“What will they do when you go back to running your store?”
“Perhaps they’ll hire someone else. If membership continues to rise, they’ll be well able to afford it.”
Bob glowered and quickly changed the subject. “Everyone around the village is talking about poor Pete Renquist—and how you found him.”
“I wish I’d found him a few minutes sooner. It might have made all the difference in the world,” Tricia said sincerely.
“Pete and I worked together a lot over the years,” Bob bragged. That was certainly stretching the truth. Under Bob’s leadership, Michele Fowler, manager of the Dog-Eared Page, had pushed the Chamber to team up with the Historical Society on establishing the cemetery ghost walks. That hadn’t happened until Angelica had come on board. Bob’s agenda hadn’t included anything that didn’t bring attention to his projects and his realty company. He’d rebuffed Michele’s suggestion because it offered no monetary value to the Chamber or Bob personally.
“Did he say anything to you before he died?” Bob asked, his tone neutral.
Tricia studied his face. Now, why would he ask that? Russ had said Pete’s death was suspicious. Could Bob have been responsible?
Bob was a lot of things, but Tricia had never considered murderer to be among them.
“No,” she lied. “What brings you to the Chamber this morning? Looking for Angelica?” she asked.
The dig made him bristle. “Of course not. I’ve come with a fantastic offer you can’t afford to turn down.”
So far he’d cornered her at the Bookshelf Diner, the convenience store, and even on her way to the ladies room at the Brookview Inn, and none of his offers to sell the building that housed her store had been in the ballpark of what she was willing to pay.
“Bob, we’ve talked about this before.”
“Yes, and I’ve taken your comments to heart. I’m willing to lower the price to a more comfortable level.”
He handed her a slip of paper with a number written on it. It certainly wasn’t a number she felt comfortable with. She handed the paper back. “Sorry, there are a few too many zeroes here for me.”
Bob picked up a pen from the desk and crossed out that number, wrote another, and handed the slip back to her.
Tricia frowned and shook her head. “Still too high.”
“That’s the lowest I’m willing to go.”
“Then we won’t be making a deal.” Again she handed the paper back. “If you let me out of my lease, you could put a for-sale sign on the property today.”
“Not a chance. According to the lease, it’s your responsibility to repair the building.”
“And you know I can’t do that until the insurance comes through.”
“Well, how soon is that going to be?”
“I have no idea. It could be tomorrow—it could be six months from now. If you’re strapped for cash, why don’t you put another of your buildings up for sale?”
“Who says I’m strapped?” Bob asked sharply.
“No one,” she lied again. “But you seem to be in a hurry to round up some cash.”
“I am not. The way the real estate market has recovered, I’m just looking to score big.”
Well, he wasn’t going to score big with Tricia. Her lease still had over a year to go, and if they couldn’t come to an agreement, she was prepared to move. She’d hate to lose a prime Main Street storefront, but the way the village was expanding, she was sure she could still make a go of the business in a less desirable location.
“Nigela Ricita Associates is primed to develop the north end of the village. Perhaps I’ll wait until they do and lease space from them. Or, I could just buy a property and develop it myself.”
Bob looked horrified. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I can. And then I’d have exactly what I want and wouldn’t have to worry about a landlord who constantly raised my rent. And, as you pointed out, with the real estate market’s recovery it would be a win-win situation.” Tricia looked thoughtful. “I think I’ll call Karen Johnson over at NRA Realty and see if she has a property I could look at.”
“There’s nothing else on Main Street for sale,” Bob practically growled.
“Perhaps nothing with Kelly Realty, but who knows what Karen has lined up? She’s only been here in the village six months and already has quite an inventory—and made plenty of sales.” Karen had done quite well signing Bob’s former clients, who seemed pleased with the deals she’d made for them.
Bob stuffed the paper into his Kelly green sports jacket. “If you aren’t prepared to deal, then I’ll just find someone who is.”
He’d just said he wouldn’t be able to sell the building in its present condition. Who did he figure would buy it?
“It was lovely to see you, Bob. Did you know you’d let your Chamber membership lapse? I’d be glad to reinstate you right now if you’d like to write us a check.”
“I don’t have my checkbook with me,” he said tersely.
“Shall I send you a bill?”
Bob’s mouth dropped open in indignation, but then he shut it. “Why not?”
Tricia schooled her features so she wouldn’t laugh.
“I’m a very busy man. I have to go,” Bob said, turned and left the office without a good-bye. Tricia was surprised when he didn’t slam the door behind him. Shrugging, she got up, went to the kitchen, and made what was sure to be the first of many pots of coffee that day.
Tricia heard the side door open and was surprised to find Mariana coming through it. “You’re here bright and early.”
“I’ve got a dental appointment this afternoon. Angelica said it would be okay if I came in early I could leave early, too.”
“That’s fine with me,” Tricia said, and stood to one side, waiting for the coffee to brew.
Mariana got the carton of milk from the fridge, grabbed a cup from the drain board, and poured. “There’re more dishes than usual this morning. You must have had company last night.”
“A friend dropped by,” Tricia admitted, unwilling to say just who it had been, and made a mental note not to leave evidence on the counter again. Mariana handed Tricia the carton, knowing she’d be doctoring her own cup.
“I heard Pete Renquist died. It’s such a shame. He was so nice.”
“Yes, he was.”
Mariana shook her head, poured herself a cup of coffee, then left the kitchen. She settled at her desk, turned on her radio, and jumped into her workday.
Tricia lingered at the kitchen counter, putting away the dishes before pouring herself a cup of coffee and heading down the hall for the office.
The front door handle rattled, and Chief Baker entered the office. “Good morning, ladies,” he called.
Thanks to her being the last person to speak to Pete Renquist, Tricia wasn’t at all surprised to see the chief. “Good morning, Grant.”
“You can probably guess why I’m here.”
“Oh, yes. But I don’t think this is the appropriate place to talk,” she said, eyeing Mariana.
“How about your quarters? I understand you’ve got a cozy living room upstairs.”
“And how would you know about that?”
He shrugged. “I heard it . . . somewhere.”
“I don’t think that’s the appropriate place to talk, either.”
“Would you like to go down to the station?” he asked, his voice much harder than it had been.
“Why don’t we go to the park?”
Baker let out a breath. “To the scene of the crime? That would be satisfactory.”
“Mariana!” Tricia called. “I should only be gone for ten or fifteen minutes.”
“I can hold the fort,” she said.
Tricia took her coffee with her and led Baker to the front door. They exited the building. Tricia was th
e first to speak. “I’m surprised you didn’t call me last night,” she said as they headed south on Main Street.
“I was on my way over, but then I saw you had company. I thought you and Christopher weren’t dating.”
“We’re not.”
“It looked like you were having dinner.”
Tricia stopped dead. “Were you spying on me?”
“No, I . . . well, I will admit that I was on my way over and saw him enter the Chamber building. I came to the door, intending to knock, but then . . . I don’t know what came over me. I walked around the side of the house and just happened to glance through the kitchen window.”
Tricia hadn’t served Christopher for some ten or more minutes after his arrival. How long had Baker stood there, watching them? And why hadn’t they seen him?
Tricia wondered if Nigela Ricita Associates—rats! Angelica—would spring for a set of new blinds for the kitchen.
“I don’t suppose it would do me any good to report to the police that I’ve got a Peeping Tom when you’re the Tom.”
“It was wrong of me. I apologize.”
“Grant, you have to get over this jealousy.”
“I’m not jealous. Just a little envious.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“No, it isn’t,” he insisted. “I envy the fact Christopher and you are still friends.”
“We’re still friends—or I thought we were until about a minute ago. And I thought we’d set those boundaries quite some time ago.”
“We did. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
It had better not.
Tricia took a sip of her rapidly cooling coffee and started walking once again. It took only a few steps for Baker to catch up with her. “I understand Pete’s death has been ruled suspicious,” she said.
“Where did you hear that?” he asked, not at all pleased.
“Around.” She didn’t elaborate.
“There won’t be a ruling until after the autopsy is complete, but the doctors found a suspicious needle mark and a bruise. Until we know why Pete died, we can’t rule that it was a natural death.”
“Jumping the gun, aren’t you?” Tricia asked
“Let’s just say that there have been too many suspicious deaths in this village to rule it out. I’ll be talking with the medical examiner later today, and I want to be informed before I do.”
Tricia paused at the corner and looked both ways before she began to cross the street. “What did you want to ask me concerning finding Pete in the park yesterday?”
“Where exactly was he?”
“I’ll show you,” Tricia said. Again, she had to fight a claustrophobic feeling as she mounted the steps and paused, pointing at the gazebo’s concrete floor. “He was lying right there; his head faced west. As far as I remember, he had on the same clothes as when I’d seen him earlier in the day.”
“When was that?”
“It must have been about nine thirty, at the unveiling for the first historical marker at By Hook or By Book. It was a photo-op for the Stoneham Weekly News.”
“Russ Smith took pictures?”
“Yes.”
“Who else was there?” Baker asked.
“Angelica, Mary Fairchild, and Pete.”
“Anything interesting happen?”
“Not until Earl Winkler showed up.” She shook her head in consternation. “He’s not a very nice man.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, you know what he’s like. He hates the fact that prosperity has returned to Stoneham.”
“Did he have words with Pete?”
“I wouldn’t say words, but you could tell they had differing opinions on the subject.”
“What subject?”
“The upcoming ghost walks at the Stoneham Rural Cemetery that the Historical Society is sponsoring.”
“Would you say Earl had an ax to grind?”
“With Pete? You mean personally?” She thought about it. “I don’t think so. I didn’t really know Pete well. I mean, I’d spoken to him a lot in the past few months because Angelica has cultivated a relationship between the Chamber and the Historical Society. But usually I was just taking messages and passing them on to Angelica. She knew him better than I did.”
“Depending on what I learn when I speak to the ME, I’ll probably speak to Angelica, Mary, Russ, and Earl, too.”
“The discussion wasn’t particularly pleasant, but it wasn’t threatening in any way, either.”
Baker nodded.
“I take it Pete was unconscious when you found him.”
“I thought so, but he did briefly speak to me, and it was just gibberish.”
“What did he say?”
She frowned. “‘I never missed my little boy.’”
Baker’s eyes widened, but then he frowned. “Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”
Tricia shook her head.
“Not even Angelica or—” He seemed to have to force himself to say the name. “Christopher?”
“No. I told you, it was gibberish.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but I don’t want you going around and repeating it—just in case. Promise me.”
Tricia sighed, feeling foolish. “I promise.” She took another sip of her coffee, found it tepid, and frowned.
“How did you come to find Renquist?” Baker asked.
“I took Sarge out for a walk, and he must have sensed something was amiss. He pulled me in the direction of the gazebo and, well, you know the rest.”
“Not entirely,” Baker said, and pulled out a small flashlight to scan the concrete deck and illuminate the dark corners. Tricia couldn’t see anything but dried leaves, a few cigarette butts, and small bits of paper that had probably been blown there months before.
Baker looked thoughtful. “I think I’ll call the Sheriff’s Department to see if they can send out a lab team.”
“Isn’t that a little premature? You don’t even know a crime has been committed.”
“That’s true, but if it has, I don’t want the scene any more contaminated than it already is.”
“You’re the chief of police,” she said, and shrugged. “Is there anything else you want to know?”
“Do you know if Pete spoke to the paramedics?”
Tricia shook her head. “He was in cardiac arrest when they hauled him away in the ambulance. Unless he regained consciousness, I doubt it. You’d have to ask them.”
“I will.”
Baker studied the gazebo floor once more.
“What do you know about Bob Kelly’s legal troubles?” Tricia asked.
“Just that he has them,” Baker said offhandedly.
“Was a warrant ever sworn for his arrest on the old charges against him?”
Baker nodded. “He was arraigned, made bail, and now it’s up to the courts to figure out what to do with him.”
How had Bob kept that quiet? Did Russ know about it? Surely he would have reported it in the Stoneham Weekly News’s police blotter, along with the missing hubcaps and homes that had been egged after the high school senior prank day back in June.
“I’d better get going,” Baker said, then turned and trotted down the granite steps. “If I need to speak to you again, I’ll call.”
Tricia walked down the steps, paused at one of the trash bins, and poured her cold coffee inside. She started across the grass, but before she made it back to the sidewalk, she decided to make a detour. The Stoneham Historical Society was located on Locust Street, two blocks west of Main Street. Though the day was pleasant, Tricia felt anything but cheerful. She didn’t know if Pete had any relatives in the area, so she intended to speak to his colleagues. Still, it was never a happy occasion to deliver condolences.
The society was housed in none other than th
e village founder’s home. Hiram Stone had made his fortune in quarrying granite and had built himself a house that, while not a mansion, was certainly bigger and grander than the houses of the people who’d worked for him.
The society’s hours were from ten until two, but she had a feeling she’d find someone in and the back door unlocked. Bypassing the grand front entrance, she walked along a stone path that led to the back of the building.
The Stoneham Horticultural Society had teamed up with the Historical Society and had done a marvelous job recreating the home’s original Italianate garden. Tricia paused to take in the beauty of this outdoor extension of the home. Beds filled with summer flowers flanked a gravel path that led to the garden’s first focal point, a fountain and lily pond. At the end of the path were the remains of what had been a stone temple, which now sported a round, trellislike structure that acted as a kind of placeholder until they could rebuild the structure. It was walled-in by imposing beech hedges that she’d been told were hand-clipped. She’d visited the garden on several occasions in the past and made a vow that she would not wait so long to visit this place of tranquility again.
“Tricia, is that you?”
Tricia turned at the sound of the woman’s voice behind her. Janet Koch stood on the immense stone patio with steps that trailed from the door. The tall, dark-haired woman was dressed in black, which was unusual for a summer’s day but appropriate under the circumstances.
“You gave me a start,” Tricia admitted.
“I’m sorry. That’s the last thing I want to do today—cause someone else to have a heart attack.”
So Janet hadn’t heard that Pete had died under suspicious circumstances.
“I came to offer my condolences.”
“Thank you. Why don’t you come in and we can commiserate?” Janet said, and with a sweep of her arm, pointed the way.
A large parlor overlooked the home’s garden, but Janet led the way to an office off to one side, where Tricia could smell coffee brewing. “Can I offer you a cup?” Janet asked.
“Thank you,” Tricia said. “As you can see. I brought my own.”
Janet poured for them both, and they each doctored their coffee the way they liked it. “Won’t you sit down?”
A Fatal Chapter Page 5