A Deadly Deletion

by Lorna Barrett

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

  Tricia cringed 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 sti
ll 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.”

  “Then what? He would have shot himself in front of me?” Tricia asked, anguished.

  Adams shook her head. “No. He planned to return to the place where he’d dumped Greenwell’s body.”

  That wasn’t a much better solution. Then some hapless hiker would have found him and been just as distraught as Angelica had been after seeing his lifeless corpse.

  “The gun he used . . . it wasn’t his own, was it?” Tricia asked.

  Adams shook her head. “It was registered to Marshall Cambridge.”

  As she’d suspected, Baker had taken it when he’d searched Marshall’s apartment.

  “I believe it may have been used to kill Joshua Greenwell, too,” Tricia said.

  “We’re having it tested, but Chief Baker confessed he did use it for that purpose. He’d originally planned to dispose of the gun, but as the incidents mounted, he apparently changed his mind.”

  The deaths of five people were being described as mere incidents?

  “What happens now?” Tricia asked.

  “It’s pretty much an open-and-shut case. We tie up the loose ends and go about our business,” Adams said succinctly.

  As though Grant Baker had never lived.

  Tricia was pretty sure business as usual was going to be pretty hard to replicate in the coming weeks.

  Adams stood and reached out a hand to touch Tricia’s shoulder. “I know you once had feelings for Chief Baker. I’m sorry it had to end this way.”

  “Thank you.” What more could she say? She stood and walked Adams to the door. “Good-bye, Sheriff Adams.”

  “Good-bye, Ms. Miles.”

  Tricia closed the door behind the sheriff and headed back to her seat in the reader’s nook. She was about to sit down when the little hinged brass flap marked letters on her door opened and the daily mail was dropped inside. Tricia turned to retrieve the stack of envelopes. It consisted of bills, the usual junk mail, but one letter was addressed to her with no return address, although the handwriting was hauntingly familiar.

  She tore open the envelope and sat down to read the letter.

  Dear Tricia,

  If you’re reading this, I’m now dead. Hopefully you will have heard about it from some other source and so this letter won’t be a shock.

  I just wanted to let you know how much I love you. I had to break off my engagement with Diana because she was no match for you.

  I think I’ve loved you since the moment I met you and was too stupid and pigheaded to see that having you by my side would mean more than my career aspirations. Christopher realized it too late, and so did Russ Smith, and, I’m sure, Marshall Cambridge, too.

  I’ve left instructions but wanted to let you know that I’ve taken care of both you and Mandy.

  His ex-wife.

  Above all, I want you to be happy. Find someone to love who will truly appreciate you, because I sure failed you.

  All my love,

  Grant

  Tricia wiped a tear from her eye and set the letter on the coffee table.

  Love? she thought bitterly. The man hadn’t known the meaning of the word. If he had, he would never have put her through the terrible shades of negativity that now burdened her soul.

  So, he’d taken care of her in his will. She guessed he hadn’t noticed that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She didn’t want his money, but she knew of plenty of charities who could benefit from such a gift.

  Clearing her throat, Tricia retrieved the letter and stuffed it back into its envelope. Then she picked up her phone, tapped her contacts list, and made a call.

  “Hi, Ange. It’s me, your sister. How would you like to take a magical mystery vacation?”

  “I can be packed in twenty minutes.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Although Thanksgiving was still a week away, the Brookview Inn was already decorated for Christmas, with a twelve-foot faux fir tree in the center of the lobby, laden with sparkling gold ornaments and twinkling white lights.

  Members of the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce had filed in almost an hour earlier and enjoyed the inn’s spectacular continental breakfast, which included six different pastries, coffee, tea, cocoa, and juices, all courtesy of Nigela Ricita Associates. Leona Ferguson and Terry McDonald had been drafted to run for Chamber president, and the ballots had already been passed out, the voting completed, and collected once again. Mary Fairchild and Dan Reed had retreated to the back of the room to tabulate the votes. As much as Tricia liked Leona, she thought Terry seemed to have better managerial skills. He would need them to pull the Chamber out of its financial hole.

  The preceding weeks had been quiet, which was fine with Tricia. But life had gone on in the village, despite the events of October. Becca had taken up part-time residence in the village, splitting her time in a condo she’d rented in Milford and her home outside of Boston. Ava had become her biggest fan, and she seemed to be getting the hang of running a retail establishment. She’d even joined the Chamber.

  Tricia glanced across the room to see that Louise Jameson sat at one of the tables for eight and right beside Becca. It seemed the women had become quite friendly. They’d invited Tricia to several of their coffee klatches, but so far she’d turn
ed them down. She just wasn’t up to socializing. Not quite yet. From what she’d heard, Louise was trying to untangle the financial cat’s cradle her husband had left behind, but rumor had it she’d be successful in getting to copyright her work in her own name. That was one triumph for her.

  Ginny and Antonio sat on the other side of the table with Angelica between them. They’d been in animated conversation about the architect’s plans they’d received just the evening before, spreading out the drawings on the table and debating the pros and cons. It looked like Ginny would be the outright winner of that discussion. The original house and property had, after all, been hers.

  Tricia and Angelica had not gone to Martha’s Vineyard, but they had traveled to New York, where they’d had tea at the Ritz-Carlton, watched a couple of Broadway shows, and even visited Tiffany’s. It didn’t change what had happened, but it was a welcome respite. And by the time their week of vacation had ended, they were ready to face life in their adopted hometown once again.

  Mary had taken Mark Jameson’s place as the de facto head of the Chamber but had confided to Tricia that “I wouldn’t want this job on a permanent basis,” and was eager to hand off the responsibility to either Terry or Leona. She and Dan moved to stand at the front of the dining room, with Mary moving behind the lectern. Neither of them looked happy. Mary called the meeting to order.

  “We seem to have a problem,” she began, and adjusted the reading glasses perched on her nose. In one hand she held a piece of paper which she consulted. “It seems we have a tie.”

  “Oh, no,” Tricia groaned. The voting the year before had been so close, and now they had a tie!

  “How could that happen?” Leona called out.

  “We have fifty-two members and forty-eight of us voted today.”

  “How do we break the tie? Do we vote again?” Terry asked.

  “Well, that all depends if the write-in candidates agree to serve.”

  “Write-in candidates?” Leona asked.

  “Who are they?” Terry asked.