Murder on the Half Shelf (12 page)

Tricia rapped on the glass harder. Carrot-top continued to
ignore her and swung her chair around so that she could no longer see Tricia.

“Miss, miss!” Tricia insisted.

She reached over and opened the glass. “Excuse me, but I’m a friend of Mrs. Everett’s. Her husband asked me to come here to speak with her.”

Carrot-top finally stood and turned back to the window. “Yeah, right. If I had a buck for everybody who came in here or called with that story, I’d be a millionaire myself. Now beat it, before I call the cops.”

“I’ll have you know Chief Baker of the Stoneham Police Department is my…my boyfriend.” Whoa! That was firing the heavy artillery, and not exactly true at the moment, either. Likewise, Carrot-top was not impressed.

“And Santa comes down my chimney on Christmas Eve,” the woman replied.

Furious, Tricia turned for the door to the inner sanctum and grasped the handle. It was locked.

Carrot-top leaned across her desk and raised her voice. “I’m not kidding, lady. Get out of here or I’ll come out there and bust your face myself.”

Tricia’s jaw dropped in shock. “Does Grace know you speak to visitors in that tone of voice and with such malice?”

Carrot-top smiled sweetly. “Who do you think told me to keep out the riffraff?”

Tricia just stood there, speechless.

“Shut your mouth, honey. Ain’t no flies in here to catch.”

Tricia did, and found herself puffing great breaths through her nose. She turned, very ladylike, and exited the office. However, the minute she closed the door behind her, she stuck out her tongue at it. It was stupid, it was childish, and it felt
good
.

Once outside, Tricia stood on the sidewalk and took a few moments to ground herself, glad she had the trip to the bank to help her decompress after her unpleasant encounter with old Carrot-top.

Before she had time to move, the door behind her opened again. She turned, wondering if Carrot-top was about to make good on her threat, but it was Amy Schram who nearly ran into her.

“Tricia! What are you doing blocking the door?”

“Sorry. I just came from the Everett Foundation.” She found she didn’t have the words to say any more about that unpleasant encounter. “What are you doing here?”

“I just rented the apartment on the third floor. It’s my first place,” she said, and beamed with pride. “What a relief to get out from under my mom and dad’s thumb.”

“You still work for them, though.”

“Of course. But now I can come and go as I please without a lot of questions. I love my freedom.”

Tricia well remembered her first apartment and the enjoyment she’d experienced while decorating—and entertaining whom she wanted when she wanted.

“Congratulations. I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you around the village.”

Amy laughed. “You sure will. I’d better get back to work. Have to check on my bulbs.” She gave a wave and took off down the sidewalk. It was then Tricia saw the Milford Florist and Nursery van parked near the Happy Domestic. She started off in the same direction, heading for the bank.

By the time she got back to Haven’t Got a Clue, she found an impatient Mr. Everett waiting for her. “I’m sorry, Mr. Everett, but I wasn’t able to get in to—”

But he cut her off before she could explain. “There’s a person from the employment agency here to see you,” he said, and nodded toward a thin woman of about fifty with windblown brown hair browsing among the books. She wore a buff-colored trench coat, hose, and black flats, and carried a leather briefcase.

“I’d better go introduce myself to her,” she whispered, but first stowed her purse behind the cash desk. She took off her
jacket and was about to stuff it under the counter when Mr. Everett reached for it.

“I’ll hang it up,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Tricia made her way across the store. The woman looked up. “Hello. I’m Tricia Miles, owner of Haven’t Got a Clue.”

The woman offered her hand. “Linda Fugitt. I’m here about the assistant manager’s job.”

“Won’t you sit down and we’ll talk,” Tricia said, with a wave of her hand toward the readers’ nook. “Can I take your coat and get you a cup of coffee?”

“Oh no, I’m fine,” the woman said.

They took adjacent seats in the nook and the woman pulled a résumé from her briefcase. “I haven’t had retail experience in quite some time, but I learn fast and I’m good with people,” she explained.

Tricia looked over the résumé, her stomach tightening. Linda Fugitt, whose last job was assistant director of the Anderson Foundation for the Arts in Manchester. With a master of science degree in nonprofit management, she was vastly overqualified for the position of assistant manager, and Tricia reluctantly told her so. “You’d have to work Saturdays as well.”

“I’m more than willing to do so,” Linda assured her.

Tricia couldn’t keep from reading the title of assistant director over and over again.

“Ms. Miles, I’ll be frank,” Linda said. “I need this job. Since the economy tanked, charitable giving for the arts has taken a terrible tumble.”

That was no exaggeration. For many years Tricia had worked for an NPO in Manhattan. She’d lost her job under similar circumstances.

“I’ve been unable to find any employment,” Linda continued. “It’s always the same story, too. I’m overqualified for every position I’ve interviewed for in the past six months. If you could just let me work for you for minimum wage for even a
couple of months, if you’re dissatisfied with me you could let me go, but at least then I could get a job with one of the other big-box retailers on the highway outside Milford.”

Tricia looked down at the paper on her lap once more. Nicely typed, no misspellings or stray marks. It was a far cry from most of the recent applicants—most of whom hadn’t even offered a résumé. She looked up and into Linda’s hazel eyes and saw true desperation in them. “What do you know about vintage mysteries?”

Linda smiled. “Not much, I’m afraid. But contemporary mysteries and romantic suspense novels have always been my secret vice. I’m a big fan of Wendy Corsi Staub, Carla Neggers, and Karen Harper. But I’m a quick study and I can search Google with the best of them. I’m more than willing to learn. And I’d sure rather sell books than burgers and fries,” she said eagerly.

Tricia looked down at the résumé. If she hoped to keep this employee from bolting to another minimum-wage job, she’d have to offer more than the competition. And maybe, just maybe, this one would stay longer than a couple of weeks.

“You aren’t allergic to cats, are you?” Tricia asked.

Linda shook her head. “I have two of my own.” Another good sign.

“How does two dollars over minimum wage strike you?”

Linda sighed with relief. “It sounds pretty darn good right now.”

“When can you start?” Tricia asked.

“How about today?”

“Great.” Tricia offered her hand, and they shook on it. “Now, how about that cup of coffee while you fill out the paperwork?”

“That sounds wonderful.”

Tricia noticed that Mr. Everett had been waiting discreetly at the cash desk. He didn’t look cheered. She motioned him to join them at the nook. “Mr. Everett, this is Linda Fugitt.
She’s going to be joining us here at Haven’t Got a Clue.” At this news, he looked positively panicked.

“Oh. Well. Nice to meet you, Ms. Fugitt.” His gaze darted to Tricia. “May I speak to you for a moment, Ms. Miles?”

Tricia stood and gave a cautious smile to her new employee. “Excuse me. I’ll get the paperwork for you to fill out and be back in a minute.” She motioned Mr. Everett to follow her to the cash desk.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s just that—I’ve just realized having a full-time employee working here will cut my hours.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to continue to work nearly forty hours a week.”

“That was before Grace made our charitable foundation her life’s work. Speaking of which, what did she say when you spoke to her?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Everett, but I couldn’t get in to see Grace. Her receptionist wasn’t at all welcoming and practically threw me out of the office. She seemed to think I was trying to run a scam by saying I knew Grace. I’m sure her attitude is not the impression either Grace or you want the public to receive when they visit your foundation.”

“Good heavens,” Mr. Everett said, taken aback. “I’ll speak to Grace about it tonight when I get home. Or rather, later tonight—whenever
she
gets home.”

He could speak to her about
that
, but not about the problems they were experiencing in their marriage?

“Too often these days, Grace has after-hours meetings,” he continued. “She’s trying to set up an endowment for the foundation so that after our lottery winnings are depleted, the good work can go on for many years to come.”

“That’s admirable.”

“Yes, but time-consuming. At our ages, we don’t have a lot of time left. I’d prefer we spend it with each other.”

Tricia couldn’t blame him for feeling that way. When Grant
Baker left the Sheriff’s Department, Tricia thought she might see more of him, and on a regular basis. That hadn’t happened, either. He didn’t listen to his police scanner, as Russ Smith had done during their dates, but his cell phone was always nearby, and his dispatcher felt free to call him for the slightest reason. That he always took the calls had been a constant source of irritation. Of course, that would no longer be a problem if they weren’t going to be seeing each other for the foreseeable future.

“I’d better get Linda to fill out the payroll information. After that, I’ll give her a tour of the store and then the three of us can talk about how you both want to split your hours. Of course, I’d be very happy if you’d continue to work your full schedule until Linda feels comfortable being here.”
And please let her feel comfortable and happy and not leave us!
she mentally amended.

Mr. Everett nodded. “I will not take advantage of the situation.” He sighed. “Perhaps Ginny needs some part-time help at the Happy Domestic. I believe I’ll give her a call during my lunch break.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Everett, but Linda seems like she could be a good fit, and we have been looking for someone for a long time now.”

Again he nodded.

The door opened, and a customer entered. Mr. Everett perked up. “May I help you find something?” he asked, and Tricia left him to help the customer while she found the papers she needed and returned to the nook, where she found Miss Marple and Linda getting acquainted. The cat was sitting on Linda’s lap, purring loudly. She looked up at Tricia’s approach, her cheeks coloring.

“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Mr. Everett. Um…does he have a first name?”

Tricia laughed. “I’m sorry, it’s William. I call him Mr. Everett, as do most of our regular customers, just out of respect.”

“You did say the job was for forty hours, though—or did I misunderstand?”

“No, you’re correct. It’s just that…” She lowered her voice. “Mr. Everett is going through a rough patch just now and had hoped to maintain a full workload. I’m sure things will straighten out any time now.”

Linda nodded and accepted the papers Tricia handed her.

“I should also mention that we host a Tuesday night book club,” Tricia said. “It would be wonderful if you could join us now and then, but attendance certainly isn’t mandatory—especially as it’s outside your regular working hours.”

“It sounds interesting. I already have plans for this evening, but perhaps I can attend a future meeting,” Linda said, and bent to retrieve a pen from her purse.

The door opened once again, but instead of a customer it was Frannie Armstrong who entered the store. “Howdy, Mr. E. How goes it?” she called, her Texas twang quite pronounced. That often meant she had some good gossip to spill. But what was she doing at Haven’t Got a Clue at midmorning when she should be running the till over at the Cookery? The fact that she wasn’t wearing a coat gave Tricia a clue.

Frannie walked up to the nook. “Hey, Tricia. Angelica sent me over here to ask if you could give us some small bills. We had a couple of customers paying with cash who only had fifties and hundred-dollar bills.”

“Sure thing,” Tricia said, but before she started for her own register, she introduced Frannie and Linda.

“Pleased to meet you,” Frannie said with a grin. “You’re gonna love working for ole Tricia here. She’s the best—well, next to my boss, of course. She and Tricia are sisters.”

Linda gave a weak smile. “How nice.”

“I’ll get you that change,” Tricia said, and Frannie gave Linda a nod and followed her to the register. She handed Tricia a hundred-dollar bill, and Tricia counted out the equivalent in twenties, tens, fives, and ones.

“So what’s new?” Tricia asked, giving Frannie an open invitation to spill her guts.

Frannie leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “The rumor mill is alive and well this morning,” she confided. “There’s another suspect in the Comfort murder case.”

Tricia’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Frannie nodded. “I’ve heard tell that Miz Pippa Comfort once had a relationship with that Ellington fella who owns the Full Moon Nudist Camp and Resort. In fact, they got together when she was a Playboy bunny.”

“A Playboy bunny?” That had to be years ago. The last club shut down back in the late 1980s…although, hadn’t it been resurrected in Las Vegas some time ago? Tricia wasn’t quite sure. “Where did you hear all this?” she asked.

“I have a friend who works at the nudist camp. I won’t name names,” Frannie said with pursed lips, “but she had a relationship with Ellington—
had
being the operative word. When the relationship soured, she threatened a sexual harassment lawsuit. She kept her job and got a big fat raise, and now the two of them pretend that nothing ever happened.”

“So what did she say?” Tricia asked, since it was apparent that Frannie was dying to finish her story.

“What she told me was all pillow talk. They’d spoken about ex-lovers, and how many women do you know with the name of Pippa, anyway?”

None, Tricia admitted to herself.

“Anyway, it seems Mr. Ellington had contacted Miz Pippa and told her that Stoneham was in need of hotel rooms.”