Bookplate Special (18 page)

Tricia kept to the far side of the line of windows and stared into the darkness. Lights blazed in the windows of the top floors of the buildings across the street. Like her, some of the shopkeepers lived above their stores; the rest of the space was rented out as apartments or offices. She didn’t for a minute believe one of her neighbors would pull such a stupid stunt, and there were no preteen boys or even teenagers living on Main Street—just the demographic that would own such a firearm. All those buildings sported metal fire escapes, as her own did. Someone could have climbed a fire escape, broken into an office and gotten onto the roof, taken a few potshots—and was probably already long gone.

She hoped.

For some reason, she wasn’t really afraid—more annoyed, perhaps. Someone had decided to crank up the fear factor. If the person on the phone could shoot at her windows with a BB gun, they certainly could have done so with a high-powered rifle. And thanks to the Supreme Court, any crank with a desire to start his own well-armed militia had the go-ahead from the country’s top lawmakers.

She should probably call the Sheriff’s Department and report this. But at this time of night, she’d have to deal with some deputy pulled off patrol. She glanced at the glowing numerals on her bedside clock. She didn’t want to wait the hour or more it might take for one to arrive, and decided instead to just call Captain Baker in the morning.

Tricia sidled along the wall, reached for the drapery pull. Before she did, she peeked out the window one last time . . . and saw a dark shape scurry into the shadow-filled doorway of Booked for Lunch. Could it be the shooter?

Heart pounding, she watched and waited.

A car rolled by, its headlights cutting through the darkness and then receding into the gloom.

Suddenly the figure darted out—its arms raised above its head—and hurled something round into the street.

The pumpkin exploded onto the asphalt. Tricia stared at the resulting mess, entranced—and missed seeing where the figure went.

She watched and waited as another car drove past, skirting what was now just refuse.

After a good five minutes with no other sign of the vandal, she pulled the cord and the curtains closed across the bank of windows. Even with them closed, Tricia decided not to turn on her bedside lamp. As she undressed and got ready for bed in the dark, she kept thinking about the demolished jack-o’-lantern, wondering if the shooter and the vandal could be the same person. She also contemplated the holes in her bedroom window, and worried what her caller’s next move would be.

THIRTEEN

“Ms. Miles,”
Captain Baker said firmly, “you should have called the Sheriff’s Department as soon as someone shot at your windows. We’re here to protect the citizens of Stoneham.”

Tricia glanced out the front window of Haven’t Got a Clue to where Baker’s cruiser was parked. “I’ve always wondered about that. The other towns around here all have their own police departments. Why does Stoneham depend on the Sheriff’s Department for protection?”

“The Board of Selectmen dissolved the Stoneham Village Police during the early 1990s, when the village was going broke. They never voted to reinstate it. But that’s beside the point. You should have called us last night.”

“What for? By the time a deputy arrived, the shooter would’ve been long gone.” Tricia sounded a whole lot braver than she’d felt the night before, and she’d spent a good part of the night lying in bed and worrying. “Besides,” she continued, “I haven’t had a very warm reception from the Sheriff’s Department in the past.”

“I know about your past difficulties with Sheriff Adams. That’s why
I’m
investigating Pamela Fredericks’s murder. I want you to call my office—day or night—if you have anything to report. If there’s an emergency, they can get hold of me in a matter of minutes.”

Tricia exhaled a breath. “Okay. As a matter of fact, I do have something else to report. For the last couple of days I’ve been receiving”—she hesitated; they weren’t really threatening calls—“annoying phone calls.”

Baker’s eyes narrowed. “How many have you received?”

Tricia shrugged. “Eight or ten.” Her voice grew softer, as though she expected a rebuke. “Maybe more.”

Baker looked ready to explode. “I don’t suppose you saved any of them,” he managed through gritted teeth.

“Just one. It’s on my home answering machine.”

“Is that a different number from the shop?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you’re listed in the phone book as well.”

“Just under my last name and first initial. But it’s a P for Patricia, not T, and everyone around here knows me as Tricia.”

“It doesn’t matter, if the caller knows your address. Now, do you mind if I listen to this call?”

“Not at all. I’ll show you the holes in my window, as well. If you’ll follow me.”

Baker grabbed his hat from the store’s sales counter and followed Tricia to the back of the shop. Miss Marple scampered ahead of them. She wasn’t about to be left behind with Ginny when she could follow Tricia upstairs and perhaps have an extra helping of cat cookies.

Tricia unlocked the apartment door and preceded Baker inside, with Miss Marple scooting in ahead of both of them. She jumped onto one of the kitchen stools and gave a sharp “
Yow
!”

“You don’t need a treat right now,” Tricia told her, and the disgruntled cat sat on her haunches and glared at her owner.

Baker looked around the converted loft space. “Nice.”

“Thank you.” Tricia held out her hand, indicating the way. “The window with the BB holes overlooks the street.”

Tricia led the way to her bedroom, glad she’d made the bed, and even dusted the nightstand, earlier that morning.

“Nice place,” Baker said, eying the space, his glance landing on the queen-sized bed, where it seemed to stay for far too long.

“The window,” Tricia prompted, indicating the glass across the way.

Baker shook his head, becoming all business once again. He moved to the window to examine the damage, and then shifted his gaze to take in the rooftops across the way. “The perfect vantage point.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“You ought to keep your curtains shut for the time being.”

“I did close them last night.”

He reached for the traverse cord. “Daytime, too,” he said as the drapes closed. The light grew dim, and the room seemed to shrink.

“I also saw something else last night.”

“Oh?”

“The person who’s been smashing pumpkins.”

“When was this?”

“Just after the shots were fired. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman—or a teenager. Just that the person was”—she paused, realizing what it was she’d seen the night before, but that hadn’t registered until this moment—“chunky.”

Baker frowned. “A fat vandal? You’re saying it wasn’t a kid?”

Tricia shrugged. “They say that thirty-three percent of today’s youth are overweight-to-obese,” she offered. “The person was dressed all in black. He or she raised the pumpkin over his or her head and then—
splat
!”

“
Splat
,” he repeated with no inflection.

She nodded.

“I want you to know I have looked into this pumpkin vandalism, and I can tell you that not one parent or homeowner in Stoneham has reported any stolen or smashed pumpkins.”

“No one?” she repeated in disbelief. “Then why . . . ?”

“I have no answer. Now, where’s that answering machine of yours?” Baker asked.

“It’s actually part of my phone.” Tricia led the way back to the kitchen. She stepped over to the counter and pressed the Play button.

“Tricia? It’s Russ. I’m sorry about the way things went the other night. I still care about you. I think we should talk. Please call me.”

Beep
!

Tricia stared at the Play button her finger still hovered over. If she’d known that message was there, she would never have played it for Captain Baker.

He cleared his throat. “I take it that wasn’t the message you wanted me to hear.”

Tricia pressed the Delete button. “No, it wasn’t.”

“And this Russ is?”

“Russ Smith, the editor of the
Stoneham Weekly News
. We used to be . . . friends.”

Baker nodded. “I see.”

Tricia wasn’t about to let on that the message had rattled her. She pressed the Play button again. This time, the draggy voice came out of the little speaker, sounding tinny and not at all threatening in the electric light of her drape-drawn day.

“Where’s this diary? Do you have it?” Baker asked when the message had ended.

“I have no idea! I don’t know what diary the person is talking about, and I certainly don’t have it. The caller might be referring to a diary belonging to Pammy Fredericks. But if she had one, I never saw it.”

“There wasn’t a diary with her personal effects in her car, either.”

“She did leave a box of books here, but they were pretty old—mostly mainstream paperback fiction. I gave them to the Stoneham Library for their used book sale.”

“You what?”

Tricia shrugged. “They weren’t worth anything. I mean, Pammy was dead. What good were they to her?”

“You should have told me about them,” Baker said sternly. “We could have gone through them, maybe found something to help us in our investigation.”

“Captain, I sell used books—take it from me, they were yard-sale castoffs, or something she got from digging through someone’s garbage. They weren’t worth anything.”

“When was the sale?” he demanded.

“It won’t happen until the end of the month.”

“Then maybe it’s not too late. Perhaps the head librarian can help me.”

“Lois Kerr is great, but there must have been twenty or thirty boxes of books in her conference room. I doubt she’d remember which box I brought in.”

“Would you remember?”

Tricia hesitated. The box had been nondescript, but she might remember some of the titles. “Maybe.”

Baker grabbed her by the elbow and hauled her toward the door leading to the stairs and the bookstore beyond them. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“But I have a business to run!”

“I have a murder to investigate, and I need your help to do it.”

Tricia grimaced and yanked back her arm. “You sure know how to sweet-talk a girl.”

 

 

Lois Kerr
stood at the threshold of the Stoneham Library’s conference room and frowned. “As you can see, Captain Baker, our patrons have been very generous with their donations for our fund-raiser.”

Generous wasn’t the word. Since Tricia had dropped off Pammy’s box of books several days before, an additional twenty or thirty cartons of old books had been added to the small room.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember which box was yours, Tricia,” Lois admitted.

Captain Baker did not look pleased. He sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose at the scent of old paper and mildew. “Ladies, you have your work cut out for you.”

“What do you mean we have our work cut out for us?” Tricia demanded.

“You’re going to dig through this pile of books until you find those that belonged to Ms. Fredericks.”

“Excuse me, Captain, but I have a meeting with Select-man Tim Powers in exactly ten minutes. And as you can see”—Lois waved a hand at her neat tweed suit—“I’m simply not dressed for the task.”

“Neither am I,” Tricia protested.

“I pressed this myself,” Baker said, jerking a thumb at his uniform blouse, “but it looks like I’ll have to get it wrinkled. Your home is right above your shop, Ms. Miles; you’ll be able to change as soon as you get back, if need be. And the quicker we find that box of books, the quicker you’ll get to return to your store.”

Lois flashed an embarrassed smile. “I’ll just leave you two to your work,” she said, and backed away from the conference room.

Tricia exhaled a long, annoyed breath, her gaze traveling up and down the stacked cartons. “We’ll have to move all these boxes to get to the stuff that was donated before Wednesday.”

“How do you know your box isn’t in the front row? I think you should look at each and every box to make sure it hasn’t been relocated since you dumped it off.”

“I did not dump the box here. I brought it in and placed it on the pile. I thought I was doing a charitable thing, not hindering your investigation.”

Baker opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it, apparently thinking better of it.

“Why don’t we start sorting through the piles? The sooner we get at it, the sooner we can both go back to work.”

He was trying and—if she was honest with herself—succeeding at treating her with more respect than Sheriff Adams ever had.

Tricia pushed up the sleeves of her sweater and sighed. “Okay.”

She stepped into the conference room and grabbed the first carton of books, staggering under its weight.

“Hold on,” Baker called, rushing up to her and taking the box from her. “I didn’t mean you should have to cart all these boxes around by yourself. I’ll put them on the table and you can go through them, okay?”

Chivalry was not dead after all. “That would be fine,” Tricia said.

They set to work. One by one, Captain Baker shifted the boxes, Tricia unfolded the interlocking flaps, looked inside each one, and pushed it aside.

“I’m really sorry you’re losing your morning to this,” Tricia said after ten minutes had gone by and they’d shifted at least as many boxes. “I really didn’t think the books would hold any value for you. They’re just old books.”

“Is that how you feel about the books in your shop?”

“Of course not. They’re mysteries.”

Baker laughed. “Ms. Miles, I do believe you’re a snob.”

Tricia looked up sharply. “I am not.”

“Then why don’t books other than mysteries intrigue you?”