Bookplate Special (10 page)

Another destroyed carved pumpkin lay in the gutter outside the restaurant. How many of the village’s children were heartbroken over such vandalism? Tricia bypassed the mess and entered the diner.

Though Angelica’s café had put a dent in the Bookshelf’s lunchtime trade, it hadn’t killed it. All but one booth was taken, and the one Tricia was given was only a two-seater. She shrugged out of her jacket, set it over her purse and the collection can, and sat down. Not thirty seconds later the waitress arrived, pouring fresh water from a frosted glass jug into Tricia’s waiting glass.

“What can I get you?” Eugenia, the perky, blond, college-aged waitress asked. “The usual?”

Tricia shook her head. “Today I think I’ll be daring. How about a bowl of vegetarian chili—with extra crackers?”

Eugenia winked.

“Hey, I thought you only worked evenings,” Tricia said.

Eugenia smiled. “I do. But Hildy called in sick today, and since I only have a couple of morning classes, I agreed to fill in. I’m a starving college student. I can always use the extra money. Be right back with your chili,” she promised, and headed toward the kitchen.

Was it Tricia’s imagination, or had Eugenia lost some of the hardware she usually wore? Gone were the eyebrow rings and nose studs—although the young woman still had at least three sets of gemstone-like post earrings, in a multitude of colors, decorating each ear. Should she mention the young woman’s new look, or had Eugenia taken enough teasing about her former look from the more staid villagers that acknowledging the change wouldn’t be appreciated?

Eugenia reappeared in record time with Tricia’s order. She settled the bowl, with the requested extra crackers, on the paper placemat in front of Tricia. “Hey, I heard you met my mom.”

Tricia looked into the intense blue eyes above her. “I did?”

“Yeah, Libby Hirt. She runs the Food Shelf. I talked to her on the phone a few minutes ago. She said you’d been by to scope out the place and that you’d volunteered to be a drop-off point. That was really nice of you. Thanks.”

News traveled fast. She’d left Libby only some fifteen minutes before. Hadn’t Grace mentioned that Eugenia had been ill as a child? She certainly didn’t look the worse for wear now. “Oh, well. Just my civic duty.”

“No, it’s more than that. Thanks to Mom, I grew up knowing that there were hungry people all around here. Not everyone is as enthusiastic about helping the Food Shelf. They think it encourages people to be bums or something.” She rolled her eyes disapprovingly.

“Since most of my customers are tourists, I don’t know that they’ll feel generous toward the cause, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.” And she intended to salt the jar to get things going.

“You’re right,” Eugenia agreed, “but you’d be surprised how fast loose change mounts up.” She nodded toward the collection can that sat by the diner’s register. It was at least a third full with quarters, nickels, dimes, pennies, and a few folded-up dollar bills. “Add up all the collection cans in town, and it makes a big difference to the Food Shelf’s bottom line,” she continued. “I mean, we can’t depend on bigwigs like Stuart Paige to pick up the tab all the time. The people of Stoneham have to take some responsibility for the villagers who need help making ends meet.”

The words didn’t sound rehearsed, but they weren’t the jargon of a twenty-year-old, either. Eugenia must have grown up hearing the same speeches over and over again. That she’d taken them to heart said a lot about her character.

“I’m glad I can help.”

“I do what I can, too,” Eugenia said, her gaze traveling back toward the kitchen.

“Hey, what’s it take to get some service around here?” called a male voice from behind Tricia. The accent sounded like he was a Long Islander.

“ ’Scuse me,” Eugenia said, and took off to take care of her customer.

Tricia turned her attention to her lunch, plunging her spoon into the chili. She had always enjoyed talking with Eugenia. She was a nice kid. Like her mom . . . although with that brilliantly blond hair, and her little pug nose, she looked nothing like her mother. Then Tricia remembered again that Grace had mentioned the girl had been adopted.

She unwrapped the first of her cracker packets, crumbling them on top of the chili.

A minute later Eugenia returned, this time with a carafe of coffee. “Sorry, I never asked if you wanted anything other than water.”

Tricia shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“All set?”

Tricia nodded.

Eugenia dipped into the pocket of her apron, withdrew a piece of paper—the check—and set it on the table. “Thanks for coming by today—and for helping my mom.”

Tricia nodded, and the young woman headed back up the booth-flanked aisle, checking with the rest of the patrons, making offers of refills as needed.

As Tricia finished her lunch, she wondered what Eugenia had meant when she said she’d done all she could to support her mother’s cause. Did she contribute some of her tips, or was she one of the volunteers who packed canned goods into cartons at the Food Shelf?

Today wasn’t the day to ask.

Tricia finished the last of her chili, picked up the check, her jacket, purse, and the collection jar, and paid at the register. Minutes later she was back at Haven’t Got a Clue with time to spare before it was time for Ginny’s lunch break.

Tricia hung up her jacket, stashed her purse, and settled the collection jar beside the register.

“Another one of Libby Hirt’s soldiers against hunger, I see,” Ginny said, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Yes. I hope we can help make a difference,” Tricia said. She opened the register and took out a couple of dollars in quarters, dimes, and nickels, adding it to the jar. The money made a rather shallow layer. It would take an awful lot of change to fill it.

A woman approached the cash desk and set four books down by the register. Tricia rang up the sale while Ginny bagged the books. The woman handed her thirty dollars, and Tricia returned her twenty cents change, which the woman promptly dropped into the collection can.

“Thank you,” Tricia said as Ginny stifled a grin.

The woman sketched a wave good-bye and headed out the door.

“See, we’re making a difference already,” Tricia said. She looked around the store. “Did Mr. Everett leave?”

“Grace stopped by and picked him up. Something about talking to the caterer at the Brookview Inn,” Ginny said, and sighed. “While you were gone, we had a lull. By the way, it looks like the book club is off for tonight. Grace and Mr. Everett are busy; Nikki and Julia both called to say they can’t make it, either. I figured what the heck, and made an executive decision to cancel the meeting.”

“It’s just as well,” Tricia said, and sighed. “I forgot I have a date with Russ for tonight. Does everyone know?”

“Yes, I called them all. We should be good to go next week—although Grace and Mr. Everett will be on their honeymoon. We may want to postpone the meetings until they return.”

Tricia nodded.

“I also called the Board of Selectmen to see about renting the gazebo in the park for our wedding. No go.”

“Have you tried Milford?”

“They’ve got a big gazebo in the Oval, but I’m not sure they’d rent that.”

“What about that ball field next to the hospital?”

“I could try that next,” Ginny said uncertainly.

“What about your own yard? It’s pretty big. And you could rent a tent just in case it rains.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that. I’ll put it on the back burner. I mean, I haven’t even talked to Brian about any of this. He might not want to get married at home or under a tent.”

“I think an at-home wedding would be lovely.”

“I’m warming up to the idea,” Ginny said. “Oh, the music’s stopped. I’ll go change the CD.” She headed for the coffee station, which also housed the store’s stereo system.

“Anything else happen while I was gone?” Tricia asked.

Ginny flipped through the jewel boxes. “Captain Baker called. He said he’d call back some other time.”

“What did he want?”

“He didn’t say.” Ginny chose
A New Journey
by Celtic Woman, setting it on low volume. “It probably had something to do with Pammy’s death, though—don’t you think?”

“Undoubtedly. But I don’t know what else I can tell him. She didn’t confide in me all that much. And sometimes she’d disappear in the evenings and didn’t tell me where she’d been. If only I could find one of the local freegans, I might find out more about what Pammy was up to.”

Ginny returned to the sales counter. “What do you mean?”

“Pammy told Angelica she was a freegan. They Dumpster dive for food.”

“I know what they are,” Ginny said.

“I asked Libby Hirt about them, but she didn’t want to talk about it. Obviously there are people in the village who know about them, but I don’t know who else to ask.”

“I might be able to help,” Ginny said. Her voice had dropped.

“You know someone?”

Ginny nodded. “In fact, I know several freegans.”

“Could you introduce me to them?” Tricia asked eagerly.

“You already know them.”

Tricia blinked. She couldn’t imagine anyone she knew in Stoneham who would be reduced to digging through garbage for food. “Who?”

Ginny shrugged. “Well, for one—me.”

SEVEN

Tricia’s mouth
dropped. It felt like someone had just kicked her in the stomach. It took a long moment before she could speak again. “Ginny, I can’t believe you dig through garbage for food.”

“I never intended for you to know,” Ginny said, her head lowered so she did not meet Tricia’s gaze.

“Why would you do such a thing, especially after Brian ended up in the hospital last spring with food poisoning?”

“Ah, but he wasn’t poisoned by anything we got Dumpster diving.”

That was true. Brian had eaten tainted food meant for Tricia.

“Just answer one question. Why? And don’t tell me you’re making a political statement.”

Ginny sighed. “I was a freegan back in college. I thought I didn’t have any money back then, but now it’s a matter of economic survival. Buying our house has been a lot more expensive than either of us thought it would be—that’s why we can never afford a nice wedding.”

“Are you sorry you bought the house?”

“When I pay the bills, yes. When I drive home from work at night and see the lights on in our little cottage, no, I’m not sorry. We both love the house. It just needed a lot more work than we anticipated, and we have to cut corners where we can.”

“Have you thought about using the Stoneham Food Shelf?”

Ginny shook her head. “That’s for desperate people.”

“And you don’t think digging through trash to get your food is a desperate measure?”

Ginny held her head high. “No, I don’t. Although I don’t like to advertise it,” she added sheepishly.

The shop door opened, and a man and woman entered the store.

Tricia stood straighter and forced a smile. “Hello. Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. Can I help you find anything?”

“No, just browsing,” said the woman, who gave her a return smile.

“Our authors are shelved in alphabetical order. Nonfiction titles are on the left. Please, help yourself to some coffee, and let us know if you need help or a recommendation.”

“Will do,” said the man, and he and the woman split up, each heading for a different part of the store.

Tricia turned her attention back to Ginny. “I don’t know that we should continue this conversation.”

“Agreed. At least this part of it. But you wanted to know about Pammy,” Ginny reminded her.

“Yes. What was she doing in Stoneham? Did she confide in you or any of your . . . freegan friends?”

“She didn’t talk to me—she didn’t
like
me. The feeling was mutual. But she was friendly with some of the others. One of them told me she’d mentioned she was hanging around Stoneham to meet someone.”

“Did she find this person?”

Ginny shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Who are these people? Can I talk to them?”

“Stoneham is a small town. We don’t like to advertise who we are to just anyone. We don’t do much scavenging here in the village. We don’t want to catch the flack.”

“Where do you go to . . . find . . . what you’re looking for?”

“Sometimes Milford—but Nashua, mostly. But Brian and I have also been to Manchester and Portsmouth, too. We’ve got friends all over.”

“You said I’d know some of these people,” Tricia reminded her.

“I don’t feel comfortable telling you who—at least not without talking to them first.”

Good grief! Who could she be talking about? Fellow booksellers? Respected members of the Chamber of Commerce?

“Would you ask them if they’d mind speaking to me?”

“I’ll try,” Ginny said, “but I can’t promise that anyone will.”

Libby had mentioned the stigma attached to being a freegan. “Fair enough. But I’m not out to expose anyone. I just want to find out who killed Pammy, and why. You can understand that—right?”

“Yes. But I’m certain that none of my friends had anything to do with Pammy’s death. I’d stake my life on it.”

Tricia wasn’t sure that was a wise bet.