Bookplate Special: A Booktown Mystery Part 21

"Uh-uh-uh!" Angelica tut-tutted, pointing at the circle of books around her. "Don't get comfortable. You can put these back while I read aloud."

"You took them out--you put them back."

Angelica looked down her nose at Tricia and cleared her throat. Then she grabbed the reading gla.s.ses that hung around her neck on a chain. She stared down at the book. "Hmm. Somebody obviously wanted to get rid of this thing. Look." She held the book out for Tricia to see.

The edges of the pages had been singed.

"Looks likes someone tried to burn it and changed their mind, or someone tried to burn it and someone else rescued it. Wow, there must be some juicy stuff inside." Angelica opened the cover and turned to the first page. "The first entry is dated August seventh, twenty-one years ago." She frowned. "The author would not win points for penmans.h.i.+p."

"Read!" Tricia commanded.

Angelica squinted at the cursive handwriting. "Bunny and I went shopping on Sat.u.r.day, but nothing in my size fit. I knew then that I was probably pregnant. Just my d.a.m.n luck." She looked up. "Oh, Trish, this is delicious. A scandal on page one."

Tricia frowned. "Being pregnant is hardly a scandal, even in the nineteen eighties."

"How do you know? Maybe this woman was a society maven."

"We don't even know who the author is. Unless there's a name on the flyleaf."

Angelica looked at the inside front cover. "No such luck, honey." She flipped through several pages, skimming the handwriting. "Oh, my, I may have been wrong. This looks deadly dull. Here's a weather report: Rainy and gloomy today. I think I'll clean out the kitchen cabinets. That ought to keep me out of trouble for at least the afternoon." She pulled a face. "I've changed my mind about reading this. Here." She handed off the book. "You can have it. Pick out the more salacious parts and give me a capsule update."

Tricia flipped through the pages. "Fine. I've got nothing better to do tonight."

Angelica struggled to her feet. "Oh, yes, you have." She nudged one of the books on the floor with the toe of her shoe. "I told you, I'm not putting these away. I'm going home." She headed for the shop's front exit, and picked up her bag of cookbooks. "Good night, dear sister. See you tomorrow."

Tricia, too, pulled herself to her feet, and crossed the store to lock the door behind Angelica. She didn't want to put the books away either, but if Mr. Everett was going to be scarce for the next couple of weeks, she didn't want to overwork Ginny.

Twenty minutes later, Tricia and Miss Marple headed up the stairs, the formerly missing journal in hand. As Tricia entered her loft apartment, the phone began to ring. "Not again," she groaned. She let the answering machine take the call. Sure enough, it was the same voice. What that person wanted, she now had. She waited until the caller hung up before she turned down the volume on the phone. She poured herself a gla.s.s of wine and sat down on the comfortable leather couch in the living room. Miss Marple deigned to accompany her, settling herself on Tricia's lap.

The phone rang three more times while Tricia read the contents of the journal. Angelica was right: most of it was pretty dull. Its unmarried author chronicled her pregnancy--the morning sickness, the expanding waistline--and her firm determination to hook the baby's father; she wasn't prepared to settle for just child support. Not surprising, the love of her life was not about to leave his comfortable lifestyle for the likes of an unwanted lover. And not once in the hundred or so pages of rather sloppy cursive handwriting did the author ever mention the name of the baby's father--let alone her own. What good was this as an instrument of blackmail? But someone thought the journal was worth killing for. And now that someone was hounding Tricia for it.

Well, "hounding" was a strong word for the relatively benign calls she'd received so far. If so, maybe that was why the threat wasn't explicit, nor the calls all that frightening.

The author's water had just broken, but Tricia was yawning, and decided she could wait until tomorrow to read the rest and find out the s.e.x of the baby. Miss Marple had fallen asleep long before, and was startled to awareness when Tricia's hand slipped and she nearly dropped the journal on the cat. Miss Marple stretched her legs and jumped from Tricia's lap, heading for the bedroom.

"I'm with you, Miss Marple."

Tricia set the journal aside and turned off the living room lamps. As she entered her bedroom she paused, looking over her shoulder to see the book once again.

If the journal's contents weren't worthy of blackmail, could there be something else about the book that warranted further investigation? She crossed the darkened living room to retrieve it.

In her bedroom, she turned on the bedside lamp, sat down, and examined the book in greater detail. There was nothing special about it. It hadn't been expensive and was probably purchased in a discount store. She held the book by its spine and shook it. No loose pieces of paper fell out. No secret compartment revealed itself.

She thumbed through the pages, picking up where she had left off. The next entry wasn't as drab and/or hopeful as the previous hundred or so pages. The tone had changed to hysteria.

I can't believe I gave birth to that--that thing! All my plans--all my beautiful plans for a wonderful life--are gone. I don't even want it. Bunny talked to Social Services this morning, and thank G.o.d I can dump it into the foster care system. I'm signing away all my rights. If anyone asks me about it, I'll tell them it died. I'm just so disgusted!!!

Tricia slammed the cover shut and tossed the journal onto the night table. Talk about disgusted! The author's self-serving dreams of a pampered life must have turned into a nightmare when the child was born with some kind of birth defect. Or maybe it was a Down syndrome child.

It wasn't the author who earned Tricia's pity, but the poor baby. The author hadn't even mentioned if it was a boy or girl--just it.

Tricia rose to her feet and began to pace, Miss Marple watching her every move.

As far as she could see, Pammy had been killed for nothing. The author had never mentioned names. She'd given the child up. There was no indication where the author lived. Without more information, it would be impossible to prove if Paige--or the Pope himself--was the father of the illegitimate child.

Maybe she should just give the caller what he (or she?) wanted.

Better yet, she'd call Captain Baker and turn it over to him.

Tricia glanced at her bedside clock. It was too late to call tonight, but she'd do it first thing in the morning.

That said, she wasn't sure she was ready to give up the journal. She could copy it, but that wasn't the same as actually having it in her possession, despite whatever danger her caller represented. Yet keeping it was foolhardy. And how would she convince her unknown caller that she'd given it to the Sheriff's Department? Should she hold a press conference? Perhaps she could give the journal to Baker with the stipulation that he report his findings to the media. Would he? Well, perhaps her acquaintance Portia McAlister, from Boston's News Team Ten, would help. Of course, Pammy's murder wasn't big enough for the Boston market, but maybe Portia knew someone at the Nashua Telegraph.

Tricia made another circuit of her bedroom. There was no way she was going to ask Russ for a favor, not the way they'd left things. He'd left things, she reminded herself. She hadn't instigated their breakup, and so what if he'd called her to smooth things over? He was probably wracked with guilt over the way he'd treated her.

She considered that idea. No, he wouldn't feel guilt. He didn't seem capable of any real, strong emotions. And besides, what good was a weekly newspaper, when the current issue would come out the next day--and had been printed days before? Anything she could contribute wouldn't be released for another eight days.

Yes, she'd give the diary to Baker--but only after she'd made a copy of it.

Just in case.

SIXTEEN.

Tricia left a message for Captain Baker at eight the next morning. She glanced at the clock as the phone rang ten minutes later. A public servant who arrived at work on time--more or less--and immediately returned his calls. Very refres.h.i.+ng.

Tricia held the phone tightly as she considered how she wanted to phrase her situation. "I'm ready to talk," she said, expecting a scolding.

"Talk about what?" Baker asked.

"About everything I think I know about Pammy Fredericks's death."

"Is this new insight since we spoke yesterday, or have you been holding out on me?"

"What information would I be withholding?"

"I don't know--perhaps the names of the local freegans. I haven't had much luck tracking them down."

Should she confess she'd joined the freegans on one of their Dumpster-diving expeditions? That was probably the prudent thing to do, but would it get Ginny into trouble?

She sidestepped the question. "As a matter of fact, I've got the diary my caller has been demanding. It was here in my store, mixed in with my regular stock. I want to turn it over to you."

"I'll be right over," he said, and hung up.

"Right over" was relative, since he had to drive at least thirty miles to get there.

Tricia decided to kill time by heading down to the store. She'd had a run on best sellers and needed to restock--and that meant order forms and faxing. As usual, Miss Marple was keen to start the workday, and accompanied her down the stairs to the shop.

The phone rang at eight thirty, and Tricia picked it up. "Haven't Got a Clue. We're closed right now, but we'll open at--"

"Tricia? It's Frannie."

"Hi, Frannie. You're lucky you caught me in the store."

"I already tried your home and cell numbers. You ought to turn that cell phone on once in a while, ya know."

Tricia laughed. "Everybody tells me that. What can I do for you?"

"It's Penny," Frannie said, and her voice cracked.

"What's wrong?"

"She doesn't like me." Frannie began to sob.

"Hey, now. How do you know she doesn't like you?"

"She spent all of last evening hiding behind the couch. I couldn't even coax her out with cat food, kitty treats, or even a catnip toy."

"That's not surprising," Tricia said. "You've only had her a few hours. She doesn't know she can trust you, yet."

"Well, of course she knows me. I've been feeding her for weeks."

"You've been leaving out bowls of food for weeks. She doesn't know it was you who did it."

Frannie sniffed. "What can I do to make her like me?"

"Nothing."

"What?" she cried, aghast.

"Let her get used to her new home. Let her come to you on her own terms."

"Is that what you did with Miss Marple?"

"Yes. And with every other cat I've had. You'll see. She'll warm up to you in a couple of days."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Okay."

Tricia moved the phone away from her ear as Frannie blew her nose loudly.

"I wish I didn't have to leave her alone all day," Frannie said. "Do you think there's any way Angelica would ever let me bring her to the store?"

"Not likely. Besides, Penny needs to get used to her new home before you even think of bringing her to the store."

"But would you ask Angelica about it? I'm sure you could get her to change her mind."

No one's powers of persuasion were that good.

"I'll ask," Tricia agreed, "but don't get your hopes up."

"Oh, thank you, Tricia. You're a peach! Talk to you later."

Tricia replaced the receiver. It would be a cold day in h.e.l.l when Angelica let Frannie bring a cat into the Cookery. Still, she'd keep her promise, and ask. It was the least she could do.

By the time Captain Baker arrived at Haven't Got a Clue, Tricia had finished her ch.o.r.es and had a fresh pot of coffee waiting, and there was still plenty of time to talk before the store opened or her employees arrived.

She handed the journal to the captain.

"And you say you found it here in the store?" he asked.

Tricia nodded. "Actually, my sister found it. Pammy must have stashed it among my stock on the morning she left--the day she died," Tricia clarified. "I read through it, and it appears to be a woman's journal through her pregnancy. Pammy told a couple of the locals she was about to come into a lot of money, and she was very interested in talking to Stuart Paige."

"Just who did she tell?"

Tricia shrugged. "I'm not sure I remember exactly who told me," she fudged.

Baker studied her face for a long moment. Was he psychic? Did his cop's intuition tell him she wasn't being entirely truthful?

Finally, he spoke. "I haven't had any luck finding any of the local freegans. I've talked with Mr. Paige, and he a.s.sures me he never spoke to Pamela Fredericks."

"Pammy may have thought he was the father of this woman's baby, but there's no way to prove it. The author didn't name names--not even her own."

Baker flipped through the pages, reading s.n.a.t.c.hes of it before thumbing through to other pa.s.sages.

Tricia decided not to mention she'd copied its contents on her all-in-one printer earlier that morning. Those pages now resided in the bottom of the cedar chest in her bedroom.

Baker frowned. "I don't suppose there are any useful fingerprints on it anymore. You say your sister handled it, too?"

"Sorry, but we did."

"Did she read the contents?"

Tricia shook her head. "She thought it looked pretty tame. She was right--that is, until the last entry. The author gave up the child, and from the looks of it, then tried to burn the book."

Baker continued to page through the journal, only half listening to her.

"Captain, I hope you'll announce to the media that you've got the journal or diary or whatever my elusive caller wants to call it. If he knows it's in your custody, he'll probably leave me alone."

He snapped the book shut. "Not if he thinks you read it."