Book Clubbed

Tricia always was a sucker for green eyes. “I’d be happy to.”

“Thank you. And please don’t tell Angelica about this. I’ve had about all the gloating from her I can stand.”

“I promise not to tell Angelica,” Tricia said, which was too bad, because about now Angelica would probably love to have a good laugh at Bob’s expense. “Have you got your cell phone?”

Bob nodded. “Yeah, but I left the charger at home. The battery’s dead.”

“Then how can I contact you?”

“How about I contact you tomorrow morning? Nine o’clock at the back of your store?”

“What’s wrong with me calling the chief right now?”

“I have a couple of things to take care of before I’ll be ready to face a jail cell, although I guess I could come back in an hour or so.”

“All right. I’ll see what I can do,” Tricia promised. “Will you be all right out there on the mean streets of Stoneham?” Bob didn’t pick up on her sarcasm. Instead he polished off the last of his coffee and stuffed a few of the cookies into his jacket pocket. “I’ll be back in an hour. Thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome.”

Bob turned for the exit. “Could you take a look—to make sure there aren’t any cops out on the street?”

“Sure,” Tricia said and led the way to the door. She stuck her head outside and looked from right to left. Not a soul in sight. “All clear.”

Bob pulled his knit cap down low over his brow. “Thanks again,” he said and slipped out the door, quickly heading south down the sidewalk. Tricia shut the door and shook her head. She glanced over to the shelf above the register where Miss Marple sat with all four of her legs tucked under her. “What do you make of that?”

Miss Marple gave a bored “Yow,” and shut her eyes.

“I agree,” Tricia said. She moved to stand in front of the sales desk, and picked up the art deco phone, dialing Chief Baker’s personal number. It rang twice before he picked up.

“Grant, it’s Tricia.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure? Have you reconsidered my Friday-night di

“Sorry, no. I told you, I already have plans. But I do have something else to offer you.”

“And what’s that?”

“Bob Kelly.”

“Kelly? Have you been harboring him?” Baker asked sternly.

“Of course not. But I have seen him around the village and I did manage to speak with him. He’s tired of hiding. He wants to turn himself in. But he’s also worried about a transgression from his past.”

“I know all about the mooning,” Baker said, without humor, “and that he never completed his community service.”

“Is he liable to get jail time for a youthful indiscretion?” Tricia asked.

“That’ll be up to a judge. Kelly has done a lot for this town over the years. I can’t see him going to jail at this point—over that or the new charges that are likely to be filed against him, but he might have his original sentence doubled, tripled, or even quadrupled.”

“I think he’s already come to that same conclusion,” Tricia said.

“When will you talk to him next?”

“He said he’d return to my store in an hour. What’s the best way to handle this? Should I call you to pick him up or take him directly to the police station?”

“I’d prefer not to lose him again. I’ll set up a stakeout to catch him.”

“Do you really need to do that? I mean, the man is already deeply ashamed of what happened in the past. Couldn’t you just pick him up here?”

“Well, okay,” Baker grudgingly replied. “I’ll show up in an hour. And thanks for taking this on.”

“I hate to think of Bob standing out in the cold for yet another day, and goodness knows where he’s been going at night to stay warm.”

“He’s been extremely foolish, that’s for sure.”

There was no arguing that. “Okay. I’ll see you soon. And thank you—for Bob . . . and from me.”

“Right.” The co

In an hour’s time it would no longer be her concern.

One down, one to go.

How much longer would it take to wrap up Betsy Dittmeyer’s murder?

TWENTY

Since Haven’t Got a Clue hadn’t had a customer in hours, Tricia decided to shut down the beverage station for the day. She dumped the dregs, emptied the grounds from the basket, gathered the sugar and nondairy creamers, putting them away before she took out the disinfectant spray and cleaned the counter. With that done, she returned to the cash desk, where Betsy’s big Bible still sat.

A figure passed the window and stopped in front of the door. Tricia recognized the woman in the red ski jacket and quickly stuffed the Bible under the display counter once more. The door opened, the bell over it jingled cheerfully, but the look on Joelle Morrison’s face was dour. “Where’s Angelica?” she demanded.

“Hello, Joelle. What brings you here so late on this chilly afternoon?”

“Where’s Angelica?” she asked again, more firmly. This was not the perfectly coiffed, well-dressed wedding pla

“I have no idea. She might be at the Cookery—”

“I’ve already been there.”

“—or at Booked for Lunch.”

“I’ve been there, too.”

“I don’t know where else she’d be at this time of day. Can I help you with something?” Tricia asked, not sure she really wanted to spend time with Joelle in her present mood.

“I heard the house across the street from the bank has been sold, along with a lot of Betsy’s things that were stored there. Betsy’s treasures belong to her heirs, not Angelica.”

“From what I understand, Betsy had plenty of time to clear out her stuff before the house was sold. She signed off on several certified letters that told her to clear out her stuff or lose it. She chose to lose it. Everything was documented, and the house was sold with the contents intact. Whatever was stored in that house legally belongs to Nigela Ricita Associates—not Angelica.”

Joelle’s eyes blazed. “I heard she’d taken charge of clearing out the house.”

“Who told you that?”

“Fra

Of course.

“Angelica has rented the house for the Chamber of Commerce. She and others”—Tricia had no intention of mentioning her own role in the purge—“worked to clear it. The contents have been removed. The Dumpsters were taken away a couple of hours ago.”

“What did Angelica find?” Joelle demanded, a harder edge entering her voice.

“Trash, a lot of newspapers, and a few old books—not vintage, and not worth much of anything.”

“Did you find our family Bible?”

“Bible?” Tricia hedged. “What does it look like?”

“It’s quite old and large. The cover is brown leather with a big brass hasp. It belonged to my great-great-grandmother.”

“Is that what you were looking for at Betsy’s house?”

“Yes. It has great sentimental value. It shouldn’t be thrown away or sold to the highest bidder. It belongs to me!”

“But you said Betsy disinherited you.”

Joelle’s eyes blazed with fury. “It turns out Betsy never changed her will. She left everything to me. I have the only copy. There were no others.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Joelle said, but didn’t sound at all certain. “If you see Angelica, I’d appreciate you giving me a call—or have her call me.” Joelle dug into her purse and came up with a business card for her wedding pla