Текст книги "Book Clubbed"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

SIXTEEN

Tricia dreamed about cash. Piles and piles of it, in every denomination. So much cash she was buried to her waist. Like a child tossing confetti into the air, she joyfully tossed fistfuls of bills, laughing with merriment. That is, until an angry Betsy Dittmeyer appeared, demanding Tricia give her back her money, and not until she’d counted it out in hundred-bill increments. But Tricia had no envelopes or rubber bands to keep the cash together. Betsy was not pleased and berated her, her voice growing shriller and shriller, threating to pummel her until . . .

Tricia awoke with a start, breathless and sweating, and realized the phone was ringing. She grabbed it.

“You asked me to keep you posted,” said a man’s familiar voice.

“Posted?” she repeated dully.

“If anything broke on the Dittmeyer case.”

“And?” she demanded, finally recognizing the voice as Russ’s.

“I just heard on the police scanner that her house is on fire.”

“Fire?” Tricia repeated, this time in shock.

“Fully engulfed. Do you want to have a look? There’s nothing like a good fire,” he said eagerly.

“I can be dressed in two minutes.”

“Make it three, and I’ll pick you up.”

“But what—” She didn’t get to finish her sentence, as Russ had already hung up.

What was Nikki going to think about him taking her to a fire at—she glanced at her bedside clock—two in the morning? She’d no doubt find out later.

Throwing back the covers, and disturbing a perturbed-looking Miss Marple, Tricia jumped out of bed and raced to get dressed, putting on four layers of clothes. She had a feeling they might be standing in the cold for several hours and was determined to be prepared.

Tricia was bundled up in her heaviest coat and warmest hat and gloves, her feet encased in two pairs of heavy socks and boots, waiting on the sidewalk outside of Haven’t Got a Clue when Russ’s battered pickup truck pulled up to the curb. She hopped in and Russ took off with tires spinning.

“What were you doing listening to the police scanner at this time of night?” Tricia asked as she fastened her seat belt.

“Unlike you, Nikki finds it rather soothing to fall asleep to.”

Tricia frowned in disbelief. “I don’t think Nikki would be happy to hear you’re comparing us in quite that way. And, in fact, isn’t she going to be annoyed when she finds out you took me to a fire?”

“Hey, she suggested it.”

Tricia raised an eyebrow. “As I recall, in the not-so-distant past she was jealous of any time you spent with me—including talking on the phone.”

“I guess she finally got it through her head that you and I are a thing of the past.”

That was certainly true, although his replacement—Grant Baker—sometimes didn’t seem to get it. Don’t think like that, she chided herself. Angelica was right. Her list of life goals didn’t necessarily include a man. She missed the kind of intimacy she’d shared with Christopher, but neither Russ nor Baker had been a real contender when it came to comparisons to him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to dwell on that thought, either.

“Although,” Russ offered after a long pause, “she probably hasn’t heard that you and Chief Baker are on the outs.”

“Who says we are?”

“Word on the street is that you turned down his Valentine’s Day invitation.”

“Oh, that,” she said, hoping to make light of the subject. “It’s Mr. Everett’s birthday and Grace is throwing him a surprise party.”

“And you couldn’t bring a date?” Russ asked.

“Grant’s working on the Dittmeyer case.”

“He couldn’t take an evening off to be with you?” Russ pushed.

Tricia shrugged.

“It sounds like you’re making excuses for him.”

Tricia shrugged again. “I’ve had enough dates canceled not to expect much,” she said and hoped he’d drop the subject. She stared straight ahead, watching the portion of road revealed by the truck’s headlights speed by.

Not only were the streets of Stoneham devoid of traffic, but Milford was just as quiet, which made the muffler on Russ’s pickup sound even more obnoxious. That is, until they approached Vintage Road, which had been closed off at Nashua Street, with the police refusing to let them enter—even on foot. But Russ was an old newshound. After parking the truck at the same strip mall Angelica had days earlier, he led Tricia down the block, where they turned and hurried to the cross street. The smell of smoke was thick and they could see flames reaching into the sky.

“It must be one hell of a fire,” Russ said as they neared, joining neighbors who had clustered to rubberneck along the police barricade. Tricia recognized one of them: Betsy’s next-door neighbor, Margaret Westbrook.

“Margaret! Margaret!” she called. The older woman looked around, spied Tricia, and waved. Tricia wormed her way through the others until she was standing next to the woman.

“Tricia! What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?”

“I was—” Tricia’s mind raced. “On a date,” she fibbed, just as Russ arrived at her side. “This is my friend Russ. Russ, this is Margaret Westbrook, Betsy’s next-door neighbor.”

Russ’s eyebrows shot into his thinning hairline, and his grin of pleasure was positively creepy at their stroke of luck. Tricia fought the urge to give him a dig in the ribs with her elbow and holler, Down boy!

“What happened?” Russ asked and for once he didn’t have his usual steno pad at hand.

“One of the neighbors was awakened by her dog. When she went to let him out, she smelled the smoke and saw the fire. Soon after, the police were knocking on my door and told me I had to evacuate.” She turned her worried eyes back to the fire. “Isn’t this awful? What if I lose my home? Everything I own is inside. All my photos of my dead parents and husband, my jewelry, and—oh, just everything!” Her bottom lip trembled and Tricia put an arm around the woman’s shoulder, hoping she felt less alone . . . as foolish as that sounded, for she barely knew Tricia.

“I’m sure the firefighters will do their best to save it.” The words seemed terribly inadequate in the face of what might lie ahead for poor Margaret.

“They say it might be arson. Poor Mrs. Dittmeyer was murdered and now someone has set her house on fire? What is this world coming to?” Margaret pleaded.

Russ tapped Tricia’s arm. “You stay with her. I’ll see if I can find out anything.”

Tricia nodded.

“Oh, thank you!” Margaret called to Russ’s quickly retreating back. Russ probably knew all the firefighters and Milford cops and Tricia knew he’d bug anyone he thought had information until he found out what was going on.

Tricia watched a team of firefighters who stood in Betsy’s driveway battling the fire, wrestling with a long hose that trailed behind them to a hydrant somewhere down the street. They aimed a fierce stream of water at the flames, which seemed to finally be calming down, but it seemed to cause the smoke to become even thicker.

Silent tears traced a line down Margaret’s weathered cheeks and every few seconds she let out quavering breaths. It nearly broke Tricia’s heart to have to witness her distress, and all they could do was stand there and watch Betsy Dittmeyer’s pitiful treasures feed the fire until there was very little left.

*   *   *

It was after five when Russ dropped Tricia off at Haven’t Got a Clue. She found a worried Miss Marple sitting behind the loft’s door. The cat immediately rose to her feet, scolding Tricia for leaving her alone in the middle of the night and disrupting her regular routine. But when Tricia slipped between the cool sheets of her bed, Miss Marple attached herself to Tricia’s chest like a barnacle, purring so loudly Tricia was sure she’d never fall back to sleep. But sleep she did, and heavily. And when the alarm went off at its usual time she felt logy, wishing she had another couple of hours before she had to face the new day.

There was no way Tricia was going to run four miles on her treadmill, and she spent the extra time washing and rewashing her hair, which had picked up an unpleasant smoky odor. She tossed the clothes she’d worn the night before in the washer, too. That particular jacket was getting quite a workout that week.

Once dressed, Tricia fed Miss Marple and remembered that days before she’d promised Nikki she’d patronize the Patisserie. It might also be a good time to find out if Nikki actually had encouraged Russ to take her along to see the fire. Tricia locked her apartment door and she and Miss Marple went down to the shop. Tricia grabbed her coat and hat and headed for the bakery.

As before, there were no other customers when Tricia entered the shop. The door buzzed, and seconds later Nikki appeared from the back room. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she seemed to droop as she walked. Was her exhaustion caused by her pregnancy or from arguing with Russ about the baby?

“Oh, Tricia, it’s you. Thanks for stopping by.”

“It feels like a Danish type of morning. Do you have any out back?” Tricia asked, noting the refrigerated case had very few pastries on display.

Nikki frowned and shook her head. “There hasn’t been much call for them lately. I’m trying to stock only what sells. I’ve got chocolate cupcakes and blueberry muffins.”

“I’ll take a couple of muffins. And how about a dozen thumbprint cookies?”

“Sorry. I’ve only got chocolate chip.”

“I’ll take of dozen of them,” Tricia said, knowing Pixie would be ready and willing to polish off at least half of them.

“I really appreciate you stopping by,” Nikki said again as she bagged Tricia’s order.

“I hope you weren’t angry that Russ invited me to the fire last night.”

Nikki shrugged. “You wouldn’t believe how many times he rushes out after hearing something on that damn police scanner. But I guess that’s what you get when you marry a newsman.”

Tricia nodded. “It was terrible. I’d never seen a working fire before—except on TV. Betsy Dittmeyer’s next-door neighbor was beside herself with worry. Luckily she only lost a few of her shrubs to the fire. It could have been so much worse.”

“Russ said Betsy was a hoarder, and that there was a lot of combustible stuff in her house.”

“And that the cause was most certainly arson,” Tricia added.

“Who would do such a thing?” Nikki asked, setting the bakery bags on top of the counter.

Tricia had a couple of ideas but didn’t think it would be prudent to discuss them with Nikki. “Are you feeling better?” she asked instead.

“Physically or emotionally?” Nikki asked. She sounded like at any moment she might burst into tears.

“Both.”

“I haven’t had morning sickness these past few days, but Russ and I still can’t see eye to eye on my not working after the baby comes.”

“Deborah Black used to bring little Davey into work with her.”

“She didn’t have dangerous machinery in her back room,” Nikki said.

Tricia hadn’t thought of that. “I’m sure everything will work out.”

“I sure hope you’re right.” Nikki rang up the sale.

Tricia paid and picked up the bags. “I’ll see you soon,” she said as she headed out the door.

Again she crossed the street for the Coffee Bean, bought two coffees, and stopped at the Happy Domestic. Ginny was seated at a stool behind the main counter, tagging merchandise. She looked up when Tricia knocked.

“Didn’t I see you not ten hours ago?” Ginny asked when she opened the door.

“You did,” Tricia said, settling her purchases on the cash desk. “And it feels like it was a million years ago.”

Ginny eyed her friend. “You look really tired. We could go sit in the back,” Ginny offered, but Tricia shook her head.

“I’m fine standing.” She passed the decaf coffee to Ginny. “Did you hear Betsy Dittmeyer’s house burned last night?”

“No,” Ginny said, sounding shocked.

Tricia nodded grimly. “It looks like it was arson.”

“Wow. Do you think whoever killed her burned her house, too?”

Tricia shrugged. “It could just be a coincidence.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Tricia shook her head and took a sip of her coffee. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk much last night.”

“Digging through boxes of junk wasn’t my idea of a fun evening. But if I hadn’t gone along with Antonio I’d have been miserable at home without him.”

“I love hearing that you two are so happy,” Tricia said, wishing Nikki and Russ would experience a little more joy in their marriage. “I take it you still haven’t told him about the baby.” She opened the bakery bag, taking out the muffins.

Ginny shook her head. “The timing hasn’t been right. I thought I’d wait until the weekend to tell him.”

“Speaking of the weekend, have you spoken to Grace about Friday night?”

“No, why?” Ginny asked, removing the paper from her muffin.

“It seems Mr. Everett has never had a real birthday party, and she’d like to give him one on Friday night.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“I’m surprised Antonio hasn’t mentioned it to you. I believe Grace spoke to him about the reservation at the Brookview.”

“He’s had so much on his mind lately, I’m not surprised he forgot. Who’s invited?”

“You, Antonio, Pixie, and me.”

“Gee, that’s an awfully small party.”

“She thought we could all go to dinner and celebrate.”

Ginny’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t Friday Valentine’s Day?”

“That is Mr. Everett’s birthday.”

Ginny frowned and paused in her work. “Oh. I was kind of looking forward to a romantic evening with Antonio. After all, it might be our last. I’ve heard romance is a thing of the past once kids enter the picture. I sort of decided Valentine’s Day might be the best time to tell him the good news.” She sounded anything but happy about the announcement.

“I hadn’t thought about the romantic aspect of the day, probably because I had no plans and I doubt Pixie does, either. Would you like me to ask Grace to postpone the dinner until Saturday?”

“Oh, no. That wouldn’t be fair to Mr. Everett. At his age, who knows how many more birthdays he’ll have. I’ll call Antonio later this morning and run it by him. I’m sure he won’t mind. We can have our dinner a day later. By then a heart-shaped box of chocolates will sell for half price. Maybe he’ll even buy me two of them,” she added hopefully.

Tricia smiled. Trust Ginny to look at the bright side of things.

“You didn’t mention Angelica as being on Grace’s guest list. Is there a reason she isn’t invited to Mr. Everett’s party?”

Tricia shrugged, removing the paper wrapper from her muffin. “Sorry. She wasn’t on the original list, but she had me ask if she could come and, of course, Grace was happy to include her. Now that she and Bob are history, I don’t think Angelica was looking forward to being alone on Valentine’s Day.”

“Bob certainly left her with a mess with the Chamber of Commerce,” Ginny said and took a bite of her muffin.

“That he did. And it seems Bob’s been among the missing lately. I’ve been trying to track him down to ask what he knows about Betsy Dittmeyer. After all, he worked with her for two years.”

“I never got the sense that she shared much with anybody. And let’s face it, unless there’s some kind of financial angle, Bob isn’t much interested in being friendly to people in general, either. At least that’s the impression I always got. To tell you the truth, I could never figure out what Angelica saw in him.”

“I hear you,” Tricia agreed.

“Although I must say Bob’s been nicer to me since I started managing the Happy Domestic,” Ginny said.

“Paying your rent on time probably has a lot to do with that,” Tricia agreed. “I’m not sure Deborah always did.” She sipped her coffee. “Are you looking forward to tonight?”

Ginny shook her head and sighed. “I can’t say pawing through a dead woman’s junk is all that interesting.”

“But what about all that money?” Tricia asked.

“I’d probably be more interested if I got to keep it, but Antonio was absolutely thrilled. He couldn’t wait to talk to his stepmother about it this morning. I guess NRA paid more than market value for the house, so finding that money takes the sting out of it.”

“I still can’t understand why Betsy didn’t pay the rent she owed and reclaim the boxes that held the money. How does one forget forty-four thousand dollars?” Tricia sampled her muffin. Good! No doubt about it, Nikki made one heck of a good product—no matter what she baked.

“And where on earth did Betsy get that kind of money? And while it looks like she had it, she sure didn’t flaunt it. Not the way she dressed, or the car she drove.”

“I agree.” Betsy seemed to favor big ugly sweaters and matronly dresses. And Tricia never saw her wear anything but scuffed penny loafers.

Ginny looked pensive. “Don’t you think all that cash had to be ill-gotten gain?”

“Are you thinking she sold drugs or something?” Tricia asked.

“Dealers do run a cash-only operation,” Ginny pointed out. “I wonder if Antonio should get it tested for cocaine residue.”

“You’ve been reading too many police procedurals,” Tricia said.

“Well, you were my bad influence in that respect.”

Tricia broke off another piece of muffin and shook her head. “I can’t see Betsy involved in the drug trade. Someone would have noticed people hanging around her home. I spoke with one of her neighbors and was told she pretty much kept to herself.”

“Blackmail?” Ginny guessed.

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Tricia said, but didn’t go into why.

Ginny lifted her cup, taking another sip. “But who would Betsy try to blackmail—and with what?”

Tricia shrugged, thinking about the Chamber MEMBERS file that currently sat on her computer’s desktop, and remembered she hadn’t called Grant Baker to discuss it. That would have to be next on her list of things to do.

Ginny polished off the last of her muffin and looked hopefully toward the shop door. “I wonder what time my first customer will arrive. Yesterday it was after one.”

“We’ve done better than that over at Haven’t Got a Clue, but not by much,” Tricia said.

“At least it’s given me a chance to plan my Saint Paddy’s Day displays,” Ginny said.

“We didn’t even decorate for Valentine’s Day,” Tricia admitted. “Except for Pixie changing that weird doll’s outfit every other day.”

“That often?” Ginny asked skeptically.

Tricia shrugged. “Maybe it just seems that way.” She drank the last of her coffee. “I should get back to my store. I have some things that need to be attended to.”

“I’m glad you stopped by,” Ginny said, getting up from her stool. “It gets pretty lonely here sometimes.”

Tricia pulled on her coat and hat. “I’ll see you tonight at the rental house.”

“I’ll be there,” Ginny said with resignation, and walked Tricia to the door.

“Bye.”

Since there was no traffic coming, Tricia jaywalked across the street. Pixie would be showing up soon and she wanted to make a list of items she should talk about with Chief Baker. And she wondered how annoyed he’d be to know she’d been keeping possibly pertinent information from him. She decided it might be better to visit at the police station. It felt awkward to talk to him—whether on business or personal matters—at her store with Pixie listening to every word.

There were some things Tricia didn’t want to share with her employee. Talking about Betsy Dittmeyer’s death was one of them. The fact that Baker always managed to steer their conversations to their personal lives made it even more uncomfortable.

Most of all, Tricia wasn’t up to being scolded in front of an audience.

*   *   *

Tricia sat in the police station’s small, drafty waiting room for more than half an hour, glad she hadn’t hung her coat on the rack near the door. Was Baker punishing her or was it his sharp-eyed receptionist/dispatcher? Polly Burgess was probably in her seventies, with thinning, snow-white hair worn in a bun. That day she wore a blue wool suit that had probably served her well over the years when she’d had an office job at St. Joseph Hospital in Nashua. Here in Stoneham it looked a bit prim and proper. But that was Polly, who probably wouldn’t take guff from anyone—she’d sure put the fear of God in Tricia. Every so often she’d look out from her receptionist’s station behind a half wall with a window, probably to make sure Tricia hadn’t lifted a few of the well-thumbed ancient magazines that sat on one of the small tables between the six uncomfortable folding chairs.

Tricia sighed, exasperated for having forgotten to bring a book along, and stared at the walls, noting how in just a few short months the newly opened station already had a rather shabby feel to it. She’d visited a few times before, but felt she’d never warm to the place.

Tricia noticed Polly’s gaze drift to the clock on the wall outside her cubby. Suddenly she sat up, pulled back the window, and announced, “You can go in now.”

Tricia grabbed her purse and stood. “Thank you.” She stepped across the small lobby and reached for the door handle that led to the station’s inner sanctum.

Baker’s door was open. He didn’t seem to be expecting her, for when he saw her, his eyes lit up and he smiled. “Tricia. This is a surprise.”

“I’ve been sitting waiting in your reception room for the past forty-five minutes.”

“Oh? I wonder why Polly didn’t say something.”

Tricia forced a smile. “Perhaps she’s overworked.”

“Well, you’re here now. What’s new?”

Tricia closed the door and sat on yet another uncomfortable folding chair. “I’m sure you probably already know about the fire at Betsy Dittmeyer’s house.”

Baker frowned, distinctly unhappy. “Did you see it on the news?”

Tricia shook her head. “I was there. Russ Smith heard it on his police scanner, called me, and the two of us went to have a look.”

“I thought you were done with him a long time ago,” Baker said, glowering, and sounding very much like a jealous ex-boyfriend.

“I was. And as you recall, he’s married.”

“And as I recall his wife is jealous of you,” he said much louder than he needed to. Had his voice penetrated the thin walls? Was Polly listening? Was she as big a gossip as Frannie? If so, she must run in another circle.

“Not so much, these days,” Tricia admitted and changed the subject. “Have the Milford firemen ascertained the exact cause of the fire?”

He shook his head. “Only that it was arson. They’ll have a preliminary report to me as soon as they know.”

“How soon is soon?”

“Could be a day or two. Could be a week. Could be longer.”

That certainly sounded open-ended.

“That wasn’t what brought you to my office,” Baker said.

“You’re right. Have you had a chance to look at the files on the Chamber’s computer?”

He shook his head and she told him about what she’d found when digging through the files. As predicted, the chief was not happy. His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me all this when we talked yesterday?”

Tricia sighed and looked away, taking in Baker’s immaculate office. There wasn’t a paper or a book out of order, and the floor looked like it had recently been polished. His many awards hung on the cheap paneled wall behind his desk in precise rows, along with pictures of him taken with other officers and local politicians during his time with the Hillsborough Sheriff’s Department. “I knew you’d be annoyed, because honestly it should have been Angelica who reported this to you.”

“You had the files. You did the snooping. You should have told me about this as soon as you knew. And when was that?”

“Um . . .”

“This is Wednesday,” he said, eyes blazing, as angry as she’d ever seen him.

“Well, I’m telling you now. And the thing is you’ve had the information since Saturday afternoon when you confiscated the Chamber’s computer. It’s not my fault you haven’t looked at any of the files. I’m just bringing your attention to what you’ve already got.”

“We’re a small department. I don’t have the benefit of passing those kinds of responsibilities off to an investigator. I’m the investigator.”

Tricia handed him her flash drive. “After you copy the files, I’d like to have this returned.”

Baker turned toward the monitor on the wing of his desk, inserted the flash drive, and opened it. “It’s the file called MEMBERS. And don’t forget to study the spreadsheets. I showed them to Christopher, and he’s on tap to find someone to go over the books for the Chamber.”

“You’ve talked to Christopher about this?” Baker asked angrily.

“I needed corroboration that there was something wrong with the files.”

“Why am I always the last to know?” Baker groused.

“Because your force is too small to deal with murder cases?” she suggested.

“Are you intimating that we, a force of seven officers and a receptionist, aren’t capable of solving this murder, but you—a solitary civilian—are?”

“Not at all,” Tricia answered, but she had been reading murder mysteries since the tender age of ten, whereas Baker had only been an officer of the law for some twenty-odd years.

“Who else knows about these files?” Baker demanded.

“Just Angelica and Christopher.”

“Keeping it all in the family, eh?” he said with a bit of a sneer.

“Christopher isn’t part of my family.”

“But he was for ten years.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You called him, not me, to look at these files.”

“He’s a financial expert. Betsy had been stealing from the Chamber. I wanted him to verify it before I brought it to anyone’s attention.”

“Why don’t you take out an ad in the Stoneham Weekly News and tell everyone in the village? And don’t tell me, let me guess, you’ve also compared notes with Russ Smith on this subject, too.”

“I congratulated him on his impending fatherhood the other day. Betsy’s death may have come up during the conversation.”

“You know damn well it did,” he accused.

Tricia sat back in her chair. She’d known he was going to be upset, but she had no idea how upset. “I could have just kept this information to myself, you know.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

Was he implying she was a gossip? She preferred not to think about it.

“I’d advise you to look at every single file on the Chamber hard drive. Betsy hid what could be important information mixed in with things like recipes.”

“Do you have an example?”

“Uh . . . no.”

“Then how do you—?” He stopped, turning his piercing gaze on her. “Please tell me you haven’t been poking around in other places you shouldn’t.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she bluffed.

“I think you do.”

Tricia didn’t look away. Should she admit Angelica had copied files from Betsy’s home computer and given them to her? The computer had no doubt been destroyed in the fire; only she and Angelica had an inkling of what information it contained.

“I’m just giving you a friendly piece of advice,” she told him.

Baker studied her face. “There’s more you’re not telling me.”

“I don’t know what that could be,” she fibbed. Should she mention the cartons in the rental house? She didn’t see how that could be relevant. The money they’d found the previous evening could have been collected from people Betsy had been blackmailing, or it could have been earned honestly from items she’d sold on eBay or found in people’s trash. The latter were unlikely, but possibilities nonetheless.

“Is there anything else you want to ask me?” Tricia said.

Baker frowned. “I have thousands of questions for you, but nothing at this moment that pertains to the case. I presume you’ll be available if and when I do have further questions?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then you may as well go back to your store. I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Yes, sir,” Tricia said and saluted.

Baker didn’t seem to appreciate her levity. “I’m only going to say this once: I want you and Angelica to stop playing sister sleuths. I don’t want you poking your noses into stuff that doesn’t concern you. I want to keep you both safe. Do I make myself clear?”

Again Tricia saluted. Baker turned back to his computer monitor.

Tricia stood, picked up her purse, and waited for Baker to say something else, but he didn’t. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said, turned, and opened his office door, waiting for a reply.

Baker didn’t look up. So, he was going to punish her with silence. Well, two could play at that game.

She walked out of the dreary little office and she didn’t say good-bye.