Bookplate Special (25 page)

Ginny was as excited as a child on Christmas morning. “Do you mind if I take the appliances upstairs and get them set up?”

“Oh, they’re much too heavy for you to cart up the stairs.”

Ginny waved off her protests. “No, they’re not. If you could see what I’ve lifted and carried these past few months while working on our house, you’d know I could’ve been a successful stevedore.”

Tricia laughed. “Where did you come up with that description?”

Ginny thought about it. “I don’t know—some book I read. I’ve been reading a lot of classic mysteries lately.”

“Yes, I know. And I think it’s wonderful. But there’s nowhere to put them yet.”

“I’ll just take them out of the boxes and set them on the floor. I can come in early one day and we can set them up. When we get some furniture, that is.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt. If they’re too heavy, don’t mess with them. Maybe I can get Bob to help us take them up. He ought to be good for something.”

Ginny giggled and took off for the back of the store.

Business picked up, and Tricia waited on several customers, helping them find their favorite authors and ringing up the sales. In between, she was preoccupied with thoughts of how to approach furnishing the break room. She was staring out the window, looking at nothing, when a Sheriff’s Department cruiser pulled up and parked right outside Haven’t Got a Clue. She watched as a tight-lipped Captain Baker emerged from behind the driver’s seat, slammed his regulation hat onto his head, and marched for the door.

Ginny reappeared and stood behind Tricia. “Uh-oh. This looks like trouble.”

Baker opened the door, letting it slam against the wall, stepped inside, and let it bang shut before he advanced on the sales register like an angry bull.

“Where are they?” he demanded, shoving the red-covered diary at Tricia.

“Where are what?”

“The missing pages. There are at least two sheets—four pages—missing.”

“There are?”

“Would I be here demanding you return them if I didn’t think so?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He opened the book to the middle. “Read the last sentence on this page and see if it makes sense to you.”

Tricia scanned the cursive text at the bottom of the lefthand page.
I’ve asked him for money so that I can—
her gaze traveled to the top of the right-hand page—
and I’m not about to make waves. That would insure I never get him back again.

Tricia frowned. She must have been tired when she originally read that segment of the journal. Otherwise she would’ve noticed that the sentence didn’t make sense. Unless the writer had been fatigued herself, and lost her train of thought. She noticed the diary’s signature threads were loose, as though pages had been ripped out. Funny she hadn’t noticed that before—maybe because the lighting in her living room wasn’t as bright as it could be.

Tricia handed back the journal. “What makes you think I took the page or pages out?”

“You were the last one to have the book in your possession.”

“But why would you think I tore them out? Isn’t it more likely Pammy would’ve done it herself? Or how about the diary’s original owner?”

“Someone did it. If the diary was found here, perhaps the missing pages are here, too.”

Tricia straightened in indignation. “What do you propose? To tear my shop apart looking for them?”

“It’s an option.”

She stood tall. “I don’t think so.”

He stood taller. “I can get a warrant.”

It was all Tricia could do not to explode. “Captain, Pammy was unsupervised in my store for less than two minutes—more like one minute—before she left here on Monday. She only had time to hide the diary. My sister and I took nearly every book off the back shelves before she found it. Pammy could’ve had those pages in her suitcase or her purse. And don’t forget, she tried to confront Stuart Paige at the Food Shelf’s dedication after she left here. Isn’t it likely she would’ve had them with her?”

“No. Because if he or his associates took them from her, she’d have no leverage for blackmail.”

“No one ever said Pammy was the brightest light on the Christmas tree.”

Baker had no rebuttal. Instead he turned to Ginny. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a freegan?”

Ginny looked like a deer standing in headlights. “You never asked.”

He turned on Tricia. “You knew I was looking for freegans. Why didn’t you tell me your employee was one?”

Ginny had already used up the best excuse. “I didn’t think they could help you. I’ve already talked to them, and—”

Baker lost it. He yanked his hat from his head and threw it on the counter, startling both women. “When are you going to get it through that head of yours that I’m running this investigation, not you?”

“How did you find out about Ginny?”

“The convenience store owner told me.”

Ginny’s eyes blazed. “Did he also mention his son is one of us, too?”

Baker spoke through clenched teeth. “No, he didn’t.” He looked down at the journal still clutched in his hand.

“What’s your next move?” Tricia asked. “You’ve tracked Pammy’s movements the morning of her death. She could’ve dropped off those pages at any one of her stops.”

“Yes. I suppose I’ll have to go back and interview everyone who spoke with her that day.”

Tricia pointed to her watch. “Time’s a-wasting.”

This time it was Baker who looked like he wanted to slug somebody. Instead, he jabbed his index finger in Ginny’s direction. “I’m going to call for another deputy to come and question you. Stay here. Don’t talk to any of your friends. Do you hear me?”

Ginny’s head bobbed, her eyes still wide.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he told Tricia, then grabbed his hat, and stormed out of the shop.

Ginny winced. “Are you actively trying to make an enemy out of him?”

Tricia shook her head, almost as angry as Baker had been. “We started off on the right foot, but things have gone downhill since Monday. Maybe it’s my destiny to never get along with law enforcement. Me, who’s a fan of police procedurals.”

“Maybe you should have gone into police work instead of bookselling. For you, it would be just as dangerous as owning this bookstore.”

Tricia chose to believe Ginny was kidding.

She glanced down the street and saw Baker enter the Happy Domestic, the first place Pammy had put in a job application. Next up would be Russ at the
Stoneham Weekly News
, and then Angelica at Booked for Lunch.

Was it possible Pammy had dumped the pages at the last place she’d visited before her death?

“Watch the shop, Ginny. I’ve got to go see Angelica.”

“Sure thing. But what am I going to say to the deputy who comes to interview me? Do you think I need a lawyer?”

Tricia shook her head. “Just tell the truth. You’ll be okay.” She headed for the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Tricia jaywalked across Main Street and entered Booked for Lunch. The place was a madhouse. Every table was full, as were the stools at the counter. Angelica waited on a table of four while a strident voice at the counter called, “Miss! Miss!”

Angelica looked up and saw Tricia. “See what that guy wants, will you?”

Tricia jumped behind the counter. “How can I help you, sir?”

“More coffee,” he said, shoving his stained cup toward her. She reached behind her and grabbed a coffeepot from the warmer. “Not decaf, you idiot!”

Tricia looked down. Sure enough, the pot’s handle was orange. “Sorry.” She switched carafes and poured. “Do you need creamer with that?”

“Of course I do,” he snapped. “Why doesn’t the owner hire competent help? First that stupid waitress, and now you.”

It took all Tricia’s resolve not to pour coffee on his lap.

A little bell rang from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen.

“Miss, I could use a refill, too,” said a voice at the other end of the counter.

Tricia poured, and offered everyone else a refill.

Angelica rushed to the counter to grab a bottle of ketchup. “What are you doing here—not that I care. I can use the help.” She grabbed a jar of mustard, too.

The little bell rang again; twice this time.

“Captain Baker says there’re pages missing from Pammy’s diary. He’ll probably be here any minute to search the place.”

“Not until I close! And why would he think she left the pages here?”

“This was the last place she visited before she died. Have you seen anything that looks like diary pages?”

“Miss, where’s my ketchup?” a voice demanded.

Tricia threw an angry glare at the offending customer. “Remind me why you wanted to start this business.”

“I’m shorthanded, and they want their food when they want it—not when I can get it to them.”

“Captain Baker also found out Ginny is a freegan. He was furious because I didn’t tell him.”

A little bell rang madly from the kitchen.

“What
is
that?” Tricia asked.

“Jake’s got my two burgers and fries up. Can you go grab them? They’re for table four.”

“I’ve got my own business to run, you know.”

“Please?” Angelica pleaded.

Tricia turned. If their father could see the two of them working as waitresses—after all the money he’d spent on Ivy League colleges—he’d have a fit.

She collected the plates and delivered them to table four, grateful Angelica had hung a little numbered ceramic tile above each table. After she’d collected ketchup and mustard for the table and had been assured the couple needed nothing else, she went behind the counter once again. No one was screaming for anything, so she crouched down and began her search.

Though the café had been open only a little over two weeks, Angelica had accumulated a wide assortment of junk behind the counter. Condiments, jumbo coffee filters, packages of napkins, a case of cocoa mix, coffee, nondairy creamer, order pads, a box of pens, odd dishes, silverware, and heaven only knew what else. What she didn’t find were the missing pages of Pammy’s diary.

“I’d like my bill, please,” the counter’s crab said.

Tricia looked up. Angelica was conversing with a four-some at table two. “Ange. Check needed over here.”

Angelica didn’t turn, but gave a backward wave.

“Miss,” crabby insisted.

“Ange!”

Angelica turned, reaching into her apron pocket for her order pad. “Sorry, honey,” she said, handing the patron his check. “We’re shorthanded.”

“I’d like to speak to the manager,” crabby demanded.

“You’re looking at her,” she said, tearing another sheet from her pad.

“You ought to hire competent help,” he said, glaring at Tricia.

“As I told you, sir, we’re shorthanded. Tricia here came over just to give me a hand. Of course, if you’d like to apply for a job as a waiter, I’d be willing to look at your résumé.”

The man grabbed the check, thumbed through his wallet, and yanked out a few bills, which he tossed on the counter.

Angelica picked up the money. “Hey, a fifty-cent tip. That’s forty-nine cents more than I expected.”

The customer stomped out of the café.

“Ange,” Tricia whispered, “you shouldn’t be so flip with your customers. You know the old saying, ‘the customer’s always—’ ”

“Right,” Angelica finished. “Well, guess what—sometimes they’re not right. Sometimes they’re downright rude.” She turned back to the people sitting at the counter. “Anybody need another round of coffee?” she asked cheerfully.

Nobody took her up on it.

She turned back to her sister. “How long can you stay, Trish? The lunchtime rush will be over in another fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“I guess I could stay that long. But I’m totally incompetent as a waitress.”

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to bus tables. You can start with the stuff on the counter. Afterward, I’ll give you a hand looking for Pammy’s pages.”

“Fair enough.”

Tricia scooped up the dishes and took them to the kitchen. Before she could escape, Jake, the cook, had her wrapped in an apron with her sweater sleeves pushed up as far as they would go, and up to her elbows in suds, washing dishes. Just what she needed—dishpan hands.

But Angelica had been right about the lunch crowd. Within fifteen minutes most of the customers had left the café.

“Oh, Trish, you are an angel,” Angelica said, swooping in with yet another load of dirty dishes. She scraped the leftovers into a plastic tub and handed the plates and silverware to Tricia.

Jake, who’d been cleaning the grill area, untied his apron. “I’m off to my second job,” he said, and grabbed his jacket from the peg. See you tomorrow, Angie.”

“’Bye, Jake.”

The door slammed behind him.

“He’s got a second job?” Tricia asked.

“I pay him better than average, but it’s still not enough to make ends meet. I just hope he doesn’t quit on me.” Angelica handed Tricia a towel. “Dry off, and we’ll see if we can’t find those papers you’re looking for.”

Before Tricia could remove her apron, a voice called out from the dining room. “Ms. Miles.”

“Oh, no,” she groaned, recognizing Captain Baker’s voice.

“Which Ms. Miles do you think he’s calling?” Angelica asked.

“We’d better both go, although my being here is sure to make him angry—and he wasn’t in a good mood when he left my store.”

Angelica led the way back to the dining area. “Captain Baker, how nice to see you again.” What an actress! She actually sounded pleased to see the man. “Did I tell you my cookbook,
Easy-Does-It Cooking
, is going to be published on June first?”

“Yes. More than once.” He looked past her, and saw Tricia. “What are
you
doing here?”

Tricia indicated the damp apron still covering her sweater and the front of her slacks. “Helping my sister. She’s shorthanded.”