That wasn’t what Tricia wanted to hear—not with the mission she and Angelica had planned for that evening.
“Tricia, I wanted you to know that I made a few calls this afternoon.”
“Oh?”
“After speaking with that nice Will Berry, I wondered if I might play detective and track down his great-aunt.”
“Thank you. I’m sure he’d be thrilled.”
“Unfortunately, I’m no Miss Marple.”
At the sound of her name, Tricia’s cat appeared as if from out of nowhere, although Tricia suspected she’d been napping in a carton of old paperbacks under the sales counter.
Grace sighed, her brow furrowing. “No one I talked to can even remember anyone even mentioning Mr. Berry. And, sadly, a lot of our friends and acquaintances have died over the years. It’s a shame young Will doesn’t even know his aunt’s name.”
“That does make the task even more daunting,” Mr. Everett chimed in. “If we lined up every older lady in the village, would he even recognize her?”
“I wondered that myself.”
“We’d better get going, dear.” Grace looked back at Tricia. “We’re going for the final fitting for William’s tuxedo tonight.”
“I don’t want to disappoint Ginny with pants too long or a baggy jacket,” Mr. Everett said somberly. “I’ll just get my coat,” he said and trotted off to the back of the store.
Grace watched him with pride before turning back to Tricia. “Aren’t we going to look darling in our bridesmaid dresses?” she asked and giggled.
“Definitely,” Tricia agreed.
“I thought my days of being asked to stand up for a bride were long past,” Grace admitted. “It’s going to be a lovely wedding.”
“I don’t think Joelle Morrison would accept anything less,” Tricia said.
“Oh, yes. Joelle,” Grace said without enthusiasm.
“Did you get a visit from her, too?”
“Yes, she had the nerve to accuse me of being negligent as to Ginny’s emotional needs.”
“Same here.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Mr. Everett said, rejoining them.
“I thought about mentioning it to Ginny, but wondered if she doesn’t already have enough on her mind,” Grace said. “What do you think?”
“I’ll think about it, and if the timing seems right, I’ll say something.”
“Very good.”
“We’d better go, dear,” Mr. Everett said, clasped Grace’s elbow, and steered her toward the exit. “Good night.”
Tricia locked the door behind them, wondering if Grace had heard that Joelle and Stan Berry had been lovers. Then again, even if she had, Grace would never mention it. And why was Joelle being such a pill about Ginny’s emotional state? Was she projecting her own unhappiness on her client? It must be doubly difficult to be helping brides get ready for their special day when her own hopes for getting married had been so recently dashed. And could that kind of hurt and anger push one to her absolute limits?
Joelle was at the inn just before Stan’s death. She had a motive. She might have had the opportunity. Could she have actually killed him?
Tricia glanced at the clock. She’d have to think about the implications while getting ready for her stealth mission to check out Stan’s trash cans.
“Let’s go, Miss Marple,” she said, and the cat bounded ahead of her, heading for the door that led to Tricia’s upstairs apartment. She intended to dress all in black, the better to fade into the shadows, and wondered what she’d say to Will if she and Angelica were caught red-handed.
SIXTEEN
Angelica pressed down on the brake, cut the lights, and then backed into Frannie Armstrong’s driveway, which was several houses away from Stan Berry’s place. She gave Tricia a hard stare. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
Tricia pulled the dark knit hat down and tucked her hair up under it. “Yes. If I’d had second thoughts, we wouldn’t be here now.”
Angelica shrugged. “Well, hurry up. It’s cold out here and I have other things I need to get done tonight.”
“You didn’t have to drive me. I could’ve just walked over here by myself.”
“Just go,” Angelica ordered.
Tricia opened the car door, slipped out, and quietly shut the door. She looked at the home’s lighted living room window, where Frannie stood watching. She waved, smiling like a lunatic. Tricia’s stomach sank as she waved back and then began to jog down the sidewalk. She slowed as she approached Stan’s home. There were lights on in the garage once again, but as she’d hoped, the trash was stacked at the end of the drive ready for pickup the next morning.
Two years before she’d almost Dumpster dived with a bunch of freegans, so picking through a garbage can full of papers wasn’t going to be a problem. And unless Will had jumbled up the can’s contents, the magazines should still be at the top of the pile.
Tricia pulled on her heavy-duty gloves and forged forward. No sooner had she crossed the drive next to Stan’s house when a dog started to bark. Loudly.
Tricia stopped dead, unsure what to do. The dog’s barking went into overdrive, and the lights went on in the neighbor’s house. Adrenaline shot through her, and instead of fight, Tricia chose flight and pivoted, running as fast as she could back toward Angelica’s car.
She yanked open the door and hopped inside, breathless.
“Did you get it?” Angelica asked.
Tricia shook her head, gasping. “The dog next door started barking and the lights went on. I was afraid someone was going to come out and catch me rummaging through the trash.”
Angelica sighed—loudly. “So what are you going to do now?”
Tricia squinted through the windshield into the darkness. “I guess I’ll wait until after midnight and try again.”
“Are you kidding?” Angelica practically squealed.
Tricia shook her head.
“What if that dog is still outside? Don’t you think that’ll be even more suspicious if he barks at that time of night?”
“I’ll just have to take that risk.”
Angelica sighed again—even louder, if that was possible. “Give me that hat,” she said and swiped the knit cap from Tricia’s head.
“What are you going to do?”
“Go and dig through Stan Berry’s garbage, what do you think?”
“But you don’t even know what can to look at.”
“So, how many cans are there?”
“Four.”
Angelica shrugged, grabbed Tricia’s hands, and plucked the gloves from them.
“What if you get caught? What will you say?”
“That I’m a freegan and I’m trying to recycle.”
“Ange, if you’re seen, it could ruin your chances of being elected Chamber president.”
“Oh, Trish, you worry far too much,” she said, yanked open her door, got out, and then slammed it.
Tricia winced. How many of the neighbors had heard that?
It was so dark that Tricia soon lost sight of Angelica, who was also clad in black. She found herself counting. She got to sixty, and counted to sixty again. Next she hit the window control, letting it down a couple of inches. No dog barked. That was something in Angelica’s favor. Tricia counted to sixty again, and again. A full five minutes had gone by and there was still no sign of Angelica. What could be taking her so long?
Tricia eased the car door open and stepped outside, quickly and quietly shutting the door so that the car’s interior light went out. She peered into the darkness, but couldn’t see anything but the lights on in the houses along the street. More than a few of them were already dark. People sure went to bed early on Oak Street—but not Frannie, who seemed to wander in and out of her living room to check on the car in her drive.
Tricia wished her watch had a lighted dial. She started counting again. It sure was cold. She rubbed her arms and stamped her feet hoping to keep some of the chill away. Her breath
came out in cloudy puffs and she wondered if she ought to go looking for Angelica.
Something touched her shoulder and she yelped—jumping at least six inches into the air.
“Will you be quiet?” Angelica hissed.
“Where have you been?” Tricia grated, wishing her heart would stop pounding.
“Get in the car,” Angelica ordered and headed around to the driver’s side. Once they were both inside, Angelica dumped several magazines onto Tricia’s lap.
“What took you so long?” Tricia asked, not bothering to look at the magazines. There wasn’t enough light. She could see that Frannie hadn’t abandoned her vigil and was eager to leave the area.
Angelica jammed the key into the ignition, started the car, and pulled away from the curb. “One of the neighbors saw me, asked me what I was doing. I told him I was taking a walk around the block. So … I did. I really do need the exercise,” she said, turned on the headlights, touched her turn indicator, and made a right.
“Did you have any trouble finding the magazines?”
“Nope. They were practically overflowing from one of the garbage cans. I couldn’t see what they were about—too dark. Come on up to my place and I’ll fix us both a nightcap and we can page through them.”
Nightcap? Tricia hadn’t even eaten dinner.
As soon as Angelica pulled into the lighted municipal lot, she looked at the cover of the top magazine. “Chubby Chasers International?” she said, reading the magazine’s title. The cover model was an incredibly large woman dressed in a neon pink leotard, tights, tutu, and ballet slippers, tottering while striking what Tricia knew from experience was the third ballet position. The unflattering outfit accentuated the woman’s excess rolls of fat that hung from her body like mounds of rising bread dough.
“Oh, good lord,” Tricia muttered under her breath.
“What?” Angelica asked.
“Never mind. You can look at these rags when we get upstairs. And I think after what I’ve been through tonight I’m going to need that nice stiff drink.”
“Whatever you say,” Angelica said.
They exited the car and Tricia found herself holding the magazines close to her chest, lest one of her neighbors see the covers and wonder about her taste in reading. Not that it would happen, of course. Main Street boasted pretty gas lamps, but they were hardly bright enough to read by.
Tricia followed Angelica through the Cookery to the stairs that led to her loft apartment. Sarge started to bark as soon as they hit the first step. “Mommy’s coming,” Angelica called and the barking went into joyous overdrive. Angelica unlocked the door and turned on the light. Sarge was like a yo-yo, jumping up and down with excitement. It had been less than an hour since he’d last seen his human mistress, but it might as well have been a year. Angelica scooped him up and he licked her face in love and admiration as they trudged down the long hall that led to her living room and the kitchen that overlooked Main Street.
“Mommy will give you a nice treat,” Angelica told the dog, setting him back down on the floor, and then opened a glass jar on the counter, plucking out what looked like a piece of jerky. Sarge started dancing around her feet, took the treat, and headed for the little basket she kept for him in the kitchen.
“What’ve you got there?” Angelica asked as Tricia shrugged out of the sleeves of her jacket.
Tricia tossed the magazine onto the kitchen island. “What do you think of that?”
Angelica’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped as she took in the sight of the titanic ballerina on the magazine’s front cover.
Tricia took off her coat, settling it over the back of one of the island stools. “How about that drink?”
Angelica started paging through the magazine, her eyes going so wide Tricia was afraid they might just pop out. “Good grief,” she cried as she came across a nude shot. The woman on that page sat on a big square coffee table, not unlike the one that took up space in Haven’t Got a Clue’s readers’ nook, only the woman’s bottom covered the entire surface of the table as she glanced over her shoulder in what Tricia guessed to be her best come-hither look.
“It’s like a car wreck. I can’t pull my eyes away,” Angelica said in awe as she turned the page to find the same woman lying on a zebra skin rug. Or maybe it was two zebra skin rugs. Zebras weren’t all that big, after all.
Tricia decided that if she wanted a drink, she’d have to get it herself. She crossed the kitchen, grabbed a couple of glasses from the cupboard, and hauled out a bottle of gin from Angelica’s kitchen liquor stash. “I sure hope you have some tonic water. And a lime, too. I’ve gotten spoiled since the Dog-Eared Page opened.”
“Oh, sure,” Angelica said, her gaze riveted on yet another mammoth nude model.
Tricia scrounged the fridge’s crisper drawer, found the lime, and washed and then sliced it before she fixed them both a drink, pouring the gin into the glasses without the benefit of a shot glass. “Will you stop looking at those pictures,” she chided her sister.
“I’m just wondering how we’re going to get rid of these things. They’re not going out in my trash, that’s for sure.”
“Too bad we don’t have a fireplace. We could burn them and no one would ever know we were the wiser,” Tricia said and handed Angelica a drink.
Angelica finally settled on one of the stools and took a sip of her drink. “Whoa! That’s pretty strong.”
“Sorry. Want me to pour some of it out and top it with tonic?”
“Not on your life,” Angelica said and took a healthy gulp. She set the glass aside and turned another page.
Tricia picked up another of the magazines and scanned a few pages before tossing it aside in disgust. “What would make women pose for these demeaning kinds of publications?” she asked.
“Let’s see … to pay the rent? Put food on the table?” Angelica postulated. “Maybe it was a chance for them to feel sexy? I don’t suppose many men ever told them that in person.”
Tricia sighed and sipped her drink. Michele over at the Dog-Eared Page made them much better than she did. “So, we know that Stan Berry had some kind of sick fascination with supersized naked women. What does that mean in the grand scheme of things?”
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure … or fetish,” Angelica offered. “Everybody’s got stuff tucked away they don’t want anyone to know about. I wonder what Will thought when he found the stash.”
“And it was a pretty big stash,” Tricia said. “It looked like an entire trash can was full of those magazines.”
“I didn’t have to dig deeply, that’s for sure,” Angelica agreed. “Do you think Stan’s recreational reading had anything to do with his death?”
“I don’t see how it could.”
Angelica’s gaze traveled back down to the magazine in front of her. “Still, maybe you should tell Chief Baker about it anyway.”
“And admit I was digging around in Stan Berry’s garbage?”
“You didn’t dig through it. I did,” Angelica reminded her.
“He’d be annoyed no matter what.” Tricia shuddered just thinking about the content of the magazines. Why would any man be fascinated at looking at rotund naked women? And what was Stan doing while he studied the nudes within Chubby Chasers International’s pages?
She reached around her for her jacket and the bottle of hand sanitizer she kept in its right-hand pocket. “If I were you, I’d wash the island off with some kind of antibacterial cleaner before you put down another fork and knife,” she advised.
Angelica looked at her blankly, then her mouth dropped open once again. “Oooh! Give me a squirt of that sanitizer, will you?”
Tricia complied, recapped the bottle, and put it away before taking another large swig of her drink.
Angelica found a plastic grocery bag, used it as she would to pick up Sarge’s droppings on one of their walks, and removed the magazines from the island. Tricia picked up their glasses while Angelica found some disinfectant spray
and gave the counter a thorough going-over. She deposited the used paper towel into the trash and washed her hands before joining Tricia once again. “Want something to eat?” she offered.
“After looking at those magazines, I’ve lost whatever appetite I might’ve had.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Angelica said.
Tricia stared at her. “Where and when?”
“A man I dated many years ago. We weren’t together long,” Angelica deadpanned and sipped her drink.
“I should hope not.” Tricia rested her elbows on the island’s cool, now germ-free surface. She thought about what she knew about Stan Berry. He lived alone, made signs, and read dirty magazines. Or maybe he just looked at the pictures. Something Will had said days before came back to her. “Do you think it’s possible that Will’s morbidly obese aunt could have killed Stan?”
“That sounds like a tabloid story: Revenge of the voluptuous elderly woman. We don’t even know of any extra-sized women in the village.”
“Maybe she doesn’t live here anymore.”
“You’re forgetting one thing. Nobody saw an old, really chubby woman in the Brookview the morning Stan died, and no one like that lives here in Stoneham.”
“That we know of,” Tricia stressed, repeating Angelica’s words. “Except, neither does Grace, Mr. Everett, or Ginny, and they’ve lived in Stoneham their entire lives.”
“That’s got to be a dead end. And why are you obsessing over this, anyway?”
“Because, dear sister, you and Bob are considered the most likely suspects.”
Angelica sighed. “Chief Baker would have to be certifiable to think that. He’s been hanging around Stoneham—and my kitchen—long enough to know I’m no killer. Bob on the other hand …” She shook her head. “But let’s face it, you don’t believe Bob killed Stan.”
“You’re right. In fact, he may have been eliminated as a suspect. I don’t think he ever left the inn’s dining room during the ten or so minutes when Stan was killed.”
“I wouldn’t know—because I did,” Angelica admitted. “Nature called.”
They looked at one another for a long moment.
Not the Killing Type Page 17