Book Clubbed (24 page)

An astonished
Tricia stared at the names before her. She tried hard to remember Jerry's face, comparing it with her memories of Betsy. Yes, now that she knew the truth, they did share similar features. Worse, they'd had a daughter. A daughter with birth defects that had eventually caused her death. Had they known at the time of their marriage that they were half brother and sister? Betsy's parents must have given her the Bible. Along with all her other interests, could genealogy have been one of her hobbies? Had she made the chart showing her name and that of her ex-husband, or had she paid someone else to fill in the blanks?

It didn't matter. And even if Betsy had made that discovery, was it worth being killed for? That was a mighty big leap of logic. And yet . . . why was Joelle so adamant that she get her hands on the book? She and Betsy hadn't been all that close. What other reason could Joelle have had to account for her obsessive search for the Bible?

Then Tricia remembered what Jerry Dittmeyer had said when she met him just days before: he was engaged and his lady love was expecting a child.

Joelle and Jerry?

No, it just didn't seem possible. But why else would Joelle be so keen to obtain the Bible?

Joelle was eager to plan a wedding for Tricia. Had she been planning to do the same for herself?

Tricia studied every scrap of paper that had fluttered loose from the Bible and found nothing else of significance.

She gathered them all up and set them aside, all but the genealogy chart. What was she supposed to do with it? Why was it so important to Joelle? Did she know the significance of what was listed on it? Betsy didn't talk much about herself to strangers, and since she and Joelle weren't close, would she have shared with her sister what she knew about her father's love child?

If Joelle and Jerry were a couple, and if she was indeed pregnant with his child, was that baby as doomed as its older cousin/sibling? Joelle was in her forties, not an optimum time of life to become pregnant.

Had Betsy discovered that Jerry and Joelle had been doing more than just seeing each other? Did she not only feel a sense of betrayal, but fear for any child they might have? Could that be the reason she'd cut Joelle out of her will? Had Betsy ever told Jerry of their shared parentage? Could she have shared that news with one of them after finding out Joelle was pregnant? It was the perfect excuse for murder, and explained why Joelle was desperate to hide—or destroy—the evidence.

Someone knocked on the shop door, but Tricia ignored it. Couldn't whoever it was read the sign that said the store was closed?

She stared at the paper before her. Should she call Chief Baker, telling him what she knew, or sit on it for a day or two and hope there was another, more viable suspect in Betsy's death?

The knock came again, harder this time.

“We're closed!” Tricia called.

Miss Marple stood up from her perch behind the register, looking nervous. Tricia looked over her shoulder. “Don't worry, Miss Marple, we aren't going to let that person in.”

“Open up!” a male voice demanded. Even muffled, Tricia was pretty sure she recognized it: Jerry Dittmeyer.

Uneasy, Tricia picked up the phone and dialed the Stoneham police station. The knocking grew louder still, and then Tricia realized Jerry wasn't knocking, he was kicking the door. Miss Marple jumped down from her perch and ran to the readers' nook, hiding under one of the chairs.

“Please state the nature of your emergency,” came Polly's dispassionate voice.

“Send someone quick! Somebody's breaking down my door.”

“Remain calm,” Polly said, sounding a little bored. “What's your name and address?”

“You know darn well it's Tricia Miles, 221 Main Street in Stoneham—” But before she could say anything more, the door flew open, and Jerry barreled in, with Joelle right behind him.

The wind came roaring in with them, sending all the papers on top of the cash desk flying.

“There it is!” Joelle hollered, advancing on Tricia.

Tricia grabbed the book and shoved it under the cash desk. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“The hell you don't. Give it to me, it's mine,” Joelle screamed.

“Give her what she wants,” Jerry said, “and there won't be any more trouble.”

“You've already kicked my door in. That's trouble enough, and I intend to press charges.”

Joelle didn't seem concerned and stamped up to the back of the cash desk, cornering Tricia. For a moment, Tricia thought Joelle was going to hit her, but instead she grabbed the Bible, carelessly holding it over the cash desk, and proceeded to shake it, but no papers fell from its pages. Tricia had already removed them all. For something that was supposedly so precious to her, Joelle treated the old book roughly. She let it drop on the counter with a loud
thump,
and turned crazed eyes on Tricia. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“You know what I'm talking about. Betsy told me her deepest secret was hidden in this Bible. She told me I'd never find it, and she was right. How could I know she stored her crap in that rental house? You must have taken what was inside it. Where is it? Give it to me!”

Tricia knew exactly where the missing genealogy chart was—on the floor right behind Joelle—but she had no intention of telling her.

“What is it you're looking for, Jo?” a nervous Jerry demanded, circling behind Joelle to stand next to the chart.

“I'm not sure. But Betsy threatened to use it against me.”

“So what? She's dead. Let's go. I'm already in trouble for kicking in this door. I'm not going to jail for something so petty.”

Joelle seemed ready to burst into tears.

It was then Jerry caught sight of the folded paper on the floor. Tricia shoved Joelle aside and made a grab for it, but Jerry intercepted her and sent her flying backward. Before she could right herself, in a flash, Jerry unfolded it, realized its significance, and pulled a lighter from his jacket pocket. He lit it.

“Jerry, no!” Joelle shrieked as Jerry backed up a couple of steps until he was free from the cash desk. He held the paper in the air, his expression triumphant.

“Don't be stupid, Jerry,” Tricia cried. “You might burn that piece of paper, but it won't be hard to re-create it. It's based on public records.”

“Shut up!”

“Jerry, stop it,” Joelle cried. “You're being irrational. Let's get out of here before the cops show up.”

“That's right, Jerry. I called them when you started kicking in my door.”

So where on earth were they?

Joelle lunged forward, but Jerry backed up several steps. “Give me that paper,” she demanded.

“No!” Jerry cried.

Joelle made a grab for it and Jerry fell backward over Sarah Jane's carriage, landing on his rear end. With a harsh
whoosh,
the dried faux leather that covered the old doll carriage burst into flames like a torch. Jerry sat there, stunned, staring at the flames, while Joelle made a mad grab for what was left of the paper—then screamed.

“I'm on fire!” Joelle cried, shaking her arm in the air, which only caused the flames to grow.

Instead of leaping forward to help her, Jerry backed up, looking terrified.

“Jerry—help me. Help me!” Joelle shrieked.

Sarah Jane was engulfed in flames, her head melting before Tricia's eyes. She righted herself and lunged forward, shoving a screaming Joelle onto the carpet. She pushed her, rolling her over and over across the floor for what seemed like endless moments until Joelle crashed into the back of one of the upholstered chairs in the nook. At last, the flames were extinguished.

“Jerry, help me get her out of here,” Tricia called, but when she looked up she saw that Jerry had disappeared. The shop door was open, and the cold wind that whistled through it fed the fire. She could feel the blistering heat on her back.

Joelle's coat sleeve was gone, her flesh glistening from the burns. A frantic Tricia grabbed her under her arm, causing her to scream, and hauled her to her feet, dragging her toward the exit. The air was already foul with smoke and Tricia coughed as she pulled Joelle out of the burning store.

Once outside, Tricia saw several people standing on the sidewalk, gawking.

“What happened?” Mary Fairchild, Tricia's next-door neighbor asked, looking terrified.

“Jerry Dittmeyer set my store on fire. Call 911.”

“Thank God you're safe,” Mary cried as Tricia pushed a reeling Joelle at her.

Tricia gulped fresh air, which seemed to clear her head, and she was seized with a terrible thought. “Miss Marple!” she cried and turned back to the shop door.

“You can't go back in there,” cried Michele Fowler, who had suddenly appeared on the scene, with her cell phone in one hand and grabbing Tricia's arm with the other.

“The hell I can't,” Tricia said, twisted away, and plunged into the smoke-filled store once again.

If the lights were still on, Tricia couldn't tell; the thick black smoke was a smothering curtain. She dropped to her knees and, coughing all the way, began to crawl to the readers' nook, where she'd last seen her beloved cat. She pawed under each of the chairs, but couldn't find the cat. “Miss Marple, Miss Marple!” she cried, and was seized with a terrible coughing fit. Pulling the neck of her sweater up over her mouth and nose, Tricia began to crawl around the floor. Where could the cat be? Had she run to the washroom? Could she have escaped out the open door to safety?

“Miss Marple, please come out!” Tricia wailed, but she doubted the cat would even be able to hear her over the roar of the fire. There was nothing left of Sarah Jane's carriage, and flames licked the south wall and several shelves of vintage mysteries. Too stunned to even cry, Tricia knew she had to get out of the store before she was overcome by the smoke. But she'd never forgive herself if she saved herself and left Miss Marple to die.

She inched her way across the rug, losing track of where she was in all the smoke, and smashed her forehead into the side of the cash desk. Blood cascaded from the wound and into her eyes, but she had only one thought on her mind—to find her cat.

She crawled behind the cash desk, groping around the floor, and finally touched something fluffy—Miss Marple's tail. The cat didn't move. Was she already dead?

Tricia scooped up her cat and stuffed her limp body inside her sweater and began to crawl, backing out from behind the cash desk. Tears and blood mingled, robbing Tricia of her sight, and she used the wall to guide herself to the open door. She crawled through the aperture and strong arms grabbed her, hauling her across the frozen sidewalk and into the street. She'd lost her shoes.

Sirens wailed, echoing off the buildings, and the Stoneham Fire Department's rescue squad screeched to a halt along the curb. Seconds later, more strong arms hauled Tricia toward the vehicle, and she found herself sitting on its bumper, her feet freezing in the stiff breeze and an oxygen mask pressed against her face.

She coughed and coughed, thought about throwing up, and had to shake her head in order to think clearly. “My cat. My cat!”

“Calm down,” the EMT advised. “We'll find your cat.”

Tricia pulled the mask away from her face. “You don't understand, I've already got her.” She lifted her sweater and pulled out the small limp cat. Another EMT took Miss Marple from Tricia, and jumped inside the ambulance.

“She's dead. I know she's dead,” Tricia cried, and started to cough again, but the remaining EMT pressed the mask back to her face and proceeded to work on the cut on her forehead. Across the way, she saw another ambulance and more EMTs working on someone in the street. Was it Joelle?

“Tricia!”

Angelica clawed her way through the crowd of rubberneckers, to reach her sister. “Oh, my God. What happened?” she demanded, throwing her arms around Tricia. She was crying so hard her mascara ran down her cheeks in black rivulets.

“I'm okay,” Tricia said, but speaking those words only made her cough harder.

“Keep the mask on your face,” the EMT directed, towering over her with a no-nonsense expression.

“Miss Marple is dead,” Tricia cried. “I tried to save her but it was too late.”

“Please, ma'am, keep the mask on your face,” the man said once more.

“You don't understand, my cat is dead!” Tricia cried, and even to herself she sounded like some hysterical harpy.

“No, she's not,” said the EMT from inside the rescue vehicle. Tricia half turned and saw the man holding on to Miss Marple in a very undignified manner, but the cat was dazedly looking around, still limp, but definitely alive. He pressed the oxygen mask back on the cat's head and seconds later Miss Marple began to struggle in his embrace.

“It's a miracle!” Angelica cried.

“Let me hold her,” Tricia cried and realized she was shivering violently—unsure if it was from the cold or shock.