That niggling continued into the early afternoon. Tricia rang up a thirty-nine dollar and eighty-five cent purchase for three Rex Stout mysteries while on autopilot. She kept turning over in her mind what little she knew about Pammy’s interactions with Paige and the freegans; neither Gray Suit nor Ginny’s friends had been willing to share much.
Ginny staggered to the register, dumping a stack of old books, most missing their dust covers, on the counter for what looked to be the best sale of the day. “This lady here sure is a fan of Ngaio Marsh.”
“Yes, I can see,” Tricia said with delight, and quickly totaled up the sale. Two hundred and twenty-seven dollars and fifty-five cents. Not a bad afternoon at that.
Ginny bagged up the books and sent the customer on her way before looking at her watch. “Almost lunchtime. I’m having celery dipped in one hundred percent virgin olive oil.”
“Your take from the other night?”
Ginny laughed. “They were the best things we found that night.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about our Dumpster-diving expedition,” Tricia said.
“Sorry you had to come on such a dull night.”
“It was very interesting. If nothing else, you have a diverse group of friends.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say we’re all friends. But we work together well.”
“Tell me, is Lisa always so annoying?”
“Yes. Pete and Brian have been friends since they were kids. Unfortunately, Lisa now comes with the package. She’s the only militant freegan in the group. Well, Eugenia thinks she is because she once ate vegan for an entire month, but Lisa wouldn’t agree.”
“I noticed she hardly spoke to Eugenia. They aren’t friends, either?”
Ginny frowned. “It’s all so complicated-like a soap opera, really. See, Pammy annoyed Eugenia by telling her she knew about her biological parents, and that for a price she might reveal that information.”
“What?”
“I thought I told you all this.”
“No. Please go on.”
“Well, Eugenia’s a bit sensitive about being adopted. Her parents didn’t tell her until she was about twelve. Mrs. Hirt told her that her biological mother had died and had never named a father on the birth certificate. Eugenia never thought about tracking down her biological parents until Pammy came along and dangled information in front of her. Eugenia was all upset and told Lisa, who was a real bitch about it. She told Eugenia to hold the drama and get her head together, or see a shrink or something.”
“Full of compassion, that one,” Tricia commented.
“You said it. Lisa also thinks it’s great that somebody’s going around ruining all the kids’ carved pumpkins. She said there was never such a waste of good farmland as that used for raising pumpkins. She says it’s a crop that can’t be used for anything but frivolity. I’ve got to admit that in a way she’s right. Still, what doesn’t get sold can always be used as compost.”
Tricia rolled her eyes, and Ginny laughed but soon sobered. “Anyway, Mrs. Hirt was-” Ginny gave a wry smile. “Well, she was hurt that Eugenia would even want to find out about her biological parents.”
“Doesn’t every adopted child at least wonder about their birth parents? And what kind of proof did Pammy offer?” Tricia asked, thinking about the diary.
Ginny shrugged. “I only got the story thirdhand. Eugenia and I aren’t really chummy. But apparently Pammy knew some deep, dark secret about Eugenia, something the poor kid never told anyone about. She was practically hysterical when Pammy casually mentioned it.”
“Mentioned what?”
“Lisa didn’t know. Eugenia may have been upset, but she wasn’t willing to share what she was upset about-at least not with Lisa.”
Had Eugenia told her father all this? She’d said she’d asked him not to allow Pammy to join them on their Dumpster-diving expeditions. And conveniently soon after, Pammy was dead.
Sweet little Eugenia a murderer?
No. Tricia refused to believe it.
And yet…
“How did you guys get tied up with Eugenia and her father?”
“Brian and Pete have known him since they were little kids. He coached soccer… or was it softball?” She frowned. “I’m not really sure. But we’ve been going out on our expeditions with Eugenia and Joe for at least a year, if not two.”
“This morning Captain Baker asked me if I knew any freegans.”
Ginny’s eyes widened. “What did you tell him?”
“I skirted the question. But it might be a good idea for you or one of your friends to talk to him.”
“What for? We don’t know anything about Pammy’s death.”
“Are you sure?”
“I trust those guys-with my life.”
“Even Lisa?”
Ginny didn’t answer.
“If he asks me again-point blank-I can’t lie.”
“No, I guess you can’t. I’ll call the others and see what they want to do.”
“Maybe you could all talk to Captain Baker at once.”
“Maybe,” Ginny said, without conviction. A customer entered the store, and Ginny jumped to attention. “Can I help you find something?”
Tricia looked through the shop’s big display window. From this vantage point, she couldn’t see the Bookshelf Diner, where Eugenia worked. What deep secret had the poor girl hidden all her life? What did Pammy know about her, how had she found out, and how cruel was she to threaten the kid?
But Eugenia a murderer? No way. Tricia had met her parents and deeply admired her-apparently adoptive-mother. Besides, Eugenia couldn’t possibly have the physical strength to pick Pammy up and toss her into the garbage cart. It had to be a man who did that.
That brought her back to Stuart Paige, who also didn’t look physically capable of killing Pammy. And anyway, maybe the idea hadn’t been to kill Pammy at all. Someone had gotten angry at Pammy and probably decided to scare her. From what the technician had said the day Pammy died, she’d struggled to free herself from the garbage cart before suffocating.
It could have just been a tragic accident. Someone trying to scare someone who’d used scare tactics and blackmail for her own profit. Which brought Tricia back to Jason Turner. He seemed to enjoy being a bully.
Tricia sighed. She simply didn’t have enough information. Eugenia might like her as a customer, but she wouldn’t reveal to Tricia whatever secret she’d hidden her entire life. Nor was it likely her parents would speak about whatever it was Eugenia found so shameful.
Once again, Tricia found herself back to square one.
EIGHTEEN
Lunch came and went. The UPS man delivered the little refrigerator and microwave Tricia had ordered off the Internet. The employee break room would soon be a reality. The next steps were to find a table, something to act as a counter, and some reasonably comfortable chairs.
Ginny was as excited as a child on Christmas morning. “Do you mind if I take the appliances upstairs and get them set up?”
“Oh, they’re much too heavy for you to cart up the stairs.”
Ginny waved off her protests. “No, they’re not. If you could see what I’ve lifted and carried these past few months while working on our house, you’d know I could’ve been a successful stevedore.”
Tricia laughed. “Where did you come up with that description?”
Ginny thought about it. “I don’t know-some book I read. I’ve been reading a lot of classic mysteries lately.”
“Yes, I know. And I think it’s wonderful. But there’s nowhere to put them yet.”
“I’ll just take them out of the boxes and set them on the floor. I can come in early one day and we can set them up. When we get some furniture, that is.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt. If they’re too heavy, don’t mess with them. Maybe I can get Bob to help us take them up. He ought to be good for something.”
Ginny giggled and took off for the back of the store.
Busi
ness picked up, and Tricia waited on several customers, helping them find their favorite authors and ringing up the sales. In between, she was preoccupied with thoughts of how to approach furnishing the break room. She was staring out the window, looking at nothing, when a Sheriff’s Department cruiser pulled up and parked right outside Haven’t Got a Clue. She watched as a tight-lipped Captain Baker emerged from behind the driver’s seat, slammed his regulation hat onto his head, and marched for the door.
Ginny reappeared and stood behind Tricia. “Uh-oh. This looks like trouble.”
Baker opened the door, letting it slam against the wall, stepped inside, and let it bang shut before he advanced on the sales register like an angry bull.
“Where are they?” he demanded, shoving the red-covered diary at Tricia.
“Where are what?”
“The missing pages. There are at least two sheets-four pages-missing.”
“There are?”
“Would I be here demanding you return them if I didn’t think so?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He opened the book to the middle. “Read the last sentence on this page and see if it makes sense to you.”
Tricia scanned the cursive text at the bottom of the lefthand page. I’ve asked him for money so that I can-her gaze traveled to the top of the right-hand page-and I’m not about to make waves. That would insure I never get him back again.
Tricia frowned. She must have been tired when she originally read that segment of the journal. Otherwise she would’ve noticed that the sentence didn’t make sense. Unless the writer had been fatigued herself, and lost her train of thought. She noticed the diary’s signature threads were loose, as though pages had been ripped out. Funny she hadn’t noticed that before-maybe because the lighting in her living room wasn’t as bright as it could be.
Tricia handed back the journal. “What makes you think I took the page or pages out?”
“You were the last one to have the book in your possession.”
“But why would you think I tore them out? Isn’t it more likely Pammy would’ve done it herself? Or how about the diary’s original owner?”
“Someone did it. If the diary was found here, perhaps the missing pages are here, too.”
Tricia straightened in indignation. “What do you propose? To tear my shop apart looking for them?”
“It’s an option.”
She stood tall. “I don’t think so.”
He stood taller. “I can get a warrant.”
It was all Tricia could do not to explode. “Captain, Pammy was unsupervised in my store for less than two minutes-more like one minute-before she left here on Monday. She only had time to hide the diary. My sister and I took nearly every book off the back shelves before she found it. Pammy could’ve had those pages in her suitcase or her purse. And don’t forget, she tried to confront Stuart Paige at the Food Shelf’s dedication after she left here. Isn’t it likely she would’ve had them with her?”
“No. Because if he or his associates took them from her, she’d have no leverage for blackmail.”
“No one ever said Pammy was the brightest light on the Christmas tree.”
Baker had no rebuttal. Instead he turned to Ginny. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a freegan?”
Ginny looked like a deer standing in headlights. “You never asked.”
He turned on Tricia. “You knew I was looking for freegans. Why didn’t you tell me your employee was one?”
Ginny had already used up the best excuse. “I didn’t think they could help you. I’ve already talked to them, and-”
Baker lost it. He yanked his hat from his head and threw it on the counter, startling both women. “When are you going to get it through that head of yours that I’m running this investigation, not you?”
“How did you find out about Ginny?”
“The convenience store owner told me.”
Ginny’s eyes blazed. “Did he also mention his son is one of us, too?”
Baker spoke through clenched teeth. “No, he didn’t.” He looked down at the journal still clutched in his hand.
“What’s your next move?” Tricia asked. “You’ve tracked Pammy’s movements the morning of her death. She could’ve dropped off those pages at any one of her stops.”
“Yes. I suppose I’ll have to go back and interview everyone who spoke with her that day.”
Tricia pointed to her watch. “Time’s a-wasting.”
This time it was Baker who looked like he wanted to slug somebody. Instead, he jabbed his index finger in Ginny’s direction. “I’m going to call for another deputy to come and question you. Stay here. Don’t talk to any of your friends. Do you hear me?”
Ginny’s head bobbed, her eyes still wide.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he told Tricia, then grabbed his hat, and stormed out of the shop.
Ginny winced. “Are you actively trying to make an enemy out of him?”
Tricia shook her head, almost as angry as Baker had been. “We started off on the right foot, but things have gone downhill since Monday. Maybe it’s my destiny to never get along with law enforcement. Me, who’s a fan of police procedurals.”
“Maybe you should have gone into police work instead of bookselling. For you, it would be just as dangerous as owning this bookstore.”
Tricia chose to believe Ginny was kidding.
She glanced down the street and saw Baker enter the Happy Domestic, the first place Pammy had put in a job application. Next up would be Russ at the Stoneham Weekly News, and then Angelica at Booked for Lunch.
Was it possible Pammy had dumped the pages at the last place she’d visited before her death?
“Watch the shop, Ginny. I’ve got to go see Angelica.”
“Sure thing. But what am I going to say to the deputy who comes to interview me? Do you think I need a lawyer?”
Tricia shook her head. “Just tell the truth. You’ll be okay.” She headed for the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Tricia jaywalked across Main Street and entered Booked for Lunch. The place was a madhouse. Every table was full, as were the stools at the counter. Angelica waited on a table of four while a strident voice at the counter called, “Miss! Miss!”
Angelica looked up and saw Tricia. “See what that guy wants, will you?”
Tricia jumped behind the counter. “How can I help you, sir?”
“More coffee,” he said, shoving his stained cup toward her. She reached behind her and grabbed a coffeepot from the warmer. “Not decaf, you idiot!”
Tricia looked down. Sure enough, the pot’s handle was orange. “Sorry.” She switched carafes and poured. “Do you need creamer with that?”
“Of course I do,” he snapped. “Why doesn’t the owner hire competent help? First that stupid waitress, and now you.”
It took all Tricia’s resolve not to pour coffee on his lap.
A little bell rang from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen.
“Miss, I could use a refill, too,” said a voice at the other end of the counter.
Tricia poured, and offered everyone else a refill.
Angelica rushed to the counter to grab a bottle of ketchup. “What are you doing here-not that I care. I can use the help.” She grabbed a jar of mustard, too.
The little bell rang again; twice this time.
“Captain Baker says there’re pages missing from Pammy’s diary. He’ll probably be here any minute to search the place.”
“Not until I close! And why would he think she left the pages here?”
“This was the last place she visited before she died. Have you seen anything that looks like diary pages?”
“Miss, where’s my ketchup?” a voice demanded.
Tricia threw an angry glare at the offending customer. “Remind me why you wanted to start this business.”
“I’m shorthanded, and they want their food when they want it-not when I can get it to them.”
> “Captain Baker also found out Ginny is a freegan. He was furious because I didn’t tell him.”
A little bell rang madly from the kitchen.
“What is that?” Tricia asked.
“Jake’s got my two burgers and fries up. Can you go grab them? They’re for table four.”
“I’ve got my own business to run, you know.”
“Please?” Angelica pleaded.
Tricia turned. If their father could see the two of them working as waitresses-after all the money he’d spent on Ivy League colleges-he’d have a fit.
She collected the plates and delivered them to table four, grateful Angelica had hung a little numbered ceramic tile above each table. After she’d collected ketchup and mustard for the table and had been assured the couple needed nothing else, she went behind the counter once again. No one was screaming for anything, so she crouched down and began her search.
Though the café had been open only a little over two weeks, Angelica had accumulated a wide assortment of junk behind the counter. Condiments, jumbo coffee filters, packages of napkins, a case of cocoa mix, coffee, nondairy creamer, order pads, a box of pens, odd dishes, silverware, and heaven only knew what else. What she didn’t find were the missing pages of Pammy’s diary.
“I’d like my bill, please,” the counter’s crab said.
Tricia looked up. Angelica was conversing with a four-some at table two. “Ange. Check needed over here.”
Angelica didn’t turn, but gave a backward wave.
“Miss,” crabby insisted.
“Ange!”
Angelica turned, reaching into her apron pocket for her order pad. “Sorry, honey,” she said, handing the patron his check. “We’re shorthanded.”
“I’d like to speak to the manager,” crabby demanded.
“You’re looking at her,” she said, tearing another sheet from her pad.
“You ought to hire competent help,” he said, glaring at Tricia.
“As I told you, sir, we’re shorthanded. Tricia here came over just to give me a hand. Of course, if you’d like to apply for a job as a waiter, I’d be willing to look at your résumé.”
The man grabbed the check, thumbed through his wallet, and yanked out a few bills, which he tossed on the counter.
Bookplate Special Page 19