Bookplate Special

THREE

Yet another white-and-gold Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Department car pulled up outside Booked for Lunch. A tall, sandy-haired man got out of the driver’s side, then stooped down to grab his flat-brimmed Mounties hat, settled it on his head, and marched purposefully toward the café. Distracted, Tricia watched him as he paused outside the entrance and then spoke to one of the other deputies for several minutes. By the number of bars on his uniform sleeve, he outranked all the other officials on the scene. Finally, the deputy pointed at the café.

The newcomer nodded his thanks, opened the café’s door, and stepped inside. He bypassed everyone else, making a beeline for Tricia. “I’m Captain Grant Baker, and I’ll be handling this investigation. I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances, Ms. Miles.”

“Where’s Sheriff Adams?” Tricia asked.

“Busy, I’m afraid. I hope you won’t mind dealing with me.”

Tricia found herself drawn to Baker’s green eyes. Her ex-husband, Christopher, had green eyes. That relationship hadn’t worked out, and-

Tricia shook her head to rid herself of the flood of memories that threatened to engulf her.

“No. Not at all,” she found herself saying. Any time she didn’t have to deal with Sheriff Wendy Adams was worth celebrating. They’d had run-ins before, and those experiences were not ranked among those Tricia cherished.

Baker glanced around Booked for Lunch, his gaze settling on Angelica, who perched on the end of one of the booths’ bench seats; a high-heeled shoe discarded on the floor, she was massaging her left foot as she conversed with another deputy. “I understand this isn’t your first encounter with the law here in Stoneham,” Baker said to Tricia.

She frowned. “Uh, no.”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Are you okay, ma’am? You look a little pale. Would you like to sit down?”

“No, thank you.” Tricia studied his kind face, and her frown deepened. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

His eyes narrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Sheriff Adams-”

“Ah.” He nodded. “The sheriff explained there’d been some conflict between the two of you. That’s why she suggested I handle this investigation.”

“Maybe I should sit down,” Tricia breathed. She’d never expected Sheriff Adams to cut her any slack. Then again, Baker could be trying to lull her into a false sense of security. He might be playing good cop in contrast to Sheriff Adams’s bad cop routine.

Captain Baker ushered Tricia to one of the stools at the counter. “I know you’ve already told your story several times to the other deputies, but would you indulge me as well?”

Polite, too.

Tricia nodded and sobered. “Pammy Fredericks -”

“The deceased,” Deputy Placer supplied.

“-was my friend. Sort of.” Tricia shivered as she glanced over her shoulder to the café’s back door, which had been wedged open, letting in drafts of cold air. Thankfully, the garbage cart was no longer visible. The image of Pammy’s legs sticking out of it… Tricia shuddered involuntarily.

“Can you explain that ‘sort of’ comment?” Baker asked, not unkindly.

“We were roommates at Dartmouth and sort of kept in touch over the years.”

“I take it you were no longer friends as of this afternoon.”

Tricia’s insides squirmed. “Until this morning, Pammy had been my houseguest for the past two weeks.”

“And what changed that?” Baker asked patiently.

“I… asked her to leave,” she said, her voice growing softer. “I didn’t really throw her out. I swear! She’d simply overstayed her welcome. If you know what I mean.”

“Go on,” he encouraged.

Tricia sighed. “Pammy took it well. She said she had made friends here in Stoneham and assured me she’d be all right.”

“When was that?”

“About nine forty-five this morning.”

“And you didn’t see her again?”

“Yes, I did see her. But I didn’t speak to her.”

“Where was this?”

“At the new food pantry just out of town. They held the dedication this morning.”

Baker waited for her to continue.

“A lot of people were there. Apparently Pammy wanted to speak to the guest of honor. She made a rather loud fuss, and was asked to leave.”

Baker looked very interested. “Who asked her to leave?”

“Someone in a suit. I think he was part of Mr. Paige’s entourage.”

“Mr. Paige?”

“Stuart Paige. Have you ever heard of him?”

“It would be hard to live in New Hampshire and not hear about his good works.”

“Yes, well, apparently he gave the Food Shelf half the money they needed to open their new facility.”

“And did you speak to the deceased following the event?”

Tricia shook her head. “I didn’t see her again until I found her out back.”

“And what time was that?”

“About an hour or so ago.”

Baker checked his watch. “Approximately three fifty?”

Tricia nodded.

“And other than seeing her at the dedication, you hadn’t heard from her since this morning?”

“I heard of her-but I didn’t talk to her.”

Baker frowned. “What does that mean?”

“She apparently spent the morning going around town putting in job applications and listing me as her last employer.”

“And were you?”

“No! She hung around my store during the last couple of weeks, disrupting things-but she didn’t work for me.”

“Did her ‘hanging around’ anger you?”

Tricia chewed the inside of her lip, knowing where this line of questioning was going to lead. And what would he think when she told him about the forged check?

“I wasn’t happy about it. In fact, yesterday she spilled coffee on a customer’s foot. That was kind of the last straw.”

“But you waited until this morning to throw her out?”

“I did not throw her out,” Tricia said, and realized her voice had risen higher than she would’ve liked. She took a breath to calm down. “I asked her to leave. We had a civil conversation, and Pammy agreed it was time to go.”

Baker nodded, but said nothing.

“There was one other thing…” She hesitated. Did she really have to tell him about the check? He-or his boss-was sure to think it was a motive for murder. No one but she knew about it-unless Pammy had gone around blabbing about it, which she doubted. Angelica hadn’t mentioned it.

“You were saying?” he prompted.

“Her carelessness in spilling coffee on one of my customers really annoyed me,” Tricia blurted. “I could’ve been sued.”

Baker eyed her, waiting for more.

She could still say something about the check. She ought to say something about the check.

Why didn’t she say something about the damn check?

Maybe because she knew she hadn’t killed Pammy. It wasn’t pertinent to her death. Baker might follow in his boss’s footsteps and waste a lot of time trying to pin the crime on her-letting Pammy’s killer get away with murder.

“Look, I was in my store, with witnesses, all day. That is, until I came across the street to eat my lunch and talk to my sister.”

“Sister?” Baker asked.

Tricia glanced in Angelica’s direction. “Yes, she owns this café. She hired Pammy today.”

“Why?”

Tricia sighed. Probably to bug me. “You’ll have to ask her.”

Baker looked over at Angelica, then shifted his gaze back to Tricia-assessing them? “Tell me what you saw when you found the body.”

“Pammy. Headfirst in the garbage cart. I suspected she might be dead because she wasn’t moving. I had to force myself to touch her. I found her wrist, but I couldn’t find a pulse.” The stench of rotting food and the revulsion she’d felt at touching the dead had worked together until-“And then I threw up.”

Baker nodded, his expression bland. “Yes, the deputy told me.”

“I didn’t mean to contaminate the crime scene. It just… happened.”

“How do you know about contaminating crime scenes?” Baker asked.

“I own Haven’t Got a Clue, the mystery bookstore across the street. I read a lot of crime stories.”

“How many is ‘a lot’?”

“Not as many as I used to. Only two or three a week.”

Baker didn’t roll his eyes, but he looked like he might want to. Something captured his attention, and Tricia looked to her left. Someone had entered through the open back door-a man Tricia recognized from her last brush with murder. A member of the county’s Medical Examiner’s office greeted Baker with a curt nod.

“Have we got a probable cause of death yet?” Baker asked.

The man had a laminated ID card on a lanyard around his neck. The name on it was Ernesto Rivera. “Suffocation, most likely. Her face was covered by a plastic bag full of trash. Looks like she panicked when she couldn’t get out of the garbage cart. She couldn’t reach the edge of the can. Looks like she tore the trash bags apart while struggling. Her fingernails have all kinds of debris under them. We bagged ’em, and will know more once we get her on the table.”

Tricia cringed at that piece of information. Pammy-her chest and abdominal cavities emptied like a gutted deer. Her scalp peeled forward until-

Tricia shuddered again. Why had she read so many Kay Scarpetta mysteries? The knowledge she’d picked up about autopsies made for an interesting read-if not applied to someone you’d actually known.

“Did she fall into the garbage can?” Baker asked.

“No way-the thing’s about four foot tall. She was on her back. Someone had to put her in there.”

Tricia’s thoughts, exactly.

“Thanks, Ernie.” Baker turned to question Angelica. “You’re the owner?”

Angelica sighed theatrically. “Yes. Angelica Miles. Soon to be published, I might add. Penguin Books, Easy-Does-It Cooking, twenty-four ninety-nine-available on June first.”

It was Tricia’s turn to roll her eyes. Much more information than anyone needed to know.

She leaned against the counter stool and listened as Captain Baker took Angelica through the same set of questions. His demeanor was just so different from that of his boss. If the circumstances were different, she decided, she might even like him.

“And why was it you hired Ms. Fredericks?” Baker asked.

Finally, the question Tricia had been waiting to hear answered.

Angelica sighed, looked over to Tricia for a moment, and then turned back to the captain. “I figured it would keep her out of my garbage.”

Baker blinked in disbelief. So did Tricia.

“Of course,” Angelica continued, “I had no idea someone would actually kill her and put her in my garbage cart.”

“Wait a minute,” Tricia said, leaning forward. “What do you mean, ‘keep her out of my garbage’?”

Angelica shrugged. “She came by every day-after closing, of course-and poked through my cans to see what she could salvage.”

“I don’t understand,” Captain Baker said.

Angelica sighed impatiently. “To take.”

“But it’s not like you throw out anything valuable-something Pammy could actually use or sell,” Tricia protested.

“Apparently she thought I did.”

Baker held up a hand to interrupt. “What am I missing here?”

“It’s no secret Pammy was a scavenger. I believe she was employed as an antiques picker at different periods of her life,” Angelica said.

“What’s that got to do with the café’s garbage?” Tricia asked.

“Pammy was a freegan,” Angelica said matter-of-factly.

“A what?” Baker asked, confused.

“A what?” Tricia echoed.

Angelica frowned. “She Dumpster dived for food.” Taking in the incredulous faces before her, she continued. “Of course, lots of freegans give you some lofty explanation about alternative lifestyles, bucking convention, and minimizing waste in a materialistic world. I think they’re just a bunch of cheapskates looking for free food.”

“Pammy salvaged food out of Dumpsters?” Tricia asked, feeling the blood drain from her face. Pammy had cooked for her-had provided the food she’d used to prepare those meals. Had she found it by-?

The thought was too terrible to contemplate.

“How do you know all this?” Baker asked Angelica.

“Pammy told me-last week when we talked, and today, in between customers.”

“How long was she here today?” Tricia asked.

“About two hours. A regular little chatterbox, that one.”

Baker eyed Tricia. “Ms. Fredericks told you she was a freegan-but in two weeks she didn’t tell your sister?”

“Apparently not.”

He looked back to Angelica. “And you didn’t tell her, either?”

Angelica laughed. “Of course not. Well, just look at her. She’s already a lovely shade of chartreuse.”

A lump rose in Tricia’s throat. “How long have you known?”

“For a week or so. I knew someone was going through my garbage the day we opened. I caught Pammy at it one day last week.”

“You should have told me.”

“Why? You’d have been freaked out-like you are now. Believe it or not, I don’t live to just irritate you, baby sister.”

It was Tricia’s turn to frown. So now Angelica decided to spare her feelings. Hadn’t she informed her that Pammy had cooked for her?

Right now, Tricia couldn’t remember.

A wave of guilt passed through her. Here she was worrying about eating food past its prime-food that obviously hadn’t sickened her-and Pammy had been killed. Where were her priorities?

“Did the deceased tell you where she planned to stay tonight?” Baker asked Angelica.

Angelica shook her head. “And I didn’t have her fill out a job application, either. I needed someone right away-she walked in the door. I figured we could catch up on the paperwork after the lunch crowd had gone.”

Baker turned to Tricia. “Did Ms. Fredericks tell you where she planned on staying?”

“No. But she said she’d ‘hooked up’ with some local people.”

“Probably more freegans,” Angelica said.

“Do you know any local freegans?” Baker asked the women.

Angelica shook her head once again.

“I didn’t even know they existed until just a few minutes ago,” Tricia said.

“Can you think of anybody we can ask?” Baker asked.

“You might try talking to the other food vendors in the area. There’s the Brookside Inn, the Bookshelf Diner, the Stoneham Patisserie, and the convenience store up near the highway. That’s about it. But it wouldn’t surprise me if the local freegans went to Milford, or even Nashua or Portsmouth. They’re much bigger than Stoneham. They’d scavenge-or, as I’m sure they’d say, ‘salvage’-much more food from grocery and convenience stores than restaurants and bakeries.”

“Do freegans try to hustle food from charities like the Food Shelf?” Baker asked.

Angelica shook her head. “I shouldn’t think so. But it’s something you could ask Libby Hirt about.”

“Who?”

“Libby Hirt.” She spelled the last name. “She runs the Stoneham Food Shelf.”

“The one your friend crashed this morning?” he asked Tricia.

She nodded.

Baker made a note. “Did the deceased have a car?”

Tricia nodded. “She’d been parking it in the municipal lot.”

“Make and model?” he asked.

“I have no idea. I don’t think I ever saw her drive it the whole time she was here. In fact, when she left the dedication, she walked back into Stoneham.”

“She probably couldn’t afford the gas for it,” Angelica added.

At least not until she’d cashed Tricia’s forged check. You should say something, a little voice within her nagged.

“Can we narrow it down? Did she have an out-of-state license plate?” Baker asked.

“Maybe. She was originally from Portsmouth, but had lived in Connecticut for the past couple of years. I think,” Tricia added lamely.

“I thought you said she stayed with you for two weeks?” Baker asked.

“She did, but we didn’t spend a lot of quality time together.” At his puzzled look, she clarified. “My store doesn’t close until seven most nights. On Tuesdays, I host a book club. That doesn’t usually break up until after nine. A couple of times Pammy didn’t come in until after I’d already gone to bed.”

“Didn’t you ask where she’d been, what she’d been doing?” Baker asked.

Answering truthfully was going to sound awfully darned cold. Still… “No.”

Baker turned away. “Placer.” The deputy stepped forward. “Grab Henderson and scout out the municipal lot down the street. See if you can find a car with Connecticut plates. Ask around. See if anyone has noticed a car parked in the lot for the past two weeks.”

“Sure thing, Cap’n.”

“Captain?” Rivera waved to Baker from the back entrance.

“If you’ll excuse me, ladies.” He left them and rejoined the technician.

Angelica watched him go. “Nice set of buns.”

“Ange,” Tricia admonished.

“And wasn’t he just the nicest thing? Quite a change from Wendy Adams.”

“Yes,” Tricia agreed. She gazed at the captain, who filled the back doorway. He did have a nice set of buns at that.

“She’s dead. She’s really dead,” Ginny murmured for at least the hundredth time. “I admit I didn’t like her, but I never wanted her dead.”

“Ginny, please,” Tricia implored, not bothering to lift her gaze from the order blanks before her. As it was, her last sight of her… kind of, sort of… friend had not been a pleasant one. Was that how she’d always remember Pammy, as a pair of stiff legs?

“But I feel guilty,” Ginny said, then grabbed a tissue from the box under the counter and blew her nose. “I didn’t want her around, and I got my wish. But I never thought-”

Tricia sighed. She removed her reading glasses, setting them on the counter. Captain Baker had dismissed her some twenty minutes before-and it would be another hour before she closed shop for the day. It seemed like weeks since her day had begun, and she was looking forward to a nice, quiet evening, although she wasn’t sure she was up to reading a murder mystery. Not just yet, anyway.

“I think I’ll take out the trash,” Tricia said, and then she thought of Pammy in the garbage cart and winced. Still, the wastebasket under the counter was full.

She picked up the basket and headed for the back of the store, disarming the security alarm before opening the door. The alley that ran behind this side of Main Street was a good five feet lower than the front of the store, and she trotted down the steps to the waiting Dumpsters. Haven’t Got a Clue didn’t really create enough refuse to warrant such large receptacles-one for cardboard boxes only, the other for other trash-and she wondered if she could trade one of hers for Angelica’s two trash carts.

She emptied the basket and turned to head back into the building just as the door to the Cookery slammed shut, giving Tricia a start. With Angelica tied up at her new café, her newly promoted manager, Frannie Mae Armstrong, was in charge of the village’s cookbook store. As far as Tricia knew, Frannie was still working alone at the store. Why would she have slammed the door upon seeing Tricia? And then she saw two matching bowls on the landing near the Cookery’s stairs. Angelica would not be pleased.

For the past couple of weeks Frannie had been feeding a little stray orange cat that had been hanging around the alley. Tricia had seen it only once, but Miss Marple, her own cat, seemed to have stray-kitty radar. Miss Marple did not appreciate other cats invading what she considered to be her territory-even if her territory didn’t go beyond the confines of Haven’t Got a Clue and the storeroom and loft apartment above it. Angelica wasn’t a cat lover, and had warned Frannie not to encourage the cat to come around… something Frannie obviously hadn’t taken to heart.

Tricia climbed the steps and reentered her store. Ginny was still at the register, sniffling as she waited on a customer. “I’m going next door for a few minutes. Be right back,” Tricia said, and headed out without grabbing her jacket.

The Cookery was quiet, with only one or two customers browsing the bookshelves. Now that Angelica had dismantled the cooking demonstration area, she’d gained more retail space. The store was doing well-too well for just one employee. That was just Tricia’s opinion, of course. Frannie insisted she could handle the additional work, but she did look a bit frazzled, something Tricia hadn’t ever seen in the year since she’d met her.

Frannie stood by the register, waiting for her next customer to check out. Her expression darkened when she saw it was Tricia who’d just entered the store. She plastered on a fake grin and called out in her infamous Texas twang, “Howdy, Tricia. What can I do for you?”

Tricia gave her friend a genuine smile. “Hey, Frannie, I just dropped in to see how things are going.”

“I’m sure surprised to see you… after what happened and all.” Frannie nodded toward Booked for Lunch across the street, which was visible through the large display window. A sheriff’s patrol car-probably Captain Baker’s-was still parked outside. It might be hours before the forensic squad finished gathering evidence.

Tricia had momentarily forgotten about Pammy. Frannie’s words brought the memory of her in the garbage cart back with the force of a hurricane. “Oh. Yes. It was awful. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course,” Frannie said, and shook her head sadly.

“I was out behind my store a few minutes ago, and I couldn’t help but notice-”

“Please don’t tell Angelica,” Frannie pleaded, her face drawn with concern. “I know she doesn’t want me to encourage Penny-”

“Penny?” Tricia asked.

“That darling little kitty. She’s the color of a bright copper penny, so I’ve taken to calling her that. But, Tricia, she’s got no collar and she’s as thin as a rail. I’m only setting out a little water and some dry cat food during the day. And I make sure the dishes are put away before Angelica gets back from her café.”

On the one hand, Tricia wanted to commend Frannie for her compassion. But as a business owner, she wasn’t sure she should encourage deceit or out-and-out insurrection-especially as the store’s proprietor was her own sister. And yet… she’d seen that hungry little cat and her heart had ached for it, too.

“I won’t tell,” she promised. “But now that you’ve been putting out food, she’ll expect to be fed. If Angelica finds out-”

“I’ve got it all planned,” Frannie said, but a customer approached the register with a stack of cookbooks before she could tell Tricia exactly what that plan was. The shop’s door opened, and another three potential customers trooped in. Rats! Tricia had wanted to ask what Frannie knew about Stuart Paige. There was always tomorrow, she supposed.

This time it was Tricia who forced a smile as she waggled her fingers in a wave and headed out the door for Haven’t Got a Clue. And true to her word, she had no intention of telling Angelica about Frannie’s feline indiscretion.

Before she could make it back to the store, Tricia heard her name being called. She looked around and saw Captain Baker hailing her from across the street. He waited for a car to pass before crossing to meet her on the sidewalk.

“Sir, you are guilty of a crime,” Tricia said, straight-faced. Of course, she’d been crossing Main Street at its center for weeks, ever since Angelica had rented her new property.

“I beg your pardon?” Baker said.

“You jaywalked across Main Street,” she explained, huddling to keep warm in the stiff breeze.

“Ms. Miles,” he said, his voice growing somber, “my men found a car several blocks from here, apparently abandoned. It has Connecticut plates and was registered to Ms. Fredericks. The trunk was open and it contents ransacked. If you could look at what’s left, perhaps you can tell me what, if anything, was taken.”

A wave of fresh grief coursed through Tricia. “I suppose I could look, but I really don’t know what she had, other than the suitcases she kept at my apartment for the past two weeks.”

“Would you be willing to try?”

She stared into his green eyes, and her willpower dissolved. What was the hold men with green eyes had on her?

“Of course. But I need to let my assistant know I’ll be gone for a few minutes.”

Baker accompanied her to Haven’t Got a Clue, where she grabbed her coat and told Ginny she’d be back as soon as she could.

Outside, Baker bowed like a gallant knight, and made a sweeping gesture toward the cruiser parked on the opposite side of the street. Then he walked her across the pavement, opened the passenger-side door, and held it open until she’d seated herself, grasping the seat belt and buckling herself in.

As he walked around the car, Tricia took in the police scanner, the little printer that sat in the middle of the bench seat, and the cup of cold coffee in the beverage restraint device. She’d never sat inside a cop car before. How many police procedurals had she read over the years? How many scenes had taken place in such a car? But the reality was far different from fiction. There was an atmosphere of… tension-mixed with stale coffee and sweat and a touch of angst?-that seemed to hang inside the vehicle, and she doubted that even a prolonged airing could remove the lingering scents of stale urine and vomit from within that small space.

Baker climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He glanced in the rearview mirror before easing the gearshift into Drive and pressing the accelerator.

“You should buckle your seat belt,” Tricia admonished.

“The law here in New Hampshire requires seat belt use only by those eighteen years and younger,” he said with confidence.

“Just because the law doesn’t require you to use your seat belt doesn’t mean it’s not the smart thing to do.”

He tossed a glance in her direction for the merest part of a second, then focused his attention back on the road. “I think I can take care of myself.”

She sighed. “Just like a man.”

Again his gaze darted in her direction. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just that men can be just so… stupid. What’s wrong with being safe? Haven’t you read the federal highway statistics reporting the percentage of deaths due to not wearing seat belts?”

“Officers of the law need to be able to react-to get out of their vehicles at a moment’s notice.”

“Not if they’re smushed into paste in an accident.”

“Smushed?” Baker repeated.

“Yes. It’s a variation of smashed. Smushed is when what used to be a solid becomes almost a liquid. Human flesh can be smushed when it’s contained in crumpled steel and glass.”

“Smushed,” Baker said once again. “I don’t think I’ve ever considered that.”

“Well, you ought to. I’m sure the State of New Hampshire has invested thousands of dollars in your training. If you were killed or maimed in an accident, you’d be costing taxpayers like me a lot of money.”

“Smushed,” he murmured again, turning left onto Hanson Lane.

Tricia kept her gaze riveted out the windshield. “I’m sure your family wouldn’t appreciate the call telling them their husband and dad was now the consistency of tomato puree.”

“As it happens, I am no one’s husband or dad, so you don’t have to worry on that account.”

Tricia glanced at her companion. “Your loss.” Or someone else’s.

The scanner crackled, reporting an accident on Route 101. Tricia frowned. She couldn’t stand the sound of a dispatcher dispassionately reporting trouble. Too often Russ insisted on allowing his scanner to act as the background noise on their so-called dates. It wasn’t the most romantic backdrop.

Baker pulled up behind a parked car with Connecticut plates. Another Hillsborough County deputy stood alongside the vehicle, apparently guarding it. His thumbs were hooked onto his Sam Browne belt.

Baker opened the car door.

“Wait,” Tricia blurted, reaching out to touch his arm. Should she trust him? So far he hadn’t given her a reason not to. “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

He settled back in his seat, waiting for her to go on.

“There’s another reason I asked Pammy to leave this morning.”

Why didn’t he look surprised, she wondered.

“She… stole from me. She took one of my checks, made it out to herself for one hundred dollars, and cashed it.”

“When was this?”

“Several days ago. I was online going over my account this morning and found out. It was the last straw, and I asked her to leave.”

“And her reaction was?”

“She left.”

“You didn’t argue about it?”

“Pammy freely admitted it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

Tricia sighed. “Because it’s been my experience that Sheriff Adams likes to blow insignificant events out of proportion, trying to make them look like motives for murder. With that in mind, I figured you’d probably think I killed Pammy. Believe me, Captain, it wasn’t the money, it was the breach of trust that made me ask her to leave. And as you continue your questioning, you’ll find I didn’t have the opportunity to kill her. As I said, I’ve been with people the entire day.”

His green eyes bored into her. Was that disappointment reflected in them?

Without a word, Baker got out of the car. Tricia unbuckled her seat belt and did likewise.

“The tech team should be here when they’re finished at the café,” Deputy Bracken said.

Baker nodded. “Ms. Miles, would you care to take a look?”

Tricia moved to stand over the opened trunk, taking in its contents. “Those are Pammy’s suitcases all right.” They’d both been forced open, their contents dumped. Pammy’s scrunched-up, dirty clothes mingled with old magazines, copies of their college yearbook, an old, colorful granny-square afghan, cassette tapes, photo albums, and a lot of wrinkled papers. A ripped-open envelope was addressed to Pamela Fredericks, General Delivery, Stoneham, New Hampshire.

Remorse flushed through Tricia once again. Could Pammy have been living in her car before she came to Stoneham?

The guilt intensified. Perhaps if she hadn’t asked her to leave, Pammy might still be alive.

Might: a word that held a lot of power.

Tricia sighed, her eyes filling with tears. Maybe Pammy had left on an extended trip and intended to eventually return to whatever she considered her home base. But she hadn’t mentioned that. In fact, whenever the subject came up, Pammy had been evasive.

“Are you okay, Ms. Miles?” Baker asked.

Tricia nodded, trying to blink away the unshed tears. “Pammy’s dead. I guess it didn’t hit me until right now. The stuff in her trunk may be all she had. She’s really dead, and then someone tried to rob her. Is there anything more despicable than stealing from the dead?”

“Yes,” Baker said. “Killing them in the first place.”

Tricia had to agree with that.

More letters lay scattered among the junk, as well as a sagging, empty shoebox that sat on a pile of old clothes. Their former home? Baker poked at the letters and clippings with a pen. The yellowing envelopes bore twenty-two-cent stamps, indicating their age. “Mrs. Geraldine Fredericks. Who was that?”

“Pammy’s mother.”

“What would Ms. Fredericks be doing with a bunch of old letters?”

Tricia shrugged.

Baker waved a hand to take in the trunk. “Does there appear to be anything missing?”

Tricia’s gaze wandered over the contents. “I don’t know. Pammy didn’t seem to have much with her. From what I could see, she had clothes and maybe a few toiletries.” Very few toiletries. She’d used nearly an entire bottle of Tricia’s favorite salon shampoo. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Captain Baker.”

He frowned. “So am I.”