Book Clubbed

“What brings you to Haven’t Got a Clue?” Tricia asked, looking straight into Christopher’s mesmerizing green eyes. She always thought they were his best physical trait. Dressed in jeans, a bulky sweater, and a ski jacket, he looked like he might be about to pose for a spread in an L.L. Bean catalog.

“I happened to be looking out my office window when I saw Pixie and Mr. Everett go out for lunch. I thought you might want some company.”

Tricia looked over her shoulder at Miss Marple, who was asleep on her perch behind the cash desk. “I’m never lonely when I’m with my cat. You see, she stuck with me through thick and thin. Like when my husband left me,” Tricia said, keeping her tone light and even.

“Touché,” Christopher reluctantly agreed.

“Now, why did you really come here today?”

“I’ve seen the police and rescue vehicles come and go, and I’ve heard all the gossip. And I know how wrapped up you get whenever there’s a crime in Stoneham.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Everybody knows you like to think of yourself as a much younger and prettier Agatha Christie.”

“I do not.” She frowned. “Well, I will accept the ‘prettier’ part.”

“From what I hear, you’ve helped the cops solve several crimes in the past couple of years.”

“I was just being a good citizen.”

“I hoped that when your employees return from their lunch that we could go somewhere to eat and maybe talk about Betsy Dittmeyer.”

“And what did you know about Betsy?”

“I am the only financial advisor in town. You’d be surprised how many clients I’ve accumulated in such a short period.” He’d moved to town only two months before.

“I thought you worked for Nigela Ricita Associates.”

“Not exclusively. I’m on a retainer, but I still have several hours free every day.”

“What about client confidentiality? Aren’t you afraid that if you talk to me about a client’s financial situation that your other clients might find out and take their business away from you?”

“I happen to trust you. I know you wouldn’t go blab whatever I tell you to anyone—except maybe Angelica, and she can keep a secret, too.”

“How would you know that?”

He shrugged. “We’ve talked.”

“Has Angelica hired you to give her financial advice?” Tricia asked, surprised.

“Yes.”

“Okay, so what is Angelica’s financial status?”

Christopher shook his head. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Why, because she’s still alive?”

He nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Have you spoken to Chief Baker about Betsy?”

He nodded. “I thought it might be pertinent.”

“And was it?”

“He seemed to think so. And so will you.”

“Okay, I’m game.”

“Great, then you’ll go out to lunch with me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You do need to eat,” he said reasonably.

“Why can’t you just tell me now?”

“I don’t mind being seen with you. Do you mind being seen with me?”

Tricia sighed. She was getting tired of the runaround. “Level with me. Please?”

“Okay.” Christopher shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “But only because I feel I owe you. I realize now it was downright cruel of me to leave you the way I did.”

“Yes, you hurt me, but I’m over it now. I like my life the way it is. Believe it or not, I’m not pining for you. You don’t have to buy me expensive jewelry or do anything else to make up for it. It’s behind us now. I’ve moved on. It’s time you did, too.”

“You’re absolutely right. But is it wrong for me to still enjoy your company? We have a history. If nothing else, I’d like us to be friends.”

“We are friends. Just not close friends.”

Christopher frowned. “I suppose you’re right.”

“And does this mean you aren’t going to tell me about Betsy’s finances?”

He sighed. “I guess I could, at least until a customer comes in.” He straightened. “You might not believe it, but Betsy Dittmeyer was a multimillionaire.”

Dumpy, unattractive, Betsy? The one who was afraid the Chamber of Commerce might reduce her from a full-time to a part-time employee? “You’ve got to be kidding,” Tricia said, flabbergasted.

Christopher shook his head. “It seems she’d had several large judgments from civil suits. Not only that, but not long ago she’d changed the beneficiary for nearly all of her accounts.”

“And who was the unlucky person to lose Betsy’s favor?”

“Her sister.”

“Joelle Morrison?” Tricia asked.

“Do you know her?”

“We’ve spoken on a number of occasions,” Tricia admitted, neglecting to add that she’d led the wedding pla

Again, Christopher shook his head.

“Do you think the loss of such a large inheritance could be the reason Betsy was murdered?” Tricia blurted.

“Not necessarily. Betsy assured me her sister had no idea of her personal worth, but Chief Baker was sure interested. Apparently he thinks it makes a good motive for murder.”

It certainly did. “Who was the lucky new benefactor? Anyone we know?”

“The Stoneham Food Shelf, several charities involved in cancer research, and a living trust.”

“Wait a minute. Betsy always acted like she was broke. She certainly didn’t dress the part of a millionaire—or flaunt the fact she had the kind of money you’re suggesting. So unless she was just spiteful, Joelle had no real reason to kill her sister.”

“Perhaps Betsy taunted her about the disinheritance. If she did, I have no knowledge of it—and maybe no one else did, either. They may never have spoken about it. Do you talk money with Angelica?”

Angelica had once told Tricia that she’d written a will leaving all her worldly goods to Tricia—and vice versa, but they hadn’t spoken of it since. “No. And she rarely mentions it to me, either.”

“There you go.”

“So does this make Joelle a truly viable suspect, or would you rule her out?” Tricia asked.

“That’s not up to either of us to decide. But I’m sure your boyfriend, Chief Baker, will.”

Tricia felt her insides tighten. “I wish you wouldn’t refer to him that way. We are no longer an item . . . not that we ever really were.”

“Too bad for him. You’re a remarkable woman, Tricia. The kindest I’ve ever come across.”

She certainly didn’t feel that way today. Not after her encounter with Nikki . . . and now with Christopher. Still, she replied, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“No, I really mean it.”

But before he could elaborate, the shop door opened and an elderly female customer entered.

Tricia made eye contact with the woman and managed a smile. “Good afternoon. Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. I’m Tricia. Please let me know if you need any help.”

“Thank you,” the old lady said and moseyed over to one of the bookshelves.

“I guess that’s the end of our conversation,” Christopher said with yet another shrug.

“I guess,” Tricia agreed, and for some unfathomable reason she actually felt a pang of regret.

“That lunch invitation is still good. I mean, you do need sustenance to stay alive. If none of the local restaurants appeal to you, I make a mean risotto.”

There was no way Tricia would allow herself to visit her ex-husband’s apartment. She worried that, plied with enough wine, she might finish the evening in his bed—and she really didn’t want that to happen. “Thank you, but no thank you.”

“No matter how much you deny it, it’s not over between us, Tricia. One day we will get back together.”

Tricia said nothing. She didn’t want to encourage him. And she didn’t want to admit that somewhere in her heart of hearts she still cared more for him than she wanted or would ever admit. She didn’t want to give him that much power over her ever again.

Christopher cast a glance toward the back of the shop where Tricia’s lone customer still browsed. “Well, I guess I’d better go. If you won’t eat with me, can I at least bring you a sandwich or something?”