Book Clubbed (8 page)

Only ten
minutes had passed since Tricia had returned from her visit to the Dog-Eared Page and in that time the snow had changed from minuscule crystals to thick, heavy flakes. Pixie stood in front of the big display window at Haven't Got a Clue, eyeing the street with growing concern. “Ya know, I really oughta think about getting some new tires on that old buggy of mine.”

Tricia looked at her watch. It was 4:55. “Why don't you leave now? Beat the traffic,” she said, noting there weren't even any tire tracks on the street. Stoneham in February was so dead someone might as well toss an RIP wreath on the street.

“You can go, too, Mr. Everett.”

Neither of her employees needed coaxing. They both hurried to get their coats, hats, and scarves from the pegs at the back of the store, while she retrieved the tea party leftovers from her refrigerator. “I'll walk you to your car,” Mr. Everett told Pixie. “I wouldn't want you to slip on the sidewalk.”

“Aw, you're a peach, Mr. E.”

“Good night, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

“See ya tomorrow,” Pixie called rather cheerfully, having either forgotten, or more likely chosen to forget, their conversation from earlier that day. Tricia turned the lock on the door behind them, turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and then pulled down the shades on the big display window, taking note that Christopher's office window was dark, and his apartment blinds had been drawn.
Good
.

It only took a few minutes to make sure the store was shipshape for the next day's opening. Tricia decided to wait until morning to vacuum, and called to her cat. “Let's make an early night of it, Miss Marple,” she said, but before she could turn off the lights and head for the back of the store and the stairs leading to her loft apartment, the phone rang. Tricia picked up the receiver. “Ange, is that you?”

“It sure is. Don't you just hate this weather? Come on over. I'm making soup for dinner.”

“How can you even think about food after that tea you put on this afternoon?”

“It won't be ready for at least an hour. I could use a little company, and figured you could, too.”

“We saw each other only an hour or so ago.”

“Yes, but we didn't actually get to talk.”

No, they'd done that before their tea. But then, Tricia had nothing else penciled in on her social calendar.

“Soup is comfort food,” Angelica continued. “And it's not all that filling.”

“Knowing you, that's not all that'll be on your table,” Tricia commented.

“Okay. I've got a baguette and a pound of butter. What else would anyone need?”

“A glass of wine?” Tricia suggested.

“Bring your own bottle.”

Tricia smiled. “I'll be over in a few minutes.”

Miss Marple followed Tricia up to the apartment, where she was promptly fed, watered, and petted. “Be good. I'll be home in a few hours.”

Tricia grabbed a bottle of wine and headed back down the stairs. She put on her jacket, but didn't bother to button it, locked the door, and was surprised how much the snow had accumulated in only the few minutes since Pixie and Mr. Everett had left. There weren't even any signs of their footsteps on the sidewalk.

Tricia let herself into the Cookery and stamped the snow from her feet before crossing the store and heading up the stairs to Angelica's apartment. Once again she paused at the storeroom on the second floor. She tried the door handle, found it still locked, and felt better. Not that a wooden door was much of a barrier against a ghost, and not that she even believed in ghosts . . . still, she hurried up the rest of the steps and let herself into Angelica's apartment. Once again Sarge was waiting and was apoplectic with joy at her arrival. She made a fuss over him and he raced to the front of the apartment to announce her arrival.

“Yes, yes, I know she's here,” Angelica said and laughed, while Sarge jumped up and down as though on an invisible mini trampoline.

Angelica looked up. “Honestly, wouldn't life be grand if everyone we knew was that excited to see us?”

“I have to admit, Miss Marple is a tad more aloof in her greetings, but she's just as nice to come home to.”

“Unscrew the cap and pour the wine. It's been a long day,” Angelica said and turned back to her stove. A pot simmered with tendrils of steam rising from it into the air.

Tricia took two glasses from the kitchen cabinet, cracked the seal, and poured the wine, handing Angelica a glass. “Don't we make a pair. We have dinner together more often now than when we were kids.”

“It was all those after-school piano lessons, dance classes, and everything we were involved in that kept us from the dinner table.”

“That and the fact that Daddy didn't get home until after eight most nights.”

“When you own a business, you stay until the work is done.”

“You didn't tonight.”

“I did,” Angelica insisted. “But since the Cookery hadn't had a customer in well over an hour, I let Frannie go early and came up here to cook. I always feel better with a wooden spoon in my hand,” she said, and with said wooden spoon stirred the soup then took a tentative taste. “Needs more pepper.” She grabbed the grinder from the top of the stove and gave it several good twists. “What did you think of Karen Johnson?”

“I like her. I have a feeling she's going to be good for Stoneham.”

“Me, too,” Angelica agreed. “And isn't it nice that so many women are stepping up to make this little village a destination point?”

“Stoneham, New Hampshire's home for entrepreneurial women,” Tricia said.

Angelica tipped her glass in Tricia's direction. “I'll drink to that.”

They did. But then Tricia stared mournfully at the condensation on the side of her wineglass. “I couldn't help but think about Betsy as I came up the stairs.”

“She's been on my mind a lot today, too,” Angelica said. “Her death has put all Chamber business on hold. It's very inconvenient. I suppose I'll have to process Karen's membership myself.”

“It's not like Betsy asked to get killed,” Tricia said.

“I don't know. She must have really pissed someone off—which apparently wasn't all that difficult,” Angelica said, tested the soup again, and found it more to her liking.

“It's too bad Grant confiscated the Chamber's computer. It would have been nice to see if Betsy had anything to hide. I don't suppose she saved her work to an online storage site.”

“We talked about procuring one, but I don't think Betsy took it upon herself to do anything without explicit instructions from either Bob or me. But it doesn't really matter.”

“Why?”

“Because I have nearly the entire hard drive saved on flash drives—just in case.”

Tricia's eyes widened with delight. “Are you kidding?”

“Why would I?”

“When did you last back up the files?”

“About a week ago, thank goodness. The police took the computer. Without those files, I wouldn't be able to run the Chamber.”

“I don't suppose Grant would have taken it if he didn't think he might find something incriminating.”

“I suppose,” Angelica said and took a sip of wine.

“Aren't you curious to see if there's something there that could've gotten Betsy killed?”

“I guess,” Angelica admitted.

“Then what are we waiting for? Boot up your computer and let's have a look.”

*   *   *

Tricia's delight
soon turned to irritation as she and Angelica slogged through the Chamber's computer files, taking only a few minutes' break to eat their soup before starting in on the task once again. Spreadsheets kept track of the Chamber's income and expenditures, including those members who paid their dues on time and those continually in arrears. Some spreadsheets had multiple worksheets, and they had to check them all, too, which made the task even more labor-intensive.

Angelica got up from her seat, taking their empty wineglasses with her, with Sarge trailing behind her. Tricia took the opportunity to slip into her seat, and scrolled through the flash drive's contents. Angelica returned a few minutes later with their refilled glasses and a plate piled high with buttered baguette slices.

Tricia grabbed one, nibbling on it while manipulating the mouse with her other hand, and tried not to look down at Sarge, whose eyes watched her every move, no doubt hoping she'd drop a piece of bread into his waiting mouth.

Angelica pointed to a list of names in the documents file. “Click on that one.”

Tricia clicked on the document titled MEMBER REPORT. The first page contained a list of the Chamber members' names in alphabetical order. Each had been bookmarked so that clicking on a name caused the cursor to jump deeper into the document to a corresponding paragraph.

“Looks like it lists the entire Chamber membership. Click on the link for my name. Let's see what it says,” Angelica said.

Tricia clicked on her sister's name and began to read. “
Angelica Miles Samuels Collins Beck Prescott Miles
—whew! That's a mouthful.
Born
—”

“Skip that part,” Angelica instructed.

“—
went to school at
 . . . blah blah blah.
Graduated from Dartmouth
. Yada yada yada.
Joined the Chamber of Commerce over two years ago. Owns the Cookery, Booked for Lunch, and has a share in the Sheer Comfort Inn
.”

“So far no dirt,” Angelica said with relief.

“Oh, yeah? Listen to this:
Ms. Miles is a selfish, opinionated bitch with an interfering nature. She's been known to break and enter
—Hey, this is the exact date we snuck into Grace Harris's house and found the evidence against that rotten no-good bastard who had her committed to a nursing home.” Tricia looked over at her sister. “Did you ever tell Bob about it?”

“Well, of course.”

“And he must have told Betsy—the date and all.”

“That rat,” Angelica practically growled. “Is there anything else in there?”

Tricia rolled the little wheel on the mouse, her gaze darting back and forth as she silently read the text. Angelica read along, too.

“Good lord—it even lists my panty size,” Angelica cried, appalled.

“Whoa, that's a low blow,” Tricia agreed. “Let's see what it says about me.” Tricia scrolled down to reveal her own name.

Angelica began to read. “It says you're a—”

“Goody Two-shoes!”
Tricia read.

“And a nosy one at that,” Angelica said.

“
Nosy, bossy, condescending, smug.
Did Betsy consult the thesaurus to write this?” Tricia asked, taking a healthy and rather sloppy sip of wine.

“No panty size,” Angelica commented dryly, pulling Tricia out of the chair and retaking command of the computer, “but it does say that you're the village jinx and lists—wow—twelve separate incidents to back it up.”

“Let me see that,” Tricia said, grabbing the mouse from Angelica's hand. Sure enough, the dates and details of every unfortunate incident had been recorded. What was Grant Baker going to think when he read it?

“Let's check out some other names,” Angelica said, rescuing the mouse and scrolling back to the top of the list and clicking the mouse on Michele Fowler's name.
“Born and schooled in London, England. Her first marriage broke up when she found her husband in bed with her best friend. She took him to the cleaners and opened her first business, a tearoom in Brighton.”

“How did Betsy find out all this information?” Tricia asked.

“Michele is pretty much an open book. If she told anyone local that story, I'm sure it's been repeated a number of times.”

“I never heard it.”

“It's because you lead such a sheltered life,” Angelica said, and not for the first time. She read on.
“Fowler lost that business to bankruptcy and married her second husband soon after. He owned a pub, which she helped run.”

“So that's why Nigela Ricita Associates hired her.”

“We already knew she had restaurant experience. She told us she once managed Nemo's in Portsmouth.”

“And ran an art gallery,” Tricia put in and took another piece of baguette. “She's a woman of all trades.”

Angelica turned her attention back to the computer screen and continued to read. “
Fowler is a woman of loose morals and most recently slept with David Black and Will Berry.
Good grief. Betsy even had dates!”

“That's rather catty of Betsy to name names,” Tricia commented.

“She named your former lovers, too, and speculated you'd remarry Christopher.”

“What? He's the last man on earth that I'd want to be with,” she protested. “Where did Betsy get that idea?”

“Didn't you hint to her sister the wedding planner that you and Christopher were getting back together?”