Book Clubbed (23 page)

“When was the last time you had a decent meal?” she asked.

“About a week ago. Nikki Brimfield tosses out a lot of good stuff every night, but after a while even cookies and cake get boring. I've been dreaming about a burger and fries.”

“You can't go on like this, Bob. You need to face up to whatever it is you're running from.”

“I will, I will. I've done a lot of thinking since we talked earlier. I just need to figure out what I'm going to say to Chief Baker.”

“Come on, Bob, level with me. What did you do in your past life that is so god-awful that you'd risk your health,
and
your business, to hide?”

Bob looked away and took a deep gulp of coffee, as though it might give him the strength to keep talking. “It was a stupid high school prank. When you're a kid, you do stupid things. You don't think about the consequences or realize that one idiotic move could follow you the rest of your life. I didn't have a father figure to warn me about such things. I thought I knew better than anybody else. I thought I knew it all.”

It seemed to Tricia that he hadn't changed much in that regard. “If you don't tell me, I'll go to Stella Craft.” Stella was one of Stoneham High School's retired English teachers who, until her retirement some ten or twelve years before, at one time or another seemed to have taught just about every student who walked through that school's hallowed doors. “She's got a mind like a steel trap. And if she's reminded of whatever it was you've done—after years of not thinking about it—it's sure to get out.”

Bob seemed to squirm. “Okay, but please don't tell anyone else about it. You have to swear.”

Tricia sighed, bored. But she dutifully raised her hand and said, “I swear.”

Bob seemed to wrestle with his conscience. He looked like he was going to speak, then frowned, fidgeted a bit, then opened his mouth to speak again—and didn't. The man was positively maddening.

“Come on, Bob, I haven't got all day,” Tricia chided.

“Oh, all right. I had a nickname back in high school.”

“What's so shameful about a nickname?” she asked.

“The shame is how I acquired it. They called me”—his face grew beet red—“the mooner.”

Tricia blinked, and tried to stifle a smile. “The mooner?”

“Yeah. I was in my senior year and a bunch of buddies and I would ride around Stoneham and Milford in George Stewart's Chevy Caprice and moon people.”

Tricia struggled to keep a straight face. “And I take it you got caught?”

“Yeah,
I
got caught,” he emphasized. “We all did it, but I was the only one who was actually apprehended with my pants down around my ankles. I was arrested for lewd behavior. Got hauled up in front of a judge and everything. My mother wanted to disown me. I've never been so ashamed in all my life.”

“What was your sentence?”

“A hundred hours of community service.”

“And did you complete your punishment?” Tricia asked.

“No. After graduation, I skipped town. I didn't come back for almost twenty years. By then everybody seemed to have forgotten about it. But I knew if I was ever arrested that the truth would come out and I might get tossed in jail—and have my reputation ruined.”

“How much of your sentence did you complete?”

“About ten hours. I was supposed to pick up trash, dig holes, and other kinds of manual labor. It was hard work.
Really
hard work.”

“That's why they call it punishment,” Tricia said, but Bob had no comment. “Where have you been hiding for the past week?”

He shook his head. “Oh, no, I'm not telling you so that you can get me and another person in trouble.”

“I've already promised I wouldn't talk about your problem to anyone. I assume you've been hiding at one of your properties.”

“Yeah, and after a week my welcome has worn pretty thin.”


“Look, Bob, why don't you just turn yourself in? You might have to complete your community service, but I doubt they're going to toss you in jail for this or for vandalizing Stan Berry's house.”

“Fat lot you know,” he said, sounding forlorn.

“Have you consulted a lawyer?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Then you have no clue what is liable to happen to you.”

“With my string of bad luck, they'll likely toss me straight in jail and throw away the key.”

“I think you're overreacting. But would doing a few days' jail time be preferable to losing your business? I'll bet your clients are getting pretty annoyed at not being able to reach you. You're playing right into NRA Realty's hands. If you don't show your clients some tender loving care, NRA will swoop down and sign them up.”

Bob's entire body seemed to sag. “I guess you're right.” He looked up, turning his sad green eyes on her. “Would you broker a deal for me with Chief Baker?”

Tricia always was a sucker for green eyes. “I'd be happy to.”

“Thank you. And please don't tell Angelica about this. I've had about all the gloating from her I can stand.”

“I promise not to tell Angelica,” Tricia said, which was too bad, because about now Angelica would probably
love
to have a good laugh at Bob's expense. “Have you got your cell phone?”

Bob nodded. “Yeah, but I left the charger at home. The battery's dead.”

“Then how can I contact you?”

“How about I contact you tomorrow morning? Nine o'clock at the back of your store?”

“What's wrong with me calling the chief right now?”

“I have a couple of things to take care of before I'll be ready to face a jail cell, although I guess I could come back in an hour or so.”

“All right. I'll see what I can do,” Tricia promised. “Will you be all right out there on the mean streets of Stoneham?” Bob didn't pick up on her sarcasm. Instead he polished off the last of his coffee and stuffed a few of the cookies into his jacket pocket. “I'll be back in an hour. Thanks for the coffee.”

“You're welcome.”

Bob turned for the exit. “Could you take a look—to make sure there aren't any cops out on the street?”

“Sure,” Tricia said and led the way to the door. She stuck her head outside and looked from right to left. Not a soul in sight. “All clear.”

Bob pulled his knit cap down low over his brow. “Thanks again,” he said and slipped out the door, quickly heading south down the sidewalk. Tricia shut the door and shook her head. She glanced over to the shelf above the register where Miss Marple sat with all four of her legs tucked under her. “What do you make of that?”

Miss Marple gave a bored “
Yow
,” and shut her eyes.

“I agree,” Tricia said. She moved to stand in front of the sales desk, and picked up the art deco phone, dialing Chief Baker's personal number. It rang twice before he picked up.

“Grant, it's Tricia.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure? Have you reconsidered my Friday-night dinner invitation thanks to me chasing away your Dumpster divers?” he asked eagerly.

“Sorry, no. I told you, I already have plans. But I do have something else to offer you.”

“And what's that?”

“Bob Kelly.”

“Kelly? Have you been harboring him?” Baker asked sternly.

“Of course not. But I have seen him around the village and I did manage to speak with him. He's tired of hiding. He wants to turn himself in. But he's also worried about a transgression from his past.”

“I know all about the mooning,” Baker said, without humor, “and that he never completed his community service.”

“Is he liable to get jail time for a youthful indiscretion?” Tricia asked.

“That'll be up to a judge. Kelly has done a lot for this town over the years. I can't see him going to jail at this point—over that or the new charges that are likely to be filed against him, but he might have his original sentence doubled, tripled, or even quadrupled.”

“I think he's already come to that same conclusion,” Tricia said.

“When will you talk to him next?”

“He said he'd return to my store in an hour. What's the best way to handle this? Should I call you to pick him up or take him directly to the police station?”

“I'd prefer not to lose him again. I'll set up a stakeout to catch him.”

“Do you really need to do that? I mean, the man is already deeply ashamed of what happened in the past. Couldn't you just pick him up here?”

“Well, okay,” Baker grudgingly replied. “I'll show up in an hour. And thanks for taking this on.”

“I hate to think of Bob standing out in the cold for yet another day, and goodness knows where he's been going at night to stay warm.”

“He's been extremely foolish, that's for sure.”

There was no arguing that. “Okay. I'll see you soon. And thank you—for Bob . . . and from me.”

“Right.” The connection was broken and Tricia hung up the receiver. If Bob had been a woman, Tricia would have called him a diva. Why couldn't he have just faced up to his past like a man instead of hiding in the shadows for the past week?

In an hour's time it would no longer be her concern.

One down, one to go.

How much longer would it take to wrap up Betsy Dittmeyer's murder?

Since Haven't
Got a Clue hadn't had a customer in hours, Tricia decided to shut down the beverage station for the day. She dumped the dregs, emptied the grounds from the basket, gathered the sugar and nondairy creamers, putting them away before she took out the disinfectant spray and cleaned the counter. With that done, she returned to the cash desk, where Betsy's big Bible still sat.

A figure passed the window and stopped in front of the door. Tricia recognized the woman in the red ski jacket and quickly stuffed the Bible under the display counter once more. The door opened, the bell over it jingled cheerfully, but the look on Joelle Morrison's face was dour. “Where's Angelica?” she demanded.

“Hello, Joelle. What brings you here so late on this chilly afternoon?”

“Where's Angelica?” she asked again, more firmly. This was not the perfectly coiffed, well-dressed wedding planner Tricia had come to know. Instead, Joelle looked a bit crazed, with wind-chapped cheeks that were nearly the same shade as her jacket, and with no hat her hair looked as though it might have gone through a Mixmaster.

“I have no idea. She might be at the Cookery—”

“I've already been there.”

“—or at Booked for Lunch.”

“I've been there, too.”

“I don't know where else she'd be at this time of day. Can I help you with something?” Tricia asked, not sure she really wanted to spend time with Joelle in her present mood.

“I heard the house across the street from the bank has been sold, along with a lot of Betsy's things that were stored there. Betsy's treasures belong to her heirs,
not
Angelica.”

“From what I understand, Betsy had plenty of time to clear out her stuff before the house was sold. She signed off on several certified letters that told her to clear out her stuff or lose it. She chose to lose it. Everything was documented, and the house was sold with the contents intact. Whatever was stored in that house legally belongs to Nigela Ricita Associates—not Angelica.”

Joelle's eyes blazed. “I heard she'd taken charge of clearing out the house.”

“Who told you that?”

“Frannie Armstrong.”

Of course.

“Angelica has rented the house for the Chamber of Commerce. She and others”—Tricia had no intention of mentioning her own role in the purge—“worked to clear it. The contents have been removed. The Dumpsters were taken away a couple of hours ago.”

“What did Angelica find?” Joelle demanded, a harder edge entering her voice.

“Trash, a lot of newspapers, and a few old books—not vintage, and not worth much of anything.”

“Did you find our family Bible?”

“Bible?” Tricia hedged. “What does it look like?”

“It's quite old and large. The cover is brown leather with a big brass hasp. It belonged to my great-great-grandmother.”

“Is that what you were looking for at Betsy's house?”

“Yes. It has great sentimental value. It shouldn't be thrown away or sold to the highest bidder. It belongs to
me
!”

“But you said Betsy disinherited you.”

Joelle's eyes blazed with fury. “It turns out Betsy never changed her will. She left everything to me. I have the only copy. There were no others.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure,” Joelle said, but didn't sound at all certain. “If you see Angelica, I'd appreciate you giving me a call—or have her call me.” Joelle dug into her purse and came up with a business card for her wedding planning services. “Tell her to call me day or night.”

“I'd be glad to,” Tricia said and accepted the rather battered card.

Joelle abruptly turned and left Haven't Got a Clue by slamming the door, and without a good-bye or a backward glance. Tricia stepped over to the big display window, craning her neck to follow Joelle's progress as she made her way up Main Street until she turned right, probably to pick up her car at the municipal parking lot.

Once she was certain Joelle wouldn't be making a return visit to her store, Tricia pulled the bulky Bible out from under her cash desk to have another look at it. As Joelle had said, it was big and brown and bulky. Stashed between the pages of the book were more folded sheets of paper, recipes, and a number of death notices cut from newspapers. Tricia extricated all the loose papers before taking time to study them. Some of the recipes were so old that the paper they were printed on disintegrated despite her gentle handling. Next she sorted everything into three piles: useless, unsalvageable, and of possible interest. It was the latter she consulted first. Unfolding one of the pieces of white paper, she found a hand-drawn genealogy chart. Before she could look at it, though, the door opened once again and Bob Kelly darted inside, looking over his shoulder before shutting the door.

“He's not here yet?” he asked.

“You mean Chief Baker?”

Bob nodded.

“No. But he'll be here in a few minutes.”

Bob bit his lip, and though he'd just come in from the cold she could see a bead of sweat forming at his left temple.

“Why don't you take your coat off and relax until the chief gets here.”

“I'm not sure I can go through with this,” Bob said and began to pace in front of the cash desk.

“Listen, Bob, you can't keep this up. Now, you asked me to arrange this meeting—though I'm still not sure why you couldn't have just walked over to the police station and turned yourself in—so you should at least have the gumption to follow through with your plan.”

“You don't know what it's like to feel hunted. Right now I haven't got a friend in the world.”

“And whose fault is that?” Tricia asked.

Bob looked close to tears. “I've been on the run for so long, I've forgotten how it feels to live like a real human being.”

Who did he think he was? Harrison Ford in
The Fugitive
? The charges against him were really quite petty.

“Bob, you're only making things worse for yourself. Now please, sit down and relax.”

“I guess you're right,” he said and took a seat in the readers' nook.

No sooner had he sat down, when the door opened and Chief Baker entered the shop. “Tricia,” he said, tipping his hat, saw Bob sitting in the nook, and headed straight for him. “Mr. Kelly.”

Bob stood. “You've got me, Chief. I'll come along quietly,” he said, his voice filled with drama, and held out his hands, palms down, ready to be handcuffed.

“I'm not going to cuff you,” Baker said. “If you'll come along quietly, I'll take you to the station, fingerprint you, and then release you on your own recognizance.”

“You mean, I'm not going to the big house?” Bob almost sounded disappointed.

“I highly doubt it. But you will have to answer to the charges against you. I suggest you consult an attorney.”

“I can go home and sleep in my own bed tonight?” Bob asked.

“You don't have to, but you're not staying in my jail overnight.”

“Oh.” Bob had never looked more downhearted.

“However, I do want to talk to you about Betsy Dittmeyer, but that should only take an extra ten or twenty minutes. With a little luck, you'll be home in time for your dinner.”

“Okay,” Bob said and shuffled over to the door. “Let's get this over with.”

Baker shot Tricia a parting glance. “Thanks for helping out with this.”

“Anytime,” she said with a grin.

No sooner had the door closed behind them when Tricia heard footfalls on the stairs. At the back of the shop, the door marked PRIVATE opened and Pixie and Mr. Everett stepped into the store. Pixie held a sheaf of papers in her hand.

“Hey, Tricia, you'd better have a look at this updated inventory list.” She walked up to the counter and handed the small stack of pages to Tricia, who flipped through the alphabetized list.

“This looks great, but are you sure this is the entire list?” she asked, puzzled.

“Yep. And it includes the two boxes of stock I unpacked earlier this week, too. When was the last time you checked the storeroom for inventory?” Pixie asked.

Tricia heaved a guilty sigh. “Christmas?” she guessed.

“Despite it being so dead around here, we've actually sold a lot of books since then. Did you call that number for the estate liquidator that I gave you earlier?”

“Shoot, with everything that's been going on, I forgot all about it.”

“Well, unless you want to start selling coffee instead of books, we're in desperate need of more stock,” Pixie said.

“You're right. I'll call the number first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Why wait? Do it now,” Pixie pushed.

“You're right, of course.” Tricia bent down and found the Post-it note, but instead of calling, she turned back to her employees. “You're right about it being dead here today. I think I'm going to close shop early today. You guys may as well head on home.”

“That's very generous of you, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

“Ditto that,” Pixie said. She didn't have to be asked twice to leave early. She did an about-face, retrieved both her own and Mr. Everett's coats, and came back to the front of the shop.

“By the way, I finally figured out where I know the dead lady's sister from,” Pixie said as she shrugged into the sleeves of her coat.

“Oh?” Tricia asked.

“Yeah. She used to be in the same kickboxing class as me over at the fitness center up on the highway.”

“Used to?” Tricia asked, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling.

“I haven't seen her there in a couple of weeks,” Pixie said and tucked her hair into her beret.

“Did you ever speak to her during the class?”

Pixie shook her head. “There's like twenty broads there. Who has the time?”

“Do the women at your class go there for self-defense or for exercise?”

“A little of both. When you do it right, you work up a hell of a sweat. It's a great way to keep fit. Burns a lot of calories.” She pulled on her gloves.

Tricia felt her mouth go dry. Angelica's door had been kicked in. The door to Betsy's kitchen had been kicked in, too.

“Are you sure we can't do anything else before we leave?” Mr. Everett asked. “Vacuum, perhaps.”

“The rug hardly needs it, as it's essentially only been the three of us walking on it,” Tricia answered offhandedly.

“That's true. Well, off we go. See you tomorrow, Tricia,” Pixie said.

Mr. Everett pulled on his leather gloves. “Good evening, Ms. Miles.”

“Good night,” Tricia called, and shut the door, locking and bolting it. She turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED and pulled the blinds before she went back to the sales desk, where she lifted the receiver on the old phone and dialed the number Pixie had written down.

She bit her lip with indecision. Had Baker finished dealing with Bob yet? Maybe she'd give him another ten minutes and then call to tell him what Pixie had just shared about Joelle. Was she being paranoid to hope he'd put out an all-points bulletin on the woman?

Yes, in fact, it was just plain silly. Instead, she consulted the note Pixie had taken for checking on the collection of used books, called, and made an appointment to see them the following morning. As she hung up the phone she remembered that she and Angelica had had an appointment to look at some books six days before, but Betsy's murder had taken precedence. Well, nothing like that could possibly happen again.

Now that she knew Joelle wanted to get her hands on Betsy's Bible, Tricia hefted the book back onto the sales counter and opened it to the center, thumbing past the illustrations, which included Moses parting the Red Sea, John the Baptist, and Christ's agony on the cross. Depressing. She flipped a few more pages before coming back to the chart chronicling Betsy and Joelle's forebears. Sure enough, she could count back far enough to their great-great-grandmother, but the chart only had space enough for four generations.

Tricia set the handwritten chart of later generations down beside it and compared the two. Names, birth dates, and death dates didn't tell the story of the people who were now dust. What had they been like? Doing a little math, she found that the women died young, many the same year the last of their children had been born. Had they died in childbirth? How sad.

Tricia turned her attention back to the newer chart. Not only was there a line from John Morrison and Elizabeth Tanner flowing down to Betsy and Joelle, but another line attached John Morrison to Ruth Dittmeyer and to their son . . . who was just a year older than Betsy.

The name?

Gerald.