“Just because the law doesn’t require you to use your seat belt doesn’t mean it’s not the smart thing to do.”
He tossed a glance in her direction for the merest part of a second, then focused his attention back on the road. “I think I can take care of myself.”
She sighed. “Just like a man.”
Again his gaze darted in her direction. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just that men can be just so… stupid. What’s wrong with being safe? Haven’t you read the federal highway statistics reporting the percentage of deaths due to not wearing seat belts?”
“Officers of the law need to be able to react-to get out of their vehicles at a moment’s notice.”
“Not if they’re smushed into paste in an accident.”
“Smushed?” Baker repeated.
“Yes. It’s a variation of smashed. Smushed is when what used to be a solid becomes almost a liquid. Human flesh can be smushed when it’s contained in crumpled steel and glass.”
“Smushed,” Baker said once again. “I don’t think I’ve ever considered that.”
“Well, you ought to. I’m sure the State of New Hampshire has invested thousands of dollars in your training. If you were killed or maimed in an accident, you’d be costing taxpayers like me a lot of money.”
“Smushed,” he murmured again, turning left onto Hanson Lane.
Tricia kept her gaze riveted out the windshield. “I’m sure your family wouldn’t appreciate the call telling them their husband and dad was now the consistency of tomato puree.”
“As it happens, I am no one’s husband or dad, so you don’t have to worry on that account.”
Tricia glanced at her companion. “Your loss.” Or someone else’s.
The scanner crackled, reporting an accident on Route 101. Tricia frowned. She couldn’t stand the sound of a dispatcher dispassionately reporting trouble. Too often Russ insisted on allowing his scanner to act as the background noise on their so-called dates. It wasn’t the most romantic backdrop.
Baker pulled up behind a parked car with Connecticut plates. Another Hillsborough County deputy stood alongside the vehicle, apparently guarding it. His thumbs were hooked onto his Sam Browne belt.
Baker opened the car door.
“Wait,” Tricia blurted, reaching out to touch his arm. Should she trust him? So far he hadn’t given her a reason not to. “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”
He settled back in his seat, waiting for her to go on.
“There’s another reason I asked Pammy to leave this morning.”
Why didn’t he look surprised, she wondered.
“She… stole from me. She took one of my checks, made it out to herself for one hundred dollars, and cashed it.”
“When was this?”
“Several days ago. I was online going over my account this morning and found out. It was the last straw, and I asked her to leave.”
“And her reaction was?”
“She left.”
“You didn’t argue about it?”
“Pammy freely admitted it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
Tricia sighed. “Because it’s been my experience that Sheriff Adams likes to blow insignificant events out of proportion, trying to make them look like motives for murder. With that in mind, I figured you’d probably think I killed Pammy. Believe me, Captain, it wasn’t the money, it was the breach of trust that made me ask her to leave. And as you continue your questioning, you’ll find I didn’t have the opportunity to kill her. As I said, I’ve been with people the entire day.”
His green eyes bored into her. Was that disappointment reflected in them?
Without a word, Baker got out of the car. Tricia unbuckled her seat belt and did likewise.
“The tech team should be here when they’re finished at the café,” Deputy Bracken said.
Baker nodded. “Ms. Miles, would you care to take a look?”
Tricia moved to stand over the opened trunk, taking in its contents. “Those are Pammy’s suitcases all right.” They’d both been forced open, their contents dumped. Pammy’s scrunched-up, dirty clothes mingled with old magazines, copies of their college yearbook, an old, colorful granny-square afghan, cassette tapes, photo albums, and a lot of wrinkled papers. A ripped-open envelope was addressed to Pamela Fredericks, General Delivery, Stoneham, New Hampshire.
Remorse flushed through Tricia once again. Could Pammy have been living in her car before she came to Stoneham?
The guilt intensified. Perhaps if she hadn’t asked her to leave, Pammy might still be alive.
Might: a word that held a lot of power.
Tricia sighed, her eyes filling with tears. Maybe Pammy had left on an extended trip and intended to eventually return to whatever she considered her home base. But she hadn’t mentioned that. In fact, whenever the subject came up, Pammy had been evasive.
“Are you okay, Ms. Miles?” Baker asked.
Tricia nodded, trying to blink away the unshed tears. “Pammy’s dead. I guess it didn’t hit me until right now. The stuff in her trunk may be all she had. She’s really dead, and then someone tried to rob her. Is there anything more despicable than stealing from the dead?”
“Yes,” Baker said. “Killing them in the first place.”
Tricia had to agree with that.
More letters lay scattered among the junk, as well as a sagging, empty shoebox that sat on a pile of old clothes. Their former home? Baker poked at the letters and clippings with a pen. The yellowing envelopes bore twenty-two-cent stamps, indicating their age. “Mrs. Geraldine Fredericks. Who was that?”
“Pammy’s mother.”
“What would Ms. Fredericks be doing with a bunch of old letters?”
Tricia shrugged.
Baker waved a hand to take in the trunk. “Does there appear to be anything missing?”
Tricia’s gaze wandered over the contents. “I don’t know. Pammy didn’t seem to have much with her. From what I could see, she had clothes and maybe a few toiletries.” Very few toiletries. She’d used nearly an entire bottle of Tricia’s favorite salon shampoo. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Captain Baker.”
He frowned. “So am I.”
FOUR
Tricia’sloft apartment seemed especially empty that night. Miss Marple’s happy purring, scented candles burning, and even soft music playing in the background couldn’t fill the void that Pammy’s absence had left.
Under other circumstances, Tricia would have felt elated to have her living space all to herself again. But now… her once warm living room seemed chilled by a death pall.
Curled on the couch, her wineglass within reach, Tricia had read the same opening page of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s A Little Princess, her favorite childhood book-a story without a murder-for the eleventh time when Miss Marple’s ears perked up. In seconds, the cat jumped from the couch and trotted toward the kitchen.
“Tricia? You there?” came Angelica’s voice.
Angelica’s drop-in visits had diminished over the past few months, as her relationship with Bob Kelly had become more serious. Thanks to Pammy’s untimely death, this was one night Tricia welcomed her sister’s presence.
“I’m coming,” she called, and set her book aside, grabbed her wineglass, and headed for the kitchen.
Angelica had already hung up her coat and was unpacking a picnic basket of comfort food. Good French bread; sweet butter; a thermos no doubt filled with what was left of Booked for Lunch’s soup of the day; a quart of vanilla ice cream; and a jar of chocolate sauce.
“You didn’t have to bring me dinner,” Tricia said, although she was supremely grateful Angelica had done just that. Homemade soup and buttered bread always seem to hit the emotional spot at times like this.
“We both need to eat, and you need the company.” Angelica put the ice cream in the freezer, and paused. “If I’m honest, I need the company, too.” She shuddered. “I’m so glad it wasn’t me who found Pammy.”