Текст книги "Book Clubbed"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

NINE

Only ten minutes had passed since Tricia had returned from her visit to the Dog-Eared Page and in that time the snow had changed from minuscule crystals to thick, heavy flakes. Pixie stood in front of the big display window at Haven’t Got a Clue, eyeing the street with growing concern. “Ya know, I really oughta think about getting some new tires on that old buggy of mine.”

Tricia looked at her watch. It was 4:55. “Why don’t you leave now? Beat the traffic,” she said, noting there weren’t even any tire tracks on the street. Stoneham in February was so dead someone might as well toss an RIP wreath on the street.

“You can go, too, Mr. Everett.”

Neither of her employees needed coaxing. They both hurried to get their coats, hats, and scarves from the pegs at the back of the store, while she retrieved the tea party leftovers from her refrigerator. “I’ll walk you to your car,” Mr. Everett told Pixie. “I wouldn’t want you to slip on the sidewalk.”

“Aw, you’re a peach, Mr. E.”

“Good night, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

“See ya tomorrow,” Pixie called rather cheerfully, having either forgotten, or more likely chosen to forget, their conversation from earlier that day. Tricia turned the lock on the door behind them, turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and then pulled down the shades on the big display window, taking note that Christopher’s office window was dark, and his apartment blinds had been drawn. Good.

It only took a few minutes to make sure the store was shipshape for the next day’s opening. Tricia decided to wait until morning to vacuum, and called to her cat. “Let’s make an early night of it, Miss Marple,” she said, but before she could turn off the lights and head for the back of the store and the stairs leading to her loft apartment, the phone rang. Tricia picked up the receiver. “Ange, is that you?”

“It sure is. Don’t you just hate this weather? Come on over. I’m making soup for dinner.”

“How can you even think about food after that tea you put on this afternoon?”

“It won’t be ready for at least an hour. I could use a little company, and figured you could, too.”

“We saw each other only an hour or so ago.”

“Yes, but we didn’t actually get to talk.”

No, they’d done that before their tea. But then, Tricia had nothing else penciled in on her social calendar.

“Soup is comfort food,” Angelica continued. “And it’s not all that filling.”

“Knowing you, that’s not all that’ll be on your table,” Tricia commented.

“Okay. I’ve got a baguette and a pound of butter. What else would anyone need?”

“A glass of wine?” Tricia suggested.

“Bring your own bottle.”

Tricia smiled. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

Miss Marple followed Tricia up to the apartment, where she was promptly fed, watered, and petted. “Be good. I’ll be home in a few hours.”

Tricia grabbed a bottle of wine and headed back down the stairs. She put on her jacket, but didn’t bother to button it, locked the door, and was surprised how much the snow had accumulated in only the few minutes since Pixie and Mr. Everett had left. There weren’t even any signs of their footsteps on the sidewalk.

Tricia let herself into the Cookery and stamped the snow from her feet before crossing the store and heading up the stairs to Angelica’s apartment. Once again she paused at the storeroom on the second floor. She tried the door handle, found it still locked, and felt better. Not that a wooden door was much of a barrier against a ghost, and not that she even believed in ghosts . . . still, she hurried up the rest of the steps and let herself into Angelica’s apartment. Once again Sarge was waiting and was apoplectic with joy at her arrival. She made a fuss over him and he raced to the front of the apartment to announce her arrival.

“Yes, yes, I know she’s here,” Angelica said and laughed, while Sarge jumped up and down as though on an invisible mini trampoline.

Angelica looked up. “Honestly, wouldn’t life be grand if everyone we knew was that excited to see us?”

“I have to admit, Miss Marple is a tad more aloof in her greetings, but she’s just as nice to come home to.”

“Unscrew the cap and pour the wine. It’s been a long day,” Angelica said and turned back to her stove. A pot simmered with tendrils of steam rising from it into the air.

Tricia took two glasses from the kitchen cabinet, cracked the seal, and poured the wine, handing Angelica a glass. “Don’t we make a pair. We have dinner together more often now than when we were kids.”

“It was all those after-school piano lessons, dance classes, and everything we were involved in that kept us from the dinner table.”

“That and the fact that Daddy didn’t get home until after eight most nights.”

“When you own a business, you stay until the work is done.”

“You didn’t tonight.”

“I did,” Angelica insisted. “But since the Cookery hadn’t had a customer in well over an hour, I let Frannie go early and came up here to cook. I always feel better with a wooden spoon in my hand,” she said, and with said wooden spoon stirred the soup then took a tentative taste. “Needs more pepper.” She grabbed the grinder from the top of the stove and gave it several good twists. “What did you think of Karen Johnson?”

“I like her. I have a feeling she’s going to be good for Stoneham.”

“Me, too,” Angelica agreed. “And isn’t it nice that so many women are stepping up to make this little village a destination point?”

“Stoneham, New Hampshire’s home for entrepreneurial women,” Tricia said.

Angelica tipped her glass in Tricia’s direction. “I’ll drink to that.”

They did. But then Tricia stared mournfully at the condensation on the side of her wineglass. “I couldn’t help but think about Betsy as I came up the stairs.”

“She’s been on my mind a lot today, too,” Angelica said. “Her death has put all Chamber business on hold. It’s very inconvenient. I suppose I’ll have to process Karen’s membership myself.”

“It’s not like Betsy asked to get killed,” Tricia said.

“I don’t know. She must have really pissed someone off—which apparently wasn’t all that difficult,” Angelica said, tested the soup again, and found it more to her liking.

“It’s too bad Grant confiscated the Chamber’s computer. It would have been nice to see if Betsy had anything to hide. I don’t suppose she saved her work to an online storage site.”

“We talked about procuring one, but I don’t think Betsy took it upon herself to do anything without explicit instructions from either Bob or me. But it doesn’t really matter.”

“Why?”

“Because I have nearly the entire hard drive saved on flash drives—just in case.”

Tricia’s eyes widened with delight. “Are you kidding?”

“Why would I?”

“When did you last back up the files?”

“About a week ago, thank goodness. The police took the computer. Without those files, I wouldn’t be able to run the Chamber.”

“I don’t suppose Grant would have taken it if he didn’t think he might find something incriminating.”

“I suppose,” Angelica said and took a sip of wine.

“Aren’t you curious to see if there’s something there that could’ve gotten Betsy killed?”

“I guess,” Angelica admitted.

“Then what are we waiting for? Boot up your computer and let’s have a look.”

*   *   *

Tricia’s delight soon turned to irritation as she and Angelica slogged through the Chamber’s computer files, taking only a few minutes’ break to eat their soup before starting in on the task once again. Spreadsheets kept track of the Chamber’s income and expenditures, including those members who paid their dues on time and those continually in arrears. Some spreadsheets had multiple worksheets, and they had to check them all, too, which made the task even more labor-intensive.

Angelica got up from her seat, taking their empty wineglasses with her, with Sarge trailing behind her. Tricia took the opportunity to slip into her seat, and scrolled through the flash drive’s contents. Angelica returned a few minutes later with their refilled glasses and a plate piled high with buttered baguette slices.

Tricia grabbed one, nibbling on it while manipulating the mouse with her other hand, and tried not to look down at Sarge, whose eyes watched her every move, no doubt hoping she’d drop a piece of bread into his waiting mouth.

Angelica pointed to a list of names in the documents file. “Click on that one.”

Tricia clicked on the document titled MEMBER REPORT. The first page contained a list of the Chamber members’ names in alphabetical order. Each had been bookmarked so that clicking on a name caused the cursor to jump deeper into the document to a corresponding paragraph.

“Looks like it lists the entire Chamber membership. Click on the link for my name. Let’s see what it says,” Angelica said.

Tricia clicked on her sister’s name and began to read. “Angelica Miles Samuels Collins Beck Prescott Miles—whew! That’s a mouthful. Born—”

“Skip that part,” Angelica instructed.

“—went to school at . . . blah blah blah. Graduated from Dartmouth. Yada yada yada. Joined the Chamber of Commerce over two years ago. Owns the Cookery, Booked for Lunch, and has a share in the Sheer Comfort Inn.”

“So far no dirt,” Angelica said with relief.

“Oh, yeah? Listen to this: Ms. Miles is a selfish, opinionated bitch with an interfering nature. She’s been known to break and enter—Hey, this is the exact date we snuck into Grace Harris’s house and found the evidence against that rotten no-good bastard who had her committed to a nursing home.” Tricia looked over at her sister. “Did you ever tell Bob about it?”

“Well, of course.”

“And he must have told Betsy—the date and all.”

“That rat,” Angelica practically growled. “Is there anything else in there?”

Tricia rolled the little wheel on the mouse, her gaze darting back and forth as she silently read the text. Angelica read along, too.

“Good lord—it even lists my panty size,” Angelica cried, appalled.

“Whoa, that’s a low blow,” Tricia agreed. “Let’s see what it says about me.” Tricia scrolled down to reveal her own name.

Angelica began to read. “It says you’re a—”

“Goody Two-shoes!” Tricia read.

“And a nosy one at that,” Angelica said.

“Nosy, bossy, condescending, smug. Did Betsy consult the thesaurus to write this?” Tricia asked, taking a healthy and rather sloppy sip of wine.

“No panty size,” Angelica commented dryly, pulling Tricia out of the chair and retaking command of the computer, “but it does say that you’re the village jinx and lists—wow—twelve separate incidents to back it up.”

“Let me see that,” Tricia said, grabbing the mouse from Angelica’s hand. Sure enough, the dates and details of every unfortunate incident had been recorded. What was Grant Baker going to think when he read it?

“Let’s check out some other names,” Angelica said, rescuing the mouse and scrolling back to the top of the list and clicking the mouse on Michele Fowler’s name. “Born and schooled in London, England. Her first marriage broke up when she found her husband in bed with her best friend. She took him to the cleaners and opened her first business, a tearoom in Brighton.”

“How did Betsy find out all this information?” Tricia asked.

“Michele is pretty much an open book. If she told anyone local that story, I’m sure it’s been repeated a number of times.”

“I never heard it.”

“It’s because you lead such a sheltered life,” Angelica said, and not for the first time. She read on. “Fowler lost that business to bankruptcy and married her second husband soon after. He owned a pub, which she helped run.”

“So that’s why Nigela Ricita Associates hired her.”

“We already knew she had restaurant experience. She told us she once managed Nemo’s in Portsmouth.”

“And ran an art gallery,” Tricia put in and took another piece of baguette. “She’s a woman of all trades.”

Angelica turned her attention back to the computer screen and continued to read. “Fowler is a woman of loose morals and most recently slept with David Black and Will Berry. Good grief. Betsy even had dates!”

“That’s rather catty of Betsy to name names,” Tricia commented.

“She named your former lovers, too, and speculated you’d remarry Christopher.”

“What? He’s the last man on earth that I’d want to be with,” she protested. “Where did Betsy get that idea?”

“Didn’t you hint to her sister the wedding planner that you and Christopher were getting back together?”

“That was only so I could get some information out of her after Stan Berry’s death. She must have blabbed it to Betsy. But it isn’t true. Not in the least. I have no more feeling for Christopher than I’d have for a dead trout.”

Angelica raised an eyebrow. “Methinks thou doth protest too much.”

“Give it a rest,” Tricia grated.

Angelica scrolled back up to the list of Chamber member names. “Do you see who’s missing from the list?” She passed the mouse back to Tricia, who went through the list of names much more slowly.

“Bob Kelly.”

“Which says to me that he asked Betsy to put this list together.” Angelica reached for the last piece of baguette on the plate and polished it off. “I don’t want to kick you out . . . but I have things to do and the night isn’t getting any younger.”

“I’m sorry. It must be a drag to have me over here nearly every night mooching dinner from you.”

“On the contrary, it’s almost always the highlight of my day.”

Tricia stared down at the keyboard, embarrassed but pleased. “I’m not juggling two businesses and a writing career, so I’ve got more free time than you. Why don’t you e-mail the files to me? I can study them and let you know if I come up with anything else.”

“Great idea,” Angelica said and rose from her seat. Sarge stood, too, looking hopeful. “I’ve got to take Sarge out anyway, so I’ll walk you back to your place.”

The three of them bundled up (Sarge wore his jaunty tartan coat—all he needed was a deerstalker hat and a pipe to complete his Sherlock Holmes impersonation) and headed down the stairs for the Cookery. Once outside, they paused to look skyward. The clouds had disappeared, revealing the beautiful starry sky.

“Just lovely,” Angelica said, “but cold. Let’s move on; Sarge has a date with a fire hydrant.”

“Go on ahead. I’ll be fine,” Tricia said.

“See you tomorrow,” Angelica said, giving Tricia an air kiss, and she and Sarge headed down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Tricia kicked at the snow on the sidewalk as she walked the ten or so feet to her storefront. Again she looked up to see if she was being watched. She wasn’t. Taking out her keys, she let herself into her store, part of her wondering if Christopher was reading or watching TV . . . and the other part wondering why he hadn’t been looking to catch a glimpse of her.

*   *   *

Miss Marple demanded to be made a fuss over, and Tricia gladly obliged. But soon the cat tired of basking in Tricia’s unbridled affection and retreated to the couch for a much-needed nap. Tricia then booted up her laptop and clicked on her e-mail program. She hadn’t accessed it in a couple of days and found her in-box was nearly full. Half an hour later, she’d deleted most of it (after all, she didn’t need Viagra or a Russian bride, or expect to collect money from a distant relative in Nigeria), and finally opened Angelica’s e-mail and downloaded the Chamber of Commerce files, opening the one called MEMBER REPORT.

She felt vaguely sick as she read through the slurs and despicable character assassinations. Was it possible Betsy had used the information she’d gathered for blackmail purposes? Was that how she’d padded her bank account? If so, that was certainly a motive for murder, although Tricia couldn’t imagine any of her fellow Chamber members squashing Betsy. The memory of Betsy lying in Angelica’s storeroom, her lips bloodied—terminally crushed—caused Tricia to shudder once again.

To distract herself from the unpleasant recollection, Tricia scrolled through and found what Betsy had written about Ginny. A slut whose former lover was a murderer, and whose current love (UPDATE: now her husband) is an opportunist with a shady (unverifiable) background. (See Antonio Barbero.) Wilson and Barbero worked to rob Elizabeth Crane of the opportunity to purchase the Happy Domestic just days after the death of its owner, Crane’s daughter, Deborah Black.

Tricia closed the file. Ideally she would have liked to have deleted it but thought she might need it in the future—why, she wasn’t quite sure. Instead, she opened a spreadsheet that chronicled the Chamber’s income and expenditures. Tricia looked at the list of numbers and did a rough bit of math in her head. Something didn’t quite add up. She clicked onto a cell and examined the formula. Tricia was no expert, but it seemed like Betsy’s long and complicated formulas were faulty. She clicked on a free cell, typed in a simple formula to add cells two through sixty-five and pressed enter. Sure enough, the new total was much higher than the total from Betsy’s formula. It didn’t take much expertise to figure out that Betsy had been skimming the Chamber’s accounts.

On impulse, Tricia picked up her cell phone and punched in the number of the only financial consultant in Stoneham.

“You have reached Christopher Benson Financials. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Tricia decided to go for it. “Christopher, it’s Tricia. I’ve been looking at the Chamber of Commerce’s books and they look funny to me, except I’m not laughing. Would you have time to—” Beep!

Tricia set her phone aside. Oh, well. Perhaps what she should have done was call Angelica—not her ex-husband.

She picked up her cell phone once more, prepared to call her sister, when the ringtone sounded. She answered it. “Hello?”

“It’s Christopher. You rang?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t pounce on it when you heard or saw it was me calling.”

“Better a minute late than never. What were you saying, that someone cooked the Chamber’s books?”

“I’m no expert, but that’s what it looks like to me. I don’t suppose you have a few minutes to take a look in the next couple of days.”

“Hey, I’m free right now. Are you in your apartment?”

“Yes, but I can run down the stairs to wait for you.”

“Be over in a minute,” he said and ended the call.

By the time Tricia trundled down the stairs and crossed the length of the store, Christopher stood huddled in his unzipped jacket, waiting for her to open the door. Had he risked life and limb and run across the slick street to get there so fast?

“Thank you for coming over,” she said.

“I’ve been dying to see where you and Miss Marple live.”

“I’m sure Miss Marple will be pleased to see you. Follow me.”

Christopher seemed to clomp up the three flights of stairs, which Tricia thought might frighten her cat, but apparently Miss Marple could sense who had come to visit. As soon as Christopher entered the kitchen, she was purring like a motorboat and winding around his legs in adoration.

“Hey, Miss Marple, will you let me pick you up?” The cat practically leapt into Christopher’s arms. She rubbed her face against his chin and her purring went into overdrive. “I can see I’m going to have to come and visit you more often.”

Please, no! Tricia thought. “The computer is in the living room.”

Christopher ruffled the cat’s ears, set her back on the floor, and wriggled out of his jacket, setting it on one of the stools. “That cat always did have good taste in men.”

Tricia ignored the comment and ushered Christopher to take her seat in front of the computer. He did, snatched up the mouse, and started clicking through the spreadsheet. Next he checked the other work pages in the document before he leaned back in the chair. “So, who do you think doctored the books? Betsy Dittmeyer?”

Tricia nodded. “Angelica would never stoop to petty theft, and I’m pretty sure Bob Kelly wouldn’t, either.”

“I wouldn’t call this petty theft. It looks more like she’d been skimming the Chamber’s income for a couple of years now. Did the former president ever have the Chamber’s books audited? This kind of tampering would be evident to anyone with half a semester of Accounting 101.”

“I don’t think so. What do we do next?”

Christopher shrugged. “If you want the money back, there’s only one thing to do: sue Mrs. Dittmeyer’s estate.”

“How long is that likely to take?”

“It could take years,” he admitted. “But I also know that the estate has enough to repay the embezzled funds. Hell, I helped her invest a large chunk of that money.”

“But you said she’d left the bulk of her estate to charity.”

“The Chamber will want to be at the top of the list of creditors who’ll all want to be reimbursed.”

“Could you take on the case for the Chamber?”

He shook his head. “It might be construed as a conflict of interest.”

“Can you direct us to someone we can trust?”

“I’ve only been in the area for a few months, but the least I can do is find you someone with similar credentials.”

“Thank you.” Okay, you can now leave, Tricia thought, but Christopher didn’t seem like he was in a hurry to go.

“Nice place you’ve got here, Trish.” He let his gaze travel around the room until it came to rest on the open door to Tricia’s bedroom.

“Can I offer you a cup of coffee or perhaps some cocoa to warm you up before you head for home?” she asked in hopes of distracting him.

He turned to face her. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Not at all. I just figured we’ve both worked a long day and that you might want to turn in early.” And not with me!

He mulled over the invitation. “I haven’t had cocoa in ages. Do you have any marshmallows?” Tricia shook her head. “Whipped cream in a can?” Again she shook her head. “Plain is fine,” he said with what sounded like defeat, and got up from the chair to follow Tricia and Miss Marple back to the kitchen.

Tricia put the kettle on, took out two mugs, two packets of cocoa mix, and two spoons, just as she’d done with Ginny the day before.

Miss Marple immediately jumped up on the stool where Christopher had dropped his jacket, folded her legs under her, closed her eyes, and began to purr louder than ever.

Traitor! Tricia thought. She stepped away from the island and leaned against the counter, waiting for the water to heat. She couldn’t think of anything to say to Christopher. They’d said it all several years before.

“Nice loft,” Christopher said, taking in the exposed brick and the custom cabinetry.

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing like what we had in the city.”

“I made a conscious decision to avoid reminders of the past,” Tricia said.

“So I see.”

“How are you getting on in Stoneham?” she asked, more out of politeness than curiosity, or at least she wanted to believe it.

“Well. Very well, in fact. It’s not too crowded. It’s actually just what I’ve been looking for.”

“In a couple of months the town will explode with tourists. They’ll be pounding the streets from ten until seven. Maybe even longer now that the Dog-Eared Page is open. You might wish you’d never come back East.”

“I don’t think so. I was here at Christmas. How much more crowded can it get than that? And the soundproofing in the building is terrific. I never hear the music that’s playing down below.”

Tricia nodded and turned away, wishing she hadn’t asked. Instead she concentrated on emptying the cocoa packets into the mugs.

Christopher cleared his throat before speaking again. “The word circulating around the village is that the girl who runs the Patisserie is pregnant.”

“She’s a woman in her thirties, not a girl,” Tricia admonished.

“So she is,” he said, nodding.

“And she’s not the only one around here who’s having a baby.”

“Do I know the other girl—er, woman?”

“I’ve been asked not to talk about it until after she’s had a chance to tell her family.” That was mostly true.

Christopher smiled. “The fact that you even mentioned it means you must trust me implicitly.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” The kettle began to whistle, so Tricia unplugged it and poured hot water into the mugs and then stirred them.

“Do you ever wish we’d had a child?” Christopher asked.

Tricia sighed, resigned. This was not a conversation she wanted to have, but ignoring the question might just force him to ask again. And yet, she decided to keep her back to him when she answered. “It wasn’t going to happen. Not the way we lived. I had my career and you had yours, although when I lost my job at the nonprofit I thought we might talk about it. But at nearly forty, the odds weren’t in our favor, and then . . . well, you made the announcement that you were leaving me.” She sighed yet again, but decided it was time to let him know just how much she’d suffered because of his selfishness. She faced him, looking him straight in the eye. “Rehashing what might have been isn’t a productive use of time. And it’s heartbreaking, too. I’m sorry, Christopher, but I’ve had more than enough heartache for one lifetime.”

“No, Trish, I’m sorry. I was a fool. I—”

She laughed mirthlessly. “Don’t flatter yourself. You broke my heart, but you weren’t the only one, and even though I sometimes have to fight the urge to weaken, I will not allow it to happen again.” At least she hoped that last part was true.

Christopher looked crestfallen. “Does that mean you’ve given up on love?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. But I refuse to rush into any relationship ever again. Angelica tells people that this is her time in life to do as she pleases. I’ve decided to adopt the same philosophy.”

“And what will that entail?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Yet.” But not you. She felt a pang of something . . . regret? Most likely.

Tricia picked up one of the cocoa mugs and plopped it in front of Christopher. “Careful. It’s very hot.”

He lifted it and blew on it to cool it. “You know, we would have been great parents,” he said at last.

Tricia didn’t acknowledge the comment. Why did he want to talk about it now, when it was far too late? She picked up her own mug and took a tentative sip—and burned her tongue. It served her right for inviting him over in the first place. And now how was she going to get rid of him?

They drank their cocoa in silence, with Tricia avoiding his gaze. Christopher had the most beautiful, mesmerizing green eyes, and she knew if she looked at them she’d melt. He still had that much power over her.

Finally, Christopher drained his mug and stood. “I guess I’d better get going. It’s really cold out there. The wind chill makes it feel like it’s forty below.”

She didn’t doubt that.

“A man could suffer from hypothermia, and all for nothing, since the girl he loves—excuse me, woman—has a nice warm apartment and a queen-size bed, just the right size for sharing on such a bitter cold night.”

“You only live across the street and I’ll bet you have a perfectly fine bed.”

“But it’s lonely sleeping by yourself.”

“From what I understand, you’ve been doing it for four years now. I would have thought you’d gotten used to it by now. I certainly have.”

He frowned. “I don’t remember you being so coldhearted.”

“I’m a businesswoman. I’ve had to grow a thicker skin just to survive.”

Christopher shrugged, stepped around the counter to remove a sleepy Miss Marple from his coat, and put it on. “You’d better walk me downstairs and lock up.”

At last! Tricia held out a hand to usher him to the door. He complied and they went back down the stairs to the shop in silence.

At the door, Christopher turned. “Can I kiss you good night?”

“No.”

“Please?”

Tricia stood her ground. “No. It seems you have a poor memory. We’re divorced. You initiated the separation. Why on earth would I want to kiss you?”

Christopher stood that much taller. “Because you still love me.”

Tricia was determined not to dignify that fantasy with a reply. “Thank you for looking at the Chamber’s files. Feel free to bill them for your time. I’m sure Angelica will approve the expenditure, and if not—then I’ll pay you.”

“I came over to help a friend, but I guess we can’t even claim that anymore, can we?”

“I consider you a friend, but not a close one.”

“Then good night, acquaintance.”

Tricia unlocked the door and held it open for him. He went through it and she shut and locked it before he could change his mind—or she could change hers.