She leaned against the counter stool and listened as Captain Baker took Angelica through the same set of questions. His demeanor was just so different from that of his boss. If the circumstances were different, she decided, she might even like him.
“And why was it you hired Ms. Fredericks?” Baker asked.
Finally, the question Tricia had been waiting to hear answered.
Angelica sighed, looked over to Tricia for a moment, and then turned back to the captain. “I figured it would keep her out of my garbage.”
Baker blinked in disbelief. So did Tricia.
“Of course,” Angelica continued, “I had no idea someone would actually kill her and put her in my garbage cart.”
“Wait a minute,” Tricia said, leaning forward. “What do you mean, ‘keep her out of my garbage’?”
Angelica shrugged. “She came by every day-after closing, of course-and poked through my cans to see what she could salvage.”
“I don’t understand,” Captain Baker said.
Angelica sighed impatiently. “To take.”
“But it’s not like you throw out anything valuable-something Pammy could actually use or sell,” Tricia protested.
“Apparently she thought I did.”
Baker held up a hand to interrupt. “What am I missing here?”
“It’s no secret Pammy was a scavenger. I believe she was employed as an antiques picker at different periods of her life,” Angelica said.
“What’s that got to do with the café’s garbage?” Tricia asked.
“Pammy was a freegan,” Angelica said matter-of-factly.
“A what?” Baker asked, confused.
“A what?” Tricia echoed.
Angelica frowned. “She Dumpster dived for food.” Taking in the incredulous faces before her, she continued. “Of course, lots of freegans give you some lofty explanation about alternative lifestyles, bucking convention, and minimizing waste in a materialistic world. I think they’re just a bunch of cheapskates looking for free food.”
“Pammy salvaged food out of Dumpsters?” Tricia asked, feeling the blood drain from her face. Pammy had cooked for her-had provided the food she’d used to prepare those meals. Had she found it by-?
The thought was too terrible to contemplate.
“How do you know all this?” Baker asked Angelica.
“Pammy told me-last week when we talked, and today, in between customers.”
“How long was she here today?” Tricia asked.
“About two hours. A regular little chatterbox, that one.”
Baker eyed Tricia. “Ms. Fredericks told you she was a freegan-but in two weeks she didn’t tell your sister?”
“Apparently not.”
He looked back to Angelica. “And you didn’t tell her, either?”
Angelica laughed. “Of course not. Well, just look at her. She’s already a lovely shade of chartreuse.”
A lump rose in Tricia’s throat. “How long have you known?”
“For a week or so. I knew someone was going through my garbage the day we opened. I caught Pammy at it one day last week.”
“You should have told me.”
“Why? You’d have been freaked out-like you are now. Believe it or not, I don’t live to just irritate you, baby sister.”
It was Tricia’s turn to frown. So now Angelica decided to spare her feelings. Hadn’t she informed her that Pammy had cooked for her?
Right now, Tricia couldn’t remember.
A wave of guilt passed through her. Here she was worrying about eating food past its prime-food that obviously hadn’t sickened her-and Pammy had been killed. Where were her priorities?
“Did the deceased tell you where she planned to stay tonight?” Baker asked Angelica.
Angelica shook her head. “And I didn’t have her fill out a job application, either. I needed someone right away-she walked in the door. I figured we could catch up on the paperwork after the lunch crowd had gone.”
Baker turned to Tricia. “Did Ms. Fredericks tell you where she planned on staying?”
“No. But she said she’d ‘hooked up’ with some local people.”
“Probably more freegans,” Angelica said.
“Do you know any local freegans?” Baker asked the women.
Angelica shook her head once again.
“I didn’t even know they existed until just a few minutes ago,” Tricia said.
“Can you think of anybody we can ask?” Baker asked.
“You might try talking to the other food vendors in the area. There’s the Brookside Inn, the Bookshelf Diner, the Stoneham Patisserie, and the convenience store up near the highway. That’s about it. But it wouldn’t surprise me if the local freegans went to Milford, or even Nashua or Portsmouth. They’re much bigger than Stoneham. They’d scavenge-or, as I’m sure they’d say, ‘salvage’-much more food from grocery and convenience stores than restaurants and bakeries.”
“Do freegans try to hustle food from charities like the Food Shelf?” Baker asked.
Angelica shook her head. “I shouldn’t think so. But it’s something you could ask Libby Hirt about.”
“Who?”
“Libby Hirt.” She spelled the last name. “She runs the Stoneham Food Shelf.”
“The one your friend crashed this morning?” he asked Tricia.
She nodded.
Baker made a note. “Did the deceased have a car?”
Tricia nodded. “She’d been parking it in the municipal lot.”
“Make and model?” he asked.
“I have no idea. I don’t think I ever saw her drive it the whole time she was here. In fact, when she left the dedication, she walked back into Stoneham.”
“She probably couldn’t afford the gas for it,” Angelica added.
At least not until she’d cashed Tricia’s forged check. You should say something, a little voice within her nagged.
“Can we narrow it down? Did she have an out-of-state license plate?” Baker asked.
“Maybe. She was originally from Portsmouth, but had lived in Connecticut for the past couple of years. I think,” Tricia added lamely.
“I thought you said she stayed with you for two weeks?” Baker asked.
“She did, but we didn’t spend a lot of quality time together.” At his puzzled look, she clarified. “My store doesn’t close until seven most nights. On Tuesdays, I host a book club. That doesn’t usually break up until after nine. A couple of times Pammy didn’t come in until after I’d already gone to bed.”
“Didn’t you ask where she’d been, what she’d been doing?” Baker asked.
Answering truthfully was going to sound awfully darned cold. Still… “No.”
Baker turned away. “Placer.” The deputy stepped forward. “Grab Henderson and scout out the municipal lot down the street. See if you can find a car with Connecticut plates. Ask around. See if anyone has noticed a car parked in the lot for the past two weeks.”
“Sure thing, Cap’n.”
“Captain?” Rivera waved to Baker from the back entrance.
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies.” He left them and rejoined the technician.
Angelica watched him go. “Nice set of buns.”
“Ange,” Tricia admonished.
“And wasn’t he just the nicest thing? Quite a change from Wendy Adams.”
“Yes,” Tricia agreed. She gazed at the captain, who filled the back doorway. He did have a nice set of buns at that.
“She’s dead. She’s really dead,” Ginny murmured for at least the hundredth time. “I admit I didn’t like her, but I never wanted her dead.”
“Ginny, please,” Tricia implored, not bothering to lift her gaze from the order blanks before her. As it was, her last sight of her… kind of, sort of… friend had not been a pleasant one. Was that how she’d always remember Pammy, as a pair of stiff legs?
“But I feel guilty,” Ginny said, then grabbed a tissue from the box under the counter and blew her nose. “I didn’t want her around, and I got my wish. But I never thought-”
Tricia sighed. She removed her reading glasses, setting them on the counter. Captain Baker had dismissed her some twenty minutes before-and it would be another hour before she closed shop for the day. It seemed like weeks since her day had begun, and she was looking forward to a nice, quiet evening, although she wasn’t sure she was up to reading a murder mystery. Not just yet, anyway.