Book Clubbed

“I’d be glad to,” Tricia said and accepted the rather battered card.

Joelle abruptly turned and left Haven’t Got a Clue by slamming the door, and without a good-bye or a backward glance. Tricia stepped over to the big display window, craning her neck to follow Joelle’s progress as she made her way up Main Street until she turned right, probably to pick up her car at the municipal parking lot.

Once she was certain Joelle wouldn’t be making a return visit to her store, Tricia pulled the bulky Bible out from under her cash desk to have another look at it. As Joelle had said, it was big and brown and bulky. Stashed between the pages of the book were more folded sheets of paper, recipes, and a number of death notices cut from newspapers. Tricia extricated all the loose papers before taking time to study them. Some of the recipes were so old that the paper they were printed on disintegrated despite her gentle handling. Next she sorted everything into three piles: useless, unsalvageable, and of possible interest. It was the latter she consulted first. Unfolding one of the pieces of white paper, she found a hand-drawn genealogy chart. Before she could look at it, though, the door opened once again and Bob Kelly darted inside, looking over his shoulder before shutting the door.

“He’s not here yet?” he asked.

“You mean Chief Baker?”

Bob nodded.

“No. But he’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Bob bit his lip, and though he’d just come in from the cold she could see a bead of sweat forming at his left temple.

“Why don’t you take your coat off and relax until the chief gets here.”

“I’m not sure I can go through with this,” Bob said and began to pace in front of the cash desk.

“Listen, Bob, you can’t keep this up. Now, you asked me to arrange this meeting—though I’m still not sure why you couldn’t have just walked over to the police station and turned yourself in—so you should at least have the gumption to follow through with your plan.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to feel hunted. Right now I haven’t got a friend in the world.”

“And whose fault is that?” Tricia asked.

Bob looked close to tears. “I’ve been on the run for so long, I’ve forgotten how it feels to live like a real human being.”

Who did he think he was? Harrison Ford in The Fugitive? The charges against him were really quite petty.

“Bob, you’re only making things worse for yourself. Now please, sit down and relax.”

“I guess you’re right,” he said and took a seat in the readers’ nook.

No sooner had he sat down, when the door opened and Chief Baker entered the shop. “Tricia,” he said, tipping his hat, saw Bob sitting in the nook, and headed straight for him. “Mr. Kelly.”

Bob stood. “You’ve got me, Chief. I’ll come along quietly,” he said, his voice filled with drama, and held out his hands, palms down, ready to be handcuffed.

“I’m not going to cuff you,” Baker said. “If you’ll come along quietly, I’ll take you to the station, fingerprint you, and then release you on your own recognizance.”

“You mean, I’m not going to the big house?” Bob almost sounded disappointed.

“I highly doubt it. But you will have to answer to the charges against you. I suggest you consult an attorney.”

“I can go home and sleep in my own bed tonight?” Bob asked.

“You don’t have to, but you’re not staying in my jail overnight.”

“Oh.” Bob had never looked more downhearted.

“However, I do want to talk to you about Betsy Dittmeyer, but that should only take an extra ten or twenty minutes. With a little luck, you’ll be home in time for your di

“Okay,” Bob said and shuffled over to the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

Baker shot Tricia a parting glance. “Thanks for helping out with this.”

“Anytime,” she said with a grin.

No sooner had the door closed behind them when Tricia heard footfalls on the stairs. At the back of the shop, the door marked PRIVATE opened and Pixie and Mr. Everett stepped into the store. Pixie held a sheaf of papers in her hand.

“Hey, Tricia, you’d better have a look at this updated inventory list.” She walked up to the counter and handed the small stack of pages to Tricia, who flipped through the alphabetized list.

“This looks great, but are you sure this is the entire list?” she asked, puzzled.

“Yep. And it includes the two boxes of stock I unpacked earlier this week, too. When was the last time you checked the storeroom for inventory?” Pixie asked.

Tricia heaved a guilty sigh. “Christmas?” she guessed.

“Despite it being so dead around here, we’ve actually sold a lot of books since then. Did you call that number for the estate liquidator that I gave you earlier?”

“Shoot, with everything that’s been going on, I forgot all about it.”

“Well, unless you want to start selling coffee instead of books, we’re in desperate need of more stock,” Pixie said.

“You’re right. I’ll call the number first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Why wait? Do it now,” Pixie pushed.

“You’re right, of course.” Tricia bent down and found the Post-it note, but instead of calling, she turned back to her employees. “You’re right about it being dead here today. I think I’m going to close shop early today. You guys may as well head on home.”

“That’s very generous of you, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

“Ditto that,” Pixie said. She didn’t have to be asked twice to leave early. She did an about-face, retrieved both her own and Mr. Everett’s coats, and came back to the front of the shop.

“By the way, I finally figured out where I know the dead lady’s sister from,” Pixie said as she shrugged into the sleeves of her coat.

“Oh?” Tricia asked.

“Yeah. She used to be in the same kickboxing class as me over at the fitness center up on the highway.”

“Used to?” Tricia asked, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling.

“I haven’t seen her there in a couple of weeks,” Pixie said and tucked her hair into her beret.

“Did you ever speak to her during the class?”

Pixie shook her head. “There’s like twenty broads there. Who has the time?”

“Do the women at your class go there for self-defense or for exercise?”

“A little of both. When you do it right, you work up a hell of a sweat. It’s a great way to keep fit. Burns a lot of calories.” She pulled on her gloves.

Tricia felt her mouth go dry. Angelica’s door had been kicked in. The door to Betsy’s kitchen had been kicked in, too.

“Are you sure we can’t do anything else before we leave?” Mr. Everett asked. “Vacuum, perhaps.”

“The rug hardly needs it, as it’s essentially only been the three of us walking on it,” Tricia answered offhandedly.

“That’s true. Well, off we go. See you tomorrow, Tricia,” Pixie said.

Mr. Everett pulled on his leather gloves. “Good evening, Ms. Miles.”

“Good night,” Tricia called, and shut the door, locking and bolting it. She turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED and pulled the blinds before she went back to the sales desk, where she lifted the receiver on the old phone and dialed the number Pixie had written down.

She bit her lip with indecision. Had Baker finished dealing with Bob yet? Maybe she’d give him another ten minutes and then call to tell him what Pixie had just shared about Joelle. Was she being paranoid to hope he’d put out an all-points bulletin on the woman?

Yes, in fact, it was just plain silly. Instead, she consulted the note Pixie had taken for checking on the collection of used books, called, and made an appointment to see them the following morning. As she hung up the phone she remembered that she and Angelica had had an appointment to look at some books six days before, but Betsy’s murder had taken precedence. Well, nothing like that could possibly happen again.

Now that she knew Joelle wanted to get her hands on Betsy’s Bible, Tricia hefted the book back onto the sales counter and opened it to the center, thumbing past the illustrations, which included Moses parting the Red Sea, John the Baptist, and Christ’s agony on the cross. Depressing. She flipped a few more pages before coming back to the chart chronicling Betsy and Joelle’s forebears. Sure enough, she could count back far enough to their great-great-grandmother, but the chart only had space enough for four generations.