple purred loudly.
"Darling Trish. You must come back with me to the inn. I'm sure they can move some kind of cot into my room. You're much too upset to drive, so give me your keys," Angelica insisted once again.
"That won't be necessary. This is my home and I'm staying put. And I'm not upset," she lied. "As soon as the sheriff is finished, I'll drive you back to the inn."
"Nonsense," Bob interrupted. "I'd be delighted to escort you back to the Brookview, Mrs. Prescott."
Angelica turned slowly to face Bob. "Call me Angelica," she said, her voice softening, her blue eyes lowered coyly.
Bob smiled, practically oozing with gentlemanly charm.
What was this effect Angie had on men? And what was wrong with these two? A woman had been murdered mere feet from where they all stood. Then again, if Bob managed to get Angelica out of Tricia's hair, she might be inclined to ignore some of his other annoying attributes.
Sheriff Adams returned, looking bad-tempered. "I guess that's all for tonight, folks. But I'll be needing official statements from all three of you. I'll send a deputy by sometime tomorrow to take them. In the meantime, please don't leave town without notifying the sheriff's department."
As if, Tricia was tempted to sniff. Then it occurred to her what Sheriff Adams was really saying: that perhaps she didn't believe their accounts as they'd given them.
Miss Marple hadn't appreciated an early wake-up call, but the image of Doris Gleason with a knife in her back kept Tricia from restful sleep; her dreams had been shadowed by dark menacing images she could only half remember. She'd showered, dressed, and fed herself and her cat before trundling down the stairs to her shop. Next on the list: vacuuming, tidying, and all the other chores she hadn't accomplished before leaving the night before. It was while resetting the security system she noticed the cord from the wall-mounted camera dangling loose, with the unmistakable indentations from feline teeth.
"Miss Marple. Didn't I tell you not to mess with that camera?" she admonished.
The cat jumped to the counter and rubbed her head against Tricia's arm.
"Oh no, you don't. I am not your friend right now."
Miss Marple swished her tail and jumped down, sashaying across the carpet without a backward glance.
Before Tricia could call the security company, the phone rang and she let the answering machine kick in. "The Haven't Got a Clue mystery bookstore's hours are ten a.m. to seven p.m. on Mondays, Tuesdays ten to six; Wednesday through Saturday ten to seven, and Sunday noon to three. Please leave a message at the tone."
Beep!
"Bernie Weston, Nashua Telegraph. Looking to interview Tricia Miles about last night's Stoneham murder at the Cookery. Please call at-" He left a number.
That was one phone call Tricia was determined not to return. True, talking to the press would get the shop's name in the newspaper, but a murder-even next door to a mystery bookstore-was negative publicity, and she preferred not to believe that even negative publicity was good publicity.
She wiped the message from the machine and dialed another number.
"We're swamped," said the harried male voice at Ace Security. "I might be able to get someone out to you by the end of the week, but I can't make any promises. If the rest of your system's intact, you shouldn't have too much of a problem."
Let's see: murder, theft, and arson had occurred just feet from Tricia's doorstep. Why wouldn't she feel secure with a third of her system on the blink? As a small-business owner, she'd wanted to patronize other local businesses, but now wondered if she'd regret that decision.
She hung up the phone, put a soothing Enya CD on low, and commandeered her sheepskin duster. Taking care of her beloved books always had a calming effect on her psyche. And she needed that calm, for in the next half hour the answering machine took four more calls from newspapers, radio stations, and/or television stations in Concord, Nashua, and Manchester. Screening calls was the order of the day. Stoneham's small-town gossip mill was bound to be in full force, and the best source of information showed up ten minutes after Haven't Got a Clue opened.
A bleary-eyed Ginny scowled as she snagged a cup of coffee from the store's steaming pot before she'd even hung up her jacket. "Sheriff Adams was waiting for me when I got home last night. Let me tell you, being interrogated by a cop can really put a crimp in your love life. Brian hightailed it out of my place so fast I almost got windburn."
"What does he have to hide?" Tricia asked.
Ginny glowered. "I think his car's inspection sticker might be a little overdue."
"A little?"
"Okay, by two months."
"What did the sheriff ask you about?"
Ginny's answer was succinct. "You."
Tricia started. "Me?"
"Apparently, you were the last person to see Daww-ris"-she again dragged the name out-"alive."
"Except for the killer, you mean."
Ginny shrugged, warming her hands on the store's logo-emblazoned cardboard cup. "I suppose."
Tricia hoped her only employee had been a little more aggressive in defending her when speaking with the sheriff.
"I told her I was in Doris's shop for perhaps five minutes, just to return her glasses. We talked briefly about her expensive little cookbook, then I went to the inn, picked up my sister, and we were back here within thirty-maybe forty minutes."