A Deadly Deletion

by Lorna Barrett

  “The shades should have warned you something was amiss,” Baker said, almost accusingly.

  “Plenty of people walk in here during the summer wearing them,” Tricia pointed out.

  “But don’t they usually take them off once inside?” he countered.

  Tricia didn’t bother answering.

  Baker decided he didn’t need to interview Mr. Everett or Pixie, as they had been at the back of the shop when the incident occurred. He did pull out his cell phone and take a few pictures, as did Tricia—Baker chronicling the evidence for the crime report, whereas Tricia needed pictures to forward to her insurance company.

  Baker withdrew a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and deposited the brick into a paper evidence bag. “I’ll send this to the state forensic lab for fingerprints, but don’t get your hopes up. It’s not likely anything will come of it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Think about it. It was a coordinated effort. The woman came in, texted her guy to let him know the coast was clear, and he struck. She disappeared. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d done this same hit-and-run deal before.”

  “But why target me?”

  Baker shrugged. “A one-in-a-million chance.”

  Tricia wasn’t sure she believed him. As he’d mentioned after the fire at Ginny’s and Antonio’s home, she and her loved ones seemed to be experiencing a period of unsettling events.

  Why was more than one someone deliberately trying to make her life miserable?

  Tricia changed the subject. “Did you get a look at the autopsy report for Joshua Greenwell? Was there gunpowder on his hands?”

  “No.”

  So, Greenwell’s death had now been officially deemed murder. “Did they determine what kind of gun killed him?”

  “What is this, an interrogation?” Baker asked.

  “You know I’m interested in such things,” Tricia insisted.

  “Now you’re just being ghoulish. It’s not your best trait.”

  Tricia ignored the insult.

  “It was a Glock. There. Are you happy?” Baker asked tartly.

  “That’s interesting.”

  “It’s actually a pretty common handgun. In fact, it’s one of the most popular guns on the market here in the US.”

  Which she already knew, proving the point, since Marshall had owned the same weapon. And it was missing. And now Tricia felt uncomfortable because . . .

  She gave herself a mental shake. She didn’t want to go there.

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “I really shouldn’t be telling you anything,” Baker said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  Ah, but he wanted to get back into her good graces. Just how much should she push him?

  “What happens now?” Tricia asked.

  He shrugged. “We keep investigating. Someone somewhere knows what went down.”

  “The killer, obviously. But he—or she—isn’t likely to volunteer that information.”

  “We’ve been poking around and have a few leads I’m not at liberty to share with you,” Baker said.

  “About Marshall’s previous lovers?”

  Baker’s eyes narrowed. “You know about that?”

  “I’m assuming you learned about it the same way I did—from Becca Chandler.”

  Baker frowned. “Yeah.”

  “Well, please make that clear to the parties involved,” Tricia said, not wanting to name names in case he was fishing. “I had no intention of outing Marshall’s former lover.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because it’s none of my business who he was with before we got together.”

  “That’s very noble of you,” Baker stated. “It seems to me that anyone with an ounce of curiosity would want to know all the juicy details. And you, of all people, have more curiosity than ninety-nine percent of the population.”

  Was he baiting her? It seemed as though he was, and she was not about to take that bait.

  “Are we done?” Tricia asked.

  “You let me know we were done last Monday night,” Baker said, his voice flat.

  Tricia shook her head. “We were done two years ago, and we both moved on. I have no idea why you’d have thought my feelings would have changed in the interim.”

  “I made a mistake.”

  Not his first, either.

  Baker gathered up the evidence and his clipboard. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Tricia said as almost an afterthought.

  Would he finally get the message she wasn’t and would never be interested in him again?

  She sure hoped so.

  With Baker off the premises, Tricia called for Pixie to come back to the shop to help her clean up the glass.

  As Tricia picked up the jagged chunks, Pixie hauled out the vacuum cleaner.

  It was going to be a long, long day.

  TWENTY-TWO

  An agitated Angelica called not long after Baker’s retreat, demanding answers, which, of course, Tricia didn’t have. She assured her sister she’d tell all later. “But we may have to cancel our lunch. I’m waiting for the emergency closure team to arrive. Mr. Everett and Pixie will need to go to lunch, and I honestly don’t want them getting chilled, although Mr. E can work down in the office for the rest of the day if he wishes to stay.”

  “I don’t want you getting chilled, either. Why don’t you close up for the day?”

  Tricia sighed. It was probably a good idea. Customers weren’t likely to shop in a store that doubled as an icebox. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Let me know about lunch later. If you can’t make it, I can open a can of tuna. But you will come for dinner, won’t you?”

  “You bet. Talk to you later.”

  Tricia spent the next hour or so pondering why anyone would want to target her or her store.

  At the top of her list of suspects: Bob Kelly. He was serving a twenty-five-year-to-life jail sentence for murder—and he blamed her for his situation. Ha! Killing a man in cold blood—in front of a myriad of witnesses—had put him behind bars, not Tricia. Although, she was the state’s star witness. The jury had taken only an hour to convict him. Still, Bob had convinced someone to target Tricia. That that person was now also in jail for the accidental death of another should have put Bob’s vengeful ideas to rest, but sometimes Tricia would wake in the night with thoughts that someone else might again seek revenge on Kelly’s behalf. Before his arrest, Bob had had many friends in Stoneham. People who felt they owed their success to him for reviving the village by establishing it as Booktown.

  And what about Marshall’s death? Tricia still strongly believed his killer could have come after him as an act of revenge on behalf of Martin Bailey.

  Both villains who’d menaced her had been strangers. Joshua Greenwell and now the man-and-woman team who’d taken out her window. Had both of them been for hire?

  Tricia pulled out her phone and did a little Internet research. After ten minutes, she had the information she needed. But she still had questions. After her conversation with Baker earlier that morning, Tricia didn’t want to ask his opinion. But there was someone else she could ask.

  Since Tricia was already wearing her coat, she grabbed her purse and phone. “I’m going to run a quick errand. I shouldn’t be gone long,” Tricia said. “Call me if the closure team shows up, will you?”

  “Sure thing,” Pixie called from the back of the store, where she and Mr. Everett were at least out of the wind.

  Tricia hurried south down Main Street and entered Stoneham’s newest shop once again.

  “Welcome back to the Bee’s Knees. What can I help you with today?”

  “Hello, Mr. Harvick. I wonder if I might bend your ear for a minute or two.”

  “Call me Larry.”
>
  “Thanks, Larry. I have a question about police procedures I was hoping you could answer.”

  Harvick shrugged. “Shoot.”

  Tricia winced. Just what she suspected might have happened.

  “My store suffered vandalism this morning.”

  “Yeah, I went to the bank earlier and couldn’t miss that gaping hole where your front window used to be.”

  “I Googled the MO,” Tricia said, noting Harvick’s skeptical expression at her nomenclature, “and found there’ve been a number of these hit-and-run brick-wielding attacks in southern New Hampshire over the past few months. It’s almost as though it’s a vandalism-for-hire type of crime. Had you ever run into anything like that during your time with the Sheriff’s Department?”

  He nodded. “More than once. Usually, they’re protection rackets. A pay-up-or-we’ll-break-your-legs kind of thing. Either that or for insurance fraud. I hadn’t heard of this specific crime, but I wouldn’t put it past someone to offer such a service. These are interesting times we live in.”

  A little too interesting for Tricia.

  “How would someone go about advertising such a service?”

  Harvick shrugged. “Word of mouth. Same as if you were looking for any kind of vandalism. Of course, if I were you, I’d be wondering who’s targeting you and why.”

  “It’s been on my mind. My niece’s home was also targeted. Arson.”

  Harvick shook his head. “I’m assuming you’ve reported all this to the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why are you asking me about it instead of Chief Baker?”

  “Let’s just say he and I don’t always get along.”

  “Uh-huh.” Harvick had probably heard about Tricia’s reputation as the village jinx—and how unlucky she was when it came to love, too. News spread quickly in a small village.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Harvick asked.

  Tricia looked around the tiny shop before deciding to buy a few more tubes of lip balm. After all, you can never have too much—not that she’d be kissing anyone anytime soon.

  At that moment, she was okay with that.

  As she passed By Hook or By Book, she heard a pounding on the window and saw Mary get up from her chair behind the cash desk, casting what looked like a crocheted baby blanket aside and running for the door.

  “I’m so glad I caught you,” Mary said, just a little breathless.

  “What’s up?”

  “Mark has called a meeting of the Chamber recruitment committee for eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Sorry it’s such short notice, but you know how he is.”

  Tricia refrained from rolling her eyes.

  “Can you make it?” Mary asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Great. I’ll see you then,” Mary said, and hurried back into her shop, and Tricia continued walking.

  The others on the committee must have spoken to all the candidates. Tricia would send texts to all those who hadn’t returned her calls. If they didn’t respond, then it was a sure bet they weren’t interested in rejoining the Chamber. No doubt they’d wait until whoever was elected the next president instilled a reasonable level of confidence in the Chamber and those who’d stuck with it. She couldn’t really blame them. If she hadn’t been an integral part of the operation during the time her store was closed, she’d have no faith in the organization, either.

  * * *

  * * *

  When she returned to Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia sent Mr. Everett home for the day, not willing to risk him catching a cold, but Pixie insisted on staying. A few curious customers dared to enter the shop but were chased away as soon as the emergency enclosure team arrived, setting up sawhorses, noisy Skilsaws, and a compressor for their nail guns.

  An hour later, the store was secured, and Pixie had made a don’t mind our mess sign on the computer to hang on the store’s glass door. Tricia had borrowed several lamps from her apartment, and while the lighting was a little more than subdued, it was also kind of cozy with so much incandescent light. Ginny wouldn’t have approved, as every time she arrived at Tricia’s apartment she would lecture her to replace the bulbs with halogen or some other more efficient lighting. Yeah, she really should do that . . . but she found that incandescent lighting was warmer. Either that or she was just stubborn.

  Pixie ducked across the street to get some take-out sandwiches and the soup of the day from Booked for Lunch and they hunkered down to eat.

  “Are we going to open tomorrow?” Pixie asked.

  Tricia sighed. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll see how the rest of the afternoon goes. I sure don’t want to lose customers—not at such an important time of the year—but we don’t look very inviting right now.”

  “Did you get an estimate on when the window can be replaced?”

  “I think I might do an Angelica and just pay for it up front and hope the insurance company writes me a check fairly soon. I’ll call the guys who replaced it last time and see if they can come tomorrow to at least give us an estimate.”

  Pixie nodded and carefully took a bite of her club sandwich, chewing on the left side of her mouth and washing the food down with a gulp of coffee.

  The door opened and both women looked up hopefully, but it was only Antonio.

  “Dear Tricia, what on earth happened to your store?”

  Tricia sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  Antonio joined them at the reader’s nook, taking the seat next to Tricia. “I have time to listen.”

  Tricia noticed that Antonio was carrying a steno pad. Was she to be the top story for his first edition of the Stoneham Weekly News?

  Tricia told him everything she knew, including her theory about who had vandalized her store earlier in the day, but leaving out the fact that she suspected Joshua Greenwell may have targeted Marshall and perhaps also torched Antonio’s home. She wondered if she should send him to speak with Larry Harvick. Yes, perhaps she would.

  Antonio listened, jotting down a few notes as she spoke. “It certainly is very worrisome,” he told her after she’d finished.

  “What other stories will you be covering in your first issue? The opening of the Bee’s Knees perhaps?”

  “Ah, yes. Patti suggested we cover that as well. Perhaps I can convince them to advertise with us.”

  “Give them front-page coverage on their opening and I’m sure they will. Starting out so late in the season, they’ll need all the locals to know they’re open for business. They have wonderful gift items—great for the holidays.”

  “Are you sure they haven’t hired you to promote their store?” Antonio asked with a grin.

  Tricia laughed. “I just want to see them succeed.”

  “As do we all. And what of the recruitment committee for the Chamber of Commerce?”

  “I’m on it,” she confirmed. “In fact, we’re having our second meeting tomorrow morning. Are you going to cover that?”

  “Sì. I have an appointment to speak to Mark Jameson this very afternoon. It seems he’s had a cancellation in his dental office.”

  Pixie gave Tricia a sidelong glance and a smug smile.

  “From what I’ve heard, that seems to happen quite a bit,” Tricia said.

  Antonio shrugged, wearing a poker face. Would he prove his journalistic prowess and probe into the reasons for the patients who fled Jameson’s practice?

  Only time would tell.

  “Have you had an opportunity to write the short death notice for your friend?” Antonio asked.

  Tricia cringed. She’d forgotten all about it. “I’ll try to get it to you before Friday.”

  Antonio nodded. “Very good.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I will let you ladies finish your lunch in peace. And I will see you on Sunday,” he told Tricia.

  “I haven’t mis
sed one of our Sunday dinners yet,” Tricia said, smiling.

  Antonio gave them a wave and headed for the door. After he was gone, Pixie plucked a potato chip from the snack bag on the table and sighed. “Ginny sure is lucky to have a swell guy like that.”

  “Yes, she is,” Tricia agreed. “But you’ve got a great guy, too.”

  Pixie grinned. “I sure do. Once you reach our age, love ain’t that easy to find.”

  Was she referring to Fred and herself or her and Tricia? Pixie had at least a decade on Tricia.

  The door opened, letting in a potential customer, and Tricia leapt to her feet. “Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. Let me know if you need any help finding a book.”

  The woman nodded.

  Tricia picked up the remnants of her lunch and retreated to the cash desk, with Pixie’s observation about love still stuck in her mind. Lately, she’d begun to think she was better off alone. At that moment, she wasn’t at all sure.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Tricia didn’t spend much time at Angelica’s apartment that evening. She felt restless and anxious about the photo shoot with Louise Jameson the next day, knowing she was going to confront the woman about her tryst with Marshall. Or she could just ignore what Becca had told her—humiliated her, really. And even before that, she’d probably clash heads with Louise’s husband, who, like more than a few people in the village, had taken a dislike to Tricia without really knowing her.

  She awoke the next morning feeling as though she lurked under a dark cloud, despite the clear blue sky that greeted her once the sun was up.

  Tricia arrived at the drafty warehouse that housed the makeshift offices of the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce precisely at eight o’clock, walking in with Mary Fairchild.

  “So, what do you think our fearless leader will have to say?” Mary muttered.

  “Who knows,” Tricia said.

  They entered the building and took their seats on the cold, plastic folding chairs. Nobody had shucked their coats, as the temperature inside matched what was outside—forty-something degrees.