Bookplate Special (30 page)

“Yes. Me, too.”

Tricia gave him a big smile. “See you later, Bob.”

“You, too, Tricia.”

And off she went to pick up her lunch.

 

 

It was
nearly three o’clock, and once again the store was empty of customers. If Tricia had better anticipated the slowdown, she could’ve had Ginny start inventorying the books up in the storeroom, but it was too late in the day for that.

The phone rang, and Ginny grabbed it. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Ginny. How can I—” She paused. “Sure thing. Tricia, it’s Frannie—for you.” She held out the phone.

Tricia left the shelves filled with true crime titles she’d been alphabetizing, and picked up the receiver. “Hi, Frannie. What’s up?”

“Oh, Tricia—I’ve been meaning to call you all day, but with one thing and another—”

“Don’t tell me you made headway with Penny?”

“I sure did. Just like you said. I ignored her last night. It took a few hours, but eventually she came out from behind the couch. First she sat in the middle of the living room. Then, little by little, she moved closer to me. By the time the eleven o’clock news came on, she was sitting on my lap and purring like crazy.”

“See, I told you.”

“Yes, you did. And I can’t thank you enough.”

“It wasn’t me. It was you. Sometimes you just need to show a little patience where animals are concerned.” And people, too?

No, she was not going to think about Russ again. He’d made his decision. He could live with it. She was determined to do so, too.

Tricia heard the soft tinkle of a bell.

“Oops—got a customer. Gotta go. See you at the wedding tomorrow.”

No sooner had Tricia hung up the phone than it began to ring again. Tricia picked it up. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How can I help you?”

“Tricia, it’s Libby Hirt.”

Good grief.

“Libby, I’m not supposed to talk to you or Joe or Eugenia until—”

“Why did you give that diary to the Sheriff’s Department? Why did you have to drag up the past? Why couldn’t you just destroy the damn thing?”

Tricia took a deep breath. She should hang up the phone. She should do as she had been told, and end the conversation. But the hurt in Libby’s voice, the anguish, was like a stab in the heart. “Libby, I’m sorry. It’s evidence in Pammy Fredericks’s death.”

“How? It doesn’t prove anything.”

“Did you know about Joe’s affair with M. J. Collins?”

Silence. Then, “Not until last night. I wish he’d never told me. It destroys the faith I’ve had in him. It makes our entire marriage a sham. And what will it do to our daughter when she finds out the truth?”

“Perhaps it could bring you all closer together.”

“Or it could destroy our family.”

“Everyone seems to forget that Pammy Fredericks was murdered.”

“Maybe she deserved it,” Libby said bitterly. “Blackmail is an ugly game. Would she have bled Joe dry? And what about Mr. Paige?”

“Libby, I know you’re upset and you don’t mean what you just said.”

“And just maybe I do.”

She broke the connection.

Tricia hung up the phone. Was there something in the Stoneham water supply causing relationships to crash and burn? First she and Russ; Ginny and Brian might be on the skids; and now Libby and Joe Hirt—who, until yesterday, had apparently represented the village’s most stable marriage.

And what was she going to tell Captain Baker, now that she’d spoken to yet another member of the Hirt family? There was no way she could set foot inside the Bookshelf Diner—and run into Eugenia—until this whole mess was resolved. In fact, if she was smart, she wouldn’t step outside Haven’t Got a Clue.

She forced herself to think about other things. With the wedding set for the next day, she had too much to do. The store needed a thorough cleaning. Although it was last minute, perhaps she should hire a cleaning team to come in—but did cleaners work Saturday evenings? What if she couldn’t engage someone to come after store hours? And had anyone thought to rent chairs for the reception? Or maybe tall tables, so the guests had somewhere to park their plates of breakfast foods, champagne, and cake while they ate? She’d have to ask Angelica.

With less than sixteen hours to go, Grace and Mr. Everett’s wedding seemed so far away—so normal and life-affirming. And Pammy was still—and forever would be—dead. Although she’d been on the outs with her family for years, it seemed doubly cruel they should decide not to claim her body. There’d be no commemoration of her life. And if Tricia took it upon herself to arrange one, would anyone show up?

Pammy had been shy and awkward when they’d met twenty-four years ago. She’d been shrewd and apparently heartless the last time they’d spoken. And she’d accused Tricia of not knowing how to have any fun. But was fun at someone else’s expense enjoyable, or just spite?

Tricia preferred to think the latter.

Pammy was dead and, as far as Tricia knew, no one—and she would have to include herself—would mourn her.

A truly wasted life.

Though she had too many other phone calls to make, on impulse Tricia hauled out the phone book and called the Hillsborough County Medical Examiner’s office. Maybe Pammy’s family had reconsidered. Maybe plans were already in place for some kind of service, and no one had thought to call her. However, the person she spoke with at the ME’s office only reaffirmed what she’d already been told by Captain Baker.

“What does that mean?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Eventually, the body will be buried at taxpayers’ expense.”

“Thank you.” Tricia hung up the phone.

Buried in an unmarked grave. Did anyone deserve that?

Several customers entered the store. Tricia waited on them, all the while thinking of the phone calls she needed to make to ensure the wedding went off without a hitch. It was time to put Pammy out of her mind . . . forever.

Still, until her killer was caught, Tricia wasn’t sure she could do that.

Everything felt unfinished. Like Pammy’s life.

And Tricia hated that feeling of helplessness.

TWENTY-ONE

Tricia couldn’t
remember a day that wore on as long as that particular Saturday. The Milford Pumpkin Festival really
had
cut into business. The few customers she’d had that afternoon had regaled her with tales of the Great Pumpkin contest, the pumpkin catapult, the chili roundup, and the scarecrow contest. And oh, the food!

Rats
, Tricia thought.
Maybe Pammy was right. I always miss out on the fun
.

Eleanor had indeed won first prize in the pie contest—Frannie had called back with that update. No doubt the blue ribbon would be framed and hung over her receptionist’s desk at the Brookview Inn by the next morning.

Grace had called with an update about the wedding flowers, thanking Tricia profusely once again for letting them hold the ceremony in the store, and promised she would arrive early the next morning to help coordinate the last-minute details.

The thing Tricia hadn’t been able to accomplish was hiring a cleaning firm. That meant the job was up to her. Oh, well . . . she tried to think of it as part of her gift to Grace and Mr. Everett. With Mr. Everett in short supply these last few days, the place had become dusty, so she commandeered his lamb’s wool duster and started working on the shelves.

It was ten minutes until closing. Haven’t Got a Clue had had no customers for at least twenty minutes when Tricia glanced at her watch. “Don’t you just hate this time of year?” she asked Ginny.

“Yes. When the sun goes down, it’s like the whole world closes up.”

“I’ve been thinking of adopting winter hours—except between Thanksgiving and Christmas, of course.”

“I would hate to see my hours cut, but you have to do what’s best for the store,” Ginny said sensibly. “Besides, it would give me more time to work on the house. I have this vision of the living room being finished in time for Christmas. I can already imagine a crackling fire in the fireplace, and our stockings hanging from the mantel. That is, if I can find someone to tell me the chimney is safe enough to light a fire.”

Tricia laughed. “We’ll stay open until seven tonight, but depending on how trade is on Monday, we might as well adopt new hours.”

“What about the Tuesday Night Book Club?”

Tricia shrugged. “We might have to start an hour earlier. Hey, dinner at a decent hour. Now there’s a plan.”

Ginny laughed and began her end-of-day chores, emptying the coffeemaker’s filter of grounds, and pouring the last of the coffee down the washroom sink. She was still in the back of the store when the door opened. Eugenia Hirt entered Haven’t Got a Clue, her face dark with anger. “What’s going on, Tricia?”

Tricia had been counting out the day’s receipts, and closed the register’s cash drawer. “I’m not supposed to speak to you or anyone in your family. Direct orders from Captain Baker of the Sheriff’s Department.”

“That’s what my mother said. But something’s going on, and nobody will tell me what it is. Everyone seems to think
you
know.”

“Captain Baker said—”

“I don’t give a damn what any sheriff’s deputy said. You know, and
you will tell me
!”

“Are you threatening me?” Tricia asked.

Eugenia threw back her head, standing taller. “Maybe I am.”

Tricia tried not to laugh. “Go home.” She had to fight the urge to say
little girl
. “Your mother is very upset. See if you can make her feel better.”

“Not until you tell me what was in that diary.”

So, she knew about Pammy’s diary. Had Pammy said something, or had she heard her parents arguing about it?

Before Tricia could answer the girl, the shop door flew open. Eugenia whirled. “Dad! What are you doing here?”

“Come on, honey. Let’s go home.”

Eugenia shook her head. “I’m not leaving until someone gives me some answers.”

Ginny reappeared from behind a set of shelves. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Tricia and Joe said in unison.

“Ginny, why don’t you go home?” Joe suggested.

Ginny’s face flushed. “Why?”

“Because it looks like Tricia, Eugenia, and I have some serious things to discuss. Things that you don’t need to be a part of.”

Ginny moved to stand next to Tricia. “I don’t think so.”

Tricia was grateful for the support, but her tightening stomach told her that Ginny might be safer if she left the store—now. “Maybe he’s right, Ginny. I think you should—”

“No way,” Ginny said. “I have a few questions of my own. Like why did you try to run Brian’s car off the road the other night, Eugenia?”

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

“The hell you don’t. When we left you and Joe in Nashua on Wednesday night, you came up behind us and sat on Brian’s bumper, trying to scare us. Why?”

Eugenia shrugged. “It was a joke. Can’t you take a joke?”

“I didn’t think it was funny,” Ginny said.

“Neither did I,” Tricia agreed.

Joe stepped around to the front display window and grabbed the cord, lowering the blinds. Miss Marple, who’d been dozing on the shelf behind the register, got up and stretched. Closing the blinds was usually the signal that dinner was close at hand.

“Why did you close the blinds?” Tricia asked, unease creeping up her spine.

“We need privacy,” Joe said. “Ginny, get your coat and go.”

“No!”

“I don’t care if she hears our business,” Eugenia said. “I want to know everything that’s going on. I’m an adult. It’s time you leveled with me, Dad. What was it Pammy said to you? Please, tell me!”

Joe sighed, all the weight of the world on his shoulders. “She tried to blackmail me.”

“With what?” Eugenia insisted.

“Pam said if she couldn’t shake down Stuart Paige, she would come after me.”

“But Dad, Pammy threatened to tell the world at large about my . . . my birth defect. That would humiliate only me. What else could she have possibly known that would hurt our family?”

Tricia said, “Eugenia’s not a child anymore. Tell her, Joe. Libby told me you two have already discussed it.”

“Mom knows what?” Eugenia asked.

Joe offered his daughter his hand. She took it, her own visibly shaking. “Princess, we always told you your biological parents were dead. But that’s only partially true. Your biological mother died in a car accident when you were still a baby, but your father is alive.”

“You know who he is?” she asked, eagerly.

“It’s someone you already know and, hopefully, love.”

“Who? Please tell me!”

“It’s . . . me.”

Eugenia’s mouth fell open, and for a long time she just stared at the man she’d always known as her adoptive father. “I’m really your little girl?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Your birth mother couldn’t handle your . . . birth defect. She gave you up for adoption. I wanted you. I talked your mother—Libby,” he clarified, “into taking you in as a foster child. I knew she’d fall in love with you—as I already had, even though I’d only seen you from behind the glass window in the hospital nursery.”

Eugenia shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “But Dad, you and Mom have been married almost twenty-five years. I’m twenty-one . . . that means . . .”

Joe bit his lip, and looked like he was about to cry as well.

“I never meant to hurt your mother. It just happened. And the thing was . . . I got you in the bargain. We both got you, and it kept us together. We loved you as you were—we loved you through all the surgeries. We will
always
love you.”

They fell into each other’s arms, tears streaking their cheeks. Tricia hardened her heart. This was all very nice, but it didn’t answer who killed Pammy Fredericks.