Book Clubbed

Tricia sat back in her chair and pondered the implications. Had Bob looked into her background before he hired her, or had he offered employment to the first warm body he could find to fill Fra

Tricia sat back in her chair and considered her options. If she said nothing, would Grant Baker—or one of his officers—find the information buried in a word processing document containing recipes, or should she tell him what she’d found—or have Angelica, as Chamber president, do it?

She glanced at the clock and realized just how tired she felt. It had been a long day and she was in no condition to make such a decision. She closed the files and shut down the computer. “Bedtime. Come along, Miss Marple.”

The cat opened her sleepy eyes, got up, and stretched, then jumped down from the couch.

Tricia grabbed a book from her living room shelves, and headed for her bedroom. She got undressed, climbed into bed, and opened Josephine Tey’s The Daughter of Time, but soon found she couldn’t concentrate on the words. She had far too much on her mind. She lay awake in the dark for a long time, trying to make sense of all the various threads of information she’d gathered that day, but it was no use. None of the pieces to the puzzle seemed to fit properly, and it was only exhaustion that finally took her to dreamland.

THIRTEEN

Tricia awoke late the next morning and only had time to take a quick shower, feed her cat, and grab some yogurt from the refrigerator before she made it downstairs to open her store for the day. On days like this, her exercise regimen was the first thing eliminated from her to-do list.

Haven’t Got a Clue’s first visitor of the day wasn’t a customer, but Charlie the mailman, bundled up for the cold, his cheeks red from the vicious wind. “Hey, Charlie. You look frozen stiff. I’m just about to make a pot of coffee. Would you like to join me?”

He sorted through the contents of his leather mailbag and came up with an assortment of circulars and bills. “I wish I could, but I really don’t have time for . . .” His words drifted off, and Tricia noticed the lines around his eyes seemed more deeply defined than they had the last time she’d spoken to him.

“Is something wrong? Can I help?” she asked sincerely.

“I’ve got a lot hanging over my head, Tricia,” Charlie said and sighed. He set the mail on the counter.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” she asked.

Again Charlie sighed, his gaze focused on the floor. “It’s the police. They seem to think I might have had something to do with Betsy Dittmeyer’s death—and all because I happened to be in the Cookery just before it occurred.” He straightened and met her gaze. “What they failed to understand is that I’m there five days a week—and almost always at the same time.”

“Chief Baker is only doing his job, although I can tell you from personal experience that it’s no picnic to be the object of his scrutiny.”

“I’ll say.”

“Why would the chief think you had some co

“Because,” he said, his gaze turning downward once again, “I do.”

Tricia’s eyes widened. “You and Betsy had a relationship?” she asked, taken aback.

Charlie looked absolutely horrified. “Me? And Betsy? Oh, please.”

“Then what?”

Charlie sighed, still not looking Tricia in the eye. “Part of the twelve steps are that you don’t talk about it.”

Oh, dear. “You and Betsy were alcoholics?”

“Not ‘were.’ Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic.”

That made sense. Betsy had a compulsion to hoard. Perhaps that had driven her to drink, as well. And what had compelled her to steal?

“Where did the two of you meet?” Tricia asked.

“At a meeting in Milford, although I hadn’t run into her at one for some time. I did see her on a regular basis when the Chamber of Commerce was located up the street.”

“Does anyone else know she was an alcoholic?”

“Just her immediate family and the others who frequent our meetings. But they’re not likely to talk about it, either. That’s one of the reasons they call it Alcoholics Anonymous.”

“I hope you won’t think I’m nosy, but I can’t imagine you as . . .”

“A drunk?” He laughed. “It’s okay to say it. I always did.”

“Then how did you start drinking?”

“Like most kids—stealing my parents’ liquor. Then finding friends and helping them steal their parents’ liquor. I worked, I earned money, I spent it on beer or whiskey. It was a vicious cycle. I was engaged, but my girl told me if I didn’t sober up, she would leave me. That did it. I joined AA and the rest is history.”

“How many years ago was that?”

“Thirty-five. And we’ve been happily married the whole time.”

Tricia smiled. “Do you still go to meetings?”

He nodded. “Several times a week. It’s part of our philosophy to help others get off the alcohol treadmill and regain their sobriety.”

“Have you ever fallen off the wagon?” Tricia asked.

“A couple of times,” he said sheepishly. “I’ve haven’t had a drink in almost eighteen years now.”

“Good for you, Charlie.”

“Honest, Tricia. I didn’t kill Betsy. I admit, I might be able to understand it if others had reason to do so—she had a heartless ma

Someone had helped Betsy to her grave, and in quite a horrific ma

“I don’t suppose you know how I could get in touch with Betsy’s ex-husband.”

“Jerry the welder?” he asked.

“I didn’t know his name—or where he worked,” Tricia said.

“Try Black’s Village Smithy. Do you know the place? It’s up on the highway.”

“I know about it,” she said. More important, she knew the owner—although the last time they’d spoken they hadn’t been on good terms. In fact, they’d never been on good terms. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll see if I can track him down.”

“Seems to me Betsy mentioned it to me the last time I spoke to her. She was angry that he’d be working so close to her. I guess their divorce was pretty bitter.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Charlie looked down at his bulging leather mail pouch. “I’d better get going. My boss wasn’t happy when I got hauled off to the police station during my rounds—and he won’t like it if it happens again.”

“I’m sure the chief will soon clear you.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” Charlie said with what sounded like a forced laugh. He gave a wave and headed out the shop door.

No sooner had he gone when Tricia called directory assistance. “Yes, could you please give me the number for Black’s Village Smithy?”

*   *   *

Pixie was late—by more than half an hour—when she finally showed up at Haven’t Got a Clue. “Didn’t I tell you I should get some new tires for my old boat?” she asked. “When I got down to the car, it had a flat. I got the Triple A to come and put on the spare, but I’m going to have to get a new tire any day now. Ya think I could leave early one of these nights?”

“Not one of these nights,” Tricia said, “you’ll do it tonight. I don’t want you to have an accident. Meanwhile, I have an appointment this morning. Do you think you could mind the store?”