Handbook for Homicide

by Lorna Barrett

  “He sure as hell does if he killed the woman,” Baker countered.

  “I didn’t kill nobody,” King declared, his voice rising.

  “What’s your alibi?”

  “For when?”

  “Last Tuesday. Where were you? Who can vouch for you?”

  “I don’t even know what day this is. How would I remember what happened a week ago?” King objected.

  “Think about it, Chief. Joe’s got no car: How was he supposed to get to fancy-schmancy Stoneham? How would he have tracked down the lady? What reason could he possibly have to kill someone who was nice to him?” Curtis asked.

  That was a good question.

  Baker glared at the two men.

  “Are you going to haul him in for further questioning?” Curtis challenged.

  “Not right now.” He turned to King. “I’ll take down your personal information and do a check on you, and I might be back to ask you more questions. But if you pull a disappearing act, I’ll put an APB out from here to Hawaii and haul your ass back here. You got it?”

  “I got nothin’ to hide and nowhere to go,” King asserted.

  Baker pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket, and Tricia stepped back to give King some privacy. Curtis did likewise. “Do you believe him?” she asked.

  Curtis hesitated before answering. “Mostly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That I really don’t want to talk about it,” he said bluntly.

  “A woman is dead,” Tricia reminded him.

  “Yeah, well, railroading an innocent man isn’t going to bring her back, either.”

  “The chief isn’t trying to railroad Mr. King, but he has information on property that belonged to the dead woman. He has to follow through. That’s his job. He has to answer to his superiors. As a former army officer, I’m sure you understand the chain of command.”

  Curtis threw a glance in Baker’s direction. “Oh, yeah.”

  Tricia watched as Baker put away his pen and notebook, pivoted, and stalked off in the direction of the SUV. She left Curtis and struggled to catch up with Stoneham’s top cop.

  “Is everything okay?” Tricia asked, concerned.

  “Oh, yeah. Everything’s just peachy keen. Get in the car,” he ordered.

  “Grant,” she admonished.

  Baker got in the driver’s side and slammed the door. Tricia hurried to get in the passenger side, suddenly afraid he might take off without her. As soon as she shut her door, he started the engine.

  “Grant, what’s wrong? It can’t just be talking to Joe King. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shoving the gearshift to drive. “Things are a little stressed at work.”

  “Are you getting pushback because of Susan Morris’s murder?”

  Baker gripped the steering wheel. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  Why didn’t Tricia believe him?

  “I understand that kind of stress. You must be looking forward to taking some time off for your honeymoon.”

  “We’ve got the weekend; that’s it,” he said tersely as they bumped along the rutted dirt track.

  “Why so short a time?”

  “Because Diana has a trial that starts the Tuesday after our ceremony.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Have you got plans to go somewhere after the trial?”

  “We’ve talked about it,” he said evasively.

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “I was thinking about the Caribbean in January or February. New Hampshire sucks in winter.”

  “It’s not my favorite time of year, either, but the spring, summer, and fall more than make up for it.”

  “I guess,” he muttered. “So, how was your trip to Ireland?”

  Tricia winced at the sneer in his voice. Should she confide in him and tell the truth, or ignore the question entirely? She decided to fudge. “It was a working vacation for Marshall, but it’s a beautiful place with wonderful people and stunning scenery.”

  “Was it the best time of your life?” he pressed.

  Oh, dear. Now Tricia wished she hadn’t brought up the subject. “Not necessarily,” she answered honestly, “but I wouldn’t hesitate to go there again. Where would Diana like to go for a belated honeymoon?”

  “She doesn’t. I mean, she isn’t interested in travel. She says she wants to be a homebody. But her idea of a home is more like a mansion,” he said with disapproval and then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to disparage her in any way. It’s just that I don’t think we need a castle. What we need is . . .” But then he didn’t elaborate.

  Was there trouble in paradise? It seemed a change of subject was warranted.

  “What will you do to check on Joe King?”

  “Ask questions. Call the Veterans Administration.”

  “Do you think he’ll take off?”

  “There’s a good possibility.”

  “It did sound logical that he’d have a hard time getting to Stoneham.”

  “He could have hitchhiked. Hell, he could’ve called an Uber, for all I know.”

  But the fact that he hadn’t hauled the guy in meant that he believed at least some of King’s story.

  Once again Baker turned the police scanner on, indicating he was done talking. Tricia pulled out her book once more, knowing she’d get in at least another chapter or two before they returned to Stoneham.

  But as they traveled westward toward Booktown, Tricia found her thoughts wandering. She couldn’t help Susan, but there were others who could benefit from a word in the right ear. And she knew just which ear to speak to.

  SEVENTEEN

  Tricia had Chief Baker drop her off at the alley behind Haven’t Got a Clue so that she could remove her muddy boots and leave them at the back of the store until she could clean them. She entered Haven’t Got a Clue and saw that Pixie was busy helping a woman customer.

  “Tricia?”

  “I’ll be right back. I’ve got to get a clean pair of shoes,” Tricia called, and unlocked the door marked PRIVATE, then crept up the stairs to her apartment, where she changed clothes and put on a pair of flats. Returning to the store, she saw that Pixie was still conversing with the woman.

  “Tricia, this is Kimberly Radnor-Herbert. She’s Susan’s daughter.”

  “Oh,” Tricia said, taken aback. “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Kimberly said wearily. The woman was younger than Tricia would have thought, stylishly dressed in a maroon tunic over black leggings and wearing a black hat, silver earrings, and a heart-shaped pendant. She tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder, and her big blue eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  “Kimberly wanted to see where her mom was found.”

  “Just for closure,” Kimberly said sadly. “Pixie was nice enough to show me, then invited me back inside your store for a cup of coffee.”

  “Why don’t we sit,” Tricia said, indicating the reader’s nook, and the three of them took seats. “I never met your mother,” Tricia began, “but I understand she had some real troubles.”

  “She made her life a lot harder than it needed to be,” Kimberly admitted, wiping at a tear that threatened to spill from her left eye. “I can’t tell you how many times I asked her to come back to Utica to live with me and my family—but she always had an independent streak. That’s why she joined the Navy straight out of high school. She wanted to see the world. The one thing she liked about being in the service was the travel. These past few years she got the wanderlust once again and said being stuck in one place would kill her. I worried that something bad would happen to her by living in her car, and I’m sick to know I was right.”

  “Did she make friends easily?” Tricia asked, thinking about the story Joe King had told her and t
he chief not an hour earlier.

  Kimberly shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “She was always friendly when we interacted,” Pixie said.

  “After what happened in Vegas, Mom wasn’t all that comfortable around men,” Kimberly admitted.

  That didn’t match the story Joe King had spun just an hour before.

  “Because of her name change, I assumed she married at some point after that,” Tricia said.

  Kimberly shook her head. “She started calling herself Morris, and why she chose that name, she never said. But I’m not sure she ever made it legal, either.”

  Tricia decided against inquiring if Susan had been married to Kimberly’s father, instead asking, “Was she proud of her time in the service?”

  “Up until Vegas. Then everything soured. Mom tried to sue but didn’t get far. She didn’t have the stamina to fight the government like some of the other women.” She said the words with some regret.

  “What happened to her?”

  “She resigned her commission and was unfortunate enough to meet my biological father.”

  “I take it he wasn’t a big part of your life.”

  “He was never a part of my life. She could have—should have—gone after him for child support. It would have made our lives so much easier. She was so beaten down, she didn’t have the stamina to fight.”

  “Sounds like a tough life,” Pixie sympathized, and reached to pat Kimberly’s hand. Tricia knew that Pixie’s home life had been far worse but was heartened that her second-in-command could muster empathy for this stranger.

  “Do you remember her wearing silver earrings with an anchor on them?”

  “Sure: I bought them, and one of my kids gave them to her for her birthday a few years back.”

  “Did she like them?”

  “She used to wear them exclusively,” Kimberly said.

  “So it’s not likely she would have given one of them away.”

  “Not a chance. When she downsized her possessions, she kept those earrings. Why do you ask?”

  “I found one of them in her car. I saw a homeless man wearing the other one.”

  Kimberly shook her head. “That can’t be. Mom never would have given one away.”

  “Would she have picked up a male panhandler and taken him to lunch because he wore a cap with an aircraft carrier’s hull number?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Would you be willing to talk to the police about that?”

  “I spoke to a Chief Baker last week, but, sure, if you think it will help.”

  “It would prove that the man was lying about how he got the earring. And if he’d lie about that . . .”

  “Do you think it’s possible he killed my mother?” Kimberly asked, and Tricia wasn’t sure if it was excitement or dread that tinged her voice.

  Gut feeling? Maybe. But Tricia wasn’t comfortable making an accusation with such flimsy evidence. And why would Joe King lie about the earring, especially knowing that he could be looked at as a possible suspect in Susan Morris’s death?

  “Do you know how I can get in contact with Chief Baker?” Kimberly asked.

  “Does she ever,” Pixie said with an eye roll.

  “Now, Pixie . . .” Tricia warned.

  Pixie had the decency to look guilty.

  “I’d be glad to take you to the police station. It’s just a couple of blocks down the road.”

  “Thank you,” Kimberly said, her voice breaking. “I want to make sure whoever killed my mother pays. She didn’t deserve to die. She deserved so much more than life ever gave her.”

  Tricia found herself leaning forward to capture the woman in a hug, feeling bad that she’d previously wondered if Susan’s daughter had cared about her. Now she knew and patted Kimberly’s back as she sobbed for her loss.

  Tricia wasn’t sure if, when her own mother passed away, she would experience an emotion other than relief.

  She felt guilty considering the possibility.

  * * *

  * * *

  Chief Baker hardly had time to research Joe King’s claims before Tricia showed up with Susan’s daughter in tow. He was not pleased to learn that Susan Morris’s anchor earrings had meant so much to the dead woman—that she would never have relinquished one of them to a virtual stranger. But at least he was kind to the grief-stricken woman—as kind as he’d been to Tricia three days before. Then again, if nothing else, Grant Baker was always professional. Well, except when he dealt with Angelica.

  Afterward, Tricia walked Kimberly back to her vehicle, which was parked on the street.

  “Your mother’s car is still in the municipal parking lot. What’s going to happen to it?”

  “There’s no way I can deal with it on this trip, but earlier Chief Baker assured me it would be okay to let it sit in the lot for a couple of weeks. I’ll probably come back with my husband in a week or so to collect it.” She shook her head. “Mom would have hated to think that she’d inconvenienced us so much. She was that kind of person.”

  Tricia nodded. “I’m sorry we had to meet under such terrible circumstances. After speaking with people who knew your mother, I’m sure I would have liked her, too.”

  “She was a great mom, a patriot, a kind soul, and just an all-around nice lady who loved life and her family—even if her wanderlust kept her away from us much too often. That someone would kill her . . . I still can’t wrap my head around it.”

  “Chief Baker and his officers are good at their jobs. I’m sure you’ll have some kind of resolution soon.”

  Kimberly offered Tricia a wan smile. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

  “Will you be staying in the area for a few days?”

  Kimberly shook her head. “Mom’s funeral will be on Friday. I only came up here because . . .”

  But she didn’t have to say any more.

  Tricia gave the woman another hug. “Travel safe.”

  Kimberly nodded. “Thanks.”

  Tricia waited on the sidewalk until Kimberly’s car pulled away. Then a ping from her cell phone made her pull it from her jacket pocket. It was a text from Angelica.

  Did you forget our spa appointment?

  Yes, she had forgotten it.

  Be right there.

  Less than a minute later Tricia entered the Cookery to find her sister sitting in one of the few upholstered chairs the store possessed. She’d taken Tricia’s advice and was wearing slacks, a pink sneaker on her unscathed foot, and the ugly black boot on her sore foot. She’d set the crutches against the wall but grabbed them as soon as she saw Tricia approach.

  “Do you think you can walk that far?” Tricia asked, concerned.

  “We won’t know unless I try.”

  It was a slow journey up the block, crossing Main Street, and another two blocks to the day spa, but it gave Tricia time to tell her sister about her morning’s adventures.

  “You’ve had a busy day,” Angelica grated, her voice strained. Tricia was pretty sure her sister wouldn’t be able to walk back home, but Tricia could remedy that by retrieving her car and driving her sister there.

  Booked for Beauty’s manager, Randy Ellison, greeted them at the door. “Darling Angelica, come in, sit down. Can I get you a coffee? We’ve got some yummy chocolates from Sweet As Can Be as a sincere welcome home.”

  “Oh, Randy, you are such a dear. Just plunk me in one of the chairs so I can get some pressure off this darn foot.”

  Randy led her to the closest chair—one Tricia had never seen used before.

  “Who’s going to do my hair?” Angelica asked.

  “Why, me, darling girl,” Randy said as he whipped a plastic cape across Angelica’s sweater and fastened it at the back of her neck.

  A blush rose to Angelica’s cheeks. “I am so honored.” She nodded
toward her sister. “Is someone available to give Tricia a trim, too?”

  “Mindy!” he called, and one of the women who’d been sitting in the lounge area in the back rose to her feet. She wore Booked for Beauty’s standard uniform of dark slacks, a white blouse, and a black full-front apron with the shop’s name embroidered in white. Beneath it was her name. Mindy hadn’t cut Tricia’s hair before, but she had no misgivings about letting her have a go at it. Everyone Randy employed at the salon had also been vetted by Angelica herself.

  “Can we sit here together?” Angelica asked, indicating the chair next to where she sat.

  “Of course.”

  Mindy didn’t look as happy about the arrangement, as all her tools of the trade were apparently housed at another station, and she had to retrieve them. Meanwhile, Randy got the sisters settled and fetched them both a cup of coffee. Once he returned, Angelica wasted no time getting to the point.

  “Wasn’t it just terrible about Susan Morris dying right in the alley behind Main Street?”

  “That poor woman,” Randy agreed. “Did you want a wash first, Angelica?”

  “Ordinarily I’d say yes,” she said, eyeing the line of sinks that flanked the far wall behind the lounge, “but I’m content to sit here and rest my foot.”

  “That’s fine,” Randy said, and reached for a plastic spray bottle that was filled with water for just such occasions.

  Mindy arrived with her rolling rack of tools and asked Tricia what she wanted done to her hair, which caused Tricia to miss whatever answer Randy was saying. Thankfully, she stopped talking, so Tricia could listen in on Randy and Angelica’s conversation.

  “And it was too bad, too, because she seemed a lovely woman,” Randy said. “Just not right for our demographic.”

  Was he trying not to say Susan had been too old to be their receptionist? While Randy wasn’t much older than Angelica, he was at least two decades older than most of the women he employed as beauticians and nail techs. Furthermore, what Randy had said wasn’t true. Susan had mirrored the shop’s clientele. Despite the hip posters on the wall and the trendy music that issued from speakers concealed in the shop’s ceiling, Booked for Beauty wasn’t some cut-rate franchised salon. The clientele was older and could well afford the prices it charged.