Bookplate Special: A Booktown Mystery Part 7

"That was an excellent couple of sales," Mr. Everett said, approaching the register with a tray of the store's cardboard coffee cups. "We should celebrate."

"I agree," Tricia said, grateful for the opportunity to cheer her other employee.

Mr. Everett pa.s.sed around the cups. "Here's to a wonderful day."

They raised their cups and took a sip. "Mr. Everett, wouldn't you like to tell Ginny your good news?" Tricia suggested.

Mr. Everett blushed, and he ducked his head in embarra.s.sment. "Grace and I, we're--well, we've become engaged."

Ginny's mouth drooped. "Engaged?"

"Yes, isn't it wonderful? They're going to get married in the next week or so," Tricia said.

"Married?" Ginny repeated, her voice cracking, and then she burst into tears.

Tricia grabbed Ginny's coffee before she spilled it onto the carpet, while Mr. Everett stood rooted, stricken.

"Ginny, what's wrong?"

"We can't afford to get married," she wailed. "Brian's working two jobs, I've been trying to find a second job, and somehow we have to find the time to work on the house. And . . . oh, everything is all messed up."

"If I thought the news would upset you, I never would have mentioned it," Mr. Everett apologized, obviously distressed by Ginny's reaction. His words only made her cry harder.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Everett. I'm very happy for you and Grace," Ginny managed. "And I hate myself for being so terribly jealous, but I can't help it."

Tricia pulled Ginny into an awkward embrace. "You and Brian will get married someday, and I'm sure it'll be a lovely ceremony."

Ginny's sobs increased, and she waved her ringless hand in the air. "We're not even officially en-en-gaged."

"Oh, dear--oh, dear," Mr. Everett said.

The shop door opened, the little bell above it jangling cheerfully. Two women stepped into the store, took in the scene, and quickly retreated.

"Oh, dear--oh, dear," Mr. Everett repeated, his heavily veined hands clenched, no doubt to keep from wringing them.

"Come on, Ginny, let's go upstairs," Tricia said, and guided her employee toward the back of the shop and the stairs leading to her loft apartment.

"I'll take care of things here," Mr. Everett called with relief.

Tricia opened the door marked PRIVATE and led the way up the stairs. She unlocked the apartment door and Ginny followed her in. Her sobs had wound down to sniffling, and Tricia led her to one of the stools in front of the kitchen island. "Would you like some cocoa?"

Ginny wiped a hand over her eyes. "Yes, please." She sounded about twelve years old.

Tricia filled her electric kettle with water and plugged it in. She watched as Ginny s.n.a.t.c.hed a paper napkin from the holder and blew her nose. She blinked a few times and took in the kitchen with its sparking white, painted cabinets, granite counters, and thirteen-foot ceiling. "Wow, this is a great s.p.a.ce," she managed, and hiccuped. "And there's no drywall dust or exposed wiring. I'd almost forgotten how real people live."

"When you've finished all your renovations, you'll have a lovely home, too."

Ginny sniffed and shrugged.

Tricia took a couple of mugs from the cabinet and found the cylinder of Ghirardelli Chocolate Mocha Hot Cocoa mix. She measured out the powder. The kettle was starting to sound like an engine--a prelude to boiling. "It won't be long now," Tricia said.

"I wish I led a charmed life like you," Ginny said, and sighed.

"Me? I'm divorced, my sister lives next door, and I keep discovering dead bodies. How charmed is that?"

"At least you have your sister nearby. Since Mom and Dad moved south, I sometimes feel like I'm all alone here in Stoneham."

"What about Brian?"

"He works so much we hardly ever see each other." She let out another shuddering sigh.

"Seems like you need to make plans for the future. Give yourself a goal. How big a wedding do you want?"

"Not big at all," Ginny said. "I'd like to have our friends, our parents, and some of the people here in the village--like you and Mr. Everett and Grace, and Frannie and Nikki, and our friends Pete and Lisa. Nothing really big."

"Have you ever heard of a potluck wedding?"

Ginny shook her head. "No."

"You could rent a picnic shelter, invite your friends to bring a dish to pa.s.s--just like an old-fashioned wedding."

"Is that what you did when you got married?"

Tricia thought about the cathedral, the eight attendants, the five-tiered wedding cake with ma.s.ses of colorful fondant flowers, and the princess gown and veil. "Not exactly," she said. "But if I had it to do over again, I'd have a much simpler affair." Easy to say, now that the marriage had failed. And, the truth was, she'd loved every minute of the preparations, the ceremony, and the reception. Ending the marriage hadn't been Tricia's idea.

"If simple is what you want, I'm sure it can be arranged. Just pick a date--preferably in warm weather--and start making plans. I'm sure all your friends would love to pitch in. I could get Angelica to help with the food. She's spoken often about starting a catering service as part of the cafe--once she gets established."

"Angelica would not be happy about you volunteering her services for me."

"Why not?"

"For one thing, she's angry with me because I don't patronize her cafe. But it costs money to do that and, besides, it's always crowded with tourists. I pack my lunch and eat it in my car."

"You can't do that much longer--it's getting cold."

"Where else am I supposed to go?"

Tricia thought for a second. "You could use the storeroom downstairs. We could put a table in there. And I'll get one of those dorm fridges and a microwave. It would give you and Mr. Everett somewhere to go on your breaks and save you money at the same time."

"You'd be going to an awful lot of trouble."

"It's no trouble. You're both valuable employees. I want to keep you."

Ginny dabbed at her nose with the napkin. "Thank you."

The kettle began to whistle. Tricia unplugged it and poured the hot water into the mugs. "I can't make it happen today, but I'll see what I can do about getting it pulled together in the next couple of days."

"You're the best boss I've ever had."

"If I was, I would've thought of this a long time ago."

"You always have a lot on your mind. Especially since yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"Pammy dying and all."

For just a few minutes, Tricia had actually forgotten about it. She handed Ginny her cup.

"I'm sorry I got all weepy over this whole marriage thing. I should go down and apologize to Mr. Everett. He's the sweetest person on the earth. I feel terrible about hurting his feelings. I think it's wonderful they're getting married, and I really am happy for them." Ginny blew on her cocoa to cool it before taking a tentative sip. "Do you mind if I go down now and apologize? Can I take the cup with me?"

"Yes, of course."

Ginny slid from her stool. "Thanks, Tricia. You really are the best boss in the world." Treading carefully, she made her way to the door without spilling a drop.

Best boss in the world? Tricia didn't know about that. And where would she get one of those dorm fridges? She'd probably have to drive to Nashua or Manchester to find one. Or maybe she could find one in the ad section of the Stoneham Weekly News. Too bad she'd tossed out the last one. On the other hand, she was having dinner with Russ later that evening. He probably had one hanging around his house.

Tricia leaned against the counter, sipping her cocoa, and caught sight of the box of books Pammy had left behind. Setting down her mug, she circled the kitchen island and crossed into the living room. She sat down on the couch, leaned over, and ran her fingers across the book spines. Nothing here that interested her. A couple of old cookbooks, something Angelica might stock at the Cookery, a few mainstream t.i.tles circa 1970, and a few battered children's books.

Poor Pammy was dead. At least Captain Baker seemed interested in finding her killer, unlike his boss during previous murder investigations in Stoneham. But what if Sheriff Adams interfered with his investigation? What if she decided for him that he should concentrate on pinning the murder on her or Angelica?

Tricia couldn't allow that to happen. What she needed were facts. What she needed to do was to find out why Pammy had wanted to speak to Stuart Paige.

Tricia stood and glanced around her apartment, looking for and finding her purse. In seconds she'd retrieved the crumpled brochure for the Stoneham Food Shelf she'd stashed away the day before. A glance at the hours of operation made her heart sink. It was open Monday mornings from nine to eleven only. However, the Clothing Closet was open weekdays from nine to noon. Tricia frowned. Food would seem to be more essential than clothing . . . unless, of course, you were buck naked. Why the difference in hours?

She'd just have to ask.

The problem was that Libby Hirt was the head of the Food Shelf, not the Clothing Closet. Still, perhaps someone at the Closet could give her Libby's number. Perhaps. She might need a reason other than pure curiosity to get that number. She could volunteer Haven't Got a Clue as a food drop-off site. But that still didn't guarantee she'd get the number.

Of course, she could just look Libby up in the local phone book.

There were four Hirts listed, but no Libby; no L. Hirt. She was probably married, or had an unlisted number. Or didn't have a landline at all. A lot of people had given them up, using just their cell phones. But that seemed to be younger people, more Ginny's age. She could try all four . . . and say what? "I'm just being nosy, asking what happened at the dedication the other day . . ." And Libby Hirt might not have a clue, thinking Pammy was just one more pushy broad who wanted to get her money-sucking paws on a philanthropist like Stuart Paige.

Tricia scrutinized the brochure, figured what the heck, and dialed the Food Shelf's number. If nothing else, voice mail might give her an emergency number to call. Instead of voice mail, a real person answered. "Stoneham Food Shelf, this is Libby. Can I help you?"

"Oh, it's you," Tricia blurted.

"Y-e-s." The word was drawn out.

Tricia laughed. "Sorry. I was expecting voice mail. My name is Tricia Miles. I was at the dedication yesterday. I run Haven't Got a Clue, the mystery bookshop in Stoneham."

"Oh. How nice. And thank you for coming to our party. You must be a Chamber member."

"Yes. I wanted to talk about the possibility of having my store be a drop-off point for the Food Shelf. I'd also love a tour of your facility."

"We gave tours at the dedication."

"Unfortunately, I got there a bit late. I would love a personal tour--if it's not too much trouble."

"Not at all. When would you like to visit?"

"How about now?"

"Now would be fine."

"Great. I can be there"--Tricia glanced at the kitchen clock--"in ten minutes."

"Fine. I'll be waiting for you. Good-bye."

SIX.

Tricia was a little out of breath when she arrived at the Stoneham Food Shelf. Five cars were parked in front of the Clothing Closet's door, and a blue Toyota Prius was in the slot farthest from the Food Shelf's entrance, which sported a CLOSED sign.

Tricia pressed the doorbell at the side of the plate-gla.s.s door. Libby Hirt soon appeared and greeted Tricia with a smile. After exchanging pleasantries, she gave Tricia a complete tour of the facility, including opening the connecting door to the well-stocked Clothing Closet. Several women sorted through the racks of clothes. They didn't look poverty stricken to Tricia, and she voiced that opinion.

The twinkle in Libby's eyes, as well as her quick smile, vanished. She closed the door. "Appearances can be deceiving, Tricia. Right here in Stoneham there are families living paycheck to paycheck--living near the brink. House foreclosures, the tight economy--it all takes a toll on the working poor."

"I guess I never gave it much thought, and I feel ashamed. I've been living in Stoneham for about eighteen months, and I'd never even heard of the Stoneham Food Shelf until yesterday."

Libby managed a smile. "There are several hundred people who've lived in Stoneham all their lives and have never heard of our food pantry, so you're not alone." The smile faded from her lips. "Since the booksellers came to town, everyone seems to think that the prosperity has been shared among all Stoneham's citizens. It hasn't. And this is New England. People don't like to admit they have to accept charity."

People like Ginny.

"I'm beginning to realize that," Tricia confessed. "I'd like to do all I can to help."

Libby's smile returned. "I was hoping you'd say that. We've found a collection jar near your cash register is best for a business like yours. Often tourists feel generous with their change, and readily dump it into one of our jars."

"I'm afraid a great many of my customers pay for their purchases with credit cards."

"We realize that, but anything you collect will help local families deal with hunger. That's a big plus, in my book."

Now to pull out the big guns. "What do you know about the local freegans?" Tricia asked.

Libby's mouth went slack, the color draining from her face. "I know of them."

"Have they ever contributed to the Food Shelf?"

Libby hesitated before answering. "There's a stigma attached to such donations. Even hungry people don't want to eat food that may have been salvaged from garbage bins."

"Is the food unsafe?"

"Not necessarily. But if we were to accept such donations--and I'm not saying we knowingly do--we wouldn't know how clean the trash receptacle was. Was the food in plastic bags before it was, er, liberated? It's a question of bacterial contamination. We wouldn't want to expose our clients to any kind of risk."