Murder on the Half Shelf (23 page)

“I understand you and Mrs. Comfort had words before she was killed.”

That got his attention. His head snapped up, and for a moment Tricia wasn’t sure if he was angry or might cry.

“What happened?” she asked gently.

Chauncey’s cheeks grew red. “It was nothing, really. As usual, I made an ass of myself in front of a pretty woman. I’m sure it won’t be the last time.”

“I understand you recognized her from another time.”

He frowned, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll bet Mary Fairchild is spreading it all over town. I’m surprised no one has asked me about it before now.”

Again Tricia asked, “What happened?”

“I…I’m ashamed to admit it, but…I was awed by Mrs. Comfort’s former celebrity. I’m afraid I made a rather crude joke. I don’t normally say such things to women.” The additional color in his cheeks testified to that.

“What was her reaction?” Tricia asked, keeping her tone level and nonjudgmental.

“She was offended. She told me it would be a very long night indeed if she had to put up with the likes of me.”

But it wasn’t a long night for her. Within an hour or so, Pippa Comfort was dead.

“How did you remember her face from a magazine that was published so long ago?”

Chauncey looked up. “Magazine?”

“Yes. I understand she was a Playboy bunny and a model.”

“A bunny, yes. A model? I don’t think so. She used to wait tables at the Playboy Club in New York. I was a member. She was always nice to me. She was my favorite. I used to give her big tips, but I think she was embarrassed that I remembered her after all these years.”

That didn’t mesh with what Frannie said.

Tricia decided to push him, but how without letting him know it was Frannie who’d outed him as a collector of pornographic material?

“Umm…I understand that there was great cachet in being
a member of the Playboy Club and having that coveted key.”

Chauncey smiled. “That there was. The heyday was back in the sixties when I was a brash young man from Youngstown, Ohio, living in a cold-water, fourth-floor walk-up. I had two indulgences: my yearly subscription to
Playboy
magazine and my membership at the Playboy Club. I could barely afford either.” He sighed wistfully. “I loved the short stories in the magazine and became a fan of some of the greats. Jean Shepherd, Roald Dahl, Shel Silverstein, and even Stephen King sold to
Playboy
in the golden days of the magazine. Ah, yes, those were the days.” He laughed. “My copies were well thumbed, but I think I enjoyed the editorial content as much as, if not more than, the pictures.”

Which again did not agree with Jim Roth’s—or was it Frannie’s?—spin on the story.

“Do you still have the magazines?” Tricia asked.

“A few of the rare ones encased in inert plastic. I really should try to sell them. I might even make a month’s rent if I did. That could keep Bob Kelly off my back for a couple of weeks.”

“Has he been hounding you?” Tricia asked.

“Only when I’m more than a day behind in the rent.”

Angelica entered the room with a makeshift tray made from the lid of a paper carton and containing three mugs. Sarge looked up hopefully, but when no treat was forthcoming, he settled back down again.

“Here we go,” Angelica said, and doled out a thick restaurant china mug to each of them. “Did I hear Bob Kelly’s name mentioned?” she asked, her tone neutral.

Chauncey blew on his steaming cocoa before nodding.

Angelica frowned. “Your back room is awfully cramped, Chauncey. There’s even a cot back there. One would almost think you’ve moved in.”

Again Chauncey’s face colored in embarrassment. “I had a
choice. Give up my apartment or give up my store. I guess you can tell where things landed.”

“Are things really that bad?” Angelica asked.

Chauncey shrugged. “I couldn’t very well sign a new lease on my apartment if my income is going to continue to be so erratic.”

Tricia sipped her cocoa and wished she could say or do something to ease the poor man’s problems. For what it was worth, she didn’t think he was capable of killing anyone, but would the law think that way? He had deep financial problems and had had words with the dead woman not long before she was found dead. Would Grant Baker try to make something of it?

Why did he have to go incommunicado right now? And was he plotting to toss her in jail at any moment?

“You know,” Angelica said, breaking the quiet. “What you need to do is diversify your product line.”

Again Chauncey shrugged. “I sell travel books—and mostly used ones at that.”

“Couldn’t you sell things travelers need? Like plug converters, so people going to England can plug in their shavers and other electrical items. Or compact pillows and travel blankets. Maybe foreign language software. Luggage tags.”

Chauncey frowned. “All that takes money. I’m cash starved.”

“That is a problem,” Angelica agreed.

“Can you hang on until the tourists start coming back? It’s only a month or so,” Tricia added.

“That’s why I moved into the back room. If things don’t turn around, I figure I’ve got maybe three, maybe four months until I have to close down and declare bankruptcy.”

They sat there for a long time sipping their hot chocolate and not talking. It was Angelica who finally set her mug down on the counter. “Well, sorry to break up this happy meeting, but Sarge and I really need to call it a night.” At the sound of his name, the dog jumped to his feet, his tail wagging with joy.

Oh to be a dog and to be so happy
, Tricia thought, her frown
deepening. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” she asked Chauncey.

He nodded and smiled, apparently grateful that she cared enough to ask.

Angelica placed a hand on his shoulder. “Things will get better. I have a feeling about these things.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I’m not often wrong,” Angelica said with a wry smile. She straightened and took Sarge’s leash from her sister. “Come along, Tricia.”

Tricia followed obediently.

The door closed behind them with the sound of the deadbolt clicking.

As usual, the streets of Stoneham were deserted at that time of night. At first the quiet—or as Tricia had initially described it, virtual deadness—had proved disturbing after the perpetual hustle and bustle of Manhattan. Now the nighttime quiet gave Tricia a sense of peace and contentment.

Most of the time.

“He’s going to lose his business,” Tricia said idly as she, Angelica, and Sarge crossed the street.

“There ought to be low-cost loans available for the business people here in Stoneham. The Chamber of Commerce ought to be talking to the Bank of Stoneham to arrange such things.”

“That isn’t likely to happen with Bob in charge,” Tricia said. They paused in front of Haven’t Got a Clue. “Were you serious when you said you might run for president of the Chamber?” she asked again.

“Deadly serious,” Angelica said. As though to second her declaration, Sarge gave a sharp yip in agreement.

“Frannie painted Chauncey as some kind of porn fiend, but that’s not the impression I got talking to him tonight,” Tricia said.

Angelica shook her head. “Frannie’s a terrific store manager, and I love her for it, but she’s a terrible gossip. I don’t think
she means to hurt people with her opinions, but she often speaks before thinking. I trust your assessment of Chauncey, and I’d like to help him stay in business if I could. I just don’t think I have the means. I’m stretched pretty thin right now, what with my investment in the inn, and the fact that I may lose most if not all of it thanks to Pippa Comfort’s death.”

Pride in her sister swelled within Tricia. She had underestimated Angelica’s capacity for generosity. Tricia reached out and patted her sister’s arm. “Maybe we’ll think of something. I just hope Bob doesn’t find out Chauncey’s living in the back room of his store. I’m sure there’s some ordinance against that.”

“Probably for good reason, but not if your choice is being homeless,” Angelica agreed. She frowned. “I suppose I should take Sarge back out in the alley.”

“Oh my goodness! Did we ever lock up before we took Chauncey back to his place?”

“Oh no!” Angelica wailed, and the women hurried over to the Cookery. Angelica fumbled with her keys and finally managed to get the front door unlocked. They ran to the back of the store. Sure enough, the back door was wide open, but it didn’t look like anyone had entered the store. Still, Sarge began sniffing the carpet that led to the stairwell that led to Angelica’s apartment, and started barking.

Tricia tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. She turned a worried gaze toward Angelica. “What if somebody’s up there?”

“We could just go look,” Angelica said, and started up the stairs, but Tricia grabbed her by the sleeve. “No! Somebody attacked Chauncey. Somebody killed Pippa Comfort. What if that person is now hiding in—or ransacking—your apartment?”

Angelica cocked her head to listen, but Sarge was making too much noise. “Hush!” Instantly the barking ceased. They both listened intently, while Sarge stood there panting and wagging his tail. “I don’t hear anything.”

“We should call 911.”

“And what if there’s nobody up there?”

“Then we’ll look like a couple of scared women—which we are. Better safe than sorry, I always say.”

“You’ve never said that,” Angelica complained. She let out a huffy breath. “I’d say you were crazy if Sarge hadn’t kicked up a fuss, but since he has…”

Tricia retrieved her cell phone from her pocket and quickly punched in the number. The dispatcher answered almost immediately. “Are you calling again?” the voice demanded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“First you called Sunday night to report an accident that turned out to be a murder, and then you called this afternoon for an ambulance.”

“Yes, and the reason I’m calling now is so that someone can come and check out the Cookery to make sure that the murderer who’s still running around doesn’t kill us, too!”

“We’ll send someone right over. Do you want to remain on the phone?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Tricia said, and ended the call. “Gosh, she’s snippy. You’d think a 911 operator would be a little more professional. I’ve a mind to tell Grant…” But then she remembered she and Baker weren’t exactly on friendly terms at that moment.

“Chauncey didn’t want us to mention he’d been mugged. Should we report it anyway?”

“No,” Tricia said. “That would be a breach of confidence.”

“Well, they’re going to wonder why we wandered off and left the door open for a good half hour.”

Hmm.

They moved to the front of the store to wait, and Tricia wondered if they should arm themselves with marble rolling pins from one of the display racks. Before she had time to act on that thought, the blue flashing lights of a Stoneham police cruiser pulled up in front of the Cookery. The beefy officer got out of his car, resting a hand on the butt of his gun and the
top of his nightstick before he approached the store. Angelica handed the leash to Tricia once again and met him at the door. As soon as she opened it, Sarge started barking once again.

“Hush!” Angelica said, and the dog immediately quieted. “Hello,” she greeted the officer.

“So you think you’ve got a prowler on the premises?”

“Maybe. We kind of…took the dog for a walk and left the back door open,” Angelica said with a titter. “We were gone about half an hour…”

“We thought we should err on the side of caution, especially since you haven’t arrested whoever killed Pippa Comfort on Sunday night,” Tricia finished.

“Have you searched the ground floor?” Officer Martinez asked.

“There aren’t many places down here one could hide,” Angelica said, her eyes roving to the washroom in the back.

“I’ll take a look. You ladies wait here.”

They nodded and retreated to stand by the big display window.

After looking around the store and checking out the washroom, the officer headed up the stairs.

Twin beams of light sliced the darkness on Main Street, and Tricia recognized the SUV that pulled up on the opposite side of the street. “Oh no,” she groaned.

Angelica turned to look. “Is that…?”

Tricia grimaced. “It’s Grant, all right. We’re in big trouble now.”

TWENTY

“Tricia!”

How could one spoken word convey so many different implications? Exasperation seemed dominant. Disapproval seemed to be second on the list. And at a far third might—
might
—be actual concern.

“What are you doing here?” Tricia asked Chief Baker, and frowned.

“When I heard the address on my scanner, I naturally grabbed my coat and jumped in my car to find out what was happening. Are you okay?”

So, he
did
still care.

“Yes, we’re both okay,” Angelica answered, perturbed, and Sarge issued a low growl, baring his teeth.

“Don’t mind Sarge,” Tricia said, indicating the dog. “He’s very protective of Angelica.”

Sarge gave another growl to make sure Baker understood who was top dog.

Baker ignored him. “So, what’s going on?”

Tricia told him—leaving out all mention of their encounter with Chauncey Porter and feeling guilty for doing so. But her gut feeling was that Chauncey was innocent of Pippa Comfort’s death. Still, he might be a target of whoever killed her. And the most likely suspect was still Harry Tyler. Even if he hadn’t killed his wife, she might have told him how Chauncey had recognized her, conveying her anger, and even though she was now dead, Harry might still have punished Chauncey for bringing up a sore—or shameful—subject to Pippa.