Book Clubbed (17 page)

“And who takes charge of the money?” Tricia asked.

“Me,” Antonio said adamantly. “Under the terms of the sale of this property, all of this now belongs to my employer.”

“I thought she was your stepmother,” Tricia said.

“She is the only mother I have left. And everything in this house now belongs to her,” Antonio stressed. “I will take care of it for her.”

“Of course you will,” Angelica said and stepped up to rest a hand on Antonio's shoulder. He turned and gave her a wan smile.

“Then it's agreed. We'll meet here again tomorrow night to continue searching,” Tricia said.

The others nodded.

“I will call the waste management company and see to it that they deliver a recycling container, as well,” Antonio said.

“Can we borrow the inn's shredder? There are financial papers here that really should be shredded,” Tricia said.

“That's a real time sink. We could box up everything of that nature and send it to a commercial shredder. The money we found will more than take care of that,” Angelica said.

“How could Betsy have just walked away from all that money?” an exasperated Ginny asked.

Tricia shook her head. “Talk about being absentminded.”

“That wasn't how I'd have described Betsy,” Angelica said. “The woman had a mind like a steel trap.”

“With all the junk she collected over a lifetime, she probably mislaid it.”

“If we find as much cash upstairs, NRA will have acquired the property for free,” Antonio remarked with irony.

“Please don't make me empty any more boxes tonight,” Ginny pleaded.

“Take your tired wife and go home,” Angelica said in a voice that meant business. “We can finish this tomorrow night.”

Ginny needed no further prodding. She struggled to her feet and headed for the kitchen, where they'd all stashed their coats on the backs of the kitchen chairs.

“I would ask you ladies not to speak of what we've found here tonight,” Antonio said.

“My lips are sealed,” Angelica said, and to prove it she turned an imaginary key in front of her mouth.

“What are you going to tell Karen?” Tricia asked.

“Nothing. At least for now. Now that the property is rented, she doesn't need to concern herself with it. It is up to me to have the house cleaned and painted,” Antonio said.

“Are you going to call Chief Baker and tell him what we've found?” Tricia asked.

Antonio shook his head. “I see no reason to do so. When NRA bought the house, it was stipulated that it came as is with all contents. The former owner was adamant—she did not want to go to the trouble or expense to empty it.”

“Couldn't Betsy's heirs press for a share?” Angelica asked.

“I do not think so. The former owner presented copies of receipts of several registered and certified letters demanding the tenant clear the property. They were signed as having been received. Notice was given. Notice was ignored—much to NRA's good fortune, it now turns out. However, for your peace of mind, I will consult with our attorney,” he said.

“I think that's prudent,” Angelica agreed.

Ginny arrived, her arms laden with their coats, hats, scarves, and purses. She passed them out and then they all headed for the door, where Angelica surrendered the keys to Antonio. He locked the door behind them.

“I told Karen she'd have those keys back first thing in the morning.”

“As I said, I will keep them, and let her know that I have them.”

“What time will we meet here tomorrow night?” Tricia asked.

“If you come just after five, I will supply a gourmet take-out dinner from the Brookview Inn,” Antonio promised.

That seemed like a perfectly reasonable offer.

“Good night,” Tricia called, and she and Angelica started back down the sidewalk toward their shops and homes.

“Well, this entire evening was totally unexpected,” Angelica said.

“It sure was. I never really knew Betsy, but from what we've found out about her since she died, she was even stranger than I'd given her credit for.”

“You and me both,” Angelica agreed.

They crossed the street and continued down the sidewalk. “I don't understand her. Why would Betsy walk away from thousands of dollars in cash?”

“Do you think maybe she was ill? Early onset of Alzheimer's disease or something?” Angelica asked.

“Not that I noticed. And anyway, you'd have had a better handle on that.”

“Yes, I suppose I would. It could just be that she mixed up the boxes she sent for storage at the rental house and the stuff she kept at home. The boxes sure looked the same to me, and none of them were marked.”

“Or do you think there was something in the rental house she didn't want found and she was willing to part with everything so that it would never be found?”

“I'm not sure that makes sense, but in retrospect, nothing Betsy did makes sense.”

They reached the Cookery and Angelica dug in her pocket for the keys. “Want to come up for a nightcap?”

“Are you kidding? It's hours past my bedtime.”

“Mine, too. And I've still got to take Sarge out for one last walk.”

“Do you want me to hang around until you do?”

Angelica shook her head. “You aren't here most other nights, why should this one be different?”

“Because there's been yet another death in the village. In your own building,” Tricia reminded her.

“Yes, but if whoever killed Betsy wanted to come after me, I'm pretty sure they would have already done so,” Angelica said reasonably.

That didn't make Tricia feel any better. “I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” Angelica said, opened the shop door, and went inside, locking it behind her.

Tricia walked the ten or so feet to her own store and let herself in. She had a feeling that with all she'd learned that evening, she'd have a hard time drifting off to sleep.

Damn Betsy Dittmeyer for being such a strange duck. Damn her to hell.

Tricia dreamed
about cash. Piles and piles of it, in every denomination. So much cash she was buried to her waist. Like a child tossing confetti into the air, she joyfully tossed fistfuls of bills, laughing with merriment. That is, until an angry Betsy Dittmeyer appeared, demanding Tricia give her back her money, and not until she'd counted it out in hundred-bill increments. But Tricia had no envelopes or rubber bands to keep the cash together. Betsy was not pleased and berated her, her voice growing shriller and shriller, threating to pummel her until . . .

Tricia awoke with a start, breathless and sweating, and realized the phone was ringing. She grabbed it.

“You asked me to keep you posted,” said a man's familiar voice.

“Posted?” she repeated dully.

“If anything broke on the Dittmeyer case.”

“And?” she demanded, finally recognizing the voice as Russ's.

“I just heard on the police scanner that her house is on fire.”

“Fire?” Tricia repeated, this time in shock.

“Fully engulfed. Do you want to have a look? There's nothing like a good fire,” he said eagerly.

“I can be dressed in two minutes.”

“Make it three, and I'll pick you up.”

“But what—” She didn't get to finish her sentence, as Russ had already hung up.

What was Nikki going to think about him taking her to a fire at—she glanced at her bedside clock—two in the morning? She'd no doubt find out later.

Throwing back the covers, and disturbing a perturbed-looking Miss Marple, Tricia jumped out of bed and raced to get dressed, putting on four layers of clothes. She had a feeling they might be standing in the cold for several hours and was determined to be prepared.

Tricia was bundled up in her heaviest coat and warmest hat and gloves, her feet encased in two pairs of heavy socks and boots, waiting on the sidewalk outside of Haven't Got a Clue when Russ's battered pickup truck pulled up to the curb. She hopped in and Russ took off with tires spinning.

“What were you doing listening to the police scanner at this time of night?” Tricia asked as she fastened her seat belt.

“Unlike you, Nikki finds it rather soothing to fall asleep to.”

Tricia frowned in disbelief. “I don't think Nikki would be happy to hear you're comparing us in quite that way. And, in fact, isn't she going to be annoyed when she finds out you took me to a fire?”

“Hey, she suggested it.”

Tricia raised an eyebrow. “As I recall, in the not-so-distant past she was jealous of any time you spent with me—including talking on the phone.”

“I guess she finally got it through her head that you and I are a thing of the past.”

That was certainly true, although his replacement—Grant Baker—sometimes didn't seem to get it.
Don't think like that,
she chided herself. Angelica was right. Her list of life goals didn't necessarily include a man. She missed the kind of intimacy she'd shared with Christopher, but neither Russ nor Baker had been a real contender when it came to comparisons to him. She wasn't sure she wanted to dwell on that thought, either.

“Although,” Russ offered after a long pause, “she probably hasn't heard that you and Chief Baker are on the outs.”

“Who says we are?”

“Word on the street is that you turned down his Valentine's Day invitation.”

“Oh, that,” she said, hoping to make light of the subject. “It's Mr. Everett's birthday and Grace is throwing him a surprise party.”

“And you couldn't bring a date?” Russ asked.

“Grant's working on the Dittmeyer case.”

“He couldn't take an evening off to be with you?” Russ pushed.

Tricia shrugged.

“It sounds like you're making excuses for him.”

Tricia shrugged again. “I've had enough dates canceled not to expect much,” she said and hoped he'd drop the subject. She stared straight ahead, watching the portion of road revealed by the truck's headlights speed by.

Not only were the streets of Stoneham devoid of traffic, but Milford was just as quiet, which made the muffler on Russ's pickup sound even more obnoxious. That is, until they approached Vintage Road, which had been closed off at Nashua Street, with the police refusing to let them enter—even on foot. But Russ was an old newshound. After parking the truck at the same strip mall Angelica had days earlier, he led Tricia down the block, where they turned and hurried to the cross street. The smell of smoke was thick and they could see flames reaching into the sky.

“It must be one hell of a fire,” Russ said as they neared, joining neighbors who had clustered to rubberneck along the police barricade. Tricia recognized one of them: Betsy's next-door neighbor, Margaret Westbrook.

“Margaret! Margaret!” she called. The older woman looked around, spied Tricia, and waved. Tricia wormed her way through the others until she was standing next to the woman.

“Tricia! What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?”

“I was—” Tricia's mind raced. “On a date,” she fibbed, just as Russ arrived at her side. “This is my friend Russ. Russ, this is Margaret Westbrook, Betsy's next-door neighbor.”

Russ's eyebrows shot into his thinning hairline, and his grin of pleasure was positively creepy at their stroke of luck. Tricia fought the urge to give him a dig in the ribs with her elbow and holler,
Down boy!

“What happened?” Russ asked and for once he didn't have his usual steno pad at hand.

“One of the neighbors was awakened by her dog. When she went to let him out, she smelled the smoke and saw the fire. Soon after, the police were knocking on my door and told me I had to evacuate.” She turned her worried eyes back to the fire. “Isn't this awful? What if I lose my home? Everything I own is inside. All my photos of my dead parents and husband, my jewelry, and—oh, just everything!” Her bottom lip trembled and Tricia put an arm around the woman's shoulder, hoping she felt less alone . . . as foolish as that sounded, for she barely knew Tricia.

“I'm sure the firefighters will do their best to save it.” The words seemed terribly inadequate in the face of what might lie ahead for poor Margaret.

“They say it might be arson. Poor Mrs. Dittmeyer was murdered and now someone has set her house on fire? What is this world coming to?” Margaret pleaded.

Russ tapped Tricia's arm. “You stay with her. I'll see if I can find out anything.”

Tricia nodded.

“Oh, thank you!” Margaret called to Russ's quickly retreating back. Russ probably knew all the firefighters and Milford cops and Tricia knew he'd bug anyone he thought had information until he found out what was going on.

Tricia watched a team of firefighters who stood in Betsy's driveway battling the fire, wrestling with a long hose that trailed behind them to a hydrant somewhere down the street. They aimed a fierce stream of water at the flames, which seemed to finally be calming down, but it seemed to cause the smoke to become even thicker.

Silent tears traced a line down Margaret's weathered cheeks and every few seconds she let out quavering breaths. It nearly broke Tricia's heart to have to witness her distress, and all they could do was stand there and watch Betsy Dittmeyer's pitiful treasures feed the fire until there was very little left.

*   *   *

It was
after five when Russ dropped Tricia off at Haven't Got a Clue. She found a worried Miss Marple sitting behind the loft's door. The cat immediately rose to her feet, scolding Tricia for leaving her alone in the middle of the night and disrupting her regular routine. But when Tricia slipped between the cool sheets of her bed, Miss Marple attached herself to Tricia's chest like a barnacle, purring so loudly Tricia was sure she'd never fall back to sleep. But sleep she did, and heavily. And when the alarm went off at its usual time she felt logy, wishing she had another couple of hours before she had to face the new day.

There was no way Tricia was going to run four miles on her treadmill, and she spent the extra time washing and rewashing her hair, which had picked up an unpleasant smoky odor. She tossed the clothes she'd worn the night before in the washer, too. That particular jacket was getting quite a workout that week.

Once dressed, Tricia fed Miss Marple and remembered that days before she'd promised Nikki she'd patronize the Patisserie. It might also be a good time to find out if Nikki actually had encouraged Russ to take her along to see the fire. Tricia locked her apartment door and she and Miss Marple went down to the shop. Tricia grabbed her coat and hat and headed for the bakery.

As before, there were no other customers when Tricia entered the shop. The door buzzed, and seconds later Nikki appeared from the back room. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she seemed to droop as she walked. Was her exhaustion caused by her pregnancy or from arguing with Russ about the baby?

“Oh, Tricia, it's you. Thanks for stopping by.”

“It feels like a Danish type of morning. Do you have any out back?” Tricia asked, noting the refrigerated case had very few pastries on display.

Nikki frowned and shook her head. “There hasn't been much call for them lately. I'm trying to stock only what sells. I've got chocolate cupcakes and blueberry muffins.”

“I'll take a couple of muffins. And how about a dozen thumbprint cookies?”

“Sorry. I've only got chocolate chip.”

“I'll take of dozen of them,” Tricia said, knowing Pixie would be ready and willing to polish off at least half of them.

“I really appreciate you stopping by,” Nikki said again as she bagged Tricia's order.

“I hope you weren't angry that Russ invited me to the fire last night.”

Nikki shrugged. “You wouldn't believe how many times he rushes out after hearing something on that damn police scanner. But I guess that's what you get when you marry a newsman.”

Tricia nodded. “It was terrible. I'd never seen a working fire before—except on TV. Betsy Dittmeyer's next-door neighbor was beside herself with worry. Luckily she only lost a few of her shrubs to the fire. It could have been so much worse.”

“Russ said Betsy was a hoarder, and that there was a lot of combustible stuff in her house.”

“And that the cause was most certainly arson,” Tricia added.

“Who would do such a thing?” Nikki asked, setting the bakery bags on top of the counter.

Tricia had a couple of ideas but didn't think it would be prudent to discuss them with Nikki. “Are you feeling better?” she asked instead.

“Physically or emotionally?” Nikki asked. She sounded like at any moment she might burst into tears.

“Both.”

“I haven't had morning sickness these past few days, but Russ and I still can't see eye to eye on my not working after the baby comes.”

“Deborah Black used to bring little Davey into work with her.”

“She didn't have dangerous machinery in her back room,” Nikki said.

Tricia hadn't thought of that. “I'm sure everything will work out.”

“I sure hope you're right.” Nikki rang up the sale.

Tricia paid and picked up the bags. “I'll see you soon,” she said as she headed out the door.

Again she crossed the street for the Coffee Bean, bought two coffees, and stopped at the Happy Domestic. Ginny was seated at a stool behind the main counter, tagging merchandise. She looked up when Tricia knocked.

“Didn't I see you not ten hours ago?” Ginny asked when she opened the door.

“You did,” Tricia said, settling her purchases on the cash desk. “And it feels like it was a million years ago.”

Ginny eyed her friend. “You look really tired. We could go sit in the back,” Ginny offered, but Tricia shook her head.

“I'm fine standing.” She passed the decaf coffee to Ginny. “Did you hear Betsy Dittmeyer's house burned last night?”

“No,” Ginny said, sounding shocked.

Tricia nodded grimly. “It looks like it was arson.”

“Wow. Do you think whoever killed her burned her house, too?”

Tricia shrugged. “It could just be a coincidence.”

“But you don't think so.”

Tricia shook her head and took a sip of her coffee. “I'm sorry we didn't get to talk much last night.”

“Digging through boxes of junk wasn't my idea of a fun evening. But if I hadn't gone along with Antonio I'd have been miserable at home without him.”

“I love hearing that you two are so happy,” Tricia said, wishing Nikki and Russ would experience a little more joy in their marriage. “I take it you still haven't told him about the baby.” She opened the bakery bag, taking out the muffins.

Ginny shook her head. “The timing hasn't been right. I thought I'd wait until the weekend to tell him.”

“Speaking of the weekend, have you spoken to Grace about Friday night?”