Tricia didn’t recognize the woman who sat behind the window, sorting through an enormous pile of unopened mail. She had to be in her late forties or early fifties, clad in a vintage dress from the 1940s, with carrot-colored hair done up in a pompadour, heavy makeup, and a tattoo of a rose with a dagger through it on her left forearm. Queen of the Roller Derby, Tricia thought, and instantly felt ashamed for making such a quick value judgment.
The woman looked up at Tricia, and her face crumpled into a sneer. She reached to open the window. “Can I help you?” she said, her tone nasal and unwelcoming.
Trouble with a capital T. Tricia adopted what she hoped was a friendly smile. “My name is Tricia Miles. I’m a friend of Mrs. Harris-Everett’s. Could you please tell her I’m here to see her?”
Carrot-top glared at Tricia for at least ten incredibly long seconds before answering, “No.” She reached up and closed the window once again.
Aghast, Tricia stood there in disbelief. Then she shook herself and tapped on the glass with the knuckles of her right hand. “Excuse me.”
Carrot-top ignored her and reached over to a small radio on the desk, turning up the volume on an oldies station.
Tricia rapped on the glass harder. Carrot-top continued to ignore her and swung her chair around so that she could no longer see Tricia.
“Miss, miss!” Tricia insisted.
She reached over and opened the glass. “Excuse me, but I’m a friend of Mrs. Everett’s. Her husband asked me to come here to speak with her.”
Carrot-top finally stood and turned back to the window. “Yeah, right. If I had a buck for everybody who came in here or called with that story, I’d be a millionaire myself. Now beat it, before I call the cops.”
“I’ll have you know Chief Baker of the Stoneham Police Department is my…my boyfriend.” Whoa! That was firing the heavy artillery, and not exactly true at the moment, either. Likewise, Carrot-top was not impressed.
“And Santa comes down my chimney on Christmas Eve,” the woman replied.
Furious, Tricia turned for the door to the inner sanctum and grasped the handle. It was locked.
Carrot-top leaned across her desk and raised her voice. “I’m not kidding, lady. Get out of here or I’ll come out there and bust your face myself.”
Tricia’s jaw dropped in shock. “Does Grace know you speak to visitors in that tone of voice and with such malice?”
Carrot-top smiled sweetly. “Who do you think told me to keep out the riffraff?”
Tricia just stood there, speechless.
“Shut your mouth, honey. Ain’t no flies in here to catch.”
Tricia did, and found herself puffing great breaths through her nose. She turned, very ladylike, and exited the office. However, the minute she closed the door behind her, she stuck out her tongue at it. It was stupid, it was childish, and it felt good.
Once outside, Tricia stood on the sidewalk and took a few moments to ground herself, glad she had the trip to the bank to help her decompress after her unpleasant encounter with old Carrot-top.
Before she had time to move, the door behind her opened again. She turned, wondering if Carrot-top was about to make good on her threat, but it was Amy Schram who nearly ran into her.
“Tricia! What are you doing blocking the door?”
“Sorry. I just came from the Everett Foundation.” She found she didn’t have the words to say any more about that unpleasant encounter. “What are you doing here?”
“I just rented the apartment on the third floor. It’s my first place,” she said, and beamed with pride. “What a relief to get out from under my mom and dad’s thumb.”
“You still work for them, though.”
“Of course. But now I can come and go as I please without a lot of questions. I love my freedom.”
Tricia well remembered her first apartment and the enjoyment she’d experienced while decorating-and entertaining whom she wanted when she wanted.
“Congratulations. I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you around the village.”
Amy laughed. “You sure will. I’d better get back to work. Have to check on my bulbs.” She gave a wave and took off down the sidewalk. It was then Tricia saw the Milford Florist and Nursery van parked near the Happy Domestic. She started off in the same direction, heading for the bank.
By the time she got back to Haven’t Got a Clue, she found an impatient Mr. Everett waiting for her. “I’m sorry, Mr. Everett, but I wasn’t able to get in to-”
But he cut her off before she could explain. “There’s a person from the employment agency here to see you,” he said, and nodded toward a thin woman of about fifty with windblown brown hair browsing among the books. She wore a buff-colored trench coat, hose, and black flats, and carried a leather briefcase.
“I’d better go introduce myself to her,” she whispered, but first stowed her purse behind the cash desk. She took off her jacket and was about to stuff it under the counter when Mr. Everett reached for it.
“I’ll hang it up,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Tricia made her way across the store. The woman looked up. “Hello. I’m Tricia Miles, owner of Haven’t Got a Clue.”
The woman offered her hand. “Linda Fugitt. I’m here about the assistant manager’s job.”
“Won’t you sit down and we’ll talk,” Tricia said, with a wave of her hand toward the readers’ nook. “Can I take your coat and get you a cup of coffee?”
“Oh no, I’m fine,” the woman said.
They took adjacent seats in the nook and the woman pulled a résumé from her briefcase. “I haven’t had retail experience in quite some time, but I learn fast and I’m good with people,” she explained.
Tricia looked over the résumé, her stomach tightening. Linda Fugitt, whose last job was assistant director of the Anderson Foundation for the Arts in Manchester. With a master of science degree in nonprofit management, she was vastly overqualified for the position of assistant manager, and Tricia reluctantly told her so. “You’d have to work Saturdays as well.”
“I’m more than willing to do so,” Linda assured her.
Tricia couldn’t keep from reading the title of assistant director over and over again.
“Ms. Miles, I’ll be frank,” Linda said. “I need this job. Since the economy tanked, charitable giving for the arts has taken a terrible tumble.”
That was no exaggeration. For many years Tricia had worked for an NPO in Manhattan. She’d lost her job under similar circumstances.
“I’ve been unable to find any employment,” Linda continued. “It’s always the same story, too. I’m overqualified for every position I’ve interviewed for in the past six months. If you could just let me work for you for minimum wage for even a couple of months, if you’re dissatisfied with me you could let me go, but at least then I could get a job with one of the other big-box retailers on the highway outside Milford.”
Tricia looked down at the paper on her lap once more. Nicely typed, no misspellings or stray marks. It was a far cry from most of the recent applicants-most of whom hadn’t even offered a résumé. She looked up and into Linda’s hazel eyes and saw true desperation in them. “What do you know about vintage mysteries?”
Linda smiled. “Not much, I’m afraid. But contemporary mysteries and romantic suspense novels have always been my secret vice. I’m a big fan of Wendy Corsi Staub, Carla Neggers, and Karen Harper. But I’m a quick study and I can search Google with the best of them. I’m more than willing to learn. And I’d sure rather sell books than burgers and fries,” she said eagerly.