Текст книги "Book Clubbed"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

SEVENTEEN

Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue and found Pixie behind the cash desk waving a Post-it note in the air. “Your sister called. She said she’ll meet you here at five to walk over to the new Chamber office. She said to wear your old clothes. Does that mean you’re going to help her clean?”

“Something like that,” Tricia said and unfastened the buttons on her coat. Why had Angelica even bothered to call when she knew Tricia would be seeing her at lunchtime? She hung up her coat and settled on the stool behind the cash desk that Pixie had so recently abandoned, hoping for, but not expecting, many well-heeled customers with long lists of vintage mysteries they were eager to buy.

Pixie sidled up to the cash desk, looking expectant. “Did you notice Sarah Jane has another new outfit?”

Tricia turned her gaze to the vintage doll carriage that sat along the side wall, partially blocking books by authors whose last names began with the letters T through Z. Maybe it was Sarah Jane’s forever frozen startled expression that creeped Tricia out. At least this latest ensemble included a matching frilly bonnet to cover the doll’s hairless vinyl head. The dress, hat, and patent leather shoes had probably cost some proud grandmother a small fortune, but when the lucky owner had outgrown the outfit—or more likely had never had the opportunity to wear it, except perhaps inside a photo studio—it had found its way to Pixie’s favorite thrift shop, where it had probably been purchased for a song.

“It’s very nice,” Tricia had to agree.

“She’s wearing real vintage Curity diapers, rubber panties, and a taffeta slip under the dress. I thought since we sell authentic vintage mysteries, Sarah Jane should be wearing authentic vintage undies.”

Tricia wasn’t sure what to make of that leap of logic and instead found herself simply nodding in agreement.

“Hey, I had the tube on before I came into work this morning,” Pixie said, changing the subject. “I saw some fire footage on the news. They said it was the dead dame’s house. Did you hear?”

“Yes, I did,” Tricia said.

“They said it could be arson,” Pixie continued, her voice rising as though to elicit a greater response.

“Did they really?” Tricia asked.

Pixie nodded. “The broad lived less than a mile from me, but I never heard any sirens. The truth is, I sleep like the dead. You could play reveille full blast on a bugle right next to my ear but until I’ve had my full eight hours of shut-eye, nothing wakes me up.”

“How interesting,” Tricia said, and repositioned the stapler that sat on the cash desk. “Did you have a chance to make the coffee?” she asked Pixie. “I’m afraid I don’t sleep quite as well as you. I was awake half of last night and got a late start this morning.” She didn’t explain why.

“Can’t you smell it?” Pixie asked. “That Colombian blend you’ve been buying lately smells like heaven to me. You wouldn’t believe the swill that passes for coffee I had to drink when I was in stir. Would you like me to get you a cup?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” She got up from her perch and joined Pixie at the beverage station. Pixie poured the brew into Tricia’s usual ceramic cup, doctoring it just the way she liked it. Watching her go through the motions with such an obvious desire to please made Tricia feel terribly guilty. Pixie might have a few rough edges—eavesdropping being her worst habit—but all in all she’d become an exceptional employee, which Tricia had been happy to report to her parole officer the times he’d checked up on her.

Pixie handed her the cup and a paper napkin. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Tricia inhaled the aroma and took a tentative sip. “Thank you, Pixie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Pixie’s cheeks blushed under her pancake makeup and she positively beamed with delight. “Since Mr. E won’t be here until later, would it be okay if I went upstairs and unpacked and sorted that big box of books you bought off eBay? Did I mention it arrived while you were out yesterday?”

“No, but it would be very helpful if you’d take care of it. Thank you, Pixie.”

“Just doing my job,” she said with pride, pivoted, and headed for the back of the store and the door marked PRIVATE. Miss Marple jumped down from her perch and scampered off to follow her.

Tricia sighed, held the cup in both hands, and let its warmth seep into her. It was barely ten thirty and already she felt like she’d put in a full day’s work. She hoped the coffee helped her get her second wind, and if not . . . considered heading for the Coffee Bean and a cup of espresso. There was more than one way to stay awake on the job.

*   *   *

Though he wasn’t scheduled to begin work until two o’clock, Mr. Everett showed up at precisely one to join Pixie for lunch. It pleased Tricia that two people with such diverse backgrounds had become fast friends thanks to Haven’t Got a Clue.

She had already collected her coat and was ready to leave for her own lunch when they returned from the Bookshelf Diner at 1:59. But when Tricia visited Booked for Lunch, she found an anxious Tommy—the short-order cook, ready to leave for the day—with a message that Angelica had already taken off to run an errand. Tricia’s usual tuna plate had been transferred to a foam take-out box. Tricia hadn’t called Angelica to talk about the fire, figuring she’d probably already heard about it, but she’d been eager to discuss it with her sister nonetheless.

After returning to her store, Tricia climbed the steps to her loft apartment and ate her lunch at her kitchen island, picking up where she’d left off in The Daughter of Time with only Miss Marple for company. Much as she loved her cat, Tricia found she much preferred eating her midday meal at the counter in Angelica’s homey little café with her sister for company. They’d come a long way in just over four years.

The rest of the day dragged. Mr. Everett and Pixie retreated to the storeroom above, with Pixie acting as instructor, teaching him how to fill the Internet orders. It was slow going, but Mr. Everett seemed to be picking up the whole book-fulfillment process, and Pixie predicted that they’d be caught up on all orders before the weekend. While they’d worked upstairs, Tricia and Miss Marple held the fort in the shop—a shop with absolutely no customers. Sometimes Tricia wondered if it was worth even opening the store during the winter. She glanced at the calendar and crossed her fingers, hoping Punxsutawney Phil’s prediction for an early spring would come to pass. Thank goodness the promise of warmer weather grew with every passing day and the sky remained lighter just a little longer each evening. Winter’s back might be broken, but they had five more weeks of winter to endure until the spring equinox.

As promised, Angelica strode into Haven’t Got a Clue at precisely 4:59. Her idea of old clothes didn’t match Tricia’s, for she was dressed in what looked like a brand-new pair of freshly ironed jeans, with a crease so sharp it could have drawn blood, and under her short ski jacket she had on a pretty lilac-colored sweatshirt that also looked like it had only just had the sales tag snipped. She also held her big pink purse, which could only mean that she had brought Sarge along for the evening’s entertainment.

“Why did you bring Sarge?” Tricia asked.

“You couldn’t say, ‘Hello, darling sister, I’m so happy to see you’?”

“Hello, darling sister, I’m so happy to see you. Why did you bring Sarge?”

At hearing his name, the little white dog’s head popped over the top of the purse and he yipped cheerfully, which caused Miss Marple to spring to her feet, jump to the top of the sales counter, and hiss.

“Miss Marple,” Tricia admonished.

“Sarge doesn’t like to be alone for so much of the day and then the evening, too. He won’t be any trouble,” Angelica promised. Sarge yipped again as though in agreement.

“Well, I hate to break up this happy reunion, but it’s time for Mr. E and me to head out for the night,” Pixie said. “See you in the morning, Tricia. Bye, Angelica. And bye to you, too, Sarge.”

“Good night,” Mr. Everett called as he followed Pixie out the door.

Once her employees had left for the day, Tricia heaved a sigh. “Good, now we can talk. Where were you this afternoon? I had to eat lunch all by myself.”

“Aw, you missed me,” Angelica said with a grin. “If you must know, I went out to buy Mr. Everett a birthday card. I must say, the pickings over at the Happy Domestic are awfully slim—at least if you’re trying to buy a card for a man. I was going to give Ginny a few suggestions on her card selection, but only her little assistant was there. I must remember to bring it up tonight when we see her. Anyway, I ended up at the convenience store. After that, I had a meeting with Marina over at the Sheer Comfort Inn.” She babbled on—much more information than Tricia really wanted to hear—but before she could get a word in edgewise, Angelica continued, “I do love to be the point person for that little venture, although I wish I could be more hands-on at the inn. Don’t you think it would be fun to entertain people on a daily basis?”

“No,” Tricia said. She let out an exasperated breath. “By now I’m sure you’ve already heard all about the fire.”

Angelica looked at her blankly. “What fire?”

“Betsy Dittmeyer’s home was a target of arson.”

“Arson?” Angelica repeated in disbelief.

Tricia nodded. “Good grief. It was filled with all that paper and trash—it looked like a gigantic bonfire.”

“Bonfire? It sounds like you witnessed it.”

“I did.” She filled Angelica in on her adventures with Russ Smith during the wee hours of the night.

“Was anything salvageable?” Angelica asked.

“You mean the computer?” Tricia asked.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. I spoke to Grant earlier today and hinted about what we found in Betsy’s files, but I didn’t dare implicate myself.”

“Arson,” Angelica repeated and shook her head, preoccupied. “Why would someone set the place on fire? Do you think it could have been the same person who killed her?”

Tricia nodded. “And probably kicked the door in, too.”

The fine lines on Angelica’s face suddenly seemed deeper. “What if the killer was trying to get rid of something he or she didn’t want anyone else to find?”

“That was my thought, too.”

“Then we’d better finish cleaning out the Chamber’s new home before it gets out that the junk inside belonged to Betsy, otherwise whoever torched her place might set fire to it, too.” Angelica turned and peered out the shop’s big display window. “Antonio’s car just passed by. We can finish this conversation on the way over to the rental house, or have you learned something else about this mess you wouldn’t want to say in front of Antonio or Ginny?”

“No. Let me get my coat and I’ll be right with you.”

A minute later Tricia locked the door to Haven’t Got a Clue and the sisters started off down the sidewalk heading north. Angelica spoke first. “This morning I interviewed four candidates for the Chamber receptionist job and I think I may have found the right person,” Angelica said.

“Anyone local?”

“Yes, one of the villagers. She’s an empty nester and looking for a part-time job to fill part of her day.”

“So you’ve made up your mind that Betsy’s job should go part-time?” Tricia asked.

“Actually, the more I think about it, the more I may actually want to hire more people. As it is, our Chamber does very little for its members. I’ve been networking with other Chamber presidents and it seems like Bob never did much except toot his own horn.”

“What kinds of perks were you thinking of?” Tricia asked.

“Special deals with big-box office supply stores, for one. Our members would get a discount with every purchase. We could get deals on checks, credit card processing, and for the larger businesses, like the dialysis center, payroll discounts.”

“That all sounds nice,” Tricia admitted. “What else?”

“We could hold classes on leadership, small business counseling, and how to prepare better promotional mailers. We could do a lot more networking events. Do you realize we only have fifty-six members in our Chamber, but there are over one hundred businesses in and around Stoneham that would qualify for membership?”

“That many?” Tricia asked, surprised.

Angelica nodded. “Of course, if so many of our members weren’t found dead on a regular basis, it might help recruitment.”

Tricia frowned. Since she seemed to have an uncanny knack for finding the dead; she was usually initially (and unfairly) blamed for their demise. She decided to change the subject. “As I mentioned, I spoke to Grant today. Needless to say he was upset—very upset—that we hadn’t brought Betsy’s dubious Chamber files to his attention before now.”

“He’s had them since Saturday. That means he never even bothered to look at them.”

“I did point that out to him.”

“So why was he so annoyed?”

“He doesn’t like to be kept out of the loop. He threatened to talk to you, too.”

“Then I guess I won’t be checking my phone messages for the next couple of days. I hope you didn’t tell him we’d gone snooping in Betsy’s house.”

“Not a word,” she replied.

“Good,” Angelica said as they approached the house. The trunk lid was up on Antonio’s car and he had his head buried in it.

“Do you need some help?” Tricia offered.

Antonio straightened. “You are just in time, lovely ladies. If one of you would take the keys—”

“I will,” Angelica said, appropriating them from him, and quickly marched toward the front door, leaving Tricia and Antonio to carry in the stack of foam take-out boxes that were packed with food.

“Looks like you brought enough to feed an army,” Tricia said as he handed her one of the stacks.

“A well-fed workforce is a happy workforce,” he said, snagging a bottle of wine and tucking it under his arm before he grabbed a large paper sack. “I will come back for the rest of it.” He slammed the lid and they started for the steps, which someone—probably Antonio—had thoughtfully salted earlier that day.

“I came by this afternoon,” Antonio admitted, as though reading Tricia’s mind. “I wanted to make sure the Dumpsters had arrived.” They had, and now took up the entire length of the home’s driveway.

Angelica stood in front of the front door and called to them. “Good. We’ve got to get this place emptied out tonight—even if it takes all night,” Angelica said.

“I don’t understand.”

“We can discuss it while we eat,” Angelica said, turned, and unlocked the door.

“Where’s Ginny?” Tricia asked Antonio.

“She will be here soon. I called her just before I left the Brookview Inn. She said she would be changing her clothes and would be here as soon as she could.”

Angelica had already set Sarge free by the time Tricia and Antonio made it inside. They walked through the stacks of cartons and into the kitchen, putting down their boxes. Angelica had peeled off her coat, but as Tricia went to unfasten the buttons on her own, Angelica stopped her.

“Since the Dumpsters are already out there, why don’t you two start taking stuff out to them so we can have more room to work.”

“Why don’t you carry the stuff out?” Tricia asked, annoyed.

“Because someone needs to take charge, and as I am a natural-born leader, I have taken on the burden of command.” Funny, everyone had looked to Tricia to take charge the night before.

“Marvelous idea,” Antonio said. “I will take out the first bag of trash and then bring in the rest of our dinner.”

“Get to it. Tricia, you know where all the trash is stacked,” Angelica said and turned back for the kitchen.

Tricia ignored her last comment. “What exactly does the burden of command entail?”

“I’ll set up our dinner while the two of you tackle some of those bags of trash. When Ginny gets here, we can eat and then the real work will begin.”

Though unhappy with her assignment, Tricia nonetheless headed back to the living room and began taking the bags of trash out to the Dumpster.

Ginny arrived ten minutes later, breathless and full of apologies but ready to start work. With three worker bees now in attendance they set up a kind of bucket brigade, with Tricia tossing bags out the side door to Ginny, who tossed them to Antonio, who tossed them in the Dumpster. It took only ten minutes to clear out the mess from the evening before, so they could start making a new mess.

Angelica had impeccable timing, announcing that dinner was served just as the last bag landed inside the Dumpster. Tricia had been ready with a snarky quip, but had to eat her words when she saw that while the three of them were on garbage patrol, Angelica had been scrubbing the kitchen. The table, sink, and counters were certainly cleaner than they had been the night before, and she’d spread out the food, buffet style. Sarge trotted around the table looking hopeful, but Angelica admonished them not to feed the bichon frise. “He’s already had his dinner. You don’t want him to get fat and have to go on a doggy diet, do you?” But it was hard to eat such delicious chicken, beef, and pâté with Sarge’s little brown eyes following every bite.

Antonio poured wine for all of them, but Tricia noted that Ginny didn’t touch hers. Apparently she still hadn’t shared the news of her pregnancy with her husband.

“Antonio, I’m sure you heard about the fire at Betsy Dittmeyer’s house overnight,” Tricia said.

“I did. Everyone at the inn was talking about it.”

“And that it was arson?” Angelica asked.

He nodded.

“I’m afraid if we don’t finish tonight, someone might find out that Betsy’s garbage had been housed here for the past couple of years and do the same. That’s why we must get the house emptied. I’m not going to lose the Chamber’s only viable home to an arsonist.”

Antonio looked unhappy but nodded in agreement.

“Does this place have any outside lights? If it’s lit up like a Christmas tree, it might discourage anyone from coming nearby,” Angelica continued.

“Do you think we should call Grant or maybe Fire Chief Farrar?” Tricia asked.

“It probably wouldn’t hurt. Once we’re finished, I think I’ll do just that,” Angelica said.

The temptation to linger over their lovely meal was thwarted when Antonio suddenly became businesslike and announced that it was time to get back to work. “I’m hopeful, but not anticipating, that we will finish our work here tonight. And that will not happen unless we get started.”

“Shall I clean up here?” Ginny asked, looking hopeful, and before Angelica could volunteer for that lighter duty.

“Yes. The rest of us will begin clearing out the upstairs,” Antonio said.

“I’ll make my calls first,” Angelica said, and turned to grab her purse and her cell phone.

“Why don’t we do the same thing we did outside: someone toss the boxes downstairs and we open them here. That’ll save us lugging all the trash down the stairs,” Tricia volunteered, but Antonio shook his head.

“The Dumpster sits directly under one of the upstairs windows. We can simply toss the trash bags into it.”

“Good idea,” Tricia agreed, and the two of them started for the stairs to the second floor, leaving Ginny to tidy the kitchen and Angelica with her phone.

Sarge seemed to think they were competing in a race, and zoomed on ahead of them, excitedly barking for them to join him at the top of the landing.

Tricia started working in the smaller of the bedrooms, dumping boxes and methodically going through the accumulated mess. Sarge thought it was some kind of game and sniffed at the items. He’d pick one up, carry it around the upstairs, showing off his new toy before dropping it and grabbing something else.

Soon Ginny joined them, but rather than stand over her emptied boxes, she sat on the floor sorting the wheat from the chaff, while Angelica and Antonio worked in the other room.

The pickings weren’t anywhere near as good as they had been the night before, and soon Antonio opened the window on the south side of the house and began tossing the trash into the Dumpster.

Before the end of the first hour, Tricia’s back ached. By the end of the second hour, her legs were sore. By the end of the third hour, she loathed the sight of boxes and newspaper clippings, and hated Betsy enough to have done her in—that is, if someone hadn’t already beaten her to it.

Finally Ginny called out, “This is boring! How much longer until we can go home?”

Tricia surveyed the bedroom. “We’ve got only two more boxes to go; how many do you guys have?”

Angelica didn’t answer right away, presumably counting the boxes before answering. “Nine.”

“Why don’t I go help them while you finish up in here,” Ginny said.

“Okay,” Tricia agreed, and lifted the interleaved flaps on the next-to-last carton. She looked inside. More papers. Betsy collected the most useless stuff. But mixed among the newspaper clippings and recipes torn from magazines were a handful of lovely old postcards. The stamps were old. If the cards themselves weren’t worth anything, maybe the stamps were. She set them aside, and tossed the rest of the papers into a trash bag.

As she went to lift the flaps on the last carton, she noticed a wet spot on the side of the box and suddenly realized Sarge had been missing for quite some time. Had he relieved himself on the box, known he’d done something naughty, and decided to lay low before anyone noticed? She shook her head and opened the box, glad she hadn’t tried to lift it. It was full of old books, with wads of yellowed crumpled newspaper to cushion them and fill out the box. Lifting them one at a time, she inspected the titles. Nothing special at all: a couple of cookbooks, a few dog-eared paperbacks, and several little blue books from Alcoholics Anonymous. The copies of the Nashua Telegraph were at least ten years old. Had Betsy saved them and then decided to use them for packing, or had the box been sitting somewhere like a garage for a long time and she decided to move them to the house to make room for more junk in her own home?

At the bottom of the box was a very old and large—at least fifteen inches in length—Bible clad in cracked brown leather. Tricia carefully lifted the old book out of the box and set it on the edge of the empty box beside its former home. She opened the cover and looked for some kind of copyright date without finding one. Well, the text was at least two thousand years old, but she wondered if there was some other way of dating it. Sure enough, at the center of the book was a genealogy chart that began in 1847 leading up and into the twentieth century. The last entry was for a John Morrison—Betsy and Joelle’s father? The date would be about right. So, it was the family Bible. This might be something that should be given to Joelle.

Tricia closed the cover and left it to concentrate on tidying the room. She scooped up the rest of the trash, placed it in the last of the plastic garbage bags, tied the end in a knot, and tossed it into the hall. Then she set the Bible on the floor, flattened the boxes, and carried them out into the hall.

Angelica, Ginny, and Antonio had made fast work of the remaining boxes and were finishing up as Tricia entered the room. “Hey, looks like we’re just about done.”

“Thank goodness,” Ginny breathed, looking exhausted, and suddenly Tricia wondered if she should even be doing all this heavy lifting and carrying in her condition.

“Did you find anything interesting?” Angelica asked, as she used her hand to sweep more litter into one of the trash bags.

“Just an old family Bible, and not in very good condition. But I’m sure Joelle would probably like to have it.”

Angelica straightened, and Tricia noted there were cobwebs in her hair. “If she’d been cut out of the will, should you even contemplate giving it to her? And how are you going to explain where you got it?”

Those were two very good questions, but Tricia was too tired to think about the answer just then.

“I have had enough,” Antonio said and offered Ginny a hand, helping her to her feet. “We have found nothing of real value tonight, but the job is done. I have spoken to my contractor, and he will meet me here tomorrow to decide what to do with the floors and other renovations so that the Chamber may move in as soon as possible.”

“Hallelujah!” Angelica crowed. “I’ll call my new receptionist and see how soon she can start. Maybe I can have her trained and ready to help us move in by next week,” she said hopefully.

Tricia hefted the Bible. “Do you mind if I take this home and have a better look at it?” she asked Antonio.

“Do as you wish. If you want to sell it, you may do that, too.”

“I don’t know about that,” Tricia said.

“It is no good to me or my employer. If you don’t wish to sell it, perhaps you can donate it to a worthy soul.”

Tricia nodded. “I’ll find it a good home—one way or another.” And probably with Joelle. Now all she had to figure out was a way to tell her about it without revealing that Betsy had rented the little house and filled it with tons and tons of trash.

Antonio closed the upstairs window for the last time, locking it, and they started down the stairs with Angelica turning out the lights as she went.

Once back on the first floor, Antonio paused to take in the now spacious living room. “Ladies, you have done very fine work these past two nights. I’m sure my employer will be very pleased by your industry.”

“Yes, and please be sure to remind her that Tricia is not a member of the happy Nigela Ricita empire. Perhaps she should be given some kind of honorarium,” Angelica said.

“That is an excellent suggestion,” Antonio agreed.

“Oh, no—I don’t need anything. I’m just happy I could help out. The Chamber needs its new home—and the faster they can move in, the better.”

“You have a good heart,” Antonio said.

Tricia felt a flush rise from her neck to color her cheeks. “Besides, you’ve already graced me with this Bible.” She hefted it. “That’s all the reward I need.”

“I don’t know about you, but I would’ve asked for a piece of that forty-four grand,” Ginny grumbled.

“My employer would not be that grateful,” Antonio said, and they all laughed.

While Antonio moved the few boxes of useful items to his car, Angelica found Sarge asleep on one of the heat grates, nudged him awake, and clipped his leash onto his collar.

As Angelica had suggested, Antonio left the outside lights on, and left one burning in the living room so that anyone walking nearby would see the house had been emptied. Now they just had to hope Betsy’s arsonist wouldn’t set the contents of the Dumpsters on fire.

Ginny and Antonio got into his car and took off for home, and Tricia walked along with Angelica and Sarge in silence on their usual route through the village square. The ebony sky was filled with stars. Tricia held tight to Betsy’s family Bible, wondering why she’d squirreled it away with so much other useless junk.

It was just another question for which she’d probably never have the answer.

“I wasn’t kidding when I suggested Ms. Ricita repay you for your efforts these past two nights,” Angelica said as they paused under the glow of a lamp to let Sarge do his worst.

Tricia shook her head. “There’s very little I need these days, and after seeing how Betsy lived, I feel like I should clean out a closet or two of my own.”

Angelica smiled. “Me, too.”

Tricia hefted the Bible. “Now that her house has burned and we’ve gone through all the boxes, I’ll bet the killer goes into deep cover. He—or she—didn’t leave many clues. There’s a good chance we may never figure out who killed Betsy.”

“I hope you’re wrong. My home and business were violated. I want closure,” Angelica insisted.

But if the killer didn’t resurface, closure was something she—and Joelle Morrison—might never see.