Handbook for Homicide

by Lorna Barrett

  “The food was okay; the company was definitely better.”

  A smile tugged at Tricia’s lips. “Aw, thank you.”

  “Is the chief going to look for your pal with the earring?” Marshall asked, and Tricia detected more than a hint of ire in his tone.

  “Yes, although he didn’t say when. But let’s not talk about that. What’s on your mind tonight?”

  Marshall sighed. “I’ve had a few days to think about the Ireland trip,” he began.

  Oh, dear. This sounded ominous.

  “And?”

  “I didn’t enjoy it,” he admitted.

  Tricia blinked. “What aspect?”

  “Making sure everyone’s luggage was accounted for, resolving problems with the hotels, but mostly running and fetching for everyone and not having a chance to enjoy the trip myself. I love Ireland. This was my third trip and I don’t feel like I got to enjoy one minute. Except,” he quickly amended, “for the fleeting time I had with you.”

  “I thought you realized that going in.”

  “I did to some extent. But the only thing that made the trip bearable was you.”

  Tricia let out a sigh. Was he just trying to flatter her? “Come on, you must have enjoyed something.”

  “By the time I got to eat, my meals were usually ice-cold. I was the last one on the bus and the first one off, worried that any of my charges might fall and get hurt—and then it would be my responsibility to find whatever medical help they’d need and then I’d have to figure out how to get them back home.”

  “But nobody fell.”

  “This time,” he asserted.

  “What else?” Tricia prompted.

  “I never had a chance to relax. And I worried that because of the stress, I might snap at any minute.”

  “Let me assure you, it wasn’t apparent to anyone on the tour.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  Tricia wished she could see his face, stroke his cheek, and gaze into his dark eyes. “So it sounds like you may have made a decision.”

  He let out another long breath. “I’ve already talked to the folks at Milford Travel and turned in my notice . . . not that I was actually getting paid. That trip was an internship of sorts, and I’m not sorry I did it. It gave me an opportunity to test the waters without making an actual commitment to them or anyone else.”

  “Does this mean you no longer want to travel?” Tricia asked.

  “Hell no. But I don’t want to travel with a group and be responsible for making sure everyone is happy. Give me a backpack and a plane ticket and I’m off.”

  “How soon?” Tricia asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.

  Marshall laughed. “Don’t worry. Travel is not in my immediate future.”

  “Then you’re sticking with the Armchair Tourist?”

  “Well, sort of. Now that I’ve got a great manager in Ava, I’m free to expand my horizons.”

  “In what way?” Tricia asked with trepidation.

  Ding! The stove’s timer went off.

  “Hang on, I’ve got to get my cookies out of the oven.”

  Tricia set the phone down, rescued the tray of crinkles, and set them on the counter to cool. She set her phone on speaker. “I’m back. Now, where were we?” she asked, and started dropping dough onto another prepared baking tray.

  “I was about to say how tremendously impressed I am with what your sister has done. She’s built up quite an empire here in Stoneham—as Nigela Ricita and under her own name.”

  Tricia felt her gut tighten. “I didn’t know you were aware of her NR connection.”

  “Tricia, half the village knows.”

  “So I’ve been told, but no one’s mentioned it to me.”

  “Why blow a good thing? Everything she’s done has been of benefit to the village. She’s given people jobs and brought prosperity back to what was a dying backwater.”

  “Bob Kelly started the whole Booktown resurgence,” Tricia said, hating to mention the man’s name. She’d never forgive him for the things he’d done—the lives he’d ruined—and all in the name of greed.

  “Yes, but Angelica expanded on that, and as far as I know, she’s never asked for special favors from the Chamber, the board of selectmen, or anyone else.”

  “She’s pretty special,” Tricia agreed.

  “Does it ever make you feel . . .”

  “Like less of a success?” Tricia thought about it while she put the second tray of cookies into the oven. “I could do what she’s done: she’s encouraged me hundreds of times to open another business, to get involved in other things . . .” Like her recent disastrous attempt to volunteer for the Pets-A-Plenty Animal Rescue.

  “So why don’t you do it?” Marshall asked.

  “It’s not that I lack ambition, but I love what I’m already doing. And for the first time in my life, I’ve surrounded myself with people who love me. People who aren’t going to abandon me.”

  Marshall didn’t comment. Was he feeling just a little bit guilty for not trying harder to be a part of her makeshift family?

  “I’ve got my family, my cat, and my business,” Tricia continued. “From my perspective, it’s already a pretty full life.”

  “When you put it that way, it makes me envious; I’m still searching for what I can do that’ll fulfill me.”

  “Any clues as to what that might be?”

  “Maybe,” he admitted. “I’ve been poking around, asking questions.”

  “Do you think you’ll be leaving the area?” Suddenly the idea of losing him gave her pause. She wasn’t sure she wanted more than what they already shared, but she wasn’t ready to give up on it, either.

  “I’ve been looking at various options in southern New Hampshire. Believe me, I have no plans to leave the area anytime soon.”

  Could a share in the proposed wedding venue they’d visited on their picnic be one of those options?

  “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve gotten used to having you around. I wouldn’t like that to change anytime soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you. Now, why don’t we talk about something a little less serious?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like wouldn’t you like to come over to my place and have a few of these wonderful lemon cookies and a nice big glass of—milk? Mmm . . . they smell so good,” she teased.

  “I could. But only if you’ll have a couple with me.”

  “I could do that.”

  “And . . . maybe later we could . . .”

  “Marshall, I thought you’d never ask.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The next morning, after making a light breakfast for herself and Marshall, Tricia decided to forgo her walk and head for the big grocery store in Milford. She locked the door to Haven’t Got a Clue and walked to the municipal parking lot to retrieve her car. In minutes she arrived at her destination, where she spoke to the store manager and rustled up cases of canned food topped with pull tabs, as well as another case of water, and then drove back to Stoneham. Just as she pulled into a parking space, her phone pinged. It was Angelica, texting to say they had an eleven thirty appointment at the day spa. She texted an acknowledgment and was about to put the phone back in her purse, when it rang. Tricia looked at the number and hit the call answer icon.

  “What’s up, Grant?”

  “I did what you said. I went to the homeless camp in Merrimack yesterday afternoon to look for your so-called guy with the anchor earring and nobody there knew a thing about it. Nobody knew what I was talking about, either. Now, did you do anything to let the guy know that he might be scrutinized?” he asked, his voice hard once more.

  “Well, I never said a word, if that’s what you mean, but he may have noticed me noticing that earring. But their leader, a man named
Hank Curtis, did ask the group if anyone knew Susan. After the guy heard that, all he had to do was take the earring off. I suppose others covered for him when you started asking questions.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Would you be willing to return to the camp and look for the guy?”

  “I guess so, but I’d prefer to do it in a humanitarian way.”

  “Such as?” Baker asked.

  “Curtis mentioned they could use canned goods more than sandwiches. I went to the grocery store in Milford this morning and bought a few cases of food to give them. If you want to act as a liaison, not to harass but to show them that they have nothing to fear from the police, then I’d be pleased to help you do so.”

  “I’m running a murder investigation,” he reminded her curtly.

  “Is it likely anyone at that camp would betray one of their own, even if they knew the person to be a murderer?”

  “It would be in their best interest to do so. Committing one murder is hard. Committing a second is a whole lot easier,” Baker said.

  Tricia didn’t like to think about that possibility, especially since she might be looked at as someone asking far too many questions.

  “Have you got time today to pay a return visit to the homeless encampment?” Baker asked.

  “I will make myself available anytime you want to go.”

  “Good. I’ll pick you up in front of your store in ten minutes.”

  “I can’t leave until Pixie comes in to work. Can you give me twenty minutes?”

  “Oh, all right,” Baker growled, and ended the call.

  Tricia started her car, drove to the alley behind her store, and unpacked the cases. After disarming the security system, she moved the boxes inside. Then she put them on a dolly, pushing it to the front of the store. She had just enough time to drive her car back to the municipal lot and return to Haven’t Got a Clue to change into her boots once more. She grabbed the container of cookies and brought them with her. By the time she made it down the stairs, Pixie was coming through the door.

  “Going somewhere?” she inquired as she put away her key to the shop.

  “Back to the homeless encampment. Would you be a dear and make the coffee and set out these cookies for our customers?”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  Baker’s vehicle arrived outside the shop, and he honked the horn. Tricia pushed the dolly out the door.

  The SUV’s passenger-side window rolled down. “What are you doing with all that stuff?” Baker demanded.

  “I told you if I made a return visit, I would be bringing them supplies. Now, are you going to help me put them in the back of your vehicle or not?”

  The window went back up, and Baker got out of the car and stamped toward the sidewalk, grumbling under his breath. He helped her move the boxes into the SUV and left her at the curb.

  “I’ll put the dolly away and be right back.”

  Baker slammed the driver’s door.

  Pixie intercepted Tricia. “I’ll put that away for you. Do you know how long you’ll be gone?”

  “Probably a couple of hours.”

  “Well, have a good time,” Pixie said cheerfully.

  “With Chief Baker?” Tricia asked.

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot you were going with him. Try not to kill him.”

  Tricia couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll see you later.”

  Pixie gave her a wink. “You bet.”

  Tricia returned to the vehicle and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Nice boots,” Baker said, and slammed the gearshift into drive before pulling away from the curb.

  Before Tricia could voice a reply, Baker turned up the volume on the police scanner, effectively ending any chance there was for conversation. Tricia always planned for such occasions and pulled her current read from her purse. She could entertain herself, thank you.

  Twenty minutes later Baker turned off the main road onto the dirt track that led to the homeless encampment. Tricia marked her page, closed the book, and returned it to her purse, setting it under the seat.

  Baker pulled the SUV over to a grassy spot off the dirt road and killed the engine. When they got out, the ground beneath Tricia’s boots still squelched. She’d never had the desire to camp and couldn’t fathom how these people lived in such primitive conditions. Knowing they had no choice, her sympathy for them grew. She followed Baker as Hank Curtis and another man walked toward them.

  “You back to hassle us?” Curtis asked Baker in a none-too-friendly tone.

  “No,” Baker said neutrally.

  “The chief volunteered to help me deliver these cases of food. And I brought another case of water—just in case you need it.”

  “Thanks,” Curtis said, mumbled “I’ll give you a hand” to Baker, and walked around to the back of the vehicle.

  While they worked, the rest of the men gathered closer—but not too close—to watch. Tricia counted and saw there were ten, including Curtis, and searched their faces, but, as before, a few refused to look her in the eye. She couldn’t say she blamed them.

  Finally, Tricia recognized the gray hoodie belonging to the man who’d worn the anchor earring. Because he kept his head ducked, she couldn’t see if he’d removed it.

  Curtis tore open the box tops. “Everybody gets two each.”

  “Who gets the extras?” one of the men demanded.

  “Me. I’ll keep ’em for Eddie and Bill.”

  “They ain’t here. They shouldn’t get any!” shouted another.

  “Hey!” Baker barked, and the two malcontents backed off, probably intimidated by the uniform and his take-no-prisoners voice of authority.

  One by one the men approached the SUV, some grabbing the food and hustling away, most of them glaring at Baker. The guy in the hoodie stepped forward and, just as Baker had suspected, he’d removed the earring. Tricia handed him two cans but said nothing, only giving him a smile at his muttered “Thanks.” With only a few more people in line, Tricia made sure to watch where the man went.

  “Well?” Baker asked Tricia once all the food had been distributed.

  “It’s that man over there with the gray sweatshirt.”

  “Follow me,” Baker said. It sounded like an order.

  “What’s going on?” Curtis demanded.

  “Nothing. I just want to talk to that guy in the hoodie. What’s his name?”

  “Joe King. What do you want with him?”

  “As I told you the other day, I’m investigating the homicide of Susan Morris. Ms. Miles here believes she saw Mr. King wearing an anchor earring.”

  “Yeah, so what of it?”

  “It could be considered evidence, depending on where and when he got it.”

  “Joe was in the Navy. Spent four years on an aircraft carrier,” Curtis said.

  “Did he know Susan Morris?” Tricia asked.

  “I don’t know. Do you mind if I tag along? I look after my people,” Curtis explained, which was the mark of a good leader.

  “All right,” Baker agreed, and led the way across the muddy grass.

  King was crouched before a one-man tent with a substantial rip in its side, squirreling away his canned rations, as the group approached. “Joe, Chief Baker wants to talk to you.”

  King rose, looking uncomfortable. “What about?”

  “I understand you have a silver anchor earring,” Baker said.

  “So, what if I do?”

  Baker reached into his pocket and pulled out an inkjet copy of the earring Tricia had found, blown up to take up half the page. “It looks like this.”

  “I know what it looks like,” King muttered.

  “So, have you still got it?”

  “I lost it the other day.”

  “Well, isn’t that convenient? Where did you get it?”

&nbs
p; “A chick gave it to me years ago.”

  “How many years?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Was it Susan Morris?” Baker asked.

  “Who?”

  “The woman who was found dead in Stoneham last Wednesday.”

  “Nah,” King said, looking away.

  “Perhaps you’d like to come to the Stoneham police station to talk about it,” Baker said, resting his right hand on the butt of his sidearm.

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Then I’ll ask the question again: Did you know Susan Morris?”

  King glanced at Curtis as though looking for guidance, but Curtis’s expression remained impassive.

  He let out a breath. “Yeah, I knew her.”

  “How well?” Baker asked.

  King shrugged. “Not very.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “I was panhandling in town—”

  “Which town?”

  “Merrimack, and the cops were about to run me off, when she drove past and asked if I needed a lift. I was wearing a cap that said, ‘CVN-68.’”

  “What does that mean?” Tricia asked.

  “The Nimitz,” Curtis explained.

  Tricia had heard of that particular ship.

  “She said she was a former naval officer. She took me to a diner, and we traded war stories . . . so to speak. She was nice to me. It’s been a long time since someone was nice to me,” King practically growled.

  “What else?” Baker demanded.

  “She dropped me off at the end of the road.” King jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “So, how’d you get the earring?”

  “I saw it on the floor of her car. She said she’d lost the other one. I’d had a gold stud before and lost it. I figured, why not wear it? Hurt like a sonofabitch to put it in: the hole had almost closed up.”

  “When was this?”

  “Back in the summer.”

  “Why’d you take it off?”

  “I told you: I lost it.”

  “How convenient that you lost it right after I came to speak to the group about Ms. Morris’s death.”

  “Hey,” Curtis protested, “he’s got no reason to lie.”