Tricia cringed at such an unhealthy meal. But then Pixie’s husband, Fred, worked for a meat distributor and got a good discount on cold cuts. But baloney? Tricia wondered if Pixie was taking a statin to lower her cholesterol. If not . . .
“I’ll hang up my coat and then I’ll get the coffee started,” Pixie volunteered, then grabbed the empty carafe from the beverage station and headed toward the back of the shop. “Tricia!” she called, sounding distressed. “What happened to the back door?”
Tricia hurried to the rear of the store and explained. “Everything should be fixed by this afternoon. I’ll be heading out in a little while. Do you think you can handle dealing with it if they come before I get back?”
“For the second time in a week? Yeah, I can handle it—and probably in my sleep.”
The shop bell rang. The door flew open, aided by a strong breeze from the west, and Mr. Everett entered. Tricia turned and hurried to intercept him. “Looks like winter might come early,” he declared as he paused to turn around and shake some of the drops off his umbrella before turning and closing the door. Since he had weathered more winters than either Tricia or Pixie, he might just know. “Good morning, Ms. Miles.”
“And to you, too, Mr. Everett. What are you doing here on your day off?”
“Just visiting. And I thought I might take Sarge out for a walk or two.”
“That’s so nice of you.”
Pixie returned, dressed in a navy shirtwaist dress with white cuffs and collar, looking quite prim and proper. “Hey, Mr. E.”
“Pixie.”
“What are you doing here on your day off?” And they went through the whole explanation once more.
“The coffee will be ready in less than five minutes. Anybody interested?” Pixie asked.
Tricia considered that she might be away from bathroom facilities for several hours and declined, but Mr. Everett gave an enthusiastic yes.
During the lull between summer visitors and the leaf peepers, things were slow for all the businesses along Stoneham’s Main Street, so Tricia and her employees settled in the reader’s nook for a chat and a friendly reconnecting. But Tricia kept her eye on the clock as the minute hand descended to the halfway mark. Sure enough, Marshall opened the door at precisely ten thirty.
“Hello,” he called cheerily as he entered. Tricia stood and hurried to intercept him, grabbing his arm and turning him around. She didn’t want to have to account for the plywood in the back of the store in front of Pixie and Mr. Everett. “My, don’t you look pretty?” he said, eyeing Tricia’s attire. “Are those boots waterproof or just fashionable?”
“Both.” Tricia turned toward Pixie. “I guess it’s time we started on our mission. Is there anything we should know about your car?”
Pixie shrugged. “It’s a stick, so I hope one of you knows how to drive it.”
“That’s me,” Marshall volunteered.
“Um, I ought to mention that the steering is a little tough,” Pixie said, seeming to shrink a little.
“‘Tough’?” Marshall asked.
“Yeah, as in ‘it ain’t got power steering.’ Left turns are kinda hard, so I always try to get where I’m going in the straightest line possible or with only right-hand turns.”
“Isn’t that inconvenient?” Tricia asked.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to develop Popeye arms, either.” Pixie smiled. “And now you know why I prefer to walk to work when I can.” She dangled the keys on a Minnie Mouse ring, and Marshall grabbed them from her.
“I’m not sure when we’ll be back,” Tricia said, already opening the door.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got my lunch, so I don’t have to go anywhere. Have fun!” Pixie called as Tricia hustled Marshall out of the store.
Fun? Visiting a homeless camp? Probably not. Tricia just hoped they weren’t wasting their time.
* * *
* * *
Pixie’s car, like her clothing, was considered vintage. The 1976 Plymouth Volaré was a bulky gray beast with a V-6 engine and, like she’d said, no power steering. Tricia watched as Marshall pulled onto Main Street and learned just how difficult those left-hand turns were going to be.
Instead of patronizing a chain sub shop, Marshall drove them to Milford and pulled into the parking lot of an independent shop and ordered twelve foot-long sandwiches, then they stopped at the grocery store and picked up a case of water bottles and were on their way to Merrimack.
“What are you expecting?” Marshall asked as they barreled down the highway.
“I don’t know. But I have to admit, I’m a little apprehensive.”
“And probably for good reason.”
“I hope we’ll find out something more about Susan Morris, but I’m not even sure if she connected with anyone in the camp. I mean, they have virtually nothing. She at least had a car to live in. She could lock it for security. According to what I’ve learned on YouTube, she did what was called stealth camping: making it look like her car was empty, blacking out the windows so that she could read by a battery light or a tablet. She had obviously studied how to live under the radar.”
“That’s sad,” Marshall stated.
“But, according to Pixie, she wasn’t all that unhappy with her lifestyle.”
“I guess you can adapt to just about anything if you have to,” Marshall said.
What he said was probably true. But living in such a tiny area . . . Tricia knew that for her, it would be an impossible task. Angelica would never last in the box that was the interior of a car—not with her claustrophobia. She could tolerate being in a car for about an hour; that was it. She often drove with the windows open—even in winter.
Marshall’s attention was riveted on the road, and Tricia mulled over how she was going to tell him about the attempted break-ins. She finally decided to just come right out with it.
“A lot’s been going on these past couple of days—so much so that I neglected to tell you that while we were in Ireland, someone tried to break into Haven’t Got a Clue.”
“What happened?” he asked, concerned.
“The security system was triggered, and it scared the burglar off. Pixie took care of everything.”
“Thank goodness you weren’t home when it happened.”
“Well, it happened again on Saturday—and I was home.”
Marshall shot a glance at her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Tricia hesitated but then blurted, “I don’t know. When you called yesterday, it just never came up.”
“I would think you could’ve found a way to insert something that important—and dangerous—into the conversation.” Yup, he was definitely annoyed. “Did you call the cops?”
“Of course. Officer Henderson came right away and chased the guy on foot. Unfortunately, he got away.”
“Was there any damage?”
“The door was pretty beat-up and the locks just about destroyed. Nashua Emergency Enclosures came a couple of hours later. Right now there’s a big piece of plywood over the back of the building. The door will be replaced later today. I was thinking they ought to put a steel slat in place so this can’t happen again.”
Marshall said nothing, but his hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“I’m sorry I didn’t mention it sooner. I figured I could handle the situation by myself.”
“I’ll bet you told Angelica,” he grated.
“Well, yes. She’s my sister.”
“And what am I? Chopped liver?”
“Marshall . . .” Tricia chided.
“Tricia, are you ever going to trust me?”
“Of course I trust you.”
“But not enough to tell me about something that could have threatened your life.”
Tricia let out a breath.
“Did Baker show up?” Marsha
ll growled.
“Yes,” she answered wearily. “And before you ask, I did not call him. He was working late and had his police scanner on when the call came through.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Was there a point in protesting?
They spent the next fifteen minutes in silence, which felt awkward and yet not intolerable. It gave Tricia time to think. She looked out at the bleak landscape and wondered what she would say to the denizens of the homeless community. How would they react when a couple of strangers showed up at their camp offering food and drink? Would they be grateful or resentful about the intrusion of a couple of do-gooders?
Even if none of the people in the camp had known Susan, at least Tricia could comfort herself in knowing she was giving at least one meal—some sustenance—to people who had so much less than herself. Was it also a way to assuage her guilt?
The rain had just about stopped when Marshall turned off the highway, and they traveled along a dirt trail. He must have done his due diligence and Googled the encampment, because Tricia had no real sense of where to find those she considered in need. But then a smattering of mostly water-soaked tents appeared before them in a field. As they slowed, she took in a smoking fire pit with a group of raggedy-looking men gathered around it. Most were bearded, with long gray hair gathered in ponytails, and looking despondent. It wasn’t far from what Tricia expected, but it pained her to see people living so rough.
Several of the men stood as Marshall stopped the car within ten feet of the fire pit. They didn’t seem threatening, more apprehensive. They’d no doubt been hassled before.
“Ready or not,” Tricia muttered, and opened the passenger-side door. Marshall opened his, and they got out together. After all the rain, the water table was high and Tricia’s pretty boots were soon a muddy mess.
One of the men stepped forward. He looked to be in his late forties, with shaggy hair and a graying beard. “Can I help you?”
“Uh, yes. My name is Tricia Miles and I’m a business owner in Stoneham. I’m a regular contributor to the Stoneham Food Shelf and asked its director how else I could help you guys out. She suggested your encampment suffered food insecurity. We”—she indicated Marshall—“thought we’d stop by with some lunch.”
“Do-gooders,” another of the men muttered, and turned away.
Marshall called out and opened the rear passenger door. He pulled out the box filled with the wrapped sandwiches and set it on the trunk lid. “Anybody want a sub? They’re assorted cold cuts with cheese. We also brought bags of chips and a case of water, too, if you can use it.”
“We’ll take it,” the group’s spokesman said, stepping forward. “Bobby, Jimmy, give the guy a hand, will ya?”
Two older men stepped forward as Tricia rounded the car and began handing out the bottles of water. The rest of the guys crowded around, taking their sandwiches and chips, some of them mumbled thanks, but most didn’t—nor did they look Tricia in the eye despite her giving what she hoped was an encouraging smile.
When the last of the sandwiches was gone, Marshall grabbed the rest of the case of water and handed it off to another of the men. Most of the men went back to sitting around the fire pit, but their leader hung back. He hadn’t immediately dug into his sandwich, and leaned against the Volaré’s driver’s-side fender. “Crappy car,” he muttered.
“It’s almost a classic,” Marshall said.
“Like hell. What is it you guys really want?”
Marshall shot a look in Tricia’s direction. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Susan Morris, a homeless woman, was found dead in Stoneham last Wednesday. She was stuffed into a dumpster behind my store.”
“What’s that got to do with us?”
“I didn’t know the woman, but I feel terrible that her life ended behind my property. I hoped you might be able to tell me something about her—and her circumstances.”
The man shook his head. “Never heard of her.” He turned to face the fire pit. “Anybody here ever heard of a Susan Morris?”
A muttered chorus of “No” erupted from the disinterested gathering.
The man turned back to Tricia. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Tricia said, disappointment coursing through her.
“Any other questions?”
Tricia shook her head.
One of the men got up from his seat at the fire pit and advanced on them. “Ya got anything else to eat?”
“I think there might be a few more bags of chips,” Marshall said.
“I’ll get them,” Tricia said, and bent to retrieve the three bags of barbeque potato chips. As she straightened to face the newcomer, her breath stuck in her throat as she caught sight of the earring in his right ear. A silver anchor—just like the one she’d found in Susan Morris’s car.
FOURTEEN
Tricia stood there, dumbfounded, just gaping at the man.
“The chips,” he reminded her, and her hands were trembling so hard that she nearly dropped the bags as she handed them to him. She swallowed, suddenly feeling jittery.
“We ought to get going,” Marshall said, eyeing her critically. But instead of asking what was wrong, he turned back to the group’s leader. “My name’s Marshall Cambridge. I’ve got a store in Stoneham, too. And you are?”
The man eyed him for long seconds before answering, “Hank Curtis. Will you be back with anything else to eat? Canned stuff is better, ’cuz then we can fix it ourselves when we need it, not just when someone shows up—ya know?”
“I hear you,” Marshall said.
“What do you need?” Tricia asked, noticing that the man with the earring hadn’t wandered off too far and seemed to be eavesdropping.
“Canned chili and spaghetti go over well. Tuna and chicken are good, too.”
“We’ll remember that,” Marshall said.
“How many people should we buy for?” Tricia asked.
Curtis shrugged. “We usually number around twelve—give or take.”
Tricia’s heart sank. A dozen people living in such desperate poverty. How many more encampments were there like this in the area? “I hope I don’t come off as judgmental, but how did you end up like this?” she asked.
“Circumstances,” Curtis answered simply.
“What kind of work have you done?” Marshall asked.
“Food service. Twenty years of it in the military.”
“What branch?” Tricia asked. Had Curtis been in the Navy and lied about knowing Susan?
“Army. I was a food service manager.”
“You couldn’t find the same kind of work after you retired?” Marshall asked.
Curtis seemed to squirm but then shrugged. “I had a hard time adjusting to civilian life. I’d been deployed to Afghanistan so many times, my wife and kids hardly knew me. Things got kind of bad and . . .”
“No drugs or drinking?” Marshall asked.
Again Curtis shrugged. “Maybe a little.
“And that’s how you ended up homeless?” Tricia asked, truly interested.
Curtis wouldn’t meet her gaze but nodded.
How terribly sad, Tricia thought.
Marshall cleared his throat and turned to Tricia. “Come on. We’ve got stores to run.” He nodded at Hank and started back for the car.
But Tricia hesitated. “What does a food service manager do?” she asked.
“Look it up online. I’m sure you’ve got a computer. I haven’t even got a damn flip phone.” Curtis turned, his sandwich tucked under his arm like a football, and started walking away.
“It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Curtis,” Tricia called after him.
Earring Guy laughed. “A good-looking woman like you can come back anytime,” he said, and gave Tricia a toothy grin with gaps that made her cringe. It wasn’t so much what he had said but how he had said it. Trici
a gave him a rather forced smile and hurried around the back of the car for the front passenger seat while Marshall slammed the back door and piled into the driver’s seat. Tricia buckled herself in as he started the car. He made a three-point turn and neither of them looked back, but Tricia glanced at the passenger-side mirror as they pulled away. Curtis stood there, just staring at them, until finally he disappeared from view.
“So, what gave you the heebie-jeebies?” Marshall asked at last.
“Did I tell you I found a silver anchor earring in Susan Morris’s car?”
“No. And I guess I shouldn’t be surprised after learning what you neglected to tell me about your store on the way out here.”
“Marshall, please—”
“So, what about the earring?” he interrupted.
“The man who asked for the last of the chips was wearing what looked like its mate.”
“Are you sure?”
“No doubt about it.”
“Why didn’t you ask him about it?”
“What was he going to tell me? He’d already answered no when Curtis asked if anyone knew Susan.”
“I see your point. And what are you going to do with this information?”
“I guess I’ll have to talk to Chief Baker.”
Marshall glowered. “You didn’t tell him about the earring when you found it?”
“At the time, I didn’t know it would have any significance.”
Marshall steered the car onto the highway once more. “I was going to invite you out to lunch on the way home.”
“And now you won’t?” she asked, feeling just a little hurt.
“I didn’t say that,” he grumbled. He didn’t look at her. “Would you like to go to lunch with me?” It wasn’t exactly an enthusiastic invitation.
“Can we go to the Bookshelf Diner?”
“Why there?”
“Because Pixie told me Chief Baker often takes his lunch there.”
Again, Marshall’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I guess,” he grumbled. “The food’s okay but not as good as at Booked for Lunch.”
Handbook for Homicide Page 13
