Booktown Mystery 15 - A Deadly Deletion

by Lorna Barrett

  “See you tomorrow,” Tricia called as she locked up. A shiver ran up her spine as she darkened the lights. She’d need to do the same in her apartment. It was then she wished she’d gone for light-darkening shades on the second floor of her home, and not just in her bedroom suite.

  With the shop secure, Tricia locked the door leading to her apartment, and she and Miss Marple headed up the stairs. Tricia threw the dead bolt behind her, turned, leaned against the door, and heaved a sigh of relief. Next up, she closed the curtains. She waited until that was done before turning on her lights.

  Tricia decided against making a drink or pouring herself a glass of wine. She was probably being paranoid, but she wanted her wits about her . . . just in case. Instead, she made herself a mug of hot chocolate and was rummaging around in the cupboard looking for something other than cat food for her dinner, when her cell phone rang. Tricia glanced at the screen and saw it was Grant Baker calling. No way did she want to speak to the man she suspected of being responsible for the deaths of five people.

  She ignored it. Sure, she always had an excuse she could use for not answering. She’d left the phone in her purse and didn’t hear the ringtone because it was in another room. It was on charge down in the shop. But Baker was well aware of her cell phone habits. He knew she kept it nearby in case Angelica would call or text.

  The phone pinged.

  It was Baker.

  I see your lights are on. No dinner with Angelica tonight?

  Tricia’s blood ran cold.

  Want to share a sub or a pizza?

  No! She didn’t.

  Why was he even contacting her? She’d made it clear—way too many times—that she wasn’t interested.

  Tricia had been stalked before by Russ Smith. That Stoneham’s chief of police now seemed obsessed with her was even more frightening. Where was she supposed to go for help? And what if she mentioned what she suspected to other law enforcement agents? How many bad cops had been protected from investigation, let alone prosecution, because of the Blue Code of Honor?

  Before Stoneham had hired its own police force, they’d been under the jurisdiction of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Department. Sheriff Adams had been reelected and the two times the women had met they’d clashed. Tricia doubted the sheriff would give her theories a hearing, let alone act on them. And Baker had been one of her most-trusted deputies. No, she didn’t think she could count on any help from the Sheriff’s Department.

  What about Deputy Marshal Kirby? Becca said that the man had washed his hands of investigating Marshall’s death. He’d seemed to be a dedicated agent of the federal government. How willing—or able—would he be to get involved in a local investigation?

  The phone pinged again.

  TRICIA ARE YOU THERE?

  The fact that the message had now been typed in all caps was all the more frightening.

  Tricia wasn’t sure what to do, so she paced. Not in the living room. Yes, the drapes were drawn, but she wasn’t willing to cast even the hint of a shadow against them.

  Instead, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom suite, leaving it in darkness as she crept toward the windows that overlooked Main Street. She peeked out the side of one of them, but the shadows between the streetlamps would give excellent cover to anyone who had a bead on her building.

  She couldn’t call 911 to report her fears because Baker was likely to show up to personally investigate.

  The locks were formidable, and the barrier to the back alley had been fortified after the break-in the previous month, but her shop’s front door was glass, and just as vulnerable as the display window the brick-wielding biker had breached.

  Tricia descended the stairs to the second floor of the building and continued to pace. Miss Marple jumped up onto one of the kitchen island stools to watch her go to and fro between the stove, refrigerator, and sink.

  Tricia’s phone pinged again.

  TRICIA WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING ME? Baker’s text demanded.

  Tricia paced faster.

  “Yow!” Miss Marple said, as though expecting an explanation for Tricia’s odd behavior.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Tricia told her cat.

  Seconds later the security alarm down in the store went off. Tricia looked around her home, but there was nothing she could use as a weapon. And then her gaze caught the block of oak that housed her kitchen’s knife collection. She could use any one of them as protection, but she knew that Baker possessed far more physical strength than she did. Odds were he might be able to turn such a tool against her.

  As abruptly as it came on, the alarm went silent.

  When they’d parted, Baker had given Tricia back her key—or at least a key. He’d made duplicates of Marshall’s keys. Why hadn’t she suspected he had one or more of hers as well? And he knew how to operate the shop’s security system. He’d armed and disarmed it many times during the times they’d been together.

  Tricia stood rock still. What should she do now?

  “Tricia!”

  It was Baker’s muffled voice coming from the shop below.

  “Come down here, will you? I need to speak to you.”

  Harvick’s warning came to mind: “Whatever you do, don’t allow yourself to be alone with a man you suspect of murder.”

  Tricia crept to the door of her apartment, testing the handle to make sure it was locked. She checked the dead bolt as well.

  “What do you want?” she called.

  “To talk. I promise—that’s all I want to do.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tricia hollered, “but I no longer trust you.”

  The truth was, the seed of doubt was planted days before when Harvick mentioned Baker’s cold green eyes.

  “I don’t blame you. But I swear, I only want to talk—to explain.”

  Tricia bit her lip. Several years ago, she would have trusted the man with her life. Now she suspected him of taking five other lives.

  Tricia thought back to her time with Baker. They had made love together. She had cried on his shoulder—and more than once. He had brought her flowers, her favorite pizza, and wine. Could she trust him one last time?

  Against her better judgment, Tricia pulled back the bolt, turned the handle’s lock, and opened the door a crack. She looked down the lighted stairwell, which had been plunged into darkness not too long before, and saw Baker standing at the bottom. He was out of uniform, wearing jeans, a sweater, and a light jacket, still looking impeccable.

  “Come on,” he said, his voice soft and calm, and raised a hand, palm up in encouragement. Tricia took a step forward, but quickly closed the door behind her to keep Miss Marple in the apartment. She had no idea what she was walking into, but felt the need to protect her cat from harm.

  Why was she being so cavalier with her own life?

  Tricia advanced another few steps, pausing halfway down.

  “Start talking,” she said.

  “I saw you go into the Bee’s Knees earlier.”

  Stalking! her mind screamed. She backed up a step.

  “You spoke to Larry Harvick. I get it. You figured everything out and you needed a sounding board,” Baker said.

  Tricia said nothing, afraid to even move. If she had to, she could scramble back into the apartment and slam the door. But Baker was in good physical shape. He could probably kick the door in. She could barricade herself in her bedroom suite—and call who? If she called 911, would the Stoneham police force act against their leader?

  Baker shook his head and leaned against the wall. His jacket pocket caught on the banister and Tricia saw the open holster and the gun that rested inside it. She could tell it wasn’t his service weapon. She’d watched him clean it how many times?

  Marshall’s gun had gone missing. Joshua Greenwell had been shot with a Glock. Was it Marshall’s gun in that holster?

  Baker laughed mirthlessly. “I shouldn’t have underestimated you. You were always one step ahead of me, my love.”

  Tricia cringe
d at his last two words. She hadn’t been his love for years. Standing stoically, she still said nothing. She didn’t want to ask any questions. She decided to just listen.

  He began again. “Everything went wrong, right from the moment you told me you wouldn’t marry me,” he said bitterly. “That idiot Greenwell was just supposed to scare Cambridge—not kill him.”

  “And why did he come after me?” Tricia demanded. “Did you want me frightened as well?”

  “No!” Baker protested. “Not at all. When I learned he’d done that, I was so angry, I nearly killed him that night,” Baker remarked. “But at least he didn’t hit you, too.”

  “And why did he burn Antonio’s and Ginny’s house nearly to the ground? Was that to spite me, too?”

  Baker brandished a crooked smile. “That wasn’t in the original plan,” he admitted. “Josh was just supposed to scare them, too. But he got carried away. That’s when I knew I had to take him out.”

  Tricia cringed. Take him out? “How did you justify that?”

  “The guy got high on hurting people. That wasn’t what I paid him for. He became a liability.”

  “So you killed him and buried him in a shallow grave in the woods near Rindge.”

  Baker’s expression darkened. “I hadn’t planned on some hiker’s dog digging up the bastard.”

  Although she’d suspected as much, it took a few moments for Tricia to digest his murder confession. “And the biker and his girlfriend?”

  Baker’s frown deepened. “You weren’t supposed to see the motorcycle’s license plate. Once it was part of the official documentation, Tyler and his girlfriend had to be silenced as well. They were just petty thugs for hire,” he said contemptuously, as though the couple had had no people in their lives who had loved and would miss them. Okay, they weren’t the cream of society and should have languished in jail for their misdeeds, but they didn’t deserve to die for such a petty crime, either.

  “And what about Mark Jameson? What offense did he incur that warranted your wrath?”

  “During the course of my investigation, I found that his wife was cheating on him with your lover. That really pissed me off.”

  “So, you killed him as an act of revenge?” Tricia asked, confused.

  Baker shook his head. “She was the perfect patsy. But more than that, that dentist bastard was determined to cheat you out of running for and winning the Chamber of Commerce presidency.”

  “What?” Tricia asked, appalled.

  “You should have won last year. If that jerk Russ Smith hadn’t thrown his hat in the ring, you would have won. The misogyny in this village is ridiculous.”

  Yes, and Baker had been guilty of it on more than one occasion, too, so his explanation rang hollow.

  “What makes you think I want to be Chamber president?”

  Baker frowned. “Come on, Tricia. Angelica set you up to be her successor. And you wanted it, too.”

  Maybe . . . but Tricia shook her head. “No, you wanted to plant suspicion on Louise Jameson as being in a love triangle. Yes, she did have an affair with Marshall, but she knew her financial security lay with her husband. She wasn’t about to risk that for mere sex.”

  “It was a gamble I was willing to take.”

  Tricia shook her head. “Oh, Grant. How could you be so cruel? And why would you think I would want to be with anyone who could do such despicable things?”

  “I’m not despicable . . . or at least I wasn’t until the past few weeks. I messed up, Tricia. I really did. I lost everything I ever stood for and believed because of you.”

  Tricia’s ire grew exponentially. “You stupid, selfish man. Don’t you dare blame your weakness on me. Whatever choices you’ve made, they weren’t based on my input.”

  Before he could retort, Baker’s head turned sharply, and he looked toward the front of the store.

  “Tricia?” Angelica called.

  Baker’s hand flew to the gun on his hip and he stepped away from the stairs.

  “Angelica!” Tricia hollered. “Get out! Go home. Now!”

  “What do you want?” Baker shouted.

  Tricia took two steps down and paused. She could hear Angelica speaking, but couldn’t make out the words.

  “Ange!” Tricia hollered, and hurried down the rest of the stairs and entered the shop.

  Baker stood before Angelica, hand still on the butt of the gun.

  “Trish, what’s going on?” Angelica called.

  “What are you doing here?” Tricia demanded.

  “I brought you some soup from Booked for Lunch.” She held out a large foam container with a plastic lid.

  “You better leave,” Baker told Angelica sternly. “Now!”

  Angelica’s puzzled expression instantly turned dark as her gaze took in Baker’s hand and the gun in the opened holster. “Have you threatened my sister?” she demanded.

  “Ange, no!” Tricia shouted. “Grant!”

  For a split second, Baker’s attention was drawn away from the woman in front of him. But then Angelica lunged forward, yanked the lid off the soup, and threw it at him.

  Baker let out a howl as the scalding liquid splashed onto his shirt and hand. He pivoted and rushed toward Tricia. She quickly sidestepped him as he crashed into the big steel barrier that led to the alley. But instead of coming after her, he fumbled to unlock the door.

  Angelica advanced and Tricia intercepted her, grabbing her by the coat and hauling her back toward the front of the store. But before they got there, she felt a blast of cold air as Baker finally got the back door open and escaped into the alley.

  “What’s going on?” Angelica demanded.

  “He broke into my store. He—” But she never got to finish the sentence as a single gunshot splintered the night.

  Tricia and Angelica looked at each other for a split second and then rushed toward the door to the alley. Despite her bum foot, Angelica somehow made it there before Tricia. She wrenched it open, gasped, then threw out an arm to bar her sister from exiting. “Don’t look!”

  “What do you mean?”

  Angelica pushed Tricia away from the door and slammed it shut. “Call nine one one. Now!” she commanded.

  “What happened?” Tricia demanded, a new and terrible fear crawling through her.

  Angelica shuddered and pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes as though to blot out what she’d seen. “He blew his face off.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Although it was well past eleven in the morning, the CLOSED sign hung on Haven’t Got a Clue’s door and the lights were darkened.

  Tricia had spent the rest of the terrible evening before speaking to police officers and sheriff’s deputies, counting and recounting the events leading up to Grant Baker’s suicide. But no matter how many times she told the tale, it was still hard to believe he was dead—and that he’d taken his own life.

  Poor Angelica had been a basket case. But then, she had seen the aftermath of that one fatal shot. After way too many repetitions of the evening’s events, Tricia had finally called Antonio and asked him to take Angelica home and put her to bed, although Tricia was sure her sister would have a hard time sleeping after what she’d seen, and Tricia was grateful Angelica had sheltered her from that terrible sight. She owed her sister for sparing her that. But Tricia hadn’t slept well, either. She’d ended up on her couch, the TV on, while insipid holiday movies played through the night. Christmas was over two months away, but that didn’t seem to matter. She dozed fitfully, with Miss Marple pressed to her side, her quiet purr like a balm on Tricia’s soul.

  When morning arrived, Tricia texted Pixie, told her what had happened, and closed the shop for the day. She’d still pay her employees, but she knew she couldn’t face the public . . . not just yet. And maybe after this traumatic event, she would take a short leave of absence. Martha’s Vineyard was a few hours’ drive and a ferry ride away. There’d be no bustle of tourists, and she could probably rent a house or maybe stay at one of the
hotels for a few days or a week. She could leave Haven’t Got a Clue in Pixie’s more-than-capable hands and give herself at least a few days to heal.

  She’d think about it.

  With her store closed, Tricia spent the morning puttering around her shop, not accomplishing much because she couldn’t really concentrate, but trying to keep busy nonetheless. When her cell phone rang, she glanced at the screen and saw the number belonged to the Sheriff’s Department. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Miles? This is Sheriff Wendy Adams of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Department. Would you have a few moments to speak with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “May I come to your store?”

  “When?”

  “Now. I’m standing outside your door.”

  Sure enough, Tricia looked up to see a figure standing before the door. She hurried over to it and let her guest in, turning on the lights as the sheriff entered.

  Tricia hadn’t spoken with Adams in over four years, so she was more than a little surprised to see her. “Won’t you sit down?” she asked, directing the sheriff to the reader’s nook.

  Adams took a seat there and removed her service cap, setting it on the coffee table.

  “Ms. Miles,” Adams began, “I’m very sorry you’ve been thrust into this terrible situation.”

  Tricia had never liked the sheriff because of her abrupt manner and acid tongue, but the years seemed to have tamed those tendencies.

  “Why has your department taken over the investigation?” Tricia asked.

  “The Stoneham Police Department has no detective division. Chief Baker was its only real investigator.”

  “And what have you found out?”

  “I spoke with former deputy Harvick and he corroborated that you spoke with him yesterday about your suspicions on the recent deaths in the area.”

  Tricia didn’t have the patience to listen. “Why did Grant kill himself outside my door last night?”

  “It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Adams said.

  Tricia’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “Chief Baker left a detailed accounting of his actions during the past several weeks, taking full responsibility. Apparently, he couldn’t live with what he’d done. He showed up on your doorstep because he hoped to spend one last evening with you.”