Bookplate Special (14 page)

Luckily, only one other person was inside the building. Tricia nodded a hello as the woman checked her mailbox, withdrew the contents, locked it again, and headed for the door.

“What can I do for you today, Tricia?” Ted asked. “Do you need a book of stamps? We’ve got a new ‘dead entertainer’ stamp out this week.”

“Sure, I’ll take a book. But I’ll have one of those pretty flowered ones, instead.”

“Coming right up,” he said, and shuffled through the drawer, pulling out the correct one.

Tricia withdrew a ten-dollar bill from her wallet, which he accepted and made change.

“You want that in an envelope?”

“No, I’ll just put it in my purse.”

“Everything okay with you and your sister?” Ted asked, leaning across the counter and speaking low.

“Okay?” Tricia repeated, playing dumb.

“I mean, about that poor woman being found behind Angelica’s new café the other day. You found her, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, and sighed. It was expected that everybody in Stoneham knew her business and would ask about it—but sometimes it just got
old
. “Poor Pammy. I can’t believe anyone would want to hurt her.” Except maybe the person she was blackmailing, if that’s what she was doing.

“She came in here the other day, you know,” Ted said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“No, I didn’t,” Tricia lied.

Ted nodded. “Had a great big envelope filled with papers. Two ounces’ worth.”

“Ted,” Barbara warned from the back of the post office.

“You wouldn’t happen to know who the envelope was addressed to, would you?”

Ted looked over his shoulder. Barbara was pointedly staring at him. Ted turned back to face Tricia and shook his head, but mouthed the words “Stuart Paige.”

“The millionaire philanthropist?” Tricia whispered, in mock awe.

Ted nodded and whispered back, “It went priority rate. She even paid extra for delivery confirmation.”

“Ted,” Barbara warned.

“I understand Pammy got mail here, addressed to General Delivery,” Tricia said.

“A few letters. There might be one here now,” he said, and bent to paw through a stack of envelopes under the counter. “Yeah, here it is.”

Tricia’s breath caught in her throat, and she resisted the urge to snatch the letter from his hand. “I don’t suppose you could give it to me? I was, after all, her best friend.”

Ted shook his head. “No can do. It would be illegal.”

“It might be something Captain Baker of the Sheriff’s Department might want to see. He’s in charge of the investigation.”

“Oh, yeah, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Maybe you should give him a call,” Tricia hinted.

“Ted,” Barbara said again, her voice growing more piercing. “There’re several boxes that need to be taken out back. Could you do that now?”

Ted jerked a thumb in Barbara’s direction. “She’s a real witch, ya know.”

“No,” Tricia said, voice hushed.

“That’s just between you and me,” he whispered.

She nodded as Barbara called more stridently, “Ted!”

“See you later, Ted. Bye, Barbara.” Tricia headed for the door.

 

* * *

As Tricia
started back to her store, she reflected on everything she knew about Pammy’s activities just before her death. She’d made copies of several pages of the diary, and the diary’s cover was red. Big deal. She had no clue as to where the diary was or how to prove the copied pages had been delivered. Had Baker found a delivery confirmation receipt among Pammy’s things? If not, where was it? Could it have been in her purse? Tricia could ask Captain Baker, but she still didn’t feel she had enough evidence to present to him. And for all his kind words so far, was he likely to accept her word? Ted could back up her story—but so what? No one could prove that Pammy had sent Paige copies of the diary pages. The fact that Lois saw her make copies, and she asked for directions to the post office, and then Ted had weighed and stamped an envelope destined for Stuart Paige, didn’t mean the two events necessarily
had
to be related. At least, Tricia had read enough legal thrillers to know a judge would likely rule in that direction.

And who had written the letter to Pammy that she’d never picked up at the post office?

The voice on the phone had said, “Give back the diary.”

Again Tricia was faced with the same question: What diary? And give it to whom? The caller hadn’t been clear about that, either. Maybe she was supposed to find the diary and the next call would tell her what to do with it. If that was the case, all she could do was wait and see if another call came in. And since the other calls had come at night, she had the whole day to kill before that would happen.

Unless the caller got antsy.

Tricia pulled her car into the Stoneham municipal parking lot and parked it. She was sure that the only books she’d seen in Pammy’s car’s trunk when Captain Baker had asked her to inspect the contents had been their college yearbooks.

Tricia had once had a little girl’s diary bound in pink floral fabric with a little silver lock. Angelica had found it, broken it open, and not only read every page, but relayed its contents to the entire family at Thanksgiving dinner.

She pushed that unproductive thought away, grateful her relationship with her sister had improved since those days.

During the two weeks Pammy had been her guest, Tricia hadn’t seen her friend read anything—not a newspaper, not a book, not even the back of a cereal box. In fact, now that she thought about it, why had Pammy been so keen on keeping the box of books? Perhaps to resell? But nothing in the box had been of any real worth. It was probably only the diary that had been valuable—and only to the person who wrote it, or perhaps wanted to destroy it because of its contents.

Tricia locked her car and started walking toward Haven’t Got a Clue. Where had Pammy gotten the diary? Dumpster diving? Possibly. It wasn’t likely she prowled used bookstores, despite the fact Stoneham was full of them. Most of the booksellers had a specialty: romance, military history, religion . . .

Ginny was waiting outside the door to Haven’t Got a Clue—on time for the first time in days. She held a bulky plastic bag and stamped her feet on the concrete, trying to keep warm. “I was beginning to wonder where you were,” she said by way of a greeting. “I didn’t see your car in the lot, and when I called your cell phone, there was no answer.”

Tricia sorted through her keys. “Sorry. I must have it turned off. I had some errands to run.” She unlocked the door and entered the store, with Ginny following close behind.

“Give me your coat and I’ll hang it up in back,” Ginny said.

As she straightened up the pile of bookmarks next to the register, Tricia wondered if she ought to call Captain Baker and tell him about the letter at the post office. She was sure to talk to him again sometime soon—maybe she’d just wait.

She tidied the stack of Haven’t Got a Clue shopping bags, and had run out of busywork by the time Ginny came back to the front of the store.

“What’s Mr. Everett’s schedule for the rest of the week?” Ginny asked.

“Coming and going, I’m afraid. There’s a lot to pull together fast if you’re planning an impromptu wedding.”

“Why don’t they just elope?” Ginny grumbled.

“I’m sure they feel this will be the last marriage for each of them. They want their friends to witness it, especially since they have no family.”

“I guess.”

Mr. Everett knew everyone in town. Would he have known Stuart Paige? Paige didn’t have a long history in Stoneham, but he was well known throughout the state. Still, Mr. Everett was the soul of discretion; he wouldn’t speak of Paige’s reckless past if he knew of it . . . but Frannie Armstrong might. Frannie was the eyes and ears of Stoneham—more so than even Ted Missile.

As it happened, Frannie chose that moment to walk past Haven’t Got a Clue on her way to the Cookery. In one hand she clutched her purse and a sack lunch; in the other, a bulky wire cage, no doubt the Havahart trap she’d spoken of the day before.

“Oh, look, Frannie’s struggling with that cage. She’s been trying to catch a stray cat. I think I’ll go help her.”

“I can do it,” Ginny volunteered.

“That’s okay,” Tricia said, hurrying around the register and heading for the exit. “Be right back.”

“Whatever,” Ginny said, as Tricia flew out the door.

She hurried down the sidewalk to catch up with Frannie. “Here, let me help you,” she said.

Frannie gratefully surrendered the cage. “Hi, Tricia. This thing isn’t heavy—at least it wasn’t for the first couple of blocks. But then it seemed like it weighed a ton.”

“Think you’ll catch Penny today?” Tricia asked as Frannie fumbled with her keys.

“I sure hope so. I hate to think of that poor little cat out in the cold at night. The weatherman says a cold snap is coming down from Canada in the next few days. We might even see a little snow.”

“Not until the leaves are past peak, I hope. I’m praying for an onslaught of tourists to arrive any day now.”

“I hope so, too. But then there’s the Milford Pumpkin Festival on the weekend, and Stoneham will be as quiet as a cemetery at midnight.” Frannie opened the door and Tricia followed her into the darkened store. In a moment, the lights were on and Frannie had removed her jacket. “Need any help setting up this cage?” Tricia asked.

“Thank you. I sure hope the first bus is late. Angelica won’t be pleased if I’m not ready to open right on time.” She glanced at the clock. “Which is in three minutes.”

“I can get things ready here at the register if you want to go load the trap and set it up outside.”

“Thanks, Tricia.”

“It’s my pleasure. I want to see little Penny go to her new home.”

Frannie paused. “I will put an ad in the
News
—just in case some poor child is missing her kitty. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I hope no one will claim her.”

Frannie had lived alone for a long time. She deserved a little feline pal. “Go on, set up the trap,” Tricia said, and gave her friend a smile.

A Granite State bus passed the store’s display window, heading for the municipal lot, where it would disgorge its load. Several customers had entered the store by the time Frannie made it back to the sales desk. She rubbed her hands gleefully. “By tonight I might have my very own kitty. I’ve never had a cat before. My family are all dog lovers, ya see. But I fell in love with your Miss Marple, and now I want one of my own.”

“I’ll cross my fingers for you.”

Frannie looked toward her customers and raised her voice. “Y’all just let me know if you need any help.” One of the women nodded and went back to her browsing.

“Frannie,” Tricia started, “you’ve been around these parts a lot longer than I have. What do you know about Stuart Paige?”

Frannie shrugged. “Just what I’ve read in the papers.”

That wasn’t what Tricia wanted to hear.

“Although,” Frannie added, almost as an afterthought, “it’s been said that he was a real womanizer when he was in his early twenties.”

Now that was more like it. “Oh?” Tricia prompted.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about that accident where he was driving his father’s Alfa Romeo, crashed it into Portsmouth Harbor, and some woman died.”

Why did everyone seem to remember the make of the car more than the name of the victim? “Yes, I did hear that.”

“Apparently she was the love of his life. When she died, he turned over a new leaf. Got religion, so to speak, although I don’t think he joined any official denomination. But he decided to change his ways and do good in the world.”

That sounded like a great plot for a 1950s movie. In fact it was . . .
The Magnificent Obsession
, with Rock Hudson and Jane Wyman. But did that sort of thing happen in the late 1980s? Tricia wasn’t so sure. As her grandmother often said, “A leopard doesn’t change its spots.” There had to be more to the story than that.

If Frannie didn’t know, then probably no one else in the village did.

A customer ambled up to the register with several heavy volumes. Tricia wrapped the order while Frannie rang it up and made change. As soon as the woman turned her back on them and headed for the door, Frannie picked up where she left off. “I heard Mr. Paige has been staying at the Brookview Inn. In fact, he’s taken a room long term. They say he’s got some kind of business deal brewing. I’ll bet Bob Kelly knows about it.”

“And wouldn’t tell me if he did.”

“That’s true. Bob is very loyal to Chamber members.”

“But would Paige be a member? He doesn’t have a business, or even live here in Stoneham.”

“Yet,” Frannie added. “I wouldn’t know about new members since I left the Chamber. It’s always possible Mr. Paige’s cooking up something good for the village. Maybe he intends to help people who’ve lost their jobs. You know, open some kind of light manufacturing plant, or something. Bob was always trying to entice someone to locate a new business here.”

That was a possibility, Tricia supposed. Now, could she get past Paige’s keepers to talk to the man? “What do you know about his entourage?”

“I don’t think he’s got bodyguards, if that’s what you mean. But I know he travels with at least one or two people—one of them is a secretary or something. Keeps the riffraff from bothering him.”

Would Tricia be considered riffraff?

“I wonder if Eleanor could get me in to see him.” Tricia envisioned Eleanor at her reception desk at the Brookview Inn. Plump, and in her mid-sixties, she was the soul of the place. She made sure everyone who stayed there enjoyed his or her visit.

“What do you need to see Stuart Paige for?” Frannie asked.

Should she tell Frannie about Pammy trying to crash the Food Shelf’s dedication ceremony? Then again, Frannie probably knew all about it.