Book Clubbed

Before the end of the first hour, Tricia’s back ached. By the end of the second hour, her legs were sore. By the end of the third hour, she loathed the sight of boxes and newspaper clippings, and hated Betsy enough to have done her in—that is, if someone hadn’t already beaten her to it.

Finally Gi

Tricia surveyed the bedroom. “We’ve got only two more boxes to go; how many do you guys have?”

Angelica didn’t answer right away, presumably counting the boxes before answering. “Nine.”

“Why don’t I go help them while you finish up in here,” Gi

“Okay,” Tricia agreed, and lifted the interleaved flaps on the next-to-last carton. She looked inside. More papers. Betsy collected the most useless stuff. But mixed among the newspaper clippings and recipes torn from magazines were a handful of lovely old postcards. The stamps were old. If the cards themselves weren’t worth anything, maybe the stamps were. She set them aside, and tossed the rest of the papers into a trash bag.

As she went to lift the flaps on the last carton, she noticed a wet spot on the side of the box and suddenly realized Sarge had been missing for quite some time. Had he relieved himself on the box, known he’d done something naughty, and decided to lay low before anyone noticed? She shook her head and opened the box, glad she hadn’t tried to lift it. It was full of old books, with wads of yellowed crumpled newspaper to cushion them and fill out the box. Lifting them one at a time, she inspected the titles. Nothing special at all: a couple of cookbooks, a few dog-eared paperbacks, and several little blue books from Alcoholics Anonymous. The copies of the Nashua Telegraph were at least ten years old. Had Betsy saved them and then decided to use them for packing, or had the box been sitting somewhere like a garage for a long time and she decided to move them to the house to make room for more junk in her own home?

At the bottom of the box was a very old and large—at least fifteen inches in length—Bible clad in cracked brown leather. Tricia carefully lifted the old book out of the box and set it on the edge of the empty box beside its former home. She opened the cover and looked for some kind of copyright date without finding one. Well, the text was at least two thousand years old, but she wondered if there was some other way of dating it. Sure enough, at the center of the book was a genealogy chart that began in 1847 leading up and into the twentieth century. The last entry was for a John Morrison—Betsy and Joelle’s father? The date would be about right. So, it was the family Bible. This might be something that should be given to Joelle.

Tricia closed the cover and left it to concentrate on tidying the room. She scooped up the rest of the trash, placed it in the last of the plastic garbage bags, tied the end in a knot, and tossed it into the hall. Then she set the Bible on the floor, flattened the boxes, and carried them out into the hall.

Angelica, Gi

“Thank goodness,” Gi

“Did you find anything interesting?” Angelica asked, as she used her hand to sweep more litter into one of the trash bags.

“Just an old family Bible, and not in very good condition. But I’m sure Joelle would probably like to have it.”

Angelica straightened, and Tricia noted there were cobwebs in her hair. “If she’d been cut out of the will, should you even contemplate giving it to her? And how are you going to explain where you got it?”

Those were two very good questions, but Tricia was too tired to think about the answer just then.

“I have had enough,” Antonio said and offered Gi

“Hallelujah!” Angelica crowed. “I’ll call my new receptionist and see how soon she can start. Maybe I can have her trained and ready to help us move in by next week,” she said hopefully.

Tricia hefted the Bible. “Do you mind if I take this home and have a better look at it?” she asked Antonio.

“Do as you wish. If you want to sell it, you may do that, too.”

“I don’t know about that,” Tricia said.

“It is no good to me or my employer. If you don’t wish to sell it, perhaps you can donate it to a worthy soul.”

Tricia nodded. “I’ll find it a good home—one way or another.” And probably with Joelle. Now all she had to figure out was a way to tell her about it without revealing that Betsy had rented the little house and filled it with tons and tons of trash.

Antonio closed the upstairs window for the last time, locking it, and they started down the stairs with Angelica turning out the lights as she went.

Once back on the first floor, Antonio paused to take in the now spacious living room. “Ladies, you have done very fine work these past two nights. I’m sure my employer will be very pleased by your industry.”

“Yes, and please be sure to remind her that Tricia is not a member of the happy Nigela Ricita empire. Perhaps she should be given some kind of honorarium,” Angelica said.

“That is an excellent suggestion,” Antonio agreed.

“Oh, no—I don’t need anything. I’m just happy I could help out. The Chamber needs its new home—and the faster they can move in, the better.”

“You have a good heart,” Antonio said.

Tricia felt a flush rise from her neck to color her cheeks. “Besides, you’ve already graced me with this Bible.” She hefted it. “That’s all the reward I need.”

“I don’t know about you, but I would’ve asked for a piece of that forty-four grand,” Gi

“My employer would not be that grateful,” Antonio said, and they all laughed.

While Antonio moved the few boxes of useful items to his car, Angelica found Sarge asleep on one of the heat grates, nudged him awake, and clipped his leash onto his collar.

As Angelica had suggested, Antonio left the outside lights on, and left one burning in the living room so that anyone walking nearby would see the house had been emptied. Now they just had to hope Betsy’s arsonist wouldn’t set the contents of the Dumpsters on fire.

Gi

It was just another question for which she’d probably never have the answer.

“I wasn’t kidding when I suggested Ms. Ricita repay you for your efforts these past two nights,” Angelica said as they paused under the glow of a lamp to let Sarge do his worst.

Tricia shook her head. “There’s very little I need these days, and after seeing how Betsy lived, I feel like I should clean out a closet or two of my own.”

Angelica smiled. “Me, too.”

Tricia hefted the Bible. “Now that her house has burned and we’ve gone through all the boxes, I’ll bet the killer goes into deep cover. He—or she—didn’t leave many clues. There’s a good chance we may never figure out who killed Betsy.”

“I hope you’re wrong. My home and business were violated. I want closure,” Angelica insisted.

But if the killer didn’t resurface, closure was something she—and Joelle Morrison—might never see.