Book Clubbed (11 page)

“Why on earth would you say such a thing?”

“I didn't make it up. Grant told me about it yesterday.”

“I don't believe it,” Angelica protested.

“You can ask him yourself when you call him later.”

“I certainly will,” she said tartly.

Tricia gripped the receiver a little tighter. “I'm sorry, Ange. I didn't realize you still had feelings for Bob.”

“I don't,” she said emphatically, but it was obvious that she did—however buried she might have thought them.

Angelica sighed wearily. “I need to get the tuna and egg salads ready for my customers. I'll talk to you later,” she said and ended the call.

Tricia replaced the receiver, feeling somewhat depressed. She'd never been fond of Bob, but finding out he'd stooped to vandalism to try to evict one of his tenants was really low. Then it occurred to Tricia what the fingerprint evidence meant: if his prints had been on file with the state, he must have already been accused—or perhaps even convicted—of a crime.

As though sensing her owner's blue mood, Miss Marple jumped down from her perch behind the cash desk and nuzzled Tricia's hand. She petted the cat. “It's disconcerting when you think you know someone, and then find out you don't.”

“Brrrpt!”
Miss Marple said, as though in agreement.

Tricia petted the cat and wondered if the next time she talked to her sister she ought to mention the possibility that Bob might be a felon. She sighed. If Angelica was still defending his character, she wouldn't like hearing that bit of news, either.

The shop door rattled, and this time it was an actual (hopefully) paying customer—an older woman dressed for the cold with heavy boots, a long camel-hair coat with a matching hat, and a knitted red scarf knotted at her neck.

“Good morning. Welcome to Haven't Got a Clue,” Tricia said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. “Let any of us know if you could use some help.”

The woman smiled and moseyed over to a set of bookshelves to browse.

Tricia turned her attention to the cash desk, which looked like it could use a bit of tidying. It took her all of a minute. She sighed. It would be a very long day.

*   *   *

During the
rest of the morning, Tricia moped around the cash desk, waiting on the few customers who had braved the brisk wind and bone-chilling cold. Too often she found herself gazing out onto the quiet street, willing the winter to end and the spring to bring back the tourists.

It was nearly lunchtime when Mr. Everett approached the register. “Ms. Miles, I wonder if I might speak to you for a moment.” He sounded so serious, and his expression was positively grim—a far cry from when he'd come into work that morning.

“Of course,” she said.

“I am a terrible employee, and I feel like I've been taking money from you under false pretenses.”

“I don't understand.”

“We haven't had a customer in nearly an hour, and yet you've scheduled both Pixie and me to work today—and tomorrow. With business the way it is, I would prefer if you didn't pay me for my time this week.”

“Oh, no, I couldn't do that,” Tricia said. “We may not have had a lot of customers, but we're still in the black. And you not only provide our customers with good service, but you take care of the store, Miss Marple, Pixie, and me.”

Mr. Everett was about to reply, when the phone rang. “Hang on,” Tricia told him and picked up the receiver.

“Trish? It's Angelica. I need a favor. I'm not going to get away from the café for hours yet. Could you go over to my place, get Sarge, and take him for a walk?”

“I'd be happy to,” Tricia said, glad for an opportunity to end her conversation with Mr. Everett. She'd have to think of some way to allay his fears that he was driving her to the poorhouse, but that would take a bit of thought. “I'll go right now.”

“Thanks. Tootles.”

Tricia hung up the phone. “That was Angelica. She wants me to take her dog for a walk.”

“I could do that,” he volunteered, but Tricia shook her head. The sidewalk could be icy in places, and she hated the thought of him possibly falling and getting hurt. She told him so, and he bristled at the notion.

“I'm sorry,” Tricia apologized. “The only job around here that needs doing is processing the Internet orders. I've got two of them up in the storeroom ready to be packaged right now.”

“I could do that. Grace bought me a computer for Christmas. I'm getting quite good at using it. If you or Pixie could show me what needs to be done, I could take over processing all the electronic orders.”

“That's a great idea. Why don't we do that as soon as I get back from walking Sarge?”

“While you're out, I could wrap the books that are already waiting. And I'll look forward to being trained on a new task,” he said, smiling.

Tricia accompanied Mr. Everett to the back of the store. He entered the door marked PRIVATE leading to the stairs and the storeroom while Tricia grabbed her hat and coat. “Pixie, I've got to take Sarge for a walk. I should be back in about twenty minutes.”

“Take your time,” she said, once again fussing with Sarah Jane in her carriage. The way she fretted over the doll was a bit unnerving. Had she had dolls as a child? If not, was this a way to placate her inner child?

Tricia was still pondering that thought as she left her store. The sky had cleared and the wind had done a good job of blowing the snow from Main Street's sidewalks. Tricia hurried the ten or so feet to the Cookery's door and entered. Frannie stood behind the cash desk with a novel open before her. She looked up.

“Hi, Frannie,” Tricia said, pulling her gloves off and stuffing them into her coat pocket.

“What brings you into the Cookery on this not-so-fine day?” Frannie asked, smiling.

“I'm on my way up to collect Sarge to take him for a walk.”

“It's been a while. His little legs are probably crossed by now. Angelica has had to put so much time in over at Booked for Lunch, she hasn't been around much during the day lately.”

“That's why I'm here.” Tricia took a step toward the back of the shop, but Frannie's voice stopped her.

“Have you heard anything new on poor Betsy's murder investigation?”

Tricia knew better than to share what she knew with Frannie, who was liable to repeat it to the next person who walked through the door. “No. How about you?”

She shook her head. “Not a damn thing. It's this prolonged cold spell. People have been holing up and keeping to themselves. The grapevine has shriveled to just about nothing. By now you've usually got things all figured out and have put our little police force to shame.”

Tricia blinked, taken aback, and wasn't sure how to reply to that nugget.

Frannie laughed. “I meant that as a compliment.” It hadn't sounded like it. She went on, “You usually make a fine suspect yourself, what with how you always manage to be involved in all the deaths that have happened these past few years.”

Tricia didn't appreciate the comment. “Frannie, do you realize
you
could be considered a suspect in Betsy's death?”

Frannie waved a hand in dismissal. “No way. I barely knew the woman.”

“That may be, but you went out of your way to irritate her every chance you got.”

“Little old me?” Frannie asked, as though astounded by the news.

“You teased her every day she came to work in Angelica's storeroom.”

“I was just making conversation,” Frannie said, a note of defensiveness creeping into her voice.

“You made sure to let her know that leaving the Chamber was the best thing that could have happened to you. That you got all sorts of perks, like health insurance, and more money, when you came to work for Angelica, and hinted that though Betsy now worked for her via the Chamber, she had none of those things.” Of course it turned out it didn't matter anyway; Betsy apparently had more money stashed away than all of them.

“Oh, Tricia, do you really think I'm that cruel?” Frannie asked. She wasn't kidding around now.

“I wouldn't say cruel, but in this instance, unkind, and that's not like you, Frannie.”

Frannie stood taller. “Maybe I did tease her just a little. But you have to remember, I held the Chamber receptionist job for over ten years. Bob Kelly treated me like a slave and then fired me for helping a friend. I heard Bob hired Betsy for more than I ever got paid. And she got other perks, like more vacation, too.” She let out a breath, her expression growing harder. “I guess maybe I was a little bitter, but I promise you I never wished Betsy any harm. I was just as shocked as everyone else when she died. And don't forget, I was with you and Angelica at the time of her death. I can't be blamed for her getting killed.”

“No, not unless you paid someone to do it,” Tricia suggested.

Frannie's mouth dropped open in shock. “Now you're really living in fantasyland. I save every penny I make for my retirement. A hundred thousand more and I'll be ready for the big move to Hawaii. I'd never waste a nickel on the likes of Betsy Dittmeyer, no matter how jealous of her I might have been.”

“So you say,” Tricia said diffidently.

Frannie frowned. “I'm really hurt that you could even say that, Tricia.”

“I'm just playing devil's advocate,” Tricia said evenly.

“You know, you really should leave the sleuthing to the professionals and not make accusations about innocent people.” She sniffed. “Poor little Sarge is waiting for you,” Frannie said in dismissal.

“You're right. I'll be back down in a minute or so.”

Tricia felt Frannie's eyes on her as she made her way to the back of the store. She really shouldn't have laid it on so thick, but Frannie hadn't been kind to Betsy and she hadn't been all that kind to Tricia during their conversation. Still, Tricia ended up feeling like she was in the doghouse once again.

She opened the door to Angelica's apartment and Sarge came barreling out to greet her, just as happy as he'd been the night before. Unlike people, dogs, bless them, were all-forgiving.

*   *   *

Little Sarge
really was a joy to walk. His former owner had trained him well. He sat at every corner, waiting for the signal that it was safe to cross the street, and he had learned where he should and should not do his business.

Since the Stoneham village square wasn't far from the Kelly Realty office, Tricia decided to pay Bob Kelly a visit. As she passed the petite log cabin that had been the Chamber's former home, she looked in through the window to the darkened interior. Bob hadn't put a FOR RENT sign on the door. The interior needed a thorough cleaning, as there were bags of trash and papers littering the floor. Bob apparently owned the couch and chairs that had made up the reception area, for they still stood in their accustomed spots, albeit looking shabbier than Tricia remembered.

Sarge had taken this pause to mean he should sit, and Tricia gave the leash a slight tug to let him know they were moving on. Kelly Realty was housed next door in a plain cement-block building painted a drab gray. Like its nearest neighbor it, too, was dark with a CLOSED sign hanging on the door. So much for talking with Bob. From the look of the mail stacked on the floor under the door's mail slot, he hadn't been there in several days. What did his clients think about his being inaccessible? It was unlike him, for Bob's greatest pleasure in life seemed to be making money. Curiouser and curiouser.

Tricia turned and Sarge willingly trotted along beside her. Did Bob have any real friends in Stoneham? Frannie might know, but now probably wasn't a good time to ask her. She'd ask Angelica later. Someone had to know how to contact him.

Tricia paused and Sarge dutifully sat down once again. Should she ask Baker if he'd tracked Bob down? Wouldn't he have mentioned it earlier that morning if he had? She turned, and looked up the street. Sarge stood at attention once again. The Stoneham police station was only another two blocks up the road. Then again, Baker might be out on patrol, or investigating, or snagging an early lunch at the Bookshelf Diner. Sarge sat back down.

Tricia stared down at the dog. “Are your joints beginning to ache from all that standing and sitting?”

Sarge yipped—obviously a yes.

“Come on. Let's go home,” she said and Sarge was back on his feet and ready to return to the warmth of Angelica's kitchen and his comfy doggy bed. As they made their way down the sidewalk, Tricia resolved to corner Bob and make him talk. The problem was . . . if he wasn't answering his phones, or even visiting his office, how in the world was she going to pin him to the wall to talk?

This was going to take some thought and maybe a little investigation on her part. And since it was so dead at Haven't Got a Clue anyway, she had plenty of time to do both.

Winter days
in Stoneham tended to be so uneventful that one blended into the next without leaving any discernible memories. Much as she hated to wish her life away, and although she'd thoroughly enjoyed the camaraderie earlier that morning with Pixie and Mr. Everett, Tricia looked forward to warm summer nights, and days filled with happy customers. But if she was honest with herself, what she really longed for was a change of scenery.

Maybe it was time for a vacation. Pixie and Mr. Everett were more than capable of taking care of the store should she decide to take a few days' break, but the truth was she didn't want to go somewhere alone. Years before she would rather have gagged than contemplate a vacation with Angelica, but now the idea seemed pretty attractive. And where would they go? To West Palm Beach? Fort Lauderdale? Those places would be filled with tourists, and the idea of crowds of people was a definite turnoff. Still, if nothing else, the idea of a long vacation in some lovely sunny place was enjoyable to contemplate—especially on such a cold winter day. Of course the fact was that it wasn't likely Angelica would be willing—or able—to tear herself away from her three successful businesses.

Oh, well. It was a nice thought anyway.

With Mr. Everett and Pixie already gone for the day, Tricia vacuumed the rug and compared the relative merits of Costa Rica over the Bahamas as a pleasant place to relax and recuperate. That is, until the phone rang. Tricia turned off the Hoover and crossed the shop to answer it, even though Haven't Got a Clue had officially closed for the day some five minutes before. She caught it on the third ring.

“Haven't Got a Clue. This is Tricia. How may I help you?”

“By going out to dinner with me.”

Tricia sighed. “Hello, Christopher.”

“Hello, pretty lady of my dreams.”

Dreams or delusions?

“What do you need?” Tricia asked.

“An answer. How about dinner on Friday?”

“This must be my lucky week. Yours is my third invitation for that night.”

“Who got to you before me? Chief Baker, I suppose,” Christopher said, sounding distinctly unhappy.

“Yes, but his was my second invitation.”

“So who booked you in advance?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Just curious. You had to know I was going to ask you out on Valentine's Day.”

“Believe it or not, I don't hang around waiting for the phone to ring. I don't lift the receiver in anticipation that it's you or anybody else.”

“But you
do
have feelings for me,” he prodded.

“Of course I do, although they're not always positive.”

“I know I hurt you, Trish. I've been trying to make it up to you.”

“You don't need to. And I do wish you wouldn't spy on me all the time.”

“I'm not spying on you.”

“Then why is it every time I leave my shop I see you standing in your office window looking down at my shop.”

“I told you, when I get stuck on a problem, I stand up and look out the window. It helps me think.”

“And it's creeping me out.”

“I don't see why.”

“Because, it could be construed as stalking.”

“Trish, I'd never do that to you. I love you.”

“And that's exactly what all stalkers tell their victims.”

For a long moment, there was only silence on the other end of the line. “I'm sorry, Trish. The last thing I want to do is frighten you. You know I'd never hurt you.”

“I
don't
know that. You're not the man I married.”

“I know. I've changed—and for the better. At least I like to think so.”

“I'm glad if you're glad.”

“Are you sure you can't have dinner with me on Friday?” he asked.

“Yes, I'm sure.”

“Then how about some other night?”

“Maybe. Look, I have a lot of work to get done this evening. Can we talk about this some other time?”

“Just as long as we do talk about it.”

“Now that we live in the same town again, it's inevitable that we'll bump into each other,” Tricia pointed out.

“This sounds like a brush-off.”

“Not at all. I'm just very busy, and I have a lot on my mind. And with so many new clients, your time should be just as booked—especially with people needing to stash their cash before April fifteenth.”

“You're right about that. Still, I can't help it if I'm preoccupied by thoughts of you.”

“Stop looking out the window all the time. That might help.”

“Okay, okay.”

The “Ode to Joy” from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony sounded from Tricia's cell phone. She withdrew it from her pocket.

“Don't tell me you've still got the same ringtone after all these years,” Christopher said.

“Yes, I do, and I need to answer it.”

“Are you expecting a call from someone?” Christopher asked. “Chief Baker, perhaps?”

“No, and it's none of your business. Good night, Christopher.” She hung up the receiver and pressed the answer button on her phone. “Hello.”

“It's me,” said Angelica. “Look out the window.”

Tricia did so, and saw Angelica standing in the window of Booked for Lunch, waving at her. “Come on over and get some dinner. We had so many leftovers today and I hate to toss out food that I can't feed to customers.”

“So you'll feed it to me instead?” Tricia asked, not sure if she should be offended.

“If you can eat a dinner made from food rescued from a Dumpster and not die from food poisoning, you can eat my leftovers and live to see another day.”

She had a point. “Okay, I'll grab my coat and be right over.”

Tricia gave Miss Marple some kitty snacks before grabbing her coat, hat, and scarf, and then locked the store behind her. She looked up and didn't see Christopher standing in his window, which was just as well. She'd just told him she had work to do and now she was on her way out. Then it occurred to her that she owed him no explanations, making her angry with herself.

The street was dry, but Tricia walked carefully in case there were patches of black ice, and in less than a minute she entered Booked for Lunch. A virtual smorgasbord of cold salads, sandwiches, and desserts wrapped in plastic had been spread across the café's counter, with two places set. “Take off your coat and help yourself,” Angelica called from the kitchen.

Tricia wriggled out of the sleeves of her jacket and tossed it onto one of the seats of an empty booth. “Wow, you really do have a lot of leftovers.”

Angelica emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with two bowls of steaming soup. “Tommy took home a load of food, and even took some to Bev, although I told him not to breathe too deeply and catch whatever she's got. I can't afford to lose both of them to a virus right now. Although, come to think of it, business has been so bad I could probably take care of the café by myself if I had to. But I don't want to,” she said, setting the bowls down on the paper place mats. “Dig in.”

“Can't you give some of the surplus to the food pantry?”

Angelica shook her head, set the tray aside, and sat down on one of the stools. “There are health department rules and regulations that prohibit it.”

Tricia took the stool next to Angelica and picked up her spoon, stirring the soup: cream of tomato. Suddenly she had a hankering for a grilled cheese sandwich, but thought better of requesting one—not with the bonanza of leftovers in front of her. She placed a large spoonful each of tuna salad, egg salad, and chicken salad on the plate Angelica had provided, and helped herself to a packet of oyster crackers that sat before her.

“What a terrible week. First Betsy is killed, and then Bev gets sick,” Angelica said and tested the soup, wincing at its heat. She helped herself to the salads, as well.

“Linda over at the Everett Foundation had an emergency appendectomy, too.”

“That just proves my point,” Angelica said.

They ate in companionable silence for a minute or so before Tricia spoke again. “What do you think about us taking a vacation sometime?”

“The two of us? Together?” Angelica asked, surprised.

“Why not?”

Angelica shrugged. “Why not, indeed? What were you thinking?”

Tricia shrugged. “Someplace warm, but not too crowded.”

Angelica looked out the window onto the darkened street. “Right about now, that sounds like heaven. Of course, this is a terrible time for me, what with Betsy dying and the Chamber in chaos.” She was quiet for a while. “I do wish I could say yes and jump on a plane tomorrow, but I can't. Are you terribly disappointed?”

Tricia shook her head. “It was just a pipe dream.”

Angelica stirred her soup, which didn't need stirring at all. “I'm sorry, but I'm terribly touched that you would even think of me as your travel mate.”

“Maybe we could do something next winter.”

“Yes, why don't we?”

The sisters looked at each other and smiled, but Angelica's eyes also glistened with unshed tears. It was time to change the subject.

“I tried to track down Bob today. I wanted to ask him about Betsy—what kind of employee she was, what he thought of her—but apparently he's still nowhere to be found,” Tricia said, and popped one of the oyster crackers in her mouth.

“That's odd,” Angelica said and sampled the egg salad, found it lacking, grabbed one of the shakers, and added a little pepper to it.

“I thought so, too.” Tricia dipped her spoon into the soup, but blew on it several times before trying it. Just right. “Did you have a chance to talk to Grant about the Chamber files?”

“Damn. I completely forgot.” She glanced at the clock. “Too late today.”

“I'm sure he'd take the call, even if he is just tucking into his own dinner.”

Angelica sighed. “I really don't want to get into it all with him. It would take hours and hours and, anyway, you were the one to actually come up with the blackmail angle. I think the news should come from you.”

“I disagree.”

“Then we can agree to disagree.” Angelica took a bite of her salad, chewed, and swallowed.

“All right. I'll give him a call. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Fine with me.” Angelica changed the subject and opened a packet of crackers. “I'm looking forward to finding someone else to work with on Chamber business. Betsy was such an odd duck. She never let on what she was thinking or who she was as a person. And now she's dead and won't be missed. Isn't that just the saddest thing—to have lived half a century on the planet and no one to grieve for you?”

“Joelle was pretty upset about her death,” Tricia said.

“Okay, then only
one
person to grieve for you.”

“It certainly is sad,” Tricia agreed. “I wonder how she lived when she wasn't at work for the Chamber. Did she have a nice house or did she live in an apartment? Did she secretly collect plates with clowns on them—”

“I think I could believe that,” Angelica said, taking another bite of egg salad.

“—or did she grow orchids and cross-country ski? We'll never know.”

Angelica's eyes suddenly widened. Tricia knew that mischievous look. “What are you thinking?”

“We could visit Betsy's house.”

“A drive-by? What are we going to see when it's pitch-black out?”

“We could go in and take a peek,” Angelica said with a devious lilt to her voice.

“That's breaking and entering. Not that that has stopped us before,” Tricia admitted.

Angelica got up, retrieved her purse from under the counter, and took something from it, waving it in the air. “I have her keys.”

“Where did you get them?” Tricia asked, aghast.

“The day she died, Betsy left them on my sales counter. I never had the chance to return them to her.”

“And you never gave them to Chief Baker.”

“Until just now, I'd almost forgotten I had them.”

Tricia felt a smile tug at her lips. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let's finish eating and go!”

*   *   *

After taking
Sarge for a short walk, the sisters jumped into Angelica's car and headed into Milford. No full moon illuminated the inky black sky as Angelica drove slowly down Vintage Road, while Tricia rode shotgun, looking for number 77.

“Most of these houses don't have visible house numbers,” she commented. “Say they need to call 911 to report a fire or order an ambulance—how do they expect the good guys to find them?”

“Clairvoyance?” Angelica suggested. They'd reached the end of the street, so Angelica drove partway up one of the driveways, backed out, and started up the road once more, driving at a crawl.

“Stop!” Tricia said. “It's got to be this one.”

“You think?”