Book Clubbed (A Booktown Mystery)

by Lorna Barrett

  Bob bit his lip, and though he’d just come in from the cold she could see a bead of sweat forming at his left temple.

  “Why don’t you take your coat off and relax until the chief gets here.”

  “I’m not sure I can go through with this,” Bob said and began to pace in front of the cash desk.

  “Listen, Bob, you can’t keep this up. Now, you asked me to arrange this meeting—though I’m still not sure why you couldn’t have just walked over to the police station and turned yourself in—so you should at least have the gumption to follow through with your plan.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like to feel hunted. Right now I haven’t got a friend in the world.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Tricia asked.

  Bob looked close to tears. “I’ve been on the run for so long, I’ve forgotten how it feels to live like a real human being.”

  Who did he think he was? Harrison Ford in The Fugitive? The charges against him were really quite petty.

  “Bob, you’re only making things worse for yourself. Now please, sit down and relax.”

  “I guess you’re right,” he said and took a seat in the readers’ nook.

  No sooner had he sat down, when the door opened and Chief Baker entered the shop. “Tricia,” he said, tipping his hat, saw Bob sitting in the nook, and headed straight for him. “Mr. Kelly.”

  Bob stood. “You’ve got me, Chief. I’ll come along quietly,” he said, his voice filled with drama, and held out his hands, palms down, ready to be handcuffed.

  “I’m not going to cuff you,” Baker said. “If you’ll come along quietly, I’ll take you to the station, fingerprint you, and then release you on your own recognizance.”

  “You mean, I’m not going to the big house?” Bob almost sounded disappointed.

  “I highly doubt it. But you will have to answer to the charges against you. I suggest you consult an attorney.”

  “I can go home and sleep in my own bed tonight?” Bob asked.

  “You don’t have to, but you’re not staying in my jail overnight.”

  “Oh.” Bob had never looked more downhearted.

  “However, I do want to talk to you about Betsy Dittmeyer, but that should only take an extra ten or twenty minutes. With a little luck, you’ll be home in time for your dinner.”

  “Okay,” Bob said and shuffled over to the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Baker shot Tricia a parting glance. “Thanks for helping out with this.”

  “Anytime,” she said with a grin.

  No sooner had the door closed behind them when Tricia heard footfalls on the stairs. At the back of the shop, the door marked PRIVATE opened and Pixie and Mr. Everett stepped into the store. Pixie held a sheaf of papers in her hand.

  “Hey, Tricia, you’d better have a look at this updated inventory list.” She walked up to the counter and handed the small stack of pages to Tricia, who flipped through the alphabetized list.

  “This looks great, but are you sure this is the entire list?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Yep. And it includes the two boxes of stock I unpacked earlier this week, too. When was the last time you checked the storeroom for inventory?” Pixie asked.

  Tricia heaved a guilty sigh. “Christmas?” she guessed.

  “Despite it being so dead around here, we’ve actually sold a lot of books since then. Did you call that number for the estate liquidator that I gave you earlier?”

  “Shoot, with everything that’s been going on, I forgot all about it.”

  “Well, unless you want to start selling coffee instead of books, we’re in desperate need of more stock,” Pixie said.

  “You’re right. I’ll call the number first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Why wait? Do it now,” Pixie pushed.

  “You’re right, of course.” Tricia bent down and found the Post-it note, but instead of calling, she turned back to her employees. “You’re right about it being dead here today. I think I’m going to close shop early today. You guys may as well head on home.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

  “Ditto that,” Pixie said. She didn’t have to be asked twice to leave early. She did an about-face, retrieved both her own and Mr. Everett’s coats, and came back to the front of the shop.

  “By the way, I finally figured out where I know the dead lady’s sister from,” Pixie said as she shrugged into the sleeves of her coat.

  “Oh?” Tricia asked.

  “Yeah. She used to be in the same kickboxing class as me over at the fitness center up on the highway.”

  “Used to?” Tricia asked, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling.

  “I haven’t seen her there in a couple of weeks,” Pixie said and tucked her hair into her beret.

  “Did you ever speak to her during the class?”

  Pixie shook her head. “There’s like twenty broads there. Who has the time?”

  “Do the women at your class go there for self-defense or for exercise?”

  “A little of both. When you do it right, you work up a hell of a sweat. It’s a great way to keep fit. Burns a lot of calories.” She pulled on her gloves.

  Tricia felt her mouth go dry. Angelica’s door had been kicked in. The door to Betsy’s kitchen had been kicked in, too.

  “Are you sure we can’t do anything else before we leave?” Mr. Everett asked. “Vacuum, perhaps.”

  “The rug hardly needs it, as it’s essentially only been the three of us walking on it,” Tricia answered offhandedly.

  “That’s true. Well, off we go. See you tomorrow, Tricia,” Pixie said.

  Mr. Everett pulled on his leather gloves. “Good evening, Ms. Miles.”

  “Good night,” Tricia called, and shut the door, locking and bolting it. She turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED and pulled the blinds before she went back to the sales desk, where she lifted the receiver on the old phone and dialed the number Pixie had written down.

  She bit her lip with indecision. Had Baker finished dealing with Bob yet? Maybe she’d give him another ten minutes and then call to tell him what Pixie had just shared about Joelle. Was she being paranoid to hope he’d put out an all-points bulletin on the woman?

  Yes, in fact, it was just plain silly. Instead, she consulted the note Pixie had taken for checking on the collection of used books, called, and made an appointment to see them the following morning. As she hung up the phone she remembered that she and Angelica had had an appointment to look at some books six days before, but Betsy’s murder had taken precedence. Well, nothing like that could possibly happen again.

  Now that she knew Joelle wanted to get her hands on Betsy’s Bible, Tricia hefted the book back onto the sales counter and opened it to the center, thumbing past the illustrations, which included Moses parting the Red Sea, John the Baptist, and Christ’s agony on the cross. Depressing. She flipped a few more pages before coming back to the chart chronicling Betsy and Joelle’s forebears. Sure enough, she could count back far enough to their great-great-grandmother, but the chart only had space enough for four generations.

  Tricia set the handwritten chart of later generations down beside it and compared the two. Names, birth dates, and death dates didn’t tell the story of the people who were now dust. What had they been like? Doing a little math, she found that the women died young, many the same year the last of their children had been born. Had they died in childbirth? How sad.

  Tricia turned her attention back to the newer chart. Not only was there a line from John Morrison and Elizabeth Tanner flowing down to Betsy and Joelle, but another line attached John Morrison to Ruth Dittmeyer and to their son . . . who was just a year older than Betsy.

  The name?

  Gerald.

  TWENTY-ONE

  An astonished Tricia stared at th
e names before her. She tried hard to remember Jerry’s face, comparing it with her memories of Betsy. Yes, now that she knew the truth, they did share similar features. Worse, they’d had a daughter. A daughter with birth defects that had eventually caused her death. Had they known at the time of their marriage that they were half brother and sister? Betsy’s parents must have given her the Bible. Along with all her other interests, could genealogy have been one of her hobbies? Had she made the chart showing her name and that of her ex-husband, or had she paid someone else to fill in the blanks?

  It didn’t matter. And even if Betsy had made that discovery, was it worth being killed for? That was a mighty big leap of logic. And yet . . . why was Joelle so adamant that she get her hands on the book? She and Betsy hadn’t been all that close. What other reason could Joelle have had to account for her obsessive search for the Bible?

  Then Tricia remembered what Jerry Dittmeyer had said when she met him just days before: he was engaged and his lady love was expecting a child.

  Joelle and Jerry?

  No, it just didn’t seem possible. But why else would Joelle be so keen to obtain the Bible?

  Joelle was eager to plan a wedding for Tricia. Had she been planning to do the same for herself?

  Tricia studied every scrap of paper that had fluttered loose from the Bible and found nothing else of significance.

  She gathered them all up and set them aside, all but the genealogy chart. What was she supposed to do with it? Why was it so important to Joelle? Did she know the significance of what was listed on it? Betsy didn’t talk much about herself to strangers, and since she and Joelle weren’t close, would she have shared with her sister what she knew about her father’s love child?

  If Joelle and Jerry were a couple, and if she was indeed pregnant with his child, was that baby as doomed as its older cousin/sibling? Joelle was in her forties, not an optimum time of life to become pregnant.

  Had Betsy discovered that Jerry and Joelle had been doing more than just seeing each other? Did she not only feel a sense of betrayal, but fear for any child they might have? Could that be the reason she’d cut Joelle out of her will? Had Betsy ever told Jerry of their shared parentage? Could she have shared that news with one of them after finding out Joelle was pregnant? It was the perfect excuse for murder, and explained why Joelle was desperate to hide—or destroy—the evidence.

  Someone knocked on the shop door, but Tricia ignored it. Couldn’t whoever it was read the sign that said the store was closed?

  She stared at the paper before her. Should she call Chief Baker, telling him what she knew, or sit on it for a day or two and hope there was another, more viable suspect in Betsy’s death?

  The knock came again, harder this time.

  “We’re closed!” Tricia called.

  Miss Marple stood up from her perch behind the register, looking nervous. Tricia looked over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Miss Marple, we aren’t going to let that person in.”

  “Open up!” a male voice demanded. Even muffled, Tricia was pretty sure she recognized it: Jerry Dittmeyer.

  Uneasy, Tricia picked up the phone and dialed the Stoneham police station. The knocking grew louder still, and then Tricia realized Jerry wasn’t knocking, he was kicking the door. Miss Marple jumped down from her perch and ran to the readers’ nook, hiding under one of the chairs.

  “Please state the nature of your emergency,” came Polly’s dispassionate voice.

  “Send someone quick! Somebody’s breaking down my door.”

  “Remain calm,” Polly said, sounding a little bored. “What’s your name and address?”

  “You know darn well it’s Tricia Miles, 221 Main Street in Stoneham—” But before she could say anything more, the door flew open, and Jerry barreled in, with Joelle right behind him.

  The wind came roaring in with them, sending all the papers on top of the cash desk flying.

  “There it is!” Joelle hollered, advancing on Tricia.

  Tricia grabbed the book and shoved it under the cash desk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The hell you don’t. Give it to me, it’s mine,” Joelle screamed.

  “Give her what she wants,” Jerry said, “and there won’t be any more trouble.”

  “You’ve already kicked my door in. That’s trouble enough, and I intend to press charges.”

  Joelle didn’t seem concerned and stamped up to the back of the cash desk, cornering Tricia. For a moment, Tricia thought Joelle was going to hit her, but instead she grabbed the Bible, carelessly holding it over the cash desk, and proceeded to shake it, but no papers fell from its pages. Tricia had already removed them all. For something that was supposedly so precious to her, Joelle treated the old book roughly. She let it drop on the counter with a loud thump, and turned crazed eyes on Tricia. “Where is it?”

  “Where is what?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. Betsy told me her deepest secret was hidden in this Bible. She told me I’d never find it, and she was right. How could I know she stored her crap in that rental house? You must have taken what was inside it. Where is it? Give it to me!”

  Tricia knew exactly where the missing genealogy chart was—on the floor right behind Joelle—but she had no intention of telling her.

  “What is it you’re looking for, Jo?” a nervous Jerry demanded, circling behind Joelle to stand next to the chart.

  “I’m not sure. But Betsy threatened to use it against me.”

  “So what? She’s dead. Let’s go. I’m already in trouble for kicking in this door. I’m not going to jail for something so petty.”

  Joelle seemed ready to burst into tears.

  It was then Jerry caught sight of the folded paper on the floor. Tricia shoved Joelle aside and made a grab for it, but Jerry intercepted her and sent her flying backward. Before she could right herself, in a flash, Jerry unfolded it, realized its significance, and pulled a lighter from his jacket pocket. He lit it.

  “Jerry, no!” Joelle shrieked as Jerry backed up a couple of steps until he was free from the cash desk. He held the paper in the air, his expression triumphant.

  “Don’t be stupid, Jerry,” Tricia cried. “You might burn that piece of paper, but it won’t be hard to re-create it. It’s based on public records.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Jerry, stop it,” Joelle cried. “You’re being irrational. Let’s get out of here before the cops show up.”

  “That’s right, Jerry. I called them when you started kicking in my door.”

  So where on earth were they?

  Joelle lunged forward, but Jerry backed up several steps. “Give me that paper,” she demanded.

  “No!” Jerry cried.

  Joelle made a grab for it and Jerry fell backward over Sarah Jane’s carriage, landing on his rear end. With a harsh whoosh, the dried faux leather that covered the old doll carriage burst into flames like a torch. Jerry sat there, stunned, staring at the flames, while Joelle made a mad grab for what was left of the paper—then screamed.

  “I’m on fire!” Joelle cried, shaking her arm in the air, which only caused the flames to grow.

  Instead of leaping forward to help her, Jerry backed up, looking terrified.

  “Jerry—help me. Help me!” Joelle shrieked.

  Sarah Jane was engulfed in flames, her head melting before Tricia’s eyes. She righted herself and lunged forward, shoving a screaming Joelle onto the carpet. She pushed her, rolling her over and over across the floor for what seemed like endless moments until Joelle crashed into the back of one of the upholstered chairs in the nook. At last, the flames were extinguished.

  “Jerry, help me get her out of here,” Tricia called, but when she looked up she saw that Jerry had disappeared. The shop door was open, and the cold wind that whistled through it fed the fire. She could feel the blistering
heat on her back.

  Joelle’s coat sleeve was gone, her flesh glistening from the burns. A frantic Tricia grabbed her under her arm, causing her to scream, and hauled her to her feet, dragging her toward the exit. The air was already foul with smoke and Tricia coughed as she pulled Joelle out of the burning store.

  Once outside, Tricia saw several people standing on the sidewalk, gawking.

  “What happened?” Mary Fairchild, Tricia’s next-door neighbor asked, looking terrified.

  “Jerry Dittmeyer set my store on fire. Call 911.”

  “Thank God you’re safe,” Mary cried as Tricia pushed a reeling Joelle at her.

  Tricia gulped fresh air, which seemed to clear her head, and she was seized with a terrible thought. “Miss Marple!” she cried and turned back to the shop door.

  “You can’t go back in there,” cried Michele Fowler, who had suddenly appeared on the scene, with her cell phone in one hand and grabbing Tricia’s arm with the other.

  “The hell I can’t,” Tricia said, twisted away, and plunged into the smoke-filled store once again.

  If the lights were still on, Tricia couldn’t tell; the thick black smoke was a smothering curtain. She dropped to her knees and, coughing all the way, began to crawl to the readers’ nook, where she’d last seen her beloved cat. She pawed under each of the chairs, but couldn’t find the cat. “Miss Marple, Miss Marple!” she cried, and was seized with a terrible coughing fit. Pulling the neck of her sweater up over her mouth and nose, Tricia began to crawl around the floor. Where could the cat be? Had she run to the washroom? Could she have escaped out the open door to safety?

  “Miss Marple, please come out!” Tricia wailed, but she doubted the cat would even be able to hear her over the roar of the fire. There was nothing left of Sarah Jane’s carriage, and flames licked the south wall and several shelves of vintage mysteries. Too stunned to even cry, Tricia knew she had to get out of the store before she was overcome by the smoke. But she’d never forgive herself if she saved herself and left Miss Marple to die.

  She inched her way across the rug, losing track of where she was in all the smoke, and smashed her forehead into the side of the cash desk. Blood cascaded from the wound and into her eyes, but she had only one thought on her mind—to find her cat.