Bookplate Special (7 page)

Curled on the couch, her wineglass within reach, Tricia had read the same opening page of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s
A Little Princess
, her favorite childhood book—a story without a murder—for the eleventh time when Miss Marple’s ears perked up. In seconds, the cat jumped from the couch and trotted toward the kitchen.

“Tricia? You there?” came Angelica’s voice.

Angelica’s drop-in visits had diminished over the past few months, as her relationship with Bob Kelly had become more serious. Thanks to Pammy’s untimely death, this was one night Tricia welcomed her sister’s presence.

“I’m coming,” she called, and set her book aside, grabbed her wineglass, and headed for the kitchen.

Angelica had already hung up her coat and was unpacking a picnic basket of comfort food. Good French bread; sweet butter; a thermos no doubt filled with what was left of Booked for Lunch’s soup of the day; a quart of vanilla ice cream; and a jar of chocolate sauce.

“You didn’t have to bring me dinner,” Tricia said, although she was supremely grateful Angelica had done just that. Homemade soup and buttered bread always seem to hit the emotional spot at times like this.

“We both need to eat, and you need the company.” Angelica put the ice cream in the freezer, and paused. “If I’m honest, I need the company, too.” She shuddered. “I’m so glad it wasn’t me who found Pammy.”

“And I suppose you think I jumped for joy at the prospect,” Tricia snapped, and instantly regretted it.

“Don’t be silly,” Angelica said, taking no offense. She opened one of the cupboards and took out a saucepan. “Of course it’s upsetting to me that you had to find her. But don’t you see, I don’t have an alibi for killing her.”

“Why do you need one? Although you may have been the last known person to see Pammy alive, you certainly didn’t have a motive to kill her.”

Angelica emptied the thermos of soup into the pan. “That’s true. But the Sheriff’s Department hasn’t always let facts like that stand in the way of naming someone a ‘person of interest.’ Once they do that, you might as well have a tattoo on your forehead that says ‘I killed fill-in-the-blank. ’ And today that would be Pammy Fredericks.”

“Captain Baker can’t seriously think you killed her. He seems a lot more reasonable than Sheriff Adams.”

“Yes, and wasn’t it a stroke of luck the sheriff decided to delegate this investigation instead of taking it on herself? We might just see justice served.” Angelica removed the paper sleeve from around the bread. “Do you want plain bread, or would you rather have garlic bread?”

“Definitely garlic bread.”

Angelica knew where everything was located in Tricia’s kitchen—better than Tricia herself, if the truth be told—and she went straight for the correct cupboard, removed a baking sheet, and began to assemble everything else she’d need: garlic powder, dried parsley, and grated Parmesan cheese.

“This would really taste better with real garlic and fresh parsley, but I know better than to look for it. You never buy the good stuff,” she said judgmentally.

“Garlic would sprout before I could use it. If I had any plants, they’d die a lingering death, which would be cruel.”

Angelica gave her sister a withering stare. “For someone as careful about her diet as you are, you’d think you’d have learned that the fresher the ingredients, the healthier the food.”

“I don’t eat a lot of fat or red meat, or drink hard liquor, and I intend to live forever.”

“That’ll be a lonely life,” Angelica said as she unwrapped a stick of butter. “Seeing as everybody you love or care a whit about will be long gone.”

Everybody long gone. Like Pammy Fredericks was gone . . . Tricia glanced at the kitchen clock. Pammy had been dead for less than five hours. Already it seemed a lifetime.

“You’re probably right,” Tricia admitted. She settled on one of the stools at the kitchen island. “I guess at our age, we’re still lucky to have Mother and Daddy. Not that we see them all that often. Where are they now?”

“Rio. I expect they’ll stay until summer. They didn’t want to come back for Christmas to be with us last year. I’m not holding my breath for this year, either,” Angelica said, creaming the butter and the dry ingredients together in a little bowl with unnecessary force.

“I thought we had a lovely Christmas together.”

Angelica paused in her assault on the contents of the bowl. “Yes, we did. I’m surprised at how many people came for Christmas dinner last year. How many of us were there around my dining room table?”

Tricia thought back. Ginny and her boyfriend, Brian Comstock, had come, as had Grace Harris and Mr. Everett, and Russ and Bob. “Eight of us.”

“Well, we’ll have to invite Frannie this year. And maybe Nikki—if she doesn’t go to visit her new family in Canada. And—”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s only October.”

Angelica sighed, and set the bowl aside. “I guess I just don’t want to think about what happened today.”

Tricia frowned. Neither did she, and now Angelica had brought it up again.

“Here we are thinking about our little family of friends in Stoneham, and today you lost a friend of many years, even if Pammy was a pain in the butt—almost just like family.”

Tricia was sure Angelica didn’t count herself as being a pain, but she kept her silence.

“That didn’t mean in your heart of hearts you didn’t love her in some capacity,” Angelica continued. “You’ve got to give yourself time to mourn her, just like everyone else you’ve ever lost.”

“I suppose right now
I’m
Captain Baker’s chief suspect.” Tricia told Angelica about the forged check. Somehow, she didn’t seem surprised. “Why did I have to choose this morning to ask Pammy to leave? Why couldn’t it have been yesterday—or why didn’t I put it off until tomorrow?”

“Just one of those unanswerable questions,” Angelica said. “But don’t think you’ve got the market cornered on being chief suspect. If Captain Baker takes after Sheriff Adams, I’m probably his chief suspect. I don’t even know if I can reopen tomorrow.”

“Why shouldn’t you? The murder happened outside the café. Did they seal the premises? Put up crime scene tape?”

“Not out front.”

“Then I don’t think you have a problem.” Tricia sighed. “Damn Pammy anyway. Why did she have to be so secretive about her life?”

“Obviously she was in some kind of trouble,” Angelica said.

“She could’ve confided in me.”

“Would you have listened?”

Tricia didn’t meet her sister’s gaze. “I listened to what she had to say.”

“How hard?” Angelica pressed.

Maybe not as hard as she could have, Tricia admitted to herself. “It’s difficult to be a loving, caring friend when you feel put upon and your generosity is abused.”

“Did you ever ask her why she stayed so long?”

“I assumed it was because she’d run out of money. You know she could never balance a checkbook. And she never worked much. She depended on the generosity of friends and relatives.”

“Which was about to end,” Angelica said.

“How do you know?”

“Pammy told me. She was expecting a windfall that would set her free for life.”

“Did you tell Captain Baker that?”

Angelica thought about it. “I don’t think so. I mean, cops aren’t always interested in witnesses volunteering information.”

“I agree, but that could be the reason Pammy was killed.”

“What are you thinking? That she was blackmailing someone?”

“It’s a classic motive for murder.”

Angelica waved a hand in dismissal. “You think about murder too much.”

“Well, I would, wouldn’t I? My job
is
selling mystery books.”

Angelica retrieved a bread knife from the wooden block on the counter, commandeered the cutting board, and sliced the baguette into half-inch pieces, but not cutting all the way through the loaf. Then she spread the butter-garlic mixture on both sides of each slice of bread. “Turn the oven on to three fifty, will you?”

Tricia got up, turned on the oven, and grabbed another wineglass from the cupboard. She made another stop by the refrigerator to grab the already opened bottle of chardonnay. “I hope that soup goes with white, because I’m flat out of merlot.”

“It’s chicken pastina, so it’ll go fine.” Angelica set the bread on the baking sheet, wrapped the loaf in foil, and popped it into the oven, before grabbing her glass. “What could Pammy possibly know about anybody that would warrant blackmail?”

“You said she was a Dumpster diver. I suppose she could’ve found financial statements or something of that order.”

“She was a freegan. Looking for financial papers is just not on their scavenging agenda.”

Tricia sipped her wine, and frowned. “I just don’t understand how anybody could eat food that’s been in a Dumpster. I mean—think about all the germs. Wouldn’t that kill you, or at least make you deathly ill?”

“What kills people these days is not
enough
germs in their systems. We’re all antibioticed to death, if you’ll pardon the pun. Between hand sanitizers and antibiotics in the food chain and water, we’re at the mercy of super staph germs and the like.”

“Let’s get back to Pammy.” Tricia bit her lip. “Do you think we ought to tell Captain Baker about our suspicions?”

“What suspicions? I don’t have any.”

“Well, I do.”

Angelica shook her head. “Look what trouble sharing your suspicions with the law has gotten you before.”

“Yes, but that was when I was dealing with Sheriff Adams. I think Captain Baker is a lot more”—she paused, trying to come up with an appropriate term—“sympathetic.”

“It’s those green eyes of his. You’re a sucker for them.”

“So are you,” Tricia countered. Bob Kelly had green eyes, too.

Angelica swirled the wine in her glass. “Maybe so. But it’s immaterial. I’m sure we haven’t seen the last of Captain Baker—but unless he asks, keep your ideas to yourself. We’ll both be better off if you do.”

“Okay. But I still think I must know something that could be helpful to the investigation. I just wish I knew what it was.”

FIVE

Tricia found
it hard to sleep that night. Maybe it was the quiet. Pammy’s snores had awakened her more than once during her lengthy stay. Staring at the ceiling for hours on end gave Tricia plenty of time to think about Pammy’s visit and her untimely death.

Why had she shown up at the Food Shelf just hours before she died? Why had she wanted to speak to Stuart Paige? Maybe if she could talk to Paige, she could find out what his connection to Pammy was. That is, if she could find someone to introduce her to him.

Bob Kelly probably knew the philanthropist.

Tricia winced at the thought. Because of Pammy’s death—and her link with Pammy—Bob wasn’t likely to introduce her to the man. Not if it meant the possibility of straining relations with the Chamber of Commerce. Could she entice the Food Shelf’s chairperson, Libby Hirt, to do so? It might be worth trying.

With that decided, Tricia was finally able to drift off to sleep.

She never heard the alarm clock ring the next morning, and awoke only half an hour before Haven’t Got a Clue was to open its doors. After a fast shower, she dressed, fed Miss Marple, and dashed down the stairs to the shop. Mr. Everett was already waiting at the store’s entrance.

“My, we’re late today,” he commented after Tricia had unlocked the door and let him in.

“I had a rather sleepless night,” she admitted.

Mr. Everett headed straight for the coffeemaker. “After what happened yesterday, I can well understand that. I’ll get this started if you want to get the register up and running.”

“Thank you,” Tricia said gratefully.

By the time she’d taken money from the safe and counted it out for the till, the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the front of the store. Mr. Everett brought her a cup, fixed just the way she liked it.

“I’m afraid the wastebasket behind the coffee station wasn’t emptied last night,” he said. Something else Ginny was supposed to have done, but hadn’t. “Shall I do it now?”

“Oh, no,” Tricia said. “I know how those back stairs bother your knees. I’ll do it. Would you watch the register for a few minutes?”

“I’d be delighted,” the elderly gent said, and gave her a smile. Come to think of it, he’d been smiling a lot lately. He took his place behind the register, and Tricia found a cap for her cup and set it on the counter at the coffee station. She grabbed the wastebasket.

“I’ll be right back.”

The wind was brisk on this sunny October morning as she trundled down the steps that led to the Dumpster. On her way back she again noticed two bowls on the concrete steps leading to the Cookery’s back door. She moseyed over to have a look. Sure enough, one contained the remains of dry cat food; the other contained water that had already attracted a few stray locust leaves. She picked them out and tossed them on the ground. The poor kitty shouldn’t have to drink dirty water.

Poor Frannie if Angelica found out she was still feeding the neighborhood stray.

Tricia glanced at her watch. By now Angelica would be at her café, getting ready for the lunch crowd that would start filing in within the hour. Frannie was safe from detection—for another few hours, at least.

Tricia reentered her store and found that they already had a customer—or at least a guest. Grace Harris, Mr. Everett’s special friend, had arrived before the onslaught of tourists. Tricia had met her just a year before, under not very pleasant conditions—at least for Grace, who’d been forced into a nursing home under suspicious circumstances. Tricia had helped extricate her from the home, and since that time, Grace and Mr. Everett had renewed their decades-old friendship.

As usual, Grace was dressed to the nines. Beautiful name-brand clothes, exquisite jewelry, and expertly coiffed hair, too. With her lovely skin and natural poise, she could have easily made a fortune as a senior citizen model, but her late husband had left her very well off. She liked to read, and she liked Mr. Everett. A lot.