“Did Angelica say anything to you about when she would speak to Pixie?”
Linda shook her head. “Although I got the feeling she was hoping she could arrange it for later today. Pixie has to report to her parole officer on Monday. He’s not going to be happy if she tells him she quit her job.”
Did that mean Pixie might agree to anything to stay employed so as not to violate the terms of her parole? A moody employee could become a detriment to the well-being of Haven’t Got a Clue’s bottom line. Tricia would not stand for bad behavior directed toward her customers, and if Pixie couldn’t live up to that edict, then there was no place for her at Stoneham’s only mystery bookstore. Still, Grace had pull. Maybe one of the other booksellers would hire her.
But she was getting ahead of herself again.
“I’m so sorry about all this, Tricia. After so long without a job, and using up all my savings, I’d given up hope that I would again work in a job that I’d trained so hard for.”
Tricia held up a hand to forestall any more such talk. “Let’s not discuss this anymore right now. Let’s just concentrate on our daily routine and serve whatever customers come our way.”
Linda nodded with what seemed like relief.
The shop door opened, and an older woman bundled up in a long cloth coat and a bulky scarf tied around her neck entered the store. “Goodness, but it’s cold outside,” she said, stamping her feet on the bristle welcome mat.
Linda practically leapt into action. “Hi, can I help you find anything?”
“Yes. I’m looking for Sara Paretsky’s Blood Shot. Do you have any copies?”
“I’m not sure. Why don’t the two of us have a look?” Linda suggested, and led the woman to the shelves on the north side of the shop.
Tricia hadn’t realized how tense she’d felt during the previous conversation with her (most likely) soon-to-be ex-employee. Her head felt heavy and she wondered if her neck could support it for the next hour, let alone the rest of the day. And she still had that little adventure at Kelly Realty to look forward to.
She rubbed her neck and glanced out the window to see Amy Schram working on the urn she’d placed in front of the store days before. She looked like she’d been crying. Noting that Linda didn’t seem to need any help with her customer, Tricia ventured out into the cold.
Amy held a gardening claw in one gloved hand and a bag of knobby flower bulbs in the other. Tricia crossed her arms over her sweater set to stave off the chill and approached her. “Is something wrong?”
Amy sniffed. “Everything.” Her mouth trembled and she squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking to cascade down her cheeks.
Tricia suspected she knew the reason for those tears. “Can I help?”
Amy shook her head and continued to claw at the soil. Tricia watched as she retrieved seven bulbs from the sack and placed them in a circle, then covered them with dirt.
“I know about you and Harry Tyler,” Tricia said gently.
“Who?” she asked, but Tricia wasn’t fooled. She could tell by Amy’s expression that she knew exactly who Tricia was talking about.
“How long have the two of you been sneaking around?”
Amy looked up, a mixture of anger and shock covering her features.
“I live across the street from you, remember. I’ve seen him coming and going,” Tricia explained.
“Have you been spying on me?”
Tricia sighed and shook her head, wishing they were having this conversation in her nice warm store instead of on the freezing pavement. “He’s a little old for you, isn’t he? How did you meet?”
“I’ve been taking a night class from him at the high school.”
“Oh, yes. He mentioned he was teaching. When did you suspect he was actually Harrison Tyler?”
Amy’s chapped cheeks went a darker shade of pink. “I thought he looked familiar the first night of class. I knew I’d seen his picture before. I couldn’t place his face at first, but then I came into your store a couple of months ago and saw the portrait on the wall. Mr. Everett told me all about him and sold me a used copy of Death Beckons.”
“Did you confront him with that information?”
“Not at first. I wanted to see if I could get him interested in me.”
“And we both know how that ended up.”
“Okay, I admit it. I was sleeping with Jon Comfort-but that doesn’t mean I wanted to kill his wife. I wasn’t looking for a lifelong commitment or anything. I mean, it was just sex with an interesting man. What’s wrong with that?”
What was wrong with young people these days? Casual sex was one thing, but this attitude that intimacy was just an afterthought appalled her. She was terribly out of step with the times, but somehow that didn’t make her feel bad. Instead, she felt sorry for Amy. Would she ever experience a true, loving relationship, or would her whole concept of love be just jumping from one lover’s bed to another?
“Have you told Chief Baker about your affair?”
Amy cringed. “Affair? It wasn’t an ‘affair.’ I told you, it was just sex. And…I figured it would be kinda cool to be involved with someone who was going to be notorious one day.”
“What were you planning? A memoir? Your life with Harry Tyler?”
“Some chick got famous sleeping with J. D. Salinger. Why shouldn’t I do the same with Jon…er, Harry?”
Ah yes, another New Hampshire love story. The distance between Stoneham and Durham, where Salinger had hidden out for most of his adult life, wasn’t all that far, after all.
“Too bad it didn’t last long enough for me to have anything to interest People magazine, let alone get a book contract,” Amy groused.
“So, you’ve got literary aspirations of your own?”
“Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life delivering flowers and watering plants in hick towns like Stoneham and Milford?”
“If nothing else, your tryst can be construed as motive for murder.”
“Except I have an ironclad alibi for Sunday night.”
“Harry hinted to me that he went to see you on Monday night-and that’s where he was when his wife was killed.”
“Then he lied. I have no idea where he was, but he wasn’t with me. I was visiting my parents. It was my brother’s twenty-fifth birthday. I took video with my cell phone and so did everyone else who was there. They’re time dated. When Pippa Comfort died I was stuffing my mouth full of birthday cake.” She looked down at her hips, which strained against the fabric of her heavy jacket, and struggled to suppress a sob.
“Harry broke up with you this morning, didn’t he?”
Amy nodded. “He told me he was leaving town. He wanted to make a fresh start. He told me I should go on a diet and find someone my own age. That I’d be much happier in the long run.”
Amy wasn’t fat by any means. Whatever assets she had were usually well hidden by her work clothes, which did tend to fall on the bulky side. Had Harry tried to make her feel bad before he left so that she would let go more easily, or did he just have a cruel streak in him? Tricia hadn’t noticed that in her dealings with the man, but he’d certainly changed since she’d known him twenty years before.
Amy looked back to her van parked down the street and hefted the claw in her hand. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
And Tricia was eager to get back inside. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your situation. Harry once left me, too. That was when he disappeared all those years ago.”
“I guess he’s good at loving and leaving, then,” Amy said. “I’ll see you later, Tricia,” and she moved down the sidewalk, only to pause in front of the Cookery, where she began to loosen the soil in the urn outside the shop.
Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue just in time to help Linda with a sale.