“Besides you and Angelica?”
“Amy Schram from Milford Nursery and Flowers, for one. There may have been other deliveries that day, too.”
Russ shook his head. “I might believe that if the murder happened on Saturday. But on a Sunday? I don’t think so.”
“I’ve told you my suspects; who’s on your list?”
“What makes you think I have a list?”
“Russ, you always have a list.”
A sly smile crept onto his lips. “I do.”
“And?” she prompted.
“People deal or no, Tyler’s the most likely suspect. As far as I know, he hasn’t got a firm alibi for when his wife was murdered, and he didn’t return home for an hour or more after the cops showed up.”
“I know. I was there.” It did look bad for Harry, but somehow…Tricia couldn’t believe he’d kill his wife. Or was it that she didn’t want to believe Harry was capable of killing her-or anyone. But how trustworthy was a man who faked his death and walked away from his family and friends-and his life-because he was under stress? Were Harry and Pippa stressed simply because of the challenges inherent in opening a new business-even if it didn’t belong to them?
Russ ducked his head and waved a hand in front of Tricia. “Hey, what are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” she said with a shake of her head. “Do you plan on talking to anyone else about the murder?”
Russ shrugged. “Probably not. It’s a pretty boring case.”
“A former Playmate of the Month being bludgeoned to death is boring?” What did a victim have to do or be to warrant a little interest from the media these days?
“She wasn’t a Playmate,” Russ went on. “She was a Playboy bunny and was featured in a story about the New York club. The pictures weren’t the least bit provocative.”
“Then you’ve seen them?”
He sheepishly nodded. “They came up on a Google search.”
If the pictures weren’t memorable, why had Chauncey remembered them after so many years?
Russ reached for the bakery bag, rolled the top down, and stowed it in his desk drawer, leaving no obvious evidence of her visit.
“Harry Tyler’s new in town. How could he know to come to you with his story?” Tricia asked.
“I may have given him a call,” Russ admitted.
“And you just happen to have an in with People magazine?”
“I wasn’t always just some hack at a weekly rag, you know. I’ve got contacts-big contacts.”
“So you’ve said,” Tricia said, unimpressed.
That was the thing. Russ had always had an ego that seemed to eclipse his journalistic talent. What had she ever seen in the man? But then she had a talent for choosing the wrong guy. There were plenty of wonderful men in the world who made great lovers, great husbands, and great dads. Why did she attract men who were just the opposite?
She stood. “Thanks for your time, Russ. I wish you and Nikki all the happiness in the world.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the great fried cakes, too. And I’m sorry, old girl, you just weren’t the one.” His smile was crooked.
Old girl?
Somehow Tricia held on to her temper. “Good-bye, Russ.”
She turned and left his office-and hoped she’d never have to speak to him again.
SEVENTEEN
It was well past two o’clock when Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue. Linda’s smile was tight when she greeted her new boss.
“What’s the matter?” Tricia asked.
Linda’s gaze darted to Mr. Everett, who seemed to be assaulting the books in the biography section with his lamb’s-wool duster.
“I think you’d better go talk to him. He came back from lunch quite upset. I tried to draw him out to find out what was wrong, but I’m afraid it’ll take time before he considers me a friend, and I think he could use one right now.”
Tricia nodded. “Thanks. I’ll speak with him now.” She gave Linda a smile. “It’ll be okay,” she said, but had little faith in her words.
She approached Mr. Everett, who looked up from his task. “Welcome back, Ms. Miles.” His words were correct but held no warmth.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Everett? You look like you’ve lost your best friend.”
“I’m afraid that’s exactly what has happened.” He sighed and his mouth drooped. “The situation is dire, Ms. Miles. I’m afraid my actions have done irreparable damage to my marriage.”
“Irreparable?” Tricia echoed, horrified-and just as frightened about what he might say next.
“I met Grace for lunch and we had a terrible exchange of words.”
“Oh, Mr. Everett, I’m so sorry. I had no idea my speaking to her would cause you so much trouble.”
He shook his head. “It’s my fault. I asked you to do so. If I had had the courage to talk to her myself, all of this might have been avoided.”
Tricia bit her lip, her stomach tensing. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He shook his head sadly. “I’m sure it will all work out,” he said without conviction. “Grace and I have weathered worse storms when we lost our first spouses. I just never anticipated how winning that damn lottery could cause us so much trouble.”
It was the first time Tricia had ever heard Mr. Everett curse, which proved how upset he really was.
Tricia heard the phone ring, and Linda answered it. She rested a hand on Mr. Everett’s. “I’m so sorry.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Tricia-phone call,” Linda said, holding out the receiver.
Tricia hurried to the cash desk, “Tricia Miles, can I help you?”
“It’s Grant. You were supposed to record a statement about the Comfort murder on Monday. This is now Wednesday.”
“I was on my way to the station and got sidetracked. I can be there in five minutes.”
“I’ll time you,” he said, but there was no humor in his voice.
She hung up the phone. “I’ve got to run yet another errand,” she told Linda. “I’m sorry to keep leaving you to fend for yourself.”
“Don’t worry about it. That is why you hired me,” Linda said. “Mr. Everett and I can manage.”
Tricia nodded, happy she hadn’t taken her coat off. “I’ll try to be back within the hour,” she said, and out the door she went.
Chief Baker wasn’t waiting for her when she arrived at the station, but his administrative assistant was. And it took just about an hour before she took Tricia’s statement, let her read through it for mistakes, and then had Tricia sign it. By the time she headed back to Haven’t Got a Clue it was after three o’clock, and not only did Tricia feel like she’d gotten nothing accomplished that day, but she felt terribly frazzled, wondering what else could go wrong.
She found out upon entering the store when a distraught Linda met her at the door.
“I’m terribly worried about Mr. Everett. He came over all flushed a while ago and started to sweat. I wanted to call his wife or an ambulance, but he wouldn’t let me.”
Ambulance?
Tricia hurried over to the old man sitting in the reader’s nook. “Mr. Everett, are you okay?” The flush Linda had spoken of had left his sweating face, but he looked pale and Tricia could see he was having trouble breathing.
“I’m fine,” he said in between short gasping breaths.
“I don’t think you are. I’m going to call 911.”
He held up a hand to stop her. “Please don’t. I’ll feel better in a few moments. I just needed to sit down for a few minutes.”
If he was having a heart attack, they couldn’t afford to wait a few minutes.
“I’m sorry, but this is one time I’ll have to overrule your wishes,” she said, and hurried to the old Art Deco phone on the cash desk. Dialing the nine and waiting for it to cycle back seemed to take forever, and Tricia cursed herself for having such an ancient phone. But it looked pretty, and since she sold vintage books, she felt it added to the ambience of her store-but now it was just a relic that was holding up help for her dear friend. Finally a dispatcher came on the line.