Bookplate Special (15 page)

“My friend Pammy tried to talk to him the day she died. I was just wondering if he knew her.”

“I heard about that,” Frannie said.

Of course!

Frannie sighed. “But I doubt Eleanor would bother a guest just to satisfy your curiosity. People who stay at the Brookview expect exceptional treatment—and Eleanor sees to it they get it. Even though she considers you a friend, I’m sure her first loyalty would always be to her guests.”

“As it should be,” Tricia reluctantly admitted.

“That said, there’s no reason you can’t ask,” Frannie said with the hint of a smile on her lips. A customer stepped up to the register. “Can I help you?” she asked.

Tricia noticed the wastebasket under the counter hadn’t been emptied. She signaled to Frannie that she would take it out back. She disarmed the Cookery’s security system, stepped outside, and looked around. The trap sat neatly to one side, with a heaping bowl of cat food and a water bowl inside the cage.
Come on, Penny!
The Cookery’s Dumpster and her own stood side by side in the alley. There was nothing in them to interest one of the local freegans. In addition to speaking to Stuart Paige, Tricia needed to speak to the freegans as well. Had Ginny contacted any of her scavenger friends?

There was only one way to find out.

Tricia emptied the wastebasket, reentered the Cookery, reset the alarm, and saw Frannie was still tied up with customers. Replacing the wastebasket, she waved good-bye to Frannie and headed back to her own store.

Ginny was inundated with customers, and it was more than an hour later when Tricia finally had a chance to speak to her. “I was wondering, have you’d had time to talk to any of your”—she glanced to see if any of the customers was within earshot—“you-know-what friends about Pammy yet.”

Ginny shook her head. “No. But we’re meeting up with a bunch of them tonight in Nashua. Want to come along? They all agreed it would be okay.”

“Definitely. Where and when?”

“I brought a change of clothes so that Brian could pick us up here at seven.”

“That doesn’t give us any time to have dinner.”

“We’ll eat on the way.”

Tricia felt her cheeks redden.

Ginny laughed. “Don’t worry; we’re not going to eat what we find tonight. We’ll stop and get something along the way.”

“Okay. But I’ve got one question: What does one wear to go Dumpster diving?”

ELEVEN

By six
thirty, business had slowed to a crawl, and Tricia decided she’d best change for her first, hopefully only, food-salvaging expedition. She slipped upstairs to her loft apartment and fed Miss Marple before retreating to her bedroom closet, where she dug out her grungiest jeans and an old sweatshirt, found a pair of sneakers she thought she’d tossed long ago, grabbed her fanny pack, and was ready to go. She and Ginny closed the store a few minutes early so they’d be ready for Brian, who pulled up outside of Haven’t Got a Clue at precisely seven.

Ginny climbed into the front seat of his SUV and Tricia got in the back.

“Hey, Tricia,” Brian called, “glad to have you with us. Although I have to admit I never thought you’d have the guts to do this.”

“Neither did I,” she agreed as she buckled her seat belt. “I’m hoping some of your friends will talk to me about Pammy Fredericks.”

Brian checked his side mirror before he pulled away from the curb. “Don’t be surprised if they don’t.”

“Where are we heading?” Tricia asked.

“Nashua. There’s better pickings in a bigger city.”

They lapsed into idle chitchat for the twenty-or-so-minute ride to the city closest to Stoneham. Tricia’s stomach began to knot with each passing minute. Did Brian and Ginny expect her to climb into a Dumpster, paw through rotting, fly-ridden garbage in search of a few potatoes, maybe a loaf of bread, or some dented cans with no labels?

The lights of Nashua were straight ahead, and Tricia found herself swallowing over and over again as dread filled her. What about the germs—the stench? Whatever had possessed her to ask Ginny to take her along on one of their scavenging outings? Oh, yeah, she wanted to talk to Pammy’s new friends.

What kind of friends picked through trash and then ate it?

Good grief, she’d almost forgotten she’d been on the receiving end of two meals made with trash, although, much as she hated to admit it, the food had been good, a testament to Pammy’s culinary abilities.

Brian pulled the car into the parking lot of a convenience store.

“Is this where we’re going to start”—Tricia struggled to find an appropriate word—“picking?”

“Nope. I came here to get a sub. If I get a foot-long, we can share it. What do you like, Tricia, turkey or ham?”

“Turkey, please. Although I’m really not very hungry.”

“What do you want to drink?”

“Water.”

“I’ll have a Coke,” Ginny said.

Tricia dug in her fanny pack for her wallet. “Let me give you some money for—”

Brian shook his head. “Nope. You’ve helped us a lot in the past year. This is on us.” He opened the driver’s-side door and hopped out of the car.

“This is a big night for us,” Ginny said, watching Brian enter the store. “It’s the only night of the week we eat out anymore.”

“Eat out?” Tricia repeated dully.

“Yeah, it’s a big deal for us to even get a sub these days.”

In minutes, Brian was back, holding a paper sack cradled in his left arm. He opened the car door and handed the bag to Ginny, who began doling out bottles and little packets of mayonnaise and mustard.

“I had the clerk cut it up into several pieces.” He eyed the rearview mirror, looking at Tricia in the backseat. “Maybe it’s the lighting, but Tricia looks a little green. I don’t think she’s too hungry, babe.”

Ginny laughed. “Tricia, you’re not going to get poisoned. And you won’t get sick. And you won’t have to go into the Dumpster. I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“I do the dirty work,” Brian said, and pulled at the shoulder of his sweatshirt. “I wear layers. If I get grubby, I can just peel them off, and into the laundry they go.”

“We’ve got gloves and a big bottle of hand sanitizer,” Ginny said. “Brian hands us what looks salvageable and we hold on to it until we get back to the car.”

Tricia let out a whoosh of air. “Thanks for the heads-up. I feel a lot better about this.”

Ginny laughed. “I thought you might. Now, have a piece of sandwich. It could be a long evening.” She handed Tricia a couple of napkins and a slab of the sub.

Minutes later, Brian collected the papers, stuffed them into the sack, and deposited them in the trash receptacle outside the convenience store. Soon after, they were back on the road.

“We’re meeting up with our friends behind one of the smaller grocery stores. The bigger stores are open twenty-four hours, and they don’t like us poking through their garbage.”

They pulled down a side street and parked. “We walk from here,” Brian said.

They got out of the car and locked it. Brian stepped around to the back of the SUV, unlocked it, and took out two big backpacks, several canvas shopping bags, and three pairs of gloves, handing them around so that they each had something to protect their hands. He and Ginny donned the backpacks. “Follow me,” he told Tricia, his breath coming out in a cloud.

He turned and headed back to the main thoroughfare, leading the way, leaving Ginny to walk side by side with Tricia. Up ahead, Tricia could see several people standing under a light pole on the far side of the street, two of them with battered helmets and bicycles that sported canvas saddlebags on both front and back.

“’Bout time you guys got here,” said a familiar female voice from the shadows.

As they approached, Tricia realized with a start that the voice belonged to Eugenia Hirt—Libby Hirt’s daughter. No wonder the head of the local Food Shelf hadn’t wanted to talk about the freegans. Her own child was one!

Eugenia looked androgynous. She was dressed in black slacks, a black jacket, and black shoes, and a black-and-white bandana covered her blond hair, which was apparently pinned up. She might’ve passed for a cat burglar. “Hi, Tricia,” she called brightly. “Bet you’re surprised to see me here.”

“A little.” Okay, that was a big, fat lie. She was shocked.

“Have you met my dad?” Eugenia asked.

Good grief! Her father was a freegan, too?

A slim, balding man with graying blond hair, probably in his late fifties and also dressed all in black, stepped forward with his hand extended. “Hi, Tricia. Joe Hirt. Eugenia’s told me all about you—or at least your dining preferences. The cold tuna plate or cottage cheese with a peach half, right?”

Tricia shook his hand and managed a feeble laugh. “We are what we eat, eh?”

Tricia noticed the bicyclers standing behind him. “This is Lisa Redwood, and Pete Marbello,” he said.

They chorused a less-than-enthusiastic hello, and Tricia nodded in greeting. She had never met Lisa before, but Pete looked familiar, though she couldn’t place where she might’ve met him.

“What’s the game plan for tonight?” Brian asked.

“We hit this Dumpster,” Joe said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “and then we try the Italian market down the street.” As the oldest, Joe was obviously their leader. The others fell into step behind him, with Tricia and Ginny bringing up the rear.

“Is there some significance to everyone wearing all black?” Tricia asked.

“Doesn’t show the dirt,” Ginny said. “It does give us a little anonymity, too.”

They stepped from the sidewalk into a parking lot. A mercury vapor lamp overhead cast a bluish glow over the large green garbage receptacle. Tricia wrinkled her nose and sniffed, grateful for the chilly night. She caught an unmistakable whiff of something vaguely sour, but not entirely off-putting.

“Who wants the honors?” Joe asked.

“It’s my turn,” Pete said. Brian stepped forward and gave him a leg up, as though he was about to mount a horse, and Pete climbed into the Dumpster. He landed on a pile of black plastic trash bags, piled high, sinking down so that only the top half of his body was visible. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket, grabbed a bag of trash, and loosened the twist tie that held it closed. Next, he shone the light into the bag. “Jackpot!” he called, and lifted a loaf of bread into the air. “The sell-by date is tomorrow.” He tossed the bag down to Brian, who distributed the booty among them all, including Tricia.

“I really don’t want—”

“Shush!” Ginny warned her.

Pete had already opened another bag, wrinkled his nose, and twisted the tie once again. “Paper trash.” He grabbed another bag, and another, until he’d gone through most of them. By the time he was done, they’d collected the bread, nearly two dozen potatoes, several heads of what Tricia would have said was questionable lettuce, eight or ten jars of pickles, eleven boxes of crackers, and half a dozen soft tomatoes.

Pete jumped down from the Dumpster and joined Lisa. “Not bad for the first hit.”

Joe pointed toward the other side of the lot. “Come on. The evening’s getting away from us.” Everyone followed.

“This is your chance to talk to the others,” Ginny whispered, giving Tricia a poke.

Pete and Joe were in the lead this time, with Brian and Lisa following. Tricia caught up with Eugenia.

“How do you like your first time out, Tricia?”

“It’s . . . interesting,” she said. “I wasn’t sure what to expect. What will you do with all that food?”

“I don’t take it to the diner, if that’s what you’re worried about. And my mom won’t accept it at the Food Shelf, either.”

“Do you eat it at home?”

“Dad and I do. Mom . . . well, she inspects everything really carefully before she’ll touch it. And she washes the jars and cans with a bleach solution in case they’ve got germs. She’s very picky.”

“What got you interested in being a freegan?”

“The Food Shelf, of course. I’ve always known about people going hungry. You can’t believe the waste that goes on in this world—and especially this country. Did you know that grocery stores alone throw out between two and three percent of their food every week? That doesn’t sound bad until you realize it’s like billions and billions of pounds of edible food that ends up in landfills.”

Sadly, Tricia could believe it.

“Dad and I tried to be conservationists, too. We went hunting a few times—but were too squeamish to actually kill something and then eat it. Now we just shoot clay pigeons.”

“I hear Pammy Fredericks accompanied you guys on several of your . . . forays.”

Although her face was half hidden in shadow, Tricia saw the frown that had settled across Eugenia’s mouth. “She wasn’t a real freegan—she was a scavenger. She didn’t care about keeping viable food out of landfills. She didn’t care about making the planet a better place to live. All she cared about was money. Getting something for nothing—or getting something she hadn’t earned or didn’t deserve.”

“And you got all that from a couple of conversations?”

Eugenia laughed. “That’s all it took.”

“What made you think she only cared about material things?”

“The way she talked. She kept saying she was going to come into a lot of cash—that she’d be set for life.”

“Where was she getting this money?”

Eugenia shrugged. “Beats me. I didn’t really care. I told Dad I didn’t want her coming with us anymore. And the next thing you know, she was dead.”

Tricia stopped in her tracks.

Eugenia paused and turned. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t mean he killed her. I just mean he told her she couldn’t come with us on another run. And as it turned out, she was dead before we went foraging again.”

Tricia’s dinner sandwich suddenly lay heavy in her stomach.

“Hey, come on, guys,” Ginny called, and Eugenia started walking again. Tricia followed.