Bookplate Special

TWENTY

It was after ten when Tricia decided to put her book down and go to bed. Only then did she realize that for the first night since Pammy’s death, she hadn’t been bothered by her mysterious caller. Did that prove it had been Joe Hirt on the other end of the line? No one had shot at her windows, either. Eugenia had said she and her father shot skeet. Had Captain Baker thought to ask him about owning any guns? And had the captain spoken to Joe with Libby or Eugenia present? She hoped not. But if Joe had killed Pammy, everything would eventually be made public. Would the community rally around Libby? She’d worked tirelessly for more than two decades to help those less fortunate. She deserved better than to be the subject of vicious gossip.

Everything will work out, Tricia told herself. But the uneasy feeling in her stomach wouldn’t go away.

She turned off her bedside lamp and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the closed curtains. Miss Marple jumped up to join her and gave a hearty “Yow!”

“I don’t like them being closed, either,” Tricia said.

She petted the cat’s head and scratched behind her ears, idly wondering how Frannie had made out with Penny. Miss Marple made herself comfortable on the bed, but Tricia didn’t feel as settled as her cat. She got up and nudged the curtains where they met in the center of the window. Once again she saw a figure dart along the west side of Main Street. With hands raised overhead, the figure tossed yet another carved pumpkin into the center of Stoneham ’s main thoroughfare.

She thought she recognized that silhouette, and grinned. It wasn’t only the freegans who donned black and slunk through the shadows like cat burglars. She wasn’t sure what she would do with this new knowledge.

She let the curtain fall once again. “Oh, well, there’s always tomorrow.”

“Yow!” Miss Marple agreed.

Tricia awoke early the next morning, and decided to make use of the time by working in the storeroom. Ginny had moved the microwave and fridge to the second floor the day before, and Tricia was determined to whip at least one part of her mini warehouse into an employee break room.

The front of the storeroom overlooked the street, and contained shelves full of inventoried books, as well as twenty or thirty cases of books that still needed to be unpacked and sorted. The cavernous room also held the assorted furniture and bric-a-brac she hadn’t wanted to incorporate into her apartment. Assessing the space, Tricia decided the back of the room could be sectioned off to make an agreeable space for Ginny and Mr. Everett to eat their lunches or just take a break.

She unearthed her old kitchen table and chairs, and a sideboard that would hold the microwave, and dragged them into place. Digging through a box of kitchen utensils, she found mismatched silverware, a napkin holder, and eight mugs. Only three of the mugs were chipped, and she tossed them. Next she scrubbed the old utility sink so they had a place to rinse their dishes.

It was nearly nine thirty when Tricia stood back to evaluate her work. The space needed some homey touches, but it would do for now. She had just enough time to take a quick shower before opening the store.

Tricia had finished pouring water into the coffeemaker and hit the On button when she heard a knock at the door. She answered it and found a red-eyed Ginny, who’d shown up for work a full five minutes early.

“Is something wrong?” Tricia asked.

Ginny shook her head and sniffed. “No.” Her voice was strained. “Yes.”

“Why don’t you hang up your coat, and then come back and have a cup of coffee?”

Ginny nodded and shuffled toward the back of the store. By the time she returned, Tricia had poured the coffee. She handed Ginny a cup, and they moved to sit in the readers’ nook.

“Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Every Friday night I balance our checkbook. Last night was no different. But things just aren’t adding up. Brian works all those extra hours, and it’s not showing up in the bank.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure if I want to know the answer.”

What had Angelica said about rats?

Tricia decided to push. “What do you suspect-that he’s seeing someone on the side?”

“Until last night, I never would’ve even considered he might cheat on me. We’ve been together since high school.”

And maybe that was part of the problem.

“What do you think I should do?” Ginny asked.

Tricia chose her words carefully. The last thing she wanted was to give Ginny advice and then have it blow up in her face if Brian had a reasonable explanation for his actions. “I’ve always found the best thing to do in these situations is to talk things through.” The way she had talked things through with Russ? By leaping out of her seat and fleeing from his house? By refusing to return his telephone calls?

Oh, yes, she was one to talk. But then, she wasn’t in the dark about where their relationship stood. Russ had made it plain he was moving on.

Tricia took in Ginny’s tear-swollen eyes and decided it was time to lighten the mood. “Hey, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Ginny sniffed. “For me?”

“The break room. It’s finished. Well, almost.”

Ginny brightened. “Do we have time for me to look at it before we open?”

“Sure.”

Tricia led the way upstairs to the storeroom. She threw open the door. “Ta-da!”

Ginny entered before her, her mouth opened in awe. “When did you have time to pull this together? It was a mess the last time I was up here.”

“This morning. I got up a little early. The fridge is plugged in, and I even tested the microwave. It does boil water.”

“This is fantastic. Thank you, Tricia. You sure know how to keep your employees happy.”

Tricia glanced at the microwave’s clock. “Oops! We should’ve opened a full minute ago. We’d better go. I hope you won’t sit in your car to eat your lunch anymore.”

“No way. Maybe I’ll bring in my old boom box. That way I can listen to music while I eat lunch or read.”

“Go for it!”

Back in the store, Tricia unlocked the shop door, turned the sign to say OPEN, and headed for the register. Not thirty seconds later, the door opened, the little bell overhead jingling as Joe Hirt stepped over the threshold. He didn’t look happy.

“Hello, Tricia.”

Tricia’s heart sank.

Joe nodded at Ginny. “Can I have a few minutes alone with your boss?”

“No, you can’t,” Tricia said. “Captain Baker told me I’m not supposed to speak to you.”

“I’ll bet he did. When was that? Right after you gave him Pammy’s diary?”

“I really should go… do something,” Ginny said nervously.

“No, please stay. Joe, you’ll have to leave. I simply can’t speak to you about any of this. I promised Captain Baker.”

“You’re finishing what your friend tried to do-break up my family,” he accused.

“I turned the diary over to the Sheriff’s Department. Anything else would’ve been obstruction of justice-a crime. And I really cannot talk about any of this with you. If you don’t leave, I’ll have to call the Sheriff’s Department and have them remove you from my store.”

His arms hung rigidly at his sides as he clenched his fists-not unlike Clint Eastwood in an old spaghetti western, about to draw and fire. “We’ll speak again,” Joe said grimly, then turned and left the shop.

Tricia let out a long sigh and leaned against the counter, feeling drained.

“What’s he so pissed off about?” Ginny asked. “And why does he think you’re trying to hurt his family?”

“I’m not supposed to talk about it to anyone.”

“Not even me?” Ginny asked, hurt.

Tricia shook her head. “I’m sorry, Ginny, not even you.”

Ginny sighed, her shoulders sagging. “I guess I have enough problems to worry about anyway.”

They both looked up as the shop door opened. This time it was a real customer.

Tricia spoke. “Sometimes the best thing you can do when things aren’t going well is to lose yourself in work. That’s what I’m planning to do today.”

Ginny drank the last of her coffee and tossed the cup into the wastebasket. “You know, we ought to use those china mugs I saw up on the sideboard in the break room-at least for you and me and Mr. Everett. We’re wasting a lot of paper when we drink out of these disposable cups several times every day. And it would be better for the business’s bottom line.”

Trust Ginny to be worried about the store’s welfare-if not the entire planet’s. “I never wanted to bother with washing them,” Tricia admitted.

“How about if I do it?”

“That would be great. Maybe later I’ll go upstairs and bring some down, unless you’d like to bring in one of your own from home.”

“I do have a favorite one-it’s got a little gray cat on it. It reminds me of Miss Marple.” At the sound of her name, Tricia’s cat appeared and jumped on the counter, giving a yow! for attention. Ginny petted her, but even the damp nose nuzzling her hand didn’t seem to lift her spirits.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be up here,” Tricia scolded the cat. She picked her up and set her on the floor. Miss Marple walked away with her head and her tail held high.

Ginny took a deep breath, as though steeling herself. “I guess I’ll ask if this customer needs help.”

Tricia touched her assistant’s arm, and nodded in reassurance.

With Ginny occupied, Tricia took out the disinfecting spray and wiped down the counter before she headed for the register, taking the paper cup and its tepid coffee with her. The phone rang. She forced a smile into her voice that she didn’t feel. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How may I help you?”

“You didn’t do as I said,” came the voice. “You didn’t give me the diary.”

That damn voice again. And he/she/it had called the shop line, not her personal line.

“How could I? Besides, I told you, Joe, I can’t talk to you. And I’ve told the Sheriff’s Department about these calls. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve already tapped my line to catch you.” A lie, but the caller didn’t have to know that.

“You’ll pay for this,” said the voice.

Tricia hung up the phone. She wasn’t about to be intimidated by Joe Hirt. Instead, she picked up the receiver and dialed the Sheriff’s Department. It took five minutes on hold before Captain Baker came on the line.

“I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you again,” he said.

“Neither did I, but Joe Hirt came to my shop this morning.”

“That is a problem,” Baker agreed. “I talked to him earlier, and I told him not to contact you.”

“He also just called me with that stupid voice-altering device. This time on the shop line-not my personal phone.”

“Probably because the caller knew you weren’t in your apartment.”

That was true. She thought about what he’d just said. “You don’t think my caller is Joe Hirt?”

“It could be-but not necessarily.”

“I told whoever it was that you were tapping my phones, and would catch him.”

His only comment was a flat “Hmmm.”

“What do you want me to do in the meantime?” Tricia asked.

“As I told you before; avoid the Hirt family-and keep your curtains closed at night.”

“Yes, sir,” she said with a bored sigh.

“Tricia, I mean it.”

“And I’ll do it.”

“Thank you. And please feel free to call me with any new developments.”

She thought about it. “Does this mean you don’t think Joe is the one behind Pammy’s death?”

“There’s no proof he is.”

“But the diary-” Tricia interrupted.

“Is just one piece of evidence. And don’t you dare go looking for anything else.”

“At this point, I’m totally clueless-and I don’t mean that in a Paris Hilton kind of way.”

“Well, stay that way.” His voice softened. “At least in this instance. Otherwise, I think you’re a very sharp lady.”

Now who was flirting with whom?

Only… for some reason, she didn’t mind.

“Thank you, Captain.”

He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, it was in his “cop” voice. “Keep in touch.”

“I will. Good-bye.” She hung up the phone.

Ginny wandered up to the cash desk. “What are you smiling about?”

Tricia immediately sobered, unwilling to share those particular thoughts and feelings. “Nothing.”

It was a glorious fall day in Stoneham, which meant that most of her potential customers were probably in Milford for day two of the Pumpkin Festival. Still, Tricia was determined to enjoy the tiny part of the day she could access-her lunch break. She called Booked for Lunch and placed a take-out order, but instead of immediately picking it up, she decided to take a walk down Main Street.

She passed the Chamber of Commerce. Their new secretary/receptionist, Betsy Dittmeyer, was very sweet… in a noncommittal, bland sort of way. Gone were the colorful posters of Hawaii that Frannie had used to decorate the reception area. Instead, the walls were empty of any ornamentation. Not even a picture interrupted the stark order of Betsy’s desk. Tricia missed Frannie as the face of the Chamber. Still, the Chamber’s loss had been Angelica’s gain, and Frannie had blossomed with the responsibility of running the Cookery.

Tricia stopped in front of Kelly Realty. The pile of pumpkins that had decorated the front of the building just days before had dwindled considerably. Surely his give-away program hadn’t been that successful. Tricia opened the door to the office, a little bell jingling cheerfully over her head as she entered.

Bob Kelly sat at his desk, the Nashua Telegraph propped up before him, as he spooned soup from a plastic container-the same kind of take-out container Angelica used at Booked for Lunch. No doubt she’d been feeding him lunch since the day she’d opened. Okay, she cared for him. That was her lookout. But Tricia wasn’t feeling as generous.

Bob looked up, dropping his plastic spoon onto the desk blotter. He yanked away the paper napkin that he’d had draped over his suit coat and shirt. “Tricia, what brings you here?”

“Hello, Bob. Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but I have a couple of questions I’m hoping you can answer.”

He smiled and waved a hand, indicating she should take one of the two chairs in front of his desk. This was where he wrote his real estate contracts-and the leases he held on most of the buildings the booksellers occupied on Main Street. Tricia had sat in the very same seat when she’d signed the three-year lease on the building that Haven’t Got a Clue now occupied. Later she’d found out she’d paid far more than any of the other leaseholders. That had set a precedent, escalating the prices on all the other leases-something that had not endeared her to the booksellers who had come to Stoneham before her.

“First of all, what do you know about the person who’s been smashing pumpkins for the past week?”

“Why, nothing. I’m just as appalled as the rest of the citizens of Stoneham.”

“Really?” Tricia asked. “Somehow I find that a little hard to believe.”

Bob’s mouth dropped open, his eyes growing wide in what looked like genuine anxiety. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked, his voice the epitome of concern.

“Cut the crap, Bob, I know it’s you who’s been smashing those pumpkins all over town. I saw you do it on Wednesday night, and again last night. I should go straight to Captain Baker and report you. I’m sure you’ve probably broken more than a couple of laws-including littering.”

“I don’t think I understand what you’re getting at,” he said in all innocence.

“I’m telling you I’ve seen you toss carved pumpkins into Main Street on two separate occasions. Only I wasn’t sure until last night that it was really you, and I mean to report you.”

“You can’t do that!” he cried.

She nodded. “Okay… give me a reason not to.”

Bob frowned, but didn’t offer an explanation.

Tricia waited for at least thirty seconds before she spoke again. “Okay, then answer me one question: Why are you doing this? Do you have some kind of sick squash fetish?”

“I don’t owe you any explanations,” he grumbled.

So, he didn’t deny it.

Tricia crossed her arms. “No, but what will Angelica think when I tell her about this?”

“Why do you have to tell her anything?” he asked, panicking.

“I think she should know what kind of man she’s involved with. Someone who’d destroy a child’s jack-o’-lantern…”

“I did not smash anybody’s pumpkins but my own.”

“You mean to say you carved all those pumpkins before you busted them all over the streets of Stoneham?”

“Of course I did. You think I want to get arrested for trespassing or stealing?”

“But you made a terrible mess. That costs the taxpayers money.”

“The village did not order a street sweeper run. I… talked them out of it. Besides, most of the shopkeepers have cleaned up the messes in front of their shops.”

“Of course they did. They didn’t want their customers to slip in the slimy mess you made, and sue them. And that still doesn’t explain why you did it.”

Bob snorted a few anxious breaths before answering. “For the publicity-what else? It got Stoneham noticed by the Nashua Telegraph, didn’t it?”

“There was a two-inch story buried in the ‘Outlying Towns’ section. And do we really want to be known as a village that harbors a pumpkin smasher? Come on, Bob, what’s the real explanation?”

“Okay, maybe I’m… jealous.” The man actually pouted.

“Of whom?” she demanded.

“Not whom, what. Every year that darn Milford Pumpkin Festival gets tons of publicity. People come to the town by the thousands to look at a bunch of stupid old squashes.”

Tricia couldn’t believe what she’d just heard, and burst out laughing.

“Hey,” Bob protested. “It’s not funny.”

“Yes, it is.” Tricia covered her mouth to stifle a smirk and had to clear her throat before she could speak. “ Milford is a beautiful, picturesque little town-”

“So is Stoneham,” Bob countered.

“Yes, but we bring in people twelve months a year, thanks to being known as a book town. Milford has their festival three days of the year. How could you possibly be jealous?”

“We ought to have some kind of festival here, too, and drum up some national exposure.”

“Then go for it. Come up with something else. There are three other seasons and a lot of other possibilities you could choose from.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Pilgrim Day.”

“ Plymouth, Mass., has that covered.”

“Choose another fruit or vegetable, then. Maybe we could have a cauliflower festival, or how about okra?”

“We don’t grow them locally,” Bob groused.

He’d missed her sarcasm.

“Then how about a ‘welcome-back-geese festival’ next spring? Or why don’t you get that nudist camp down the road to march in the Stoneham Fourth of July celebration?”

Bob’s eyes narrowed. “Now you’re teasing me.”

Maybe she was. She leaned forward on his desk. “Do you really want the rest of the Chamber of Commerce, the Board of Selectmen, and the whole village to know what you’ve been up to?”

Bob stood, pulled in his overhanging stomach, and puffed out his chest. “Are you threatening me?”

“Not at all. I just want you to stop. And I want you to clean up the mess you’ve made.”

“And what do I get out of the deal?”

“I never tell Angelica just what kind of a nutcase you really are.” She shook her head. “I still don’t know what it is she sees in you. But-there’s no accounting for taste. And you do have some redeeming qualities,” she said, remembering what Libby Hirt had said about him championing the Food Shelf.

Bob stared into his cooling soup. “Okay, I’ll clean up the mess and I won’t smash any more pumpkins.”

“Good.” Tricia rose from her seat. “I’m glad we came to this understanding, Bob. I really wouldn’t want the rest of the villagers-and God forbid, the organizers of the Pumpkin Festival-to know anything about this. I mean, you’re a respected man in this town. If only for Angelica’s sake, I don’t want people to think you’re a total jerk.”

“Thank you, Tricia.” His face screwed into a frown as he thought about what she’d said. “I think.”

“We’ll talk no more about this, shall we?” she asked.

“Yes. Thank you.” Bob rose from his seat and walked around his chair, offering her his hand.

She took it, resisting the urge to wipe it on her jacket afterward. “Well, I’d best be on my way. I’ve still got a business to run.”

“Yes. Me, too.”

Tricia gave him a big smile. “See you later, Bob.”

“You, too, Tricia.”

And off she went to pick up her lunch.

It was nearly three o’clock, and once again the store was empty of customers. If Tricia had better anticipated the slowdown, she could’ve had Ginny start inventorying the books up in the storeroom, but it was too late in the day for that.

The phone rang, and Ginny grabbed it. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Ginny. How can I-” She paused. “Sure thing. Tricia, it’s Frannie-for you.” She held out the phone.

Tricia left the shelves filled with true crime titles she’d been alphabetizing, and picked up the receiver. “Hi, Frannie. What’s up?”

“Oh, Tricia-I’ve been meaning to call you all day, but with one thing and another-”

“Don’t tell me you made headway with Penny?”

“I sure did. Just like you said. I ignored her last night. It took a few hours, but eventually she came out from behind the couch. First she sat in the middle of the living room. Then, little by little, she moved closer to me. By the time the eleven o’clock news came on, she was sitting on my lap and purring like crazy.”

“See, I told you.”

“Yes, you did. And I can’t thank you enough.”

“It wasn’t me. It was you. Sometimes you just need to show a little patience where animals are concerned.” And people, too?

No, she was not going to think about Russ again. He’d made his decision. He could live with it. She was determined to do so, too.

Tricia heard the soft tinkle of a bell.

“Oops-got a customer. Gotta go. See you at the wedding tomorrow.”

No sooner had Tricia hung up the phone than it began to ring again. Tricia picked it up. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How can I help you?”

“Tricia, it’s Libby Hirt.”

Good grief.

“Libby, I’m not supposed to talk to you or Joe or Eugenia until-”

“Why did you give that diary to the Sheriff’s Department? Why did you have to drag up the past? Why couldn’t you just destroy the damn thing?”

Tricia took a deep breath. She should hang up the phone. She should do as she had been told, and end the conversation. But the hurt in Libby’s voice, the anguish, was like a stab in the heart. “Libby, I’m sorry. It’s evidence in Pammy Fredericks’s death.”

“How? It doesn’t prove anything.”

“Did you know about Joe’s affair with M. J. Collins?”

Silence. Then, “Not until last night. I wish he’d never told me. It destroys the faith I’ve had in him. It makes our entire marriage a sham. And what will it do to our daughter when she finds out the truth?”

“Perhaps it could bring you all closer together.”

“Or it could destroy our family.”

“Everyone seems to forget that Pammy Fredericks was murdered.”

“Maybe she deserved it,” Libby said bitterly. “Blackmail is an ugly game. Would she have bled Joe dry? And what about Mr. Paige?”

“Libby, I know you’re upset and you don’t mean what you just said.”

“And just maybe I do.”

She broke the connection.

Tricia hung up the phone. Was there something in the Stoneham water supply causing relationships to crash and burn? First she and Russ; Ginny and Brian might be on the skids; and now Libby and Joe Hirt-who, until yesterday, had apparently represented the village’s most stable marriage.

And what was she going to tell Captain Baker, now that she’d spoken to yet another member of the Hirt family? There was no way she could set foot inside the Bookshelf Diner-and run into Eugenia-until this whole mess was resolved. In fact, if she was smart, she wouldn’t step outside Haven’t Got a Clue.

She forced herself to think about other things. With the wedding set for the next day, she had too much to do. The store needed a thorough cleaning. Although it was last minute, perhaps she should hire a cleaning team to come in-but did cleaners work Saturday evenings? What if she couldn’t engage someone to come after store hours? And had anyone thought to rent chairs for the reception? Or maybe tall tables, so the guests had somewhere to park their plates of breakfast foods, champagne, and cake while they ate? She’d have to ask Angelica.

With less than sixteen hours to go, Grace and Mr. Everett’s wedding seemed so far away-so normal and life-affirming. And Pammy was still-and forever would be-dead. Although she’d been on the outs with her family for years, it seemed doubly cruel they should decide not to claim her body. There’d be no commemoration of her life. And if Tricia took it upon herself to arrange one, would anyone show up?

Pammy had been shy and awkward when they’d met twenty-four years ago. She’d been shrewd and apparently heartless the last time they’d spoken. And she’d accused Tricia of not knowing how to have any fun. But was fun at someone else’s expense enjoyable, or just spite?

Tricia preferred to think the latter.

Pammy was dead and, as far as Tricia knew, no one-and she would have to include herself-would mourn her.

A truly wasted life.

Though she had too many other phone calls to make, on impulse Tricia hauled out the phone book and called the Hillsborough County Medical Examiner’s office. Maybe Pammy’s family had reconsidered. Maybe plans were already in place for some kind of service, and no one had thought to call her. However, the person she spoke with at the ME’s office only reaffirmed what she’d already been told by Captain Baker.

“What does that mean?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Eventually, the body will be buried at taxpayers’ expense.”

“Thank you.” Tricia hung up the phone.

Buried in an unmarked grave. Did anyone deserve that?

Several customers entered the store. Tricia waited on them, all the while thinking of the phone calls she needed to make to ensure the wedding went off without a hitch. It was time to put Pammy out of her mind… forever.

Still, until her killer was caught, Tricia wasn’t sure she could do that.

Everything felt unfinished. Like Pammy’s life.

And Tricia hated that feeling of helplessness.