Book Clubbed

“I usually have lunch with Angelica at Booked for Lunch after it closes.”

“I know. I often see you cross the street around two o’clock.”

“Have you been spying on me?” Tricia asked, although she wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had. He certainly lived close enough to observe her comings and goings.

“Not spying. I just happen to look out my window when I’m not busy. If you’re there—I see you. If you’re not, I don’t.”

“And do you find yourself without something to do on a regular basis?” she asked and found herself smiling. Good grief, was she actually flirting with her ex-husband?

Christopher’s smile was wistful. “Sometimes.”

The door opened and another customer entered the store. Tricia gave her usual ca

“Are you sure I can’t get you something? A cappuccino? Espresso? A big greasy burger and a slice of cheesecake?”

“No, nothing, thank you.”

Christopher’s smile morphed into something a little more sly. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around, then.”

“I guess so,” Tricia said.

“I’m going now,” he said, backing toward the door.

“I see that you are.”

“Honest, I’m almost out of here.”

“Have a nice lunch.”

With nowhere left to go, Christopher opened the door, gave her a cheerful wave and a smile, and then he was gone.

Tricia sighed. After all the unhappiness he’d caused her, why did she still love that man so much?

FOUR

Tricia watched as the clock’s minute hand inched closer to the hour. Already the east side of Main Street was bathed in shadows. Every day the sun stayed above the horizon for just a minute or so longer, promising that spring was only another five weeks away. Still it gave her hope, however dumb that sounded.

Main Street seemed strangely quiet after the u

“Another eventful day in Stoneham,” Pixie declared and sighed as she placed yet another removable price sticker on a paperback. She’d been working on a box of books Tricia had bought from an online auction.

From her position on the other side of the cash desk, Tricia looked over the top of her reading glasses. “After this morning, I think I could do without any more eventful days, thank you very much.”

Pixie shrugged and slapped a sticker on a Tami Hoag novel. “My parole officer thinks I have a vivid imagination. He doesn’t believe a word I tell him about what goes on here in Stoneham.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t tell him those tales. He might decide the village is a bad influence on you and force you to quit your job and leave us. Then what would Miss Marple, Mr. Everett, and I do?”

“Gee, I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll keep my mouth shut from now on,” she promised.

Tricia gave Pixie what she hoped was a warm smile. She’d actually become quite fond of the ex-prostitute who happened to have an encyclopedic memory when it came to vintage mysteries. Besides her habit of eavesdropping, there was only one other thing about Pixie that Tricia couldn’t abide: her affection for the large, ugly, vinyl baby doll she’d given to Tricia as a gift several months before, and had adopted as the store mascot. Pixie had named her Sarah Jane and liked to dress the doll for holidays and special occasions. Since Valentine’s Day was only a week away, the doll now sported a frilly red dress decorated with pink hearts and black piping. Pixie had recently bought the thing a vintage pram—an item she’d won on an eBay auction. Sarah Jane often held a book in her little plastic hands, but they didn’t stay there for long. For some reason, whatever Sarah Jane recommended was quickly snapped up by Tricia’s customers. Oddly enough, the customers weren’t freaked out by the doll like Tricia was.

“What have you got on tap tonight, Pixie?” Tricia asked, knowing she had no plans of her own.

“I’m taking up the hem on a new dress.” New was a relative term when it came to Pixie’s clothes. “It’s red with a taffeta slip—just gorgeous. Now if I just had a gentleman friend to dress for,” she said wistfully.

“I hear you,” Tricia agreed.

“Oh, come on, you’ve got two guys dogging your tracks. Odds are you’ll have both of them badgering you for a date for the most romantic night of the year.”

Tricia didn’t comment. The fact that one of the guys was her ex-husband who had dumped her to find himself, and the other was a cop who couldn’t make a commitment, had a lot to do with her lack of enthusiasm. Valentine’s Day was less than a week away and, though she’d spoken to both men that day, neither had mentioned it.

Mr. Everett wandered up to the cash desk. “Is there anything you’d like me to do before the end of the day, Ms. Miles?”

“Would you please empty the wastebaskets?”

“I’d be glad to,” he said and she handed him the one that resided behind the cash desk.

The door to Haven’t Got a Clue opened, letting in a blast of cold air, and Betsy Dittmeyer’s sister, a haggard-looking Joelle Morrison, her knee-length coat unbuttoned, wearing no hat or gloves despite the frigid weather, staggered in. “Betsy’s dead,” she cried. “She’s dead!”

Tricia took off her reading glasses, scooted around the counter, and hurried to Joelle’s side, giving her a gentle hug. Joelle stood there, sobbing hysterically. Tricia’s cheeks warmed in embarrassment as Pixie watched her gently pat Joelle’s heaving back. “I’m so sorry,” she crooned over and over again, wondering if it was her day to console weepy women.

The last time Tricia had seen Joelle, she’d been at least fifty pounds heavier, but the weight loss had made her face look gaunt—or did it just seem that way because of her emotional state? She was about the same age as Tricia, but the years hadn’t been so kind. A wedding pla

Eventually Joelle’s sobs began to subside and Tricia pulled back. “Come sit down,” she encouraged, and led Joelle to the comfortable upholstered chairs in the store’s readers’ nook. “Pixie, would you please get Joelle a cup of coffee?”

“Sure thing,” Pixie said and hurried over to the beverage station.

“Black with two sugars,” Joelle said as if by rote. She sat down and pulled a used tissue from her coat pocket and blew her nose several times, sounding remarkably like a honking goose.

“I wanted to see the spot where dear Betsy died, but the Cookery is closed,” Joelle declared.

Tricia took the adjacent seat. “How did you find out about . . . what happened?”

“Well, it sure wasn’t the Stoneham police who called me. It was Fra

“I didn’t know the two of you were friends.”

“We’re not. But it was very kind of her to call. Otherwise I might have found out by watching the six o’clock news, and that would have killed me.”

That seemed unlikely. The thing was, Tricia hadn’t seen a TV news truck roll past her big display window at all that day. Poor Betsy’s death hadn’t been at all newsworthy . . . at least to the nearby TV stations.

“Fra