A muffled ring tone sounded, and Baker reached for the leather holder attached to his belt. He retrieved his cell phone, glanced at the number, and frowned. “I’m sorry, Tricia, but I’d better take this. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be here,” she said, resigned to a long wait, and watched him retreat to the porch. Then she turned back to the lobby and studied it more closely. Even the artwork had been spruced up. Had the original oil paintings been cleaned? That took money. Nigela Racita Associates had done a wonderful job of restoring and refurbishing, without putting too bold a stamp on the place. It pleased her, and that was about as effusive as she was likely to get about the company that seemed poised to take over Stoneham.
Eleanor, the inn’s receptionist, waved at Tricia, motioning her to join her at the main desk. “Well,” she asked, her voice filled with pride, “what do you think?”
“The whole place looks lovely. Has business picked up yet?”
“For the weekend trade. Until they finish building the dialysis center across the street, I’m afraid our weekday trade will suffer. But it’s only supposed to be another couple of weeks until they begin finishing the inside of the building. It’ll be a lot quieter when they do. But we’re already booked solid for the Milford Pumpkin Festival in October.”
“That’s great.”
“I’m so grateful to the new management,” Eleanor said. “Without them, we might have had to close our doors before the end of the summer.”
“Have you met the top dog yet?”
“Ms. Racita? No, she’s never been to the inn. But Mr. Barbero has been wonderful to work with.” She pointed to the office door to the right of the reception desk. On it hung a polished wooden sign with gold leaf lettering:
“He’s on site every day, even weekends,” Eleanor gushed. “The staff all love him. He’s so easy to work with. And even though he’s just a young man, somehow he always has the answer to every problem.”
Ginny could have done worse picking a mentor—and boyfriend.
“What brings you to the inn?” Eleanor asked.
“I’m having dinner with a friend.”
“I hope you made a reservation. Since Mr. Barbero hired the new chef, we’ve had to turn people away—even on weeknights.”
“I don’t know if he made reservations,” Tricia said thoughtfully. Did this mean yet another meal at the Bookshelf Diner? She’d resigned herself to just that when Baker reentered the lobby and made his way across to her.
“Sorry about that,” he apologized. “I asked the office not to call me again unless it’s a real emergency.”
Tricia gave him a weak smile.
Baker nodded his head toward the dining room. “Shall we?”
“See you later, Tricia,” Eleanor said, her eyes twinkling. Tricia gave her a quick wave and let Baker steer her toward the restaurant. The hostess checked the reservations log and quickly showed them to their table. Baker pulled out Tricia’s chair, and she sat down.
“Can I take your drink order?” the hostess asked, and passed them each a leather-clad menu.
“I’ll have a Geary’s,” Baker said.
“Chardonnay,” Tricia said, and opened her menu. It had undergone quite a transformation since the last time she’d dined at the inn. Before she could peruse it much further, she looked up and saw Antonio Barbero seated at a table across the room from them. With him were David Black and a woman she didn’t know. David was dressed as she’d never seen him before, in a suit and tie. The woman looked older than him but was still a striking beauty. The sleeveless mauve linen dress clung to her lithe figure, and her prematurely white hair was pinned with an exquisite gem-encrusted butterfly hair clip that dripped diamonds. Beside Antonio was a champagne bucket. He held the bottle and poured the wine into flutes his guests held.
“My God,” Tricia breathed, feeling the blood drain from her face.
Baker leaned forward and touched her hand. “Are you okay, Tricia? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I wish I had.” She shook herself. “Grant, that’s David Black and some strange woman sitting over there drinking champagne with the inn’s manager.”
“Black? Husband of the woman who was killed yesterday?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Baker half turned, looking in the same direction as Tricia. He faced her again. “What do you think that’s about?”
“Deborah’s mother said David was selling her shop to the development company that bought the empty lot where History Repeats Itself used to be. They’ve also invested heavily in this inn.”
Baker shrugged. “It’s crass but not illegal to be out in public a day after your wife’s death.”
“Deborah hasn’t even been buried yet. And toasting the sale of her business. It stinks! The whole village will be talking about it tomorrow.”
“That’s his lookout, not yours,” Baker said quietly.
Tricia pursed her lips and trained her gaze on her menu, although she couldn’t focus on the words in front of her, and she’d suddenly lost whatever appetite she’d had.
“The sea bass looks good,” Baker said, perusing his own menu.
Tricia set hers aside.
Baker looked up. “You’re not going to let seeing Black ruin your evening, are you?”
At least he didn’t say my evening.
“Deborah was my friend. I know she and David were having marital problems, but to be seen in public so soon after her death . . .”
“There’s nothing you can do about it,” Baker insisted.
She sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just . . . upset.” She remembered he had something to tell her. Would she be further upset?
“I was going to wait until later to mention this to you,” Baker said, leaving the sentence hanging.
Here it comes, the old dumperoo. And yet that was hardly applicable to their situation. They were friends. Not even good friends. Still, Tricia steeled herself to hear the worst.
Baker sighed. “My divorce will be final in two weeks.”
Tricia blinked. That wasn’t what she’d thought he’d say. “Oh? I take it Mandy went into remission.”
“Yes. And she’s planning to move to North Carolina to be closer to her sister.”
Tricia’s spirits rose a little. Did that mean . . . ?
“How does that make you feel?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager.
Baker sighed. “Relieved. We’d planned to divorce before she became ill. And then, I just couldn’t leave her to fight the cancer alone. If nothing else, at least we remained friends.”
Tricia was well aware of that fact. She nodded, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about my future,” Baker continued.
Tricia leaned closer, but just as Baker was about to say more, the hostess appeared with a tray and their drinks. She set down embossed cocktail napkins, then a glass and a bottle of beer for Baker and Tricia’s wine. “I’ll send your waitress right over to take your order.”
“Thank you,” Baker said, and gave her a small smile. He turned his attention back to Tricia. “I told you a few months ago that I was going to be retirement eligible in January.”
Here it came. The other shoe.
“And what have you decided?” Tricia asked.
“I’m going to take it.”
Tricia eyed him. He looked devastatingly handsome in his navy blazer with a pale blue opened-necked dress shirt beneath it. The gray at his temples made him look distinguished, and somehow, despite the years of police work, his face was remarkably unlined. Did that mean he hadn’t had much to smile about in all that time?
“Somehow I don’t think retirement will suit you,” she said.
“I don’t either, but I’m ready for a change. I’ve already talked to a headhunter. He’s put my name out there and has already had a few bites.”
“So you’ll be leaving Manchester?” Tricia asked, then picked up her glass and took a sip in an effort to hide her disappointment.