Book Clubbed

“Poor Linda. I hadn’t heard.”

“She’ll be off work for a week. I have a temp coming in tomorrow, but it’ll be all she can do just to keep us from going under.”

“I’d be glad to help any way I can. What would you like me to do?”

“William sticks to me like glue when we aren’t both working. If I order a special cake from the Patisserie, perhaps you could pick it up and deliver it to the restaurant on Friday.”

“Of course. Is there anything Pixie and I can give Mr. Everett as a gift?”

“No gifts,” Grace insisted. “We’re at the point in our lives when we’re shedding material things, not acquiring new ones. A birthday card and a warm hug should suffice.” Grace took another sip of sherry and sobered. “I hate to bring up an unpleasant subject, but is there any news about Betsy Dittmeyer’s death?”

“Not that I heard.”

“I can’t say I’ll miss her. She was quite abrupt with me the last few times we spoke.”

“When did you last talk to her?”

“A few days ago. She contacted me, asking how she could go about setting up a charitable foundation.”

“Oh?” Tricia prompted. She wasn’t about to tell Grace about Betsy’s financial situation, but this sounded interesting. “Did she explain why?”

Grace shook her head and took another sip of sherry. “I started to tell her how I’d gone about setting up the Everett Foundation, but she kept interrupting me with questions, and then she wouldn’t let me answer them. She was really quite rude.”

“Did she tell you what kind of charity she wanted to start?”

Again Grace shook her head. “We never got into the details. I got the feeling she might want to protect her assets, perhaps through a trust. I tried to explain the difference to her, but she cut me off, quickly said good-bye, and hung up.”

“How odd.” Tricia drained her glass.

“Would you care for another?” Grace offered.

Tricia shook her head. “Thank you, but I’d better get back to the store. We’ll be closing soon.”

“And I’d better suck on a breath mint. I wouldn’t want William to think I’ve taken to drinking during the day, although I must admit I could get used to slipping in here every afternoon as a treat.”

“Why don’t the two of you try it now and then?”

“Oh, William never drinks and drives.”

“They also serve soft drinks,” Tricia reminded her.

“So they do,” Grace said with a smile. “Thank you for the suggestion.”

Tricia stood. “I’ll talk to you soon and we’ll firm up the arrangements.”

“Thank you. Have a good evening.”

“You, too.”

Tricia retrieved her coat and hat from a peg by the front door and left the pub. Once she’d crossed the street, she turned to look up at Christopher’s office window. No light illuminated the gloom, and there was no sign of him lurking about, either. Good.

Tricia had been stalked once before and wasn’t keen on a repeat performance. What was it Christopher had said the day before? “No matter how much you deny it, it’s not over between us, Tricia. One day we will get back together.”

A shiver ran down Tricia’s back and it had nothing to do with the temperature.

NINE

Only ten minutes had passed since Tricia had returned from her visit to the Dog-Eared Page and in that time the snow had changed from minuscule crystals to thick, heavy flakes. Pixie stood in front of the big display window at Haven’t Got a Clue, eyeing the street with growing concern. “Ya know, I really oughta think about getting some new tires on that old buggy of mine.”

Tricia looked at her watch. It was 4:55. “Why don’t you leave now? Beat the traffic,” she said, noting there weren’t even any tire tracks on the street. Stoneham in February was so dead someone might as well toss an RIP wreath on the street.

“You can go, too, Mr. Everett.”

Neither of her employees needed coaxing. They both hurried to get their coats, hats, and scarves from the pegs at the back of the store, while she retrieved the tea party leftovers from her refrigerator. “I’ll walk you to your car,” Mr. Everett told Pixie. “I wouldn’t want you to slip on the sidewalk.”

“Aw, you’re a peach, Mr. E.”

“Good night, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

“See ya tomorrow,” Pixie called rather cheerfully, having either forgotten, or more likely chosen to forget, their conversation from earlier that day. Tricia turned the lock on the door behind them, turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and then pulled down the shades on the big display window, taking note that Christopher’s office window was dark, and his apartment blinds had been drawn. Good.

It only took a few minutes to make sure the store was shipshape for the next day’s opening. Tricia decided to wait until morning to vacuum, and called to her cat. “Let’s make an early night of it, Miss Marple,” she said, but before she could turn off the lights and head for the back of the store and the stairs leading to her loft apartment, the phone rang. Tricia picked up the receiver. “Ange, is that you?”

“It sure is. Don’t you just hate this weather? Come on over. I’m making soup for di

“How can you even think about food after that tea you put on this afternoon?”

“It won’t be ready for at least an hour. I could use a little company, and figured you could, too.”

“We saw each other only an hour or so ago.”

“Yes, but we didn’t actually get to talk.”

No, they’d done that before their tea. But then, Tricia had nothing else penciled in on her social calendar.

“Soup is comfort food,” Angelica continued. “And it’s not all that filling.”

“Knowing you, that’s not all that’ll be on your table,” Tricia commented.

“Okay. I’ve got a baguette and a pound of butter. What else would anyone need?”

“A glass of wine?” Tricia suggested.

“Bring your own bottle.”

Tricia smiled. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

Miss Marple followed Tricia up to the apartment, where she was promptly fed, watered, and petted. “Be good. I’ll be home in a few hours.”

Tricia grabbed a bottle of wine and headed back down the stairs. She put on her jacket, but didn’t bother to button it, locked the door, and was surprised how much the snow had accumulated in only the few minutes since Pixie and Mr. Everett had left. There weren’t even any signs of their footsteps on the sidewalk.

Tricia let herself into the Cookery and stamped the snow from her feet before crossing the store and heading up the stairs to Angelica’s apartment. Once again she paused at the storeroom on the second floor. She tried the door handle, found it still locked, and felt better. Not that a wooden door was much of a barrier against a ghost, and not that she even believed in ghosts . . . still, she hurried up the rest of the steps and let herself into Angelica’s apartment. Once again Sarge was waiting and was apoplectic with joy at her arrival. She made a fuss over him and he raced to the front of the apartment to a

“Yes, yes, I know she’s here,” Angelica said and laughed, while Sarge jumped up and down as though on an invisible mini trampoline.

Angelica looked up. “Honestly, wouldn’t life be grand if everyone we knew was that excited to see us?”

“I have to admit, Miss Marple is a tad more aloof in her greetings, but she’s just as nice to come home to.”

“Unscrew the cap and pour the wine. It’s been a long day,” Angelica said and turned back to her stove. A pot simmered with tendrils of steam rising from it into the air.

Tricia took two glasses from the kitchen cabinet, cracked the seal, and poured the wine, handing Angelica a glass. “Don’t we make a pair. We have di