A perilous plot, p.4
A Perilous Plot, page 4
“That’s a sad commentary on man- and womankind,” Tricia said.
Angelica squinted at her younger sibling. “And how many people here in Stoneham do you consider to be a friend?”
Tricia considered the question. Her list was pretty much the same as Angelica’s. Tricia had many acquaintances in the village, but not many she’d confide in. And the friendships she had from high school, college, and the business world had fallen by the wayside—especially since she’d moved to New Hampshire. The list of friends she’d once exchanged Christmas cards with had dwindled to next to nothing. She’d had a huge wedding with five attendants, but she hadn’t heard from any of them in over a decade.
“You make us sound like hermits,” Tricia muttered.
“Well, aren’t we?” Angelica asked. “How about you, David? How many people do you consider as close friends?”
“Loads,” he said, stabbing a French fry as though in defiance.
“Count them on fingers and toes,” Angelica challenged.
David set down his fork, looked heavenward, and counted on his fingers. “Okay, maybe eight. And, like you, almost half of them are you, the Everetts, and Pixie. Julie at the library has become a great buddy, too.” Julie was an elderly volunteer who came in most days of the week to read to toddlers in the children’s section of the library where David worked.
“I thought so.” Angelica polished off the last of her martini and heaved a sigh before changing the topic. “With everything that’s happened, I forgot to mention that Cleo Gardener is moving in tomorrow.” Ms. Gardener had been hired as the innkeeper for the village’s newest hostelry, formerly known as the old Morrison Mansion, recently renamed Stonecreek Manor, which was the newest addition to the Nigela Ricita Associates portfolio.
“Is Ginny going to meet her?” Tricia asked. Ginny was the face of NR Associates on the project, in addition to her regular duties as head of their public relations/marketing division.
“Yes. I’ll be with her, too, of course, acting as…well, her friend, I guess. Would you like to join us? Cleo’s supposed to arrive at ten—that gives you two hours before your store opens.”
“Yes, I would. I haven’t seen all the finished rooms.”
“I’d like to be there, too, to show Tricia my contributions to the project,” David said.
Angelica sighed. “That’ll be quite the welcoming committee, but I don’t see why not.”
“We won’t get underfoot,” Tricia promised. Her gaze wandered to the booth where Becca and Ian had settled. Becca leaned across the table, smiling, looking relaxed. Tricia had seldom (ever?) seen her look so happy, and she wondered how long that sense of euphoria would last.
The trio finished their dinners and Angelica pulled out her credit card to pay.
“Thanks for the meal,” David said.
“I’ll second that,” Tricia agreed.
Angelica shook her head sadly, her lips falling into a pout. “How pathetic is it that the last forty-five minutes were the highlight of my day?”
“Tomorrow has to be better,” Tricia assured her.
The ghost of a smile crooked Angelica’s lips. “Sundays, when I see my little family and friends, always is.”
Family. Tricia and Angelica’s family had begun with their parents. People who had become mere strangers as opposed to people who weren’t tied to them by their DNA.
It would take some expert sleuthing for Tricia to figure out just what was going on with her parents, and, more important, why they’d decided to deceive their children.
Tricia wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to forgive them for that.
Four
Upon waking the following morning, Tricia’s fervent hope was for a quiet day devoid of drama. David was up before her and laid a beautiful tablescape on her kitchen island. He collected bone china and porcelain and often gifted Tricia with eclectic pieces. When she dined at his place, each place setting was adorned with a freshly ironed linen napkin, often folded into an intricate shape, and fresh flowers. David wasn’t one to save his best china for only special occasions.
He greeted her with a kiss and pulled back one of the stools on the kitchen island to seat her. He’d made eggs Benedict, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and ground Kona beans for their morning coffee.
“You went to a lot of trouble,” Tricia commented with pleasure.
“No trouble at all for you, dear lady. But we can’t dillydally. I’m eager to meet Cleo Gardener.”
Dillydally? David might be only in his midtwenties, but he was an old soul who embraced old dishes, old people, and old expressions.
“The least I can do is help you with the dishes,” Tricia said.
“You’ll do no such thing. After breakfast, you shower and dress while I clear up everything. If you like, we could walk to Stonecreek Manor. Pixie’s going to pick me up there to go to the estate sales. She can give you a lift back to your shop, unless you want to hoof it.”
Tricia smiled and extended her hand to caress his cheek. “Okay.”
They ate their breakfasts, ruminating over the previous day’s events, something Tricia could have done without. And yet, those dour events weren’t about to spoil her day.
By the time Tricia returned from getting ready for the day, the kitchen was tidy, her cat had been fed, and David had his jacket and cap on and was ready to go.
They took Tricia’s usual walking route through the village until reaching the former Morrison Mansion. Along the route, cheerful forsythia bushes had popped into bloom. Tricia thought about the estate’s gardens. She wasn’t a gardener, but she’d taken an interest in them. They needed a lot of work to restore them to their former glory, but that would take years, not months, to happen. She’d like to help with that.
As they walked up the path toward the mansion’s front door, a black SUV pulled up in front of the building.
“That must be Cleo,” David said. “Should we introduce ourselves?”
Tricia pondered the question for just a moment. “Probably not. I mean, how would we introduce ourselves?”
“Friends of Nigela?” David suggested. He knew about Angelica’s alter ego—and Angelica knew that he knew…not that they’d spoken about it. “Otherwise, it could be awkward.”
Yes, it might.
“Okay,” Tricia said, took a steadying breath, and strode ahead as the truck’s driver’s side door swung open and a woman of about forty, with short-cropped red hair, dressed in sweats, jumped down to the asphalt drive.
Tricia charged forward. “Hi. You must be Cleo.”
The woman squinted in Tricia’s direction. “And you are?”
“Tricia Miles. And this is my friend, David Price. We’re friends of Nigela Ricita.”
Cleo looked at them, her expression cool. “How nice.”
Tricia and David exchanged furtive looks. Neither seemed sure if the woman before them would turn out to be a friend or foe.
“We’re here to see how the rooms have evolved,” David said. “I was invited for my input.”
Cleo didn’t seem pleased by that new information. “How nice,” she said again, but an air of disapproval seemed to hover above her words. Angelica had an uncanny knack for hiring the best people. Had she made a mistake by hiring Cleo Gardener?
Tricia indicated the cars in the drive. “Shall we go inside?” Tricia suggested.
“Yes,” Cleo replied.
Tricia forged ahead, found the manor’s big oak door unlocked, and charged inside. “Ginny? Angelica?” she called.
Ginny’s muffled voice replied, “In the kitchen.”
Led by Tricia, the three callers marched through the home until they came to the large room that was the mansion’s main food-production hub. The gleaming white subway tiles that clad the walls showed no sign of the fire that had been set to cover up a more heinous crime some six months before. Vintage oak paneling hid the industrial-sized refrigerator, and an eight-burner Vulcan combination stove/oven dominated the west wall.
“What a magnificent kitchen,” Cleo said without preamble.
Angelica practically beamed but said nothing.
“I’m glad you like it,” Ginny said. “It’s so nice to meet you in person, Cleo.”
“And you, too.” Cleo’s gaze swiveled to take in Angelica. “And you are?”
“Angelica Miles. I’ve partnered with Nigela on another hospitality property here in the village. I’m here as an advisor.”
“Miles,” Cleo repeated thoughtfully, and glanced in Tricia’s direction.
“We’re sisters,” Tricia explained.
“Where she goes, you go?” Cleo asked with a raised brow.
“Something like that,” Tricia agreed.
Cleo nodded. “I see.” But it was evident by her tone that she didn’t. “I’d like a tour of the house, and then I’d like to get settled in my quarters so I can start work bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“I’d be glad to show you around. We’re enormously proud of the house,” Ginny proclaimed, with Angelica nodding vigorously.
Ginny took the lead, first explaining the wonders of the kitchen and butler’s pantry, then leading the group on a tour of the public areas on the ground floor before climbing the central staircase to the guest suites on the floor above.
Tricia and David tended to lag behind the other women, with David pointing out each of his contributions to the rooms after the others had departed.
“You’ve really put your stamp on the place,” Tricia remarked.
“And I enjoyed every minute of it,” David exclaimed. But then his expression grew wistful.
“What’s wrong?” Tricia asked.
“This was a once-in-a-lifetime event and I’ll probably never get the opportunity to consult on such a project again.”
“Would you rather do that than work at the library?”
“I’d say I enjoy both equally,” David answered honestly.
“I’m sure Angelica isn’t finished with renovating properties in the area.”
“Yeah, and that’s another problem,” David said with chagrin.
“Problem?” Tricia asked.
“Gentrification tends to ruin the spirit of a neighborhood.”
“In what way?”
“Making it too expensive for locals to afford to live in an area. It brings in people who can outbid them for properties, and landlords raise the rents higher than the local workforce can afford.”
“There aren’t all that many estates in Stoneham,” Tricia pointed out.
“That’s true, but rehabilitating the Morrison Mansion will raise property values in the neighborhood and lock some people out. Prices here in New Hampshire are already some of the more expensive in the nation. What happens when the village’s worker bees have to move because they can’t afford to live here?”
It wasn’t a thought Tricia wanted to entertain.
“Stonecreek Manor will employ several people to take care of cleaning, food prep, and garden maintenance,” Tricia explained.
“And Nigela,” he emphasized the noun, “is generous to her employees, but what if someone else comes in and rehabilitates a property and they won’t pay a living wage? Have you noticed how many mansions languish in the area and are ripe for gentrification?”
No, Tricia admitted to herself, she hadn’t.
“I thought you were all for restoring this beautiful old home,” Tricia said, confusion causing her to frown.
“I am. But I’d be a lot happier if this place had been turned into a museum. It’s the librarian in me. We’re teachers, too.”
“I get that, but how many museums do you think a village like Stoneham could support?”
“Well, if we were as inventive as the Brits, quite a few. But the Stoneham Historical Society has been struggling for years, and their gardens are nowhere near a total restoration. That’ll take decades.” And it was a seasonal feature, as well.
“So, what do you propose?”
David shook his head. “Nothing.”
That sounded like a cop-out. “Have you discussed this with Angelica?”
“No, why?”
Tricia sighed. “Because if you guys brainstormed, you might just come up with a solution.”
David shrugged. “Maybe.”
Approaching footsteps disrupted their conversation.
“So, what do you think?” Ginny asked Cleo as the trio of women reentered the room.
“The house is everything I hoped it would be,” Cleo said, looking pleased. “I’m going to enjoy working here.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Ginny said, cheerfully. “And now, would you like to tour your living quarters?”
“Yes, I’d like to get settled today so that I can jump right into work in the morning.” Cleo eyed David with what looked like disdain. “I was hoping I’d have help unloading my things into the carriage house.”
All eyes turned to David, who was not smiling.
“We’re all willing to help you get settled in,” Ginny said, although she didn’t sound as enthusiastic as she might have been.
So, while Ginny and Angelica gave Cleo the tour of her apartment, Tricia and David huffed and puffed up and down the stairs, transporting boxes of what might have been lead ingots they were so heavy, but were probably books. Tricia couldn’t fault a person with an extensive library. In a village with so many bookstores, Cleo just might fit right in.
Then again, after all their effort, it seemed to slip Cleo’s mind to thank them for their efforts.
David had trundled down the apartment stairs for the last time when Pixie’s car pulled into the mansion’s drive to pick him up for their usual Sunday estate sales.
“Hey, Tricia, want a ride back to the shop?” Pixie asked. That day, she was dressed in a denim jumpsuit with a blue-and-white bandanna covering her mop of maroon hair. Pixie liked to mix things up when it came to her hair and nails.
“No, thanks. I can use the extra steps.” As though schlepping up and down the carriage house stairs hadn’t counted toward her ten-thousand-plus step goal.
“Great,” Pixie said as David hopped into the passenger side of her big car. “We’ll see you later. Cross your fingers we find a lot of treasures.”
Tricia held up her right hand, her middle finger crossing over the index. “You got it!” She blew David a kiss, and Pixie backed out of the drive. Tricia watched the car steer toward the main drag before looking back toward the carriage house, where Ginny and Angelica were still consulting with Cleo. There was nothing more for her to do than leave.
As she headed back toward her store, Tricia had a lot to think about: gentrification, Cleo’s aloof demeanor, and what she might contribute toward the Sunday family dinner hosted by Ginny and her family and attended by the rest of their makeshift family later that day.
And, of course, the phantom presence of her father, who was apparently still alive and out there lurking…somewhere.
Of all the things on Tricia’s mind, that last was the one that weighed the heaviest.
* * *
* * *
A smiling Mr. Everett arrived for work some fifteen minutes before his reporting time. Hot on his heels was Ian McDonald.
“Mr. Everett has just made a fresh pot of coffee. Would you like a cup?” Tricia offered.
McDonald shook his head. “I’m here on official business.” He removed the Rolex from his jacket pocket but didn’t offer it to Tricia.
“I’ll just go take a look at the inventory,” Mr. Everett said, escaping to the basement office to give the others some privacy.
Tricia sighed. “Stolen?”
McDonald nodded.
Tricia wasn’t surprised by the news. It seemed her father found more and more ways to disappoint her. “What happens next?”
“I’ve been in contact with my counterpart in North Haven, Connecticut. It seems it was put up as collateral in a poker game, but the owner won the hand. Soon after, the game broke up and while the gentleman was using the restroom, the watch disappeared. So had your father, who was not a regular in that circle of friends.”
John Miles had an ingratiating personality and used it to excess. “And?” Tricia asked.
“Even used, the watch is worth about eighteen thousand dollars.”
“Good grief!”
McDonald nodded. “There was a warrant out for your father.”
“And then he conveniently died,” Tricia said sourly.
“No death certificate was filed in North Haven. So, shall we say he disappeared?”
Tricia nodded, her heart heavy. “Last evening, I spoke to Mike Thomas at the pub just before you came in. He said he’d spoken to Daddy about six weeks before in the Dog-Eared Page.”
McDonald raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”
Again, Tricia sighed. “I get the feeling Mother and Daddy are not too far away, plotting something.”
McDonald scowled. “That’s a pretty cynical point of view.”
“Don’t you think I have reason to be cynical?” she asked.
McDonald nodded reluctantly. “Will you keep an eye out for him?”
“Oh, you better believe I will,” Tricia said firmly.
“Yes, but would you report your own father to law enforcement?”
Tricia hesitated.
“I see,” McDonald said.
“You can’t blame me for having qualms,” Tricia remarked.
“No, I can’t. But will you blame yourself?”
That was a question Tricia didn’t want to answer. “What happens with the watch?”
“It’ll be returned to its rightful owner.”
“And what happens to the person who appropriated the item?”
“A Class A felony covers anything over fifteen hundred dollars in value. This watch far surpasses that.”
