Tricia mulled over that question, wondering how she’d ever discover the truth.
TEN
“I’m back,” Tricia called as she reentered her store. Mr. Everett stood behind the cash desk with a book open before him but looked up as she approached. “Did we have any customers while I was downstairs?”
“Ah, Ms. Miles—just one,” Mr. Everett said. “A six-dollar-and-forty-three-cent sale.”
“That’s better than nothing, I suppose.”
“Quite,” Mr. Everett agreed solemnly. “Things will pick up for the holidays.”
Which were two months away. But the bookstore had done well during the summer tourist season, so there was no cause for worry.
Tricia poured herself another cup of coffee and offered one to Mr. Everett, who declined, but he did agree to join her in the reader’s nook. Miss Marple took the opportunity to sit on the old gentleman’s lap. He petted her, and the cat began to purr loudly, bringing a smile to his face.
“Mr. Everett, did you know Susan Morris?” Tricia asked.
“I’m afraid I never made her acquaintance,” he admitted.
“Did you know she was homeless?”
He looked up from his pleasant task. “I do believe Pixie mentioned it to me.”
Tricia shook her head. “She said Susan got used to living in her car. What a sad situation. It’s lucky there aren’t more homeless people around here.”
“Oh, but there are, Ms. Miles.”
“Really? Do you know any?”
He shrugged. “For a while, I was taking food to some homeless men who’ve camped along the railroad line not far from Merrimack. Grace seemed to think it was too dangerous. Perhaps she’s right. Unfortunately, not everyone in the camp retained all their mental faculties, and some could be cantankerous when it came to dividing up what was brought. It’s a shame our society doesn’t do more for the soldiers who fought on our behalf. Our foundation donates a considerable amount of funds toward the homeless in New Hampshire, and especially to one shelter in Nashua, but I’m afraid the need is greater than we’re able to support and still maintain our other commitments.”
“I’m sure you’ve done your best,” Tricia said reassuringly.
“There is so much need in this world and not enough compassion, especially in these troubled times.”
Tricia nodded, watching as the old man gently rubbed her cat’s ears.
During their picnic the previous day, Marshall had proposed they try to find new ways to be together. Was it possible Tricia could talk him into visiting the homeless camp, or would he agree with Grace that it wasn’t a safe space? Had any of those homeless vets been acquainted with Susan Morris?
Who else in the area would know about such hardships? And then it came to her: Libby Hirt. Libby ran the Stoneham Food Shelf, which shared space with the Stoneham Clothes Closet, both possible places the homeless might go for help. Of course, Tricia and Libby hadn’t spoken in several years—not since the fiasco when Libby’s daughter, Eugenia, got mixed up with a killer. She got five years of supervised probation for shooting a visiting philanthropist, which would end at the beginning of next year. During that time Eugenia had kept a low profile, and Tricia hadn’t had an occasion to speak to her mother. She wondered what kind of reception she’d receive if she paid a visit to the Food Shelf. They did have Saturday hours. And what would Tricia’s excuse be? She just happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to chat about the homeless problem in the area?
Why not? Susan Morris was found behind Tricia’s store. She’d been homeless. Wasn’t it Tricia’s civic duty to not only make sure that Pixie wasn’t blamed for the woman’s death but help the needy? She could do that by giving the food shelf a check. But would that look like she was trying to buy the information?
Tricia thought about it for a moment. One thing she had done after her home renovation was sort through her clothes. She had a big bag of things she’d meant to donate to the Clothes Closet but had never gotten around to doing it. What if she donated them and just happened to drop in on the Food Shelf? Of course, there was no guarantee that Libby would even be working on a weekend, but she was—or at least had been—the organization’s leader.
“Do you know how late the Clothes Closet stays open on a Saturday?” Tricia asked Mr. Everett.
“If I remember correctly, they’re the same as they are during the week: ten until two.”
“I’ve been meaning to drop off a bag of clothes and wonder if I should do so today. Maybe it’s a way I could help the homeless or those down on their luck.”
“That’s very generous of you, Ms. Miles.”
Generous or self-serving?
Tricia wasn’t sure she wanted to answer that question.
* * *
* * *
The church parking lot was filled with beat-up cars and even a few bicycles when Tricia arrived with her donation for the Stoneham Clothes Closet. The Closet and the Food Shelf rented space in the lower level, and business seemed to be booming.
Tricia retrieved the bag of clothes from her trunk and entered the building, where she was directed to place it in a big canvas laundry cart. It looked like the Clothes Closet had done well with donations that day, as the cart and another were piled high with plastic bags and cartons stuffed with clothing.
Afterward, Tricia took a moment to assess the charity’s clientele. Most of the people looked like average citizens one might meet on the street. Were the mothers with small children and elderly couples perusing the racks just down on their luck, or were they members of the growing homeless population? Tricia had heard rumors that some dealers came through on a regular basis, looking for designer clothing that they could pick up for free and then resell. The idea appalled her, especially since the clothing had been given as a charitable contribution. But Tricia also knew the Closet had a no-questions-asked policy, and it was enforced. They made a point not to judge their clientele.
“Did you want a receipt for your donation?” asked a woman in a blue smock and a badge that identified her as one of the volunteers. “We’re a registered charity, and your donation is tax deductible.”
“No need,” Tricia said, and smiled at the older woman. “You’ve got a good crowd today.”
“Yes. The children are back in school and they’ll be needing weather-appropriate gear. The nights are already quite chilly.”
Tricia’s gaze was drawn to a table piled with blankets and a couple of sleeping bags. “I didn’t know the Clothes Closet dealt with anything other than clothing and shoes.”
“We try to anticipate the needs of our clients.”
Was she talking about the homeless?
“Ma’am,” a woman’s voice called out, “do you have any more kids’ sneakers out back?”
“If you’ll excuse me,” the volunteer told Tricia, and moved to help the woman.
Tricia studied the four siblings who trailed after their mom. Used sneakers. Tricia had never worn another person’s clothes or footwear. She’d never had to. She might not have had a happy childhood, but she’d had no worries when it came to a roof over her head and clothes to wear. Kids grew as fast as weeds. How did a mom on a budget keep four little ones in shoes that fit?
Feeling somber, Tricia left the Clothes Closet and walked along the sidewalk to the Stoneham Food Shelf next door. The door was unlocked. Tricia let herself in and found a number of people crowding the storeroom. Two elderly men stocked shelves with canned goods while two women worked at a shared desk, one on a computer and the other sorting through a stack of what could have been applications for the Food Shelf’s services. Meanwhile, a woman with gray-streaked hair, dark slacks, and a pink sweatshirt held a clipboard and ticked off items on a list. Tricia was relieved to find that Libby was indeed working.
She stood across the way, watching as the others worked until Libby moved an
d caught sight of her.
“Tricia, is that you? What are you doing here?”
Tricia stepped forward. “Hi, Libby. I dropped off a bag for the Clothes Closet and I thought I’d stop in to see if you were here. It’s been a while since we spoke.”
“Almost five years,” Libby said coolly. She hadn’t forgotten Tricia’s part in solving Pammy Fredericks’s murder and Eugenia’s involvement in the events that ensued.
“From what I’ve read in the news, the Food Shelf is needed even more now than it was when we first met.”
“That’s true,” Libby said, as though relieved not to have to rehash the unpleasant past.
“No doubt you heard about the homeless woman who was found dead behind my store the other day.”
“Everybody in the village has,” Libby said.
“I understand she lived in her car. Was she a recipient of the Food Shelf’s generosity?”
“We deal with emergency situations only. Susan may have been homeless, but she was able to take care of herself and wasn’t food insecure—at least, most of the time.”
“Then you knew her?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, she sometimes helped out at the Clothes Closet. Twice a month, our volunteers are treated to a simple box lunch provided by the American Legion’s ladies auxiliary. The church we rent space with also has free lunches on the third, fourth, and fifth Mondays of each month, and Susan was known to frequent them as well.”
“How do you know that?”
“I volunteer to help make those lunches. I’ve gotten to know most of the regulars.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Tricia said.
Libby merely shrugged.
“I understand there’s a homeless encampment near Merrimack.”
“A small group of people living in tents and cardboard boxes,” Libby said.
“Does your group help them?”
“I wish I could say we did, but our organization’s reach is Stoneham and a little beyond. We simply don’t have the resources to help everyone in need.”
Tricia nodded. “I must admit that while I’ve donated to charities that help the homeless, I don’t know how to direct someone who finds him- or herself in that situation.”
“First of all, give them some respect. You’d be surprised how downright nasty people can be toward those in need. After that, donate to shelters. There are more than thirty of them in New Hampshire.”
“So many?” Tricia asked.
“There’s a big demand—and not nearly enough beds.”
“I had no idea. What else can I do?”
“Give them food.”
“My friend and employee, Mr. Everett, has taken food to the people in the encampment. His wife was worried that at his age it might not be safe and asked him not to go back. Their foundation does make generous contributions to a shelter in Nashua.”
“William Everett has always had a kind heart,” Libby agreed. “I wasn’t at all surprised to hear that after he’d won the lottery, he’d set up a foundation to help others in need.”
“Libby,” one of the men called.
Libby nodded to the man and turned back to Tricia. “I only have help for the next half hour, and we have a lot to accomplish. I hope you don’t mind if . . .”
“I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time, but thanks for speaking with me. I feel bad about Susan and I’d like to help others who’re in the same situation.”
“Money talks,” Libby said with a pointed glare. Did she think Tricia was more talk than action? Maybe. Perhaps she knew of Angelica’s Nigela Ricita empire: half the village knew or suspected. Tricia had never asked her sister about her charitable donations. What she did know was that Angelica had given a lot of people meaningful employment. People who work and earn a living wage contribute to the village’s bottom line. Angelica had shared her success in so many ways. Was Tricia lacking in that respect?
“I hope we have an opportunity to speak again when you’ve got more time,” Tricia added.
“That would be nice,” Libby said, but it was apparent by her tone that if it was another five years before the women interacted, it would be too soon.
Tricia braved a smile and left the Food Shelf. After all, she had a business to run . . . and a lot to think about.
ELEVEN
The day dragged on. Although the weather was still fine, it wasn’t bringing vintage mystery enthusiasts to the village. The tour buses would return in a few weeks for the leaf-peeping season, and in November for the holidays, but then it would be a long five months when most of the shops along Main Street cut their hours and their owners lowered their expectations.
Since they hadn’t had a customer in over an hour, Tricia decided to close the store half an hour early.
“I don’t mind staying until my rightful quitting time,” Mr. Everett assured her. “I could go back down to the office and sort some of those books that came in yesterday.”
“It can wait until tomorrow.”
“Sunday is my favorite day of the week,” Mr. Everett confided. “I look forward to our family dinners all week. Grace does, too. We would be very lonely people if not for the kindnesses you and your sister have shown us.”
“I look forward to those dinners, too,” Tricia said. “Especially when I get to contribute. I think I’ll ask Angelica if I can bring the dessert tomorrow. I could bake it in the morning after my walk.”
“I wish she would let us contribute more,” Mr. Everett lamented.
“Your presence is compensation enough. Now, hang up that apron and go home to your wife.”
“Ah, but she’s still working at her office. However, I shall go over there and see if she, too, is game to play hooky.”
Mr. Everett traded his apron for his jacket and gave a cheery wave as he went out the door. Tricia turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED and pulled the blinds before she took out her phone and texted her sister.
We shut the Cookery down early, too. Come on over, Angelica texted back.
Tricia locked up, grabbed her jacket from a peg at the back of the store, and soon arrived at her sister’s apartment over the Cookery.
“What a day,” Tricia announced, hanging her jacket over the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen island.
“Busy?” Angelica asked, sounding surprised, her right knee resting on her scooter in front of the kitchen’s island, where she poured the first martinis.
“Not at my store, but I ran a number of errands during the day.”
“And was one of them your visit to the Stoneham Weekly News?”
“Yes.”
“And how were you received?”
“With enthusiasm, until I told Patti Perkins why I was there.”
“I could have told you so,” Angelica practically sang.
“Yes, well, I learned something quite disturbing during our conversation.”
“And what was that?” Angelica asked, handing Tricia a glass before she picked up her own.
“That if Fiona won’t take little Russell, Russ is thinking about putting the boy in foster care.”
Angelica’s expression mirrored her horror. “I always knew the man was a jerk, but I never thought he’d stoop that low.”
“On the other hand, living with a real family could be just what the boy needs. Kids are smart. Perhaps little Russell has already picked up on the fact his father doesn’t love him—and probably never did. And what would Nikki think if she knew about Russ’s plans?” Tricia asked.
Angelica frowned. “She’s so full of herself since she’s been hanging out with a Hollywood chef, I wonder if she even cares. And brother, is that sad.”
Yes, it was.
“I don’t know what to do. I mean, Fiona is between a rock and a hard place, if I may employ a cliché. She has a lot at stake, but I wouldn
’t put it past Russ to blackmail her into taking on his son because he’s too lazy and heartless to live up to his responsibilities.”
“Poor little Russell.”
“And he’s not the most well-behaved child, either. Patti thought any family that took him in would have their hands full.”
Angelica sported a smug smile. “And our darling little Sofia is such an angel.”
Compared to little Russell, she definitely was.
“Patti hinted the weekly rag has a big scoop on Susan that’ll break on Monday.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, but if I could find it on the Internet, it can’t be all that big a deal.” And why hadn’t the bigger newspapers in the area covered it? Did they brush off Susan’s death as just another small-town death without digging deeper?
Tricia explained how she’d tracked Susan down online and that Susan’s naval career took a nosedive after the Tailhook scandal.
“Susan was one of the victims?” Angelica asked, aghast. “Did she suffer from PTSD after the ordeal?”
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“To think that kind of thing was commonplace . . .” she muttered, taking another sip of her drink.
Handbook for Homicide Page 10