Текст книги "A Fatal Chapter"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

ELEVEN

“Tricia!” someone called again, and finally Tricia recognized Mariana’s voice. She threw back the covers, jumped out of bed—again disturbing Miss Marple, who’d been sleeping on the end of the bed—and raced for the stairwell, bumping into Christopher.

“What are you still doing here?” she hissed.

“I guess I fell asleep,” Christopher muttered, his eyes open at half-mast and his chin covered with stubble.

Tricia heard footsteps bounding up the stairs, and she pushed him back toward the sitting room. “Hide!” she implored.

“Tricia, are you all right?” Mariana called, sounding panicked.

“Yes! I’m fine,” Tricia called from the top step. Mariana stopped midway up the stairs. “I was up late last night. Looks like I slept through the alarm.”

“I was so worried. I rang the doorbell and you didn’t answer. And when I found the back door unlocked, I got worried.”

“It was unlocked?”

Mariana nodded.

“I’m sorry. As I said, I was up late last night. Go on down and put on a pot of coffee. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Mariana nodded and turned, heading back down the steps.

Tricia turned toward her sitting room, her anger growing once again. “Christopher!” she called in a harsh whisper.

He stood before her in his PJs, smiling, taking in her filmy nightgown. “You’re the most beautiful sight a man could wake up to.”

“Get out!”

His smile broadened. “Sure.” He reached for his jacket. “Are you sure I can’t stay for a cup of coffee?”

“No.”

“I’ll just say a quick hello to Mariana as I leave.”

“You will not.”

He shrugged, slipping his arms into the jacket sleeves.

She pointed toward the chair. “You will sit there until I can get dressed, and then you will sneak out like the sneak you are for sneaking in.”

“I didn’t sneak. You let me in.”

“I am not going to argue with you,” Tricia said, turned and stormed off for her bedroom, slamming the door and locking it behind her.

Ten minutes later, she opened the door damp around the edges but dressed and ready for the day, sure it was going to be daunting but ready just the same.

Christopher stood as she entered the sitting room once again.

“Can I borrow your bathroom? I really have to go.”

“No, you may not. You will wait for me to give you the word, and then you’ll quietly hurry down the stairs and get the heck out of here.”

“Tricia, I’m wearing pajamas. It’s almost eight thirty. Half the village is up by now.”

She glared at him.

“I’ll quietly hurry down the stairs and get the heck out,” he promised contritely.

“Wait until I give you a signal.”

“Okay, okay,” he agreed, raising his hands in surrender.

Tricia turned and headed for the stairs. She could smell the intoxicating aroma of coffee as she reached the bottom, and she ducked her head into the tiny kitchen, but Mariana was nowhere in sight. She must have gone to sit at her desk. Tricia crept down the hall, and sure enough Mariana was already seated at her desk going through the Chamber’s e-mails.

“I’ll just get a cup of coffee and then I’ll be right in,” Tricia told her.

Mariana nodded but didn’t bother looking away from her screen.

Tricia crept back up the hall, looked up the stairwell, and waved for Christopher to join her.

Then she heard the back door open. Startled, she looked up to see Chief Baker come through it. She slammed the door to her private quarters.

“Grant!” she practically squeaked as her heart pounded in her chest. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“The ME has rendered the cause of death for Pete Renquist. I thought you might like to know.”

Tricia leaned her back against the door like a human barricade. “And?” she asked.

“A heroin overdose.”

Tricia felt her mouth drop open. “Pete? Heroin? I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” Baker said. He sniffed the air. “Any chance I could get a cup of coffee?”

Still reeling from what she’d just heard, Tricia nodded. “Sure. Come into the kitchen.”

Baker followed her into the tiny kitchen, taking a seat at the bistro table. Mariana had evidently wiped up the spilled cocoa from the night before. Tricia made a mental note to retrieve the dirty cup still sitting on her nightstand once she had a moment to spare. She poured two cups of coffee and doctored them both. She hadn’t forgotten how Baker took his.

She heard the old wooden floor squeak behind her and looked to see Christopher, shoes in hand, tiptoeing toward the back door. She wanted nothing more than to throw him a murderous glare, but she refrained, swallowed, and turned back toward Baker, grateful that he sat at the opposite end of the kitchen.

“Anything wrong?” Baker asked.

“I’m—I’m still shocked by what you just told me,” she stammered, forcing herself to keep her gaze on him and not look back toward the door. She heard it quietly close, and she let out a breath. “Heroin?” she repeated, carrying their cups to the table and taking a seat.

Baker accepted the cup and took a sip. “But it wasn’t self-administered.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was right-handed. It looks like someone clobbered him, and then injected him in the right arm.”

“Can just one dose kill someone?” she asked in disbelief.

“When you’re a junkie who hasn’t shot up in over twenty years, yeah—one dose would do it. The body couldn’t tolerate it.”

“But I’ve heard about an antidote—”

“A lot of police and first responders do come armed with Naloxone, but you’d have to know someone has overdosed to administer it. As far as I’ve been able to tell, no one knew about Pete’s secret past.”

Tricia placed her hands around the warm cup, willing it to thaw the chill that had settled around her soul. “Was it difficult to root out?”

“Not after what you told me his last words were.”

“‘I never missed my little boy,’” Tricia repeated. “What did it mean?”

“Little boy is often used as a euphemism for heroin. After we talked, I asked the medical examiner to test for heroin. It would have turned up, but we got our answer a bit faster.”

Pete Renquist a heroin addict? What had turned him around? How had he ended up in Stoneham and at the Historical Society? So many questions she’d probably never have the answers to. And who in Stoneham would have known that Pete had once been a heroin addict?

Then she remembered her talks with Charlie, one of Stoneham’s mailmen, who’d known the Chamber’s former receptionist, Betsy Dittmeyer. He’d met her at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, and he’d told Tricia that once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic. Had Pete been going to Narcotics Anonymous meetings? If so, whoever else went to them would have known about his addiction.

“You’re thinking what I’ve already thought about. That someone arranged to meet him at the gazebo and then killed him.”

“It does seem logical. But why?”

Baker shrugged.

“Do you think this was some kind of revenge killing?” Tricia asked.

“It seems like most murders are a form of retaliation, for one reason or another.”

Tricia sighed, feeling helpless. “I appreciate you telling me this, Grant.”

Again he shrugged. “I thought you had a right to know. Then again, I don’t want you talking about it, although I’m sure it’ll get around soon enough. These kinds of things always do.”

“It’s such a shame. He was such a nice man.”

“Except for the ex-wife, we haven’t come up with any next of kin yet, but I’ve got a line on some former employers; maybe one of them will be able to tell me more about Renquist’s past.”

Tricia nodded. He was certainly more willing to talk about Pete’s death than he had been the other evening. She decided to keep pushing. “What will happen to the body?”

Baker shrugged. “If he had a will, it might state Pete’s wishes. I’ve got one of my guys calling all the attorneys in the area. One of them might know. He didn’t have a safety deposit box at the bank, and I or one of my men will have a look at his house.”

“Can I come along?”

“No. You’re done with snooping around, remember?”

“I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask,” she said, offering him a weak smile.

For a minute or more they sipped their coffee in solemn silence, then Baker finally spoke. “From what I’ve learned, Renquist leaves big shoes to fill over at the Historical Society.”

“You don’t think his colleague, Janet Koch, can fill them?” she asked, just a bit annoyed.

He shrugged. “She’s got a real life and a husband. Renquist lived alone. From what I understand, his life was the Historical Society.”

“You don’t think a woman is capable of running a business—or a nonprofit organization—and having a life?” she asked, thinking of all that Angelica was successfully juggling.

Again he shrugged. “Man or woman—it doesn’t matter. But having a significant other would draw far too much attention from the job that needs to be done.”

Tricia’s grip on her cup tightened. She wasn’t sure she believed that. But perhaps that explained why Baker was divorced. He had chosen his job as a law enforcement agent over his marriage. He’d told Tricia that his ex-wife had initiated the divorce, and yet when she’d suffered from cancer, he’d chosen to stand by her during the rough months of treatment. Despite the time he’d taken to support her in her time of need, he’d still chosen the job over his wife.

Tricia still felt that it wasn’t a mistake that she’d ended her relationship with Baker. He had many fine qualities, but life partner wasn’t one of them. Still, she liked him and probably always would. She managed a smile.

He noticed. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

She shrugged and took another sip of her coffee. “Kismet.”

He frowned.

“How life flows, or doesn’t, for people like Pete. How sad that some selfish person had to cut his life short.”

“I will find out who killed him and bring that person to justice,” Baker declared.

You hope, Tricia thought.

Baker drained his cup and looked up at the clock. “I’ve got to go back to work.”

“And I’m already late starting it,” Tricia said.

“Still no word from your insurance company?” Baker asked as he stood.

Tricia shook her head. Soft fur rubbed against her foot. She hadn’t yet fed Miss Marple, either.

“I’m sure you’ll hear soon,” Baker said.

Tricia stood and walked him to the door.

“We should stay in touch,” he said.

“If I learn anything I think you should know, I’ll definitely call.” She’d known he’d meant that communication between them should go beyond news of Pete’s death, but she didn’t acknowledge it.

“No snooping!” he told her again, emphatically stabbing the air with his right index finger.

“Have a good day,” she called as he headed out the door. She closed it and stood staring at it for a long moment. Miss Marple nudged the back of her calf, and said, “Yow!” She wanted her breakfast and fast!

Tricia hurried back to the kitchen, washed out the cat’s food dish, and opened a can of pseudo salmon for her girl, set it down on the floor for her, then changed the water. Tricia wasn’t exactly hungry, but she perused the fridge’s contents. Yogurt. Again. What she really wanted was an egg-white omelet—with onions and peppers—but she didn’t have any eggs and she was too lazy to walk half a block to the Bookshelf Diner. She much preferred the days back at Haven’t Got a Clue when she had a fridge with only her own groceries in it and had the leeway to have anything she wanted for breakfast. As it was, this was another day she would have to put up with a situation not to her liking. And as she’d overslept, she knew she wasn’t going to get her four-mile walk in, either.

While Miss Marple chowed down, Tricia consumed her nonfat yogurt and poured herself another cup of coffee. She was determined to have a much more substantial lunch and would try to remember to call Booked for Lunch to order something other than the tuna plate.

Tricia topped up her cup once more and, with head held high, made her way to the former living room, now office space, in the house. She sat down before her computer and hit the power button, ready to start her workday.

“So,” Mariana said, her voice level, “who was that guy who snuck out the back door after Chief Baker arrived?”

Tricia’s heart froze. “Guy?” she bluffed.

“Yeah. A hunky guy in pajamas,” Mariana said, and her lips quirked into a smirk.

Tricia let out a breath. “If you must know, it was my ex-husband. Angelica and I were out late last night. Someone clipped all the blossoms in the hanging baskets around the village, and we replaced them with silk flowers.”

“And?” Mariana asked.

“Christopher walked me home.”

“So why was he still here at eight in the morning?” Mariana pressed, still smiling.

Did Tricia really owe this woman an explanation? The fact was, nothing untoward had happened between her and her ex, but Mariana sat there with what amounted to a shit-eating grin plastered across her face.

Tricia glared at her. “He stayed for a cup of cocoa and fell asleep in my sitting room.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. And I’m sure you have better things to do than further speculate about my personal life.”

At last Mariana looked away. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business what you do on your own time.”

“No, it isn’t,” Tricia replied, but that didn’t help her case. She knew Christopher leaving her temporary home in the early morning was sure to be the subject of gossip no matter how she tried to defend herself. She decided to ignore it and pulled her chair closer to the desk.

Mariana switched on her radio. No doubt she’d waited to do so until Baker had left so she could eavesdrop.

Stop it! Tricia ordered herself. Mariana was not Frannie—and as far as Tricia knew, Mariana hadn’t succumbed to idle gossip. At least not yet.

Tricia checked her e-mails and found one from Angelica.

Looks like I’m busy all day with you-know-what business—and of course trying to track down silk flowers for the hanging baskets. I heard from Antonio—and we’re on for dinner tonight. Will meet you at my place and I’ll drive, then later tonight we can finish replacing the flowers? Tootles.

Terrific. Another late night. If Christopher showed up again, Tricia decided she would decline his offer to walk her home. She turned her attention to her own calendar. Coffee with Mr. E.

Her outlook suddenly brightened. She always enjoyed spending time with Mr. Everett. If the weather was fine, they’d stop at the Coffee Bean, buy a cup to go, and walk to the park, making sure to sit far away from the gazebo—the site of Deborah Black’s death. Now, with Pete Renquist’s death, they had even more reason to do so.

She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine. Mr. Everett would be arriving soon. She opened and answered several e-mails before the side door opened. “Hello!” Mr. Everett called.

“Come on in,” Tricia called happily.

At the sound of the elderly gent’s voice, Miss Marple ran up to greet him, winding around his ankles and telling him how much she’d missed him. He scooped her up and she nuzzled his chin, purring loudly.

“I’m always happy to see you, too, Miss Marple,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling.

“We’re going for coffee,” Tricia told Mariana. “Can I bring you back anything?”

Mariana shook her head. “But thanks for the offer.”

Tricia pushed back her chair and hurried to join Mr. Everett.

He set the cat down. “I’ll see you later, my dear Miss Marple.”

Miss Marple said, “Yow!”

Mr. Everett gestured for Tricia to precede him out the door, and they walked in comfortable silence to the Coffee Bean. Mr. Everett purchased cups of their respective favorite brews, and they headed for the park.

Tricia glanced across the street to look at the refurbished hanging baskets. From a distance, they looked pretty good. She’d try to get a closer view later in the day.

Mr. Everett noticed her staring. “Very odd, isn’t it?”

“Odd?” Tricia asked, facing him.

“That most of the flowers are gone, and those across the street aren’t the same as they were last week.”

“It seems we have some kind of floral vandal in town,” Tricia said as they paused at the corner, looked both ways, and crossed.

“Odder still that there should be lilies among them,” he commented. “I’ve never seen them in a hanging arrangement before.”

Tricia cleared her throat. “How’s Grace?” she asked, desperate to change the conversation.

“Happy in her work,” Mr. Everett said, “as am I. But I shall be overjoyed when Pixie and I can return to Haven’t Got a Clue with you and Miss Marple.”

“Believe me, I’m counting the days.”

“Do you have a timetable?”

Tricia shook her head. “I’m still waiting for the insurance man to call.”

They walked around the perimeter of the park, settling on their favorite bench. Tricia removed the cap from her coffee, blowing on it to cool it.

“It’s terrible what happened to Peter Renquist,” Mr. Everett said.

“Yes. I’m so sorry. I enjoyed working with him through the Chamber.”

Mr. Everett nodded.

“Did you know him?” Tricia asked.

“He worked for me about twenty years ago at the grocery store, stocking shelves.”

Tricia frowned. “Wasn’t that an entry-level job? Pete must have been at least thirty at the time.”

Mr. Everett nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “He was obviously overqualified but in desperate need of employment. He promised he would stick with the job for at least six months. During that time, he became a volunteer for the Historical Society.”

“Did they hire him away from you?”

Mr. Everett shook his head. “He worked the full six months he’d promised me, then found a better-paying job at the library in Milford. The Historical Society hired him several years later.” He shook his head. “Such a shame. He was a hard worker and was well liked.”

“Not by Earl Winkler,” Tricia said, remembering Pete’s last conversation with the curmudgeon.

“Were I Peter, I’d have considered that a compliment.”

“Why, Mr. Everett, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a disparaging word against anyone.”

“If ever there was a selectman who was against seeing the village prosper, it’s Winkler. I will not go into details, but I once had an unpleasant encounter with him back when I still owned my store. That enough members of the electorate saw him as a fit candidate is a mystery to me.”

Tricia knew better than to press him with questions about the incident. The memory must have been a bitter one for Mr. Everett to have even mentioned it. She decided to turn the conversation back to Pete. “Chief Baker wasn’t sure what, if any, burial arrangements were being made. I wonder if the Historical Society will at least hold a memorial service for Pete.”

“I’d be happy to contact them, find out, and pass along the word. I’d certainly be among those who’d like to show their respects.”

“Thank you,” Tricia said, and took another sip of her coffee.

“I saw Ginny yesterday,” Mr. Everett offered.

“So did I. Angelica and I are going to have dinner with her and Antonio tonight at the Brookview Inn.”

“That should be nice. I don’t suppose Ginny will have much time to socialize after the baby arrives, which should be any day now. Grace and I can’t wait to be his or her honorary grandparents.”

Oh, dear. Would he and Grace be offended if Angelica stepped into what everyone would think was an honorary position as well?

“Will you be babysitting?” she asked.

Mr. Everett looked surprised. “I shouldn’t think so. I would be frightened I might drop the baby.” He shook his head. “I believe we’ll just be around to spoil the child.” He nodded and smiled. “I think I’ll quite enjoy that.”

“I’m looking forward to being an honorary aunt, as well,” Tricia admitted. And now that honor hit a little closer to home. Honorary step-aunt? She frowned. Perhaps she’d just leave the step part out.

“Will you be babysitting?” Mr. Everett asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve changed a diaper only once before, but I suppose with practice I could get good at it. I think I’d prefer to take pictures and bring gifts.”

“You mean spoil the child—like Grace and me?”

Tricia laughed. “Definitely.”

Mr. Everett drained his cup, then looked at his watch. “It’s time for me to get to work at the Cookery. A lot of Internet orders came in late yesterday afternoon. As your sister uses the same software as you had at Haven’t Got a Clue, I’ll be up to speed to start fulfilling the orders on day one after we reopen.”

“I’ve tried to keep up with the inventory as I’ve purchased books for stock, but I’m afraid it’s gotten away from me.”

“Not to worry. Between the three of us, we’ll catch up before the grand reopening. I hope you don’t mind, but Pixie and I have been drawing up a list of ideas for the celebration.”

“Mind? I’m thrilled. Perhaps the three of us—and Grace, if she’d like to listen to shop talk—can get together for lunch to talk about it.”

“That would be lovely,” Mr. Everett said, and stood. He took Tricia’s empty cup and disposed of it and his in one of the park’s trash barrels.

They crossed the lush grass, heading for Main Street. “I’ll see you soon,” Mr. Everett promised, giving Tricia a nod.

“I’ll look forward to it,” she said, and they parted company, Tricia headed north and Mr. Everett went south.

As Tricia briskly walked back to the Chamber office, she pondered what Selectman Winkler could have done to upset Mr. Everett all those years ago, and wondered if she would ever know.