“You knew who the real author of the Jess and Addie Forever books was when you asked me to invite Zoe Carter to sign here at Haven’t Got a Clue. She hadn’t returned to Stoneham in several years, but an invitation to speak in her hometown as the last leg of her first and only book tour was an opportunity you could use.”

  “And what was I supposed to use it for, blackmail?”

  “Zoe made millions off your mother’s work.”

  The anger drained from Nikki’s face, replaced by annoyance. “How was I supposed to shake her down for money? I didn’t have any proof my mother wrote the books. I didn’t even know they’d been published until a few months ago when I was browsing in this store.”

  “And what was your reaction when you found out?” Fiona asked.

  “Okay, I was angry. It wasn’t right that someone made money off of your work. But so what? I thought you were dead.”

  “So why didn’t you out Zoe?” Tricia asked.

  “What proof did I have? Was I going to tell a lawyer that Addie was afraid of thunderstorms? That was mentioned in the second book. I could tell them that in Forever Banished, when Jess had to kill his horse, Prince, because he’d broken a leg, my mom cried buckets. But guess what? By the time I knew of the books being published, they’d been in print for years. Why would anyone ever believe some down-and-out baker in the boonies of New Hampshire? It would sound like sour grapes—or some kind of greedy envy.”

  “There’s more,” Tricia said. “The attack on the statue in the park. I saw a satchel full of tools in the patisserie on Sunday.”

  “So what? Steve knocked out an old closet so we could have more space for the baking trays.”

  “There was a can of red spray paint in the bag as well.”

  “Is it against the law to possess spray paint?”

  “And Kimberly was attacked by someone wielding a sledgehammer,” Hamilton said, finally joining in the conversation.

  “Did she point the finger at me?”

  “She doesn’t remember what happened that night,” he admitted.

  “Very convenient,” Nikki said.

  “Someone forced Tricia’s car off the road Sunday night. We could’ve been killed,” Angelica said.

  Nikki rounded on her. “What proof do you have that it was me?”

  “None,” Tricia said, “but you did give me poisoned food.”

  “Are you delusional?”

  “The cut-out cookies and the red velvet cake you gave me were laced with some foreign matter that contained salmonella. A lab in Nashua has confirmed it—at least with the cake.”

  “You don’t look sick.”

  “It wasn’t me who ate them. Ginny Wilson and her boyfriend Brian did. Brian was so ill he was hospitalized on Saturday night.”

  “That can’t be. I baked them myself, I—” She stopped short, her eyes growing wide in horror, her face blanching.

  The door to Haven’t Got a Clue opened, and Steve Fenton stepped inside. “What’s taking so long, Nikki? I got the bakery cleaned up, but you know I can’t cash out without you.”

  Nikki turned to face her assistant. “What have you done?” she asked, her voice shaking, frightened.

  Steve shrugged. “Cleaned the bakery, like always.”

  She raised her left arm, pointed abstractedly at the people behind her. “They think I put something in those cookies and that cake I gave Tricia. They say they have proof.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I assembled the ingredients for that cake, but you put it together and iced it. I baked those cookies, but you frosted them.”

  “You’d take their word that something was wrong with them?”

  “Yes, because what they’re saying makes a lot of sense. My God, I’m surprised the Health Department hasn’t swooped in and closed me down.” She clasped her head in her hands, looked at Steve in panic. “What am I thinking—they all think I killed Zoe Carter. They think I destroyed the statue in the park.” She inched closer to him. “They think I attacked and nearly killed Kimberly Peters.”

  “You would never do that,” Steve said, his gaze softening as he looked at her. “You could never hurt anybody.”

  Nikki closed her eyes and swallowed hard before speaking. “Please tell me you couldn’t, either.”

  Steve looked away, his mouth flattening into a straight line, exhaling short breaths through his nose, sounding like an angry bull.

  Tricia stared disbelieving at the couple before her. Steve the murderer? Not Nikki?

  Then she remembered what Kimberly had told her the morning after the murder: that a man had called to tell her Tricia was spreading rumors about Zoe Carter’s death, and Kimberly’s supposed part in it.

  With his focus still only on Nikki, Fenton clenched his fist, punched himself in the chest. “I take care of my own.”

  “Excuse me, but I don’t belong to you. I don’t belong to anyone. Not now. Not ever again.”

  “Nikki, it’s just a matter of time,” he said, oblivious of the others standing by in stupefied silence. “It’s always been a matter of time before you turn to me. We were made to be together, babe.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “You hired me. You gave me work when no one else would. You and me. We’re a team at the bakery. We can be a team in life.”

  “You killed Zoe Carter,” she accused.

  Steve didn’t deny it.

  “Why—why did you do it?” she cried, horror-struck.

  “For you. I did it for you.”

  “But why?”

  “I felt so bad when you told me about the books and your mother and all. The money that woman made off those books should have been yours. That woman was a liar and a thief. You could’ve had a better life—owned the bakery without bank loans. You wouldn’t have had to work so hard.”

  “Stop calling it a bakery. And I like working hard.”

  “And what did you gain by killing Zoe and attacking Kimberly?” Tricia asked him.

  “Gain?” he asked, blinking.

  “Nikki could never prove her mother wrote those books. She’d never get her hands on any of that money. What was the point?” Tricia said.

  Steve stood straight, looked her in the eye. “If Nikki couldn’t have that money, I didn’t want those bitches to have it, either.”

  The shop door opened once again, the little bell jangling cheerfully as Wendy Adams stepped inside. “What’s this all about?” she asked Tricia, ignoring the others standing there like mannequins at the edges of the action taking place in the center of the store.

  “What’re you doing here?” Steve demanded, staring at the uniform and the badge on Wendy Adams’s jacket.

  “Apparently, I’m here to arrest someone. That is, if what I’m about to hear isn’t yet another cock-and-bull story.”

  “You called the cops on me?” Steve demanded of Nikki.

  “No. Tricia called them on me!”

  Steve turned, his eyes blazing. He charged forward, yanked back his right arm, and punched Tricia square in the face. She fell back against the sales counter, clutching her bleeding nose as the room seemed to explode in a cacophony of noise. A raging pink blur launched itself at Steve, clawing and screeching like a banshee.

  “Steve!” Nikki yelled.

  “Nikki!” Fiona screamed.

  “Stand back, stand back!” Sheriff Adams called, and yanked the handgun from its holster at her side.

  “Angelica!” Tricia cried through the blood gushing over her lip.

  The shop door banged open. “Tricia!” Russ howled, as Angelica and Steve rolled over and over across the carpet, Angelica punching him with the power of a pile driver.

  “That’s. For. Hitting. My. Sister. You. Stinking. Little. Coward!”

  “Stop it! Right now!” Sheriff Adams ordered.

  Russ jumped forward, grabbing Angelica’s arms and pulling her onto her feet. She wasn’t about to give up, and though she’d lost her shoes, she kicked at Steve again and again.

  He lunged for her, but Wendy Adams’s voice stopped him. “Don’t make me shoot!” she hollered.

  Fiona pressed a handful of tissues into Tricia’s hand while Nikki hauled her to her feet. “Are you all right?” Fiona asked.

  Angelica continued to struggle in Russ’s arms.

  “Stop it!” Sheriff Adams yelled once more, this time aiming the gun at Angelica.

  “Wendy!” Russ yelled, outraged.

  Steve lunged again, and Sheriff Adams charged up to him, planting the barrel of the gun against his temple. He froze.

  “Don’t make me shoot,” she repeated, this time her voice low and menacing. “Firing a weapon means an awful lot of paperwork, and quite frankly, you’re not worth it, scum.”

  Sirens screamed outside.

  “Lie down on the floor. Now!” the sheriff ordered.

  Fenton did as he was told as two deputies barreled through the door.

  “Placer, take care of him,” the sheriff said.

  Another vehicle pulled up—the News Team Ten van. Portia hopped out before it came to a complete halt.

  Angelica broke away from Russ, hurrying to her sister.

  “Trish, Trish, are you okay?”

  “Ange, your coat is torn,” Tricia said, her voice sounding high and squeaky.

  “That doesn’t matter. Let me see,” she said, pulling the tissues away from Tricia’s face. She recoiled. “Oh, Trish, I think your nose is broken.”

  The deputies pulled a handcuffed Fenton to his feet.

  “Get him out of here,” Sheriff Adams said.

  “What’s the charge?” Placer asked, as Portia stuck a microphone into the store.

  “Apparently the murder of Zoe Carter and the attempted murder of Kimberly Peters. I’m sure we’ll have a few more charges to add before the night is over.”

  “Wonderful!” Portia squealed, as the cameraman’s lights flashed behind her. “Why did you kill Zoe Carter?” Portia asked Fenton. “Did you attack Kimberly Peters? Did you—”

  “Get out of my face!” Fenton roared.

  Wendy Adams straightened her uniform jacket, stood an inch or two taller, and prepared to meet the press.

  “She’s going to take credit for finding Zoe’s killer,” Angelica said, annoyed.

  Tricia held the bloody wad of tissues to her nose and winced. “She can take all the credit she wants.” She turned to face Nikki. “I’m so sorry I thought you—”

  Nikki held up a hand to stop her. “Not now, Tricia. It’s all too new. I need some time to think about it.” She gazed at her mother. “To think about a lot of things.” She moved to stand near the wall.

  “Fiona, I’m afraid I’ve ruined whatever relationship you could’ve recaptured with Nikki.”

  Fiona glanced after her daughter, who stood, arms folded over her chest, looking lost and forlorn. “I’m not ready to give up yet,” she said, and crossed the room to stand beside her daughter. Nikki didn’t turn away, so perhaps there was some hope of reconciliation, after all.

  Yet another vehicle rolled up across the street from the store. The rescue truck from the Stoneham Fire Department. Two EMTs hopped out, gear in hand, and jogged across the road, headed for Haven’t Got a Clue.

  “I think your dates have arrived,” Russ said.

  “I don’t need—”

  “No arguments,” he said, grabbed her arm, led her to the nook, and forced her to sit before he signaled the paramedics to come over.

  Angelica consulted her watch. “Where is Bob? Our reservations are for seven.”

  “You’re going to leave me?” Tricia cried, clutching for Angelica’s hand.

  “Of course not. Bob will have to cancel them. I hope they send you to Southern New Hampshire Medical Center instead of that rinky-dink hospital in Milford. Then we can order off the take-out menu from that little French bistro we went to the other night. At least the onion soup was palatable.” She glanced down at her manicured fingers.

  “Oh, darn, I’ve broken a nail.”

  “Good grief,” Russ said, “Tricia’s gushing blood, her nose is broken, and you’re worried about a broken nail?”

  Angelica frowned, looked down at her shoeless feet. “I’ve got a run in my stockings, too.”

  “Angelica,” Russ said sharply.

  “Don’t, don’t,” Tricia pleaded. “She saved me from Steve.”

  Angelica smiled. “All in a day’s work, my dear sister, all in a day’s work.”

  Twenty-Five

  “I thought you were going to call me last night,” Ginny scolded Tricia before she’d even shucked her jacket the next morning. She’d arrived at Haven’t Got a Clue half an hour before the store was to open—much earlier than usual. She took in Tricia’s bruised face, and winced.

  “It was late when I got home from the hospital. I didn’t

  want to wake you,” Tricia said, and tried to sniff. She couldn’t breathe, at least not through her swollen nose. Already the skin around both of her eyes was turning a lovely shade of purple. The concealer she’d applied wasn’t meant for that degree of discoloration and failed to disguise it. “I didn’t get home until nearly midnight. And I have to go back in two days for them to reset my nose.”

  “I had to find out all about it from the eleven o’clock news last night. You picked the wrong killer,” Ginny accused. “Wasn’t that really embarrassing?”

  “You bet,” Tricia said. “I don’t see how Nikki can ever forgive me. If I was her, I’d never forgive me. And to make the accusation in front of her long-estranged mother . . .” She shook her head in disgust.

  “So, are you okay?” Ginny asked.

  “I feel like I’ve got a really bad head cold because of all the gauze packing my sinuses. But as I handed over my insurance card before I got treated, I remembered that you and Brian have no insurance. That’s why—” Tricia reached under the cash desk and handed Ginny an envelope.

  Ginny stared at it. “What’s this?”

  “Open it.”

  Ginny worked at the flap, removed the check that was inside. “Oh, Tricia—a thousand dollars.” She looked up, tears filling her green eyes.

  “I promised you a bonus for all your help this past week, and I wanted to make good on it.”

  Ginny shook her head. “I can’t accept—”

  “Oh, yes, you can. And not only that, I don’t want you and Brian ever to be in a situation where you might put off a hospital visit because of the cost. That’s why I’ve decided to get health insurance coverage for you and Mr. Everett through a local group health plan.”

  “Tricia, I don’t know what to say. Thank you seems so inadequate.” She threw her arms around her boss.

  “It’s enough,” Tricia said, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.

  Ginny pulled back, wiping tears from her eyes.

  “I’ll tell Mr. Everett as soon as he gets in,” Tricia said.

  “What a wonderful surprise. I can’t wait to tell Brian,” Ginny said, and put the check into her purse.

  The door opened and Angelica burst into the shop, balancing a tray. “My poor baby sister. How are you feeling this morning?” she cooed. On the tray was a plate covered with a clean dishtowel. “I’ll bet you didn’t have a thing for breakfast, so I’ve made you some muffins.”

  “Ange, you know I don’t like sweet—”

  “Who said they were sweet? These are sausage and cheese muffins.” She removed the towel, allowing the aroma to escape. “Like to try one, Ginny?”

  “Sure,” she said, and plucked the top muffin from the plate.

  The door opened again. This time it was Russ, carrying two insulated cups from the Coffee Bean. “Hey, if I’d known you guys were here, I’d have brought some more,” he said, and paused beside Tricia, bending to give her a soft peck on the cheek. “Wow, you look terrible.”

  Tricia faked a smile. “You sure know how to sweet-talk a girl.”

  “And she sounds like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer when he had the false nose on,” Ginny chimed in. “I’ll get the coffee going. You want a cup, Angelica?”

  “I’d love one. Try one of these muffins, Russ.”

  “Thanks, don’t mind if I do.”

  Tricia took a muffin as well, brought it up to her nose, and tried to sniff it. “I can’t smell anything. I don’t think I can taste, either.”

  The door opened again, this time admitting Mr. Everett. “Ms. Miles! I heard on the news you’d been hurt,” he said. In his hands he held a brown paper sack. “I brought you some poppy seed bagels. I know they’re you’re favorite. I even brought you some dental floss to get the seeds out of your teeth.”

  “That’s very sweet, of you, Mr. Everett, but—”

  “I’ve already brought fresh-made muffins,” Angelica broke in. “Would you like to try one?”

  Mr. Everett removed his gloves. “Thank you, Mrs. Prescott.”

  “Miles,” she reminded him. “I’m Ms. Miles again. And I think I’m going to remain Ms. Miles, no matter how many more times I get married. Did you bring butter or cream cheese with those bagels?”

  “Both.”

  “Excellent. Give me that muffin, Trish, I’ll butter it for you.”

  “But I don’t think—” The door opened again. “What is this, Grand Central Station?” Tricia muttered, straining to turn to see who’d arrived this time.

  Nikki and Fiona each held a tray as they descended on the nook. “Looks like a party,” Nikki said. “And what’s better than partying on fresh-baked Danish? Mom and I made them together.”

  “I brought bagels,” Mr. Everett said, brandishing the paper sack.

  “Nikki, I—”

  Nikki held out a hand to stop her. “Tricia, don’t you dare apologize. Mom and I talked until almost one last night. Added all together, the evidence—”

  “All circumstantial—” Tricia interrupted.

  “Was pretty convincing,” Nikki finished. “Sheriff Adams called me this morning. Steve made a full confession. He admitted he handled goose droppings before he frosted those cookies, and when they didn’t make Tricia sick, he actually put some in the red frosting on the cake.”

  Ginny blanched. “Oh, Lord! No wonder Brian was so sick.”

  Nikki nodded. “The Health Department came in first thing this morning and shut me down. I’m afraid the patisserie is closed for the time being.”

 

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