No diary.
Miss Marple entered the living room, sat down on the rug, and proceeded to wash her face.
The books could do Pammy no good now. Tricia folded the carton’s flaps back in on each other. The Friends of the Stoneham Library were having a sale at the end of the month. She could donate the books, and perhaps add a few from her own stock that were used or too shopworn to offer for sale in Haven’t Got a Clue. She’d box them all up and take them to the library.
The telephone rang. Miss Marple looked at the offending noise, as though daring Tricia to answer it to stop its bleating.
Tricia picked up the extension. “Hello?”
The same draggy voice. “Give back the diary; give back the diary.”
“Who is this?” Tricia demanded.
Undaunted, the voice continued reciting the diary mantra. Was it a recording? She slammed the receiver back into its cradle.
Within seconds, the phone rang again. Tricia picked it up. “Give back the diary.”
She slammed it back down. Again, it rang within seconds. Tricia let it ring and went back to the kitchen. Again the caller ID registered BLOCKED CALL. She turned off the ringer, but the phone in the living room continued to trill. She stalked across the apartment and unplugged it from the wall. Now only the phone in her bedroom rang. Thirty seconds later, she’d unplugged that, too, and peace reigned.
“Now, who do you suppose thinks I’ve got Pammy’s diary, and why do they want it?” Tricia asked her cat.
Miss Marple jumped up on the cocktail table, settled herself, and began to lick her left back leg.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not traumatized by those calls,” Tricia said.
Miss Marple ignored her and started on her other back leg.
Tricia’s gaze returned to the carton of old books. If Pammy had a diary, she hadn’t left it here. Did someone assume Tricia had it just because it hadn’t been on Pammy’s person or in her car at the time of her death? Good assumption-only it didn’t happen to be true. Unless Pammy had hidden the book somewhere in Tricia’s apartment. But why would she do that?
Tricia turned on the stereo. One of Russ’s favorite mellow jazz CDs was still in the player. She hit the Eject button, and the tray slid out. Back into the jewel case the CD went. She selected one of her favorites instead, hit the Play button, and Irish Woman began a cheery tune.
Her gaze wandered around the room. Well, she had nothing better to do, and decided she’d search the place. Pammy had had unsupervised access to the premises for hours on end while Tricia was working, as evidenced by her lifting one of Tricia’s checks.
She looked through the books on her shelves, on top of the bookcases, in all the cupboards, under the bed and other furniture, even checking to see if Pammy might have attached the diary to the undersides with duct tape. Miss Marple followed her from room to room, eager to see what this new game would produce. Tricia found a few of the cat’s missing catnip toys and tossed them aside. A delighted Miss Marple flew after them. But there was no sign of a diary.
Finally, having looked through the entire apartment, Tricia returned to the living room, sat cross-legged on the carpet, and scanned the titles on the lower shelves of one of her bookcases. She selected a rather beat-up copy of Agatha Christie’s The Mirror Crack’d, and opened it to the flyleaf.
I know you’ve been lonely without all your books. Maybe this one will be an old friend. And maybe I’ll be an old friend one day, too. Your new friend, Pammy.
Pammy had given it to her in October of their fresh-man year at Dartmouth. She’d never said where she found the book, but Tricia had treasured it simply because she was lonely, and their tiny dorm room had no room to house even a fraction of her mystery collection.
Old friend.
Pammy had never fit in at Dartmouth. She wasn’t Ivy League material. But a family member had pulled strings with some bigwig alumni and had somehow gotten her in. But Pammy had never distinguished herself in or out of college. After graduation, she’d led a dreary, apparently uneventful life-mostly mooching off of family and friends. What could be in her diary that would cause someone to kill her?
Unless it wasn’t Pammy’s diary.
She’d wanted to speak to Stuart Paige. Had it been his diary? Tricia frowned. Men kept journals, not diaries. The word “diary” indicated that it was probably written by a woman.
What woman? And if it wasn’t Pammy’s, where would she have gotten it?
“In a Dumpster?” Tricia asked aloud.
Miss Marple trotted up to her and said, “Brrrrurp!”
“I think you’re right,” Tricia said, and patted the cat on the head.
The question was where had Pammy found the diary? Surely not here in Stoneham. It was possible she’d Dumpster dived all over New England.
Miss Marple rubbed her little warm body against Tricia’s knee, head butting her for attention. Tricia reached out and absently scratched the cat’s ears. “If there’s a diary hidden somewhere in this apartment, I’ll eat your kitty treats.” Miss Marple raised her head sharply. “I was only kidding.”
The CD had stopped playing ages ago. A glance at the clock told Tricia she had better wind things down and get some rest. She had a lot to do come morning. Including taking Pammy’s box of books to the library.
“Bedtime,” she told Miss Marple, who jumped up on Tricia’s queen-sized bed.
As Tricia got ready for sleep, she found herself wondering about the diary, wondering who it belonged to, and what it could contain that had cost Pammy her life.
TEN
Despite the late night, Tricia was up early the next morning, determined to find a new home for Pammy’s box of books-and do it before Haven’t Got a Clue opened for business. Since the library opened at nine, that gave her an hour to drop them off before she’d have to open the doors of her own shop.
As she opened the store’s blinds, she saw a white-and-gold Sheriff’s Department patrol car parked outside of Booked for Lunch. “Uh-oh,” she said to Miss Marple, who had jumped up to see if she could catch and bite the blind cord. “I wonder if Captain Baker is visiting Angelica.”
Miss Marple batted the plastic weight on the cord.
“I’m going across the road to see what’s happening,” Tricia told the cat. “Now don’t you bite the cord while I’m gone, or you won’t get any kitty snacks tonight.”
Miss Marple sat back on her haunches, duly chastised.
Tricia didn’t bother getting her coat from the peg out back, but grabbed her keys, locked the store, and headed across the street, dodging the remains of another flattened pumpkin.
Inside the shop, Angelica, dressed in full fifties regalia once again, faced Captain Baker, her arms folded defiantly across her chest, her expression determined.
Tricia opened the door and entered, but Angelica paid her no mind.
“Why would I hire Pammy and then kill her? How stupid do you think I am, Captain?”
Baker didn’t blink an eye. “Ma’am, I don’t know you at all.”
“Just for the record, my sister doesn’t go around killing people, and neither do I,” Tricia blurted.
Baker turned to face her. “Good morning. I’m not accusing either of you of any wrongdoing. I’m trying to find out who killed your friend, and why.”
“This town has a veritable vandalism crime wave going on, and all you can do is badger honest citizens trying to make a living,” Angelica accused.
“Vandalism? Crime wave?” Baker repeated.
“Haven’t you noticed all the smashed pumpkins around the village? The little kids around here must be heartbroken to see their creations reduced to pulp,” Tricia said.
“Smashing Pumpkins? Isn’t that a rock band or something?” Baker asked, straight-faced.
“It’s also mangled squash. And they’re everywhere here in Stoneham!”