Handbook for Homicide

by Lorna Barrett

  “Maybe,” Tricia hedged.

  Angelica shrugged. “I made a choice when it came to Antonio.” Angelica had been visiting Italy when she fell in love with a dashing guy with a lethal love of motorcycles. He’d died before they could be married. “Letting him believe someone else was his mother was a bad choice, but at the time I was interested in protecting him from the perceived stigma of an unwed mother and myself from the same thing. Conditions have changed. They’re different for career women now, too.”

  Tricia wondered if Susan Morris had ever considered herself a career woman. Pixie hadn’t spoken much about the woman except for her most recent circumstances. Who had Susan been before she was reduced to living in her car? She had a daughter, presumably in her twenties or thirties. Why hadn’t said daughter helped her mother? Susan’s possessions still sat in the municipal parking lot, and Tricia wondered exactly what was inside the vehicle.

  “What are you doing this evening?” she asked.

  Angelica shrugged. “Going over some paperwork. I’d love to take a nice, hot bubble bath before retiring, but I’m not supposed to get the sutures wet. Why?”

  “It’s too bad you’re not up to taking a walk to go look at Susan’s car.”

  “Who says I’m not?”

  “Doesn’t your foot hurt?”

  “Of course it hurts, but who says I have to walk? I’ve got the transport chair from the inn. All I have to do is sit in it and you can push me all around the village.”

  Did Angelica have an ulterior motive for getting the chair—say, as a way to visit some of her Main Street businesses without having to walk? But, unlike a wheelchair, a transport chair had to be pushed.

  “Why do you want to look at Susan’s car?” Angelica asked.

  “To see how she lived.”

  “Poorly, I would imagine. And how are we going to get into a locked car?”

  “How do you know it’s locked?”

  “I’m sure the police would have seen to that after they checked it out.”

  Tricia raised her gaze to the sky above. “What if I told you I knew how to open a locked car door?”

  “And where did you learn that?”

  “In a book.”

  “A mystery?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you’ve tried it?”

  Tricia nodded. “Of course, it’s a little tricky, but it does work for some vehicles. And if it doesn’t, you can buy metal probes online.”

  “Who would sell such a thing?”

  “Walmart, for one.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Angelica asked, stunned.

  Tricia shook her head.

  “How do you know all this?”

  Tricia shrugged. “It’s my line of work.”

  “Breaking into cars?” Angelica asked, aghast.

  “No, reading mysteries.”

  The sisters stared at each other for a long moment. “Well?” Tricia asked.

  A slow grin spread across Angelica’s face. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  * * *

  * * *

  After retrieving the car lock opener, Tricia returned to Angelica’s apartment. The sun set much earlier than it had just a month before, but it was still light when the sisters exited Angelica’s place, leaving a sad-faced Sarge behind. Tricia had called Pixie, who couldn’t remember the make of Susan’s car, but she did recall the color and told Tricia to look for dark windows and shades covering them.

  They didn’t want to draw any attention to themselves. They were just two women out for a walk on a pleasant fall evening, with one in a transport chair. Nothing out of the ordinary at all.

  “Act naturally,” Tricia warned as the sisters made their way north up Main Street.

  “A song by Buck Owens, covered by the Beatles. Ringo sang it,” Angelica said.

  “What? How do you know all that?”

  “Grandmother listened to a country-western station. Don’t you remember?”

  Tricia did not.

  “Oh, my goodness, all those songs about love gone wrong—all by men, of course, with their nasally, twangy voices. And it’s not much better today. You have to listen for hours before you hear a song by a woman country singer. Just another bastion of misogyny.”

  “And where did you get all this insight?” Tricia asked.

  “I get around,” Angelica said coyly, glancing down at the chair Tricia pushed.

  “What if someone sees us poking around Susan’s car?” Tricia asked, her resolve suddenly shaky.

  “I’ve always found it best to do these kinds of things in plain sight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mother was a stickler that we never eat cookies before dinner. I tested that theory hundreds of times. She’d be absorbed in something—like writing invitations to her frequent dinner parties or reading the newspaper—and I could sit there and devour cookie after cookie right in front of her and she never caught on, never said a word.”

  Of course, if Tricia had tried the same stunt, she would have been sent to bed without supper—or to her room to think about her transgression—and probably forgotten about for hours and hours on end. Angelica could have set the house on fire and never been reprimanded for it, whereas Tricia would have almost certainly been sent to boarding school in some far-flung place as a punishment.

  A smattering of vehicles dotted the municipal parking lot. Once the shops along Main Street closed for the day, only the locals parked there and were relegated to the back of the lot. Susan’s Toyota Camry sat among those cars and, thanks to Pixie’s description, was easily picked out. Tricia parked the transport chair at the rear of the car and stepped closer to inspect the vehicle.

  A sun screen across the windshield made an effective barrier that no doubt gave privacy and perhaps shielded the interior of the car from the sun in the summer and provided insulation in the winter. The car’s other windows were tinted—possibly at the factory or perhaps enhanced by a third-party vendor.

  “Are you sure you’ll be able to open the locked door?” Angelica asked.

  “Not at all. But Pixie’s already mentioned doing some sleuthing on her own, and it’s better if I do the deed. There’s no way I want her to get into trouble. Chief Baker would probably look for any way to throw her back into the stir.”

  Angelica giggled. “I love it when you talk like a pulp fiction detective.”

  Tricia strode over to the passenger side of the car, away from any prying eyes on Main Street, and was grateful that several cars surrounded the vehicle to give her some privacy. Withdrawing the thin, long piece of plastic from the sleeve of her sweater, she looked around to see if anyone was watching before she inserted it between the window and the car’s body near the locking mechanism. It was more difficult than she had anticipated. Despite the fact Tricia had had some practice with jimmying, popping the lock wasn’t as easy as pie—but then, Tricia wasn’t much of a pie eater, and larceny just wasn’t part of her makeup, either. But after thirty or forty seconds of jiggling the plastic up and down, she was rewarded with the sound of the lock opening.

  “Gee, you are a pro at this,” Angelica quipped as Tricia opened the car door and scooted onto the passenger seat, which was pushed up as far as it would go, leaving barely any room for her legs, which she left hanging outside the car. She unlocked the rear door, and Angelica got up enough to open it before sitting back down again.

  The air was stale but also permeated with the strong aroma of what smelled like a vanilla candle, thanks to the freshener that hung beneath the rearview mirror.

  Angelica sniffed. “Not as bad as I anticipated.” Ha! She wasn’t inside the Camry.

  Tricia jostled around so that she could look over the seat and into the back of the vehicle, which was a jumble of bedding, pillows, and duffel bags that looked
like they’d been dumped—probably the result of Baker and his men examining the vehicle’s contents. Susan didn’t appear to have much in the way of creature comforts. And as Tricia rummaged through the detritus, she found a white cylindrical plastic container lined with a trash bag. She had an inkling that it was Susan’s toilet. Pixie had said she used a bucket for her bodily needs, but it looked like Susan had upgraded her facilities since the last time she and Pixie had conversed on the subject. Tossing the unzipped sleeping bag aside, Tricia found a cooler behind the passenger seat and struggled to open it, wishing she hadn’t when the stench of rotting food assaulted her.

  “P-U,” Angelica said, wrinkling her nose.

  Tricia slammed the lid down, but the odor remained, despite the air freshener.

  “I don’t suppose anyone mentioned how long the poor woman had been dead before Pixie found her,” Angelica said.

  “Not long. She’d worked at Sweet As Can Be the day before, but it was a warm day, and those dumpsters can get as hot as an oven. She wasn’t smelling like a rose by the time Pixie found her, and it sounded like she was quite fastidious.”

  The sisters looked around the cluttered car. There were no extraneous papers, no dirt on the driver’s- or passenger-side floors, or even dust on the car’s dashboard. Tricia dug through the clothes and found a small hand vacuum that could be plugged into the vehicle’s cigarette-lighter socket. Yup, Susan had kept her car and herself clean.

  “What is it you hope to find here?” Angelica asked. “Surely the police would have confiscated anything they thought might be material to their investigation.”

  Tricia nodded. What had she hoped to find?

  Looking at Susan’s possessions in disarray made Tricia wish there had been something she could have done to help her, perhaps find her a real home. There were too many women—and men—living on the edge, under the radar, and she found herself carefully folding the poor woman’s clothes. Angelica pitched in, and in no time they’d filled the two duffels and zipped them shut. Tricia straightened the thin sponge-like mattress and, as best they could, they made Susan’s bed. They really should empty that cooler, but that would make their presence even more obvious. Tricia turned her attention to the glove compartment. It, too, was an untidy mess. It must have acted as Susan’s safe, for Tricia found several old birthday cards and a bank statement with her PO box address, but anything else of a personal nature had probably been removed by the police. She removed the contents, laying the papers on the back seat. Angelica looked through the cards.

  “‘Happy Birthday, Mother,’” she read and opened the inside. “It’s signed ‘Love, Kimberly.’” She snorted. “If Kimberly loved her mom so much, why did she let her live in a car?”

  “What if she didn’t know?” Tricia asked, echoing Pixie’s thoughts.

  Angelica let out a breath. “You’re right. We should choose to believe the best of her. Do you know if Chief Baker has contacted her?”

  Tricia shook her head. As she did, she caught sight of something wedged just beneath the compartment’s opening. Leaning closer, she saw the post of a pierced earring protruding. It took a bit of effort to dislodge it, and Tricia took a moment to examine the scratched and tarnished silver stud.

  “Ahem,” said a male voice, causing Tricia to practically jump. She shoved the earring into her sweater pocket and turned.

  “Grant, what are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same thing,” Chief Baker grumbled.

  “I was just . . . looking around.”

  “In a dead woman’s car?”

  Tricia extricated herself from the vehicle. “Am I going to be charged with trespassing? Who’d press charges?”

  “Me, for one.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Angelica chided. “We’re concerned citizens—and why shouldn’t we be? The woman who owned this car was found dead behind Tricia’s store.”

  “And don’t think I’ve forgotten that,” the cop grated.

  “Now, children,” Tricia chided. She turned to Baker. “What’s this about Susan’s death being treated as a homicide?”

  “It’s not a secret,” Baker said. “The lady didn’t jump in your dumpster and just die of suffocation. The autopsy came back with a one-word cause of death: strangulation.”

  Tricia swallowed. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Instead she changed the subject. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “Why?” Baker asked, looking clueless.

  “On your upcoming wedding.”

  “Oh, yeah. That.”

  “Well, I certainly hope you’re more enthusiastic when you talk about it with your bride,” Angelica chided.

  “Naturally,” Baker deadpanned.

  “I wish you all the happiness in the world,” Tricia said, trying to inject some semblance of sincerity into her voice and not entirely succeeding.

  “Thanks. Now let’s get back to why you’re rummaging around in this car.”

  Tricia sighed. “How did you know we were here?”

  “Someone called nine one one to report suspicious behavior, and lo and behold, I find you two.”

  Tricia was not enamored by his sarcasm.

  “Folding clothes and tidying this vehicle is hardly suspicious,” Angelica asserted.

  “It is when the vehicle’s owner has been murdered.”

  “Poor woman,” Angelica said, shaking her head.

  “Were you able to contact Susan’s next of kin?” Tricia asked.

  Baker nodded. “A daughter, Kimberly Radnor-Herbert. She was quite upset.”

  “Is she coming to Stoneham?” Angelica asked.

  “I don’t see why she would. The body was taken to Nashua.”

  “Yes, but her mother’s entire estate is here in this parking lot,” Tricia pointed out.

  “Book value on this car is only a couple of grand, and its contents are worth far less,” Baker countered.

  “Is the daughter from out of state?” Angelica asked.

  “Utica, New York.” He turned to Tricia. “Just how did you get into this car? It was locked.”

  “Are you sure?” Tricia asked innocently, hoping he wouldn’t see the strip of plastic on the passenger-side floor.

  “My force isn’t negligent in that regard.”

  “Well, then I’m sure you won’t punish them too severely for this lapse,” Angelica said. She turned to Tricia. “We’d better get going.”

  Tricia thought fast. “I think I dropped my phone inside the car,” she announced. “Hang on.” Then she bent over, hoping Baker wouldn’t see her as she scrounged for the lock opener. Grasping it, she shoved it up the sleeve of her sweater and then grabbed her phone from her slacks pocket. “Got it,” she said, and straightened. “You might want to dump poor Susan’s cooler. It’s really quite smelly.”

  “I don’t need any suggestions from civilians.”

  “Well, if her daughter comes to pick up the car, she might think otherwise. If nothing else, it would be a courtesy.”

  Baker looked thoughtful. “I suppose you’re right. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll do that. I don’t need help.”

  “Let’s go,” Angelica prodded. “Good night, Chief.”

  “Yes, good night, Grant.”

  Baker nodded. “Ladies.”

  “Oh, one more thing,” Tricia said. “Have you gone over the report for my almost break-in last Saturday?”

  “No.”

  “Do you intend to?”

  “No.”

  “Well, why not?”

  “I have staff that takes care of that.”

  “You couldn’t take an interest for an old friend?” she asked.

  “You’re not that old.”

  Tricia’s ire surged. She ground her teeth and backed the transport chair away from the car with a jerk.
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br />   “Hey,” Angelica protested.

  “Sorry,” Tricia muttered, and the sisters headed back toward Main Street. When they returned to the sidewalk, Tricia turned to see Baker dump the cooler’s contents into one of the lot’s trash bins. His face collapsed into a mighty scowl, and she giggled.

  Angelica snapped her fingers. “Let’s get some distance between us and the chief. Did you retrieve the car opener thing?”

  “Why do you think I can’t bend my arm?”

  “Too bad you didn’t snag anything else.”

  “Oh, but I did.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just an earring—a silver anchor. It can’t be a clue.”

  Angelica shrugged. “You’re probably right. Is our evening of larceny over? I’ve got a ton of paperwork to attack.”

  “You’re just disappointed we didn’t find anything earth-shattering.”

  “Maybe so,” Angelica admitted. “And now that our curiosity is sated, it’s time to get back to our real lives. And you should try to stay out of the chief’s way.”

  “I try to make it a point. What do you make of his disinterest in his own wedding?”

  “A shotgun affair?” Angelica ventured.

  “Is she that young?”

  “Of course not. And this isn’t his first wedding—or hers, either, for that matter.” Angelica sighed. “Sadly, weddings just aren’t as exciting the second time around.”

  Angelica had been married four times; she would know.

  When they arrived at the Cookery, Angelica got up from the chair and shuffled into the store. Tricia stowed the chair in the back of the shop before seeing her sister up the stairs. Afterward, she took Sarge out for a comfort stop. Upon her return, she offered to come back before she went to bed, but Angelica shook her head. “Don’t worry about Sarge. He’s crate trained.” Tricia knew it would be a long night for the little guy.

  “Good night, dear Tricia. See you tomorrow at lunch—unless Marshall calls with an invitation, of course,” Angelica said.

  “I’ll let you know,” Tricia promised. “Love you.”

  “Love you more,” Angelica said and closed and locked the apartment door behind her.