Bookplate Special (13 page)

Pammy had given it to her in October of their fresh-man year at Dartmouth. She’d never said where she found the book, but Tricia had treasured it simply because she
was
lonely, and their tiny dorm room had no room to house even a fraction of her mystery collection.

Pammy had never fit in at Dartmouth. She wasn’t Ivy League material. But a family member had pulled strings with some bigwig alumni and had somehow gotten her in. But Pammy had never distinguished herself in or out of college. After graduation, she’d led a dreary, apparently uneventful life—mostly mooching off of family and friends. What could be in her diary that would cause someone to kill her?

Unless it wasn’t Pammy’s diary.

She’d wanted to speak to Stuart Paige. Had it been his diary? Tricia frowned. Men kept journals, not diaries. The word “diary” indicated that it was probably written by a woman.

What woman? And if it wasn’t Pammy’s, where would she have gotten it?

“In a Dumpster?” Tricia asked aloud.

Miss Marple trotted up to her and said, “
Brrrrurp
!”

“I think you’re right,” Tricia said, and patted the cat on the head.

The question was where had Pammy found the diary? Surely not here in Stoneham. It was possible she’d Dumpster dived all over New England.

Miss Marple rubbed her little warm body against Tricia’s knee, head butting her for attention. Tricia reached out and absently scratched the cat’s ears. “If there’s a diary hidden somewhere in this apartment, I’ll eat your kitty treats.” Miss Marple raised her head sharply. “I was only kidding.”

The CD had stopped playing ages ago. A glance at the clock told Tricia she had better wind things down and get some rest. She had a lot to do come morning. Including taking Pammy’s box of books to the library.

“Bedtime,” she told Miss Marple, who jumped up on Tricia’s queen-sized bed.

As Tricia got ready for sleep, she found herself wondering about the diary, wondering who it belonged to, and what it could contain that had cost Pammy her life.

TEN

Despite the
late night, Tricia was up early the next morning, determined to find a new home for Pammy’s box of books—and do it before Haven’t Got a Clue opened for business. Since the library opened at nine, that gave her an hour to drop them off before she’d have to open the doors of her own shop.

As she opened the store’s blinds, she saw a white-and-gold Sheriff’s Department patrol car parked outside of Booked for Lunch. “Uh-oh,” she said to Miss Marple, who had jumped up to see if she could catch and bite the blind cord. “I wonder if Captain Baker is visiting Angelica.”

Miss Marple batted the plastic weight on the cord.

“I’m going across the road to see what’s happening,” Tricia told the cat. “Now don’t you bite the cord while I’m gone, or you won’t get any kitty snacks tonight.”

Miss Marple sat back on her haunches, duly chastised.

Tricia didn’t bother getting her coat from the peg out back, but grabbed her keys, locked the store, and headed across the street, dodging the remains of another flattened pumpkin.

Inside the shop, Angelica, dressed in full fifties regalia once again, faced Captain Baker, her arms folded defiantly across her chest, her expression determined.

Tricia opened the door and entered, but Angelica paid her no mind.

“Why would I hire Pammy and then kill her? How stupid do you think I am, Captain?”

Baker didn’t blink an eye. “Ma’am, I don’t know you at all.”

“Just for the record, my sister doesn’t go around killing people, and neither do I,” Tricia blurted.

Baker turned to face her. “Good morning. I’m not accusing either of you of any wrongdoing. I’m trying to find out who killed your friend, and why.”

“This town has a veritable vandalism crime wave going on, and all you can do is badger honest citizens trying to make a living,” Angelica accused.

“Vandalism? Crime wave?” Baker repeated.

“Haven’t you noticed all the smashed pumpkins around the village? The little kids around here must be heartbroken to see their creations reduced to pulp,” Tricia said.

“Smashing Pumpkins? Isn’t that a rock band or something?” Baker asked, straight-faced.

“It’s also mangled squash. And they’re everywhere here in Stoneham!”

Baker frowned. “If this apparent crime wave bothers you ladies so much, I’ll have one of my deputies look into it.”

“Thank you,” Angelica said.

Did she miss his condescending tone?

“In the meantime,” Baker continued, “if you two think of anything that might help in this
serious
investigation, I hope you’ll share it with me.”

Despite his tone, Tricia considered mentioning the phone calls she’d received the night before. But what if someone was just toying with her? She had no proof the diary the person on the phone had mentioned even belonged to Pammy.

And how sincere was Baker? His superior officer, Sheriff Adams, had openly scoffed at Tricia’s theories on more than one occasion. And since Baker reported to her, would his opinion be colored by his boss’s?

“Is everything all right, Ms. Miles?” he inquired.

Tricia started at the sound of her name. She looked up at the captain. “Excuse me?”

“You look deep in thought. Is there something you want to tell me?”

Tricia shook her head. “No.”

Not yet, at any rate.

Baker looked skeptically at her before turning back to Angelica. “Let me assure you that we’re investigating every lead we have.”

“And how many leads is that?” Tricia asked.

“I’m not at liberty to say. But the ME did find cat hair on the clothes of the deceased.”

“Well, there would be. I have a cat. Pammy stayed in my house for two weeks.”

“We may want to take hair samples—just in case,” Baker added.

“Feel free,” Tricia said, disgusted. Then something occurred to her. “Have you informed Pammy’s family of her . . . demise?”

Baker nodded solemnly.

“Has anyone stepped forward to claim her body? Have they decided on when to bury her?”

Baker pursed his lips. “They declined to take possession of the body.”

“They what?” Angelica said with a gasp.

“I have no further information,” Baker said.

Tricia and Angelica exchanged dismayed looks. How could any family fail to step forward and claim their dead? “Did they offer any explanation?” Angelica asked.

Baker shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“What will happen to her?” Tricia asked.

“The body will remain in the county’s custody for a limited amount of time, and then they will . . .” He paused, as though considering his words. “They’ll dispose of it.”

“You mean bury her in an unmarked grave?” Tricia asked.

Baker nodded. “It’s not like they trash the indigent. It’s done with dignity—just not a lot of flash. The state contributes some funds, but often local funeral parlors donate their services. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have work to do.” He tipped his hat to them and exited the café.

They watched as he returned to his cruiser and took off, heading north.

Angelica was the first to speak. “I can’t imagine what Pammy could have done that her family would abandon her . . . even in death.”

“She did say something about hating them—and that the feeling was mutual. But I thought she had to be exaggerating.” Tricia tried to swallow her distress. Okay, Pammy was never what she would’ve called a good or close friend, but to be abandoned so profoundly . . . Suddenly, Tricia had a better appreciation for her relationship with Angelica, despite their often silly differences.

She took a breath to regain her control. “Why was Captain Baker here so early?”

“Goodness knows. He probably doesn’t have any leads but wants to look busy.”

Angelica headed into her kitchen food prep station, where an array of vegetables was spread across the counter. She picked up a knife and began to slice a beefsteak tomato. “I’ve got to hire some help before I go crazy.”

“You didn’t answer my question. What did he want?”

“I think he came here just to annoy me.”

“How?” Tricia demanded, frustrated with Angelica’s lack of response.

“By asking the same questions he asked the other day. He’s wasting his time and mine.”

“It’s a cop thing. They try to catch you changing your story.”

“What story? I told him the truth. I don’t have any hidden agenda, and neither do you.”

“Did he ask about me?” Tricia asked.

Angelica nodded, set the tomato slices aside, and started shredding a head of iceberg lettuce. “He still can’t figure out why you kept Pammy for two weeks.”

“Well, he’s got company there, because neither can I.” Tricia chewed her lip for a moment. “I’ve got more news. Ginny is a freegan.”

Angelica dropped the lettuce. “You’re kidding.”

“No. She told me yesterday. I’ve been thinking I should give her a raise. Then maybe she won’t have to dig through garbage for her food.”

“Don’t you go and feel guilty about this,” Angelica said, waving a lettuce leaf in Tricia’s direction. “We pay our employees far better than any other booksellers in town. And we give them health care coverage, too.”

“And more than one of the booksellers resents us for it,” Tricia agreed.

“What Ginny’s doing isn’t illegal, and we’re not responsible if people steal our refuse and then eat it.” Angelica shuddered at the thought, set the lettuce aside, and started chopping a pepper. “Grab a knife, will you? I need to get those onions sliced for sandwiches.”

“Sorry, I haven’t got time. I’ve got an errand to run before I open the store.” Tricia glanced at her watch. “If I get going now, I may just make it.”

“What about me? I’m shorthanded.”

“Call the employment agency.”

“I have—every hour on the hour. Nobody wants minimum wage jobs—or those who are willing have been rounded up by Immigration. How’s a small business supposed to survive these days?”

Tricia had no answers, and bid her sister adieu.

Ten minutes later, she stood outside the Stoneham Library’s white-painted doors, admiring the untouched pumpkins that decorated the entrance. They weren’t carved, of course, which was probably why they’d escaped being ruined by the neighborhood hooligans.

The library’s door was unlocked at precisely nine. “Tricia!” Lois Kerr, Stoneham’s longtime head (and only full-time) librarian, greeted Tricia like an old friend. “It’s good to see you. What are you doing here so early?”

“Hi, Lois. I’m dropping off some books for the Friends of the Library’s upcoming sale, and I wanted to do it before I opened my store.”

“That’s very nice of you. The revenue from that sale is a wonderful shot in the arm for us. It seems the library is one of the first line items to go when the Board of Selectmen need to trim the village budget.”

“I’m glad to help.”

Lois ushered Tricia inside and showed her where to stow the books in the library’s small community room. It looked like other citizens of Stoneham had been as generous, for the room was very nearly stuffed to the ceiling along the back wall.

“Thank you so much,” Lois said, then lowered her voice and leaned in closer. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to endure more unpleasantness.”

Tricia nodded, but couldn’t think of how to reply. At least, with Pammy being a nobody, the press hadn’t descended upon Stoneham, as they had when the author Zoë Carter had died in Haven’t Got a Clue’s washroom.

“I understand the woman you found behind your sister’s restaurant was a friend of yours.”

“We were college roommates.”

Lois
tsk
ed. “You must have been devastated.”

“It was very upsetting,” Tricia admitted.

Lois shook her head in sympathy. “And to think, she was in here only last week, making copies.”

Tricia blinked. “She what?”

“Yes. As it happened, I was the one who helped her. Margaret was helping another patron check out books when your friend came in to use the copier. It jammed, and I had to clear the machine for her.”

“Did you see what she was copying?”

“Some kind of journal.”

“A diary?” Tricia asked eagerly.

Lois nodded. “Yes, perhaps it was.”

“What did it look like? How many pages did she copy?”

“It had a red cover. I’m not certain how many copies she made. Maybe four or five pages. Is it important?”

“Possibly. Did she say anything else?”

“She asked me for directions to the post office.”

Tricia stared at Lois for long seconds, her mind racing. “I have to go,” she said, and turned.

“To the post office?”

Tricia looked back to see a grin breaking across Lois’s face. “You could’ve been a detective.”

“I don’t think so,” Lois said. “But maybe one day I might write a book about one.”

Tricia smiled. “See you later, Lois.”

 

 

The Stoneham branch of the U.S. Postal Service was located in a neat brick structure on the south end of town, its windows outlined in crisp white paint. A row of four small, cheerful-looking uncarved pumpkins sat outside the door. The Stars and Stripes flapped in the stiff breeze above her as Tricia entered the squat building.

Forty-something Ted Missile seldom wore his official Postal Service uniform. He often came to work in a polo shirt or a Patriots’ sweatshirt. On the other hand, his boss, Postmaster Barbara Yarrows, could be counted on to be dressed in full regalia, from her regulation blue blouse down to her official uniform slacks or skirt. She was definitely old-school civil service, whereas Ted had taken the job after being laid off from a tool-and-die shop in Milford. Ted knew everybody in the village and greeted them by name. Barbara didn’t. Tricia was glad it was Ted who stood behind the counter, and hoped he would be able to tell her what she needed to know.