Tricia did as she was told. As soon as the women had buckled their seat belts, Becca started the engine and drove out of the lot.
“So, what have you been up to?” Tricia asked.
“Packing up Gene’s duds for the Clothes Closet. Someone at the diner told me about it. I’m sure not going to be wearing his suits, and I figured someone else could. It’s too bad Gene was so short. Some of those suits were tailor-made. Hank Curtis would have looked great in them.”
Yeah, if he hadn’t been at least five inches taller than Marshall.
“Have you seen Hank lately?”
“Not since we had lunch the other day. I’ve been busy.”
So she had.
Tricia changed the subject. “Checking out this storage unit is kind of like going on a treasure hunt, isn’t it?”
“So far I haven’t found any gold doubloons or fabulous jewels among the rest of the stuff our guy collected during the past eight years, so I’m not all that hopeful.”
Our guy? Did Becca include Louise Jameson in that equation? Should she tell Becca about her conversation with Louise? Probably not.
“Any updates from law enforcement about the person who ran Marsh—er, Gene—down?” Tricia asked.
“Not a peep. I wasn’t all that enamored with Deputy Kirby, who didn’t seem all that interested in investigating Gene’s death, and your Chief Baker seems just as bored by the subject.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Tricia said. “I’ve known Grant Baker for five years and he’s a dedicated public servant.”
“If you say so,” Becca quipped. She braked as they approached the self-storage facility on the edge of the village. She plucked a plastic keycard from the pull-out drawer that housed two beverage-restraint devices and a slot for odd change, pushed the auto window opener, and thrust the card into the reader. The ten-foot-tall black metal gates opened and Becca slowly steered down the asphalt drive flanked with buildings that housed up to twenty units per side.
“What are we looking for?” Tricia asked.
“Unit four twenty-six.”
Becca made a left at the end of the row and they scanned the numbers attached to the aluminum garage doors until they reached the proper one.
“This is it,” Becca said, moved the gear shift to park, and killed the engine.
The women got out of the van and stepped in front of the corrugated metal garage door that hid Marshall’s treasures from view.
“I’m surprised you haven’t checked this unit out before now,” Tricia said.
“I didn’t know about it until this morning. I found the key just sitting on the floor of Gene’s bedroom. I’m surprised I hadn’t stepped on it before then.”
Becca reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a separate key on a ring that said Stoneham Self-Storage. She poked it into the padlock that sealed the door and turned it. Removing the lock, she stuck it in her pocket. “Will you give me a hand pulling up this door?”
“Sure.”
The women reached down and grabbed the handles, hauling the big door up.
The inside was dark, but not dark enough to keep them from identifying what lay just inside on the cold concrete floor.
A body.
Of Mark Jameson, DDS.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The color drained from Becca’s face as she turned to face Tricia. “Boy, you really are the village jinx.”
“I am not!” Tricia asserted. She looked down at the body, feeling more than a little disheartened. “Maybe there’s a chance he’s still alive,” she said, trying to be optimistic.
Becca stepped back. “Like hell, but you can check if you want. I’m not touching a dead body.”
Tricia crouched down and placed her fingers against the dentist’s neck. The flesh was cold to the touch. He’d been dead for hours, although thanks to the cool fall temps—and to her relief—he still smelled as fresh as a daisy. She straightened and shook her head.
“Well, this really screws up my day,” Becca grated. “Do you know this guy?”
Tricia nodded. “We’re on the recruitment committee for a new president for the local Chamber of Commerce. He’s Louise Jameson’s husband.”
“Holy crap,” Becca cursed.
Tricia took out her cell phone, tapping in the code to awaken it.
“Wait, what are you doing?” Becca asked, sounding panicked.
“I’m going to report this to the police.”
“Can’t we just . . . leave?”
Tricia looked at the woman in disbelief. “No!”
“Give me one good reason!” Becca demanded.
Tricia pointed to the camera mounted on the building across the way.
Becca sighed. “I guess that is a good reason.”
“Better yet, the video footage will identify the killer.”
“You knew this guy, right? Who’d want to kill him?”
Oh, nobody really. Just his wife; Pixie—for being overcharged to have her tooth cemented; and half the Chamber’s recruitment committee. And goodness knew how many others Jameson had alienated in his fortysomething years on the planet.
“Let’s just say there might have been a line of people with at least some kind of grudge.”
Becca scrutinized Tricia’s face, her eyes narrowing. “Gene told me that whenever you found a body, Chief Baker almost always suspected you.”
“You’ve got that right.” Tricia tapped 911 on her keypad. She wasn’t looking forward to the ensuing conversation. Whenever she called, the dispatcher gave her a hard time—as though she was to blame for every little unsavory incident that occurred in the village.
She wasn’t wrong.
Less than five minutes later, the first police SUV arrived with lights flashing and siren screaming—as did the second and third. Crime must have been slow for such a rapid and noisy arrival of the entire force’s fleet of vehicles. Baker wasn’t far behind, but at least he didn’t employ the earsplitting alarm.
While the other cops stood around talking among themselves, Baker exited his SUV, slapping his service cap on his head as he approached. He glared at Tricia. “Why in God’s name is it always you?”
Becca glibly waved. “Us.”
Baker sighed and stepped over to take a look at the body. “Anybody know who this guy is?”
“It’s the village dentist, Mark Jameson,” Officer Henderson volunteered, not sounding pleased. “He told me my kid needs orthodontia. She’s seven. She doesn’t even have all her permanent teeth yet.”
Maybe Officer Henderson would have liked to rub out the good dentist, too.
Baker turned back to Tricia. “And how do you know him?”
“The Chamber of Commerce.” She didn’t bother to go into the details but knew he’d press her on that sooner or later.
“And how about you?” he asked Becca.
“I never laid eyes on this guy in my life—or his.”
“What are you doing here?” Baker asked Tricia.
“Helping Becca. This is Marshall’s storage unit. We came to look at what’s in here and decide what to do with it.”
“Did Chandler even know Jameson?”
“Beats me,” Becca said.
“He may have met him at a Chamber event. I didn’t even meet him until last week,” Tricia said.
Baker didn’t look convinced, which was typical, and another reason Tricia would never have married the man. He always suspected her of killing someone.
“Look, Chief, I only found the key to this unit this morning. That must mean someone else has a key as well,” Becca suggested.
“I didn’t know he had the unit until this afternoon,” Tricia piped up. “Marshall’s assistant, Ava, told me about it.”
“Don’t tell me. You called Ms. Chandler here to ask if you could nose around in it.”
“I welcomed the opportunity of assistance,” Becca cut in, which was probably the nicest thing she’d said about Tricia so far.
“If nothing e
lse, the fact that there are cameras all around the site should lead you right to whoever it was who stuffed Mark’s body into this unit,” Tricia said.
Baker nodded toward Henderson. “Go to the office and see if they can bring up the video.” The chief was probably disappointed he wasn’t going to be able to pin this crime on Tricia, either.
Henderson nodded, turned, and jogged toward the office, near the front gates.
“Has the ME been called?” Baker asked.
“We were waiting for you,” Officer Reynolds said.
Baker shook his head and looked like he was about to disparage his subordinate but Becca interrupted before he could do so.
“Just how long is this going to take?” she asked bluntly.
“As long as it takes,” Baker practically barked at her.
“Well, I’m getting cold. Come on, Tricia, let’s go sit in my van.”
For once, Baker didn’t argue. Tricia squelched a smile and impishly considered sticking her tongue out at the chief. She followed Becca to the van and got in.
Becca slammed her door. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to marry that guy. What a jerk.”
How did Becca know Baker had even asked? Maybe she assumed he’d asked her years before when they’d been an item. Tricia wasn’t about to educate Becca on the subject. More likely, it was Marshall who’d told her. He seemed to have shared everything about his life here in Stoneham with the woman.
“You certainly know how to handle him.”
Becca waved a hand in dismissal. “To me, he’s just another line-judge bully. I’ve known that type since my first tennis match. Give guys like him a little power and their testosterone soars.”
Tricia wasn’t able to stifle a smile. She was beginning to like Becca Chandler.
* * *
* * *
The shadows were lengthening by the time the state lab guys and medical examiner had arrived and after Chief Baker had peppered Tricia and Becca with more questions before he’d let them leave the self-storage facility. They’d have to make formal statements, but that could wait until the next day or Monday.
“What are your plans for the evening?” Tricia asked Becca as she drove back to the municipal parking lot.
“I got some boxes from the liquor store in Milford. I’ve got a date with a bottle of wine and a big roll of packing tape. I intend to get as much done as I can tonight. Why?”
Tricia shrugged. She’d thought about inviting Becca to share happy hour with her and Angelica but quickly nixed that idea. She wouldn’t be able to talk freely about the day’s experiences if she had an audience.
“Are you still considering staying here in Stoneham after what happened today?” Tricia asked instead.
“I don’t know. It seems like there’s a lot of death and mayhem going on. I’m surprised Gene wanted to stay in a place like this.”
“Stoneham once claimed the title of the safest village in the state.”
“Good luck trying to get that back,” Becca muttered.
Becca pulled into the lot, parked the van, and the women got out. They walked across the lot to the sidewalk that flanked the street, which was devoid of traffic—both foot and vehicular, as all the shops along it had closed some twenty minutes before.
“Thanks for letting me pick your brain for the past few hours,” Becca said.
“There wasn’t much else to do while we waited until the chief said we could leave.”
Becca nodded.
Tricia paused when they arrived at the Cookery. The interior was darkened, as was Haven’t Got a Clue’s. After sending her a text earlier in the afternoon, good old Pixie had closed the shop once again.
“I’ll let you know what I decide—about staying here in Stoneham,” Becca said.
“Okay. I’m sorry the village hasn’t shown you its good side. It really is a very pretty and relatively safe place to live.”
Becca gave Tricia a sidelong glance. “If you say so.”
“Have a good night,” Tricia said, and Becca waved as she continued down the sidewalk.
Tricia let herself into the Cookery and made for the back of the shop and to the door marked PRIVATE, and the evening ritual began with a hearty welcome from Sarge, the distribution of dog biscuits, and a greeting from Angelica.
“My, but you’re late tonight,” she said. “I was afraid the stem glasses might shatter, as they’ve been in the fridge so long.”
Unlikely.
“So, what kept you so late? Did you get an influx of customers right at the end of the day?” Angelica asked as she retrieved the martini pitcher from the fridge.
Tricia sighed and sank onto one of the island’s stools. “No. I’ve been at the self-storage unit since I left you after lunch.”
“That was hours ago!”
“Tell me about it.”
“So, what did Marshall have stashed in his unit? More smut?”
“As a matter of fact, we found Mark Jameson’s dead body.”
“What?” Angelica cried, and pivoted.
Tricia explained while Angelica dumped some pretzel sticks into a bowl and scooped out some of the Bee’s Knees honey mustard from a jar, placing it into a small bowl.
“Wow. You have had a day. My biggest accomplishment was making a sub for our supper.”
“I haven’t had a sub in ages.”
“Neither have I. I thought it might be fun.”
“Provolone or Swiss cheese?” Tricia asked.
“Swiss, of course!”
Tricia picked up the tray of drinks and snacks and took them into the living room, while Angelica zoomed along behind her with her little knee scooter and settled on the chaise end of the sectional. “I’m sorry to hear Mark is dead. His passing will no doubt hold up receiving our photo packages.”
“Ange, how can you think about such a thing at a time like this?”
Angelica held her hands out in submission. “I have so little to look forward to being stuck here at home. I almost wish I hadn’t gone through with the foot surgery. If I’d known how long it was going to hurt and heal, I might’ve held off for another couple of years.”
Tricia passed out the drinks and sat back in her chair. “What a day,” she lamented, taking a gulp of her martini.
“What did you and Becca talk about for all those hours you had to wait?” Angelica asked, and picked up a pretzel, dipping it into the mustard.
“She’s thinking of staying in Stoneham and running the Armchair Tourist.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have thought she’d have the temperament for it—or want to, for that matter.”
“Me, either, but it sounds like she isn’t as financially set as one would think of a former star tennis player. And I wasn’t about to ask for details.”
“No, that probably wouldn’t have been well received. Do you think Becca could be a success at running a business?”
Tricia shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s kind of brusque. Ava isn’t sure she wants to stay under Becca’s leadership. It’s all just supposition at this point. I suspect Becca will find retail boring after a week or two and move on. But I sure enjoyed the way she handled Grant this afternoon. Maybe I should learn to be more brusque.”
Angelica shook her head in disapproval and took a sip of her drink. “So, who do you think killed Mark?”
“I have no idea. But let’s face it, he wasn’t a very nice man.”
“Well, maybe now that he’s gone you can run for the Chamber presidency.”
“No way.”
“But you’d be so good at the job—and good for the village.”
“Mary and Terry think so. Dan and Mark were adamant that I wouldn’t be the one running.”
“The heck with them. Male chauvinist pigs,” Angelica added under her breath.
Tricia stared into her drink.
“What else is wrong?” Angelica asked.
“I feel awful about Mark. And Becca was right. If she didn’t kill him—and why would she?—someone
else had to have had another key to the padlock on that storage unit.”
“It has to be Louise.”
“Maybe. I suspect it’ll come out that Mark was holding the copyright of her work over her head to keep her from . . . doing something.”
“Maybe leaving him,” Angelica remarked.
“Maybe.”
“But that’s not all that’s bothering you, is it?” Angelica prompted.
Tricia leaned forward and grabbed a pretzel stick, gouging out some of the honey mustard and eating it. “The thing is . . .” she began. She wasn’t sure she could say the words out loud. But then, during the past couple of years, she and Angelica had had fewer secrets between them. “It really bothers me that I let myself be conned by Marshall. He was charming.”
“Most con men are.”
“Yes, but he was also a felon. Most who enter the Witness Protection Program are only there because they’re really bad people. If nothing else, he was a cheat.”
Angelica eyed her sister. “That’s not all that’s got you irked.”
Tricia sighed. “I’m really cheesed that Marshall only asked me to marry him after Louise turned him down. . . .”
“Oh, Trish, you’re not still torturing yourself over that.”
“I know! I keep reminding myself that I wasn’t about to accept his proposal, anyway.”
“Probably because you instinctively knew it would never work out.”
“Definitely. If there was ever a rebound relationship that was doomed from the start, it was Marshall and me,” Tricia said.
“Don’t look at it that way,” Angelica scolded. “Now, admit it. You were perfectly fine with the way things were. And the fact that Marshall asked you to marry him definitely screwed up everything.”
“I hate to admit it, but you’re right.”
“Of course I am,” Angelica stated. She sighed. “What is it you really want, Tricia?”
“Peace and quiet,” she blurted without thinking. “I don’t want to have to worry about pleasing anyone else. I’ve gotten to the point where all I want is to please myself.”
“Well, it’s about time,” Angelica said. “Don’t let anyone—even me—tell you how to live. Goodness knows I’d never have married four times if I’d only paid attention to what I really wanted.”
Booktown Mystery 15 - A Deadly Deletion Page 21
