Book Clubbed (3 page)

“What brings you to Haven't Got a Clue?” Tricia asked, looking straight into Christopher's mesmerizing green eyes. She always thought they were his best physical trait. Dressed in jeans, a bulky sweater, and a ski jacket, he looked like he might be about to pose for a spread in an L.L. Bean catalog.

“I happened to be looking out my office window when I saw Pixie and Mr. Everett go out for lunch. I thought you might want some company.”

Tricia looked over her shoulder at Miss Marple, who was asleep on her perch behind the cash desk. “I'm never lonely when I'm with my cat. You see, she stuck with me through thick and thin. Like when my husband left me,” Tricia said, keeping her tone light and even.

“Touché,” Christopher reluctantly agreed.

“Now, why did you
really
come here today?”

“I've seen the police and rescue vehicles come and go, and I've heard all the gossip. And I know how wrapped up you get whenever there's a crime in Stoneham.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Everybody knows you like to think of yourself as a much younger and prettier Agatha Christie.”

“I do not.” She frowned. “Well, I will accept the ‘prettier' part.”

“From what I hear, you've helped the cops solve several crimes in the past couple of years.”

“I was just being a good citizen.”

“I hoped that when your employees return from their lunch that we could go somewhere to eat and maybe talk about Betsy Dittmeyer.”

“And what did you know about Betsy?”

“I am the only financial advisor in town. You'd be surprised how many clients I've accumulated in such a short period.” He'd moved to town only two months before.

“I thought you worked for Nigela Ricita Associates.”

“Not exclusively. I'm on a retainer, but I still have several hours free every day.”

“What about client confidentiality? Aren't you afraid that if you talk to me about a client's financial situation that your other clients might find out and take their business away from you?”

“I happen to trust you. I know you wouldn't go blab whatever I tell you to anyone—except maybe Angelica, and she can keep a secret, too.”

“How would you know that?”

He shrugged. “We've talked.”

“Has Angelica hired you to give her financial advice?” Tricia asked, surprised.

“Yes.”

“Okay, so what is Angelica's financial status?”

Christopher shook his head. “I can't tell you that.”

“Why, because she's still alive?”

He nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Have you spoken to Chief Baker about Betsy?”

He nodded. “I thought it might be pertinent.”

“And was it?”

“He seemed to think so. And so will you.”

“Okay, I'm game.”

“Great, then you'll go out to lunch with me?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You do need to eat,” he said reasonably.

“Why can't you just tell me now?”

“I don't mind being seen with you. Do you mind being seen with me?”

Tricia sighed. She was getting tired of the runaround. “Level with me. Please?”

“Okay.” Christopher shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “But only because I feel I owe you. I realize now it was downright cruel of me to leave you the way I did.”

“Yes, you hurt me, but I'm over it now. I like my life the way it is. Believe it or not, I'm not pining for you. You don't have to buy me expensive jewelry or do anything else to make up for it. It's behind us now. I've moved on. It's time you did, too.”

“You're absolutely right. But is it wrong for me to still enjoy your company? We have a history. If nothing else, I'd like us to be friends.”

“We are friends. Just not close friends.”

Christopher frowned. “I suppose you're right.”

“And does this mean you aren't going to tell me about Betsy's finances?”

He sighed. “I guess I could, at least until a customer comes in.” He straightened. “You might not believe it, but Betsy Dittmeyer was a multimillionaire.”

Dumpy, unattractive, Betsy? The one who was afraid the Chamber of Commerce might reduce her from a full-time to a part-time employee? “You've got to be kidding,” Tricia said, flabbergasted.

Christopher shook his head. “It seems she'd had several large judgments from civil suits. Not only that, but not long ago she'd changed the beneficiary for nearly all of her accounts.”

“And who was the unlucky person to lose Betsy's favor?”

“Her sister.”

“Joelle Morrison?” Tricia asked.

“Do you know her?”

“We've spoken on a number of occasions,” Tricia admitted, neglecting to add that she'd led the wedding planner to believe she and Christopher might be on the verge of reconciliation—all in the name of gathering information on a previous murder investigation. “Do you know if Betsy told Joelle she'd been cut out of the will?”

Again, Christopher shook his head.

“Do you think the loss of such a large inheritance could be the reason Betsy was murdered?” Tricia blurted.

“Not necessarily. Betsy assured me her sister had no idea of her personal worth, but Chief Baker was sure interested. Apparently he thinks it makes a good motive for murder.”

It certainly did. “Who was the lucky new benefactor? Anyone we know?”

“The Stoneham Food Shelf, several charities involved in cancer research, and a living trust.”

“Wait a minute. Betsy always acted like she was broke. She certainly didn't dress the part of a millionaire—or flaunt the fact she had the kind of money you're suggesting. So unless she was just spiteful, Joelle had no real reason to kill her sister.”

“Perhaps Betsy taunted her about the disinheritance. If she did, I have no knowledge of it—and maybe no one else did, either. They may never have spoken about it. Do you talk money with Angelica?”

Angelica had once told Tricia that she'd written a will leaving all her worldly goods to Tricia—and vice versa, but they hadn't spoken of it since. “No. And she rarely mentions it to me, either.”

“There you go.”

“So does this make Joelle a truly viable suspect, or would you rule her out?” Tricia asked.

“That's not up to either of us to decide. But I'm sure your boyfriend, Chief Baker, will.”

Tricia felt her insides tighten. “I wish you wouldn't refer to him that way. We are no longer an item . . . not that we ever really were.”

“Too bad for him. You're a remarkable woman, Tricia. The kindest I've ever come across.”

She certainly didn't feel that way today. Not after her encounter with Nikki . . . and now with Christopher. Still, she replied, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“No, I really mean it.”

But before he could elaborate, the shop door opened and an elderly female customer entered.

Tricia made eye contact with the woman and managed a smile. “Good afternoon. Welcome to Haven't Got a Clue. I'm Tricia. Please let me know if you need any help.”

“Thank you,” the old lady said and moseyed over to one of the bookshelves.

“I guess that's the end of our conversation,” Christopher said with yet another shrug.

“I guess,” Tricia agreed, and for some unfathomable reason she actually felt a pang of regret.

“That lunch invitation is still good. I mean, you do need sustenance to stay alive. If none of the local restaurants appeal to you, I make a mean risotto.”

There was no way Tricia would allow herself to visit her ex-husband's apartment. She worried that, plied with enough wine, she might finish the evening in his bed—and she really didn't want that to happen. “Thank you, but no thank you.”

“No matter how much you deny it, it's not over between us, Tricia. One day we will get back together.”

Tricia said nothing. She didn't want to encourage him. And she didn't want to admit that somewhere in her heart of hearts she still cared more for him than she wanted or would ever admit. She didn't want to give him that much power over her ever again.

Christopher cast a glance toward the back of the shop where Tricia's lone customer still browsed. “Well, I guess I'd better go. If you won't eat with me, can I at least bring you a sandwich or something?”

“I usually have lunch with Angelica at Booked for Lunch after it closes.”

“I know. I often see you cross the street around two o'clock.”

“Have you been spying on me?” Tricia asked, although she wouldn't be at all surprised if he had. He certainly lived close enough to observe her comings and goings.

“Not spying. I just happen to look out my window when I'm not busy. If you're there—I see you. If you're not, I don't.”

“And do you find yourself without something to do on a regular basis?” she asked and found herself smiling. Good grief, was she actually flirting with her ex-husband?

Christopher's smile was wistful. “Sometimes.”

The door opened and another customer entered the store. Tricia gave her usual canned line about giving assistance before turning back to Christopher.

“Are you sure I can't get you something? A cappuccino? Espresso? A big greasy burger and a slice of cheesecake?”

“No, nothing, thank you.”

Christopher's smile morphed into something a little more sly. “I guess I'll be seeing you around, then.”

“I guess so,” Tricia said.

“I'm going now,” he said, backing toward the door.

“I see that you are.”

“Honest, I'm almost out of here.”

“Have a nice lunch.”

With nowhere left to go, Christopher opened the door, gave her a cheerful wave and a smile, and then he was gone.

Tricia sighed. After all the unhappiness he'd caused her, why did she still love that man so much?

Tricia watched
as the clock's minute hand inched closer to the hour. Already the east side of Main Street was bathed in shadows. Every day the sun stayed above the horizon for just a minute or so longer, promising that spring was only another five weeks away. Still it gave her hope, however dumb that sounded.

Main Street seemed strangely quiet after the unnatural bustle during the morning and most of the afternoon caused by Betsy Dittmeyer's death. After the medical examiner had finally removed her body, and all the other official vehicles had departed, the village seemed deserted and forlorn.

“Another eventful day in Stoneham,” Pixie declared and sighed as she placed yet another removable price sticker on a paperback. She'd been working on a box of books Tricia had bought from an online auction.

From her position on the other side of the cash desk, Tricia looked over the top of her reading glasses. “After this morning, I think I could do without any more eventful days, thank you very much.”

Pixie shrugged and slapped a sticker on a Tami Hoag novel. “My parole officer thinks I have a vivid imagination. He doesn't believe a word I tell him about what goes on here in Stoneham.”

“Maybe you shouldn't tell him those tales. He might decide the village is a bad influence on you and force you to quit your job and leave us. Then what would Miss Marple, Mr. Everett, and I do?”

“Gee, I hadn't thought of that. I'll keep my mouth shut from now on,” she promised.

Tricia gave Pixie what she hoped was a warm smile. She'd actually become quite fond of the ex-prostitute who happened to have an encyclopedic memory when it came to vintage mysteries. Besides her habit of eavesdropping, there was only one other thing about Pixie that Tricia couldn't abide: her affection for the large, ugly, vinyl baby doll she'd given to Tricia as a gift several months before, and had adopted as the store mascot. Pixie had named her Sarah Jane and liked to dress the doll for holidays and special occasions. Since Valentine's Day was only a week away, the doll now sported a frilly red dress decorated with pink hearts and black piping. Pixie had recently bought the thing a vintage pram—an item she'd won on an eBay auction. Sarah Jane often held a book in her little plastic hands, but they didn't stay there for long. For some reason, whatever Sarah Jane recommended was quickly snapped up by Tricia's customers. Oddly enough, the customers weren't freaked out by the doll like Tricia was.

“What have you got on tap tonight, Pixie?” Tricia asked, knowing she had no plans of her own.

“I'm taking up the hem on a new dress.”
New
was a relative term when it came to Pixie's clothes. “It's red with a taffeta slip—just gorgeous. Now if I just had a gentleman friend to dress for,” she said wistfully.

“I hear you,” Tricia agreed.

“Oh, come on, you've got two guys dogging your tracks. Odds are you'll have both of them badgering you for a date for the most romantic night of the year.”

Tricia didn't comment. The fact that one of the guys was her ex-husband who had dumped her to find himself, and the other was a cop who couldn't make a commitment, had a lot to do with her lack of enthusiasm. Valentine's Day was less than a week away and, though she'd spoken to both men that day, neither had mentioned it.

Mr. Everett wandered up to the cash desk. “Is there anything you'd like me to do before the end of the day, Ms. Miles?”

“Would you please empty the wastebaskets?”

“I'd be glad to,” he said and she handed him the one that resided behind the cash desk.

The door to Haven't Got a Clue opened, letting in a blast of cold air, and Betsy Dittmeyer's sister, a haggard-looking Joelle Morrison, her knee-length coat unbuttoned, wearing no hat or gloves despite the frigid weather, staggered in. “Betsy's dead,” she cried. “She's dead!”

Tricia took off her reading glasses, scooted around the counter, and hurried to Joelle's side, giving her a gentle hug. Joelle stood there, sobbing hysterically. Tricia's cheeks warmed in embarrassment as Pixie watched her gently pat Joelle's heaving back. “I'm so sorry,” she crooned over and over again, wondering if it was her day to console weepy women.

The last time Tricia had seen Joelle, she'd been at least fifty pounds heavier, but the weight loss had made her face look gaunt—or did it just seem that way because of her emotional state? She was about the same age as Tricia, but the years hadn't been so kind. A wedding planner by trade, Joelle had been hired by Antonio Barbero's stepmother, Nigela Ricita, to help Ginny plan her wedding the previous fall. Joelle had also been a suspect in Stan Berry's murder. He'd liked his women on the heavier side, and when Joelle would no longer eat the sumptuous chocolates and cupcakes he liked to stuff her with, they'd had a parting of the ways.

Eventually Joelle's sobs began to subside and Tricia pulled back. “Come sit down,” she encouraged, and led Joelle to the comfortable upholstered chairs in the store's readers' nook. “Pixie, would you please get Joelle a cup of coffee?”

“Sure thing,” Pixie said and hurried over to the beverage station.

“Black with two sugars,” Joelle said as if by rote. She sat down and pulled a used tissue from her coat pocket and blew her nose several times, sounding remarkably like a honking goose.

“I wanted to see the spot where dear Betsy died, but the Cookery is closed,” Joelle declared.

Tricia took the adjacent seat. “How did you find out about . . . what happened?”

“Well, it sure wasn't the Stoneham police who called me. It was Frannie Armstrong,” Joelle said, wiping at her eyes.

“I didn't know the two of you were friends.”

“We're not. But it was very kind of her to call. Otherwise I might have found out by watching the six o'clock news, and that would have killed me.”

That seemed unlikely. The thing was, Tricia hadn't seen a TV news truck roll past her big display window at all that day. Poor Betsy's death hadn't been at all newsworthy . . . at least to the nearby TV stations.

“Frannie said Betsy was squashed like a bug by a heavy bookcase,” Joelle went on with a catch in her voice.

“Oh, dear. I hope she didn't use those words,” Tricia said, appalled.

“Well, no, she didn't. She said she'd been crushed to death, and that it wasn't an accident.”

“I'm afraid that might be true,” Tricia admitted.

“But who could have wanted dear Betsy dead?” Joelle cried.

At one time or another, probably every member of the Chamber of Commerce. The woman was not well loved, and Tricia doubted anyone here in Stoneham would miss her, either. “Did Betsy have any enemies?” she asked.

Joelle sniffed. “Well, her ex-husband, Jerry, wasn't very fond of her. It was a bitter divorce. They fought over everything. In the end, they had to sell a lot of their assets just to pay their attorney fees.”

That certainly wouldn't have endeared Betsy to her ex. “Anyone else?” Tricia asked.

Joelle wiped away another stray tear that had leaked from her left eye. “Well, there was that nasty incident with her former neighbors.”

“Oh?” Tricia prompted, her interest piqued.

“They put up a fence without having their property surveyed. Betsy couldn't abide such carelessness and had her own yard surveyed. She found the fence was three inches over the property line. Naturally she had a hissy fit and reported them to the town. They made the neighbors pull down the fence. It cost them thousands. They never forgave Betsy. She could never prove it, but someone would egg her windows on a regular basis and Betsy was sure it was them.”

“Oh, my,” Tricia said. Somehow she felt more sympathetic toward the neighbors than Betsy.

“And then there was the guy who hit her car at a stop sign while texting. She sued him and got all kinds of damages. She was lucky that way.” So Christopher had mentioned. Yet to Tricia it sounded more like Betsy was just spiteful.

“Did Betsy and her husband ever have children?”

Joelle nodded but looked away, her expression dour. “A daughter. Poor little Amy was born with an extra chromosome.” She looked thoughtful. “Or maybe she was born with a missing chromosome. I never could get that straight.” She shook her head. “That little angel was only eight years old when she died.”

“Oh, my. Poor Betsy,” Tricia said, genuinely saddened. Maybe the loss accounted for her sour disposition.

“Betsy was always a little bit loony after she lost Amy. She kept her baby's room just the way she'd left it. I thought it was kind of creepy, but I guess it wasn't that unusual.” Joelle sighed. “Betsy was my only living relative. Now I'm all alone in the world.”

From her tone, Tricia surmised that Joelle hadn't yet heard she'd been cut out of Betsy's will. “I'm so sorry,” she said sincerely. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Pixie was hovering. Though she'd tried, Tricia hadn't been able to break her newest employee of the habit. “It's getting late, Pixie. Could you please finish pricing the rest of those paperbacks?”

“Sure thing,” Pixie said affably, and went back to the cash desk.

Tricia turned back to Joelle. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

Joelle sniffed once again. “No, I guess I just needed to talk to someone. I suppose I need to think about the arrangements. I'm not sure what Betsy would have wanted. We never spoke of it.”

“I'm sure you'll make the right decisions,” Tricia said kindly.

Joelle nodded. She sighed, and then sat up straighter in her chair. “Have you and Mr. Benson set a date yet?”

Oh, dear. Joelle certainly hadn't forgotten the fantasy Tricia had spun for her the previous fall that she and Christopher might reconcile. But Joelle had a memory like a steel trap and she reminded Tricia of her promise every time they met. She also mailed Tricia promotional material on a monthly basis.

“Sadly, Mr. Benson and I are still at an impasse when it comes to a reconciliation,” Tricia said; a blatant lie, since not only hadn't they discussed the topic, but, except for earlier that day when they'd spoken for the first time in several weeks, Tricia had only seen Christopher to wave to—not plan a renewal of vows—and that suited her just fine.

“You
will
keep me in mind when the time comes,” Joelle insisted.

“Yes, of course.”

Joelle heaved a loud sigh. “I suppose I'd best be on my way. I'm on my way to the gym. Maybe if I work out hard enough, I'll be able to sleep tonight. Goodness knows I'll be alone—just like every other night.”

Though she felt like a heel, Tricia did not invite Joelle to join her for dinner. She had no clue about how she'd feed herself, let alone a guest. She stood, hoping the gesture wouldn't be taken as rudeness. “It's just about time to close the shop for the day.”

Joelle also rose to her feet. “I'm sorry. I hadn't noticed how late it is. Thanks for listening to me whine, Tricia. When I get home, I'm going to drown my sorrows in a bottle of pink Catawba.”

Tricia had to restrain herself from shuddering at the thought of drinking such a cheap wine. She walked Joelle to the door. “Get some rest. These next few days are sure to be stressful for you.”

“I will, thank you.” Joelle gave a wave before she pulled the door closed behind her.

Tricia let out a weary breath, feeling ready to collapse.

“That poor woman,” Pixie said from her seat in the readers' nook.

“Who? Joelle or Betsy?”

“Both. That Betsy sounded like a class A bitch, but I guess having a sick kid die on her coulda been a contributing factor. She was lucky to have a sister who loved her so much. Well, there's no accounting for taste,” she added under her breath. Then she looked thoughtful. “I feel like I know the sister from somewhere. Do you think she ever did time?”

“I don't think so,” Tricia said.

Pixie shrugged.

Mr. Everett, who'd made himself scarce since Joelle's arrival—emotional scenes complete with tears made him extremely uncomfortable—reappeared, returning the empty wastebaskets to their rightful places.

Pixie glanced at the clock then down at the pile of paperbacks in front of her. “These are done. Do you want me to stay and shelve them in alphabetical order?”

“No, we can do that in the morning.”

“Okay.” Pixie headed for the back of the shop and returned with her own and Mr. Everett's coats. She handed his off, then donned her own, taking a moment to put on her black wooly hat before ducking behind the sales counter to claim her purse. She and Mr. Everett headed for the door. “See you tomorrow,” Pixie called.

“Good night, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

“Good night,” Tricia said and closed and locked the door behind them. She stood for a long moment soaking up the silence.

“Yow!”
Miss Marple said loudly. Her kitty stomach could tell time, too.