Bookplate Special (21 page)

The phone rang. Tricia ignored it, spooning up more soup.

It rang again. And again. Since Angelica was already present, it could be only one other caller. Okay, maybe two if she counted Russ—and she
didn’t
want to count him.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Angelica asked.

It stopped ringing.

“Um, there’s something I haven’t mentioned to you. Someone’s been calling me, demanding that I give back Pammy’s diary.”

“What diary?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. She left a bunch of books here with me, but there was no diary among them.”

“Where do you think she got the books?” Angelica asked.

“I don’t know. An estate sale, perhaps. She could’ve found them in the trash on one of her Dumpster-diving expeditions. Who says she acquired them all from the same place? And anyway, it’s the diary that someone wants, not the rest of the books.”

“Why would anyone think you’ve got the diary?”

“Probably because Pammy stayed with me for two weeks. It wasn’t in her car or her suitcases. I’m probably the last hope that person has of finding the book.”

“But you don’t have it.”

“No, and I searched this apartment pretty thoroughly, too.” Miss Marple jumped up on one of the stools, as though to let Angelica know that she had helped in the hunt.

“Did this person threaten you? Maybe you should tell Captain Baker about the calls.”

“I already did. And besides, they haven’t been threatening, just annoying.”

“Still . . . they could escalate into threats. What did Captain Baker say?”

Tricia shrugged. “To keep him informed.”

“And will you?”

“Of course. He seems a lot more amiable than Sheriff Adams ever was. Maybe because it’s a career for him—not just politics.”

Angelica frowned, looking around the kitchen. “Let’s assume Pammy did hide the diary here.”

“I told you, I’ve looked.”

“Did she have access to your storeroom?”

Tricia shook her head. “I keep it locked in case any curious customers make their way up the stairs.”

“Me, too. Would you believe someone peed in the Cookery’s stairway on Sunday?”

“I told you Frannie should have help at the store.”

“How would Frannie have stopped someone from peeing in my stairwell? The restroom was probably occupied and someone just didn’t want to—or couldn’t—wait.”

“I hope you didn’t make Frannie clean it up.”

“She’s managing the store now—tidying up is part of the job.”

Tricia shook her head. “That’s not what I would call ‘tidying.’ And can we get back to the subject at hand—the missing diary? How are we going to find it?” she said, and pushed her empty soup bowl away.

“Have you looked in your store? What better place to hide it?”

Tricia sprang up from her stool, the sudden movement sending Miss Marple flying. “Of course! Pammy could’ve ditched the diary when she left here on Monday. She went downstairs ahead of me. By the time I locked the apartment door and followed, she might’ve been down there almost a minute. That would’ve been plenty of time to hide the diary among the books in my store.”

“And how are we supposed to find it? Look on every shelf, read the spines of every title you’ve got? There must be ten thousand books to sort through.”

“It can’t hurt,” Tricia said, and headed for the door.

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Angelica begged. “I’ve been on my feet all day. And don’t forget, I need to start making appetizers. Besides, the light isn’t all that great down there.”

“The light is perfectly fine in my store.”

“Only if you’re a mole. You ought to invest in more track lighting.”

“And ruin my original tin ceiling? It was the only thing I kept during the renovation. Are you going to help me or not?”

“Well, I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

“Good, then let’s go!”

“I’ll rinse these dishes and put them in the dishwasher, and meet you downstairs,” Angelica said.

An hour later, the idea of searching the shelves didn’t seem like such a good idea. Angelica had brought her cookbooks back down and left them by the door before she attacked a set of shelves in the back of the store. She’d amassed a pile of books around her and was reading the cover flap on the one in her hand. “Hey, this Dorothy Sayers sounds like a good author. Have you ever read
Gaudy Night
?”

Tricia sighed and sat back on her heels. “Only ten or twenty times. I thought you didn’t like period pieces.”

“I’m open to all fiction, although I prefer cooking and decorating books. I’m reading this wonderful book right now—”

“We’re supposed to be looking for the diary, remember?” Tricia interrupted.

Angelica poked her tongue out at her sister.

Tricia reseated herself in a more comfortable position and resumed her search. Red cover. No words on the spine. She squinted in the bad light. Perhaps Angelica was right. Perhaps she did need to add more lighting so that customers could better see the bottom shelves.

“How long are we going to keep up the search?” Angelica asked.

“Until we find it.”

“What if it isn’t here?”

Tricia didn’t want to think about that. If the diary wasn’t hidden in Haven’t Got a Clue, it could be anywhere—if it still existed. And what was she supposed to tell the voice the next time it called? “Sorry, but I don’t have it. Never did. Don’t know where it’s at. Please stop bothering me.”

That and five bucks would get her a double latte cappuccino with hazelnut and cinnamon at the Coffee Bean across the street.

Tricia pulled out another two or three books, noting that none of them had any dust on them. Mr. Everett was truly serious about his dusting. Thinking of Mr. Everett reminded her that he and Grace were about to get married, and that he’d need a week off right at the peak of the fall foliage season, when Stoneham would be filled with tourists.

“Red cover,” Angelica muttered. “No type on the spine.” She held up a book, waving it in the air. “It’s not a diary with a lock, Trish. It’s a journal.”

Tricia’s head snapped around. “You found it?”

“I’m almost as good as Saint Anthony when it comes to finding lost items. Remember, it was me who found the missing cookbook after Doris Gleason was—”

“Don’t remind me,” Tricia interrupted, holding up a hand to stave off another round of “I told you so,” which Angelica had probably been about to make.

Tricia crawled across the space between them until she was inches from her sister. She made to grab the book, but Angelica held it out of her reach. “Hey, I found it, I should be the first to read it.”

Tricia scowled but sat back, extending her arms behind her, palms down, on the floor.

“Uh-uh-uh!” Angelica tut-tutted, pointing at the circle of books around her. “Don’t get comfortable. You can put these back while I read aloud.”

“You took them out—you put them back.”

Angelica looked down her nose at Tricia and cleared her throat. Then she grabbed the reading glasses that hung around her neck on a chain. She stared down at the book. “Hmm. Somebody obviously wanted to get rid of this thing. Look.” She held the book out for Tricia to see.

The edges of the pages had been singed.

“Looks likes someone tried to burn it and changed their mind, or someone tried to burn it and someone else rescued it. Wow, there must be some juicy stuff inside.” Angelica opened the cover and turned to the first page. “The first entry is dated August seventh, twenty-one years ago.” She frowned. “The author would not win points for penmanship.”

“Read!” Tricia commanded.

Angelica squinted at the cursive handwriting. “
Bunny and I went shopping on Saturday, but nothing in my size fit. I knew then that I was probably pregnant. Just my damn luck.”
She looked up. “Oh, Trish, this is delicious. A scandal on page one.”

Tricia frowned. “Being pregnant is hardly a scandal, even in the nineteen eighties.”

“How do you know? Maybe this woman was a society maven.”

“We don’t even know who the author is. Unless there’s a name on the flyleaf.”

Angelica looked at the inside front cover. “No such luck, honey.” She flipped through several pages, skimming the handwriting. “Oh, my, I may have been wrong. This looks deadly dull. Here’s a weather report:
Rainy and gloomy today. I think I’ll clean out the kitchen cabinets. That ought to keep me out of trouble for at least the afternoon.
” She pulled a face. “I’ve changed my mind about reading this. Here.” She handed off the book. “You can have it. Pick out the more salacious parts and give me a capsule update.”

Tricia flipped through the pages. “Fine. I’ve got nothing better to do tonight.”

Angelica struggled to her feet. “Oh, yes, you have.” She nudged one of the books on the floor with the toe of her shoe. “I told you, I’m not putting these away. I’m going home.” She headed for the shop’s front exit, and picked up her bag of cookbooks. “Good night, dear sister. See you tomorrow.”

Tricia, too, pulled herself to her feet, and crossed the store to lock the door behind Angelica. She didn’t want to put the books away either, but if Mr. Everett was going to be scarce for the next couple of weeks, she didn’t want to overwork Ginny.

Twenty minutes later, Tricia and Miss Marple headed up the stairs, the formerly missing journal in hand. As Tricia entered her loft apartment, the phone began to ring. “Not again,” she groaned. She let the answering machine take the call. Sure enough, it was the same voice. What that person wanted, she now had. She waited until the caller hung up before she turned down the volume on the phone. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down on the comfortable leather couch in the living room. Miss Marple deigned to accompany her, settling herself on Tricia’s lap.

The phone rang three more times while Tricia read the contents of the journal. Angelica was right: most of it was pretty dull. Its unmarried author chronicled her pregnancy—the morning sickness, the expanding waistline—and her firm determination to hook the baby’s father; she wasn’t prepared to settle for just child support. Not surprising, the love of her life was not about to leave his comfortable lifestyle for the likes of an unwanted lover. And not once in the hundred or so pages of rather sloppy cursive handwriting did the author ever mention the name of the baby’s father—let alone her own. What good was this as an instrument of blackmail? But someone thought the journal was worth killing for. And now that someone was hounding Tricia for it.

Well, “hounding” was a strong word for the relatively benign calls she’d received so far. If so, maybe that was why the threat wasn’t explicit, nor the calls all that frightening.

The author’s water had just broken, but Tricia was yawning, and decided she could wait until tomorrow to read the rest and find out the sex of the baby. Miss Marple had fallen asleep long before, and was startled to awareness when Tricia’s hand slipped and she nearly dropped the journal on the cat. Miss Marple stretched her legs and jumped from Tricia’s lap, heading for the bedroom.

“I’m with you, Miss Marple.”

Tricia set the journal aside and turned off the living room lamps. As she entered her bedroom she paused, looking over her shoulder to see the book once again.

If the journal’s contents weren’t worthy of blackmail, could there be something else about the book that warranted further investigation? She crossed the darkened living room to retrieve it.

In her bedroom, she turned on the bedside lamp, sat down, and examined the book in greater detail. There was nothing special about it. It hadn’t been expensive and was probably purchased in a discount store. She held the book by its spine and shook it. No loose pieces of paper fell out. No secret compartment revealed itself.

She thumbed through the pages, picking up where she had left off. The next entry wasn’t as drab and/or hopeful as the previous hundred or so pages. The tone had changed to hysteria.

I can’t believe I gave birth to that—that
thing
! All my plans—all my beautiful plans for a wonderful life—are gone. I don’t even want it. Bunny talked to Social Services this morning, and thank God I can dump it into the foster care system. I’m signing away all my rights. If anyone asks me about it, I’ll tell them it died. I’m just so disgusted!!!

Tricia slammed the cover shut and tossed the journal onto the night table. Talk about disgusted! The author’s self-serving dreams of a pampered life must have turned into a nightmare when the child was born with some kind of birth defect. Or maybe it was a Down syndrome child.

It wasn’t the author who earned Tricia’s pity, but the poor baby. The author hadn’t even mentioned if it was a boy or girl—just
it
.

Tricia rose to her feet and began to pace, Miss Marple watching her every move.

As far as she could see, Pammy had been killed for nothing. The author had never mentioned names. She’d given the child up. There was no indication where the author lived. Without more information, it would be impossible to prove if Paige—or the Pope himself—was the father of the illegitimate child.

Maybe she should just give the caller what he (or she?) wanted.

Better yet, she’d call Captain Baker and turn it over to him.

Tricia glanced at her bedside clock. It was too late to call tonight, but she’d do it first thing in the morning.

That said, she wasn’t sure she was ready to give up the journal. She could copy it, but that wasn’t the same as actually having it in her possession, despite whatever danger her caller represented. Yet keeping it was foolhardy. And how would she convince her unknown caller that she’d given it to the Sheriff’s Department? Should she hold a press conference? Perhaps she could give the journal to Baker with the stipulation that he report his findings to the media. Would he? Well, perhaps her acquaintance Portia McAlister, from Boston’s News Team Ten, would help. Of course, Pammy’s murder wasn’t big enough for the Boston market, but maybe Portia knew someone at the
Nashua Telegraph
.