Bookplate Special: A Booktown Mystery Part 24

Moments later, Baker jogged to catch up with her. "Ms. Miles, please wait."

Tricia halted, still fuming.

Baker removed his trooper hat, holding it in front of him like a scolded child looking for mercy. "Ms. Miles, let me apologize. We seem to have gotten off track today."

An apology? From a member of the Sheriff's Department?

"I'm sincerely worried that you could get hurt if you continue to poke around and ask questions about Pamela Fredericks's death. As I understand it, you and your sister were nearly killed in a car accident last fall when you got involved with an unsavory character. And you were physically a.s.saulted last spring. I don't want to see a repeat of either scenario."

Tricia found herself looking into Baker's sincere green eyes, and felt herself melting once again.

d.a.m.n those eyes!

She swallowed. "I don't know anything more about Pammy's death--or what she did in the hours before she died--than I've already told you."

"Will you please promise me that you'll stop looking into this?"

"How can I promise that? I run a store where every piece of stock involves a mystery. If somebody tells me something, of course I'm going to be curious about the implications. I can't deny my nature, Captain."

Baker exhaled an exasperated breath. "You can be curious all you want. Just don't act on that curiosity. Please!"

Tricia shrugged. "I'll try."

Baker squeezed his eyes shut, his lips pursing. Was he about to explode?

"I think you should ask Mr. Turner where he was at the time of Pammy's death," Tricia said. "How do we know he didn't decide to shut Pammy up after she'd tried to blackmail his boss?"

Baker sighed. "What would his motivation be?"

"Protecting his employer."

"I will definitely speak with him--and his employer, whenever he's available. Now, please put this out of your mind."

"Pammy Fredericks was my friend."

"You said she was 'sort of' your friend," Baker reminded her.

"Nevertheless, we had a twenty-four-year history, even if we weren't particularly close. And what headway have you made in the case?"

"I'm not at liberty to talk about it."

"In other words: none. How about the shooter at the inn? Have you scouted out the woods across the road from the inn?"

"My men are doing that now."

"What are the odds it's the same person who shot at my bedroom window?"

"Of course, we can't rule that out. Yet from what I understand, Mr. Paige was not shot with a BB gun or air pistol."

"Well, of course not. Although as far as we know, they haven't dug a slug out of him yet."

"As soon as I talk to the doctors, I'll know more." Baker set his high-crowned hat back on his head. "Good day, Ms. Miles."

"Good day, Captain Baker."

He turned away, and Tricia continued on to her car. Thinking . . . thinking.

Turner knew the contents of Pammy's envelope. Baker would probably know the contents of that envelope within the hour. She wanted to know, too. Pammy had wanted money to keep the paternity of the journal author's child quiet. Paige was the object of her blackmail scheme.

That explained why Pammy had been killed, but not who had done it. All attention would be riveted on Paige or his a.s.sociates, as it should be.

End of mystery, at least from Tricia's point of view.

Maybe.

She unlocked her car and climbed in. It was just as well. She had a wedding to host on Sunday, and losing Mr. Everett to his honeymoon during prime leaf-peeping season, she'd be too busy to think about Pammy's death.

It was all for the best.

Why did she have a niggling feeling that she had missed something?

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 b.i.t.c.h about it. She told Eugenia to hold the drama and get her head together, or see a shrink or something."

"Full of compa.s.sion, 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 cla.s.sic 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.

Business 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 furnis.h.i.+ng 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.