Book Clubbed (A Booktown Mystery)

by Lorna Barrett

  Tricia awoke with a start, breathless and sweating, and realized the phone was ringing. She grabbed it.

  “You asked me to keep you posted,” said a man’s familiar voice.

  “Posted?” she repeated dully.

  “If anything broke on the Dittmeyer case.”

  “And?” she demanded, finally recognizing the voice as Russ’s.

  “I just heard on the police scanner that her house is on fire.”

  “Fire?” Tricia repeated, this time in shock.

  “Fully engulfed. Do you want to have a look? There’s nothing like a good fire,” he said eagerly.

  “I can be dressed in two minutes.”

  “Make it three, and I’ll pick you up.”

  “But what—” She didn’t get to finish her sentence, as Russ had already hung up.

  What was Nikki going to think about him taking her to a fire at—she glanced at her bedside clock—two in the morning? She’d no doubt find out later.

  Throwing back the covers, and disturbing a perturbed-looking Miss Marple, Tricia jumped out of bed and raced to get dressed, putting on four layers of clothes. She had a feeling they might be standing in the cold for several hours and was determined to be prepared.

  Tricia was bundled up in her heaviest coat and warmest hat and gloves, her feet encased in two pairs of heavy socks and boots, waiting on the sidewalk outside of Haven’t Got a Clue when Russ’s battered pickup truck pulled up to the curb. She hopped in and Russ took off with tires spinning.

  “What were you doing listening to the police scanner at this time of night?” Tricia asked as she fastened her seat belt.

  “Unlike you, Nikki finds it rather soothing to fall asleep to.”

  Tricia frowned in disbelief. “I don’t think Nikki would be happy to hear you’re comparing us in quite that way. And, in fact, isn’t she going to be annoyed when she finds out you took me to a fire?”

  “Hey, she suggested it.”

  Tricia raised an eyebrow. “As I recall, in the not-so-distant past she was jealous of any time you spent with me—including talking on the phone.”

  “I guess she finally got it through her head that you and I are a thing of the past.”

  That was certainly true, although his replacement—Grant Baker—sometimes didn’t seem to get it. Don’t think like that, she chided herself. Angelica was right. Her list of life goals didn’t necessarily include a man. She missed the kind of intimacy she’d shared with Christopher, but neither Russ nor Baker had been a real contender when it came to comparisons to him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to dwell on that thought, either.

  “Although,” Russ offered after a long pause, “she probably hasn’t heard that you and Chief Baker are on the outs.”

  “Who says we are?”

  “Word on the street is that you turned down his Valentine’s Day invitation.”

  “Oh, that,” she said, hoping to make light of the subject. “It’s Mr. Everett’s birthday and Grace is throwing him a surprise party.”

  “And you couldn’t bring a date?” Russ asked.

  “Grant’s working on the Dittmeyer case.”

  “He couldn’t take an evening off to be with you?” Russ pushed.

  Tricia shrugged.

  “It sounds like you’re making excuses for him.”

  Tricia shrugged again. “I’ve had enough dates canceled not to expect much,” she said and hoped he’d drop the subject. She stared straight ahead, watching the portion of road revealed by the truck’s headlights speed by.

  Not only were the streets of Stoneham devoid of traffic, but Milford was just as quiet, which made the muffler on Russ’s pickup sound even more obnoxious. That is, until they approached Vintage Road, which had been closed off at Nashua Street, with the police refusing to let them enter—even on foot. But Russ was an old newshound. After parking the truck at the same strip mall Angelica had days earlier, he led Tricia down the block, where they turned and hurried to the cross street. The smell of smoke was thick and they could see flames reaching into the sky.

  “It must be one hell of a fire,” Russ said as they neared, joining neighbors who had clustered to rubberneck along the police barricade. Tricia recognized one of them: Betsy’s next-door neighbor, Margaret Westbrook.

  “Margaret! Margaret!” she called. The older woman looked around, spied Tricia, and waved. Tricia wormed her way through the others until she was standing next to the woman.

  “Tricia! What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?”

  “I was—” Tricia’s mind raced. “On a date,” she fibbed, just as Russ arrived at her side. “This is my friend Russ. Russ, this is Margaret Westbrook, Betsy’s next-door neighbor.”

  Russ’s eyebrows shot into his thinning hairline, and his grin of pleasure was positively creepy at their stroke of luck. Tricia fought the urge to give him a dig in the ribs with her elbow and holler, Down boy!

  “What happened?” Russ asked and for once he didn’t have his usual steno pad at hand.

  “One of the neighbors was awakened by her dog. When she went to let him out, she smelled the smoke and saw the fire. Soon after, the police were knocking on my door and told me I had to evacuate.” She turned her worried eyes back to the fire. “Isn’t this awful? What if I lose my home? Everything I own is inside. All my photos of my dead parents and husband, my jewelry, and—oh, just everything!” Her bottom lip trembled and Tricia put an arm around the woman’s shoulder, hoping she felt less alone . . . as foolish as that sounded, for she barely knew Tricia.

  “I’m sure the firefighters will do their best to save it.” The words seemed terribly inadequate in the face of what might lie ahead for poor Margaret.

  “They say it might be arson. Poor Mrs. Dittmeyer was murdered and now someone has set her house on fire? What is this world coming to?” Margaret pleaded.

  Russ tapped Tricia’s arm. “You stay with her. I’ll see if I can find out anything.”

  Tricia nodded.

  “Oh, thank you!” Margaret called to Russ’s quickly retreating back. Russ probably knew all the firefighters and Milford cops and Tricia knew he’d bug anyone he thought had information until he found out what was going on.

  Tricia watched a team of firefighters who stood in Betsy’s driveway battling the fire, wrestling with a long hose that trailed behind them to a hydrant somewhere down the street. They aimed a fierce stream of water at the flames, which seemed to finally be calming down, but it seemed to cause the smoke to become even thicker.

  Silent tears traced a line down Margaret’s weathered cheeks and every few seconds she let out quavering breaths. It nearly broke Tricia’s heart to have to witness her distress, and all they could do was stand there and watch Betsy Dittmeyer’s pitiful treasures feed the fire until there was very little left.

  * * *

  It was after five when Russ dropped Tricia off at Haven’t Got a Clue. She found a worried Miss Marple sitting behind the loft’s door. The cat immediately rose to her feet, scolding Tricia for leaving her alone in the middle of the night and disrupting her regular routine. But when Tricia slipped between the cool sheets of her bed, Miss Marple attached herself to Tricia’s chest like a barnacle, purring so loudly Tricia was sure she’d never fall back to sleep. But sleep she did, and heavily. And when the alarm went off at its usual time she felt logy, wishing she had another couple of hours before she had to face the new day.

  There was no way Tricia was going to run four miles on her treadmill, and she spent the extra time washing and rewashing her hair, which had picked up an unpleasant smoky odor. She tossed the clothes she’d worn the night before in the washer, too. That particular jacket was getting quite a workout that week.

  Once dressed, Tricia fed Miss Marple and remembered that days before she’d promised Nikki she’d patronize the Patisserie. It might also be a g
ood time to find out if Nikki actually had encouraged Russ to take her along to see the fire. Tricia locked her apartment door and she and Miss Marple went down to the shop. Tricia grabbed her coat and hat and headed for the bakery.

  As before, there were no other customers when Tricia entered the shop. The door buzzed, and seconds later Nikki appeared from the back room. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she seemed to droop as she walked. Was her exhaustion caused by her pregnancy or from arguing with Russ about the baby?

  “Oh, Tricia, it’s you. Thanks for stopping by.”

  “It feels like a Danish type of morning. Do you have any out back?” Tricia asked, noting the refrigerated case had very few pastries on display.

  Nikki frowned and shook her head. “There hasn’t been much call for them lately. I’m trying to stock only what sells. I’ve got chocolate cupcakes and blueberry muffins.”

  “I’ll take a couple of muffins. And how about a dozen thumbprint cookies?”

  “Sorry. I’ve only got chocolate chip.”

  “I’ll take of dozen of them,” Tricia said, knowing Pixie would be ready and willing to polish off at least half of them.

  “I really appreciate you stopping by,” Nikki said again as she bagged Tricia’s order.

  “I hope you weren’t angry that Russ invited me to the fire last night.”

  Nikki shrugged. “You wouldn’t believe how many times he rushes out after hearing something on that damn police scanner. But I guess that’s what you get when you marry a newsman.”

  Tricia nodded. “It was terrible. I’d never seen a working fire before—except on TV. Betsy Dittmeyer’s next-door neighbor was beside herself with worry. Luckily she only lost a few of her shrubs to the fire. It could have been so much worse.”

  “Russ said Betsy was a hoarder, and that there was a lot of combustible stuff in her house.”

  “And that the cause was most certainly arson,” Tricia added.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Nikki asked, setting the bakery bags on top of the counter.

  Tricia had a couple of ideas but didn’t think it would be prudent to discuss them with Nikki. “Are you feeling better?” she asked instead.

  “Physically or emotionally?” Nikki asked. She sounded like at any moment she might burst into tears.

  “Both.”

  “I haven’t had morning sickness these past few days, but Russ and I still can’t see eye to eye on my not working after the baby comes.”

  “Deborah Black used to bring little Davey into work with her.”

  “She didn’t have dangerous machinery in her back room,” Nikki said.

  Tricia hadn’t thought of that. “I’m sure everything will work out.”

  “I sure hope you’re right.” Nikki rang up the sale.

  Tricia paid and picked up the bags. “I’ll see you soon,” she said as she headed out the door.

  Again she crossed the street for the Coffee Bean, bought two coffees, and stopped at the Happy Domestic. Ginny was seated at a stool behind the main counter, tagging merchandise. She looked up when Tricia knocked.

  “Didn’t I see you not ten hours ago?” Ginny asked when she opened the door.

  “You did,” Tricia said, settling her purchases on the cash desk. “And it feels like it was a million years ago.”

  Ginny eyed her friend. “You look really tired. We could go sit in the back,” Ginny offered, but Tricia shook her head.

  “I’m fine standing.” She passed the decaf coffee to Ginny. “Did you hear Betsy Dittmeyer’s house burned last night?”

  “No,” Ginny said, sounding shocked.

  Tricia nodded grimly. “It looks like it was arson.”

  “Wow. Do you think whoever killed her burned her house, too?”

  Tricia shrugged. “It could just be a coincidence.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  Tricia shook her head and took a sip of her coffee. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk much last night.”

  “Digging through boxes of junk wasn’t my idea of a fun evening. But if I hadn’t gone along with Antonio I’d have been miserable at home without him.”

  “I love hearing that you two are so happy,” Tricia said, wishing Nikki and Russ would experience a little more joy in their marriage. “I take it you still haven’t told him about the baby.” She opened the bakery bag, taking out the muffins.

  Ginny shook her head. “The timing hasn’t been right. I thought I’d wait until the weekend to tell him.”

  “Speaking of the weekend, have you spoken to Grace about Friday night?”

  “No, why?” Ginny asked, removing the paper from her muffin.

  “It seems Mr. Everett has never had a real birthday party, and she’d like to give him one on Friday night.”

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “I’m surprised Antonio hasn’t mentioned it to you. I believe Grace spoke to him about the reservation at the Brookview.”

  “He’s had so much on his mind lately, I’m not surprised he forgot. Who’s invited?”

  “You, Antonio, Pixie, and me.”

  “Gee, that’s an awfully small party.”

  “She thought we could all go to dinner and celebrate.”

  Ginny’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t Friday Valentine’s Day?”

  “That is Mr. Everett’s birthday.”

  Ginny frowned and paused in her work. “Oh. I was kind of looking forward to a romantic evening with Antonio. After all, it might be our last. I’ve heard romance is a thing of the past once kids enter the picture. I sort of decided Valentine’s Day might be the best time to tell him the good news.” She sounded anything but happy about the announcement.

  “I hadn’t thought about the romantic aspect of the day, probably because I had no plans and I doubt Pixie does, either. Would you like me to ask Grace to postpone the dinner until Saturday?”

  “Oh, no. That wouldn’t be fair to Mr. Everett. At his age, who knows how many more birthdays he’ll have. I’ll call Antonio later this morning and run it by him. I’m sure he won’t mind. We can have our dinner a day later. By then a heart-shaped box of chocolates will sell for half price. Maybe he’ll even buy me two of them,” she added hopefully.

  Tricia smiled. Trust Ginny to look at the bright side of things.

  “You didn’t mention Angelica as being on Grace’s guest list. Is there a reason she isn’t invited to Mr. Everett’s party?”

  Tricia shrugged, removing the paper wrapper from her muffin. “Sorry. She wasn’t on the original list, but she had me ask if she could come and, of course, Grace was happy to include her. Now that she and Bob are history, I don’t think Angelica was looking forward to being alone on Valentine’s Day.”

  “Bob certainly left her with a mess with the Chamber of Commerce,” Ginny said and took a bite of her muffin.

  “That he did. And it seems Bob’s been among the missing lately. I’ve been trying to track him down to ask what he knows about Betsy Dittmeyer. After all, he worked with her for two years.”

  “I never got the sense that she shared much with anybody. And let’s face it, unless there’s some kind of financial angle, Bob isn’t much interested in being friendly to people in general, either. At least that’s the impression I always got. To tell you the truth, I could never figure out what Angelica saw in him.”

  “I hear you,” Tricia agreed.

  “Although I must say Bob’s been nicer to me since I started managing the Happy Domestic,” Ginny said.

  “Paying your rent on time probably has a lot to do with that,” Tricia agreed. “I’m not sure Deborah always did.” She sipped her coffee. “Are you looking forward to tonight?”

  Ginny shook her head and sighed. “I can’t say pawing through a dead woman’s junk is all that interesting.”

  “But
what about all that money?” Tricia asked.

  “I’d probably be more interested if I got to keep it, but Antonio was absolutely thrilled. He couldn’t wait to talk to his stepmother about it this morning. I guess NRA paid more than market value for the house, so finding that money takes the sting out of it.”

  “I still can’t understand why Betsy didn’t pay the rent she owed and reclaim the boxes that held the money. How does one forget forty-four thousand dollars?” Tricia sampled her muffin. Good! No doubt about it, Nikki made one heck of a good product—no matter what she baked.

  “And where on earth did Betsy get that kind of money? And while it looks like she had it, she sure didn’t flaunt it. Not the way she dressed, or the car she drove.”

  “I agree.” Betsy seemed to favor big ugly sweaters and matronly dresses. And Tricia never saw her wear anything but scuffed penny loafers.

  Ginny looked pensive. “Don’t you think all that cash had to be ill-gotten gain?”

  “Are you thinking she sold drugs or something?” Tricia asked.

  “Dealers do run a cash-only operation,” Ginny pointed out. “I wonder if Antonio should get it tested for cocaine residue.”

  “You’ve been reading too many police procedurals,” Tricia said.

  “Well, you were my bad influence in that respect.”

  Tricia broke off another piece of muffin and shook her head. “I can’t see Betsy involved in the drug trade. Someone would have noticed people hanging around her home. I spoke with one of her neighbors and was told she pretty much kept to herself.”

  “Blackmail?” Ginny guessed.

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” Tricia said, but didn’t go into why.