“She couldn’t make it, so I asked her about tomorrow. She said she’d meet us at some place called Nemo’s. Have you heard of it?”
“No.”
“I’ll look it up online and get directions.”
Tricia started for the door to the stairs. Angelica walked along with her. “Will you lock up downstairs?”
“Yes,” Tricia dutifully answered. “Thanks for feeding me. See you tomorrow.”
“Good night,” Angelica called, and locked the apartment door behind Tricia.
As she made her way down the stairs and through the Cookery, Tricia thought again about the figure in the video. It had to be a woman. But if it wasn’t Elizabeth Crane, who could it have been?
Twenty-Two
The nagging alarm clock kept ringing, even though Tricia had batted the thing several times. It took her a few foggy moments to realize that it wasn’t the alarm that was ringing but the phone. She fumbled for the receiver and picked it up. “Hello?” she managed, still blinking.
“What are you doing?” Captain Baker demanded.
“I was trying to sleep.” She squinted at the clock, which said six fifty-two.
“I got a report that you found Elaine Capshaw dead last night. And then I check my voice mail and hear you telling me you’ve got a video of who robbed the Happy Domestic. Tricia, this is police business—you’re not supposed to be poking your nose into our cases. It’s dangerous.”
Tricia struggled to sit up, disturbing Miss Marple at the foot of the bed. “I wasn’t poking my nose into anything. Elaine Capshaw called me and asked me to come over to her house. When I got there, she was dead. And I didn’t invite Boris Kozlov into Haven’t Got a Clue—he came over of his own accord. He said he didn’t want to get involved with the Sheriff’s Department and asked me to pass on the video.”
She exhaled, feeling tired, grumpy, and put upon. Why was he being so grouchy, and what had happened to the happy fellow who had visited her just the day before?
“I’m sorry,” he said contritely, as though reading her mind. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Thank you.”
“When can I come and pick up the video?”
“As soon as you want.”
“How about now? I’m parked outside your store.”
“What? It’s not even seven o’clock. What time did you get up?”
“Five. I always get up early.”
“Give me five minutes to put the coffeepot on, and I’ll come down and unlock the door.”
“Five minutes,” he said, and the line went dead.
Tricia got out of bed, ran a comb through her hair, then grabbed her robe from the hook on the back of the door and staggered off for the kitchen.
Five minutes later, the coffee was brewing and she’d set out a couple of mugs, spoons, milk, and sugar, and headed down the stairs for the door to Haven’t Got a Clue. Miss Marple didn’t follow.
Captain Baker stood behind the door, holding Tricia’s copy of the Nashua Telegraph and looking extremely impatient.
Tricia unlocked the door, and with a sweeping hand ushered the captain inside. He walked up to the beverage station. “I thought you were going to make coffee.”
“I did. Upstairs. Come on.”
It had been a while since she’d invited him to her loft apartment. He set his wide-brimmed hat on the counter and followed her up the stairs.
As Tricia topped the stairs, she saw Miss Marple sitting next to her empty food bowl, looking surly. “Yow!” she demanded.
“Yes, I will feed you now,” she said to the cat. Turning to Baker, she said, “Help yourself. And pour me a cup, too, will you?”
Tricia picked up Miss Marple’s dish, swished it under the faucet, and wiped it with a piece of paper towel, then opened a fresh can of cat food. All the while, Miss Marple rubbed against her bare legs, urging her to hurry.
Baker set a steaming mug of coffee on the counter and took a seat at the breakfast bar. “I want to hear everything that happened last night. Spare no details.”
“Even the part where I went to Angelica’s and bummed leftovers for dinner?”
“You can skip that part. Now, tell me about the call that took you to Milford and Elaine Capshaw’s home.”
She did, leaving nothing out, and even told him how much she’d spent at the veterinarian’s office.
“Wow,” he said, reacting to the vet’s bill. “Is the little guy going to make it?”
“They said I could call after eight.” A glance at the clock told her she still had fifty-five minutes before that would happen. “You wouldn’t happen to want a dog, would you?”
“I’m barely home as it is.”
“But you’ll have more free time in your next job,” she said, expecting validation.
“If I were going to get a dog, I’d get something a little more manly than a bichon frise.”
“Dog bigot,” she accused, but her tone was mild, and he smiled.
“What about that video?”
“It’s on the coffee table in the living room. Why don’t you watch it while I take a shower?”
He rose from his seat, grabbed his coffee, and without a word headed for the living room and the DVD player.
Tricia headed for her bedroom. No four miles on the treadmill this morning. She’d have to try to work in double that tomorrow. Maybe.
By the time Tricia returned to the living room some fifteen minutes later, Baker sat on her couch, and the TV sported a blank screen. Tricia took the adjacent chair. “So, what do you think?”
“I couldn’t see the plates, but if it’s licensed here in New Hampshire, we should be able to narrow down the owner by the make of the car.”
“That’s what I figured, too. Angelica and I don’t know much about cars—other than they’re transportation to get you from point A to point B.”
“You showed this to Angelica?”
Tricia nodded. “Anything wrong with that?”
“I’d better call her and ask her not to talk about it—at least until we try to find the owner of that car. Don’t you say anything, either,” he warned, and rose.
She saluted. “Aye, Captain.”
“I’m going to have a talk to Mr. Kozlov at the Coffee Bean.”
Tricia followed him to the apartment door. He reached for the handle and paused. “I want you to promise me that this is the end of your sleuthing.”
“I wasn’t sleuthing. Boris gave me that DVD. He wanted me to give it to you. End of story.”
Baker looked skeptical.
“Hey, you’re being a little rough on me. What happened to the guy who wanted to be more than just my friend, and was that only yesterday?”
“It was, and I’m concerned because I care about you. So much that I want you to stay out of it. Can you do that?”
Tricia sighed. “I guess.”
As if to prove his point, he leaned over and kissed the top of her head, then stood back, pointing a finger of warning at her. “Be good.” He headed down the stairs.
Tricia wasn’t sure if she should feel flattered or insulted.
She chose the former.
Returning to the counter, she warmed up her coffee and sat down at the breakfast bar. Within seconds, Miss Marple appeared and levitated onto her lap. At least, that’s what it always seemed like. One second she wasn’t there—and the next she was, leaping up with no effort, and seemingly no weight, either.
“Yow,” Miss Marple said, in what sounded like commiseration.
Tricia petted her cat and thought of the poor, battered little dog that had been so terribly abused while trying to defend his mistress. Sarge wasn’t much bigger than Miss Marple—how could someone be so cruel?
Miss Marple seemed to purr all the louder as Tricia continued to stroke her head.
“Even though the animal hospital isn’t officially open until eight o’clock, I think I’ll call to see how Sarge is doing.”
Miss Marple closed her eyes and seemed to nod her head in assent, which seemed charitable after her reaction to meeting Sarge two days earlier.