A car rolled by, its headlights cutting through the darkness and then receding into the gloom.
Suddenly the figure darted out-its arms raised above its head-and hurled something round into the street.
The pumpkin exploded onto the asphalt. Tricia stared at the resulting mess, entranced-and missed seeing where the figure went.
She watched and waited as another car drove past, skirting what was now just refuse.
After a good five minutes with no other sign of the vandal, she pulled the cord and the curtains closed across the bank of windows. Even with them closed, Tricia decided not to turn on her bedside lamp. As she undressed and got ready for bed in the dark, she kept thinking about the demolished jack-o’-lantern, wondering if the shooter and the vandal could be the same person. She also contemplated the holes in her bedroom window, and worried what her caller’s next move would be.
THIRTEEN
“Ms. Miles,” Captain Baker said firmly, “you should have called the Sheriff’s Department as soon as someone shot at your windows. We’re here to protect the citizens of Stoneham.”
Tricia glanced out the front window of Haven’t Got a Clue to where Baker’s cruiser was parked. “I’ve always wondered about that. The other towns around here all have their own police departments. Why does Stoneham depend on the Sheriff’s Department for protection?”
“The Board of Selectmen dissolved the Stoneham Village Police during the early 1990s, when the village was going broke. They never voted to reinstate it. But that’s beside the point. You should have called us last night.”
“What for? By the time a deputy arrived, the shooter would’ve been long gone.” Tricia sounded a whole lot braver than she’d felt the night before, and she’d spent a good part of the night lying in bed and worrying. “Besides,” she continued, “I haven’t had a very warm reception from the Sheriff’s Department in the past.”
“I know about your past difficulties with Sheriff Adams. That’s why I’m investigating Pamela Fredericks’s murder. I want you to call my office-day or night-if you have anything to report. If there’s an emergency, they can get hold of me in a matter of minutes.”
Tricia exhaled a breath. “Okay. As a matter of fact, I do have something else to report. For the last couple of days I’ve been receiving”-she hesitated; they weren’t really threatening calls-“annoying phone calls.”
Baker’s eyes narrowed. “How many have you received?”
Tricia shrugged. “Eight or ten.” Her voice grew softer, as though she expected a rebuke. “Maybe more.”
Baker looked ready to explode. “I don’t suppose you saved any of them,” he managed through gritted teeth.
“Just one. It’s on my home answering machine.”
“Is that a different number from the shop?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you’re listed in the phone book as well.”
“Just under my last name and first initial. But it’s a P for Patricia, not T, and everyone around here knows me as Tricia.”
“It doesn’t matter, if the caller knows your address. Now, do you mind if I listen to this call?”
“Not at all. I’ll show you the holes in my window, as well. If you’ll follow me.”
Baker grabbed his hat from the store’s sales counter and followed Tricia to the back of the shop. Miss Marple scampered ahead of them. She wasn’t about to be left behind with Ginny when she could follow Tricia upstairs and perhaps have an extra helping of cat cookies.
Tricia unlocked the apartment door and preceded Baker inside, with Miss Marple scooting in ahead of both of them. She jumped onto one of the kitchen stools and gave a sharp “Yow!”
“You don’t need a treat right now,” Tricia told her, and the disgruntled cat sat on her haunches and glared at her owner.
Baker looked around the converted loft space. “Nice.”
“Thank you.” Tricia held out her hand, indicating the way. “The window with the BB holes overlooks the street.”
Tricia led the way to her bedroom, glad she’d made the bed, and even dusted the nightstand, earlier that morning.
“Nice place,” Baker said, eying the space, his glance landing on the queen-sized bed, where it seemed to stay for far too long.
“The window,” Tricia prompted, indicating the glass across the way.
Baker shook his head, becoming all business once again. He moved to the window to examine the damage, and then shifted his gaze to take in the rooftops across the way. “The perfect vantage point.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“You ought to keep your curtains shut for the time being.”
“I did close them last night.”
He reached for the traverse cord. “Daytime, too,” he said as the drapes closed. The light grew dim, and the room seemed to shrink.
“I also saw something else last night.”
“Oh?”
“The person who’s been smashing pumpkins.”
“When was this?”
“Just after the shots were fired. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman-or a teenager. Just that the person was”-she paused, realizing what it was she’d seen the night before, but that hadn’t registered until this moment-“chunky.”
Baker frowned. “A fat vandal? You’re saying it wasn’t a kid?”
Tricia shrugged. “They say that thirty-three percent of today’s youth are overweight-to-obese,” she offered. “The person was dressed all in black. He or she raised the pumpkin over his or her head and then-splat!”
“Splat,” he repeated with no inflection.
She nodded.
“I want you to know I have looked into this pumpkin vandalism, and I can tell you that not one parent or homeowner in Stoneham has reported any stolen or smashed pumpkins.”
“No one?” she repeated in disbelief. “Then why…?”
“I have no answer. Now, where’s that answering machine of yours?” Baker asked.
“It’s actually part of my phone.” Tricia led the way back to the kitchen. She stepped over to the counter and pressed the Play button.
“Tricia? It’s Russ. I’m sorry about the way things went the other night. I still care about you. I think we should talk. Please call me.”
Beep!
Tricia stared at the Play button her finger still hovered over. If she’d known that message was there, she would never have played it for Captain Baker.
He cleared his throat. “I take it that wasn’t the message you wanted me to hear.”
Tricia pressed the Delete button. “No, it wasn’t.”
“And this Russ is?”
“Russ Smith, the editor of the Stoneham Weekly News. We used to be… friends.”
Baker nodded. “I see.”
Tricia wasn’t about to let on that the message had rattled her. She pressed the Play button again. This time, the draggy voice came out of the little speaker, sounding tinny and not at all threatening in the electric light of her drape-drawn day.
“Where’s this diary? Do you have it?” Baker asked when the message had ended.
“I have no idea! I don’t know what diary the person is talking about, and I certainly don’t have it. The caller might be referring to a diary belonging to Pammy Fredericks. But if she had one, I never saw it.”
“There wasn’t a diary with her personal effects in her car, either.”
“She did leave a box of books here, but they were pretty old-mostly mainstream paperback fiction. I gave them to the Stoneham Library for their used book sale.”
“You what?”
Tricia shrugged. “They weren’t worth anything. I mean, Pammy was dead. What good were they to her?”
“You should have told me about them,” Baker said sternly. “We could have gone through them, maybe found something to help us in our investigation.”
“Captain, I sell used books-take it from me, they were yard-sale castoffs, or something she got from digging through someone’s garbage. They were
n’t worth anything.”
“When was the sale?” he demanded.
“It won’t happen until the end of the month.”
“Then maybe it’s not too late. Perhaps the head librarian can help me.”
“Lois Kerr is great, but there must have been twenty or thirty boxes of books in her conference room. I doubt she’d remember which box I brought in.”
“Would you remember?”
Tricia hesitated. The box had been nondescript, but she might remember some of the titles. “Maybe.”
Baker grabbed her by the elbow and hauled her toward the door leading to the stairs and the bookstore beyond them. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“But I have a business to run!”
“I have a murder to investigate, and I need your help to do it.”
Tricia grimaced and yanked back her arm. “You sure know how to sweet-talk a girl.”
Lois Kerr stood at the threshold of the Stoneham Library’s conference room and frowned. “As you can see, Captain Baker, our patrons have been very generous with their donations for our fund-raiser.”
Generous wasn’t the word. Since Tricia had dropped off Pammy’s box of books several days before, an additional twenty or thirty cartons of old books had been added to the small room.
“I’m afraid I don’t remember which box was yours, Tricia,” Lois admitted.
Captain Baker did not look pleased. He sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose at the scent of old paper and mildew. “Ladies, you have your work cut out for you.”
“What do you mean we have our work cut out for us?” Tricia demanded.
“You’re going to dig through this pile of books until you find those that belonged to Ms. Fredericks.”
“Excuse me, Captain, but I have a meeting with Select-man Tim Powers in exactly ten minutes. And as you can see”-Lois waved a hand at her neat tweed suit-“I’m simply not dressed for the task.”
“Neither am I,” Tricia protested.
“I pressed this myself,” Baker said, jerking a thumb at his uniform blouse, “but it looks like I’ll have to get it wrinkled. Your home is right above your shop, Ms. Miles; you’ll be able to change as soon as you get back, if need be. And the quicker we find that box of books, the quicker you’ll get to return to your store.”
Lois flashed an embarrassed smile. “I’ll just leave you two to your work,” she said, and backed away from the conference room.
Tricia exhaled a long, annoyed breath, her gaze traveling up and down the stacked cartons. “We’ll have to move all these boxes to get to the stuff that was donated before Wednesday.”
“How do you know your box isn’t in the front row? I think you should look at each and every box to make sure it hasn’t been relocated since you dumped it off.”
“I did not dump the box here. I brought it in and placed it on the pile. I thought I was doing a charitable thing, not hindering your investigation.”
Baker opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it, apparently thinking better of it.
“Why don’t we start sorting through the piles? The sooner we get at it, the sooner we can both go back to work.”
He was trying and-if she was honest with herself-succeeding at treating her with more respect than Sheriff Adams ever had.
Tricia pushed up the sleeves of her sweater and sighed. “Okay.”
She stepped into the conference room and grabbed the first carton of books, staggering under its weight.
“Hold on,” Baker called, rushing up to her and taking the box from her. “I didn’t mean you should have to cart all these boxes around by yourself. I’ll put them on the table and you can go through them, okay?”
Chivalry was not dead after all. “That would be fine,” Tricia said.
They set to work. One by one, Captain Baker shifted the boxes, Tricia unfolded the interlocking flaps, looked inside each one, and pushed it aside.
“I’m really sorry you’re losing your morning to this,” Tricia said after ten minutes had gone by and they’d shifted at least as many boxes. “I really didn’t think the books would hold any value for you. They’re just old books.”
“Is that how you feel about the books in your shop?”
“Of course not. They’re mysteries.”
Baker laughed. “Ms. Miles, I do believe you’re a snob.”
Tricia looked up sharply. “I am not.”
“Then why don’t books other than mysteries intrigue you?”
“I never said that.” She folded the flaps in on another box, pushing it aside on the table. “I do read other genres. My sister has been working on a new cookbook. I’m helping her edit it. I can also repair books-although I haven’t had the time to do it since I opened my shop. Not only have I read the classics, from Shakespeare to Tolstoy, but every Harry Potter book, too.”
“I stand corrected,” Baker said, the hint of a smile gracing his lips, and placed another box of books on the table beside her.
Tricia opened the box, took out several books, and looked through the contents. She spied a copy of The Three Roads by Kenneth Millar-otherwise known as Ross MacDonald-and flipped open the cover, thumbing to the copyright page. She froze, her heart pounding. Yes! A first edition. The dust cover had a couple of nicks and wrinkles, but it was in very good condition-something a collector, not unlike herself, would covet.
She carefully set the book aside. Would Lois let her buy some of these books before the sale? She’d have to ask… and, she decided, she’d pay a bit more attention as she went through the rest of the boxes. There could be many more surprises.
“You forgot to put that book back in the box,” Baker commented.
Tricia feigned surprise. “Did I?”
“Yes.”
Tricia met his gaze. “I don’t think so. May I have another box, please?”
Baker took the box she’d just pushed aside, set it on the floor by the other cartons she’d already inspected, and picked up a new one for Tricia to look at. She opened the flaps. “And what is it you read for pleasure, Captain Baker?”
“Certainly not mysteries. They’re a little too close to what I do for a living. When I read, I want to relax, not feel like I’m doing homework.”
“Then I take it true crime is out, too?”
“Definitely. Don’t laugh, but I actually do read cookbooks.”
“Why should I laugh? Most of the greatest chefs in the world are men. Probably because it’s women who have to do the drudge work at home.”
“Ah, you’re a feminist, too?” he asked.
She turned a level glare at him. “Some people don’t like that word.”
“Do you?”
“I think it’s rather a tribute.”
“Why’s that?”
“Let’s just say I don’t like to see women treated as second-class citizens. How do you feel about reporting to a woman?”
The captain’s expression grew somber. “My boss was elected to the job. If she’d come up through the ranks…” He didn’t have to say any more.
Tricia finished with another box. “What do you make?”
He leaned in closer. “I beg your pardon?”
“What kind of food do you like to cook?” she clarified. “Barbecue?”
He frowned. “Now who’s making assumptions?” He didn’t wait for a reply, and plowed ahead. “As it happens, I’m rather good at baking. After all, my name is Baker.”
“What do you bake?”
“Bread, mostly. My grandmother taught me. Do you cook?”
“Not unless I have to. My sister got all the cooking talent in our family. That’s why she opened a café.”
“And has a cookbook about to be published,” he added. “From Penguin. In June. Easy-Does-It Cooking,” he recited from memory.
Tricia laughed. “Exactly.”
She pushed aside yet another box. The captain moved it to the discard pile and gave her another.
“By the way, Captain; did you get a call from the Stoneha
m post office?”
“No. Why?”
“Because, they’re holding a letter there addressed to Pammy, in care of General Delivery.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he asked sharply.
“I only found out yesterday. I did encourage the clerk to call you. I guess he didn’t feel it was necessary. I hope he hasn’t had it returned to its sender.”
“I’ll check into it as soon as I leave here. Thank you for mentioning it.”
Tricia nodded and opened the flaps on the next box. She recognized several of the titles. “This is it.”
Baker whirled round. “Don’t touch the books.”
“Why not? I’ve already handled them. And it’s unlikely you’ll find any decent fingerprints. Besides, it was Pammy who handled these books before me, not my mysterious caller.”
“Just the same,” he said, taking custody of the box and moving it away from her. He carefully folded the carton’s flaps back in.
“Since you intend to take those books away, don’t you think you should make a donation to the library?”
“My tax dollars are my donation.”
“Yes, but the library wouldn’t have to hold book sales if our tax dollars better supported it.”
“Hey, you’re a bookseller. The library is your competition.”
“I deal in mostly used, out-of-print, and hard-to-find mysteries. Collectors are my prime customers. Libraries serve a large portion of the rest of the population.”
“Excuse me.”
He lifted the box. “I’d better take these to the main desk and leave Mrs. Kerr a receipt. If we find nothing, the books will be returned.”
“After the sale, no doubt.”
“Possibly.” He paused in the doorway. “I want you to keep me posted on your unknown caller. And if you find that diary, I want to be the first to know about it.”
Tricia snapped to attention and saluted smartly. “Yes, sir!” She relaxed. “Now, may I be excused?”
Baker wasn’t amused. “I’m serious, Ms. Miles. Whoever thinks you’ve got that diary is likely to come after it-and you. Next time he or she won’t use a BB or pellet gun.”
Much as she didn’t want to admit it, Tricia had a feeling he might be right.
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