Book Clubbed (13 page)

Tricia awoke
late the next morning and only had time to take a quick shower, feed her cat, and grab some yogurt from the refrigerator before she made it downstairs to open her store for the day. On days like this, her exercise regimen was the first thing eliminated from her to-do list.

Haven't Got a Clue's first visitor of the day wasn't a customer, but Charlie the mailman, bundled up for the cold, his cheeks red from the vicious wind. “Hey, Charlie. You look frozen stiff. I'm just about to make a pot of coffee. Would you like to join me?”

He sorted through the contents of his leather mailbag and came up with an assortment of circulars and bills. “I wish I could, but I really don't have time for . . .” His words drifted off, and Tricia noticed the lines around his eyes seemed more deeply defined than they had the last time she'd spoken to him.

“Is something wrong? Can I help?” she asked sincerely.

“I've got a lot hanging over my head, Tricia,” Charlie said and sighed. He set the mail on the counter.

“Why don't you tell me about it?” she asked.

Again Charlie sighed, his gaze focused on the floor. “It's the police. They seem to think I might have had something to do with Betsy Dittmeyer's death—and all because I happened to be in the Cookery just before it occurred.” He straightened and met her gaze. “What they failed to understand is that I'm there five days a week—and almost always at the same time.”

“Chief Baker is only doing his job, although I can tell you from personal experience that it's no picnic to be the object of his scrutiny.”

“I'll say.”

“Why would the chief think you had some connection to Betsy?”

“Because,” he said, his gaze turning downward once again, “I do.”

Tricia's eyes widened. “You and Betsy had a relationship?” she asked, taken aback.

Charlie looked absolutely horrified. “Me? And Betsy? Oh, please.”

“Then what?”

Charlie sighed, still not looking Tricia in the eye. “Part of the twelve steps are that you don't talk about it.”

Oh, dear.
“You and Betsy were alcoholics?”

“Not ‘were.' Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic.”

That made sense. Betsy had a compulsion to hoard. Perhaps that had driven her to drink, as well. And what had compelled her to steal?

“Where did the two of you meet?” Tricia asked.

“At a meeting in Milford, although I hadn't run into her at one for some time. I did see her on a regular basis when the Chamber of Commerce was located up the street.”

“Does anyone else know she was an alcoholic?”

“Just her immediate family and the others who frequent our meetings. But they're not likely to talk about it, either. That's one of the reasons they call it Alcoholics Anonymous.”

“I hope you won't think I'm nosy, but I can't imagine you as . . .”

“A drunk?” He laughed. “It's okay to say it. I always did.”

“Then how did you start drinking?”

“Like most kids—stealing my parents' liquor. Then finding friends and helping them steal their parents' liquor. I worked, I earned money, I spent it on beer or whiskey. It was a vicious cycle. I was engaged, but my girl told me if I didn't sober up, she would leave me. That did it. I joined AA and the rest is history.”

“How many years ago was that?”

“Thirty-five. And we've been happily married the whole time.”

Tricia smiled. “Do you still go to meetings?”

He nodded. “Several times a week. It's part of our philosophy to help others get off the alcohol treadmill and regain their sobriety.”

“Have you ever fallen off the wagon?” Tricia asked.

“A couple of times,” he said sheepishly. “I've haven't had a drink in almost eighteen years now.”

“Good for you, Charlie.”

“Honest, Tricia. I didn't kill Betsy. I admit, I might be able to understand it if others had reason to do so—she had a heartless manner. I'm not sure she ever really embraced our philosophy, but as far as I know, she went to her grave stone-cold sober.”

Someone had helped Betsy to her grave, and in quite a horrific manner. And one of the tenets of the twelve-step program was to ask forgiveness of those you'd wronged. Betsy was so busy stealing from her employer and goodness knows how many other people, she apparently had no time or inclination to do so.

“I don't suppose you know how I could get in touch with Betsy's ex-husband.”

“Jerry the welder?” he asked.

“I didn't know his name—or where he worked,” Tricia said.

“Try Black's Village Smithy. Do you know the place? It's up on the highway.”

“I know about it,” she said. More important, she knew the owner—although the last time they'd spoken they hadn't been on good terms. In fact, they'd
never
been on good terms. “Thanks for the tip. I'll see if I can track him down.”

“Seems to me Betsy mentioned it to me the last time I spoke to her. She was angry that he'd be working so close to her. I guess their divorce was pretty bitter.”

“So I've heard.”

Charlie looked down at his bulging leather mail pouch. “I'd better get going. My boss wasn't happy when I got hauled off to the police station during my rounds—and he won't like it if it happens again.”

“I'm sure the chief will soon clear you.”

“From your lips to God's ears,” Charlie said with what sounded like a forced laugh. He gave a wave and headed out the shop door.

No sooner had he gone when Tricia called directory assistance. “Yes, could you please give me the number for Black's Village Smithy?”

*   *   *

Pixie was
late—by more than half an hour—when she finally showed up at Haven't Got a Clue. “Didn't I tell you I should get some new tires for my old boat?” she asked. “When I got down to the car, it had a flat. I got the Triple A to come and put on the spare, but I'm going to have to get a new tire any day now. Ya think I could leave early one of these nights?”

“Not one of these nights,” Tricia said, “you'll do it tonight. I don't want you to have an accident. Meanwhile, I have an appointment this morning. Do you think you could mind the store?”

“Piece of cake,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, and went to the back of the shop to hang up her coat and hat and retrieve Tricia's before heading back to the front of the store.

“Thanks,” Tricia said, donning the coat. Wasting no more time, she flew out the door. A minute later, she was in her car and heading north toward the highway.

Tricia hated to admit it, but she actually felt nervous as she pulled into the small gravel parking lot outside of Black's Village Smithy. The proprietor had been the husband of her friend Deborah Black, the former owner of the Happy Domestic. She'd died the summer before when a plane crashed into the Stoneham gazebo on Founders' Day. Tricia and David Black had never gotten along, and she hoped she wouldn't run into him at what was now his art studio. An astute businessman, Black also hired welders to take in commercial jobs to keep the business afloat while he worked on his metal sculptures.

Tricia entered the front office, which looked like it could have doubled for a doctor's waiting room. “May I help you?” asked a pretty young woman from behind a circular desk. She was dressed in a turquoise sweater set and dark slacks, not unlike what Tricia usually wore when working at Haven't Got a Clue. Her long hair and pretty smile reminded Tricia of her late friend. Had David hired her because of that resemblance, and could he be bedding her, too? He hadn't been faithful to Deborah, but then she hadn't been faithful to him, either.

Tricia stepped up to the desk. “I'm here to see Jerry Dittmeyer. He said he'd be taking his morning break about now.”

“Sure. I'll page him.” She picked up the receiver, pressed a button on the phone, and spoke into the mouthpiece, calling him to the office.

Tricia stepped back and looked around the small reception area while she waited. Although Black's Village Smithy had only been in business for about six months, they seemed to be doing very well. A stand on the counter featured a glossy brochure of Black's sculptures, with information on how to commission a piece. A window on the west wall overlooked the studio, where Black was fabricating a huge metal abstract work.

Despite the heavy padded clothing and the welder's mask that covered the face, Tricia could tell by the man's stance that it
was
Black himself wielding a torch. A waterfall of blue-white sparks flowed around him as he joined two large pieces of metal. Tricia hated to admit it, but she rather liked his artistry and had even considered hiring him to do some ornamental metalwork for the front of Haven't Got a Clue. Since her store was already reminiscent of 221B Baker Street in London, glossy painted iron railings were all she'd need to complete the transformation.

The door to the welding shop opened and a burly man with salt-and-pepper hair and a few days' worth of stubble poked his head inside. “You called?” he asked the receptionist.

Tricia stepped forward. “Mr. Dittmeyer? Hi, I'm Tricia Miles. We spoke on the phone. I knew your ex-wife.”

“Too bad for you,” he said with scorn.

“Can we talk for a few minutes?”

Dittmeyer glanced at the receptionist as though looking for permission.

“Why don't I give you two a little privacy. I need to get another cup of coffee anyway,” she said, grabbed her empty cup from the desk, and went out the door to the shop beyond.

“Look, Ms. Miles, I don't know why you'd want to talk to me. I didn't kill Betsy, if that's what you want to know. I haven't even seen or heard from the bitch in over a year. If I was going to kill her, it would've been five years ago when she started turning our house into a pigpen. When she refused to clean it or get rid of any of her crap. When she took us both to the cleaners by refusing to abide by the judge's order and give me my half of our assets,” he said bitterly.

“Was there an outstanding judgment against her?”

He shook his head. “She finally paid me off about a year ago. I got a check in the mail—it even included interest. I guess she figured if she didn't give it to me that I might come after her for more.”

“What do you think made her finally pay you after all that time?”

He shrugged. “I don't know—and I don't care.”

“You must have loved her at one time,” Tricia said kindly.

“Lady, back in the day I woulda moved heaven and earth for my Betts. But then she changed. I don't know for sure what caused it; maybe losing our daughter, Amy . . . but Betts would never talk about it with a shrink or even me. That's when she became obsessed with just about everything. Money, collecting all that junk.” He shook his head once again, his gaze seeming to wander until it fixed vacantly on the floor. “I'll never know for sure why she decided to give up on everyone she loved for a load of crap.”

Tricia got the feeling that at one time he
did
want to know, and he really did care.

“I've moved on with my life. I got me a new girl, and we're starting a family. I'm sorry Betsy's dead, but I've put the life we shared out of my mind.”

Tricia admitted defeat. He wasn't going to tell her anything more; she might as well leave.

The door from the shop opened once again, but instead of the receptionist it was David Black who stood in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” he practically spat, glaring at Tricia.

“Hello, David. I came to speak with Mr. Dittmeyer.”

Black faced his employee. “Jerry, you don't have to talk to this bitch. She always goes snooping around whenever anyone in the area dies. She likes to harass them—pry into people's business and question the quality of their grief. If she's harassing you, I'd be glad to call the cops and have them arrest her.”

“It's okay, Dave. She's not hassling me. And we were done talking, anyway,” Dittmeyer said with a glance back to Tricia.

“Thank you for speaking with me. I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Dittmeyer.”

“Once upon a time, Betsy really was a dynamite gal,” Dittmeyer said rather wistfully.

Tricia gave him what she hoped was a warm smile. “Yes, I'm sure she was. Good-bye.” She turned for the door, but David Black's voice stopped her.

“Good riddance.”

Tricia stood there for a long moment, then reached for the door and exited the building. As she walked to her car, she decided that if she ever did decide to get the glossy black railings for Haven't Got a Clue's façade, she wouldn't have them built by Black's Village Smithy. And as she started her car and pulled out of the lot, she also realized that Jerry Dittmeyer made a terrible suspect in his ex-wife's death.