Текст книги "Book Clubbed"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

TEN

As soon as Tricia saw that Christopher had returned to his own apartment, she stepped over to the cash desk and picked up the heavy receiver of the circa 1930s telephone that she kept in homage to the golden age of noir pulp mysteries. It seemed to take forever for the old rotary-dial phone to connect. “Hello?” said Angelica.

“Ange, I went through some of those Chamber files you sent to me.”

“What did you find?” she asked, sounding distracted.

“It seems that Betsy had sticky fingers when it came to managing the Chamber’s funds.”

“Are you kidding me?” Angelica asked, sounding both astonished and angry.

“No. In fact, I asked Christopher to come over and have a look. He suggests we sue her estate to try and get the money back.”

“That cheating little bitch,” Angelica muttered tersely.

“Don’t go saying that to anyone else. It might just make them think you had a motive for killing her.”

“I don’t think so,” Angelica declared. “For one thing, it wasn’t my money. And for another, I have an ironclad alibi.”

“Yeah, and it’s the same as mine and Frannie’s. And knowing Grant, he’s likely to dismiss everything we’ve told him just so that no one can accuse him of being prejudiced.”

“That man exasperates me,” Angelica groused.

“He’s exasperated me for over two years.”

Angelica sighed. “How much money are we talking about?”

“At a bare minimum—ten grand.”

“Oh, dear.” Tricia had a feeling Angelica had had to bite her tongue to keep from saying what involved a multitude of swear words. “What do you want me to do?”

“Tomorrow you should call Christopher. He said it would be a conflict of interest for him to do the audit, since he was Betsy’s financial advisor, but that he could help us find someone to go over the books.”

“Thank goodness for that. By the way, did you know that they’re supposed to announce the results of Betsy’s autopsy tomorrow? Although it seems like a waste of time to me—she was crushed to death. But I suppose the police have to do things by the book.”

“And Grant is a stickler for following the rules,” Tricia agreed.

“Oh, I know what I forgot to ask you. What’s this I heard about a surprise birthday party for Mr. Everett on Valentine’s Day?” Angelica asked.

“It isn’t much of a surprise if you know about it. Who told you?”

“A little bird.” Tricia could imagine Angelica smirking.

“Since there are only four guests, it had to be one of them,” Tricia said, and she had a good idea who: a certain Italian fellow that Angelica seemed to be consulting on a regular basis. Of course, that was to be expected as they both had ties to Nigela Ricita Associates.

“It was,” Angelica said, “but I am sworn to secrecy—and I want to come, too.”

“I’m not the one making up the guest list. But don’t ask Grace for an invite; you’ll only put her on the spot. I’ll talk to her tomorrow and see what she says.”

“Thank you. Goodness knows nobody else has invited me out on Valentine’s Day,” Angelica said with chagrin.

Me, either, Tricia thought. “Speaking of Bob,” she said, though they hadn’t, “have you seen him lately?”

Angelica shook her head. “After the mess he left for me with the Chamber of Commerce, I hope I never see that man again.”

“Do you think he knew about Betsy’s pilfering?”

“I can’t imagine he did. He’d have fired her on the spot—and made sure she was prosecuted. Bob was always very careful where money was involved.”

At least his own, Tricia thought. “Grant’s been looking for him and hasn’t been able to track him down, and Ginny mentioned she hasn’t seen him walk past the Happy Domestic for a couple of days. Has he contacted you?”

“No, I haven’t spoken to him for at least a month, and as I mentioned, I don’t want to, either.” Angelica sighed. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired. I must get some shut-eye. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“Sleep well,” Tricia said. She hung up the phone and stared at it for long seconds, wondering if she should try to call Bob, even though Baker had had no luck in contacting him. Maybe she’d drop by Bob’s real estate office in the morning. After all, if he wasn’t at home, or showing the properties he handled, where else could he possibly be?

*   *   *

Mr. Everett was jovial when he reported for work the next morning, arriving with a song on his lips and a bag full of still-warm bagels from the Patisserie. Not a minute later, a cold blast of air preceded Pixie’s arrival. “Good morning,” she called, her smile wider than Stoneham Creek after a heavy rain. In her hand was a rumpled plastic shopping bag. “Look, I’ve bought another new outfit for Sarah Jane.” Tricia refrained from rolling her eyes, and after coats were shucked and the coffee was poured, they all sat down in the readers’ nook to have a pleasant breakfast and talk about plans for the day.

Tricia always enjoyed these conversations, which were longer and more gratifying when not interrupted by customers. Life in Stoneham was much slower during the winter months and in some ways Tricia preferred it. At least, she felt that way on cold blustery mornings such as this.

It was only five minutes to ten when the door rattled open and Tricia looked up to see Grant Baker enter Haven’t Got a Clue. Mr. Everett and Pixie exchanged disappointed glances as they realized the morning coffee klatch was over. Tricia felt a trifle resentful, too, as she watched her employees pick up the discarded napkins, plastic knives, and the empty butter and cream cheese packets, and head for the back of the store to wash their cups.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Tricia asked, forcing a smile as she joined Baker at the front of the store.

He stepped farther into the shop and took off his hat, brushing off the light coat of snow on the brim. He must have walked from the station up the street. “I thought you might like to hear the results of Betsy Dittmeyer’s autopsy.”

“Death from being crushed,” Tricia said dully.

“As a matter of fact, no. She died of strangulation.”

Tricia stared blankly at her former lover. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. She was dead—or nearly dead—when the bookshelf was pulled onto her. That’s why there was so little blood at the scene.”

So the noise she, Angelica, and Frannie had heard was Betsy thrashing around, trying to escape someone’s crushing hands on her throat.

“She fought her attacker,” Baker said. “Judging from what they found under her fingernails, she must have scratched him or her quite badly.”

Tricia frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”

He gave no answer for a long moment. “Because I thought you’d want to know.”

Was he trying to get back in her good graces? Did it really matter? “Thank you.”

A long quiet moment followed.

“Angelica said you’d confiscated the Chamber’s computer. Have you or any of your men had a chance to go through the files?”

Baker shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious,” Tricia said, hoping he hadn’t noticed the slight quaver in her voice. When was Angelica going to get around to telling him what they’d found? “Was there anything else you wanted to say?” Tricia asked, keeping her tone neutral.

“Yeah, I thought . . . well, I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if you’d be free for dinner on Friday night?”

Tricia’s heart sank. As always with Baker, it was too little, too late. “It is short notice. And I’m sorry, but I’ve already made plans.”

Baker scowled. “I suppose you’re having dinner with Christopher.”

“You would suppose wrong,” she said, keeping her tone even.

“Then, who—?”

“I don’t have to answer that question.”

“Come on, Tricia. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

“You don’t have to say it at all, Grant. We had some pleasant times together during the past couple of years, but the truth is we just didn’t click—at least not on a permanent basis.”

“You always knew that as a cop I was married to the job.”

“I know that. And you’re right, I’ve always known that.”

“Couldn’t we at least be friends?” he asked, and she could hear the strain in his voice.

“We are friends.”

“Then won’t you please consider having dinner with me on Friday?”

Tricia sighed. Why did he have to keep pushing? Why couldn’t he understand that she needed so much more than he was willing—or capable—of giving? “I told you, I already have plans.”

“Then how about some other night?”

“Maybe,” she said, but she really wasn’t sure she wanted to do so.

“That’s the best answer you can give me?”

“Right now it is.”

He looked down at his shoes. “I guess I deserve that,” he said, sounding downhearted.

“You didn’t mention lunch,” Tricia said, feeling a bit sorry for him

“Would you like to go to lunch on Friday?” he asked hopefully.

“Valentine’s Day is so loaded with expectations. Couldn’t we go some other time? If I know you—and I think I do—you won’t have time to go anywhere socially until you’ve wrapped up this case.”

He sighed again. “You’re right.”

“Why don’t I just take a rain check, and when you’re free, we’ll find a day that works for both of us.”

“All right.” Silence descended again. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything else about Mrs. Dittmeyer since we last spoke,” he said, bringing the conversation back to business.

Tricia pursed her lips; it was her turn to be silent.

“Tricia?” Baker prompted.

“I’m not sure.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means . . . I may know something, but I’m not sure it’s up to me to report it.”

“If you know something, you must report it.”

“Even hearsay? I’m not sure I want to do that.”

“Can you at least tell me what it involves?”

“No. But . . . I will speak to someone who should report it and urge them to do so.”

“Just tell me who to speak with and I’ll go—”

“No,” she said emphatically. “I promise you, you’ll hear from someone today.” And it might well be me, she did not add.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, drilling her with his green eyes, his secret weapon against her.

“I wouldn’t expect any less.”

“All right. But sooner would be better than later.”

“I understand. Thank you for telling me about Betsy. I don’t feel better for the knowledge, but . . . I appreciate the gesture.”

“I’d better get back to work,” Baker said. “I’ll be waiting for a call.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you later.” Later being relative.

“Yeah. Bye.”

As soon as the door closed on Baker’s back, Tricia grabbed the heavy receiver on the old phone and dialed Angelica’s number. It rang four times before voice mail picked up. She left a brief message, hung up, and tried Angelica’s cell phone, with the same results. She left another message, and then tried the number for Booked for Lunch. It rang five times before a breathless Angelica answered.

“Booked for Lunch,” she said in a singsong cadence. “We open at—”

“Ange, it’s me. Grant just left my store.”

“Has something new come to light about Betsy’s death?”

“Yes. She didn’t die from being crushed. Or, at least, that was just a contributing factor.”

“What killed her?”

“She was nearly strangled before the bookcase toppled over on her.”

“Strangled? Wow,” Angelica said in a hushed tone. “Did you tell him Betsy was an embezzler?”

“No, I think that should come from you. It’ll look suspicious if I tell him I was poking through the Chamber’s computer files.”

“You’re probably right. I’m up to my ears in work. Bev called in sick and Tommy’s leaving early for a dental appointment. I can’t possibly call the chief until later this afternoon.”

“I don’t think it will matter all that much. After all, Betsy was stealing from the Chamber for quite a long time, and obviously nobody knew about it before last night.”

“I could kick myself for not having someone look at the books before this,” Angelica groused.

“For all we know, it might have been Bob who stole the money.”

“I told you, Bob wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t know. Bob hasn’t always walked the straight and narrow.”

“Bob may be a lot of things, but he’s not a thief,” Angelica said, defending her former lover.

Tricia had never told Angelica about some of the things she’d caught Bob doing. Like smashing pumpkins all over town because he was jealous that the town of Milford had a successful festival and Stoneham didn’t. Or that he’d rigged the raffle at the Sheer Comfort Inn, making sure Angelica won—hoping she’d invite him along to share the prize and rekindle their doomed relationship. Perhaps it was time to educate her sister on these and other things. First, she’d tell her about Bob’s most recent transgression. “Ange, remember when Stan Berry’s house was ransacked last fall? The state fingerprint lab finally came up with a match. They were Bob’s prints.”

“Why on earth would you say such a thing?”

“I didn’t make it up. Grant told me about it yesterday.”

“I don’t believe it,” Angelica protested.

“You can ask him yourself when you call him later.”

“I certainly will,” she said tartly.

Tricia gripped the receiver a little tighter. “I’m sorry, Ange. I didn’t realize you still had feelings for Bob.”

“I don’t,” she said emphatically, but it was obvious that she did—however buried she might have thought them.

Angelica sighed wearily. “I need to get the tuna and egg salads ready for my customers. I’ll talk to you later,” she said and ended the call.

Tricia replaced the receiver, feeling somewhat depressed. She’d never been fond of Bob, but finding out he’d stooped to vandalism to try to evict one of his tenants was really low. Then it occurred to Tricia what the fingerprint evidence meant: if his prints had been on file with the state, he must have already been accused—or perhaps even convicted—of a crime.

As though sensing her owner’s blue mood, Miss Marple jumped down from her perch behind the cash desk and nuzzled Tricia’s hand. She petted the cat. “It’s disconcerting when you think you know someone, and then find out you don’t.”

“Brrrpt!” Miss Marple said, as though in agreement.

Tricia petted the cat and wondered if the next time she talked to her sister she ought to mention the possibility that Bob might be a felon. She sighed. If Angelica was still defending his character, she wouldn’t like hearing that bit of news, either.

The shop door rattled, and this time it was an actual (hopefully) paying customer—an older woman dressed for the cold with heavy boots, a long camel-hair coat with a matching hat, and a knitted red scarf knotted at her neck.

“Good morning. Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue,” Tricia said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. “Let any of us know if you could use some help.”

The woman smiled and moseyed over to a set of bookshelves to browse.

Tricia turned her attention to the cash desk, which looked like it could use a bit of tidying. It took her all of a minute. She sighed. It would be a very long day.

*   *   *

During the rest of the morning, Tricia moped around the cash desk, waiting on the few customers who had braved the brisk wind and bone-chilling cold. Too often she found herself gazing out onto the quiet street, willing the winter to end and the spring to bring back the tourists.

It was nearly lunchtime when Mr. Everett approached the register. “Ms. Miles, I wonder if I might speak to you for a moment.” He sounded so serious, and his expression was positively grim—a far cry from when he’d come into work that morning.

“Of course,” she said.

“I am a terrible employee, and I feel like I’ve been taking money from you under false pretenses.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We haven’t had a customer in nearly an hour, and yet you’ve scheduled both Pixie and me to work today—and tomorrow. With business the way it is, I would prefer if you didn’t pay me for my time this week.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” Tricia said. “We may not have had a lot of customers, but we’re still in the black. And you not only provide our customers with good service, but you take care of the store, Miss Marple, Pixie, and me.”

Mr. Everett was about to reply, when the phone rang. “Hang on,” Tricia told him and picked up the receiver.

“Trish? It’s Angelica. I need a favor. I’m not going to get away from the café for hours yet. Could you go over to my place, get Sarge, and take him for a walk?”

“I’d be happy to,” Tricia said, glad for an opportunity to end her conversation with Mr. Everett. She’d have to think of some way to allay his fears that he was driving her to the poorhouse, but that would take a bit of thought. “I’ll go right now.”

“Thanks. Tootles.”

Tricia hung up the phone. “That was Angelica. She wants me to take her dog for a walk.”

“I could do that,” he volunteered, but Tricia shook her head. The sidewalk could be icy in places, and she hated the thought of him possibly falling and getting hurt. She told him so, and he bristled at the notion.

“I’m sorry,” Tricia apologized. “The only job around here that needs doing is processing the Internet orders. I’ve got two of them up in the storeroom ready to be packaged right now.”

“I could do that. Grace bought me a computer for Christmas. I’m getting quite good at using it. If you or Pixie could show me what needs to be done, I could take over processing all the electronic orders.”

“That’s a great idea. Why don’t we do that as soon as I get back from walking Sarge?”

“While you’re out, I could wrap the books that are already waiting. And I’ll look forward to being trained on a new task,” he said, smiling.

Tricia accompanied Mr. Everett to the back of the store. He entered the door marked PRIVATE leading to the stairs and the storeroom while Tricia grabbed her hat and coat. “Pixie, I’ve got to take Sarge for a walk. I should be back in about twenty minutes.”

“Take your time,” she said, once again fussing with Sarah Jane in her carriage. The way she fretted over the doll was a bit unnerving. Had she had dolls as a child? If not, was this a way to placate her inner child?

Tricia was still pondering that thought as she left her store. The sky had cleared and the wind had done a good job of blowing the snow from Main Street’s sidewalks. Tricia hurried the ten or so feet to the Cookery’s door and entered. Frannie stood behind the cash desk with a novel open before her. She looked up.

“Hi, Frannie,” Tricia said, pulling her gloves off and stuffing them into her coat pocket.

“What brings you into the Cookery on this not-so-fine day?” Frannie asked, smiling.

“I’m on my way up to collect Sarge to take him for a walk.”

“It’s been a while. His little legs are probably crossed by now. Angelica has had to put so much time in over at Booked for Lunch, she hasn’t been around much during the day lately.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Tricia took a step toward the back of the shop, but Frannie’s voice stopped her.

“Have you heard anything new on poor Betsy’s murder investigation?”

Tricia knew better than to share what she knew with Frannie, who was liable to repeat it to the next person who walked through the door. “No. How about you?”

She shook her head. “Not a damn thing. It’s this prolonged cold spell. People have been holing up and keeping to themselves. The grapevine has shriveled to just about nothing. By now you’ve usually got things all figured out and have put our little police force to shame.”

Tricia blinked, taken aback, and wasn’t sure how to reply to that nugget.

Frannie laughed. “I meant that as a compliment.” It hadn’t sounded like it. She went on, “You usually make a fine suspect yourself, what with how you always manage to be involved in all the deaths that have happened these past few years.”

Tricia didn’t appreciate the comment. “Frannie, do you realize you could be considered a suspect in Betsy’s death?”

Frannie waved a hand in dismissal. “No way. I barely knew the woman.”

“That may be, but you went out of your way to irritate her every chance you got.”

“Little old me?” Frannie asked, as though astounded by the news.

“You teased her every day she came to work in Angelica’s storeroom.”

“I was just making conversation,” Frannie said, a note of defensiveness creeping into her voice.

“You made sure to let her know that leaving the Chamber was the best thing that could have happened to you. That you got all sorts of perks, like health insurance, and more money, when you came to work for Angelica, and hinted that though Betsy now worked for her via the Chamber, she had none of those things.” Of course it turned out it didn’t matter anyway; Betsy apparently had more money stashed away than all of them.

“Oh, Tricia, do you really think I’m that cruel?” Frannie asked. She wasn’t kidding around now.

“I wouldn’t say cruel, but in this instance, unkind, and that’s not like you, Frannie.”

Frannie stood taller. “Maybe I did tease her just a little. But you have to remember, I held the Chamber receptionist job for over ten years. Bob Kelly treated me like a slave and then fired me for helping a friend. I heard Bob hired Betsy for more than I ever got paid. And she got other perks, like more vacation, too.” She let out a breath, her expression growing harder. “I guess maybe I was a little bitter, but I promise you I never wished Betsy any harm. I was just as shocked as everyone else when she died. And don’t forget, I was with you and Angelica at the time of her death. I can’t be blamed for her getting killed.”

“No, not unless you paid someone to do it,” Tricia suggested.

Frannie’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Now you’re really living in fantasyland. I save every penny I make for my retirement. A hundred thousand more and I’ll be ready for the big move to Hawaii. I’d never waste a nickel on the likes of Betsy Dittmeyer, no matter how jealous of her I might have been.”

“So you say,” Tricia said diffidently.

Frannie frowned. “I’m really hurt that you could even say that, Tricia.”

“I’m just playing devil’s advocate,” Tricia said evenly.

“You know, you really should leave the sleuthing to the professionals and not make accusations about innocent people.” She sniffed. “Poor little Sarge is waiting for you,” Frannie said in dismissal.

“You’re right. I’ll be back down in a minute or so.”

Tricia felt Frannie’s eyes on her as she made her way to the back of the store. She really shouldn’t have laid it on so thick, but Frannie hadn’t been kind to Betsy and she hadn’t been all that kind to Tricia during their conversation. Still, Tricia ended up feeling like she was in the doghouse once again.

She opened the door to Angelica’s apartment and Sarge came barreling out to greet her, just as happy as he’d been the night before. Unlike people, dogs, bless them, were all-forgiving.

*   *   *

Little Sarge really was a joy to walk. His former owner had trained him well. He sat at every corner, waiting for the signal that it was safe to cross the street, and he had learned where he should and should not do his business.

Since the Stoneham village square wasn’t far from the Kelly Realty office, Tricia decided to pay Bob Kelly a visit. As she passed the petite log cabin that had been the Chamber’s former home, she looked in through the window to the darkened interior. Bob hadn’t put a FOR RENT sign on the door. The interior needed a thorough cleaning, as there were bags of trash and papers littering the floor. Bob apparently owned the couch and chairs that had made up the reception area, for they still stood in their accustomed spots, albeit looking shabbier than Tricia remembered.

Sarge had taken this pause to mean he should sit, and Tricia gave the leash a slight tug to let him know they were moving on. Kelly Realty was housed next door in a plain cement-block building painted a drab gray. Like its nearest neighbor it, too, was dark with a CLOSED sign hanging on the door. So much for talking with Bob. From the look of the mail stacked on the floor under the door’s mail slot, he hadn’t been there in several days. What did his clients think about his being inaccessible? It was unlike him, for Bob’s greatest pleasure in life seemed to be making money. Curiouser and curiouser.

Tricia turned and Sarge willingly trotted along beside her. Did Bob have any real friends in Stoneham? Frannie might know, but now probably wasn’t a good time to ask her. She’d ask Angelica later. Someone had to know how to contact him.

Tricia paused and Sarge dutifully sat down once again. Should she ask Baker if he’d tracked Bob down? Wouldn’t he have mentioned it earlier that morning if he had? She turned, and looked up the street. Sarge stood at attention once again. The Stoneham police station was only another two blocks up the road. Then again, Baker might be out on patrol, or investigating, or snagging an early lunch at the Bookshelf Diner. Sarge sat back down.

Tricia stared down at the dog. “Are your joints beginning to ache from all that standing and sitting?”

Sarge yipped—obviously a yes.

“Come on. Let’s go home,” she said and Sarge was back on his feet and ready to return to the warmth of Angelica’s kitchen and his comfy doggy bed. As they made their way down the sidewalk, Tricia resolved to corner Bob and make him talk. The problem was . . . if he wasn’t answering his phones, or even visiting his office, how in the world was she going to pin him to the wall to talk?

This was going to take some thought and maybe a little investigation on her part. And since it was so dead at Haven’t Got a Clue anyway, she had plenty of time to do both.