Book Clubbed (21 page)

Ginny and Antonio got into his car and took off for home, and Tricia walked along with Angelica and Sarge in silence on their usual route through the village square. The ebony sky was filled with stars. Tricia held tight to Betsy's family Bible, wondering why she'd squirreled it away with so much other useless junk.

It was just another question for which she'd probably never have the answer.

“I wasn't kidding when I suggested Ms. Ricita repay you for your efforts these past two nights,” Angelica said as they paused under the glow of a lamp to let Sarge do his worst.

Tricia shook her head. “There's very little I need these days, and after seeing how Betsy lived, I feel like I should clean out a closet or two of my own.”

Angelica smiled. “Me, too.”

Tricia hefted the Bible. “Now that her house has burned and we've gone through all the boxes, I'll bet the killer goes into deep cover. He—or she—didn't leave many clues. There's a good chance we may never figure out who killed Betsy.”

“I hope you're wrong. My home and business were violated. I want closure,” Angelica insisted.

But if the killer didn't resurface, closure was something she—and Joelle Morrison—might never see.

If Tricia
had known she was destined for another night of vivid dreams she might have decided not to go to bed after spending a second evening emptying boxes containing Betsy Dittmeyer's so-called treasures. This time she ended up surrounded by piles and piles of trash pressing upon her, and the sensation that invisible insects and mice crawled on and all around her. And from far across the warehouselike room, a candle dripped wax—threatening to set the place on fire.

She awoke early and immediately jumped in the shower. It took a lot of scrubbing before she felt clean once again.

After a leisurely breakfast that included perusing the
Nashua Telegraph
—which, as she'd predicted to Russ Smith, had done no follow-up story on Betsy's murder—Tricia went down to her store to start the workday with Miss Marple bringing up the rear.

“Good morning,” Pixie called, arriving right on time. She saw the Bible sitting on the cash desk, where Tricia had left it the night before, and zeroed right in on it. “Hey, whatcha got there?”

“A Bible.”

“I can see that. Man, it's older than both of us put together,” Pixie said and lifted the cover to look at the title page.

Tricia fought the urge to shoo her away. “It was a gift from Antonio Barbero.”

“Are you giving up bookselling to join a nunnery or something?” Pixie asked and laughed.

“Heavens, no.”

“Thank goodness. I like this job and don't want to see it end,” Pixie said and headed for the back of the store to hang up her coat.

Once Pixie was settled in she pondered what title Sarah Jane should hold that day to entice customers, while Tricia planned to spend an hour or more studying Betsy's Bible and the papers that were stuffed within its cover. Then the phone rang. Tricia picked up the receiver. “Haven't Got a Clue. This is—”

“Tricia? It's Billie Burke at the Bank of Stoneham. I tried to get hold of Antonio Barbero and Angelica, but haven't had any luck.”

“Sorry I can't help you there.”

“Oh, but you can. There's a crowd of people crawling all over the Dumpsters at the house across the street. If one of them gets hurt—”

“What can I do about it?”

“Call the Stoneham police.”

“Not to be a pain, but why don't you call them?”

“Officially, it's none of my business. But as you're Angelica's sister—”

“Gotcha. I'll do it now. Thanks for calling.” Tricia pressed down on the old phone's switch hook and waited for a dial tone and, since the situation wasn't an emergency, she dialed the station's regular phone number. She relayed the problem, but Polly couldn't promise that the patrolling officer would arrive anytime soon. “How about Chief Baker?” Tricia asked.

“I'm not going to bother the chief with something so trivial,” Polly scolded.

If someone broke his or her neck while trespassing, the result would be anything but trivial.

“Thank you,” Tricia said and hung up. She considered calling Baker's private cell phone number and decided to go for it, but only succeeded in reaching his voice mail. Still, she left a message.

“Pixie!” Tricia called.

Pixie scurried across the store. “What's up?”

“I have to run yet another errand.”

“No problem. I serve at your pleasure, Madam President of Haven't Got a Clue.”

Tricia smiled at such enthusiasm and retrieved her coat, hat, gloves, and scarf, and left her store, hurrying down the sidewalk toward what would soon be the Chamber of Commerce's new home.

As Billie had said, there were at least five people inside and outside the Dumpster, picking through its contents.

“Excuse me,” Tricia called, but no one turned to look at her. “Excuse me!” she tried even louder, and still none of the men or women looked up. “Police raid!” she hollered in desperation.

That did it. Everyone looked up.

“You people have to leave right now. You're trespassing.”

“Says who?” replied a brawny man of about fifty, bundled in a grubby Carhartt work jacket and pants, with at least a week's worth of beard stubbling his cheeks.

“Says me. I represent the new leaseholder. You're trespassing on private property. The police have been called and will be here any minute.”

“Sorry, but we don't believe you,” said another man dressed in the same heavy-duty—and just as filthy—clothes as the first.

“I've been through everything that got tossed in the Dumpster, and there's definitely nothing of value left.”

“We'll be the judge of that,” the first man said smugly, and went back to tearing open the garbage bags and dumping the contents.

Tricia sidled past the big metal garbage bin to the smaller recycling bin, where two older women sifted through the ton or more of worthless paper.

“Excuse me, but you're trespassing,” she tried again.

Neither of the women looked up. “Our bad,” one of them said and continued to work.

Frustrated, Tricia retraced her steps until she was again standing in front of the large Dumpster. She was about to pull out her phone when she saw Chief Baker hurrying toward her on the sidewalk.

“I take it you got my message,” she said, relieved.

“Yeah. Hey, guys,” Baker called and got no response from the pickers. He put his thumb and index finger between his lips and blew a loud wolf whistle. That got their attention. “Bernie, what the hell are you doing in there?”

Grumpy Guy Number One looked up. “Looking for treasure, what else?”


“You're breaking half a dozen laws. If you don't want me to arrest you and your people, you'll have to leave right now.”

“Come on, Grant. A guy's gotta make a living.”

“Well, find some other line of work—or else.”

Bernie frowned, but he and his cohort grudgingly climbed over the edge of the Dumpster and dropped to the ground. Another man held a large plastic trash bag filled with their spoils.

“Toss your bag of goodies into the Dumpster,” Baker ordered.

“Aw, come on. It's no good to the owner. We heard she died earlier in the week.” And who besides Ginny, Antonio, Angelica, and Tricia knew that fact?

“Be that as it may,” Baker said, “clear out.”

“Wait,” Tricia said. “Let me have a look.” She moved to stand next to the third man, who held out a clear plastic bag. Something sparkly caught her eye and Tricia yanked off her gloves, stuffing them into her coat pockets before she reached into the bag to pull out what looked like a solitaire diamond ring. She glanced at Bernie, who quietly fumed.

Tricia examined the ring. It wasn't a particularly large diamond, but it had to be worth something. How had they missed it the previous evening? She poked through the rest of the stuff, deciding nothing was of any real value—at least to her. She faced Baker. “They can have the rest.”

By then, the women had joined the group. In their bag were pieces of ephemera: old playing cards, greeting cards, a couple of calendars from before World War II, and some vintage postcards. Ginny must have gone through the boxes that contained this stuff, not knowing old paper could be worth something. Still, Tricia figured if she let the pickers keep what they'd found, they might not come back for more—or would it just entice them to return when nobody was around?

“They can keep this stuff, too,” she said. Nobody said thank you and instead glared at Tricia for ending their treasure hunt.

With much swearing and grumbling the men and women took off on foot. Tricia and Baker watched until they'd turned the corner, presumably to retrieve their transportation. “Do you think they'll be back?” she asked.

Baker nodded. “The minute we leave.”

“I don't care about the stuff they found; I'm more concerned with liability issues.”

“Let me see that ring,” Baker said and Tricia handed it over. “It looks like the real thing to me.”

“And me,” Tricia agreed. She held out her hand to take it from him, but Baker took hold of it and slipped the ring over her finger.

“What do you know? We're engaged,” Baker said and laughed.

“We are not.” But when Tricia tried to take the ring off, it stubbornly remained stuck below her knuckle. “Now look what you've done,” she said irritably.

“It was just a joke. Soap it up and it'll come right off.”

“It had better. It belongs to Nigela Ricita Associates. And what are we going to do to keep those people away? We can hardly stand guard out here in the cold for any length of time.”

Baker had no time to answer, because a car pulled up to the curb and Antonio stepped out. “
Boungiorno!
Hello, Tricia. To what do I owe the pleasure, Chief Baker?”

“Dumpster divers,” Baker said. “We just chased them away, but unless you get rid of this hunk of steel full of garbage today, they'll be back.”

“It's already arranged,” Antonio assured them. “They should be here within the hour.”

“Good. Look what we missed last night.” Tricia held out her hand, showing him the ring.

Antonio's eyes lit up and he smiled. “Ah, who is the lucky man?”

Tricia glared at Baker. “Nobody. The scavengers found it, but it looks like this ring now belongs to your boss, too. I'll give it to you as soon as I can get it off.”

A battered Ford pickup pulled up to the curb and a lanky man in his fifties got out. “Ah, this is my contractor, Jim Stark.”

“We've met,” Tricia said with delight. How could she forget the man who had converted Haven't Got a Clue from a ruin to a showplace—and performed the same magic on her loft conversion? “Jim's company has done a lot of work for me. Good to see you again, Jim.”

“Same here,” Stark said, shaking her hand. He was a good-looking man with a full head of gray hair and a wicked mustache. He reminded Tricia of the actor Sam Elliott. His grin was positively infectious.

“Would you like to come inside, Tricia? Perhaps if you warm up, the ring will come off. And you can listen to Jim's recommendations and relay them to your sister.”

Tricia immediately brightened. “I'd love to.” She turned back to Baker. “Thanks for showing up and chasing those guys away. I really appreciate it, and I know Angelica will, too.”

“My pleasure. I'll see you later, Tricia,” Baker said and tipped his hat.

“Bye,” she called and watched as he turned and headed back down the sidewalk toward the police station. Baker was a genuinely nice man and she really
did
like him. A piece of her heart ached because she was sure they weren't destined to be together.

Antonio wasted no more time. He pulled the house keys from his pocket and led Tricia and the contractor to the front door.

Tricia spent the next hour watching and listening as the men discussed the repairs and cosmetic changes that were to be made to convert the home into office space. She wished she had a pad and pen to take it all down, surprised at how much work Nigela Ricita Associates was prepared to do for the Chamber of Commerce—especially as the lease was only good for a year and they intended to raze the building. She was sure Angelica would be eager to hear all about it.

Before she left the house, Tricia visited the kitchen and found a bar of soap. She worked up a good lather and the diamond ring slipped right off. She studied it, deciding it probably was worth at least a thousand dollars. Maybe selling it would cover the cost of refinishing some of the floors. The diamond sparkled. Although it was just a simple setting, seeing it brought back feelings of regret that the engagement ring Christopher had given her, and she'd worn for nearly eleven years, now resided in her jewelry box.

Tricia dried her hands and went back to the living room, where Antonio and Stark stood talking.

She handed the ring to Antonio.

“
Grazie
. It's good you got it off—otherwise the village would be buzzing with rumors about your impending nuptials.” And no doubt the person who'd be most interested was none other than Joelle Morrison, who'd call to once again offer her wedding planning services.

A big flatbed truck rumbled up to the curb outside the house. “Ah, good. They are here to pick up the first of the Dumpsters,” Antonio said and peered out the front window.

Tricia joined him. “I'd sure like to know who let it out that we'd found buried treasure in all those boxes of junk,” Tricia said.

“I assure you it was not Ginny or me. I know it was not you. That means it must have been Angelica.”

“Never,” Tricia protested.

“Then perhaps she told one of her employees,” Antonio suggested.

Tommy didn't seem a likely suspect, nor did Bev, the waitress, who'd been out sick with the flu. That only left one person.

Frannie. The village gossip.

Rats!

*   *   *

Antonio offered
to drive Tricia back to Haven't Got a Clue, but since it was only a couple of blocks away she thanked him and opted to walk. As she neared the space between the buildings that housed the Have a Heart bookstore and the Patisserie, she saw the toes of a scuffed pair of boots protruding and had a feeling she knew who they belonged to.