“It was supposed to be anonymous,” Angelica grated.
“For the most part, it is.”
They heard a noise from the kitchen, where Mariana seemed to be making a fresh pot of coffee.
“We won’t speak of this—or Ms. Ricita—here at the Chamber office.”
“When will we speak about it?” Tricia pushed.
“If I have my way, never,” Angelica said, and turned back to her work.
Tricia sat down at her desk. She’d much rather be reading a mystery. She opened her desk drawer, where she’d squirreled away Death in the Air. Her personal library may or may not have been ruined by the smoke damage after the fire in Haven’t Got a Clue. She’d walked through the apartment twice since the fire. Despite the soot, it didn’t look too bad, but the smoky odor had been nauseating. She had studied how to clean smoke-damaged books but wondered how many she could salvage. Most of them weren’t worth the cost of restoration, and thanks to eBay, she’d done a good job replacing scores of her favorite comfort reads. Just about everything in the store had been ruined by flames, water, or smoke. Still, she’d lined up her original contractor, Jim Stark, to come in and repair the damage, and he’d been amassing supplies, like replacements for the tin ceiling and the classic molding. Tricia had found duplicate copies of most of the author portraits that had adorned the walls, too. They and the books she’d bought as replacement stock sat in a climate-controlled storage unit until the day they could replace their damaged counterparts.
On impulse, Tricia picked up her desk phone and called the number she’d memorized months before. “New Hampshire Mutual. John Martin speaking.”
“John, it’s Tricia Miles.”
“Hi, Tricia. No news yet,” he said, sounding quite cheerful. Sure, he didn’t have his life on hold.
“I guess I don’t have to remind you how exasperating it is to have to wait so long for a settlement.”
“You and everyone else. But we’re not dragging our feet. Just trying to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s.”
And strain my patience to the breaking point, Tricia thought. She sighed. “So you’ve said. Can you give me any hope that a decision will be made soon?”
“As soon as I hear anything, I’ll call. I promise.”
“Thank you,” Tricia said, feeling anything but thankful.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” John said, and ended the call.
“Not soon enough,” Tricia grumbled.
“Darling, Trish,” Angelica said with sympathy, “you must distract yourself. Have you had a chance to finish the Chamber newsletter? I sent my column like you asked.”
“I saw it. I did a little judicious editing, but I think it’s fine. Do you want to read it now or wait until the layout is finished?”
“I trust that you only want me to shine for the Chamber, so I’m sure it’s fine, and I’ll look at it when I do the final read-through.”
“I’ll finish it by day’s end and e-mail you a copy at home.”
“Thanks.” Angelica scooped up the papers on her desk and deposited them in a drawer. “There’s nothing that’s screaming for my attention, so I think I’ll head on back to the Cookery. I have a ton of e-mail that needs attending to.”
Of course. Not only did she have to run her own little empire, but Nigela Ricita’s as well.
“Will I see you for dinner tonight, Trish? I’m making shrimp pasta salad.”
“I’d love it.”
“See you at the usual time, with martini glasses chilled,” Angelica called, and headed out the door.
I’d prefer a glass of Chardonnay, Tricia thought, then remembered what Pixie had said the evening before. “Wait a minute!”
Angelica paused at the entrance to the hall.
“Did you know that Pixie had a boyfriend?”
“Oh, sure. Fred Pillins, the guy who delivers meat to the café. Nice guy, but not what you’d call handsome,” she said, and winced.
“What does that mean?”
“He’s got a little scar on his face. But what does that matter? Pixie is smitten. It’s so funny to see them together. They get all shy and giggly.”
Giggly?
“How long have you known about them?”
She shrugged. “Since the day they met. Gotta go. Tootles!”
Tootles. It seemed to be Angelica’s new favorite word.
Tricia tapped the escape key on her computer and it came back to life. She pulled up the file for the newsletter and stared at the screen, thinking about all that had already transpired that day—and it was only 11:14. No wonder she felt exhausted.
Mariana came back into the office and settled on the chair in front of her desk, putting her cup down on the mouse pad.
Tricia stood and wandered over to join her. “I meant to ask you before this, did you know Peter Renquist?”
Mariana shook her head. “Not well. I talked to him on the phone when he’d call for Angelica. I’d see him in the grocery store. That kind of thing.”
“Did he have a girlfriend?”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” she said coyly.
“What do you mean?”
“He flirted with everyone—well, women,” she clarified. “Most of us kind of blew it off, but . . . not everybody.”
“Oh?”
She shrugged. “For a while, a lot of people thought he and Toni Bennett might be having an affair.”
Was that the reason Toni had shed tears when they’d talked about Pete?
“But?” Tricia pressed.
Again Mariana shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been a good idea. Toni’s husband is a big supporter of the second amendment. I’ve heard he’s got an arsenal. If he’d thought Pete was messing around with Toni, he’d have shot him for sure.”
“Toni said her parents had named her after the singer. I take it she didn’t take her husband’s name when they married.”
“That’s right. Not so many women do that anymore. It’s a shame. Still, she belongs to him, and he doesn’t let people forget it.”
So, there was a jealous husband hanging around. But Pete hadn’t been shot, he’d been shot up—quite a difference.
“What’s her husband’s name?”
“Jim Stark.”
Tricia blinked.
Her contractor.
SEVEN
“I wondered if you had a few moments to talk?” Tricia asked.
Michele looked around the empty pub. “All the time in the world. Can I get you something?”
Tricia placed her take-out lunch container on the bar and sat on one of the stools. “Iced tea?”
“Sorry, we don’t serve it.”
“How about ginger ale?” Tricia suggested.
“Coming right up.” Michele half filled a tall glass with ice and poured the soda from a well trigger. She set a napkin down on the bar in front of Tricia before placing the glass on it. “Now, what’s on your mind?”
“By now I’m sure everyone in the village has heard about what happened to poor Pete Renquist.”
“Beer, with a chaser,” Michele replied sadly.
Tricia blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Michele smiled. “I always remember people by their drink orders. You’re Chardonnay, and lately a classic gin martini.”
“And what are you?” Tricia asked.
“Gin or Merlot, depending on the time of day and the company.”
Tricia took of sip of her ginger ale. “You know that the Historical Society has been gung-ho to take on your suggestion of the cemetery ghost walks, right?”
“It’ll be great fun. I intend to be there the very first night they hold it.”