Bookplate Special (3 page)

Tricia had learned to tolerate him for her sister’s sake, and even managed to sound cheerful when she replied, “What?”

“The Stoneham Food Shelf reopens today in their new location. The Chamber needs warm bodies to show up at the dedication.”

“I’d love to go, Bob,” she lied, “but I’m so tied up with the store.”

Her customer had gone back to perusing the bookshelves, and Ginny joined Tricia. “I can take care of things here while you’re gone. And Mr. Everett will be in here at two this afternoon. Go. Have a good time.”

“That’s great,” Bob said, since he’d obviously heard Ginny. “It’s a quarter mile north of Stoneham. That new pole-barn structure they’ve been building. Just head out Main Street, you can’t miss it. I’ll see you there in twenty minutes.”

“But, Bob—!”

He hung up.

Tricia put the phone down and turned her gaze on her assistant. “Why did you say that?”

Ginny bounced on her feet, looking pleased with herself. “I thought you might like to go. Maybe Russ will take your picture and you can give the store some free publicity. Besides,” she said, delivering the coup de grace, “it’s for charity.”

 

 

Stoneham was
ready for the leaf peepers—tourists who came to New Hampshire to enjoy the beauty of autumn. It seemed like every store and home was decorated with red and orange wreaths, pumpkins, and corn shocks, while big plastic spiders in imitation webs covered bushes and inflatable ghosties and goblins swayed in the gentle breeze. Kelly Realty had a stack of small pumpkins in its drive with a sign declaring FREE PUMPKIN WHEN YOU LIST WITH US.

Parking for the dedication was more difficult than Tricia had imagined. Of course, the Food Shelf’s lot was meant to hold only a dozen cars, and so both sides of the road were lined with another twenty or so. Flattened in the center of the street was the remnant of another smashed pumpkin. She shook her head. Kids!

Tricia watched traffic zooming past, waiting for a break before making her way across the road to the newly constructed building. As Bob had described, it was corrugated metal with a green metal roof. According to the sign atop the long, low building, the Food Shelf would be sharing space with the Stoneham Clothing Closet. She hadn’t heard about that, either. Maybe she didn’t get out enough.

The heavy glass front door had been wedged open, and Tricia entered the building with trepidation. She soon relaxed when she recognized a number of other Chamber members—no doubt they, too, had been bullied by Bob to attend. She took in the space. The room was painted a flat white, and lined with chrome-wire shelving. Some of the shelves were already filled with sealed cardboard cartons. Cryptic notes in heavy black marker adorned the sides of the boxes. Colorful posters that encouraged donations helped make the interior a bit more cheerful.

Beside one of the shelves was a Lucite brochure stand filled with folded leaflets that looked like they’d been made on a home inkjet printer. Tricia picked up one of the brochures, stuffing it into her purse to read through at a later time.

A hum of voices filled the space, and Tricia inched past several people. In the center of the room stood a sturdy, wooden workbench. It held a glass punch bowl filled with what looked like pink lemonade and several plates piled with an assortment of cookies. A little tent card announced that the baked goods had been donated by the Stoneham Patisserie. Tricia saw no sign of its owner, Nikki Brimfield. She was probably back at her bakery serving her customers—something Tricia felt she ought to be doing as well.

Bypassing the food and drink, Tricia saw Russ, his Nikon camera slung around his neck, working the room, encouraging people to stand together as he took their photographs, and then penciling their names in his ever-present steno pad.

Tricia’s elderly employee, Mr. Everett, and his lady friend, Grace Harris, stood to one side, conversing with other attendees. Mr. Everett caught sight of Tricia, and gave her a cheery wave. She waved back.

Bob Kelly stood near the podium, chatting with a man Tricia didn’t know. The guest of honor, perhaps? The silver-haired gentleman in the charcoal gray suit looked thin and wan, but as he nodded, taking in whatever Bob was saying, his dark brown eyes seemed kind. A group of bystanders hung on their every word, looking ready to pounce on the poor man the minute Bob let him loose.

“Excuse me,” a middle-aged woman said, and sidled past Tricia. Dressed casually in navy slacks and a navy sweatshirt embroidered with red roses on white hearts, the fifty-something woman with gray-tinged brown hair stepped up to Bob, politely interrupted, and indicated it was time to get the show on the road. Bob stepped right in line. Tricia might have to make friends with the woman—anyone who could get Bob to stop talking had to be some kind of miracle worker.

The woman stepped in front of the podium and tapped the microphone. “May I have your attention, please?”

The buzz of voices quieted as all heads turned to the front of the room.

“Hello, I’m Libby Hirt, Chairperson of the Stoneham Food Shelf’s Executive Committee. I’d like to introduce the rest of our board—” Tricia tuned out of the next portion of her speech as her gaze drifted to the shelving units. Canned and nonperishable boxed goods lined the shelves to her left, and were separated by type: dry cereal, pasta, canned sauces, fruits and vegetables. Pretty basic food items. Another shelf held nonfood items like shampoo, soap, dishwashing liquid, and paper goods.

Tricia studied the canned goods, her thoughts drifting to the sodium content of each unit. What about fresh food: fruits, vegetables, bread, milk, and meat? Did the Food Shelf supply those to its clients? She had a lot to learn—and suddenly she found she
wanted
to learn more about it, and was glad she’d taken a brochure.

Libby Hirt had moved on to thanking the Chamber of Commerce. “We’re grateful for all their support—in terms of dollars
and
collection points.” Bob positively beamed at the praise, as a smattering of applause broke out.

Collection points?

“I cannot thank Mrs. Grace Harris enough for her years of tireless work on our behalf. She has been a driving force for soliciting funds from the private sector. Thank you, Grace.”

More applause. Mr. Everett patted Grace’s hand, and she smiled shyly.

“But most of all, we’d like to thank our most generous benefactor, Mr. Stuart Paige. As most of you know, we’ve planned this expansion for a number of years. The Paige Foundation offered a matching grant, and I’m proud to say that we have met our financial match through the generous contributions of our supporters, allowing us to build this new home for the Food Shelf.” A burst of vigorous applause interrupted her speech, and Russ stepped forward, raising his Nikon to snap a few photos.

“In the past twenty years,” Libby continued, “we’ve been located in a number of churches, always outgrowing the space we’ve been allocated. This new building will allow us to house not only the Food Shelf, but the Stoneham Clothing Closet, which has been located in the basement of St. Rita’s Church for the past two years. Having both resources available in a single location will save us time and expense, and will better serve our clientele.”

Another round of applause greeted that announcement.

“Without further ado, let me introduce Mr. Stuart Paige.”

The applause grew more robust, but Paige raised a hand to stave off the attention. It was only after Libby cajoled him that he stepped up to the podium. “Thank you. I’m pleased the Paige Foundation was able to help out. We’re very proud of—”

A scuffling noise and sudden shouting behind them all interrupted his words. Tricia looked over her shoulder to see what was happening, and caught sight of Pammy Fredericks outside. One of the male bystanders had grabbed her arm and was pulling her away from the open doorway. The more he pulled, the more shrill her voice became.

“No, I’ve got to see him,” she shouted.

“Miss, you’ll have to leave!”

“Not until I’ve seen Stuart Paige,” Pammy hollered.

Another suited man threaded his way through the crowd. He kicked aside the wedge in the door and it closed, shutting out the noise.

“Er . . . as I was saying,” a disconcerted Paige continued, but few faces turned back to listen. “It’s been a pleasure to be here today. My continued hope is that hungry people will always find the help they need here at the Stoneham Food Shelf. Thank you.”

Pammy and the two men disappeared from view, but it took Libby Hirt’s voice to bring everyone’s attention back to the podium. “Thank you, Stuart. I’d like to remind everyone that we’re always looking for new collection points, either for nonperishable food or for putting out a can to collect cash donations. If you’re interested in helping out, please feel free to speak to me or any of the other Executive Committee members. And thank you all so much for coming.”

Again, everyone applauded politely as Paige and Libby left the podium. Paige paused to greet Grace like an old friend, giving her a brief kiss on the cheek.

Tricia glanced back to see the two men reenter the building, trying but failing to look inconspicuous as they melted back into the crowd.

Immediately the whispers began. Who was that woman? What did she want?

Libby had steered Paige toward the food, with Bob and a group of others shuffling along behind, like groupies at a rock show.

Tricia sidled past a crowd of the other guests and exited the building. She looked left and right, and saw Pammy’s retreating figure heading back for town.

What was so important that she’d try to interrupt the dedication ceremony? What could she have possibly wanted to tell Stuart Paige?

TWO

By the
time Tricia left the reception some ten minutes later, there was no sign of Pammy on the road. She arrived back at Haven’t Got a Clue just in time for Ginny to take her lunch break. The next hour practically evaporated as Tricia served a flurry of customers who were in a hurry to get back to their Granite State tour bus. A glance across the street told her that the new café’s lunchtime crowd had rivaled her own. Booked for Lunch would be in the black in no time.

Ginny was ten minutes late getting back from lunch. By then Mr. Everett had arrived for his afternoon stint. He’d asked to work fewer hours for the past few weeks, and Tricia was concerned. He’d seemed tired. Was his health declining? She didn’t like to ask, yet she’d come to depend on him, and she enjoyed working with someone who took pleasure in serving Haven’t Got a Clue’s customers as much as she did.

Mr. Everett was happily dusting the back shelves, and Ginny took Tricia’s place behind the register. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, but offered no explanation. Late to arrive, late from lunch. A pattern seemed to be developing. If it continued, Tricia would have to bring up the subject. She decided to wait another few days before mentioning it.

It was well after three, and Tricia’s stomach growled furiously. “I’m going to slip over to Booked for Lunch to grab a bite. That is, if they have anything left,” Tricia said, and donned the jacket she’d taken from the peg some twenty minutes before.

“Don’t worry. We’ll be fine,” Ginny assured her, as a woman carrying a stack of books by Josephine Tey arrived at the register.

Though the sun had reappeared from behind a bank of clouds, the crisp October air was a bit of a jolt after the drowsy warmth inside Haven’t Got a Clue, but it also felt invigorating. Any sunny fall day was worth celebrating. All too soon the winter chill would be upon Stoneham. A long, cold, gray—dull—season of ice and snow. Of course, the months before the holidays were the bright spot for retailers, but after New Year’s, Tricia knew she’d find herself counting the days until spring—and the influx of tourists—would return to her adopted hometown.

Tricia waited for a lull in traffic before jaywalking across Main Street, heading for Booked for Lunch. Once again, she passed a flattened carved pumpkin. Was there a crime wave in Stoneham, or just a vendetta against small, round squashes?

Tricia’s older sister, Angelica, had opened Booked for Lunch with great fanfare only two weeks before. But she hadn’t given up owning Stoneham’s charming little cookbook store, the Cookery. After hiring an exceptional manager six months before, she figured she could extend her entrepreneurial empire. It was her love of cooking and the long-held ambition to open a restaurant that had encouraged her to open the little bistro. “Little” was right—the storefront she’d rented was the smallest on Main Street. It had previously been used as office space. The village depended on the tourist trade and boasted only a small diner, so adding another venue to the lunchtime crunch had been encouraged by the head of the local Chamber of Commerce—Bob Kelly, who also had been dating Angelica for just over a year.

The tourists were happy. The booksellers were happy. Everyone was happy.

Except Angelica.

“This is a lot harder work than I thought,” she’d confided to Tricia after her first week in business. Now, seven days later, she looked even more haggard.

Ignoring the CLOSED sign that hung on the plate-glass door, Tricia entered the charming 1950s retro café with its chrome-edged, white Formica tables, the red-and-silver-sparkled Naugahyde booths, and the counter with six matching stools to her right. It wasn’t what she’d expected in the way of decor when Angelica had first told her of her plans to open an eatery. But then Angelica was always a bundle of surprises.

Angelica stood behind the counter. Her blond hair was pinned in a chignon; crimson lipstick gave her face color, along with a matching scarf tied around her neck. A black-and-white polka dot blouse and tight black slacks completed the outfit. She looked like she’d stolen her costume from an
I Love Lucy
rerun.

“About time you showed up,” Angelica said. She wiped her hands on a towel, reached for the undercounter fridge, brought out a plastic-wrapped plate, and set it on the counter. “I saved you a tuna salad plate.”