Booktown Mystery 15 - A Deadly Deletion

by Lorna Barrett

  “I thought that’s what GPS and Google Maps were for.”

  “There’s nothing like having a personal guide,” Tricia said.

  Becca raised an eyebrow. “Are you offering that service?”

  “Well, I do have a business to run, but I’d be happy to point you in the right direction for wherever you might need to go.”

  Becca nodded and finally sat on the love seat. “As it happens, I was able to find the Baker Funeral Home without any trouble. I’ve made arrangements for them to take care of Gene.”

  “I wondered,” Tricia said.

  “I’ll need to hang around the village for a few days until I can pick up his ashes.”

  “What will you do with them?”

  “Spread them at his favorite place.”

  “And where was that?”

  Becca eyed Tricia for a long moment. “I’m not sure Gene would want you to know.”

  “Why not? He did ask me to marry him.”

  “And you didn’t give him an answer.”

  Tricia said nothing.

  Becca slouched against the love seat’s back cushion, and for a moment Tricia wondered if she was going to place her feet on the glass-topped coffee table.

  Finally, Becca shrugged. “On the black sand of Hawaii’s Panalu’u Beach.”

  Marshall had never mentioned Hawaii as a favorite destination, but then maybe that was because, as a protected witness, he wasn’t supposed to talk about or visit former favorite haunts.

  “Sounds beautiful.”

  “It’s where we honeymooned.”

  Was it Tricia’s imagination, or did Becca sound just a little possessive of her former husband? The one she’d left . . . and the one she didn’t seem to be mourning.

  A knock disturbed Tricia’s musings and the door opened as the waitress entered with leather-clad folders containing the menu.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” she said, and placed the folders on the coffee table. “I’m Sarah and I’ll be taking care of you today. Would you like something to drink other than just water?”

  “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay,” Tricia said.

  “I’d like cucumber water with a lime slice, please,” Becca said.

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah said, “but we don’t serve cucumber water.”

  “It’s quite easy to make,” Becca said, her voice level.

  Sarah, who’d served Tricia many times in the past, shot her a glance as though looking for guidance.

  “Maybe the bartender knows how to make it.”

  “Uh, yes, I’ll ask her. Would you care to look over the menu now?”

  “We’ll—”

  “Yes,” Becca said, and reached for one of the folders. It looked like it might be a short lunch.

  Sarah rolled off the day’s specials and then patiently waited while the women decided on their selections. Tricia ordered the broiled chicken and a small side salad, while Becca decided on the oysters appetizer and mixed greens.

  Oysters . . . for her libido? The way she’d looked at Hank Curtis, anything was possible.

  Sarah retrieved the folders and promised to soon return with their drinks. The door closed behind her and an uncomfortable silence fell over the room.

  Tricia broke the quiet. “I was certainly surprised to learn that Marsh—er, Gene—was in the Witness Protection Program. He never let on to me.”

  “He knew what he was in for when he accepted a life of lies,” Becca said with an edge to her voice.

  “It doesn’t sound like you approved.”

  Again Becca shrugged.

  “You mentioned that Gene was lonely and contacted you. I’ve read that it could be fatal for a witness to step out of the shadows like that.”

  “It could have been. Gene contacted me after my accident.”

  “Yes, I read about it at the time.” And refreshed her memory just hours earlier.

  “Of course, at first he only sent a card. To tell you the truth, I was shocked to get it. I knew it could be dangerous for him. I didn’t tell a soul and squirreled it away. But then I got another one and another one. I knew I shouldn’t have kept them, but eventually, I was glad I did. At first the messages didn’t seem to make sense—they were all rather cryptic. But I pieced together the clues and realized he was giving me a telephone number. I called it and he answered. After that, we kept in touch.” She laughed. “It was all rather exciting. We’d buy cheap phones with limited airtime, speak once a month, ditch the phones, and do it all over again. It got so I looked forward to those calls. It was kind of like being a spy.”

  Or a drug dealer. Tricia had read about scenarios like that in one of the true-crime books Marshall had loaned her.

  Becca sighed theatrically. “The thing was, we both knew it was stupid to stay in touch, but I was lonely, too. It got so I kind of regretted that we’d ever broken up. Once you’re washed up you really find out who your friends are,” Becca said bitterly. “My career, my sponsorships—all gone. But I’m a strong woman and I’ve learned to take care of myself without a load of sycophants and hangers-on.”

  A knock on the door caused the women to look up. Sarah had arrived with their drinks and lunches. She set the plates on the table that overlooked the Brookview’s front lawn and Tricia and Becca took their seats.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Sarah asked.

  “The check,” Becca said. “I’ll need to be leaving as soon as we’re done with our meal.”

  Sarah nodded. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Once the door had closed, Becca picked up her fork and continued with her recitation. “They say that opposites attract, and I guess it’s true, but that doesn’t mean a couple can live happily ever after together. That’s where we were before Gene went underground.”

  “You were growing tired of each other?”

  “Let’s just say that we were spending more and more time apart. I was busy with my career and he was not one to step into the spotlight. My friends at the time weren’t surprised when I told them we were splitting up. Marshall waited a year before he spilled what he knew to the feds. By then, my crowd had already forgotten him. And Martin wasn’t such a big fish that the national news picked up on his trial.”

  “How well did you know Martin Bailey?”

  “Well enough to stay away.”

  “But surely it was your connection to his wife that got Marshall—er, Gene—the job as his accountant.”

  She shook her head. “Gene was more than an accountant. He was also a top-notch financial adviser. Martin sought him out. It was Sandra who introduced us.”

  Why had Tricia assumed the opposite?

  “What was the occasion?”

  “None at all. It was a Sunday afternoon in late May and I was practicing on Sandra’s home court when Gene came by with some papers for Martin to sign. They watched me practice and afterward we had a few drinks on the patio. I liked Gene. He was funny, he was smart, and he wasn’t a sycophant—at least toward me. It was a refreshing change.”

  “Was he Martin’s sycophant?”

  Becca took a moment to think it over. “Hardly. He was straight up with him on his financial dealings.”

  “Then why would he work for such a despicable man?”

  “For the money,” Becca answered simply.

  Marshall did have expensive tastes. The Mercedes, dining at the most expensive country club in Nashua, and the suits that never looked as though they’d come off the rack. Even so, he hadn’t drawn all that much attention to himself during his time in Stoneham.

  “Has Deputy Kirby updated you on the investigation?”

  “Not today.”

  “Do you think Martin Bailey came after Gene as an act of revenge?”

  “I hardly think so.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Martin Bailey is dead. He died eight months ago.”

  Tricia’s mouth dropped. And just how had she missed that little piece of information?

  EIGHTr />
  Tricia arrived at Angelica’s apartment just after six that evening, feeling weary after the events of the day and knowing she would have to bring her sister up to date on everything.

  She let herself in the Cookery. Sarge barked. She tossed him a biscuit. She helped Angelica with the treats and drinks before they settled into their usual spots in the living room. Was this to be her life from now on? Two single sisters relying on each other for sustenance and gossip? Well, not always gossip. And Tricia enjoyed spending her happy hour and dinner with her sister, which was why she and Marshall seldom went out in the evenings. She frowned. Boy, she’d been a cheap date—but then, he hadn’t wanted to spend time with her at her Sunday family dinners.

  “I want to know all about your date—especially since we didn’t get to have lunch today.”

  “First let me tell you about Mark Jameson.”

  “I gather from your tone he’s not all that pleasant.”

  “You’ve got that right.” Tricia gave her sister a brief recap.

  “You actually let the man talk to you like that?” Angelica asked, sounding disappointed.

  “If nothing else, I was brought up to be polite at all times.”

  Angelica heaved a sigh. “You and me both. Why is it when men are impolite, they’re called strong leaders? When women are impolite, they’re called the B-word.”

  Tricia had to agree.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  Angelica frowned. “Another B-word comes to mind: ‘bolt.’ ”

  “But that means walking away from your legacy.”

  “What legacy? That was destroyed when Russ Smith took over the job, although if Chauncey Porter had become president, it might have ended just as badly. I’m a pretty hard act to follow,” Angelica said, and oddly enough, it didn’t sound like bragging. “What do you want to do?”

  Tricia shrugged. “The idea of getting the organization back on track does have a certain appeal, although the timing isn’t ideal, what with leaf-peeping season here, but it would only be for a few weeks. I could probably chase people down before the business hours and Pixie and Mr. Everett can handle things at Haven’t Got a Clue. I think I’d like to focus my efforts on winning back former members.”

  “But what can you promise them? If you aren’t going to be the one in charge, you’ve got nothing to offer them except the chance things might turn around. Their membership fees could fall down a black hole with nothing to show for it. There are other, bigger Chambers in this part of the state they could join that could offer them a lot more—if only for networking opportunities.”

  Angelica had a point.

  “So, what will you do?” Angelica asked.

  “I think I’m going to go for it.”

  “Why? Do you have some kind of savior complex?”

  “Maybe. You certainly do.”

  “Me?” Angelica asked, sounding puzzled.

  “Look what you’ve done for this village. For people like Jake,” the ex-felon chef at the Brookview Inn, “and Pixie and goodness knows how many others.”

  Angelica nodded. “Yes, I guess I have been a force for good.”

  Tricia scowled at her.

  “Then there’s only one thing for it. I will have to help you—that is, if you’ll let me.”

  “Let you? I’ll welcome you with open arms. But why now? I mean, you walked away from the job a year ago.”

  “Yes, well, that was before I hired so many amazing people to work in my companies. I feel cooped up since being saddled with this stupid boot. I’ll be more mobile in the coming weeks. I just hope it’ll be as much fun working with you again. We did make a fine team.” Angelica’s eyes widened. “You know, it occurs to me that with your vast managerial experience, you’d be a fine addition to Nigela Ricita Associates.”

  “No way!” Tricia said, raising a hand as though to fend off the suggestion.

  “Why?”

  “Running a vintage mystery bookstore was my life’s dream. I’m not about to give it up.”

  “You can still do it as a side hustle,” Angelica said dismissively.

  “I don’t want a side hustle. I want to be my own boss.” She’d had a lot of authority while head of the nonprofit in Manhattan, but ultimately she’d had to answer to the board of directors.

  Angelica shrugged. “Well, if you ever change your mind, the door is always open.”

  “Thank you.” Though it pleased Tricia to know Angelica had that kind of faith in her, she was content to keep her work life as it was. At least for now.

  “So, what else happened at the meeting?” Angelica asked, picking up her drink at last. Tricia did likewise.

  “Dan Reed brought up the idea of drawing up a new charter with more checks and balances.”

  “After the Russ fiasco, that sounds prudent. What else?”

  “It seems he doesn’t want to allow the separate entities of Nigela Ricita Associates to have representation.”

  “Whyever not?” Angelica asked, looking puzzled.

  “He thinks it should be one voice speaking for the entire company.”

  “No one ever thought that before.”

  “Well, he did and used you as the example.”

  “Me?”

  “You do own the Cookery, Booked for Lunch, the day spa, and a share of the Sheer Comfort Inn.”

  “I may own them, but they’re separate businesses with different needs and objectives. Besides, I don’t run them all. I pay others to do that.” Angelica scowled. “Dan’s just being spiteful. He never got over my opening Booked for Lunch. And with the increase in crowds these past few years, I’m sure his income never dropped by more than a dime, if that.”

  Tricia was about to comment further when Angelica’s cell phone rang. She looked at the number, her expression brightening. “Oh, it’s Antonio.” She stabbed the accept call icon and hit the speaker. “What’s up, darling boy?”

  “Mama, la nostra casa è in fiamme!”

  Angelica sat bolt upright! “What?” she practically shrieked.

  “What?” Tricia echoed.

  “Where are you?” Angelica demanded.

  “Nell’auto. Ginny è a casa. Ha chiamato i pompieri.”

  “What’s going on?” Tricia asked, feeling frantic.

  “Their house is on fire,” Angelica whispered harshly before speaking into the phone once more. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  “Grazie!”

  Angelica ended the call and struggled to her feet. “Ginny’s already at the house. Get your coat—we’re going!” Angelica said, hobbling toward the door and grabbing her jacket. “We’ll meet them there.”

  “And do what?”

  “Figure out our next step.”

  * * *

  * * *

  As she drove north, Tricia was glad they’d barely touched their drinks. The sky was darkening but an orange glow could be seen above the trees. The road in front of the driveway to the little cottage in the woods was choked with police cars and fire engines, lights flashing, while the yard was full of firefighters with swollen hoses trained on the house. Tricia parked her Lexus behind the last police car and the sisters stared at the terrible sight before them.

  “It’s fully engulfed,” Tricia said, her voice filled with despair.

  “We’ve got to find them,” Angelica cried.

  No doubt who “them” was: Antonio, Ginny, and little Sofia.

  Tricia got out of the car and ran to the passenger side. Knowing the uneven terrain in front of the Wilson-Barbero homestead, she’d insisted on bringing Angelica’s crutches. She retrieved them from the back seat and helped her sister out of the car.

  A uniformed cop appeared before them. “You need to leave the area. We don’t need rubberneckers.”

  “We are family,” Angelica growled in as menacing a tone as Tricia had ever heard.

  The young officer took a step back. “Last I saw, they were over there.” He pointed to a copse of maples a little f
arther up the driveway.

  “Thank you,” Angelica said, and despite her booted foot and crutches, started off at a brisk pace that Tricia struggled to match.

  Less than a minute later, they were reunited with their loved ones. Angelica clung to Antonio, both of them rapidly speaking Italian, while Tricia awkwardly embraced Ginny, with Sofia straddling her left hip.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Ginny sobbed into Tricia’s ear, nearly squashing Sofia between them.

  “What happened?” Tricia asked, pulling back.

  “I picked Sofia up at day care and came home to find the house in flames. I called nine one one and then Antonio. What could have happened for it to be burning so fiercely?”

  “Have the firefighters told you anything?”

  “They’ve been too busy fighting the fire,” Ginny said, wiping a hand across her red, swollen eyes.

  “Would you like to sit in my car, out of the smoke?”

  “I’d prefer to stay, but I should get Sofia out of here. I don’t want her to remember her home burning.”

  As the little girl wasn’t yet two, Tricia doubted that was a possibility. Still, she hooked her arm around Ginny’s and pulled her toward the road.

  “I guess we won’t be going to lunch tomorrow,” Ginny lamented.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Tricia assured her.

  “What will we do? Everything we owned was in the house. Our clothes, our furniture. I don’t even have a clean diaper for the baby.”

  “We’ll get some,” Tricia assured her.

  Once she had Ginny and Sofia safely sitting in the back of her car, Tricia returned up the drive to wait with Angelica and Antonio, who’d been joined by one of the firefighters, whom Tricia recognized as Dan Farrar, the fire chief. They’d first met after the explosion that had destroyed the History Repeats Itself bookstore four years before. He gave Tricia a curt nod and headed back toward the house. The flames didn’t seem as intense, but the smoke had grown noticeably thicker.

  “We should move,” Tricia advised, noting that Angelica leaned heavily on the crutches, her sore foot raised to take the pressure off. “Would you like to sit in the car with Ginny?”