Sentenced to Death (37 page)

“Isn’t this exciting! Our own police force,” Frannie said, with delight. “How big a force will there be?”

“Just six officers to start. We’ll see how that goes.”

“This is all very nice,” Antonio said, “but this is Ginny’s celebration. Captain Baker—may I be so bold as to suggest you hold your own party—somewhere else.”

Baker opened his mouth to protest, but it was Angelica who stepped in to defend him. “Antonio, it was Bob who brought up the subject,” she said, leveling a hard gaze at the Chamber chief.

“Sorry,” Bob apologized.

From the vicinity of the floor came a low growl. Tricia looked around but saw Miss Marple on her perch behind the register. She wasn’t good in crowds.

“What’s that noise?” Bob asked, and bent down.

The growl grew louder, and then a white blur emerged from Angelica’s purse, and soon attached itself to Bob’s trouser leg.

“Sarge!” Tricia called, making a lunge for the tiny white dog. And though Sarge wasn’t a terrier, he was tenacious. It took both Angelica and Tricia to pull the feisty bichon frise away from Bob. Angelica held him to her cheek, and the dog immediately calmed. “Be still, my little sweetheart, I won’t let that big bad man hurt you.”

Bob looked anything
but
a big bad man. He’d paled, shocked by the sudden attack.

“What are you doing with Sarge? The receptionist at the animal hospital told me that the woman who adopted him was well known to the dog.”

“I had a dream that Sarge was my little Pom-Pom reincarnated. I could hardly let him be given to just anyone,” she explained fervently.

Sarge licked her chin and made mewling noises reminiscent of a kitten. Ginny, Grace and Mr. Everett, and Frannie were suddenly clustered around Angelica, each of them hesitantly petting the dog, who seemed to lap up the attention.

“Have you thought this through? You lead a busy life. You can’t bring a dog into Booked for Lunch. And before you know it, you’ll be back on the road to promote your next cookbook.”

“Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud. This dog
needs
me.” She kissed the top of Sarge’s head. “And I need him.”

Tricia glanced back at Miss Marple, who seemed quite annoyed.

Still holding Sarge in the crook of her arm, Angelica nudged Frannie to pick up the tray filled with punch cups. Tricia took one. “Tricia, I think it’s time for you to propose a toast.” Angelica grabbed one of the glasses.

Tricia smiled, holding her cup aloft. “To Ginny. May this new step be the start of a wonderful career.”

“Hear, hear,” chorused the rest of the gathering.

“I have something else to announce,” Ginny said, and Antonio beamed at her. She brandished the ring finger on her left hand, and on it was a gorgeous full-carat diamond solitaire. “Antonio and I are engaged.”

“This really is a celebration!” Frannie squealed with delight, and rushed forward to give the bride-to-be a hug, nearly spilling her champagne punch.

Tricia stepped back and let the others surround Ginny to give their hearty congratulations. Some part of her felt wistful as she remembered announcing her own engagement to Christopher and the whirlwind of parties and arrangements that occurred afterward. It had been the best time of her life. That idea disturbed her now. Surely the life she had was one to be envied, and yet the thought that her best days might already be behind her . . .

Captain Baker stepped close and whispered in her ear. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“Not a good bargain,” she said, grateful she’d managed to keep her voice steady.

“We’ve both got new adventures ahead of us. You’ll soon have a new employee to train, and I’ll soon have a whole new life. I hope you’ll be a big part of that life.” He raised his glass, looking hopeful.

Tricia raised hers to clink against his.

Then again, who said the future didn’t offer pleasures yet to come?

In a small saucepan, heat the milk and bouillon, stirring until bouillon is dissolved. Set aside.

 

In a large saucepan, sauté the apples, onion, and celery in oil until tender. Stir in the flour, curry powder, salt, and pepper until blended. Gradually add the milk mixture and lemon juice. Bring to a boil; cook, stirring until thickened, about 2 minutes. Add the turkey and heat through. Serve over rice. If desired, garnish with chopped egg, peanuts, and cilantro.

 

Serves 4

 

Cook the pasta according to package instructions until al dente.

 

Partially cook the sausage links (about ten minutes), and then cut into coins.

 

Pour half of the reserved oil from the sun-dried tomatoes into a large frying pan and sauté mushrooms and garlic until soft. Add the sausage coins and cook through (about another five or ten minutes). Add the sun-dried tomatoes and artichoke hearts to warm through. Add the pasta and mix thoroughly. Coat with the remaining reserved oil. Top with the chopped scallions.

 

Serve warm with crusty Italian bread.

 

Serves 2

Steam seeped
through the airholes in the Angelo’s Pizza Parlor box, along with the aroma of melted mozzarella, pepperoni, sauce, and spices. Katie Bonner clutched the twenty-first-century equivalent of the “cake on a plate” that housewives once brought to welcome new neighbors, and approached the Webster mansion on the east end of Victoria Square. The day was cool, bright, and beautiful. Perfect weather for early spring in western New York, but Katie felt anything but cheerful, despite her mission to welcome the newcomers.

She opened the sagging gate and stepped into the small front courtyard, which was littered with rocks, weeds, and the remains of rusty old garden urns. As she mounted the rather rickety wooden steps, Katie noticed the mansion’s heavy oak door stood ajar. Katie paused in the doorway, squinting into the darkened interior. Yup, it was definitely
occupado
. Using her elbow, she knocked on the doorjamb, its blistered, peeling paint just another job awaiting completion on the list of renovation and restoration that was taking place at what was soon to be an upscale bed-and-breakfast.

“Anybody hungry?” Katie called.

A dirt-smudged face appeared around the door. Dusty blond bangs hung over a pair of light blue eyes. More wisps had escaped the faded red bandanna that was supposed to protect the rest of the woman’s hair. Clad in a grubby T-shirt and jeans, she held a claw hammer in one hand, the knuckles on her other hand oozing blood.

“Pizza?” the woman said hopefully.

“The best,” Katie assured her, proffering the box. “Where can I set it down?”

“On any flat surface you can find.”

Katie entered and stepped over a fallen two-by-four, tracking through plaster dust to set the box on a makeshift table of boards on sawhorses. “Do you need a Band-Aid?”

The woman sucked at the abrasion. “Not for this.”

“Janice,” said a male voice from the room beyond.

Katie glanced in that direction. The owner of the voice, a dark-haired man in his late thirties, stepped through the doorway, just as dirty as his counterpart. Not surprising in the ruin of what, one hundred years before, had been a lovely home.

“Hi, I’m Katie Bonner. I manage Artisans Alley on the other end of the Square, and I’m president of the Victoria Square Merchants Association. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Thanks,” the man said, and moved to stand by the woman.

“I’ve seen you working here for the last couple of days and figured you might need a break,” Katie said.

“Do we ever.” The woman moved closer, setting the hammer down and offering Katie her hand. “Janice Ryan. And this is my husband, Toby.”

Katie shook both their hands, then pulled a sheaf of paper napkins from the back pocket of her jeans. “Please, help yourself.”

“Thanks,” the couple chorused, and each dove for a slice.

Katie took a long look around the cavernous space. Bare studs gave the room a skeletal look. Lath and chunks of plaster from the ceiling filled plastic buckets, waiting to be emptied into the commercial Dumpster out back. A bare lightbulb hung from a cheap 1960s fixture. That, too, would eventually have to go.

“Wow, I can’t believe how much you’ve already accomplished,” Katie said.

Janice swallowed, her mouth flattening into a frown. “Sounds like you’ve been in here before.”

Many times, Katie was tempted to blurt. She and her late husband, Chad, had tramped through the cold, uninviting place on dozens of occasions during the four years they’d saved to buy it. Then Chad had impulsively invested instead in Artisans Alley, a going concern quickly going downhill. Chad had passed away the year before—the victim of a car accident—and Katie was now the owner and manager. So far she hadn’t made a nickel of the money back either.

“Once or twice,” Katie said, forcing a smile. “What are your plans?”

Janice beamed. “We hope to open the Grand Victoria Inn in about three months.”

A very ambitious plan, considering the state the building was currently in.

“We’ll have seven guest rooms to start. The property comes with plenty of acreage to add guest cottages if we do well.”

Katie had planned an extensive garden refit, perfect for outdoor weddings and corporate picnics. And if the weather didn’t cooperate, she figured she could always tent such affairs. And she’d wanted a white-painted gazebo at the far end of the yard, flanked by a lovely cottage garden, with lots of pink and white cosmos.

Janice’s eyes glowed with pride. “The entryway will be totally restored,” she said, taking in the space with a sweep of her hand. “As you can see, we’ve just got that wall over there to remove. They divided the place into apartments, but that’s good in a way, because we won’t have to replumb the whole house for the guest rooms.”

That was one of the things Katie had counted on, too. Her plan had been to renovate the old mansion and open the English Ivy Inn. Chad was to be the host, and Katie would manage the kitchen and the financial end of things. It was a solid plan. It was her life’s dream. And now it was forever out of her reach.

“Toby’s good at carpentry and has plans for a lovely oak check-in desk, over here,” Janice said with a wave of her hand. “We’ve got wood salvaged from another site that’ll be just perfect.”

Katie already had a lovely oak reception desk sitting in a storage unit waiting to be stripped and refinished. She’d collected brass headboards, oriental carpets, dressers and nightstands, pedestal sinks, light fixtures, dishes, and silverware, too. Every month she wrote out a check to keep her treasures warehoused, and every month she debated getting rid of it all. Owning all that stuff was just another painful reminder that life wasn’t always fair.