A Deadly Deletion

by Lorna Barrett

  It could have happened that way, Tricia told herself.

  And all because Baker wanted her?

  She kept rejecting him. Might that cause him to finally turn on her?

  A shiver ran through her. Uh-oh.

  Tricia’s phone pinged. Again, it was Becca. Tricia, don’t ignore me!

  She did.

  Tricia glanced at the time at the bottom-right of her computer screen. She still had an hour before all the shops on Main Street closed their doors for the day. She knew of only one person who might give credence to her theory, not that she was going to spill what she thought she knew. But this someone might have the key as to why Grant Baker would abandon his principles.

  That person was Larry Harvick.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Tricia didn’t even bother putting on her coat. She scooted past Pixie and Mr. Everett and practically ran down Main Street toward the Bee’s Knees. Luckily for her, the shop was empty and Eileen and her husband were busy restocking the shelves for the next day’s customers.

  “Hi, Tricia. What’s up?” Larry Harvick called, hefting a box filled with jars of honey.

  “I was wondering if you had a few minutes to speak to me.”

  “What about?”

  Tricia glanced at Eileen, who immediately got the hint.

  “Uh, I’ll go open those boxes of candles. Be back in a minute.” She left the shop, disappearing behind the door marked private.

  Harvick set the box down and straightened. “So?”

  “The other day you made a comment that really stuck in my mind.”

  “What was that?”

  “About Grant Baker’s eyes. You called them ‘cold.’ ”

  Harvick nodded. “You mean you never noticed?”

  “No,” she answered honestly. “I got the feeling you didn’t really like him and I wondered why.”

  “Whether I like him or not is immaterial.”

  “I assume you were judging him personally and not his work ethic.”

  “Yeah. I never liked the guy. I thought he had a mean streak.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was always a little rough with the suspects when making arrests. He doesn’t do much of that himself these days, I guess, what with being the chief and all.”

  Tricia had never known Baker to be physically abusive. He hadn’t been a particularly generous lover, but they had enjoyed some pleasant intimate moments. When he wasn’t suspecting her of murder, they’d been cozy together plenty of times. Was that something he could turn on and off like a switch?

  “Did you think he was an honest cop?”

  “You mean did I think he’d take a bribe or something?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What is it you want me to say?” Harvick asked.

  Tricia chewed her lower lip and contemplated just blurting out her suspicions, but the truth was she had absolutely nothing in the way of proof to back up what she was thinking. A gut feeling wasn’t enough to slander someone who was respected in the community.

  “I understand you’ve undergone a recent loss,” Harvick said, changing the subject.

  Tricia nodded.

  “And that someone close to you lost her home to arson.”

  Again Tricia nodded. News sure got around.

  “And just the other day you had your shop window destroyed. I’d say you are either having a bad string of luck . . . or someone is out to get you.”

  Tricia stood rock still, her nails digging into the palms of both hands.

  “Do you think Baker is behind these acts of violence?” Harvick asked.

  “Personally?” she asked, her voice squeaking.

  Harvick nodded.

  Tricia found it hard to meet the former deputy’s gaze. “I know he didn’t throw that rock through my window. I caught a partial license plate number on the guy’s bike. They found the man and his accomplice dead in a gully off the highway. It looked like they’d been forced off the road.”

  “And the guy who allegedly killed your boyfriend was found shot in the woods near Rindge,” Harvick said, his voice neutral.

  “Yes,” Tricia whispered. “The chief grew up in that area. He knows it well. And Joshua Greenwell was shot with a Glock. Marshall, my”—she hesitated—“boyfriend, his Glock went missing.”

  Harvick let out a breath, crossed his arms over his chest, and gave her a long, hard look. “What do you intend to do about all this?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “If you want my advice, you should consult an attorney. And whatever you do, don’t allow yourself to be alone with a man you suspect of murder.”

  “I didn’t say I suspect Chief Baker of murder.”

  “No. You didn’t have to.”

  His words sent a chill through Tricia.

  Until then, she hadn’t felt afraid.

  * * *

  * * *

  The wind had picked up and it felt like Tricia had to slog up the street to get back to her store—or was it that she was so filled with dread that it just seemed that way?

  No customers had arrived during her short visit down the road. Pixie was behind the cash desk and Mr. Everett was tidying up the reader’s nook when she pushed through the door. The little bell over it rang cheerfully, but at that moment she found the sound resoundingly irritating.

  “Are you okay?” Pixie asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Tricia gave a shudder and waved her hand dismissively. “It was pretty cold out there. I should have worn a coat.”

  Mr. Everett came forward. “Would you like me to make you some cocoa? That would warm you up fast.”

  “No, thank you, but it’s kind of you to offer.”

  “Did your errand go well?” Pixie asked.

  “Fine,” Tricia answered succinctly.

  The three of them looked at one another for a long moment.

  “Um, I need to make a phone call. I’ll just head down to the office to make it and be right back.”

  “Sure,” Pixie said, giving Mr. Everett a curious look.

  Tricia gave them a smile—definitely forced—and hurried to her office. She’d never bothered to add her attorney’s number to the contacts list on her cell phone, so she had to look it up. But when she made her call, the phone rang and rang until voice mail kicked in. “You have reached the office of Roger Livingston. Our hours of operation are—”

  Tricia listened and then tapped the end call icon, frowning as she glanced at the clock. Sure enough, it was well after five o’clock. Why couldn’t lawyers keep the same hours as shopkeepers? But then, they arrived at work earlier. Luckily, Tricia was an early riser, and she would call the lawyer’s office first thing in the morning.

  But morning was a long, long way off.

  Tricia heaved a sigh, feeling overwhelmed. Somehow, she had to get through the next fourteen hours. To do that, she needed to isolate herself. To stay safe. And that meant she needed to lie low and protect Angelica, too.

  Tricia picked up the phone and called her sister.

  “Where are you?” Angelica asked.

  “Home.” She crossed her fingers as though to negate the lie she was about to tell. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be coming over this evening. My stomach is upset.” Well, that wasn’t far from the truth. Her stomach had been tied in knots ever since she’d spoken to Larry Harvick.

  “Would you like me to come over and sit with you?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t want you to climb stairs any more than you have to. By this time of the day, your foot is usually swollen.”

  “Yes, but I can put my feet up just as easily in your apartment as in mine.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m just going to curl up with a good boo
k and maybe open a can of soup later—if I feel up to it,” she added for effect.

  “Well, if you say so,” Angelica said sadly. “I’ve already been alone two evenings in the last week. I don’t want it to become a habit.”

  “Hopefully I’ll feel better tomorrow and we can go back to our usual routine.”

  “Okay,” Angelica said reluctantly. “Feel better.”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, call me in the morning to let me know how you are.”

  “I will. Bye now.”

  “Bye.”

  Tricia hung up the phone.

  The sky would soon be darkening. Her first concern was to secure her store and make sure her employees were safe. She decided to close the shop and send Pixie and Mr. Everett home. She’d decide how to proceed after speaking with her attorney in the morning.

  Tricia arrived back in the shop and, as hoped, found no customers. “Let’s call it a day,” she said, flashing a smile.

  “But we’ve still got another forty-five minutes to go,” Pixie protested.

  “It doesn’t look like we’ll be getting any more customers—”

  But before she could finish the sentence, the door opened and a man and woman entered. “Oh, good, you’re still open,” the woman said.

  Pixie took care of them while Tricia stood behind the counter and fidgeted, her gaze glued to the clock.

  The couple stayed until the bitter end, pleasing Pixie with their more-than-a-hundred-dollar sale. Once they were on their way, Tricia pulled down the front display window’s blind. “That’s it for today.”

  Pixie gave Mr. Everett yet another curious look, but she went to the back of the shop, grabbed their coats, and the pair headed out the door.

  “See you tomorrow,” Tricia called as she locked up. A shiver ran up her spine as she darkened the lights. She’d need to do the same in her apartment. It was then she wished she’d gone for light-darkening shades on the second floor of her home, and not just in her bedroom suite.

  With the shop secure, Tricia locked the door leading to her apartment, and she and Miss Marple headed up the stairs. Tricia threw the dead bolt behind her, turned, leaned against the door, and heaved a sigh of relief. Next up, she closed the curtains. She waited until that was done before turning on her lights.

  Tricia decided against making a drink or pouring herself a glass of wine. She was probably being paranoid, but she wanted her wits about her . . . just in case. Instead, she made herself a mug of hot chocolate and was rummaging around in the cupboard looking for something other than cat food for her dinner, when her cell phone rang. Tricia glanced at the screen and saw it was Grant Baker calling. No way did she want to speak to the man she suspected of being responsible for the deaths of five people.

  She ignored it. Sure, she always had an excuse she could use for not answering. She’d left the phone in her purse and didn’t hear the ringtone because it was in another room. It was on charge down in the shop. But Baker was well aware of her cell phone habits. He knew she kept it nearby in case Angelica would call or text.

  The phone pinged.

  It was Baker.

  I see your lights are on. No dinner with Angelica tonight?

  Tricia’s blood ran cold.

  Want to share a sub or a pizza?

  No! She didn’t.

  Why was he even contacting her? She’d made it clear—way too many times—that she wasn’t interested.

  Tricia had been stalked before by Russ Smith. That Stoneham’s chief of police now seemed obsessed with her was even more frightening. Where was she supposed to go for help? And what if she mentioned what she suspected to other law enforcement agents? How many bad cops had been protected from investigation, let alone prosecution, because of the Blue Code of Honor?

  Before Stoneham had hired its own police force, they’d been under the jurisdiction of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Department. Sheriff Adams had been reelected and the two times the women had met they’d clashed. Tricia doubted the sheriff would give her theories a hearing, let alone act on them. And Baker had been one of her most-trusted deputies. No, she didn’t think she could count on any help from the Sheriff’s Department.

  What about Deputy Marshal Kirby? Becca said that the man had washed his hands of investigating Marshall’s death. He’d seemed to be a dedicated agent of the federal government. How willing—or able—would he be to get involved in a local investigation?

  The phone pinged again.

  TRICIA ARE YOU THERE?

  The fact that the message had now been typed in all caps was all the more frightening.

  Tricia wasn’t sure what to do, so she paced. Not in the living room. Yes, the drapes were drawn, but she wasn’t willing to cast even the hint of a shadow against them.

  Instead, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom suite, leaving it in darkness as she crept toward the windows that overlooked Main Street. She peeked out the side of one of them, but the shadows between the streetlamps would give excellent cover to anyone who had a bead on her building.

  She couldn’t call 911 to report her fears because Baker was likely to show up to personally investigate.

  The locks were formidable, and the barrier to the back alley had been fortified after the break-in the previous month, but her shop’s front door was glass, and just as vulnerable as the display window the brick-wielding biker had breached.

  Tricia descended the stairs to the second floor of the building and continued to pace. Miss Marple jumped up onto one of the kitchen island stools to watch her go to and fro between the stove, refrigerator, and sink.

  Tricia’s phone pinged again.

  TRICIA WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING ME? Baker’s text demanded.

  Tricia paced faster.

  “Yow!” Miss Marple said, as though expecting an explanation for Tricia’s odd behavior.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Tricia told her cat.

  Seconds later the security alarm down in the store went off. Tricia looked around her home, but there was nothing she could use as a weapon. And then her gaze caught the block of oak that housed her kitchen’s knife collection. She could use any one of them as protection, but she knew that Baker possessed far more physical strength than she did. Odds were he might be able to turn such a tool against her.

  As abruptly as it came on, the alarm went silent.

  When they’d parted, Baker had given Tricia back her key—or at least a key. He’d made duplicates of Marshall’s keys. Why hadn’t she suspected he had one or more of hers as well? And he knew how to operate the shop’s security system. He’d armed and disarmed it many times during the times they’d been together.

  Tricia stood rock still. What should she do now?

  “Tricia!”

  It was Baker’s muffled voice coming from the shop below.

  “Come down here, will you? I need to speak to you.”

  Harvick’s warning came to mind: “Whatever you do, don’t allow yourself to be alone with a man you suspect of murder.”

  Tricia crept to the door of her apartment, testing the handle to make sure it was locked. She checked the dead bolt as well.

  “What do you want?” she called.

  “To talk. I promise—that’s all I want to do.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tricia hollered, “but I no longer trust you.”

  The truth was, the seed of doubt was planted days before when Harvick mentioned Baker’s cold green eyes.

  “I don’t blame you. But I swear, I only want to talk—to explain.”

  Tricia bit her lip. Several years ago, she would have trusted the man with her life. Now she suspected him of taking five other lives.

  Tricia thought back to her time with Baker. They had made love together. She had cried on his shoulder—and more than once. He had brought her flowe
rs, her favorite pizza, and wine. Could she trust him one last time?

  Against her better judgment, Tricia pulled back the bolt, turned the handle’s lock, and opened the door a crack. She looked down the lighted stairwell, which had been plunged into darkness not too long before, and saw Baker standing at the bottom. He was out of uniform, wearing jeans, a sweater, and a light jacket, still looking impeccable.

  “Come on,” he said, his voice soft and calm, and raised a hand, palm up in encouragement. Tricia took a step forward, but quickly closed the door behind her to keep Miss Marple in the apartment. She had no idea what she was walking into, but felt the need to protect her cat from harm.

  Why was she being so cavalier with her own life?

  Tricia advanced another few steps, pausing halfway down.

  “Start talking,” she said.

  “I saw you go into the Bee’s Knees earlier.”

  Stalking! her mind screamed. She backed up a step.

  “You spoke to Larry Harvick. I get it. You figured everything out and you needed a sounding board,” Baker said.

  Tricia said nothing, afraid to even move. If she had to, she could scramble back into the apartment and slam the door. But Baker was in good physical shape. He could probably kick the door in. She could barricade herself in her bedroom suite—and call who? If she called 911, would the Stoneham police force act against their leader?

  Baker shook his head and leaned against the wall. His jacket pocket caught on the banister and Tricia saw the open holster and the gun that rested inside it. She could tell it wasn’t his service weapon. She’d watched him clean it how many times?

  Marshall’s gun had gone missing. Joshua Greenwell had been shot with a Glock. Was it Marshall’s gun in that holster?