Bookplate Special: A Booktown Mystery Part 30

Tricia immediately sobered, unwilling to share those particular thoughts and feelings. "Nothing."

It was a glorious fall day in Stoneham, which meant that most of her potential customers were probably in Milford for day two of the Pumpkin Festival. Still, Tricia was determined to enjoy the tiny part of the day she could access--her lunch break. She called Booked for Lunch and placed a take-out order, but instead of immediately picking it up, she decided to take a walk down Main Street.

She pa.s.sed the Chamber of Commerce. Their new secretary/receptionist, Betsy Dittmeyer, was very sweet . . . in a noncommittal, bland sort of way. Gone were the colorful posters of Hawaii that Frannie had used to decorate the reception area. Instead, the walls were empty of any ornamentation. Not even a picture interrupted the stark order of Betsy's desk. Tricia missed Frannie as the face of the Chamber. Still, the Chamber's loss had been Angelica's gain, and Frannie had blossomed with the responsibility of running the Cookery.

Tricia stopped in front of Kelly Realty. The pile of pumpkins that had decorated the front of the building just days before had dwindled considerably. Surely his give-away program hadn't been that successful. Tricia opened the door to the office, a little bell jingling cheerfully over her head as she entered.

Bob Kelly sat at his desk, the Nashua Telegraph propped up before him, as he spooned soup from a plastic container--the same kind of take-out container Angelica used at Booked for Lunch. No doubt she'd been feeding him lunch since the day she'd opened. Okay, she cared for him. That was her lookout. But Tricia wasn't feeling as generous.

Bob looked up, dropping his plastic spoon onto the desk blotter. He yanked away the paper napkin that he'd had draped over his suit coat and s.h.i.+rt. "Tricia, what brings you here?"

"h.e.l.lo, Bob. Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but I have a couple of questions I'm hoping you can answer."

He smiled and waved a hand, indicating she should take one of the two chairs in front of his desk. This was where he wrote his real estate contracts--and the leases he held on most of the buildings the booksellers occupied on Main Street. Tricia had sat in the very same seat when she'd signed the three-year lease on the building that Haven't Got a Clue now occupied. Later she'd found out she'd paid far more than any of the other leaseholders. That had set a precedent, escalating the prices on all the other leases--something that had not endeared her to the booksellers who had come to Stoneham before her.

"First of all, what do you know about the person who's been smas.h.i.+ng pumpkins for the past week?"

"Why, nothing. I'm just as appalled as the rest of the citizens of Stoneham."

"Really?" Tricia asked. "Somehow I find that a little hard to believe."

Bob's mouth dropped open, his eyes growing wide in what looked like genuine anxiety. "Whatever do you mean?" he asked, his voice the epitome of concern.

"Cut the c.r.a.p, Bob, I know it's you who's been smas.h.i.+ng those pumpkins all over town. I saw you do it on Wednesday night, and again last night. I should go straight to Captain Baker and report you. I'm sure you've probably broken more than a couple of laws--including littering."

"I don't think I understand what you're getting at," he said in all innocence.

"I'm telling you I've seen you toss carved pumpkins into Main Street on two separate occasions. Only I wasn't sure until last night that it was really you, and I mean to report you."

"You can't do that!" he cried.

She nodded. "Okay . . . give me a reason not to."

Bob frowned, but didn't offer an explanation.

Tricia waited for at least thirty seconds before she spoke again. "Okay, then answer me one question: Why are you doing this? Do you have some kind of sick squash fetish?"

"I don't owe you any explanations," he grumbled.

So, he didn't deny it.

Tricia crossed her arms. "No, but what will Angelica think when I tell her about this?"

"Why do you have to tell her anything?" he asked, panicking.

"I think she should know what kind of man she's involved with. Someone who'd destroy a child's jack-o'-lantern . . ."

"I did not smash anybody's pumpkins but my own."

"You mean to say you carved all those pumpkins before you busted them all over the streets of Stoneham?"

"Of course I did. You think I want to get arrested for trespa.s.sing or stealing?"

"But you made a terrible mess. That costs the taxpayers money."

"The village did not order a street sweeper run. I . . . talked them out of it. Besides, most of the shopkeepers have cleaned up the messes in front of their shops."

"Of course they did. They didn't want their customers to slip in the slimy mess you made, and sue them. And that still doesn't explain why you did it."

Bob snorted a few anxious breaths before answering. "For the publicity--what else? It got Stoneham noticed by the Nashua Telegraph, didn't it?"

"There was a two-inch story buried in the 'Outlying Towns' section. And do we really want to be known as a village that harbors a pumpkin smasher? Come on, Bob, what's the real explanation?"

"Okay, maybe I'm . . . jealous." The man actually pouted.

"Of whom?" she demanded.

"Not whom, what. Every year that darn Milford Pumpkin Festival gets tons of publicity. People come to the town by the thousands to look at a bunch of stupid old squashes."

Tricia couldn't believe what she'd just heard, and burst out laughing.

"Hey," Bob protested. "It's not funny."

"Yes, it is." Tricia covered her mouth to stifle a smirk and had to clear her throat before she could speak. "Milford is a beautiful, picturesque little town--"

"So is Stoneham," Bob countered.

"Yes, but we bring in people twelve months a year, thanks to being known as a book town. Milford has their festival three days of the year. How could you possibly be jealous?"

"We ought to have some kind of festival here, too, and drum up some national exposure."

"Then go for it. Come up with something else. There are three other seasons and a lot of other possibilities you could choose from."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Pilgrim Day."

"Plymouth, Ma.s.s., has that covered."

"Choose another fruit or vegetable, then. Maybe we could have a cauliflower festival, or how about okra?"

"We don't grow them locally," Bob groused.

He'd missed her sarcasm.

"Then how about a 'welcome-back-geese festival' next spring? Or why don't you get that nudist camp down the road to march in the Stoneham Fourth of July celebration?"

Bob's eyes narrowed. "Now you're teasing me."

Maybe she was. She leaned forward on his desk. "Do you really want the rest of the Chamber of Commerce, the Board of Selectmen, and the whole village to know what you've been up to?"

Bob stood, pulled in his overhanging stomach, and puffed out his chest. "Are you threatening me?"

"Not at all. I just want you to stop. And I want you to clean up the mess you've made."

"And what do I get out of the deal?"

"I never tell Angelica just what kind of a nutcase you really are." She shook her head. "I still don't know what it is she sees in you. But--there's no accounting for taste. And you do have some redeeming qualities," she said, remembering what Libby Hirt had said about him championing the Food Shelf.

Bob stared into his cooling soup. "Okay, I'll clean up the mess and I won't smash any more pumpkins."

"Good." Tricia rose from her seat. "I'm glad we came to this understanding, Bob. I really wouldn't want the rest of the villagers--and G.o.d forbid, the organizers of the Pumpkin Festival--to know anything about this. I mean, you're a respected man in this town. If only for Angelica's sake, I don't want people to think you're a total jerk."

"Thank you, Tricia." His face screwed into a frown as he thought about what she'd said. "I think."

"We'll talk no more about this, shall we?" she asked.

"Yes. Thank you." Bob rose from his seat and walked around his chair, offering her his hand.

She took it, resisting the urge to wipe it on her jacket afterward. "Well, I'd best be on my way. I've still got a business to run."

"Yes. Me, too."

Tricia gave him a big smile. "See you later, Bob."

"You, too, Tricia."

And off she went to pick up her lunch.

It was nearly three o'clock, and once again the store was empty of customers. If Tricia had better antic.i.p.ated the slowdown, she could've had Ginny start inventorying the books up in the storeroom, but it was too late in the day for that.

The phone rang, and Ginny grabbed it. "Haven't Got a Clue, this is Ginny. How can I--" She paused. "Sure thing. Tricia, it's Frannie--for you." She held out the phone.

Tricia left the shelves filled with true crime t.i.tles she'd been alphabetizing, and picked up the receiver. "Hi, Frannie. What's up?"

"Oh, Tricia--I've been meaning to call you all day, but with one thing and another--"

"Don't tell me you made headway with Penny?"

"I sure did. Just like you said. I ignored her last night. It took a few hours, but eventually she came out from behind the couch. First she sat in the middle of the living room. Then, little by little, she moved closer to me. By the time the eleven o'clock news came on, she was sitting on my lap and purring like crazy."

"See, I told you."

"Yes, you did. And I can't thank you enough."

"It wasn't me. It was you. Sometimes you just need to show a little patience where animals are concerned." And people, too?

No, she was not going to think about Russ again. He'd made his decision. He could live with it. She was determined to do so, too.

Tricia heard the soft tinkle of a bell.

"Oops--got a customer. Gotta go. See you at the wedding tomorrow."

No sooner had Tricia hung up the phone than it began to ring again. Tricia picked it up. "Haven't Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How can I help you?"

"Tricia, it's Libby Hirt."

Good grief.

"Libby, I'm not supposed to talk to you or Joe or Eugenia until--"

"Why did you give that diary to the Sheriff's Department? Why did you have to drag up the past? Why couldn't you just destroy the d.a.m.n thing?"

Tricia took a deep breath. She should hang up the phone. She should do as she had been told, and end the conversation. But the hurt in Libby's voice, the anguish, was like a stab in the heart. "Libby, I'm sorry. It's evidence in Pammy Fredericks's death."

"How? It doesn't prove anything."

"Did you know about Joe's affair with M. J. Collins?"

Silence. Then, "Not until last night. I wish he'd never told me. It destroys the faith I've had in him. It makes our entire marriage a sham. And what will it do to our daughter when she finds out the truth?"

"Perhaps it could bring you all closer together."

"Or it could destroy our family."

"Everyone seems to forget that Pammy Fredericks was murdered."

"Maybe she deserved it," Libby said bitterly. "Blackmail is an ugly game. Would she have bled Joe dry? And what about Mr. Paige?"

"Libby, I know you're upset and you don't mean what you just said."

"And just maybe I do."

She broke the connection.

Tricia hung up the phone. Was there something in the Stoneham water supply causing relations.h.i.+ps to crash and burn? First she and Russ; Ginny and Brian might be on the skids; and now Libby and Joe Hirt--who, until yesterday, had apparently represented the village's most stable marriage.

And what was she going to tell Captain Baker, now that she'd spoken to yet another member of the Hirt family? There was no way she could set foot inside the Bookshelf Diner--and run into Eugenia--until this whole mess was resolved. In fact, if she was smart, she wouldn't step outside Haven't Got a Clue.

She forced herself to think about other things. With the wedding set for the next day, she had too much to do. The store needed a thorough cleaning. Although it was last minute, perhaps she should hire a cleaning team to come in--but did cleaners work Sat.u.r.day evenings? What if she couldn't engage someone to come after store hours? And had anyone thought to rent chairs for the reception? Or maybe tall tables, so the guests had somewhere to park their plates of breakfast foods, champagne, and cake while they ate? She'd have to ask Angelica.

With less than sixteen hours to go, Grace and Mr. Everett's wedding seemed so far away--so normal and life-affirming. And Pammy was still--and forever would be--dead. Although she'd been on the outs with her family for years, it seemed doubly cruel they should decide not to claim her body. There'd be no commemoration of her life. And if Tricia took it upon herself to arrange one, would anyone show up?

Pammy had been shy and awkward when they'd met twenty-four years ago. She'd been shrewd and apparently heartless the last time they'd spoken. And she'd accused Tricia of not knowing how to have any fun. But was fun at someone else's expense enjoyable, or just spite?

Tricia preferred to think the latter.

Pammy was dead and, as far as Tricia knew, no one--and she would have to include herself--would mourn her.