Bookplate Special: A Booktown Mystery Part 4

Angelica frowned. "She Dumpster dived for food." Taking in the incredulous faces before her, she continued. "Of course, lots of freegans give you some lofty explanation about alternative lifestyles, bucking convention, and minimizing waste in a materialistic world. I think they're just a bunch of cheapskates looking for free food."

"Pammy salvaged food out of Dumpsters?" Tricia asked, feeling the blood drain from her face. Pammy had cooked for her--had provided the food she'd used to prepare those meals. Had she found it by--?

The thought was too terrible to contemplate.

"How do you know all this?" Baker asked Angelica.

"Pammy told me--last week when we talked, and today, in between customers."

"How long was she here today?" Tricia asked.

"About two hours. A regular little chatterbox, that one."

Baker eyed Tricia. "Ms. Fredericks told you she was a freegan--but in two weeks she didn't tell your sister?"

"Apparently not."

He looked back to Angelica. "And you didn't tell her, either?"

Angelica laughed. "Of course not. Well, just look at her. She's already a lovely shade of chartreuse."

A lump rose in Tricia's throat. "How long have you known?"

"For a week or so. I knew someone was going through my garbage the day we opened. I caught Pammy at it one day last week."

"You should have told me."

"Why? You'd have been freaked out--like you are now. Believe it or not, I don't live to just irritate you, baby sister."

It was Tricia's turn to frown. So now Angelica decided to spare her feelings. Hadn't she informed her that Pammy had cooked for her?

Right now, Tricia couldn't remember.

A wave of guilt pa.s.sed through her. Here she was worrying about eating food past its prime--food that obviously hadn't sickened her--and Pammy had been killed. Where were her priorities?

"Did the deceased tell you where she planned to stay tonight?" Baker asked Angelica.

Angelica shook her head. "And I didn't have her fill out a job application, either. I needed someone right away--she walked in the door. I figured we could catch up on the paperwork after the lunch crowd had gone."

Baker turned to Tricia. "Did Ms. Fredericks tell you where she planned on staying?"

"No. But she said she'd 'hooked up' with some local people."

"Probably more freegans," Angelica said.

"Do you know any local freegans?" Baker asked the women.

Angelica shook her head once again.

"I didn't even know they existed until just a few minutes ago," Tricia said.

"Can you think of anybody we can ask?" Baker asked.

"You might try talking to the other food vendors in the area. There's the Brookside Inn, the Bookshelf Diner, the Stoneham Patisserie, and the convenience store up near the highway. That's about it. But it wouldn't surprise me if the local freegans went to Milford, or even Nashua or Portsmouth. They're much bigger than Stoneham. They'd scavenge--or, as I'm sure they'd say, 'salvage'--much more food from grocery and convenience stores than restaurants and bakeries."

"Do freegans try to hustle food from charities like the Food Shelf?" Baker asked.

Angelica shook her head. "I shouldn't think so. But it's something you could ask Libby Hirt about."

"Who?"

"Libby Hirt." She spelled the last name. "She runs the Stoneham Food Shelf."

"The one your friend crashed this morning?" he asked Tricia.

She nodded.

Baker made a note. "Did the deceased have a car?"

Tricia nodded. "She'd been parking it in the munic.i.p.al lot."

"Make and model?" he asked.

"I have no idea. I don't think I ever saw her drive it the whole time she was here. In fact, when she left the dedication, she walked back into Stoneham."

"She probably couldn't afford the gas for it," Angelica added.

At least not until she'd cashed Tricia's forged check. You should say something, a little voice within her nagged.

"Can we narrow it down? Did she have an out-of-state license plate?" Baker asked.

"Maybe. She was originally from Portsmouth, but had lived in Connecticut for the past couple of years. I think," Tricia added lamely.

"I thought you said she stayed with you for two weeks?" Baker asked.

"She did, but we didn't spend a lot of quality time together." At his puzzled look, she clarified. "My store doesn't close until seven most nights. On Tuesdays, I host a book club. That doesn't usually break up until after nine. A couple of times Pammy didn't come in until after I'd already gone to bed."

"Didn't you ask where she'd been, what she'd been doing?" Baker asked.

Answering truthfully was going to sound awfully darned cold. Still . . . "No."

Baker turned away. "Placer." The deputy stepped forward. "Grab Henderson and scout out the munic.i.p.al lot down the street. See if you can find a car with Connecticut plates. Ask around. See if anyone has noticed a car parked in the lot for the past two weeks."

"Sure thing, Cap'n."

"Captain?" Rivera waved to Baker from the back entrance.

"If you'll excuse me, ladies." He left them and rejoined the technician.

Angelica watched him go. "Nice set of buns."

"Ange," Tricia admonished.

"And wasn't he just the nicest thing? Quite a change from Wendy Adams."

"Yes," Tricia agreed. She gazed at the captain, who filled the back doorway. He did have a nice set of buns at that.

"She's dead. She's really dead," Ginny murmured for at least the hundredth time. "I admit I didn't like her, but I never wanted her dead."

"Ginny, please," Tricia implored, not bothering to lift her gaze from the order blanks before her. As it was, her last sight of her . . . kind of, sort of . . . friend had not been a pleasant one. Was that how she'd always remember Pammy, as a pair of stiff legs?

"But I feel guilty," Ginny said, then grabbed a tissue from the box under the counter and blew her nose. "I didn't want her around, and I got my wish. But I never thought--"

Tricia sighed. She removed her reading gla.s.ses, setting them on the counter. Captain Baker had dismissed her some twenty minutes before--and it would be another hour before she closed shop for the day. It seemed like weeks since her day had begun, and she was looking forward to a nice, quiet evening, although she wasn't sure she was up to reading a murder mystery. Not just yet, anyway.

"I think I'll take out the trash," Tricia said, and then she thought of Pammy in the garbage cart and winced. Still, the wastebasket under the counter was full.

She picked up the basket and headed for the back of the store, disarming the security alarm before opening the door. The alley that ran behind this side of Main Street was a good five feet lower than the front of the store, and she trotted down the steps to the waiting Dumpsters. Haven't Got a Clue didn't really create enough refuse to warrant such large receptacles--one for cardboard boxes only, the other for other trash--and she wondered if she could trade one of hers for Angelica's two trash carts.

She emptied the basket and turned to head back into the building just as the door to the Cookery slammed shut, giving Tricia a start. With Angelica tied up at her new cafe, her newly promoted manager, Frannie Mae Armstrong, was in charge of the village's cookbook store. As far as Tricia knew, Frannie was still working alone at the store. Why would she have slammed the door upon seeing Tricia? And then she saw two matching bowls on the landing near the Cookery's stairs. Angelica would not be pleased.

For the past couple of weeks Frannie had been feeding a little stray orange cat that had been hanging around the alley. Tricia had seen it only once, but Miss Marple, her own cat, seemed to have stray-kitty radar. Miss Marple did not appreciate other cats invading what she considered to be her territory--even if her territory didn't go beyond the confines of Haven't Got a Clue and the storeroom and loft apartment above it. Angelica wasn't a cat lover, and had warned Frannie not to encourage the cat to come around . . . something Frannie obviously hadn't taken to heart.

Tricia climbed the steps and reentered her store. Ginny was still at the register, sniffling as she waited on a customer. "I'm going next door for a few minutes. Be right back," Tricia said, and headed out without grabbing her jacket.

The Cookery was quiet, with only one or two customers browsing the bookshelves. Now that Angelica had dismantled the cooking demonstration area, she'd gained more retail s.p.a.ce. The store was doing well--too well for just one employee. That was just Tricia's opinion, of course. Frannie insisted she could handle the additional work, but she did look a bit frazzled, something Tricia hadn't ever seen in the year since she'd met her.

Frannie stood by the register, waiting for her next customer to check out. Her expression darkened when she saw it was Tricia who'd just entered the store. She plastered on a fake grin and called out in her infamous Texas tw.a.n.g, "Howdy, Tricia. What can I do for you?"

Tricia gave her friend a genuine smile. "Hey, Frannie, I just dropped in to see how things are going."

"I'm sure surprised to see you . . . after what happened and all." Frannie nodded toward Booked for Lunch across the street, which was visible through the large display window. A sheriff's patrol car--probably Captain Baker's--was still parked outside. It might be hours before the forensic squad finished gathering evidence.

Tricia had momentarily forgotten about Pammy. Frannie's words brought the memory of her in the garbage cart back with the force of a hurricane. "Oh. Yes. It was awful. I hope you don't mind if I don't want to talk about it."

"Of course," Frannie said, and shook her head sadly.

"I was out behind my store a few minutes ago, and I couldn't help but notice--"

"Please don't tell Angelica," Frannie pleaded, her face drawn with concern. "I know she doesn't want me to encourage Penny--"

"Penny?" Tricia asked.

"That darling little kitty. She's the color of a bright copper penny, so I've taken to calling her that. But, Tricia, she's got no collar and she's as thin as a rail. I'm only setting out a little water and some dry cat food during the day. And I make sure the dishes are put away before Angelica gets back from her cafe."

On the one hand, Tricia wanted to commend Frannie for her compa.s.sion. But as a business owner, she wasn't sure she should encourage deceit or out-and-out insurrection--especially as the store's proprietor was her own sister. And yet . . . she'd seen that hungry little cat and her heart had ached for it, too.

"I won't tell," she promised. "But now that you've been putting out food, she'll expect to be fed. If Angelica finds out--"

"I've got it all planned," Frannie said, but a customer approached the register with a stack of cookbooks before she could tell Tricia exactly what that plan was. The shop's door opened, and another three potential customers trooped in. Rats! Tricia had wanted to ask what Frannie knew about Stuart Paige. There was always tomorrow, she supposed.

This time it was Tricia who forced a smile as she waggled her fingers in a wave and headed out the door for Haven't Got a Clue. And true to her word, she had no intention of telling Angelica about Frannie's feline indiscretion.

Before she could make it back to the store, Tricia heard her name being called. She looked around and saw Captain Baker hailing her from across the street. He waited for a car to pa.s.s before crossing to meet her on the sidewalk.

"Sir, you are guilty of a crime," Tricia said, straight-faced. Of course, she'd been crossing Main Street at its center for weeks, ever since Angelica had rented her new property.

"I beg your pardon?" Baker said.

"You jaywalked across Main Street," she explained, huddling to keep warm in the stiff breeze.

"Ms. Miles," he said, his voice growing somber, "my men found a car several blocks from here, apparently abandoned. It has Connecticut plates and was registered to Ms. Fredericks. The trunk was open and it contents ransacked. If you could look at what's left, perhaps you can tell me what, if anything, was taken."

A wave of fresh grief coursed through Tricia. "I suppose I could look, but I really don't know what she had, other than the suitcases she kept at my apartment for the past two weeks."

"Would you be willing to try?"

She stared into his green eyes, and her willpower dissolved. What was the hold men with green eyes had on her?

"Of course. But I need to let my a.s.sistant know I'll be gone for a few minutes."

Baker accompanied her to Haven't Got a Clue, where she grabbed her coat and told Ginny she'd be back as soon as she could.

Outside, Baker bowed like a gallant knight, and made a sweeping gesture toward the cruiser parked on the opposite side of the street. Then he walked her across the pavement, opened the pa.s.senger-side door, and held it open until she'd seated herself, grasping the seat belt and buckling herself in.

As he walked around the car, Tricia took in the police scanner, the little printer that sat in the middle of the bench seat, and the cup of cold coffee in the beverage restraint device. She'd never sat inside a cop car before. How many police procedurals had she read over the years? How many scenes had taken place in such a car? But the reality was far different from fiction. There was an atmosphere of . . . tension--mixed with stale coffee and sweat and a touch of angst?--that seemed to hang inside the vehicle, and she doubted that even a prolonged airing could remove the lingering scents of stale urine and vomit from within that small s.p.a.ce.

Baker climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. He glanced in the rearview mirror before easing the gearshift into Drive and pressing the accelerator.

"You should buckle your seat belt," Tricia admonished.

"The law here in New Hampshire requires seat belt use only by those eighteen years and younger," he said with confidence.

"Just because the law doesn't require you to use your seat belt doesn't mean it's not the smart thing to do."

He tossed a glance in her direction for the merest part of a second, then focused his attention back on the road. "I think I can take care of myself."

She sighed. "Just like a man."

Again his gaze darted in her direction. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's just that men can be just so . . . stupid. What's wrong with being safe? Haven't you read the federal highway statistics reporting the percentage of deaths due to not wearing seat belts?"

"Officers of the law need to be able to react--to get out of their vehicles at a moment's notice."

"Not if they're smushed into paste in an accident."

"Smushed?" Baker repeated.