Book Clubbed (2 page)

Without conscious
thought, Tricia whipped out her cell phone and punched in an all-too-familiar number—911—to report the accident.

When she ended the call, she looked straight at her sister. “You stay here, and I'll go down and wait for the police.”

“Me?” Angelica practically squealed. “I don't want to stay with her—she's . . . she's dead. And dead people creep me out.
You
stay here. You're used to finding and dealing with dead people.”

“I am not,” Tricia protested, but by the time the words had left her mouth, Angelica had hightailed it out of the storeroom and down the stairs to her shop.

Tricia glanced back down at Betsy. She hadn't been attractive in life, and death hadn't made any improvements. Her eyes bulged, and her mouth was open, her chin bloodied, exactly what Tricia would have expected from someone who'd been crushed. It seemed incredible that Tricia had spoken to the woman only minutes before and now she was so thoroughly dead. She looked away, taking in the storeroom. How on God's earth did Betsy make all that mess before she toppled the bookcase on herself?

The sound of a siren broke the quiet. Tricia turned away and took several deep breaths to quell her queasy stomach. Soon the sound of footsteps on the stairs caused her to look up, and her ex-lover, Chief Grant Baker of the Stoneham Police Department, appeared before her with Angelica right behind him. “The ambulance is on its way,” he said, nearly breathless.

“You can cancel it. Betsy's dead,” Tricia said.

“How do you know?” he asked, hustling past her to get to the body.

“Dead people cease to bleed.”

The chief looked down at Betsy's lifeless form, then up, his gaze darting around the room. “What happened here?”

“Betsy and I had a tiny tiff before she came up here to work,” Angelica sheepishly admitted. “We heard a lot of noise and figured she was throwing a tantrum up here. Then there was a terrible crash, and it got really quiet. Tricia and I ran up the stairs and . . . this is how we found her.”

Baker nodded grimly, and then began to pick his way through the room, presumably looking for clues.

Tricia shivered in a draft. “It sure is nippy up here. Is the heat up here on a timer, too?”

“It was toasty warm the last time I was in here—which was last night,” Angelica said.

“This doesn't feel normal,” Tricia said, frowning, while Baker continued his circuit around the storeroom.

Angelica darted into the open stairwell and looked up. “Good grief! My apartment door is wide open. I never leave it unlocked. Oh, my! Sarge!” she cried, and bolted up the flight of stairs.

“Wait! Grant!” Tricia hollered, but instead of waiting for him, she ran up the stairs after Angelica.

Bursting through the doorway to the back of the apartment, Tricia saw no trace of Angelica and pounded down the hall toward the kitchen, where she found her sister cradling her tiny bichon frise.

“Mommy's little boy,” Angelica crooned as she kissed the top of the fluffy dog's head while he furiously tried to lick her in return.

“I take it he's okay,” Tricia said with relief. Sarge had once been kicked like a football, causing internal injuries. She didn't wait for an answer. “Why is it so cold in here?” She looked around the kitchen. None of the windows were open. She wandered from the kitchen to the living room and into the bedroom. Sure enough, the window that overlooked the alley was wide open. She went to shut it and saw that the fire escape ladder had been extended. If she touched the window, she might obliterate fingerprint evidence.

Chief Baker barreled into the room. “Don't touch that!”

Tricia whirled. “I wasn't going to.”

Baker practically knocked her over as he shoved her aside. He stuck his head out of the window, looking from right to left. “Damn. No one in sight. But there may be footprint evidence in the snow. I'd better call in the sheriff's tactical squad to check things out.”

“A lot of people walk their dogs along the alley,” Tricia said, knowing Angelica was among them.

“Will you please close that window!” Angelica said sharply. “I'm not heating the great outdoors, you know.”

“This window will stay open until the lab team dusts it for fingerprints,” Baker ordered.

“That will make my bedroom uninhabitable. I've seen the way you guys throw that stuff around and it's damn hard to clean up—and goodness knows none of your men ever clean up the messes they leave.”

“This apartment, and especially this bedroom, is off-limits, so why don't you ladies go back downstairs.”

“And do what? Twiddle my thumbs while you and your men keep customers out of my store?” Angelica demanded.

“May I remind you that your secretary was just found dead on your premises—”

“She was the Chamber's receptionist—not secretary,” Angelica interrupted.

“—and possibly due to foul play?” Baker continued. “You don't seem very concerned.”

“Of course I'm concerned—and very upset. Whoever did that to Betsy also kicked in my apartment door, invaded my home, and could have hurt or killed my dog. And now your men are going to blitz my bedroom and keep me out of my own home for goodness knows how long.”

“It'll only be for a few hours. Now, go over to Tricia's store. I'll be over there as soon as I can, and you'll be back in your store and apartment by tonight,” Baker said with more consideration.

“Very well,” Angelica agreed, but not at all graciously. “Tricia!” she called.

“Go on ahead. I want to talk to the chief.”

Angelica frowned, pivoted, and left the room. Tricia turned back to Baker.

“What did you want to tell me?” he asked.

“Don't even bother to consider me, Angelica, or even Frannie as suspects in what now looks like a possible murder.”

“Are you saying you all had motives to kill Mrs. Dittmeyer?” he asked wryly.

“Of course not. We were all in the Cookery when all the noise broke out. And there were customers there who can corroborate that, too.”

“Did you get their names? Because when I got here Frannie was the only one in the store. And as far as I'm concerned,
everyone
is a suspect until I can rule them out.”

“Thank you once again for your unwavering belief in me,” Tricia said with heavy sarcasm. “May I go?”

“No. I didn't see the back entrance open.”

“Betsy had just emptied her wastebasket and left the back door open. Frannie shut and locked it.”

“Then you don't know for sure that Frannie was telling the truth.”

“We could feel a draft, and I don't doubt Frannie
was
telling the truth.”

“Did you see the open door?”

“No, I was standing at the front of the store with Angelica.”

“Did you see anyone else you recognized in the store at the time of the . . . upset?”

Tricia shook her head.

“That means Mrs. Dittmeyer could have let her killer into the shop.”

“I guess. As I said, there were a bunch of customers in the store at the time, and Charlie the mailman was there a few minutes before we heard the ruckus.”

“Did you see him leave?”

Tricia thought about it. “No. But that doesn't mean anything. Angelica and Frannie and I were talking. We weren't paying attention to anything else that was going on—until all the noise started upstairs.”

“And you thought the victim was making it?”

Tricia nodded. “As Angelica said, she and Betsy had been discussing the limitations of using the storeroom as the Chamber headquarters. Betsy made it plain she was not happy with the situation, and we figured she was throwing a tantrum.”

“Did she regularly do such things?” Baker demanded.

Tricia shrugged and heard others tromping around the apartment. “I don't know. I didn't hang out with the woman.”

“And why was that?” Baker asked.

“Because she wasn't very nice. Or at least not very warm and welcoming.”

“What about the mailman?”

“Charlie? He's a sweetheart. I suppose you can find him at the post office—after he's finished his route, that is.”

“Chief?” Officer Henderson called.

Baker held up a hand to stall him. “We'll talk later,” he told Tricia in dismissal.

She nodded, turned, and waited for the officer to move away from the doorway so she could escape. So much for getting anything accomplished during the rest of the morning—and there was no way she'd be able to visit the estate sale to look at the books on offer.

Tricia found the Cookery crowded with the entire Stoneham police force, who demanded she stay until Chief Baker verified that she was allowed to leave, which took another ten minutes—minutes in which she was not allowed to speak with Frannie, Angelica, or anyone else. When she was finally allowed to return to her store, Tricia pondered the fact that Stoneham seemed to have become the death capital of southern New Hampshire. And why, oh, why, did she always seem to be the one to keep stumbling over the newly deceased?

While she loathed being called the village jinx, Tricia was beginning to think the title might just be apropos.

With all
the chaos going on at the Cookery, Tricia was happy to return to her own store and its relative peace. Relative because her assistant, Pixie Poe, was singing. As she studied the order forms before her, Tricia desperately tried to ignore her employee's slightly off-key rendition of “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” As it was, Tricia had been afraid Angelica might wait out the police presence at her own store by hanging out at Haven't Got a Clue, but instead she'd chosen to go across the street to Booked for Lunch, the tiny retro café she owned and operated.

Pixie dressed exclusively in vintage togs, so one never knew what era she was likely to represent on any given day. Today she seemed to be channeling the Andrews Sisters, looking like a rather long-in-the-tooth Patty, with shoulder-length blonde hair, pancake makeup, and ruby-colored lips and nails. The customers loved her, and sales had skyrocketed since she'd come to work at Haven't Got a Clue. Tricia had rewarded her with several raises and was thinking of giving her another.

While Tricia's other employee, Mr. Everett, dusted the back shelves, Pixie once again wandered over to the big display window to look outside, checking out what she could see of the mix of official cars and people, and the investigation into Betsy Dittmeyer's death.

“They haven't taken the body out yet,” she said with what sounded like disappointment.

“And when they do, there'll be nothing to see,” Tricia chided her.

“I know. It's just . . . well, with the screws blocking the sidewalk, we aren't going to have any customers, so I've gotta do something to keep from getting bored.”

“Why don't you go read a book,” Tricia encouraged.

“Really?” Pixie asked with delight. “Great. I'm working my way through Dashiell Hammett once again. Love that
Maltese Falcon
.” Tricia watched her go over to one of the shelves, pluck out a book, and then flop down into the readers' nook.

Tricia sighed and went back to her paperwork. Pixie might not be working, but neither was she singing.

The little bell over the door rang cheerfully, causing both Tricia and Pixie to look up, but instead of a customer it was Ginny Wilson-Barbero who entered Haven't Got a Clue. Unfortunately, her demeanor was anything but cheerful. Tricia didn't bother with the usual pleasantries. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Ginny said, her voice high and squeaky.

“Hi, Ginny!” Pixie called without looking up from her book.

“Hi, Pixie. How are you?”

“Just Yankee Doodle dandy!” she said and, unfortunately, began to hum as she read. From the back of the store, Mr. Everett waved his lamb's-wool duster in greeting and went back to work.

Ginny inched closer to the sales desk. “I saw the police cars. Well, who could miss them? Rumor has it that Betsy Dittmeyer was killed this morning over at the Cookery.”

“I'm afraid it's true.”

“By a bookcase?” Ginny asked.

Tricia nodded grimly. “Fully loaded.”

“Messy,” Ginny said and winced.

“Yes,” Tricia agreed. She noted that Ginny's eyes were bloodshot and her nose was red, although she didn't sound like she had a cold. “Are you sure there's nothing wrong?”

Ginny's eyes filled with tears. “Have you got a couple of minutes to talk?”

Tricia looked over at Pixie, who had turned to look their way. “Sure, Mr. E and I can hold down the fort,” Pixie said. As usual, she'd been eavesdropping.

“Come on,” Tricia said and came out from behind the cash desk and wrapped an arm around Ginny's shoulder. “We'll go upstairs and have a nice cup of cocoa.”

Ginny sniffed and allowed herself to be guided through the shop. Miss Marple joined them, scampering up the stairs, while Tricia and Ginny followed until they reached the third floor and Tricia's loft apartment. Tricia unlocked the door and let them in. “Let me take your coat.”

Ginny shrugged out of the sleeves of her coat, handing it to Tricia, who hung it on the coat tree by the door. She hurried over to the kitchen counter and filled the electric kettle with water, then got out mugs and packets of cocoa mix. “I hope you don't mind instant. Of course, Angelica would make it from whole milk, and the finest Swiss ground chocolate.”

“She does tend to go overboard,” Ginny admitted, then dug for a tissue in the pocket of her skirt and blew her nose.

“I'm afraid I don't have much to serve a guest. I don't really keep cookies or desserts up here. But we've got some thumbprint cookies down in the store. I could dash down and—”

Ginny shook her head. “No, thanks. The last thing I need right now are more calories.”

“What's wrong?” Tricia asked. “Have you and Antonio had a fight?”

“Oh, no. He's the sweetest, nicest man in the world—well, apart from Mr. Everett. I love him to death. I've never had an unhappy minute with him.”

“But you don't look very happy right now. Is it the job?” Tricia prompted, since Ginny didn't seem to be in a hurry to explain.

Again Ginny shook her head. Her gaze fell and her lower lip trembled, and then she nodded. “I guess it is my job I'm worried about.” She nodded once more. “Yes, that's exactly it. I'm afraid I'm going to lose the Happy Domestic.”

“Why? I thought it was doing well. That you were in the black and your boss, Nigela Ricita, was very happy with your work.”

“She is. Or so Antonio tells me.”

“Then what's the problem?”

The kettle chose that moment to come to a boil, and Tricia turned her attention to the cocoa at hand, pouring the water into the cups and mixing the contents with spoons. She grabbed a couple of paper napkins from the holder, set them on the kitchen island, and placed the mugs on them.

Tricia waited, but Ginny didn't seem able to meet her gaze.

“Ginny, please, tell me what's wrong.”

Ginny looked up, her eyes filling with tears, her face screwing into an expression of total misery. “I'm . . . I'm pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” Tricia cried and leapt forward to embrace her friend. “That's wonderful. Oh, I'm so happy for both of you.”

But Ginny didn't move. She stood rock still.

Tricia pulled back, studying Ginny's face. “This is wonderful news. Why aren't you happy?”

“Part of me is happy,” she cried, “but most of me didn't plan for this to happen for another couple of years.”

“What does Antonio think about it?”

Ginny looked away. “I haven't told him.”

“Oh, Ginny.”

Ginny waved her hands in the air as though to stop an oncoming scolding. “I can't tell him. Not when I feel this way.”

“Okay, so the timing isn't what you'd originally planned, but you'll make the best mama in all of Stoneham.”

“But what about the Happy Domestic?” she cried.

“What about it?”

“As far as I'm concerned, it belongs to
me
. Maybe not on paper, but I've put my heart and soul into that store.”

“And you've done a wonderful job—”

“But what if they take it away from me?”

“Who?”

“Antonio and Nigela Ricita.”

“Why would they take it away from you?”

“Because,” she said and sat down at the island, placing her hands around the steaming mug, “I just have this feeling . . . maybe it's the name of the store . . . the Happy Domestic. I don't want them to force me to be just a housewife.”

“What makes you think they'd do that?”

“Let's face it; the former owner didn't have a happy domestic life. She and her husband fought about the business after their son arrived. And then a plane dropped out of the sky and killed her. What if the place is cursed?”

“Hey, I'm supposed to be the village jinx, not you,” Tricia reminded Ginny.

“Deborah Black wasn't good at juggling her business and her home life. What if I can't do it, either?”

Tricia sighed, exasperated. “I have faith in you. And if you'll let them, I'm sure Antonio and Nigela Ricita will, too.”

Ginny picked up her cup, blew on the hot liquid, and took a tiny sip. “This wasn't supposed to happen. Not now. The timing just isn't right.”

“You weren't thinking of . . .” Tricia found she couldn't even say the words.

Ginny raised her gaze just a trifle, looking guilty. “I did . . . for about a second and a half. This is something I want. But not right now.”

“Why did you tell me first?” Tricia asked. “Are you looking for advice?”

“Not exactly,” Ginny admitted, taking another sip. “I know what you're going to say: ‘Talk to Antonio.'”

“He is your husband,” Tricia reminded her.

“Like I could forget that,” Ginny said with a shadow of her old laugh.

“Talk to him. I'm sure your fears are all blown out of proportion. It's probably the hormones.”

Ginny shrugged, and drank more of her cocoa. “I feel so selfish.”

“Motherhood is a big responsibility,” Tricia said. “It will change your life, but not for the worse.”

“You think?”

“I'm sure of it.”

Ginny nodded wearily and tipped her head to take in the last of her cocoa. “I really need to get back to my store.”

“Me, too.”

The women set their dirty mugs in the sink and Ginny retrieved her coat before they headed to the stairs that took them back to Haven't Got a Clue. Still seated in a chair in the nook, Pixie looked up over the top of her book. “Is everything okay?”

“It will be,” Tricia said and forced a smile. Before she and Ginny made it halfway to the exit, the door burst open and Nikki Brimfield-Smith entered.

“I've got the most wonderful news!” she cried, zeroing in on Tricia and rushing forward. “Russ and I are having a baby!”

Stunned, Tricia stood rock still with her mouth agape. Ginny, the poor soul, burst into tears.

Nikki appeared unsure of herself. “Isn't anyone going to say anything?”

“Congratulations,” Tricia managed, but Ginny made a break for the door Nikki had just entered. She and Tricia watched as Ginny slammed the door behind her.

Nikki frowned. “She could have at least pretended to be happy for us.”

“I'm sure she is,” Tricia said, “but Ginny is pretty upset this morning. If you'd told her the moon was made of green cheese she probably would have had the same reaction.”

Nikki stared at the closed door, miffed, then turned back to Tricia. “And what do
you
think about my news?”

Tricia forced a smile. “I think it's terrific. How far along are you?”

“Two months.”

“Have you picked out any names?” she asked, trying to sound thrilled.

“We won't even consider names until after we find out the baby's gender.”

Tricia nodded. She wasn't sure what to say next.

“Since I found out earlier this morning, all I can think about is selling the Patisserie and becoming a stay-at-home mom.”

“Oh,” was all Tricia could think of to say.

“You don't think I should?” Nikki challenged, not sounding at all sure herself.

“You should do whatever makes you happy. But are you sure you want to do that? You trained so hard to become a pastry chef. You worked so hard to take possession of the bakery.”

“Nothing is more important to us than giving our child the most nurturing environment. And that means devoting my entire life to him or her.”

The door opened and an older man entered, his cheeks chapped from the wind. He paused, pulled off a pair of brown leather gloves, and retrieved a slip of paper from his coat pocket. “Can someone help me find these books?”

Pixie was about to get up from her chair, but Tricia shook her head and she sat back down. Likewise, Mr. Everett, who'd been about to bound forward, did an abrupt about-face.

“I'd be glad to.” Tricia turned back to Nikki. “I'm sorry, but I've got a customer—and as I'm sure you already know, they seem to be a rarity these days. Congratulations to both you and Russ. You'll make fine parents.”

Nikki frowned and turned for the door without another word. She'd obviously expected a more enthusiastic reception to her announcement. Shoulders slumped, she left the shop without another word and quietly closed the door behind her.

Tricia sighed. Two women, two announcements—two very different reactions. And Tricia found she didn't envy either Ginny or Nikki.

*   *   *

The morning's
only customer turned out to be a good one. After browsing for just under an hour, he'd purchased nearly three hundred dollars' worth of books. Since it was nearly their lunchtime anyway, Mr. Everett and Pixie helped carry the books to the customer's car before they headed off for the Bookshelf Diner to eat.

Tricia settled behind the cash desk, determined to battle the pile of paperwork before her when the shop door opened once again. This time, it was not a customer but Christopher Benson, Tricia's ex-husband, who'd taken up residence across the street in the apartment over the Nigela Ricita Associates office where he worked.