“Here you go, ladies,” said Bev, the waitress, who had formerly worked for Angelica at Booked for Lunch. She picked up a couple of cocktail napkins from the tray she held and placed them on the table before setting their drinks upon them. “How’s the foot, Angelica?”
As Angelica launched into a detailed account of her surgery and subsequent recovery, Tricia did a little mental arithmetic. Main Street boasted at least twenty businesses, and several of the storefronts were currently vacant. Still, that didn’t mean the apartments above them were also empty. Most of the buildings were three stories, with storefronts and one or two apartments. That could be an awful lot of people to canvass.
“Bev!” Shawn called, indicating several drinks before him on the bar.
“Gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”
Angelica waved to get her sister’s attention. “You’re thinking of something?”
“Just wondering how long it would take to do a little nosing around.”
Angelica frowned. “Why not just call Chief Baker and tell him about your stinky discovery?”
“And have him tell me I’m full of crap—if you’ll pardon the pun?”
“It’s his job.”
“I want to test my theory first. If it seems to pay off, of course I’ll mention it to Grant. I also want to know if he’s responsible for the destruction at the homeless camp.”
“I’ll be interested to hear the answer to that,” Angelica said. “When will you start your interviews with potential witnesses?”
“First thing in the morning.”
* * *
* * *
Tricia wasn’t kidding when she told Angelica that she intended to canvass the neighborhood to ask about Susan. The next morning she was up by six thirty, showered and dressed, and was out the door by seven fifteen, hoping to run into some of her neighbors who commuted to Nashua and beyond for work.
She walked up and down Main Street instead of her usual exercise route and ran into a middle-aged woman who came out of the door that led to the apartment above the Happy Domestic. “Excuse me, do you have a minute?” Tricia asked.
“Not really. I’m heading to the municipal lot to pick up my car.”
“Do you mind if I walk along with you?”
“Why not?” The woman started off at a brisk pace. “You own the mystery bookstore, don’t you?”
“Yes. I’m Tricia Miles.”
“Marie Painter.”
“Cool name.”
“It would be if that was my occupation. I’m an admin at St. Joseph Hospital in Nashua. What did you want to ask me?”
“I’m sure you heard about the woman who was found murdered in the alley behind Main Street last week.”
Marie frowned. “Everybody did.”
“Did you see her hanging around the village before that?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She was known to dump trash in the dumpsters behind the businesses here on Main Street. She liked to do it under the cover of darkness.”
Marie paused, looking thoughtful. “Maybe. Not a lot of cars use the alley after business hours. I’d only look out the window if I heard a car idling. I can’t say I’d have paid much attention otherwise.” She turned her attention back to the sidewalk before them and continued walking, with Tricia keeping pace.
It made sense that Susan wouldn’t draw attention to herself and why her car had been found at the municipal lot. She simply had to walk around the village after dark to throw away her garbage. It was relatively safe to do so—unless one considered the number of murders that had occurred in Stoneham during the past six years. Tricia had been accused of bringing bad luck to the village—of being its resident jinx—but it was to be expected that a once-dying village would see an uptick in crime when prosperity made its return big-time.
But Tricia also remembered that Chief Baker had said members of the police force had prodded Susan to leave the municipal parking lot before nightfall. Did they sometimes cut her slack, or was the fact that the department had only a few officers the reason they didn’t waste manpower harassing Susan? And where did Susan go when the cops told her to leave the lot? Did she stealth camp on side streets or on the outskirts of town? Tricia would probably never know.
The women reached the municipal lot. “Have a great day at work,” Tricia said.
“You, too.”
Marie veered off into the lot, and Tricia continued to the corner where, despite the lack of traffic, she waited for the village’s only light to turn green so she could cross the road to resume her walk on the other side, heading south. No one popped out of any of the doorways, so when she came to the end of the block, she crossed the street once again and headed back north, encountering no one until she neared the municipal parking lot once more. Terry McDonald, the owner of the All Heroes comic-book store, came charging around the corner, nearly barreling into her.
“Tricia! I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
“Don’t worry about it. Do you have a minute?”
“Oh, sure. I don’t open the shop until ten. I came in early because I’ve got a shipment of DC and Marvel comics in for a sale I’m having this weekend. I’ve got to stick them in plastic bags and get ’em priced and in the racks. What’s up?”
“I’m sure you must have heard about Susan Morris being found in my dumpster last week, right?”
“Hasn’t everybody?” Terry asked.
“It sure seems like it. Anyway, I know you stay open late a couple of nights every week. I wondered if you ever saw her walking in the alley behind your store.”
“Walking, yeah—when she wasn’t running away from me.”
Tricia brightened.
“At first I thought she was digging through my trash, but then I realized she was burying something in it.”
“What was it?” Tricia asked innocently.
“I dunno. But she obviously didn’t want me to know she was doing it. I guess it all makes sense now that we know she lived in her car.”
“Yes,” Tricia agreed. “Did you get a chance to talk to her?”
“Not really. Just to yell ‘Get outta here!’ and then she ran.” He gave a stifled laugh. “Well, maybe not ran—sort of walked fast. She was kind of old.”
Older than him, that was for sure.
“Hey, what do you think about Russ Smith quitting as Chamber president?” Terry asked.
“That we’re going to have to call an election.”
“I voted for you last time, Tricia. I’d do it again. Russ sure has left one hell of a mess to clean up, but I’m sure you can handle it.”
“Thanks for the kind words, Terry, but I’m not sure I want to run again.”
“It would be a shame if you didn’t. If you’re half the president your sister was, the Chamber would be back in shape in no time.”
“I’m flattered you think so.”
“I’d better get to my store. Those comics aren’t going to jump into the bags themselves.” He quickened his pace and charged off.
“Have a great day,” Tricia called, and gave Terry a wave as he turned back to acknowledge her good wishes.
Speaking to Marie and Terry was a good start. All Tricia needed now were a few more corroborating stories and she’d go to Chief Baker to tell him her theory—and hope he didn’t throw her out of his office.
She was about to start off again when she saw a familiar corroded pickup pull into the municipal lot. She walked slowly down the sidewalk and paused while its owner parked and got out of the vehicle. “Hey, Russ!” she called, and waved.
Russ Smith glared at Tricia as she rushed to intercept him when he got to the sidewalk.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” she said brightly.
“What for?”
“Selling your newspaper.”
He shrugged. “Oh, that. Yeah. I’m glad it went fast. I’m sure your boyfriend”—he emphasized the word so it sounded like an insult—“will do a great job.” He started off with long strides, and Tricia had a hard time keeping up with him.
“I don’t doubt it,” Tricia said.
“As soon as the lawyers draw up the papers, I’m shaking the dust of this crummy little town off my shoes.”
“Village,” Tricia corrected automatically. She decided to push him. “It must have broken your heart when Nikki came and took little Russell back with her to California the other day.”
“Eh, not so much,” Russ said flatly, paused at the corner to look both ways, and crossed against the light, with Tricia right on his heels.
“What do you mean?” she asked innocently.
“C’mon, Trish. You always knew I wasn’t interested in being a parent—just like you.”
“I don’t think we ever addressed the subject.”
“Maybe not, but you let it be known you were a career woman.”
“At one time I thought Nikki felt the same.”
“Once upon a time,” Russ said bitterly. “And now she’s apparently returned to that stance.”
Tricia didn’t want to continue that conversation and changed tack. “Where will you go?”
“I dunno. I was thinking about the West Coast. The idea of living without snow and ice appeals to me.”
That statement sent a chill through Tricia. After Russ had dumped her more than five years before, he had a change of heart and decided he’d take Tricia back. (As if!) When she rebuffed his attentions, Russ stalked her. Did he intend to travel to Los Angeles to stalk his almost ex-wife, too?
“I . . . I wondered if you ever met Susan Morris?”
“No,” Russ said flatly.
“I understand she had a habit of dumping her trash in the dumpsters in the alleys behind Main Street late at night.”
“So? How would I know about that? I close my shop at five every day, and I haven’t worked a Saturday here in months.”
“So I heard.”
He stopped short, his expression conveying his annoyance. “From who?”
“You. You sent out an email to every Chamber member about its revised hours.”
The taut muscles in his face relaxed. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”
They crossed Hickory Street, still heading north.
“What are you going to do about the Chamber?” Tricia asked.
“Resign. Ha! Now’s your chance to get to run it your way.”
“I don’t know that I want the responsibility right now.”
“You’d be a shoo-in,” he assured her, without breaking stride.
“Maybe.”
They reached the offices of the Stoneham Weekly News, and Russ reached into his jeans pocket to retrieve a set of keys. “I’d love to stand here and chat with you all day,” he said with a sarcastic lilt to his voice, “but I’ve got a lot of stuff to clear up before I can hand the business over to Cambridge.”
“Sure thing. I guess I’ll see you at the next Chamber meeting.”
“I guess,” he said, and unlocked the door, went inside, and shut the door behind him without even a good-bye.
“Jerk,” she muttered. Tricia wasted no time and turned to head back down the sidewalk. She had a feeling no one in the village would be sad to see the last of Russ Smith.
TWENTY-FOUR
Tricia made several more circuits up and down Stoneham’s main drag, but no one she encountered had seen anything suspicious when it came to the dumpsters or garbage totes in the alleys behind Main Street. Maybe her theory was ridiculous. So far, not many people she’d come across had even known Susan, and those who’d run into her didn’t seem to think she had any enemies. It was entirely possible that she was a victim chosen at random. Tricia remembered a news story concerning a man who walked into the Mall of America bent on killing someone—anyone—and had chosen a small boy to throw over a third-floor balcony. She remembered seeing pictures of the tow-headed tyke and considered the terror his mother must have felt when she witnessed that terrible crime. The boy lived but endured many long months of surgeries and rehabilitation. Was Susan’s death just a random killing by some thrill-seeking degenerate? The idea repelled her.
Reentering Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia hung up her jacket and looked around her store. She could make a fresh pot of coffee, but it would be nearly an hour before Pixie arrived for work, and possibly longer until their first customers of the day arrived. She was about to head down to her basement office when the store’s vintage phone rang. Sometimes customers called early just to learn the store’s hours or ask if an order had arrived. She usually let the calls go to voice mail but instead decided to pick up the receiver.
“Haven’t Got a Clue; this is Tricia. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Tricia.”
“Mary, is that you?” Mary was Mary Fairchild from the By Hook or By Book craft-oriented shop just down the street.
“Yes. I just heard that Russ Smith is calling it quits as Chamber president.”
“That’s right.”
“Then let me be the first to encourage you to take the job. You should have won last year. I still haven’t gotten over my guilt for not voting for you in the first place.”
“You had your reasons,” Tricia reminded her.
“This has been a horrible year with Russ as the Chamber head. Even your cat could have done a better job.”
Tricia wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or insulted by that remark.
“Please consider it,” Mary said with what sounded like heartfelt sincerity. “Stoneham’s business community has suffered a terrible blow because of Russ’s bad decisions. In my eyes, you’re the perfect candidate.”
“Thanks for your vote of confidence. It’s a big decision. I’ll definitely give it some serious consideration.”
“Thanks, Tricia. By the way, I wanted to compliment you on that wonderful interview you did with the cable company a couple of weeks ago. I had no idea your collection of valuable vintage mysteries was so extensive. And it was terrific PR for the whole village as well.”
“I learned a lot from the way Angelica promoted Stoneham as Booktown.”
“See? You would make a wonderful Chamber president!”
Maybe she would at that. “Thank you again for saying so.”
“Well, we both have businesses to run. I’d better let you go.”
“Thanks, Mary. We’ll talk again soon.” Tricia hung up the phone. As she set down the receiver, she wondered if it would be better to have her conversation with Baker via the phone than in person. For one thing, it was less likely to be overheard.
She dialed his personal number and was rewarded with him responding in only two rings.
“Tricia, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Wow. He actually sounded affable. Tricia had grown to be wary of his moods.
“First of all, I wanted to ask your opinion on a theory I have about Susan Morris’s death.”
“Aw, come on,” he said, as though put upon. So much for his good disposition.
“I’ve been right in the past,” she reminded him.
“Lucky,” he corrected. “You’ve been lucky.”
“Luck, skill, deductive reasoning . . . would you at least do me the courtesy of listening to what I have to say?”
He sighed. “All right. Go ahead.”
“Okay, this is going to sound far-fetched—”
“Doesn’t it always,” he muttered under his breath.
“—but I don’t believe Susan Morris’s death was premeditated.”
“Why do you say that?” Did he actually sound interested?
“She was a nice woman. People liked her. She appears to have had just one bad habit.”
&n
bsp; “And what was that?”
“Throwing her trash in the dumpsters of the businesses along Main Street.”
Baker was silent for a long moment. “Is that it?” he asked, his voice flat.
“Yes.”
Another long silence ensued.
“Aren’t you going to ask me if there’s more?” Tricia said.
“Is there more?” Now Baker sounded really bored.
“It wasn’t just the usual garbage she was throwing away.” She waited and, when he didn’t press her for more, spoke again. “She was throwing away the contents of her slop bucket.”
Eventually, Baker let out a heavy sigh. “And you know this because?”
“Because I asked around. Shawn at the Dog-Eared Page chased her off, as did Terry at the comic-book store.”
“What other evidence do you have?”
“Well . . . that’s about it,” Tricia admitted. “I did speak with a few others who live and work on Main Street, but most of the businesses are closed after five or six o’clock. Susan made her clandestine garbage runs late in the evening.”
“And you think someone killed her because she was throwing away her . . . crap . . . in their garbage?”
“I didn’t say it was a logical reaction, but what if somebody just snapped?”
Again Baker sighed. “I just don’t see that happening.”
If she was honest, Tricia didn’t really think he would.
“Will you at least consider it as a possible motive for her murder?”
“Uh . . . well, it’s on the table” was apparently going to be his best reply. “Anything else?”
“I understand you arrested Joe King yesterday morning.”
“I did. One of my officers and I went out to talk to him, and he got a little upset at my line of questioning—so much so that he took a swing at me.”
“Did you provoke him?” Tricia asked.
“Of course I didn’t,” Baker said, sounding affronted.
“Just asking,” Tricia said diffidently. “What was his explanation for lying about how he obtained Susan’s earring—especially since Susan’s daughter didn’t think she’d ever pick up a male hitchhiker?”
Handbook for Homicide Page 23
