Bookplate Special (29 page)

“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 finishing 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 pissed 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 washing 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 assistant’s arm, and nodded in reassurance.

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 damn 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?”

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 passed 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 shirt. “Tricia, what brings you here?”

“Hello, 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 smashing 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 crap, Bob, I know it’s you who’s been smashing 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 trespassing 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, Mass., 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 God 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.”