Book Clubbed (A Booktown Mystery)

by Lorna Barrett

  Ginny lifted her cup, taking another sip. “But who would Betsy try to blackmail—and with what?”

  Tricia shrugged, thinking about the Chamber MEMBERS file that currently sat on her computer’s desktop, and remembered she hadn’t called Grant Baker to discuss it. That would have to be next on her list of things to do.

  Ginny polished off the last of her muffin and looked hopefully toward the shop door. “I wonder what time my first customer will arrive. Yesterday it was after one.”

  “We’ve done better than that over at Haven’t Got a Clue, but not by much,” Tricia said.

  “At least it’s given me a chance to plan my Saint Paddy’s Day displays,” Ginny said.

  “We didn’t even decorate for Valentine’s Day,” Tricia admitted. “Except for Pixie changing that weird doll’s outfit every other day.”

  “That often?” Ginny asked skeptically.

  Tricia shrugged. “Maybe it just seems that way.” She drank the last of her coffee. “I should get back to my store. I have some things that need to be attended to.”

  “I’m glad you stopped by,” Ginny said, getting up from her stool. “It gets pretty lonely here sometimes.”

  Tricia pulled on her coat and hat. “I’ll see you tonight at the rental house.”

  “I’ll be there,” Ginny said with resignation, and walked Tricia to the door.

  “Bye.”

  Since there was no traffic coming, Tricia jaywalked across the street. Pixie would be showing up soon and she wanted to make a list of items she should talk about with Chief Baker. And she wondered how annoyed he’d be to know she’d been keeping possibly pertinent information from him. She decided it might be better to visit at the police station. It felt awkward to talk to him—whether on business or personal matters—at her store with Pixie listening to every word.

  There were some things Tricia didn’t want to share with her employee. Talking about Betsy Dittmeyer’s death was one of them. The fact that Baker always managed to steer their conversations to their personal lives made it even more uncomfortable.

  Most of all, Tricia wasn’t up to being scolded in front of an audience.

  * * *

  Tricia sat in the police station’s small, drafty waiting room for more than half an hour, glad she hadn’t hung her coat on the rack near the door. Was Baker punishing her or was it his sharp-eyed receptionist/dispatcher? Polly Burgess was probably in her seventies, with thinning, snow-white hair worn in a bun. That day she wore a blue wool suit that had probably served her well over the years when she’d had an office job at St. Joseph Hospital in Nashua. Here in Stoneham it looked a bit prim and proper. But that was Polly, who probably wouldn’t take guff from anyone—she’d sure put the fear of God in Tricia. Every so often she’d look out from her receptionist’s station behind a half wall with a window, probably to make sure Tricia hadn’t lifted a few of the well-thumbed ancient magazines that sat on one of the small tables between the six uncomfortable folding chairs.

  Tricia sighed, exasperated for having forgotten to bring a book along, and stared at the walls, noting how in just a few short months the newly opened station already had a rather shabby feel to it. She’d visited a few times before, but felt she’d never warm to the place.

  Tricia noticed Polly’s gaze drift to the clock on the wall outside her cubby. Suddenly she sat up, pulled back the window, and announced, “You can go in now.”

  Tricia grabbed her purse and stood. “Thank you.” She stepped across the small lobby and reached for the door handle that led to the station’s inner sanctum.

  Baker’s door was open. He didn’t seem to be expecting her, for when he saw her, his eyes lit up and he smiled. “Tricia. This is a surprise.”

  “I’ve been sitting waiting in your reception room for the past forty-five minutes.”

  “Oh? I wonder why Polly didn’t say something.”

  Tricia forced a smile. “Perhaps she’s overworked.”

  “Well, you’re here now. What’s new?”

  Tricia closed the door and sat on yet another uncomfortable folding chair. “I’m sure you probably already know about the fire at Betsy Dittmeyer’s house.”

  Baker frowned, distinctly unhappy. “Did you see it on the news?”

  Tricia shook her head. “I was there. Russ Smith heard it on his police scanner, called me, and the two of us went to have a look.”

  “I thought you were done with him a long time ago,” Baker said, glowering, and sounding very much like a jealous ex-boyfriend.

  “I was. And as you recall, he’s married.”

  “And as I recall his wife is jealous of you,” he said much louder than he needed to. Had his voice penetrated the thin walls? Was Polly listening? Was she as big a gossip as Frannie? If so, she must run in another circle.

  “Not so much, these days,” Tricia admitted and changed the subject. “Have the Milford firemen ascertained the exact cause of the fire?”

  He shook his head. “Only that it was arson. They’ll have a preliminary report to me as soon as they know.”

  “How soon is soon?”

  “Could be a day or two. Could be a week. Could be longer.”

  That certainly sounded open-ended.

  “That wasn’t what brought you to my office,” Baker said.

  “You’re right. Have you had a chance to look at the files on the Chamber’s computer?”

  He shook his head and she told him about what she’d found when digging through the files. As predicted, the chief was not happy. His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me all this when we talked yesterday?”

  Tricia sighed and looked away, taking in Baker’s immaculate office. There wasn’t a paper or a book out of order, and the floor looked like it had recently been polished. His many awards hung on the cheap paneled wall behind his desk in precise rows, along with pictures of him taken with other officers and local politicians during his time with the Hillsborough Sheriff’s Department. “I knew you’d be annoyed, because honestly it should have been Angelica who reported this to you.”

  “You had the files. You did the snooping. You should have told me about this as soon as you knew. And when was that?”

  “Um . . .”

  “This is Wednesday,” he said, eyes blazing, as angry as she’d ever seen him.

  “Well, I’m telling you now. And the thing is you’ve had the information since Saturday afternoon when you confiscated the Chamber’s computer. It’s not my fault you haven’t looked at any of the files. I’m just bringing your attention to what you’ve already got.”

  “We’re a small department. I don’t have the benefit of passing those kinds of responsibilities off to an investigator. I’m the investigator.”

  Tricia handed him her flash drive. “After you copy the files, I’d like to have this returned.”

  Baker turned toward the monitor on the wing of his desk, inserted the flash drive, and opened it. “It’s the file called MEMBERS. And don’t forget to study the spreadsheets. I showed them to Christopher, and he’s on tap to find someone to go over the books for the Chamber.”

  “You’ve talked to Christopher about this?” Baker asked angrily.

  “I needed corroboration that there was something wrong with the files.”

  “Why am I always the last to know?” Baker groused.

  “Because your force is too small to deal with murder cases?” she suggested.

  “Are you intimating that we, a force of seven officers and a receptionist, aren’t capable of solving this murder, but you—a solitary civilian—are?”

  “Not at all,” Tricia answered, but she had been reading murder mysteries since the tender age of ten, whereas Baker had only been an officer of the law for some twenty-odd years.

  “Who else knows about these files?” Baker demanded.


  “Just Angelica and Christopher.”

  “Keeping it all in the family, eh?” he said with a bit of a sneer.

  “Christopher isn’t part of my family.”

  “But he was for ten years.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You called him, not me, to look at these files.”

  “He’s a financial expert. Betsy had been stealing from the Chamber. I wanted him to verify it before I brought it to anyone’s attention.”

  “Why don’t you take out an ad in the Stoneham Weekly News and tell everyone in the village? And don’t tell me, let me guess, you’ve also compared notes with Russ Smith on this subject, too.”

  “I congratulated him on his impending fatherhood the other day. Betsy’s death may have come up during the conversation.”

  “You know damn well it did,” he accused.

  Tricia sat back in her chair. She’d known he was going to be upset, but she had no idea how upset. “I could have just kept this information to myself, you know.”

  “No, you couldn’t.”

  Was he implying she was a gossip? She preferred not to think about it.

  “I’d advise you to look at every single file on the Chamber hard drive. Betsy hid what could be important information mixed in with things like recipes.”

  “Do you have an example?”

  “Uh . . . no.”

  “Then how do you—?” He stopped, turning his piercing gaze on her. “Please tell me you haven’t been poking around in other places you shouldn’t.”

  “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she bluffed.

  “I think you do.”

  Tricia didn’t look away. Should she admit Angelica had copied files from Betsy’s home computer and given them to her? The computer had no doubt been destroyed in the fire; only she and Angelica had an inkling of what information it contained.

  “I’m just giving you a friendly piece of advice,” she told him.

  Baker studied her face. “There’s more you’re not telling me.”

  “I don’t know what that could be,” she fibbed. Should she mention the cartons in the rental house? She didn’t see how that could be relevant. The money they’d found the previous evening could have been collected from people Betsy had been blackmailing, or it could have been earned honestly from items she’d sold on eBay or found in people’s trash. The latter were unlikely, but possibilities nonetheless.

  “Is there anything else you want to ask me?” Tricia said.

  Baker frowned. “I have thousands of questions for you, but nothing at this moment that pertains to the case. I presume you’ll be available if and when I do have further questions?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then you may as well go back to your store. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tricia said and saluted.

  Baker didn’t seem to appreciate her levity. “I’m only going to say this once: I want you and Angelica to stop playing sister sleuths. I don’t want you poking your noses into stuff that doesn’t concern you. I want to keep you both safe. Do I make myself clear?”

  Again Tricia saluted. Baker turned back to his computer monitor.

  Tricia stood, picked up her purse, and waited for Baker to say something else, but he didn’t. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said, turned, and opened his office door, waiting for a reply.

  Baker didn’t look up. So, he was going to punish her with silence. Well, two could play at that game.

  She walked out of the dreary little office and she didn’t say good-bye.

  SEVENTEEN

  Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue and found Pixie behind the cash desk waving a Post-it note in the air. “Your sister called. She said she’ll meet you here at five to walk over to the new Chamber office. She said to wear your old clothes. Does that mean you’re going to help her clean?”

  “Something like that,” Tricia said and unfastened the buttons on her coat. Why had Angelica even bothered to call when she knew Tricia would be seeing her at lunchtime? She hung up her coat and settled on the stool behind the cash desk that Pixie had so recently abandoned, hoping for, but not expecting, many well-heeled customers with long lists of vintage mysteries they were eager to buy.

  Pixie sidled up to the cash desk, looking expectant. “Did you notice Sarah Jane has another new outfit?”

  Tricia turned her gaze to the vintage doll carriage that sat along the side wall, partially blocking books by authors whose last names began with the letters T through Z. Maybe it was Sarah Jane’s forever frozen startled expression that creeped Tricia out. At least this latest ensemble included a matching frilly bonnet to cover the doll’s hairless vinyl head. The dress, hat, and patent leather shoes had probably cost some proud grandmother a small fortune, but when the lucky owner had outgrown the outfit—or more likely had never had the opportunity to wear it, except perhaps inside a photo studio—it had found its way to Pixie’s favorite thrift shop, where it had probably been purchased for a song.

  “It’s very nice,” Tricia had to agree.

  “She’s wearing real vintage Curity diapers, rubber panties, and a taffeta slip under the dress. I thought since we sell authentic vintage mysteries, Sarah Jane should be wearing authentic vintage undies.”

  Tricia wasn’t sure what to make of that leap of logic and instead found herself simply nodding in agreement.

  “Hey, I had the tube on before I came into work this morning,” Pixie said, changing the subject. “I saw some fire footage on the news. They said it was the dead dame’s house. Did you hear?”

  “Yes, I did,” Tricia said.

  “They said it could be arson,” Pixie continued, her voice rising as though to elicit a greater response.

  “Did they really?” Tricia asked.

  Pixie nodded. “The broad lived less than a mile from me, but I never heard any sirens. The truth is, I sleep like the dead. You could play reveille full blast on a bugle right next to my ear but until I’ve had my full eight hours of shut-eye, nothing wakes me up.”

  “How interesting,” Tricia said, and repositioned the stapler that sat on the cash desk. “Did you have a chance to make the coffee?” she asked Pixie. “I’m afraid I don’t sleep quite as well as you. I was awake half of last night and got a late start this morning.” She didn’t explain why.

  “Can’t you smell it?” Pixie asked. “That Colombian blend you’ve been buying lately smells like heaven to me. You wouldn’t believe the swill that passes for coffee I had to drink when I was in stir. Would you like me to get you a cup?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.” She got up from her perch and joined Pixie at the beverage station. Pixie poured the brew into Tricia’s usual ceramic cup, doctoring it just the way she liked it. Watching her go through the motions with such an obvious desire to please made Tricia feel terribly guilty. Pixie might have a few rough edges—eavesdropping being her worst habit—but all in all she’d become an exceptional employee, which Tricia had been happy to report to her parole officer the times he’d checked up on her.

  Pixie handed her the cup and a paper napkin. “Careful, it’s hot.”

  Tricia inhaled the aroma and took a tentative sip. “Thank you, Pixie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Pixie’s cheeks blushed under her pancake makeup and she positively beamed with delight. “Since Mr. E won’t be here until later, would it be okay if I went upstairs and unpacked and sorted that big box of books you bought off eBay? Did I mention it arrived while you were out yesterday?”

  “No, but it would be very helpful if you’d take care of it. Thank you, Pixie.”

  “Just doing my job,” she said with pride, pivoted, and headed for the back of the store and the door marked PRIVATE. Miss Marple jumped down from her perch and scampered off to follow h
er.

  Tricia sighed, held the cup in both hands, and let its warmth seep into her. It was barely ten thirty and already she felt like she’d put in a full day’s work. She hoped the coffee helped her get her second wind, and if not . . . considered heading for the Coffee Bean and a cup of espresso. There was more than one way to stay awake on the job.

  * * *

  Though he wasn’t scheduled to begin work until two o’clock, Mr. Everett showed up at precisely one to join Pixie for lunch. It pleased Tricia that two people with such diverse backgrounds had become fast friends thanks to Haven’t Got a Clue.

  She had already collected her coat and was ready to leave for her own lunch when they returned from the Bookshelf Diner at 1:59. But when Tricia visited Booked for Lunch, she found an anxious Tommy—the short-order cook, ready to leave for the day—with a message that Angelica had already taken off to run an errand. Tricia’s usual tuna plate had been transferred to a foam take-out box. Tricia hadn’t called Angelica to talk about the fire, figuring she’d probably already heard about it, but she’d been eager to discuss it with her sister nonetheless.

  After returning to her store, Tricia climbed the steps to her loft apartment and ate her lunch at her kitchen island, picking up where she’d left off in The Daughter of Time with only Miss Marple for company. Much as she loved her cat, Tricia found she much preferred eating her midday meal at the counter in Angelica’s homey little café with her sister for company. They’d come a long way in just over four years.

  The rest of the day dragged. Mr. Everett and Pixie retreated to the storeroom above, with Pixie acting as instructor, teaching him how to fill the Internet orders. It was slow going, but Mr. Everett seemed to be picking up the whole book-fulfillment process, and Pixie predicted that they’d be caught up on all orders before the weekend. While they’d worked upstairs, Tricia and Miss Marple held the fort in the shop—a shop with absolutely no customers. Sometimes Tricia wondered if it was worth even opening the store during the winter. She glanced at the calendar and crossed her fingers, hoping Punxsutawney Phil’s prediction for an early spring would come to pass. Thank goodness the promise of warmer weather grew with every passing day and the sky remained lighter just a little longer each evening. Winter’s back might be broken, but they had five more weeks of winter to endure until the spring equinox.