Bookplate Special: A Booktown Mystery Part 29

It was after ten when Tricia decided to put her book down and go to bed. Only then did she realize that for the first night since Pammy's death, she hadn't been bothered by her mysterious caller. Did that prove it had been Joe Hirt on the other end of the line? No one had shot at her windows, either. Eugenia had said she and her father shot skeet. Had Captain Baker thought to ask him about owning any guns? And had the captain spoken to Joe with Libby or Eugenia present? She hoped not. But if Joe had killed Pammy, everything would eventually be made public. Would the community rally around Libby? She'd worked tirelessly for more than two decades to help those less fortunate. She deserved better than to be the subject of vicious gossip.

Everything will work out, Tricia told herself. But the uneasy feeling in her stomach wouldn't go away.

She turned off her bedside lamp and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the closed curtains. Miss Marple jumped up to join her and gave a hearty "Yow!"

"I don't like them being closed, either," Tricia said.

She petted the cat's head and scratched behind her ears, idly wondering how Frannie had made out with Penny. Miss Marple made herself comfortable on the bed, but Tricia didn't feel as settled as her cat. She got up and nudged the curtains where they met in the center of the window. Once again she saw a figure dart along the west side of Main Street. With hands raised overhead, the figure tossed yet another carved pumpkin into the center of Stoneham's main thoroughfare.

She thought she recognized that silhouette, and grinned. It wasn't only the freegans who donned black and slunk through the shadows like cat burglars. She wasn't sure what she would do with this new knowledge.

She let the curtain fall once again. "Oh, well, there's always tomorrow."

"Yow!" Miss Marple agreed.

Tricia awoke early the next morning, and decided to make use of the time by working in the storeroom. Ginny had moved the microwave and fridge to the second floor the day before, and Tricia was determined to whip at least one part of her mini warehouse into an employee break room.

The front of the storeroom overlooked the street, and contained shelves full of inventoried books, as well as twenty or thirty cases of books that still needed to be unpacked and sorted. The cavernous room also held the a.s.sorted furniture and bric-a-brac she hadn't wanted to incorporate into her apartment. a.s.sessing the s.p.a.ce, Tricia decided the back of the room could be sectioned off to make an agreeable s.p.a.ce for Ginny and Mr. Everett to eat their lunches or just take a break.

She unearthed her old kitchen table and chairs, and a sideboard that would hold the microwave, and dragged them into place. Digging through a box of kitchen utensils, she found mismatched silverware, a napkin holder, and eight mugs. Only three of the mugs were chipped, and she tossed them. Next she scrubbed the old utility sink so they had a place to rinse their dishes.

It was nearly nine thirty when Tricia stood back to evaluate her work. The s.p.a.ce needed some homey touches, but it would do for now. She had just enough time to take a quick shower before opening the store.

Tricia had finished pouring water into the coffeemaker and hit the On b.u.t.ton when she heard a knock at the door. She answered it and found a red-eyed Ginny, who'd shown up for work a full five minutes early.

"Is something wrong?" Tricia asked.

Ginny shook her head and sniffed. "No." Her voice was strained. "Yes."

"Why don't you hang up your coat, and then come back and have a cup of coffee?"

Ginny nodded and shuffled toward the back of the store. By the time she returned, Tricia had poured the coffee. She handed Ginny a cup, and they moved to sit in the readers' nook.

"Now, tell me what's wrong."

"Every Friday night I balance our checkbook. Last night was no different. But things just aren't adding up. Brian works all those extra hours, and it's not showing up in the bank."

"Did you ask him about it?"

She shook her head. "I'm not sure if I want to know the answer."

What had Angelica said about rats?

Tricia decided to push. "What do you suspect--that he's seeing someone on the side?"

"Until last night, I never would've even considered he might cheat on me. We've been together since high school."

And maybe that was part of the problem.

"What do you think I should do?" Ginny asked.

Tricia chose her words carefully. The last thing she wanted was to give Ginny advice and then have it blow up in her face if Brian had a reasonable explanation for his actions. "I've always found the best thing to do in these situations is to talk things through." The way she had talked things through with Russ? By leaping out of her seat and fleeing from his house? By refusing to return his telephone calls?

Oh, yes, she was one to talk. But then, she wasn't in the dark about where their relations.h.i.+p stood. Russ had made it plain he was moving on.

Tricia took in Ginny's tear-swollen eyes and decided it was time to lighten the mood. "Hey, I've got a surprise for you."

Ginny sniffed. "For me?"

"The break room. It's finished. Well, almost."

Ginny brightened. "Do we have time for me to look at it before we open?"

"Sure."

Tricia led the way upstairs to the storeroom. She threw open the door. "Ta-da!"

Ginny entered before her, her mouth opened in awe. "When did you have time to pull this together? It was a mess the last time I was up here."

"This morning. I got up a little early. The fridge is plugged in, and I even tested the microwave. It does boil water."

"This is fantastic. Thank you, Tricia. You sure know how to keep your employees happy."

Tricia glanced at the microwave's clock. "Oops! We should've opened a full minute ago. We'd better go. I hope you won't sit in your car to eat your lunch anymore."

"No way. Maybe I'll bring in my old boom box. That way I can listen to music while I eat lunch or read."

"Go for it!"

Back in the store, Tricia unlocked the shop door, turned the sign to say OPEN, and headed for the register. Not thirty seconds later, the door opened, the little bell overhead jingling as Joe Hirt stepped over the threshold. He didn't look happy.

"h.e.l.lo, Tricia."

Tricia's heart sank.

Joe nodded at Ginny. "Can I have a few minutes alone with your boss?"

"No, you can't," Tricia said. "Captain Baker told me I'm not supposed to speak to you."

"I'll bet he did. When was that? Right after you gave him Pammy's diary?"

"I really should go . . . do something," Ginny said nervously.

"No, please stay. Joe, you'll have to leave. I simply can't speak to you about any of this. I promised Captain Baker."

"You're finis.h.i.+ng what your friend tried to do--break up my family," he accused.

"I turned the diary over to the Sheriff's Department. Anything else would've been obstruction of justice--a crime. And I really cannot talk about any of this with you. If you don't leave, I'll have to call the Sheriff's Department and have them remove you from my store."

His arms hung rigidly at his sides as he clenched his fists--not unlike Clint Eastwood in an old spaghetti western, about to draw and fire. "We'll speak again," Joe said grimly, then turned and left the shop.

Tricia let out a long sigh and leaned against the counter, feeling drained.

"What's he so p.i.s.sed off about?" Ginny asked. "And why does he think you're trying to hurt his family?"

"I'm not supposed to talk about it to anyone."

"Not even me?" Ginny asked, hurt.

Tricia shook her head. "I'm sorry, Ginny, not even you."

Ginny sighed, her shoulders sagging. "I guess I have enough problems to worry about anyway."

They both looked up as the shop door opened. This time it was a real customer.

Tricia spoke. "Sometimes the best thing you can do when things aren't going well is to lose yourself in work. That's what I'm planning to do today."

Ginny drank the last of her coffee and tossed the cup into the wastebasket. "You know, we ought to use those china mugs I saw up on the sideboard in the break room--at least for you and me and Mr. Everett. We're wasting a lot of paper when we drink out of these disposable cups several times every day. And it would be better for the business's bottom line."

Trust Ginny to be worried about the store's welfare--if not the entire planet's. "I never wanted to bother with was.h.i.+ng them," Tricia admitted.

"How about if I do it?"

"That would be great. Maybe later I'll go upstairs and bring some down, unless you'd like to bring in one of your own from home."

"I do have a favorite one--it's got a little gray cat on it. It reminds me of Miss Marple." At the sound of her name, Tricia's cat appeared and jumped on the counter, giving a yow! for attention. Ginny petted her, but even the damp nose nuzzling her hand didn't seem to lift her spirits.

"Hey, you're not supposed to be up here," Tricia scolded the cat. She picked her up and set her on the floor. Miss Marple walked away with her head and her tail held high.

Ginny took a deep breath, as though steeling herself. "I guess I'll ask if this customer needs help."

Tricia touched her a.s.sistant's arm, and nodded in rea.s.surance.

With Ginny occupied, Tricia took out the disinfecting spray and wiped down the counter before she headed for the register, taking the paper cup and its tepid coffee with her. The phone rang. She forced a smile into her voice that she didn't feel. "Haven't Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How may I help you?"

"You didn't do as I said," came the voice. "You didn't give me the diary."

That d.a.m.n voice again. And he/she/it had called the shop line, not her personal line.

"How could I? Besides, I told you, Joe, I can't talk to you. And I've told the Sheriff's Department about these calls. I wouldn't be surprised if they've already tapped my line to catch you." A lie, but the caller didn't have to know that.

"You'll pay for this," said the voice.

Tricia hung up the phone. She wasn't about to be intimidated by Joe Hirt. Instead, she picked up the receiver and dialed the Sheriff's Department. It took five minutes on hold before Captain Baker came on the line.

"I didn't think I'd be hearing from you again," he said.

"Neither did I, but Joe Hirt came to my shop this morning."

"That is a problem," Baker agreed. "I talked to him earlier, and I told him not to contact you."

"He also just called me with that stupid voice-altering device. This time on the shop line--not my personal phone."

"Probably because the caller knew you weren't in your apartment."

That was true. She thought about what he'd just said. "You don't think my caller is Joe Hirt?"

"It could be--but not necessarily."

"I told whoever it was that you were tapping my phones, and would catch him."

His only comment was a flat "Hmmm."

"What do you want me to do in the meantime?" Tricia asked.

"As I told you before; avoid the Hirt family--and keep your curtains closed at night."

"Yes, sir," she said with a bored sigh.

"Tricia, I mean it."

"And I'll do it."

"Thank you. And please feel free to call me with any new developments."

She thought about it. "Does this mean you don't think Joe is the one behind Pammy's death?"

"There's no proof he is."

"But the diary--" Tricia interrupted.

"Is just one piece of evidence. And don't you dare go looking for anything else."

"At this point, I'm totally clueless--and I don't mean that in a Paris Hilton kind of way."

"Well, stay that way." His voice softened. "At least in this instance. Otherwise, I think you're a very sharp lady."

Now who was flirting with whom?

Only . . . for some reason, she didn't mind.

"Thank you, Captain."

He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, it was in his "cop" voice. "Keep in touch."

"I will. Good-bye." She hung up the phone.

Ginny wandered up to the cash desk. "What are you smiling about?"