Bookplate Special (19 page)

“I never said that.” She folded the flaps in on another box, pushing it aside on the table. “I do read other genres. My sister has been working on a new cookbook. I’m helping her edit it. I can also repair books—although I haven’t had the time to do it since I opened my shop. Not only have I read the classics, from Shakespeare to Tolstoy, but every Harry Potter book, too.”

“I stand corrected,” Baker said, the hint of a smile gracing his lips, and placed another box of books on the table beside her.

Tricia opened the box, took out several books, and looked through the contents. She spied a copy of
The Three Roads
by Kenneth Millar—otherwise known as Ross MacDonald—and flipped open the cover, thumbing to the copyright page. She froze, her heart pounding. Yes! A first edition. The dust cover had a couple of nicks and wrinkles, but it was in very good condition—something a collector, not unlike herself, would covet.

She carefully set the book aside. Would Lois let her buy some of these books before the sale? She’d have to ask . . . and, she decided, she’d pay a bit more attention as she went through the rest of the boxes. There could be many more surprises.

“You forgot to put that book back in the box,” Baker commented.

Tricia feigned surprise. “Did I?”

“Yes.”

Tricia met his gaze. “I don’t think so. May I have another box, please?”

Baker took the box she’d just pushed aside, set it on the floor by the other cartons she’d already inspected, and picked up a new one for Tricia to look at. She opened the flaps. “And what is it you read for pleasure, Captain Baker?”

“Certainly not mysteries. They’re a little too close to what I do for a living. When I read, I want to relax, not feel like I’m doing homework.”

“Then I take it true crime is out, too?”

“Definitely. Don’t laugh, but I actually do read cookbooks.”

“Why should I laugh? Most of the greatest chefs in the world are men. Probably because it’s women who have to do the drudge work at home.”

“Ah, you’re a feminist, too?” he asked.

She turned a level glare at him. “Some people don’t like that word.”

“Do you?”

“I think it’s rather a tribute.”

“Why’s that?”

“Let’s just say I don’t like to see women treated as second-class citizens. How do you feel about reporting to a woman?”

The captain’s expression grew somber. “My boss was elected to the job. If she’d come up through the ranks . . .” He didn’t have to say any more.

Tricia finished with another box. “What do you make?”

He leaned in closer. “I beg your pardon?”

“What kind of food do you like to cook?” she clarified. “Barbecue?”

He frowned. “Now who’s making assumptions?” He didn’t wait for a reply, and plowed ahead. “As it happens, I’m rather good at baking. After all, my name
is
Baker.”

“What do you bake?”

“Bread, mostly. My grandmother taught me. Do you cook?”

“Not unless I have to. My sister got all the cooking talent in our family. That’s why she opened a café.”

“And has a cookbook about to be published,” he added. “From Penguin. In June.
Easy-Does-It Cooking
,” he recited from memory.

Tricia laughed. “Exactly.”

She pushed aside yet another box. The captain moved it to the discard pile and gave her another.

“By the way, Captain; did you get a call from the Stoneham post office?”

“No. Why?”

“Because, they’re holding a letter there addressed to Pammy, in care of General Delivery.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he asked sharply.

“I only found out yesterday. I did encourage the clerk to call you. I guess he didn’t feel it was necessary. I hope he hasn’t had it returned to its sender.”

“I’ll check into it as soon as I leave here. Thank you for mentioning it.”

Tricia nodded and opened the flaps on the next box. She recognized several of the titles. “This is it.”

Baker whirled round. “Don’t touch the books.”

“Why not? I’ve already handled them. And it’s unlikely you’ll find any decent fingerprints. Besides, it was Pammy who handled these books before me, not my mysterious caller.”

“Just the same,” he said, taking custody of the box and moving it away from her. He carefully folded the carton’s flaps back in.

“Since you intend to take those books away, don’t you think you should make a donation to the library?”

“My tax dollars are my donation.”

“Yes, but the library wouldn’t have to hold book sales if our tax dollars better supported it.”

“Hey, you’re a bookseller. The library is your competition.”

“I deal in mostly used, out-of-print, and hard-to-find mysteries. Collectors are my prime customers. Libraries serve a large portion of the rest of the population.”

“Excuse
me
.”

He lifted the box. “I’d better take these to the main desk and leave Mrs. Kerr a receipt. If we find nothing, the books will be returned.”

“After the sale, no doubt.”

“Possibly.” He paused in the doorway. “I want you to keep me posted on your unknown caller. And if you find that diary, I want to be the first to know about it.”

Tricia snapped to attention and saluted smartly. “Yes, sir!” She relaxed. “Now, may I be excused?”

Baker wasn’t amused. “I’m serious, Ms. Miles. Whoever thinks you’ve got that diary is likely to come after it—
and
you. Next time he or she won’t use a BB or pellet gun.”

Much as she didn’t want to admit it, Tricia had a feeling he might be right.

FOURTEEN

Mr. Everett
stood behind the cash register, waiting on a customer, when Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue. It had been a couple of days since he’d reported in, so she was surprised to see him. She waited until he’d bid the customer a cheery good-bye before she stepped up to the cash desk.

“I didn’t know we’d see you today. How are things shaping up for the wedding?”

His jovial smile faltered. “Not very well, I’m afraid. Grace had her heart set on being married at the Brookview Inn. Unfortunately, they have two other parties already booked for Saturday, and three baby showers on Sunday. I didn’t realize there were so many expectant mothers here in Stoneham.”

“Oh, dear. Can you wait a week?”

He shook his head. “We’ve already booked a cruise, and need to board ship on Monday. I’m just not sure what we’ll do now.”

“Can’t you have the ceremony after you return?”

Mr. Everett’s eyes widened in indignation. “Ms. Miles, it wouldn’t be proper. I would never sully Grace’s reputation in that way.”

“I’m sorry,” Tricia apologized. “It was a thoughtless suggestion. Please forgive me.”

He nodded. “We won’t speak of it again.”

That still left the problem of the wedding location.

“What about Grace’s house? It’s lovely, and her living room is certainly large enough to accommodate all your guests.”

“That’s true, but we’ve already arranged to have work done while we’re on our honeymoon. Grace is having the entire downstairs repainted and new carpet put in. They’ve already started preparing the rooms. We’ve been relegated to the upstairs parlor to read in the evenings.”

Tricia looked around her store. Except for where Pammy had doused a customer’s foot with coffee, the rug was in good shape. If they pushed back the chairs in the reading nook, there would be plenty of room for the wedding party and guests.

“Why don’t we hold the wedding here?”

Mr. Everett’s eyes flashed, and a small smile crept onto his lips. “Here? Really?”

He hadn’t fooled her one bit. He’d been hoping she would offer Haven’t Got a Clue. And if they celebrated with a wedding brunch, she could still open in the afternoon. Besides, Sunday was the last day of the Milford Pumpkin Festival. As Frannie had said, Stoneham would be dead while thousands of people celebrated the wonders of orange squash right down the road in the next town.

“I would be happy to play hostess for your wedding on Sunday. In fact, I think it’s a marvelous idea.”

“Thank you, Ms. Miles. I’m sure Grace will be especially pleased when I tell her. Do you mind if I use the telephone?”

“Go right ahead,” Tricia said. “I’ll just go hang up my coat.”

But before he could do so, the phone rang. Tricia let Mr. Everett answer it. She hung up her coat and soon returned to the front of the store. “Ms. Miles, it’s the Cookery’s Ms. Armstrong, for you.”

Tricia took the receiver. “Frannie?”

“I’ve caught Penny!” Frannie cried with delight.

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yes, but what do I do now? I’m all alone here at the Cookery. She’s frightened, and Angelica doesn’t want her in the store. What should I do?”

“Do you have things set up at your house? A litter box, bowls, et cetera?”

“Oh, yes, but I can’t leave the store to take her home.”

Angelica had her hands full at Booked for Lunch, so she couldn’t return to take care of the Cookery. Since both Ginny and Mr. Everett were working that day, that left only one solution. “Would you like me to watch over the Cookery while you take Penny home?”

“I’d only be gone a half hour at most,” Frannie said, her words a plea.

“Grab your coat, and Penny, and I’ll be right over.”

“Oh, Tricia, you are a lifesaver!”

“See you in a minute.” Tricia hung up the phone.

“Am I to presume you’ll be at the Cookery for the foreseeable future?” Mr. Everett asked solemnly.

Tricia sighed. “At least the next half hour, I’m afraid.”

He nodded. “Ginny and I will take care of things here.”

Tricia didn’t bother to retrieve her coat, and instead headed out dressed as she was.

Frannie had retrieved the Havahart trap, with its howling occupant, and her coat, and practically flew out the Cookery’s door the moment Tricia arrived. “Be right back,” she assured Tricia, and took off at a trot.

No sooner had the door closed on her than it was opened again, and several customers entered. One hundred and fifty-six dollars later, they departed, and a familiar face crossed the threshold. Pete Marbello hefted a box and frowned at Tricia. “What are you doing here? This isn’t your shop.”

“No, it belongs to my sister.”

He looked around the store. “Where’s Frannie?”

“She had an errand to run. Can I help you?”

He stepped up to the register, letting the heavy box bang onto the glass-topped counter.

“Hey,” Tricia protested.

“It’s just books,” he said. “Frannie’s been buying them from me for the last few months. I don’t suppose you know anything about cookbooks?”

“Not really.”

“Damn.” He pursed his lips, staring at the carton. “Can I leave them here for Frannie? Could you ask her to call me?”

“Sure.” But she wasn’t about to let him leave before she asked him a few questions of her own. “I understand your father owns the convenience store up by the highway.”

“Yeah. The greenest store in the county,” he said with pride. “You noticed the different trash cans out front, didn’t you? For paper, glass, and plastic.”

“I can’t say as I have. But I’ll be sure to look next time I’m there.”

“That was my idea. I sort all the trash that goes into the Dumpster, too. We recycle more than the rest of the retailers around here. We only use recycled plastic bags in the store, too. If I had my way, we wouldn’t use plastic
or
paper, but people are conditioned to expect them.”

“What would you put their purchases in?”

“Customers should bring their own reusable bags. We sell them, but not enough people buy or use them.”

“You’re really serious about all this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, and you should be, too,” he said, the weight of the chip on his shoulder coloring his voice.

“I have tried the cornstarch bags, but they aren’t strong enough to hold books. The bags I use are made from recycled plastic, and for big orders, I have paper bags with handles.”

“That’s better than most of the other booksellers,” he grudgingly admitted.

Tricia indicated the box of books. “Have you become a picker?”

“Sort of. I’m trying to get enough money together to start a recycling plant.”

“That’s pretty ambitious.”

“You’d be surprised what can be recycled. My plan is to buy a flatbed truck, put an ad in the local papers, and offer a free service to pick up old appliances, like refrigerators, old cars, then scrap ’em. If I can hook up with the county, I should be able to clean up the environment—and financially, too.”

“Tell me more,” Tricia said, and leaned forward on the counter, trying to appear more interested than she was. How on earth was she going to get Pammy into the conversation?

He droned on and on. At last he mentioned the freegans, and she jumped at the opportunity to interrupt. “I understand you met my friend Pammy Fredericks digging through the convenience store’s trash, and that you invited her along on several of your Dumpster-diving expeditions.”

“Yeah,” he admitted with a snarl. “I thought she was a kindred spirit, but it turned out she had a one-track mind. Always bitching about coming into money—or
not
coming into it. At least not fast enough.”

“Yes, that’s what Joe Hirt said, too. Pammy didn’t tell me what her big plans were. Do you know?”

He shrugged. “Something about someone paying her big bucks for what she knew. She had some kind of proof.”

“A diary?” Tricia suggested.

He frowned. “I dunno. Maybe. I didn’t pay much attention to her. She wasn’t really one of us. All she cared about was getting something for nothing. The world is better off without people like her. Takers. What did she ever give back to anyone?”

It was Tricia’s turn to frown. His plan to scoop up scrap metal and resell it didn’t sound all that altruistic, either, especially given the freegans’ goal of living a less material existence.