Caught!
SEVEN
“Haw-haw!” Frannie said with glee, as Tricia shut the Cookery’s door. She straightened and, with great dignity, placed Sarge on the carpet, where he promptly sat, looking up at her expectantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she told Frannie, but she could feel the color rising up her neck to her cheeks.
“You kissed Angelica’s dog-right on the head. Wait ’til Miss Marple smells that dog on you. She’s going to be mighty upset.”
“I only took Sarge for a walk to help Angelica out. It’s not like I’m swearing off cats forever.”
Frannie crossed her arms over her pink and white aloha shirt. “Uh-uh.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take Sarge upstairs,” Tricia said, then tugged on the leash, and Sarge jumped to his feet and happily followed.
By the time Tricia returned to the kitchen, Angelica was busy stirring something in a pot on the stove. She dipped the spoon out and held it out to Tricia. “Here, taste this.”
“I really have to get back to my store. Mr. Everett is waiting,” Tricia said, and quickly let Sarge off his leash, which she hung on a chair. “Gotta go!” she said, then hightailed it out of the kitchen, down the hall, and to the stairs that led back to the Cookery. She hoped she could escape without having to talk to Frannie again, but as there were no customers in the store, Frannie had lain in wait for her to exit the stairway and practically jumped out at her.
“Don’t do that!” Tricia chided. “You could give someone a heart attack.”
“Oh, sorry,” Frannie apologized, but her eyes were alight with mischief. She was ready to dish some kind of gossip.
“I hear tell things aren’t as they seem over at the Sheer Comfort Inn.”
Tricia’s eyes narrowed. “And who told you that? Angelica?”
Frannie shook her head. “She’s too busy working on her new cookbook to stand around with the help these days. No, I got a call from a friend of a friend who said that Mr. Comfort isn’t Mr. Comfort at all. And that you might have known him in the past.”
Since Frannie considered Mary to be a friend, could the friend of a friend be Chauncey Porter? He’d been the only other person at the B-and-B the night before that Frannie might have known.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tricia said, and headed for the exit.
“World-famous mystery author Harrison Tyler,” Frannie said with a lilt in her voice.
That stopped Tricia dead. She turned back to face Frannie.
“Word is that you and he were as thick as thieves just before he disappeared and was presumed dead.” Frannie shook her head. “You poor little thing. Tricia, next to me, you have got to be the world’s unluckiest woman when it comes to love.”
Tricia blinked, startled by that pronouncement. “Well, I-”
“Of course, Angelica has had her share of heartache, too,” Frannie went on. “But no more than me. And I’m sure Chief Baker had to have had something to say about all this. Did you two have words? Are you a suspect? Did you know Mr. Tyler was here in Stoneham all along?”
“No, I didn’t, and I-”
But before she could finish her sentence, Frannie continued. “I’ve gone and entered the twenty-first century. I’ve signed up for computer dating.”
Tricia couldn’t seem to stop blinking. Where was this conversation going, anyway? “You did?”
Frannie nodded. “Why not? I’m not meeting any men here in Stoneham. I don’t mind driving to Portsmouth or Manchester-if the right fella comes along, that is.”
“I-I never gave that a consideration.”
“You should,” Frannie said with authority. She leaned in and lowered her voice. “In case things don’t work out for you with Mr. Tyler or the chief. I’ve already had three dates with three different guys.”
“And none of them worked out,” Tricia guessed.
“Hell no! I’m going to a Celtics game in Boston next week with one of them. And my second fella, Barney, is taking me out to dinner on Friday night. And then the third one wants me to go to a show with him.” Frannie’s grin widened. “I don’t know when I’ve had so much fun.”
For a moment, Tricia thought she might cry. But then she did a quick reassessment of her life and decided, The hell with romance! She had a career she loved, Angelica, and many friends. She’d had the princess wedding and things hadn’t worked out. Her two rebound relationships had gone nowhere. But romantic interludes weren’t all there was to life.
“I’m very happy for you, Frannie,” she managed with a smile that she hoped looked genuine. She glanced at her watch. “I’ve really got to be going. It’s time for Mr. Everett’s lunch break.” She started for the door.
“Just remember what I said about online dating. And don’t you worry one bit. I won’t tell Angelica how you kissed her dog, either.”
Tricia didn’t bother to wave good-bye. And she had no doubt that the next time Angelica came down the steps into her shop, Frannie would go and tell all, and in excruciating detail. Frannie was often a great resource for gossip-except when you were on the receiving end of it.
Mr. Everett’s lunchtime came and went. He came down from the second-floor break room looking sad and keeping himself to himself, as her grandmother used to say. Since he wasn’t feeling talkative-except when it came to recommending books to customers, of course-Tricia turned on some cheerful Celtic music and tried to concentrate on the paperwork before her. Unfortunately, her conversation with Frannie kept replaying on her mind. How long would it be before Angelica called and taunted her?
Okay, Sarge was very cute. Tricia had entertained the idea of adopting him herself before Angelica practically stole him from the Milford Animal Hospital some eight months before.
But that wasn’t really what was on her mind: Harrison Tyler, aka Jon Comfort. She’d been so shocked-and more angry-to see him that it hadn’t really penetrated that his disappearance just before his wife’s death made him the prime suspect in her murder.
Well, duh! As she’d told Angelica, the spouse is always the first to become a person of interest in a murder investigation.
Part of her wanted to talk to him, commiserate with him. The other part just flat-out wanted to kill him.
She looked around, wondering if any of the customers in the store could read her mind.
The shop door opened, accompanied by the little bell that rang out cheerfully, and Harry Tyler himself walked in.
The part of Tricia that felt sorry for the rat quickly fizzled. “May I help you?” she asked tartly.
For a moment, Harry just stood there, taking in the bookshelves, the beverage station, and the photos of long-dead mystery authors framed on the hunter green walls. His gaze settled on one of them: his own. Tricia had almost forgotten she’d included his face among the no-longer-living legends.
While he was taking in the scenery, Tricia allowed herself to study Harry. He hadn’t changed much. Just a few more lines around the eyes, and streaks of gray in his hair, which was longer, shaggier, too, although it seemed to fit him. His leather jacket was unzipped, and Tricia could see the contour of his muscles beneath a sky blue-and rather tight-sweater. Had he dressed to impress her?
Harry seemed to shake himself and shuffled over to the cash desk. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she said, and actually sounded civil. “What are you doing here? Did you come to see if I stock Death Beckons?”
He shook his head. “I was over at the Baker Funeral Home, making…arrangements.”
“Surely the ME hasn’t already released Pippa’s-” She halted, unable to finish the sentence when she saw the stark look of anguish in his eyes. At one time she’d loved those eyes. Or at least she thought she had. It was so long ago…and yet, when she looked at him now, it might as well have been weeks-not years-since they were together. “I’m sorry, Harry.”