For months Tricia had seen trucks pull up to the site and disgorge their loads, most of them giving no clue as to what they’d delivered. What lay inside the building absolutely delighted her. The tin ceiling had been painted with glossy black paint many times over, softening the tilelike design so that it looked at least a century old. The massive oak bar stood against the south wall, its brass foot rail shining brightly. A large mirror behind the back bar was bright with lighted Victorian stained-glass panels framing each side.
Five or six booths lined the north wall, while ten or more stools stood before the bar, and a smattering of small tables filled the rest of the space. Along the back wall was a small stage, indicating live music would be in the offing.
“Oh, it’s lovely. Is this what you were used to back in England?”
Michele shook her head, shrugged out of her coat, and tossed it on the bar. “Not really. But this is what Americans expect from a British pub, and I’m happy to give it to them. Sit down,” she encouraged, and Tricia obligingly settled on one of the bar stools.
“What’ll you have?”
“I don’t suppose you have any cream sherry?”
“I certainly do,” Michele said, and turned for the mass of bottles lining the back bar. She selected one, found a delicate stemmed glass, and poured.
“Will you get in trouble for inviting me in before the official opening?” Tricia asked.
“Not at all.” She handed Tricia the glass and then stooped to fill a glass with ice, poured a generous Gordon’s gin for herself, and topped it with tonic from the well trigger. “No lime, I’m afraid. No point in cutting fruit garnishes until we’re actually open.” She held her glass up in a toast. “Here’s to the Dog-Eared Page, and long may I be employed.” She laughed and took a hearty sip.
Tricia sipped from her own glass. She hadn’t had sherry in a long time and had forgotten how much she used to enjoy it. In fact, it was Harry who’d first introduced her to the stuff. They’d had a picnic at sunset on his boat. Nestled under a blanket, watching the sky for the first star to appear, they’d shared French bread stuffed with chicken salad, a little Brie, some grapes, and tiny glasses of sherry. And after that…
“You look like you’ve just traveled a fair distance…maybe back in time?” Michele suggested.
Tricia smiled. “Is it that obvious?”
Michele shrugged. “A good barkeep can almost read minds. We listen well, too.”
“I do have a lot on my mind,” Tricia admitted. “This most recent murder, my new employee. Angelica’s TV debut tomorrow…”
“I’d say that’s a full plate,” Michele agreed, and downed another swig of gin. “Angelica tells me you’re a pretty good detective.”
Tricia frowned. She’d thought she could avoid talking about Pippa Comfort’s murder. “Not really.”
Again Michele shrugged. “You’ve sniffed out a couple of killers in the past couple of years. Who’s at the top of your list of potential murderers this time around?”
Tricia shook her head and scowled. “I know almost all of the players. I can’t imagine any of them being responsible.”
“I understand they’re all Chamber of Commerce members. I’ve yet to meet any. Angelica thought I should get my boss to pony up the funds to join. I probably will. I have lots of ideas and no one to dump them on.”
“Ideas?” Tricia asked.
“To make Stoneham more enticing to visitors.”
“I’m open to anything you have to suggest,” she said, grateful for the change of subject.
“I understand there’s been a rash of murders during the last couple of years.”
This was getting into uncomfortable territory again. Tricia moved her gaze to the bar top.
“I was thinking, if there were any unsolved murders from a century or so ago, perhaps the local historical society could have a ghost walk at Halloween. I haven’t had a chance to check them out, but it is a lovely and dear cemetery.”
Lovely and dear? Tricia had never thought of a cemetery in those terms.
“Back home, our cemeteries are centuries older, and those with tombstones that survived are difficult to read. Hell, even if we couldn’t find an unsolved murder, I’m sure there must be lots of fascinating genealogy associated with the vicinity that could be played up.”
“I never gave it much thought,” Tricia admitted.
“It would also be great if the Chamber could entice some kind of light industry to set up shop in the area. They also need to do more to get the locals interested in patronizing the shops and businesses in the area.”
“Not only should you join the Chamber-maybe you should run for president. They’ll be holding an election later this year.”
“Isn’t Bob Kelly the head of the Chamber?”
Tricia nodded. “And has been for at least a decade. It was great that he brought in all the booksellers, but I’m afraid it was also selfishness on his part. He owns most of Main Street. It might be time for some fresh blood. I’ll bet you could give him a run for his money.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, girl. I haven’t yet joined the organization.”
“Wishful thinking,” Tricia admitted, and took another sip of her sherry. Her gaze slid to the clock on the wall. “Good grief, is that the time? My cat is probably pacing the floor waiting for me. Her dinner is already an hour late.”
“My life has been ruled by dogs-but I’m between them right now. When my life settles down again, I’m sure one will find me. In the meantime, I’ll just go to Angelica’s for a little puppy love. Isn’t Sarge adorable?”
“Yes, he is.” Tricia donned her coat once more. “Thanks for the drink-and the conversation.”
“Any time. And I’m not kidding. Once we open, we’re going to depend on the locals to keep us in business. You’re one of them.”
Tricia laughed. “I’ll do my best. Just make sure you have plenty of wine in the cellar.”
“Already stocked,” Michele admitted, and walked Tricia to the door. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
“You sure will.”
The door closed on Tricia’s back, and she glanced across the street to Haven’t Got a Clue. Standing in the doorway, back to the street, stood a solitary figure. Now that Russ had given up stalking her, there was only one person she could think of who might be hanging around waiting for her…and she wasn’t eager to talk to him.
TWELVE
Despite the fact Tricia was pretty sure she knew who lurked around her doorstep, she wasn’t about to take chances. Taking out her keys, she held them so that three of them poked out between the fingers of her right hand. After all, there was a murderer hanging around the village, and what if her visitor was indeed that person?
She started across the street. Halfway there she called out, “Can I help you?”
The figure turned. Sure enough, it was Harry Tyler.
“Help? You tell me.”
Harry was likely the prime suspect in his wife’s death, but for some reason Tricia didn’t fear him at all. She singled out the key to her door, opened it, and let him in. An alert Miss Marple, who sat on one of the chairs in the readers’ nook, reprimanded Tricia with a sharp “Yow!” for being late in serving her dinner.
Tricia ignored the cat for the moment. She was more interested in what Harry had to say. “My Tuesday Night Book Club has voted to read Death Beckons.”
“Ah, new sales. Too bad I no longer get those hefty royalty checks. They’d sure come in handy right now.”
As Tricia turned to face him, Miss Marple jumped down from the chair, bounded across the room, and rubbed her head against Tricia’s black slacks, leaving a trail of gray hairs in her wake. “How would you use the money?” To run away-again?