Bookplate Special (22 page)

Tricia made another circuit of her bedroom. There was no way she was going to ask Russ for a favor, not the way they’d left things.
He’d
left things, she reminded herself. She hadn’t instigated their breakup, and so what if he’d called her to smooth things over? He was probably wracked with guilt over the way he’d treated her.

She considered that idea. No, he wouldn’t feel guilt. He didn’t seem capable of any real,
strong
emotions. And besides, what good was a weekly newspaper, when the current issue would come out the next day—and had been printed days before? Anything she could contribute wouldn’t be released for another eight days.

Yes, she’d give the diary to Baker—but only after she’d made a copy of it.

Just in case.

SIXTEEN

Tricia left
a message for Captain Baker at eight the next morning. She glanced at the clock as the phone rang ten minutes later. A public servant who arrived at work on time—more or less—and immediately returned his calls. Very refreshing.

Tricia held the phone tightly as she considered how she wanted to phrase her situation. “I’m ready to talk,” she said, expecting a scolding.

“Talk about what?” Baker asked.

“About everything I
think
I know about Pammy Fredericks’s death.”

“Is this new insight since we spoke yesterday, or have you been holding out on me?”

“What information would I be withholding?”

“I don’t know—perhaps the names of the local freegans. I haven’t had much luck tracking them down.”

Should she confess she’d joined the freegans on one of their Dumpster-diving expeditions? That was probably the prudent thing to do, but would it get Ginny into trouble?

She sidestepped the question. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got the diary my caller has been demanding. It was here in my store, mixed in with my regular stock. I want to turn it over to you.”

“I’ll be right over,” he said, and hung up.

“Right over” was relative, since he had to drive at least thirty miles to get there.

Tricia decided to kill time by heading down to the store. She’d had a run on best sellers and needed to restock—and that meant order forms and faxing. As usual, Miss Marple was keen to start the workday, and accompanied her down the stairs to the shop.

The phone rang at eight thirty, and Tricia picked it up. “Haven’t Got a Clue. We’re closed right now, but we’ll open at—”

“Tricia? It’s Frannie.”

“Hi, Frannie. You’re lucky you caught me in the store.”

“I already tried your home and cell numbers. You ought to turn that cell phone on once in a while, ya know.”

Tricia laughed. “Everybody tells me that. What can I do for you?”

“It’s Penny,” Frannie said, and her voice cracked.

“What’s wrong?”

“She doesn’t like me.” Frannie began to sob.

“Hey, now. How do you know she doesn’t like you?”

“She spent all of last evening hiding behind the couch. I couldn’t even coax her out with cat food, kitty treats, or even a catnip toy.”

“That’s not surprising,” Tricia said. “You’ve only had her a few hours. She doesn’t know she can trust you, yet.”

“Well, of course she knows me. I’ve been feeding her for weeks.”

“You’ve been leaving out bowls of food for weeks. She doesn’t know it was you who did it.”

Frannie sniffed. “What can I do to make her like me?”

“Nothing.”

“What?” she cried, aghast.

“Let her get used to her new home. Let her come to you on her own terms.”

“Is that what you did with Miss Marple?”

“Yes. And with every other cat I’ve had. You’ll see. She’ll warm up to you in a couple of days.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay.”

Tricia moved the phone away from her ear as Frannie blew her nose loudly.

“I wish I didn’t have to leave her alone all day,” Frannie said. “Do you think there’s any way Angelica would ever let me bring her to the store?”

“Not likely. Besides, Penny needs to get used to her new home before you even think of bringing her to the store.”

“But would you ask Angelica about it? I’m sure you could get her to change her mind.”

No one’s powers of persuasion were that good.

“I’ll ask,” Tricia agreed, “but don’t get your hopes up.”

“Oh, thank you, Tricia. You’re a peach! Talk to you later.”

Tricia replaced the receiver. It would be a cold day in hell when Angelica let Frannie bring a cat into the Cookery. Still, she’d keep her promise, and ask. It was the least she could do.

By the time Captain Baker arrived at Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia had finished her chores and had a fresh pot of coffee waiting, and there was still plenty of time to talk before the store opened or her employees arrived.

She handed the journal to the captain.

“And you say you found it here in the store?” he asked.

Tricia nodded. “Actually, my sister found it. Pammy must have stashed it among my stock on the morning she left—the day she died,” Tricia clarified. “I read through it, and it appears to be a woman’s journal through her pregnancy. Pammy told a couple of the locals she was about to come into a lot of money, and she was very interested in talking to Stuart Paige.”

“Just who did she tell?”

Tricia shrugged. “I’m not sure I remember exactly who told me,” she fudged.

Baker studied her face for a long moment. Was he psychic? Did his cop’s intuition tell him she wasn’t being entirely truthful?

Finally, he spoke. “I haven’t had any luck finding any of the local freegans. I’ve talked with Mr. Paige, and he assures me he never spoke to Pamela Fredericks.”

“Pammy may have thought he was the father of this woman’s baby, but there’s no way to prove it. The author didn’t name names—not even her own.”

Baker flipped through the pages, reading snatches of it before thumbing through to other passages.

Tricia decided not to mention she’d copied its contents on her all-in-one printer earlier that morning. Those pages now resided in the bottom of the cedar chest in her bedroom.

Baker frowned. “I don’t suppose there are any useful fingerprints on it anymore. You say your sister handled it, too?”

“Sorry, but we did.”

“Did she read the contents?”

Tricia shook her head. “She thought it looked pretty tame. She was right—that is, until the last entry. The author gave up the child, and from the looks of it, then tried to burn the book.”

Baker continued to page through the journal, only half listening to her.

“Captain, I hope you’ll announce to the media that you’ve got the journal or diary or whatever my elusive caller wants to call it. If he knows it’s in your custody, he’ll probably leave me alone.”

He snapped the book shut. “Not if he thinks you read it.”

Oops! Tricia hadn’t considered that.

“Are we sure it’s a man who made the calls? It could’ve been a woman. You can get those voice-altering devices at places like Radio Shack,” Tricia said.

“I’ll keep an open mind,” Baker said, giving her a wry smile.

Tricia couldn’t help but smile as well. Unlike his boss, he
had
listened to her. At least he hadn’t ridiculed her assumption about Pammy and Stuart Paige.

The ghost of a smile touched Baker’s lips. “What?”

“What, what?” Tricia repeated.

“You’re smiling.”

“I am? Oh, I’d better stop, then,” she said, and tried to keep a straight face, but it was impossible. She laughed and realized she probably looked like an idiot. And heavens—what if he thought she was flirting with him?

Good grief, she realized—she
was
flirting with him. She covered her mouth with her hand, and this time she was able to wipe the smile from her face. She looked up and into his green eyes. Haunting eyes—like her ex-husband’s. The man she’d never really gotten over.

“I apologize, Captain Baker. I was thinking about something funny, and this situation is anything but funny.”

“I agree. But there’s nothing to apologize for. I’m surprised you’re able to keep a sense of humor after what you’ve been through—not just the death of your friend, but what you’ve gone through in the past year.”

True enough.

“I’ve been reading mystery books since I was a little girl. I never, ever expected to know a murder victim, and now I’ve known three. It’s terribly upsetting. Pammy and I weren’t close, but we had history together. I’d like her killer to be found and brought to justice.”

“Justice?” Captain Baker asked with a laugh. “That’s not something I see too often in my line of work.”

“But you’re a man of the law.”

He sighed. “Yes.” He looked down at the book in his hands. “I’d better get back to the office and read this,” he said, reaching for his hat.

“I made a fresh pot of coffee. You could sit in the reader nook. It would at least be quiet—for the next hour, that is.”

“I’ve got an office with a door. It’ll be quiet enough. But thank you.”

Tricia nodded and walked him to the door.

“Unless I have more questions, your part in this investigation is now done. Is that clear?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Sheriff Adams doesn’t think you’ll be content to . . .” He hesitated.

“To mind my own business?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But that’s what you were thinking.”

Baker sobered. “I don’t know you very well, Ms. Miles—”

“Tricia,” she insisted.

“But from what I’ve already seen, you might be as stubborn as a terrier. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt pursuing avenues of investigation better left to the Sheriff’s Department.”

“I’m flattered you’re concerned about my personal safety,” she managed, trying not to bite her tongue.

“It’s my job to protect and serve.” His tone was definitely verging on condescending.

She shook her head and pursed her lips. “You had to go and ruin it, didn’t you?”

He looked baffled. “Ruin what?”

“Here I thought I’d been dealing with a reasonable member of the Sheriff’s Department, and you had to revert to being a jerk just like your boss.”

Baker straightened in indignation. “I—what?”

Tricia pointed toward the door. “Go. Now. Before we both say something we’ll regret.”

Baker opened his mouth to say something, apparently thought better of it, and closed it. He seemed to do that a lot. His grip on the diary tightened. “Good-bye, Ms. Miles.”

He stalked off to the door, yanked it open, and exited.

Nobody
told Tricia what to do. Not Angelica, not Bob Kelly, and certainly not Captain Baker of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Department.

The problem was . . . she had no plans to defy him. There were no other avenues she could investigate on her own.

Unless . . . If Baker went directly back to his office to read the diary, she might have time to track down Stuart Paige and ask him about Pammy herself. She hadn’t remembered to tell Baker about the envelope Pammy had mailed to Paige.

Tricia glanced out the store’s large display window, watching as Baker got into his cruiser. There was still time to flag him down and share that piece of news.

He started the engine and pulled away from the curb, heading north. Should she call him, leave a message about the envelope?

She might have . . . if he hadn’t gotten snarky.

What was it Frannie had told her days before—that Paige was staying at the Brookview Inn, just south of the village?

Tricia glanced at her watch, and grimaced. Half an hour before Ginny or Mr. Everett showed up for work. It would take Baker almost half an hour just to get back to his office. She’d still have time to go to the inn and try to talk to Paige. Although if what Frannie had said was true, the inn’s receptionist, Eleanor, wasn’t likely to help her get in to see the man. Maybe she could bluff her way in.

It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all Tricia had.

 

 

No matter
the season, the Brookview Inn always looked lovely. Since it was October, corn shocks, gourds, and pumpkins decorated the long porch that ran across the front of the white-painted colonial structure. And no smashed jack-o’-lanterns, either. Tricia didn’t linger to enjoy the view, however, and jogged up the front steps and through the main entrance.

The parking lot had been full, and the noise coming from the restaurant adjacent to the reception desk told Tricia that some kind of breakfast business meeting was still in session. As usual, Eleanor was seated behind the check-in desk. Trust her to be the most dedicated employee on the face of the planet. Didn’t she ever take a potty break?

Before Tricia could make a hasty exit, Eleanor called her name.

“Tricia, it’s so good to see you. What’s it been, three—four months?”

“Hi, Eleanor. Yes. I’ve had a great summer at the store. Not much time to attend Chamber meetings or even go out to dinner.”

“Yes, it’s been a long time since you and Russ have been in here.”

Tricia cringed at the sound of his name, and Eleanor was quick to notice. “Uh-oh, trouble in paradise?” she asked.

“Russ and I have decided to . . . cool our relationship.” That sounded a lot better than saying she’d been dumped. And surprisingly, the whole village didn’t know about it yet. Well, they would now.

“I’m so sorry. You made such a nice couple.”

“I’m keeping busy.”

“Yes, we are, too. The inn is booked to capacity. It’s a real coup for us, since there aren’t a lot of accommodations in Milford—we’re always packed straight through the Pumpkin Festival.”

“I’m sorry I have to keep the store open and will miss it.”

“Me, too, for the most part. But I’m taking off a couple of hours so I can enter the pie contest. I won third place two years ago, and I’m going for first this year. But talking about the festival isn’t what you came in for. What can I do for you?”