Bookplate Special: A Booktown Mystery Part 13

"Ted," Barbara said again, her voice growing more piercing. "There're several boxes that need to be taken out back. Could you do that now?"

Ted jerked a thumb in Barbara's direction. "She's a real witch, ya know."

"No," Tricia said, voice hushed.

"That's just between you and me," he whispered.

She nodded as Barbara called more stridently, "Ted!"

"See you later, Ted. Bye, Barbara." Tricia headed for the door.

As Tricia started back to her store, she reflected on everything she knew about Pammy's activities just before her death. She'd made copies of several pages of the diary, and the diary's cover was red. Big deal. She had no clue as to where the diary was or how to prove the copied pages had been delivered. Had Baker found a delivery confirmation receipt among Pammy's things? If not, where was it? Could it have been in her purse? Tricia could ask Captain Baker, but she still didn't feel she had enough evidence to present to him. And for all his kind words so far, was he likely to accept her word? Ted could back up her story--but so what? No one could prove that Pammy had sent Paige copies of the diary pages. The fact that Lois saw her make copies, and she asked for directions to the post office, and then Ted had weighed and stamped an envelope destined for Stuart Paige, didn't mean the two events necessarily had to be related. At least, Tricia had read enough legal thrillers to know a judge would likely rule in that direction.

And who had written the letter to Pammy that she'd never picked up at the post office?

The voice on the phone had said, "Give back the diary."

Again Tricia was faced with the same question: What diary? And give it to whom? The caller hadn't been clear about that, either. Maybe she was supposed to find the diary and the next call would tell her what to do with it. If that was the case, all she could do was wait and see if another call came in. And since the other calls had come at night, she had the whole day to kill before that would happen.

Unless the caller got antsy.

Tricia pulled her car into the Stoneham munic.i.p.al parking lot and parked it. She was sure that the only books she'd seen in Pammy's car's trunk when Captain Baker had asked her to inspect the contents had been their college yearbooks.

Tricia had once had a little girl's diary bound in pink floral fabric with a little silver lock. Angelica had found it, broken it open, and not only read every page, but relayed its contents to the entire family at Thanksgiving dinner.

She pushed that unproductive thought away, grateful her relations.h.i.+p with her sister had improved since those days.

During the two weeks Pammy had been her guest, Tricia hadn't seen her friend read anything--not a newspaper, not a book, not even the back of a cereal box. In fact, now that she thought about it, why had Pammy been so keen on keeping the box of books? Perhaps to resell? But nothing in the box had been of any real worth. It was probably only the diary that had been valuable--and only to the person who wrote it, or perhaps wanted to destroy it because of its contents.

Tricia locked her car and started walking toward Haven't Got a Clue. Where had Pammy gotten the diary? Dumpster diving? Possibly. It wasn't likely she prowled used bookstores, despite the fact Stoneham was full of them. Most of the booksellers had a specialty: romance, military history, religion . . .

Ginny was waiting outside the door to Haven't Got a Clue--on time for the first time in days. She held a bulky plastic bag and stamped her feet on the concrete, trying to keep warm. "I was beginning to wonder where you were," she said by way of a greeting. "I didn't see your car in the lot, and when I called your cell phone, there was no answer."

Tricia sorted through her keys. "Sorry. I must have it turned off. I had some errands to run." She unlocked the door and entered the store, with Ginny following close behind.

"Give me your coat and I'll hang it up in back," Ginny said.

As she straightened up the pile of bookmarks next to the register, Tricia wondered if she ought to call Captain Baker and tell him about the letter at the post office. She was sure to talk to him again sometime soon--maybe she'd just wait.

She tidied the stack of Haven't Got a Clue shopping bags, and had run out of busywork by the time Ginny came back to the front of the store.

"What's Mr. Everett's schedule for the rest of the week?" Ginny asked.

"Coming and going, I'm afraid. There's a lot to pull together fast if you're planning an impromptu wedding."

"Why don't they just elope?" Ginny grumbled.

"I'm sure they feel this will be the last marriage for each of them. They want their friends to witness it, especially since they have no family."

"I guess."

Mr. Everett knew everyone in town. Would he have known Stuart Paige? Paige didn't have a long history in Stoneham, but he was well known throughout the state. Still, Mr. Everett was the soul of discretion; he wouldn't speak of Paige's reckless past if he knew of it . . . but Frannie Armstrong might. Frannie was the eyes and ears of Stoneham--more so than even Ted Missile.

As it happened, Frannie chose that moment to walk past Haven't Got a Clue on her way to the Cookery. In one hand she clutched her purse and a sack lunch; in the other, a bulky wire cage, no doubt the Havahart trap she'd spoken of the day before.

"Oh, look, Frannie's struggling with that cage. She's been trying to catch a stray cat. I think I'll go help her."

"I can do it," Ginny volunteered.

"That's okay," Tricia said, hurrying around the register and heading for the exit. "Be right back."

"Whatever," Ginny said, as Tricia flew out the door.

She hurried down the sidewalk to catch up with Frannie. "Here, let me help you," she said.

Frannie gratefully surrendered the cage. "Hi, Tricia. This thing isn't heavy--at least it wasn't for the first couple of blocks. But then it seemed like it weighed a ton."

"Think you'll catch Penny today?" Tricia asked as Frannie fumbled with her keys.

"I sure hope so. I hate to think of that poor little cat out in the cold at night. The weatherman says a cold snap is coming down from Canada in the next few days. We might even see a little snow."

"Not until the leaves are past peak, I hope. I'm praying for an onslaught of tourists to arrive any day now."

"I hope so, too. But then there's the Milford Pumpkin Festival on the weekend, and Stoneham will be as quiet as a cemetery at midnight." Frannie opened the door and Tricia followed her into the darkened store. In a moment, the lights were on and Frannie had removed her jacket. "Need any help setting up this cage?" Tricia asked.

"Thank you. I sure hope the first bus is late. Angelica won't be pleased if I'm not ready to open right on time." She glanced at the clock. "Which is in three minutes."

"I can get things ready here at the register if you want to go load the trap and set it up outside."

"Thanks, Tricia."

"It's my pleasure. I want to see little Penny go to her new home."

Frannie paused. "I will put an ad in the News--just in case some poor child is missing her kitty. But I'd be lying if I didn't admit I hope no one will claim her."

Frannie had lived alone for a long time. She deserved a little feline pal. "Go on, set up the trap," Tricia said, and gave her friend a smile.

A Granite State bus pa.s.sed the store's display window, heading for the munic.i.p.al lot, where it would disgorge its load. Several customers had entered the store by the time Frannie made it back to the sales desk. She rubbed her hands gleefully. "By tonight I might have my very own kitty. I've never had a cat before. My family are all dog lovers, ya see. But I fell in love with your Miss Marple, and now I want one of my own."

"I'll cross my fingers for you."

Frannie looked toward her customers and raised her voice. "Y'all just let me know if you need any help." One of the women nodded and went back to her browsing.

"Frannie," Tricia started, "you've been around these parts a lot longer than I have. What do you know about Stuart Paige?"

Frannie shrugged. "Just what I've read in the papers."

That wasn't what Tricia wanted to hear.

"Although," Frannie added, almost as an afterthought, "it's been said that he was a real womanizer when he was in his early twenties."

Now that was more like it. "Oh?" Tricia prompted.

"I'm sure you've heard about that accident where he was driving his father's Alfa Romeo, crashed it into Portsmouth Harbor, and some woman died."

Why did everyone seem to remember the make of the car more than the name of the victim? "Yes, I did hear that."

"Apparently she was the love of his life. When she died, he turned over a new leaf. Got religion, so to speak, although I don't think he joined any official denomination. But he decided to change his ways and do good in the world."

That sounded like a great plot for a 1950s movie. In fact it was . . . The Magnificent Obsession, with Rock Hudson and Jane Wyman. But did that sort of thing happen in the late 1980s? Tricia wasn't so sure. As her grandmother often said, "A leopard doesn't change its spots." There had to be more to the story than that.

If Frannie didn't know, then probably no one else in the village did.

Rats!

A customer ambled up to the register with several heavy volumes. Tricia wrapped the order while Frannie rang it up and made change. As soon as the woman turned her back on them and headed for the door, Frannie picked up where she left off. "I heard Mr. Paige has been staying at the Brookview Inn. In fact, he's taken a room long term. They say he's got some kind of business deal brewing. I'll bet Bob Kelly knows about it."

"And wouldn't tell me if he did."

"That's true. Bob is very loyal to Chamber members."

"But would Paige be a member? He doesn't have a business, or even live here in Stoneham."

"Yet," Frannie added. "I wouldn't know about new members since I left the Chamber. It's always possible Mr. Paige's cooking up something good for the village. Maybe he intends to help people who've lost their jobs. You know, open some kind of light manufacturing plant, or something. Bob was always trying to entice someone to locate a new business here."

That was a possibility, Tricia supposed. Now, could she get past Paige's keepers to talk to the man? "What do you know about his entourage?"

"I don't think he's got bodyguards, if that's what you mean. But I know he travels with at least one or two people--one of them is a secretary or something. Keeps the riffraff from bothering him."

Would Tricia be considered riffraff?

"I wonder if Eleanor could get me in to see him." Tricia envisioned Eleanor at her reception desk at the Brookview Inn. Plump, and in her mid-sixties, she was the soul of the place. She made sure everyone who stayed there enjoyed his or her visit.

"What do you need to see Stuart Paige for?" Frannie asked.

Should she tell Frannie about Pammy trying to crash the Food Shelf's dedication ceremony? Then again, Frannie probably knew all about it.

"My friend Pammy tried to talk to him the day she died. I was just wondering if he knew her."

"I heard about that," Frannie said.

Of course!

Frannie sighed. "But I doubt Eleanor would bother a guest just to satisfy your curiosity. People who stay at the Brookview expect exceptional treatment--and Eleanor sees to it they get it. Even though she considers you a friend, I'm sure her first loyalty would always be to her guests."

"As it should be," Tricia reluctantly admitted.

"That said, there's no reason you can't ask," Frannie said with the hint of a smile on her lips. A customer stepped up to the register. "Can I help you?" she asked.

Tricia noticed the wastebasket under the counter hadn't been emptied. She signaled to Frannie that she would take it out back. She disarmed the Cookery's security system, stepped outside, and looked around. The trap sat neatly to one side, with a heaping bowl of cat food and a water bowl inside the cage. Come on, Penny! The Cookery's Dumpster and her own stood side by side in the alley. There was nothing in them to interest one of the local freegans. In addition to speaking to Stuart Paige, Tricia needed to speak to the freegans as well. Had Ginny contacted any of her scavenger friends?

There was only one way to find out.

Tricia emptied the wastebasket, reentered the Cookery, reset the alarm, and saw Frannie was still tied up with customers. Replacing the wastebasket, she waved good-bye to Frannie and headed back to her own store.

Ginny was inundated with customers, and it was more than an hour later when Tricia finally had a chance to speak to her. "I was wondering, have you'd had time to talk to any of your"--she glanced to see if any of the customers was within earshot--"you-know-what friends about Pammy yet."

Ginny shook her head. "No. But we're meeting up with a bunch of them tonight in Nashua. Want to come along? They all agreed it would be okay."

"Definitely. Where and when?"

"I brought a change of clothes so that Brian could pick us up here at seven."

"That doesn't give us any time to have dinner."

"We'll eat on the way."

Tricia felt her cheeks redden.

Ginny laughed. "Don't worry; we're not going to eat what we find tonight. We'll stop and get something along the way."

"Okay. But I've got one question: What does one wear to go Dumpster diving?"

ELEVEN.

By six thirty, business had slowed to a crawl, and Tricia decided she'd best change for her first, hopefully only, food-salvaging expedition. She slipped upstairs to her loft apartment and fed Miss Marple before retreating to her bedroom closet, where she dug out her grungiest jeans and an old sweats.h.i.+rt, found a pair of sneakers she thought she'd tossed long ago, grabbed her f.a.n.n.y pack, and was ready to go. She and Ginny closed the store a few minutes early so they'd be ready for Brian, who pulled up outside of Haven't Got a Clue at precisely seven.

Ginny climbed into the front seat of his SUV and Tricia got in the back.

"Hey, Tricia," Brian called, "glad to have you with us. Although I have to admit I never thought you'd have the guts to do this."

"Neither did I," she agreed as she buckled her seat belt. "I'm hoping some of your friends will talk to me about Pammy Fredericks."

Brian checked his side mirror before he pulled away from the curb. "Don't be surprised if they don't."

"Where are we heading?" Tricia asked.

"Nashua. There's better pickings in a bigger city."

They lapsed into idle chitchat for the twenty-or-so-minute ride to the city closest to Stoneham. Tricia's stomach began to knot with each pa.s.sing minute. Did Brian and Ginny expect her to climb into a Dumpster, paw through rotting, fly-ridden garbage in search of a few potatoes, maybe a loaf of bread, or some dented cans with no labels?