“I’m very sorry to hear that. I’ll be sending over a book for him. I’ll have it left at the reception desk. May I call you to be sure Mr. Paige has received it?”
Turner reached into his pocket and withdrew his business card holder once again. He handed her a card. “Please don’t stir up any trouble.” His concern was genuine.
“Believe me, I’m trying to stop trouble from erupting.”
“Then you’d better be careful. Being in the middle of something you don’t understand could get you killed.”
“Is that a threat?”
He shook his head. “Just an observation.”
It was nearing five o’clock by the time Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue. As usual, customer traffic had thinned. In fact, there were no customers in the store. Ginny leaned over the sales desk and looked up as the door opened and Tricia strode in. She’d been reading a copy of This Old House magazine.
“Looks pretty dead,” Tricia said, indicating the lack of warm bodies in the shop.
Ginny nodded. “Thanks to the Pumpkin Festival, I don’t think we’ve pulled in ten dollars in the last hour. How did it go at the hospital?”
“It went. I’m convinced Stuart Paige and his people had nothing to do with Pammy’s death.”
“How come?”
“He’s too nice. And he’s not well. In fact, I promised to send him a book at the hospital. How would you like to go home early tonight?”
Ginny frowned. “Didn’t you say he’d been taken to the medical center in Nashua?”
“I’ll give you gas money. If you go there and back, you should still be home at least a half hour earlier than usual.”
Ginny nodded. “Okay. That’ll give me time to slap some joint compound on the living room’s new Sheetrock before dinner. Let me get my coat.”
Two minutes later, Tricia had wrapped up a copy of Bonecrack, given Ginny Turner’s card with instructions to call him when she arrived at the hospital, and sent her on her way. Tricia stared at the clock. She still had another hour and forty-five minutes before closing time. After that, she’d go upstairs, scrounge in the fridge, and settle down with a good book.
She glared at the phone. It wasn’t going to ring. It wouldn’t be Russ, calling to apologize for this morning. His phone message said he wanted to talk, but he hadn’t called again. That meant he’d only been trying to smooth things over. To assuage his guilt, perhaps? And anyway, if he was the photographer at Grace and Mr. Everett’s wedding, he could talk to her then. He probably knew about the new job by now. Maybe he’d even gloat.
Now she was being ridiculous.
Tricia glanced out the window. A light still glowed inside Booked for Lunch. Angelica was probably holed up in her café’s kitchen, preparing the food for Grace and Mr. Everett’s wedding. She hadn’t called to tell Tricia the results of Captain Baker’s search, as she’d promised. Or if she had, Ginny hadn’t mentioned it.
Tricia picked up the heavy receiver on the old 1930s phone. She dialed the number and waited as the phone rang and rang. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen times before it was answered with a testy “What do you want?”
“Ange? It’s Tricia. You said you’d call me after Captain Baker left your place.”
“You caught me at a bad time. I’m working on the food for Grace’s wedding.”
“And?” Tricia prompted.
“Captain Baker didn’t find a damn thing. I could’ve told him he wouldn’t-but why listen to me?”
“I’ve been to see Stuart Paige. Lots to report, but it doesn’t get me any closer to finding out who killed Pammy.”
“Why don’t you just let the captain work this out? I mean, why are you so interested?”
Tricia wasn’t sure she could answer that question.
“Ginny said it’s been dead here for the last hour. I’m feeling discouraged. In fact, I may even close the store early tonight.”
“Terrific. Then come over here and help me with these mini quiches.”
“You know I can’t cook.”
“You just have to assemble ingredients; I’ll do the cooking.”
Tricia sighed. “Why not? I’ll be over in about ten minutes.”
“See you,” Angelica said, and hung up.
Tricia hung up the CLOSED sign on the door, pulled the shades, and put the day’s receipts in the safe. She checked to see that Miss Marple was asleep in one of the chairs in the nook before she grabbed her jacket and purse, and headed out the door.
Angelica was waiting for her, and let her into the darkened café. “Come on back to the kitchen.”
With only the dim security lights on, the café’s usually bright and cheery interior looked dated and unwelcoming. It was far more pleasing in the light of day. Tricia followed her sister to the cramped kitchen.
The work counter was littered with bags of flour, cartons of eggs, and mounds of what looked like seaweed on a platter. “What’s that?’ Tricia said, turning up her nose as she hung her jacket on a peg next to Angelica’s.
“Thawed frozen spinach. You can squeeze it dry while I whip up the eggs. I’ve already got all the little pastry shells made. See?” Angelica pointed to the stack of mini muffin pans and their contents. “I’ll bake and freeze these tonight, and then thaw them and pop them in the oven on Sunday morning, just before the ceremony.”
Tricia’s lip curled as she contemplated the mass of wet, limp spinach. “Spinach for breakfast? What were you thinking?”
“These days, people don’t eat enough fruits and vegetables.”
Tricia sighed. “No matter how many veggies you put in a quiche, it’ll never be a healthy food. You’ll be putting Grace’s guests in danger of a heart attack.”
“Get on with your work,” Angelica said.
“Okay, what do I do first?”
“Wash your hands. And scrub them like you were about to do surgery. There’s a nailbrush on the sink. Use paper towels to dry them. And don’t touch the rim of the garbage pail when you throw them away.”
Tricia did as she was told, while Angelica cracked eggs into a large plastic bowl.
“Tell me all about what happened after you left here this afternoon,” Angelica said.
Tricia told her tale as she squeezed cold, green juice from the spinach until her hands ached.
“I’m betting Pammy tore those pages out of the diary because they would’ve proved Paige wasn’t the father of M.J.’s child. And knowing Pammy, if she couldn’t wring money out of Paige, she might have tried to go after the baby’s real father.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Angelica said, as she beat eggs with a big metal whisk. “Why would the real father care about the baby twenty years later? At this point in time, he might not even be married to the same wife. Hardly anybody lasts twenty-plus years of marriage these days. We’re prime examples.”
“But just say he was-that news could destroy his marriage.”
Angelica shrugged. “So many people harp about the sanctity of marriage-but if it’s so sacred, why is this country’s divorce rate more than fifty percent?”
Tricia finished squeezing the last of the spinach. She dried her hands. “I’m convinced that Pammy left those pages here in this café.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. Captain Baker was pretty thorough in his search. He did everything but empty the bags of flour.”
Tricia’s eyes widened. “Where was Pammy working before I found her in the garbage cart?”
“Here in the kitchen. She was washing dishes.”
Tricia looked up at the sacks of flour and sugar on the shelf above the triple sink. Most of them hadn’t been opened.
“Let’s go back to the day Pammy died. Jake had left for the day. You were busy out front with the last of the customers-or cleaning up or something, right?”
“That’s right,” Angelica agreed.
“So Pammy was here in the kitchen, all alone. What if someone called her out to the back of the café? If she had the pages on her, and she recognized the voice, she might have stuffed them into something really fast-if she wasn’t prepared to give them up just yet.”