A Fatal Chapter (11 page)

“You could learn to arrange flowers. I could teach you.”

“You’re stretched too thin as it is,” Tricia said, which was true.

“You’re right.” Angelica sighed. “Okay, how do I get down from here?”

Tricia stepped back and grabbed Angelica’s left hand, helping her down. “I guess I’d better carry the ladder,” Angelica said, and proceeded to fold it for transport.

Sarge, who’d been sitting patiently, was eager to take off, and he had to be restrained when they only went as far as the next lamppost. Angelica unfolded the ladder, took a deep breath, and climbed the first step. “I can do this,” she muttered, and took the next step. Half a minute later, she was engrossed in her second floral arrangement.

By the time they’d finished the fifth basket, Angelica seemed to have forgotten her fear of heights. “You know, maybe Nigela Ricita Associates should open a floral shop here in Stoneham.”

“You wouldn’t want to hurt the Milford Nursery’s bottom line,
would you, especially after you encouraged them to join our Chamber of Commerce?”

“I guess you’re right,” Angelica said. “If it ever got out that I was Nigela, it could look like a conflict of interest.”

They did another two baskets before they ran out of silk flowers.

“Oh, dear,” Angelica said. “If you’ve hit all the local stores, what are we going to do about all the other baskets?”

“Maybe you could order some online and pay for express shipping?”

“That means we wouldn’t see them until at least Friday.”

“It beats bald baskets,” Tricia said.

“I guess,” Angelica said with resignation.

Suddenly Sarge’s ears perked up and he began to growl, straining at the leash. Tricia looked up the road and saw a figure advancing toward them. “Ange,” she whispered nervously, wondering, should the need arise, if they could defend themselves with the stepladder.

“Tricia!”

Tricia immediately recognized the voice: Christopher.

“What on earth are you two doing skulking around the village at this time of night?” he demanded.

“Replacing the flowers,” Angelica said, and scooped up a still-growling Sarge before he could start barking and wake the neighborhood. “What are
you
doing up this time of night?” she asked, inspecting his attire: a jacket over what looked like silk pajamas.

“I was thirsty and got up for a drink. I looked out the window and saw you two.”

“If you’d looked five minutes later, we’d have been gone,” Tricia said.

Christopher looked up at the hanging basket above them. “Why did you need to replace the flowers?”

“Because someone has snipped every last bloom,” Angelica explained.

“Then how—?”

“They’re fake,” Tricia explained.

“Silk,” Angelica insisted.

Christopher again looked up to take in Angelica’s handiwork and shrugged. “Oh.”

“What are you doing here?” Tricia asked.

“I told you.”

“Yes, but what compelled you to come down to check on us?”

“There’s a murderer running around here. You girls shouldn’t be out on the street in the middle of the night.”

“We’re women, not girls,” Tricia reminded him.

“And we have Sarge to protect us,” Angelica asserted, and the little dog growled in agreement.

“That little squirt? He’s hardly protection,” Christopher said.

“No, but he can bark up a storm if he feels we’re threatened,” Tricia said.

“Well, I’d feel better if you two would let me walk you home—that is if you’re ready to call it a night.”

“Since we’re out of flowers, I certainly am,” Angelica said.

“Me, too,” Tricia agreed.

“Good.” Christopher reached for the ladder, folded it, and then carried it as he led the way back to the Cookery. Angelica took out her key and unlocked the door. “Where do you want me to put the ladder?” Christopher asked.

“Just leave it inside the door. I’ll put it away in the morning.”

Tricia handed over the empty bags and the flashlight. “I’ll see you at the Chamber office in the morning.”

“If I remember correctly, we have nothing going on, so I might not make it in until the afternoon.”

“I’ll see you then,” Tricia said, and gave her sister a brief hug before Angelica entered the Cookery and locked the door.

Tricia turned to find Christopher standing before her with a big dumb grin across his face. “I can walk back to the Chamber without an escort,” she assured him.

“I don’t get to play good guy very often these days,” he said. “And I’ll sleep much better if I know you’re safe.”

Tricia looked down the well-lit, empty street and sighed. “Suit yourself.” She turned and started off at a brisk pace. Christopher had to jog a few steps to catch up.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

“You think so?” she asked, not bothering to look at him.

“Yes. Ten years ago you needed me.”

“Ten years ago I thought we needed each other.”

“Ten years ago I was arrogant. Five years ago I was even more arrogant.”

“And now?” she asked, looking askance at him as they walked.

“I hope I’ve learned humility.”

“You? Humble?” she asked, skeptical.

“Yes. I thought I could move to the mountains and live alone, but all I could think about was you.”

“Funny, it took several years before you contacted me.”

“I was living in denial.”

Tricia stopped suddenly. “You’ve got some nerve coming here, bugging me, suggesting we get back together.”

“It’s because I realized I still love you.”

“I suppose it was a case of ‘you don’t know what you’ve got until you lose it’?”

“That’s right. And now I want to do whatever it takes to get you back.”

“Unfortunately, you can’t go back in time and rectify things.”

“And I can’t keep apologizing for the biggest mistake in my life, either.”

“Why not?” Tricia asked.

“It hasn’t done much good so far.”

She stared at him for a long moment before she started off again. At the corner, she looked both ways, even though no cars had passed by in more than an hour, and crossed the street with Christopher following.

They didn’t speak until they approached the Chamber office. “I can take it from here,” Tricia said.

“I’ll see you in,” he insisted.

As they approached the side door, the motion-detector light clicked on, blazing. Tricia fumbled in her jacket pocket for her keys, finding them and then selecting the proper one to unlock the door. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“I’d feel better knowing there’s no one inside. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait and make sure there’s no one lurking in the shadows.”

She sighed.

“A man was killed only two days ago,” he reminded her.

“All right,” she reluctantly agreed. Christopher followed her inside the house. Once inside, Tricia turned on the lights, first leading him into the kitchen, then showing him the empty conference room, and finally the living room. “There. I’m safe and sound.”

“We haven’t checked upstairs.”

“I don’t think we need to,” Tricia said firmly.

“I insist,” Christopher said, and before she could stop him, he’d pivoted, opened the door to the stairway, and headed for the second floor.

“Wait!” she called, but he ignored her, bounding up the darkened stairs. Once at the top, he fumbled for a light switch. The overhead light glowed.

“Christopher,” Tricia called, pounding after him.

He was already in her bedroom when she arrived at the landing. “Get out!” she shouted.

“Nobody in there,” he said, turned on another light and inspected the tiny bathroom. “Or there.” He pushed past her, heading for her sitting room. He turned on the light and stood in the center of the room. Miss Marple had been sleeping on the room’s only chair, a wingback decked in pastel floral upholstery. The cat blinked up at him, and said,
“Yow!”

“Yes, it is late,” Christopher told her. “But I just wanted to make sure you and your mom are safe.” He turned back to face Tricia. “You can’t blame me for that.”

“I can blame you for forcing your way into my home,” she said.

“I didn’t force my way; you unlocked the door.”

“To the Chamber’s office. You are now trespassing in my personal space.”

He peeled off his jacket and tossed it on the footstool. Before she could protest, Miss Marple stood and Christopher scooped her up, taking her place on the chair and putting her down on his lap, where she promptly settled, tucking her feet under herself. “A fellow could sure go for a cup of cocoa before he goes back out into the cold.”

“It’s not
that
cold.”

“It is when you’re wearing pajamas.”

“Come down to the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup,” she said, seeking a compromise.

“But Miss Marple is so comfortable,” he said, and sure enough, Miss Marple’s eyes were closed in pleasure, and she purred like a buzz saw as he petted her head.

Traitor!
Tricia thought.

“I’ll be right back,” she grated.
And so help me, if I find you in my bedroom, I’ll call the police
.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Christopher assured her, looking up at her with those green eyes that almost always made her melt inside. This time she was determined to ignore their often-mesmerizing quality.

Tricia turned abruptly, lest she lose her resolve. She stomped down the stairs, went into the kitchen, and grabbed a mug from the drainboard. She filled it with water, which she nearly spilled when she thrust the mug into the microwave, hitting the timer for a minute. While she waited for it to heat, she got out the canister of cocoa and a clean spoon, her anger reaching the boiling point faster than the water. She didn’t wait for the microwave to count down the last twenty seconds and punched the door release. She didn’t want Christopher to say the cocoa needed to cool, thus delaying his departure. She dropped some of the powdered cocoa in her haste to get it into the mug, and slopped more of it onto the counter when stirring. When most of the cocoa had dissolved, she poured a little into the sink. She didn’t want to spill it on the floor or carpet.

Tricia ascended the stairs with more care and quiet than she’d descended them less than two minutes before. “Here’s your cocoa,” she called as she entered the sitting room, but Christopher sat slumped in the chair and was quietly snoring. Miss Marple appeared to be deep in dreamland as well.

“Christopher!” Tricia called sharply, but he didn’t rouse. She shook his shoulder, but he only nuzzled his head deeper into the wing of the chair.

For a moment she was so angry she considered pouring the chocolate over him, but she decided she liked the chair too much to risk such damage, and she wasn’t eager to frighten her cat half to death, either.

“I hope you get a backache,” she grumbled, and switched off the light before heading for her bedroom. She set the chocolate down and undressed, still grumbling to herself.

At last she sat on the bed, considered the mug of cocoa, and decided to drink it. She was so upset, she needed something to calm her jangled nerves. She shouldn’t have had the Irish coffee so late in the evening. And didn’t cocoa have caffeine in it, too?

She drank the last of it, set the mug on the nightstand, and set her alarm for seven, an hour later than she usually got up. It was after three. If she could fall asleep fast, she’d get just under four hours of sleep.

Climbing into bed, she turned off the light. She lay there for a few moments, fuming, wondering if she should lock her bedroom door. What if Christopher got up in an hour or so and climbed into bed with her?

She’d scream, and then she would
definitely
call the police. She’d have Baker arrest him. Maybe she’d get a restraining order against him, too. Yes, that was it. Christopher needed to be restrained from caring about her. He’d given up that privilege when he’d asked for the divorce.

Tricia squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to sleep, but blessed oblivion would not come—she was listening too hard for creeping footsteps approaching from the other room.

It was after four when she finally let her guard down and allowed herself to feel drowsy.

The nightmare returned with a vengeance. Flames licked the inside of Haven’t Got a Clue, the smoke thickening until it choked her. “Miss Marple! Miss Marple!” she called as she crawled along the carpet, searching for her beloved cat.

But it was only a dream. She knew it—she’d saved the cat and herself, and soon she’d begin to rebuild and refurbish, but the sense of danger still seemed closed—as someone frantically called her name.

“Tricia! Tricia!” came the shrill cries.

Tricia opened her eyes to see light streaming in her bedroom window.

“Tricia!”

The voice calling her name wasn’t part of a dream. It was
real!

“Tricia!” someone
called again, and finally Tricia recognized Mariana’s voice. She threw back the covers, jumped out of bed—again disturbing Miss Marple, who’d been sleeping on the end of the bed—and raced for the stairwell, bumping into Christopher.

“What are you still doing here?” she hissed.

“I guess I fell asleep,” Christopher muttered, his eyes open at half-mast and his chin covered with stubble.

Tricia heard footsteps bounding up the stairs, and she pushed him back toward the sitting room. “Hide!” she implored.

“Tricia, are you all right?” Mariana called, sounding panicked.

“Yes! I’m fine,” Tricia called from the top step. Mariana stopped midway up the stairs. “I was up late last night. Looks like I slept through the alarm.”

“I was so worried. I rang the doorbell and you didn’t answer. And when I found the back door unlocked, I got worried.”

“It was unlocked?”

Mariana nodded.

“I’m sorry. As I said, I was up late last night. Go on down and put on a pot of coffee. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Mariana nodded and turned, heading back down the steps.

Tricia turned toward her sitting room, her anger growing once again. “Christopher!” she called in a harsh whisper.

He stood before her in his PJs, smiling, taking in her filmy nightgown. “You’re the most beautiful sight a man could wake up to.”

“Get out!”

His smile broadened. “Sure.” He reached for his jacket. “Are you sure I can’t stay for a cup of coffee?”

“No.”

“I’ll just say a quick hello to Mariana as I leave.”

“You will not.”

He shrugged, slipping his arms into the jacket sleeves.

She pointed toward the chair. “You will sit there until I can get dressed, and then you will sneak out like the sneak you are for sneaking in.”

“I didn’t sneak. You let me in.”

“I am not going to argue with you,” Tricia said, turned and stormed off for her bedroom, slamming the door and locking it behind her.

Ten minutes later, she opened the door damp around the edges but dressed and ready for the day, sure it was going to be daunting but ready just the same.

Christopher stood as she entered the sitting room once again.

“Can I borrow your bathroom? I really have to go.”

“No, you may not. You will wait for me to give you the word, and then you’ll quietly hurry down the stairs and get the heck out of here.”

“Tricia, I’m wearing pajamas. It’s almost eight thirty. Half the village is up by now.”

She glared at him.

“I’ll quietly hurry down the stairs and get the heck out,” he promised contritely.

“Wait until I give you a signal.”

“Okay, okay,” he agreed, raising his hands in surrender.

Tricia turned and headed for the stairs. She could smell the intoxicating aroma of coffee as she reached the bottom, and she ducked her head into the tiny kitchen, but Mariana was nowhere in sight. She must have gone to sit at her desk. Tricia crept down the hall, and sure enough Mariana was already seated at her desk going through the Chamber’s e-mails.

“I’ll just get a cup of coffee and then I’ll be right in,” Tricia told her.

Mariana nodded but didn’t bother looking away from her screen.

Tricia crept back up the hall, looked up the stairwell, and waved for Christopher to join her.

Then she heard the back door open. Startled, she looked up to see Chief Baker come through it. She slammed the door to her private quarters.

“Grant!” she practically squeaked as her heart pounded in her chest. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“The ME has rendered the cause of death for Pete Renquist. I thought you might like to know.”

Tricia leaned her back against the door like a human barricade. “And?” she asked.

“A heroin overdose.”

Tricia felt her mouth drop open. “Pete? Heroin? I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” Baker said. He sniffed the air. “Any chance I could get a cup of coffee?”

Still reeling from what she’d just heard, Tricia nodded. “Sure. Come into the kitchen.”

Baker followed her into the tiny kitchen, taking a seat at the bistro table. Mariana had evidently wiped up the spilled cocoa from the night before. Tricia made a mental note to retrieve the dirty cup still sitting on her nightstand once she had a moment to spare. She poured two cups of coffee and doctored them both. She hadn’t forgotten how Baker took his.

She heard the old wooden floor squeak behind her and looked to see Christopher, shoes in hand, tiptoeing toward the back door. She wanted nothing more than to throw him a murderous glare, but she refrained, swallowed, and turned back toward Baker, grateful that he sat at the opposite end of the kitchen.

“Anything wrong?” Baker asked.

“I’m—I’m still shocked by what you just told me,” she stammered, forcing herself to keep her gaze on him and not look back toward the door. She heard it quietly close, and she let out a breath. “Heroin?” she repeated, carrying their cups to the table and taking a seat.

Baker accepted the cup and took a sip. “But it wasn’t self-administered.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was right-handed. It looks like someone clobbered him, and then injected him in the right arm.”

“Can just one dose kill someone?” she asked in disbelief.

“When you’re a junkie who hasn’t shot up in over twenty years, yeah—one dose would do it. The body couldn’t tolerate it.”

“But I’ve heard about an antidote—”

“A lot of police and first responders do come armed with Naloxone,
but you’d have to know someone has overdosed to administer it. As far as I’ve been able to tell, no one knew about Pete’s secret past.”

Tricia placed her hands around the warm cup, willing it to thaw the chill that had settled around her soul. “Was it difficult to root out?”

“Not after what you told me his last words were.”

“‘I never missed my little boy,’” Tricia repeated. “What did it mean?”

“
Little boy
is often used as a euphemism for heroin. After we talked, I asked the medical examiner to test for heroin. It would have turned up, but we got our answer a bit faster.”

Pete Renquist a heroin addict? What had turned him around? How had he ended up in Stoneham and at the Historical Society? So many questions she’d probably never have the answers to. And who in Stoneham would have known that Pete had once been a heroin addict?

Then she remembered her talks with Charlie, one of Stoneham’s mailmen, who’d known the Chamber’s former receptionist, Betsy Dittmeyer. He’d met her at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, and he’d told Tricia that once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic. Had Pete been going to Narcotics Anonymous meetings? If so, whoever else went to them would have known about his addiction.

“You’re thinking what I’ve already thought about. That someone arranged to meet him at the gazebo and then killed him.”

“It does seem logical. But why?”

Baker shrugged.

“Do you think this was some kind of revenge killing?” Tricia asked.

“It seems like most murders are a form of retaliation, for one reason or another.”

Tricia sighed, feeling helpless. “I appreciate you telling me this, Grant.”

Again he shrugged. “I thought you had a right to know. Then again,
I don’t want you talking about it, although I’m sure it’ll get around soon enough. These kinds of things always do.”

“It’s such a shame. He was such a nice man.”

“Except for the ex-wife, we haven’t come up with any next of kin yet, but I’ve got a line on some former employers; maybe one of them will be able to tell me more about Renquist’s past.”

Tricia nodded. He was certainly more willing to talk about Pete’s death than he had been the other evening. She decided to keep pushing. “What will happen to the body?”

Baker shrugged. “If he had a will, it might state Pete’s wishes. I’ve got one of my guys calling all the attorneys in the area. One of them might know. He didn’t have a safety deposit box at the bank, and I or one of my men will have a look at his house.”

“Can I come along?”

“No. You’re done with snooping around, remember?”

“I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask,” she said, offering him a weak smile.

For a minute or more they sipped their coffee in solemn silence, then Baker finally spoke. “From what I’ve learned, Renquist leaves big shoes to fill over at the Historical Society.”

“You don’t think his colleague, Janet Koch, can fill them?” she asked, just a bit annoyed.

He shrugged. “She’s got a real life and a husband. Renquist lived alone. From what I understand, his life
was
the Historical Society.”

“You don’t think a woman is capable of running a business—or a nonprofit organization—and having a life?” she asked, thinking of all that Angelica was successfully juggling.

Again he shrugged. “Man or woman—it doesn’t matter. But having a significant other would draw far too much attention from the job that needs to be done.”

Tricia’s grip on her cup tightened. She wasn’t sure she believed that. But perhaps that explained why Baker was divorced. He had chosen his job as a law enforcement agent over his marriage. He’d told Tricia that his ex-wife had initiated the divorce, and yet when she’d suffered from cancer, he’d chosen to stand by her during the rough months of treatment. Despite the time he’d taken to support her in her time of need, he’d still chosen the job over his wife.

Tricia still felt that it wasn’t a mistake that she’d ended her relationship with Baker. He had many fine qualities, but
life partner
wasn’t one of them. Still, she liked him and probably always would. She managed a smile.

He noticed. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

She shrugged and took another sip of her coffee. “Kismet.”

He frowned.

“How life flows, or doesn’t, for people like Pete. How sad that some selfish person had to cut his life short.”

“I will find out who killed him and bring that person to justice,” Baker declared.

You hope
, Tricia thought.

Baker drained his cup and looked up at the clock. “I’ve got to go back to work.”

“And I’m already late starting it,” Tricia said.

“Still no word from your insurance company?” Baker asked as he stood.

Tricia shook her head. Soft fur rubbed against her foot. She hadn’t yet fed Miss Marple, either.

“I’m sure you’ll hear soon,” Baker said.

Tricia stood and walked him to the door.

“We should stay in touch,” he said.

“If I learn anything I think you should know, I’ll definitely call.” She’d known he’d meant that communication between them should go beyond news of Pete’s death, but she didn’t acknowledge it.

“No snooping!” he told her again, emphatically stabbing the air with his right index finger.

“Have a good day,” she called as he headed out the door. She closed it and stood staring at it for a long moment. Miss Marple nudged the back of her calf, and said, “
Yow!
” She wanted her breakfast and fast!

Tricia hurried back to the kitchen, washed out the cat’s food dish, and opened a can of pseudo salmon for her girl, set it down on the floor for her, then changed the water. Tricia wasn’t exactly hungry, but she perused the fridge’s contents. Yogurt. Again. What she really wanted was an egg-white omelet—with onions and peppers—but she didn’t have any eggs and she was too lazy to walk half a block to the Bookshelf Diner. She much preferred the days back at Haven’t Got a Clue when she had a fridge with only her own groceries in it and had the leeway to have anything she wanted for breakfast. As it was, this was another day she would have to put up with a situation not to her liking. And as she’d overslept, she knew she wasn’t going to get her four-mile walk in, either.

While Miss Marple chowed down, Tricia consumed her nonfat yogurt and poured herself another cup of coffee. She was determined to have a much more substantial lunch and would try to remember to call Booked for Lunch to order something other than the tuna plate.

Tricia topped up her cup once more and, with head held high, made her way to the former living room, now office space, in the house. She sat down before her computer and hit the power button, ready to start her workday.

“So,” Mariana said, her voice level, “who was that guy who snuck out the back door after Chief Baker arrived?”

Tricia’s heart froze. “Guy?” she bluffed.

“Yeah. A hunky guy in pajamas,” Mariana said, and her lips quirked into a smirk.

Tricia let out a breath. “If you must know, it was my ex-husband. Angelica and I were out late last night. Someone clipped all the blossoms in the hanging baskets around the village, and we replaced them with silk flowers.”

“And?” Mariana asked.

“Christopher walked me home.”

“So why was he still here at eight in the morning?” Mariana pressed, still smiling.

Did Tricia really owe this woman an explanation? The fact was, nothing untoward had happened between her and her ex, but Mariana sat there with what amounted to a shit-eating grin plastered across her face.

Tricia glared at her. “He stayed for a cup of cocoa and fell asleep in my sitting room.”