FIFTEEN

“Isn’t it exciting! My first catering job,” Angelica gushed.

“How could you even think of taking on this wedding?” Tricia scolded. “You’re shorthanded. Where are you going to find the time to keep two businesses afloat and make hors d’oeuvres for twenty people by Sunday?”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. Well, I can always round up all my friends to help.”

“Such as?”

“Well, Frannie, of course. Maybe Ginny.”

Tricia shook her head. “Much as Ginny loves Mr. Everett, I doubt she’d be willing to spend her off hours helping you make money.”

“Oh, well, I could pay her.”

“You can ask.”

“And, of course, I’m depending on you,” Angelica pressed.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I can’t cook.”

“If you can follow directions, you can cook.”

Tricia watched as a couple of tourists entered the little café.

“Gotta go now. Talk to you later!” Angelica said, and disconnected.

The bell over the door jingled as another two customers entered her own store. Tricia put her worries out of her mind, plastered on her best smile, and said, “Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. Let me know if you need any help.”

The day whipped by. Customers came and went, spending freely. And, thanks to Craigslist, Tricia managed to hunt down a small refrigerator which was to be delivered the next day. Now she just needed to get a microwave and a table. And maybe a radio. And then she’d consider painting the drab room. Did she need more lighting, too? Establishing a break room was going to be more complicated than she’d anticipated. Still, she wanted happy employees.

By the time seven o’clock rolled around and Tricia closed Haven’t Got a Clue, she was exhausted. Her plan for the evening was to make a sandwich, drink a glass of wine, and read. She would not think about Pammy. She would not think about Russ being at Mr. Everett’s wedding. She would not think about Angelica’s threat that she was going to have to help make hors d’oeuvres for twenty people by Sunday.

She’d just settled down with A Graveyard to Let by Carter Dickson when the phone rang. Miss Marple, comfortably ensconced at Tricia’s side, glared at the offending instrument on the end table. Tricia picked up the receiver with apprehension. Would it be her annoying caller?

“It’s just me,” Angelica said. “Have you eaten yet?”

“A cheese sandwich.”

“I’ve got leftover soup from the café, and I’m on my way up.” She disconnected.

The last thing Tricia wanted was company. Still, she hauled herself off the couch and met her sister at the apartment door. Angelica held a stuffed brown paper grocery bag in her arms, and a canvas tote was slung over one shoulder, resting on her back.

“What have you got there?” Tricia asked.

“Cookbooks. I’ve made out a preliminary list of appetizers, and I thought the two of us could go over it.”

“I don’t care about that kind of stuff,” Tricia insisted.

Angelica leveled a penetrating glare at her. “You wrestled over the catering list for your own wedding for over two months. Who better to help me with my sample menus? I need to have something to show Grace tomorrow if I’m going to pull the food together for this wedding on Sunday.”

In a matter of minutes, Angelica had the soup warming, the aroma filling the entire kitchen. She’d also covered the kitchen island with cookbooks dedicated to either hors d’oeuvres or breakfast meals. While Angelica served up the soup, Tricia looked over the scribbled sheets of paper with lists of appetizers. “Any one of these is good, Ange. Just let Grace pick what she likes.”

“As it’s a morning wedding and reception, I thought I should stick to brunch-type foods. Strudel, little bagels, mini quiches, fresh fruit, et cetera,” Angelica said, and sat down at the island.

“Yeah, yeah.” Tricia picked up her spoon and began to eat her soup.

Angelica glowered at her. “You could show a little more enthusiasm. I mean, this is your employee’s wedding we’re talking about.”

The phone rang. Tricia ignored it, spooning up more soup.

It rang again. And again. Since Angelica was already present, it could be only one other caller. Okay, maybe two if she counted Russ-and she didn’t want to count him.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Angelica asked.

It stopped ringing.

“Um, there’s something I haven’t mentioned to you. Someone’s been calling me, demanding that I give back Pammy’s diary.”

“What diary?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. She left a bunch of books here with me, but there was no diary among them.”

“Where do you think she got the books?” Angelica asked.

“I don’t know. An estate sale, perhaps. She could’ve found them in the trash on one of her Dumpster-diving expeditions. Who says she acquired them all from the same place? And anyway, it’s the diary that someone wants, not the rest of the books.”

“Why would anyone think you’ve got the diary?”

“Probably because Pammy stayed with me for two weeks. It wasn’t in her car or her suitcases. I’m probably the last hope that person has of finding the book.”

“But you don’t have it.”

“No, and I searched this apartment pretty thoroughly, too.” Miss Marple jumped up on one of the stools, as though to let Angelica know that she had helped in the hunt.

“Did this person threaten you? Maybe you should tell Captain Baker about the calls.”

“I already did. And besides, they haven’t been threatening, just annoying.”

“Still… they could escalate into threats. What did Captain Baker say?”

Tricia shrugged. “To keep him informed.”

“And will you?”

“Of course. He seems a lot more amiable than Sheriff Adams ever was. Maybe because it’s a career for him-not just politics.”

Angelica frowned, looking around the kitchen. “Let’s assume Pammy did hide the diary here.”

“I told you, I’ve looked.”

“Did she have access to your storeroom?”

Tricia shook her head. “I keep it locked in case any curious customers make their way up the stairs.”

“Me, too. Would you believe someone peed in the Cookery’s stairway on Sunday?”

“I told you Frannie should have help at the store.”

“How would Frannie have stopped someone from peeing in my stairwell? The restroom was probably occupied and someone just didn’t want to-or couldn’t-wait.”

“I hope you didn’t make Frannie clean it up.”

“She’s managing the store now-tidying up is part of the job.”

Tricia shook her head. “That’s not what I would call ‘tidying.’ And can we get back to the subject at hand-the missing diary? How are we going to find it?” she said, and pushed her empty soup bowl away.

“Have you looked in your store? What better place to hide it?”

Tricia sprang up from her stool, the sudden movement sending Miss Marple flying. “Of course! Pammy could’ve ditched the diary when she left here on Monday. She went downstairs ahead of me. By the time I locked the apartment door and followed, she might’ve been down there almost a minute. That would’ve been plenty of time to hide the diary among the books in my store.”

“And how are we supposed to find it? Look on every shelf, read the spines of every title you’ve got? There must be ten thousand books to sort through.”

“It can’t hurt,” Tricia said, and headed for the door.

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Angelica begged. “I’ve been on my feet all day. And don’t forget, I need to start making appetizers. Besides, the light isn’t all that great down there.”

“The light is perfectly fine in my store.”

“Only if you’re a mole. You ought to invest in more track lighting.”

“And ruin my original tin ceiling? It was the only thing I kept during the renovation. Are you going to help me or not?”

“Well, I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”