Handbook for Homicide

by Lorna Barrett

  A draft made her shiver. It was then that Tricia remembered that she’d left the bedroom window open. The air had cooled, and she wondered if she should shut it, when she heard a loud rattling noise. She’d heard it only a couple of times before, so it took her a few moments to identify it: the sound of the metal fire escape ladder being released. Someone was trying for a third time to break into her store—only . . . the store was on the first floor, not the second or third floor. Someone was about to try to enter her home!

  Tricia threw back the covers and leapt out of bed, grabbing her cell phone. Why hadn’t the security system kicked off? She stabbed the screen to awaken it to call 911, but it remained dark. Rats! She’d forgotten to charge it before going to bed. She tossed it aside and raced to the window to look out and saw the would-be intruder standing on her balcony below, trying to see through the sliding glass doors to the living room. He wore a hoodie that was tied around his chin.

  “Hey!” Tricia hollered.

  The thief looked up—an instinctual move—and Tricia recognized the face that peered up at her.

  “Joe King! The cops are on their way.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her and grabbed the door’s handle, trying to rock it open. But Tricia’s contractor had given her an additional—and cheap—security measure by painting a leftover piece of molding that she could place in the channel that allowed the door to open, wedging it shut. That said, she wasn’t sure it would be enough of a deterrent.

  “Open up!” King yelled.

  Instead, Tricia slammed the window shut. King still had access to the metal ladder to the third floor. He grabbed one of the ceramic flowerpots from the balcony and began to climb.

  The building’s landline was located only in the shop and the basement. Tricia ran for the door and down the stairs to the second floor but paused when she heard the sound of breaking glass. King must have broken the bedroom window! He still had a screen to contend with, but Tricia knew she couldn’t stop him from getting in.

  She ran into the shop and picked up the vintage phone’s heavy receiver, but it, too, was dead.

  The sound of running footsteps on the stairs above stopped, and she ran around the big glass display case—the only place of concealment—grabbing the phone and pulling it down, and was grateful it had a long cord. If she had to, she could use the receiver as a weapon to try to knock him out—but was well aware that if he wrestled it from her, he could use it against her, too.

  Crashes from the living room above seemed to rattle the entire building. What was he doing up there? What was he looking for?

  “Where is it?” he hollered loud enough for Tricia to hear him.

  She bit her lip and considered her options. She could unlock the door and run into the street, but she was wearing only her pajamas and was barefoot. And what would she do then? She could run next door, but her keys hung from a little rack in the kitchen above. Angelica’s unhealed foot would keep her from getting down the stairs to open the Cookery’s door for her. She could run to Marshall’s, but he slept like the proverbial log. Would he even hear her ringing his doorbell? Lastly, she could run to the police station, which was a long three blocks away, but at this time of night would anyone be there to open the door for her?

  The crashes from above had halted, but now there was another sound—of breaking glass. King had to be trashing the climate-controlled case that housed all Tricia’s vintage mysteries, including the prize of her collection, Graham’s Magazine, which contained Edgar Allan Poe’s story “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” considered to be the first modern detective story.

  Tricia reached for the front window’s blind cord and pulled it, letting in light from the streetlamps. The shops and offices along Main Street were all dark—except for one. Should she make a run for it?

  Go! something inside her ordered, and she whipped around the display case straight for the door, fumbling with the lock to open it. The security system should have gone off—but it didn’t, and Tricia took off, knowing that King might be only seconds behind her. She ran up the street, hoping no glass or stones littered the sidewalk, keeping close to the buildings until she hit the cross street. The village’s only traffic light blinked yellow on Main Street and red for the cross street, and the road was devoid of any moving cars. She crossed it, heading for the lighted building and cursing her luck. It was the Stoneham Weekly News. Russ had told her he never worked late. Had he left the lights on before leaving the office that afternoon? She prayed that wasn’t so and kept running.

  “Hey!” came a voice from half a block away. It was King! He held what looked like a cloth sack—maybe a pillowcase—filled with something and was chasing her!

  Despite the stitch in her side, Tricia made it to the newspaper office and pounded on the heavy plate glass door. “Russ! Let me in. Russ! There’s a maniac after me.”

  The police station was still another two blocks away, and Tricia wasn’t sure she could make it there before King caught up with her.

  “Russ!” she practically howled.

  Russ emerged from his office and hurried to open the door.

  “Tricia—what’s wrong?” he asked, pulling her into the reception room and slamming the door shut and locking it behind her. “Why are you running around the village in your pajamas?”

  “There’s a . . . robber . . . one of the homeless vets. He broke into my apartment. He must have been after my vintage mysteries.”

  Russ nodded in understanding. “I saw that interview you did on TV. Not a smart move, letting thieves know where you hide your goodies.”

  “But I didn’t say they were in my apartment.”

  And then Tricia remembered what Mr. Everett had told her days before: that a man had come into the store, bought nothing, and spent a long time looking the place over. His only descriptor was that the man was wearing a sweat jacket.

  “Call the police, will you please?” Tricia begged.

  “Why didn’t you call?” he asked, his tone a tad accusatory.

  “I couldn’t. My cell phone’s dead, and King must have cut the phone and security system lines to my store.”

  Russ went to the window and peered through the glass. “I don’t see anybody out on the street.”

  “He was after me, I tell you. Wearing a gray hoodie.”

  Russ shook his head. “There’s nobody there.”

  Tricia fought the urge to smack him.

  “I’m not in the habit of running around the village after midnight in night attire. I’m telling you that guy was chasing me. And for all I know, he was probably the one who killed Susan Morris.”

  “Really? What makes you say that?”

  “He stole something from her just a day or so before she died.”

  “What was that?”

  “An earring.”

  “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Well, I’m telling you about it now.”

  Tricia finally seemed to catch her breath and glanced around the reception area. “What are you doing here so late? I thought you told me you never worked late.”

  “I’m purging my paper files before I turn the operation over to your boyfriend.” He did it again—referring to Marshall in a snide fashion.

  “Do you have to say it like that?”

  He shrugged. “Would you prefer I called him your lover? That sounds even more tawdry.”

  She scowled. “You didn’t think it was tawdry when you were sleeping with me.”

  “Ah, those were the good old days. You were—and probably still are—a very good lover, Tricia.”

  A shiver ran up Tricia’s spine. This was not a conversation she wanted to be having when her home had been invaded and robbed and the freak who had done it was probably hanging round in the shadows, waiting to come after her.

  “Call the police!” she implored, but Russ just stood ther
e. “Russ!” she tried again.

  The sound of a siren cut the night, and Tricia rushed to look out the door. The car pulled to a halt, and an officer jumped out of it and started running—presumably after King.

  “See, there was no need to call the cops. And I’m sure your other ex-boyfriend will show up any minute now to comfort you.”

  “What is your problem with me?” she asked, noticing how cold she felt—and it wasn’t just because of her bare feet and skimpy night attire. Her gaze traveled to Russ’s office, where she saw several big black bags, knotted at the top and ready for the trash.

  “I don’t have a problem at all,” Russ said mildly. “Well, that’s not true. All my problems stem from you—your rejection of me.”

  “Let’s not go over that territory again,” she said, and backed away from him. She’d never really noticed just how creepy the man was.

  “Why not? I’ve got nothing but time. Well,” he said, and gave a laugh, “that’s not exactly true. I’ll be leaving the village as soon as the ink is dry on the contract for the sale of the paper, but we’ve still got time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “To be together.”

  “I’m in a relationship,” Tricia said fiercely.

  Russ shrugged. “Eh, you don’t love Marshall. You didn’t love Baker. And you certainly didn’t love me,” he said accusingly. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun.”

  Tricia’s hackles rose, and again she spied the big bags of trash in his office and realized their significance. Had Russ been working late shredding papers, gone into the alley to toss the bags away, and run into Susan?

  “You killed her,” she whispered.

  “Killed who?” Russ asked, turned his head to see what she was looking at.

  “Never mind,” Tricia said, realizing that if he had killed Susan, what was to stop him from attempting to kill her? But Russ wasn’t about to ignore the statement.

  “What did you mean just now?”

  “That . . . that with your attitude, you must’ve killed Nikki’s love for you,” Tricia hedged.

  Russ’s expression hardened. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then to what do you attribute her leaving?”

  “Nikki and I are done. And that’s not what you meant when you accused me of a crime just now.”

  “You must have misunderstood,” Tricia said, and edged backward, smacking into the closed, locked door. Her eyes darted left and right, but there wasn’t anything nearby but a short metal rack that held copies of the current edition of the Stoneham Weekly News.

  The gumball lights of another police cruiser caught Tricia’s attention to her right, rolling past slowly as Russ stepped closer. “I didn’t misunderstand. You think I killed Susan Morris. You think I caught her out back messing around.”

  “Why would she do that?” Tricia asked, wide-eyed, but it was more with growing fear than innocence.

  “You always thought of me as a hack, but I’m first and foremost a reporter—and a damn good one. You didn’t think people would talk about you nosing around and asking questions about that bitch’s habits.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she said, adding more conviction to her voice than she actually felt.

  “I talked to Shawn at the pub the same night you did.”

  Damn.

  “Really?” she bluffed.

  “Then I ran into Terry at the All Heroes comic-book store. The people in this village love to gossip. And you like to stir up trouble.” Tricia glanced to her left. “The officers have probably caught up with Joe King. I think it’s safe for me to go on home.”

  Russ stepped so close, Tricia could feel his breath on her face. She turned her head aside and moved her hand closer to the metal rack.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Russ said, his voice low and menacing.

  Tricia grabbed the rack and flung it at Russ, smacking him sharply in the head. He went down on the floor, but she had no time to assess the damage she’d caused as she turned and fumbled with the lock. But Russ wasn’t as injured as he might have been and crawled to his knees, making a grab for Tricia as she opened the door, frigid air rushing in. Russ managed to grab her by the ankle before she could run outside, yanking and causing her to fall onto the cold concrete sidewalk. She bucked and kicked, flipping onto her back, her right foot connecting with Russ’s jaw, sending him backward with a wail of pain.

  Tricia rolled over, scrambling to her feet, and began to run south, not daring to look behind her. Someone stood on the sidewalk up ahead, and the beam of a powerful flashlight swept up her body and blinded her. She ground to a halt and raised a hand in front of her eyes.

  “Tricia?” Baker asked.

  “He’s right behind me.”

  The light moved.

  “There’s no one there,” Baker said.

  Tricia threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure. “What are you doing here?” she asked, breathless.

  “Angelica’s dog heard your window break and he started to bark. She called nine one one. Henderson caught King with a sack full of old books. I assume they’re yours.”

  “Yes, they are! He broke into my apartment while I was there and I barely managed to escape!” Tricia looked behind her. The lights were still on at the Stoneham Weekly News. She turned back to Baker. “Russ Smith killed Susan Morris.”

  Baker sighed. “And you came to this conclusion because?” he asked wearily.

  “He also caught her dumping her waste behind his office.”

  Baker looked around Tricia. “Here he comes now.”

  Tricia turned. Russ walked slowly toward them, his left hand plastered against the side of his face. He stopped, and Tricia ducked behind the police chief, peeking over his shoulder. “Baker, arrest that woman,” Russ said thickly. “She attacked me—broke my jaw.”

  “Well, if I did, it was your own fault. You were going to kill me, too!”

  “Not only is she homicidal, she’s delusional as well,” Russ muttered angrily.

  Baker turned to study Tricia’s face. She’d seen that look before. The no longer friend—possibly not even acquaintance—was about to blow off her fear and concerns once again. Why did she even bother speaking with the man when he always seemed more inclined to believe the worst of her?

  Baker turned back to Russ. “Let’s walk back to my car, and I’ll call for the EMTs to come and have a look at you,” he said reasonably.

  “Fine. Just let me lock my office. I wouldn’t want a thief to get in and trash everything.” He laughed. “But since I’ve just sold the joint, why should I care?”

  Russ turned and headed back to his office.

  Baker faced Tricia, studying her face.

  “The guy’s a jerk, but your theory stinks.”

  “That’s what they told Darwin and Einstein, too.”

  Baker nodded. “What did you do to him?”

  “Uh, I kind of hit him with a metal rack, and when he tripped me, I kicked him in the face, but I don’t think I broke his jaw.”

  Again Baker nodded. He eyed her attire. “Cute jammies.”

  Tricia felt a blush rise up her neck to warm her cheeks. “Can I go back to my store?” she pleaded. “My feet are freezing.”

  “Wait until he comes back. I don’t want you wandering the streets alone.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” Tricia grated. She turned to leave, but Baker grabbed her by the arm, pulling her around to face him once again.

  “I’ll talk to him. I’ll talk to his employees. I’ll talk to his neighbors. But I don’t want you talking to him. If what you say is true, it won’t be easy or quick to build a case against him.”

  “What if you can’t prove he killed Susan? He’ll get away with it.” And then she remembered what cracked the case against the thief who’d stolen Dolly Dingl
e figurines from the Happy Domestic several years before. “Video surveillance! You could ask all the businesses along Main Street for—”

  “You don’t need to tell me how to do my job,” Baker admonished her.

  “I’m just trying to be helpful.” And then Tricia realized what he’d said: he would try to build a case against Russ—but only if he thought it was viable. She knew Baker would never arrest a suspect unless he wholeheartedly believed in that person’s guilt.

  “In the meantime, I don’t want you anywhere near Russ Smith,” Baker positively growled. “Don’t see him, don’t talk to him, don’t even look at him.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tricia said sarcastically.

  Russ approached them once again. He’d donned a jacket and still held his hand fixed against his cheek. Behind him, the lights in his office had been extinguished. The three of them started walking south down Main Street, with Tricia in the lead.

  “So, Mr. Smith,” Baker began conversationally, “just what were you doing working at your office so late in the evening?”

  Tricia couldn’t hear Russ’s muffled reply.

  Was Baker just placating her, or would he go through with his promise to test her theory?

  Only time would tell.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  During the next four days Tricia stuck close to home. She and Angelica had lunches and dinners at Angelica’s apartment; instead of taking walks through the village, Tricia employed her treadmill to get in her daily three-mile walk, and her only social encounters occurred when she took Angelica for her physical therapy appointment and their weekly Sunday family dinner. Once again Marshall begged off attending said dinner, but he called a couple of times during Tricia’s hibernation. Called—not visited.

  Baker kept a low profile, too, with no updates on how his investigation into Susan Morris’s death was going.

  As time dragged on, Tricia began to experience the same degree of cabin fever that Angelica complained about.

  On Monday afternoon Baker tracked Tricia down at Angelica’s home, where they were having yet another Booked for Lunch catered meal. June called from the Cookery and was told to “send him up.” Of course, first Tricia made sure Sarge was relegated to his bed. He was friendly with just about everyone on the planet—but, for some reason, not Baker.