Angelica retracted Sarge’s leash before she grabbed Chauncey’s left arm while Tricia took his right, and the women struggled to pull the hefty man to his feet. Chauncey staggered, righted himself, and then let them steady him.
“Thank you for helping me, ladies. I’ll be on my way now.” He lurched, and it was only because they both held on to him that he didn’t fall.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to call an ambulance?” Tricia asked.
Chauncey nodded and winced. “If you could just help me back to my store, I’d appreciate it.”
Tricia looked to Angelica, who nodded. “Can do,” Tricia said, and with Sarge leading the way, they started down the alley.
By the time they hit the cross street that connected with Main Street, Chauncey seemed to have regained his sense of balance. They crossed to the west side of Main, passed the Dog-Eared Page, and stopped at the door to the Armchair Tourist.
Chauncey fumbled in his coat pocket for his keys. His hand shook when he tried to insert the key in the lock, so Tricia did it for him. She opened the door and held it for him to enter, and then she, Angelica, and Sarge followed.
“You needn’t worry about me. I’m fine now.”
“You don’t look fine,” Tricia said, noting his pale complexion. “You could have a concussion. I’d feel better if you’d let us stay for a few minutes-just to make sure you’re okay.”
“I could use something hot to drink-a cup of cocoa or something,” Angelica said. “I could dash over to Booked for Lunch and make some for all of us.”
“That won’t be necessary. I have a hot pot in the back and plenty of packets of hot chocolate. I’d given them up since starting my diet, but I think I could use one right now.”
“Great,” Angelica said, and handed Sarge’s leash to Tricia. “I’ll go make us some. Be right back.” She bustled to the back storeroom. Sarge gave a plaintive whine, then settled down on the floor with his head resting on his paws, his gaze riveted on the door left ajar to the back room.
Chauncey lurched to the stool behind his cash desk and took a seat. Then he struggled out of his jacket, setting it on the ledge behind him. From the back of the store Tricia heard the sound of running water and the clanking of cups, but other than that, the store was silent. Chauncey’s gaze was focused on the top of the display case that acted as his sales counter. He didn’t seem to want to look her in the eye. If he knew who assaulted him, he didn’t want to talk about it. Would he talk about what happened at the inn on Sunday night?
“It hasn’t been a very good week, has it?” Tricia asked, breaking the ice.
Chauncey shook his head. Was there anything sadder than a lonely old fat man?
A not-so-old thin single woman with a mystery bookstore might give him a run for his money, she decided.
“I understand you and Mrs. Comfort had words before she was killed.”
That got his attention. His head snapped up, and for a moment Tricia wasn’t sure if he was angry or might cry.
“What happened?” she asked gently.
Chauncey’s cheeks grew red. “It was nothing, really. As usual, I made an ass of myself in front of a pretty woman. I’m sure it won’t be the last time.”
“I understand you recognized her from another time.”
He frowned, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll bet Mary Fairchild is spreading it all over town. I’m surprised no one has asked me about it before now.”
Again Tricia asked, “What happened?”
“I…I’m ashamed to admit it, but…I was awed by Mrs. Comfort’s former celebrity. I’m afraid I made a rather crude joke. I don’t normally say such things to women.” The additional color in his cheeks testified to that.
“What was her reaction?” Tricia asked, keeping her tone level and nonjudgmental.
“She was offended. She told me it would be a very long night indeed if she had to put up with the likes of me.”
But it wasn’t a long night for her. Within an hour or so, Pippa Comfort was dead.
“How did you remember her face from a magazine that was published so long ago?”
Chauncey looked up. “Magazine?”
“Yes. I understand she was a Playboy bunny and a model.”
“A bunny, yes. A model? I don’t think so. She used to wait tables at the Playboy Club in New York. I was a member. She was always nice to me. She was my favorite. I used to give her big tips, but I think she was embarrassed that I remembered her after all these years.”
That didn’t mesh with what Frannie said.
Tricia decided to push him, but how without letting him know it was Frannie who’d outed him as a collector of pornographic material?
“Umm…I understand that there was great cachet in being a member of the Playboy Club and having that coveted key.”
Chauncey smiled. “That there was. The heyday was back in the sixties when I was a brash young man from Youngstown, Ohio, living in a cold-water, fourth-floor walk-up. I had two indulgences: my yearly subscription to Playboy magazine and my membership at the Playboy Club. I could barely afford either.” He sighed wistfully. “I loved the short stories in the magazine and became a fan of some of the greats. Jean Shepherd, Roald Dahl, Shel Silverstein, and even Stephen King sold to Playboy in the golden days of the magazine. Ah, yes, those were the days.” He laughed. “My copies were well thumbed, but I think I enjoyed the editorial content as much as, if not more than, the pictures.”
Which again did not agree with Jim Roth’s-or was it Frannie’s?-spin on the story.
“Do you still have the magazines?” Tricia asked.
“A few of the rare ones encased in inert plastic. I really should try to sell them. I might even make a month’s rent if I did. That could keep Bob Kelly off my back for a couple of weeks.”
“Has he been hounding you?” Tricia asked.
“Only when I’m more than a day behind in the rent.”
Angelica entered the room with a makeshift tray made from the lid of a paper carton and containing three mugs. Sarge looked up hopefully, but when no treat was forthcoming, he settled back down again.
“Here we go,” Angelica said, and doled out a thick restaurant china mug to each of them. “Did I hear Bob Kelly’s name mentioned?” she asked, her tone neutral.
Chauncey blew on his steaming cocoa before nodding.
Angelica frowned. “Your back room is awfully cramped, Chauncey. There’s even a cot back there. One would almost think you’ve moved in.”
Again Chauncey’s face colored in embarrassment. “I had a choice. Give up my apartment or give up my store. I guess you can tell where things landed.”
“Are things really that bad?” Angelica asked.
Chauncey shrugged. “I couldn’t very well sign a new lease on my apartment if my income is going to continue to be so erratic.”
Tricia sipped her cocoa and wished she could say or do something to ease the poor man’s problems. For what it was worth, she didn’t think he was capable of killing anyone, but would the law think that way? He had deep financial problems and had had words with the dead woman not long before she was found dead. Would Grant Baker try to make something of it?
Why did he have to go incommunicado right now? And was he plotting to toss her in jail at any moment?
“You know,” Angelica said, breaking the quiet. “What you need to do is diversify your product line.”
Again Chauncey shrugged. “I sell travel books-and mostly used ones at that.”
“Couldn’t you sell things travelers need? Like plug converters, so people going to England can plug in their shavers and other electrical items. Or compact pillows and travel blankets. Maybe foreign language software. Luggage tags.”
Chauncey frowned. “All that takes money. I’m cash starved.”
“That is a problem,” Angelica agreed.
“Can you hang on until the tourists start coming back? It’s only a month or so,” Tricia added.
“That’s why I moved into the back room. If things don’t turn around, I figure I’ve got maybe three, maybe four months until I have to close down and declare bankruptcy.”