Book Clubbed (A Booktown Mystery) Page 14

  “I’m sure the chief will soon clear you.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” Charlie said with what sounded like a forced laugh. He gave a wave and headed out the shop door.

  No sooner had he gone when Tricia called directory assistance. “Yes, could you please give me the number for Black’s Village Smithy?”

  * * *

  Pixie was late—by more than half an hour—when she finally showed up at Haven’t Got a Clue. “Didn’t I tell you I should get some new tires for my old boat?” she asked. “When I got down to the car, it had a flat. I got the Triple A to come and put on the spare, but I’m going to have to get a new tire any day now. Ya think I could leave early one of these nights?”

  “Not one of these nights,” Tricia said, “you’ll do it tonight. I don’t want you to have an accident. Meanwhile, I have an appointment this morning. Do you think you could mind the store?”

  “Piece of cake,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, and went to the back of the shop to hang up her coat and hat and retrieve Tricia’s before heading back to the front of the store.

  “Thanks,” Tricia said, donning the coat. Wasting no more time, she flew out the door. A minute later, she was in her car and heading north toward the highway.

  Tricia hated to admit it, but she actually felt nervous as she pulled into the small gravel parking lot outside of Black’s Village Smithy. The proprietor had been the husband of her friend Deborah Black, the former owner of the Happy Domestic. She’d died the summer before when a plane crashed into the Stoneham gazebo on Founders’ Day. Tricia and David Black had never gotten along, and she hoped she wouldn’t run into him at what was now his art studio. An astute businessman, Black also hired welders to take in commercial jobs to keep the business afloat while he worked on his metal sculptures.

  Tricia entered the front office, which looked like it could have doubled for a doctor’s waiting room. “May I help you?” asked a pretty young woman from behind a circular desk. She was dressed in a turquoise sweater set and dark slacks, not unlike what Tricia usually wore when working at Haven’t Got a Clue. Her long hair and pretty smile reminded Tricia of her late friend. Had David hired her because of that resemblance, and could he be bedding her, too? He hadn’t been faithful to Deborah, but then she hadn’t been faithful to him, either.

  Tricia stepped up to the desk. “I’m here to see Jerry Dittmeyer. He said he’d be taking his morning break about now.”

  “Sure. I’ll page him.” She picked up the receiver, pressed a button on the phone, and spoke into the mouthpiece, calling him to the office.

  Tricia stepped back and looked around the small reception area while she waited. Although Black’s Village Smithy had only been in business for about six months, they seemed to be doing very well. A stand on the counter featured a glossy brochure of Black’s sculptures, with information on how to commission a piece. A window on the west wall overlooked the studio, where Black was fabricating a huge metal abstract work.

  Despite the heavy padded clothing and the welder’s mask that covered the face, Tricia could tell by the man’s stance that it was Black himself wielding a torch. A waterfall of blue-white sparks flowed around him as he joined two large pieces of metal. Tricia hated to admit it, but she rather liked his artistry and had even considered hiring him to do some ornamental metalwork for the front of Haven’t Got a Clue. Since her store was already reminiscent of 221B Baker Street in London, glossy painted iron railings were all she’d need to complete the transformation.

  The door to the welding shop opened and a burly man with salt-and-pepper hair and a few days’ worth of stubble poked his head inside. “You called?” he asked the receptionist.

  Tricia stepped forward. “Mr. Dittmeyer? Hi, I’m Tricia Miles. We spoke on the phone. I knew your ex-wife.”

  “Too bad for you,” he said with scorn.

  “Can we talk for a few minutes?”

  Dittmeyer glanced at the receptionist as though looking for permission.

  “Why don’t I give you two a little privacy. I need to get another cup of coffee anyway,” she said, grabbed her empty cup from the desk, and went out the door to the shop beyond.

  “Look, Ms. Miles, I don’t know why you’d want to talk to me. I didn’t kill Betsy, if that’s what you want to know. I haven’t even seen or heard from the bitch in over a year. If I was going to kill her, it would’ve been five years ago when she started turning our house into a pigpen. When she refused to clean it or get rid of any of her crap. When she took us both to the cleaners by refusing to abide by the judge’s order and give me my half of our assets,” he said bitterly.

  “Was there an outstanding judgment against her?”

  He shook his head. “She finally paid me off about a year ago. I got a check in the mail—it even included interest. I guess she figured if she didn’t give it to me that I might come after her for more.”

  “What do you think made her finally pay you after all that time?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know—and I don’t care.”

  “You must have loved her at one time,” Tricia said kindly.

  “Lady, back in the day I woulda moved heaven and earth for my Betts. But then she changed. I don’t know for sure what caused it; maybe losing our daughter, Amy . . . but Betts would never talk about it with a shrink or even me. That’s when she became obsessed with just about everything. Money, collecting all that junk.” He shook his head once again, his gaze seeming to wander until it fixed vacantly on the floor. “I’ll never know for sure why she decided to give up on everyone she loved for a load of crap.”

  Tricia got the feeling that at one time he did want to know, and he really did care.

  “I’ve moved on with my life. I got me a new girl, and we’re starting a family. I’m sorry Betsy’s dead, but I’ve put the life we shared out of my mind.”

  Tricia admitted defeat. He wasn’t going to tell her anything more; she might as well leave.

  The door from the shop opened once again, but instead of the receptionist it was David Black who stood in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” he practically spat, glaring at Tricia.

  “Hello, David. I came to speak with Mr. Dittmeyer.”

  Black faced his employee. “Jerry, you don’t have to talk to this bitch. She always goes snooping around whenever anyone in the area dies. She likes to harass them—pry into people’s business and question the quality of their grief. If she’s harassing you, I’d be glad to call the cops and have them arrest her.”

  “It’s okay, Dave. She’s not hassling me. And we were done talking, anyway,” Dittmeyer said with a glance back to Tricia.

  “Thank you for speaking with me. I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Dittmeyer.”

  “Once upon a time, Betsy really was a dynamite gal,” Dittmeyer said rather wistfully.

  Tricia gave him what she hoped was a warm smile. “Yes, I’m sure she was. Good-bye.” She turned for the door, but David Black’s voice stopped her.

  “Good riddance.”

  Tricia stood there for a long moment, then reached for the door and exited the building. As she walked to her car, she decided that if she ever did decide to get the glossy black railings for Haven’t Got a Clue’s façade, she wouldn’t have them built by Black’s Village Smithy. And as she started her car and pulled out of the lot, she also realized that Jerry Dittmeyer made a terrible suspect in his ex-wife’s death.

  Was she really back to square one?

  * * *

  Since she was already halfway to Milford, Tricia decided to pay another visit to Betsy’s house, just to see how it looked in broad daylight. This time she didn’t bother with subterfuge and parked her car right in Betsy’s driveway. She switched off the engine and sat for a moment, listening to the creaks and crackles of her engine as it cooled off, staring at the forlorn little house, which
didn’t look any better in daylight than it had the night before.

  Should she canvass the area asking the other homeowners about their murdered neighbor? What if they were gainfully employed and weren’t available during the day? Should she come back later? Which neighbor’s fence had infringed on Betsy’s property? Both lots on either side of hers had fenced-in yards. It was too hard to tell which fence was newer. And what if the fence dispute had happened a decade before and not in the recent past? How long could a neighbor hold a grudge?

  Deciding that even being there was yet another harebrained idea, Tricia was about to start the car again when the front door of the house on the left opened. An older woman with short-cropped gray hair stepped onto her front step and waved. Tricia rolled down her window.

  “Can I help you?” the woman called. She wore a heavy sweater over dark slacks, and wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the cold.

  Tricia wasn’t exactly sure what to say. Before she could open her mouth, the woman called out again, “Mrs. Dittmeyer died late last week, you know.”

  Tricia closed her window, grabbed her keys, and got out of the car. “So I heard.” She walked a few steps up the drive until she was facing the woman.

  “Are you a friend?”

  “I thought so. Now . . . I’m not so sure,” Tricia said.

  “It’s freezing out here. Would you like to come in and talk?”

  “Yes,” Tricia said, a bit startled by the invitation. She quickly walked down Betsy’s drive and hurried up the neighbor’s front walk. She was ushered inside the neat home’s small foyer, and the woman closed the door.

  “I’m Margaret Westbrook. I was Mrs. Dittmeyer’s neighbor for over twelve years.”

  “I’m Tricia Miles. I own the mystery bookstore in Stoneham. Betsy worked as the receptionist for the Chamber of Commerce there. My sister is the president.”

  Margaret nodded. “Her death shocked the whole neighborhood. Although I must say she wasn’t the most friendly person to live next to. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think the old—” She caught herself, and Tricia wondered what uncomplimentary descriptor Margaret had been about to utter. She cleared her throat. “I didn’t think Mrs. Dittmeyer had any friends,” Margaret finished.

  “Perhaps acquaintance would be a better descriptor,” Tricia agreed.

  “I heard she worked in one of the outlying towns. I must admit we were hoping she’d move there.”

  “Oh?”

  “Since her husband moved out, Mrs. Dittmeyer hasn’t been diligent about trash removal. We’ve all had a devil of a time with mice. The exterminators come at least once a month to keep our traps filled with bait, otherwise we’d be overrun with them.” Tricia remembered the dead mouse she’d seen while in Betsy’s house, and shuddered. “I hope whoever takes care of her estate will get the place cleaned out before summer and we’re beset by flies again, too.”

  “She really wasn’t a good neighbor,” Tricia said and, as expected, Margaret nodded.

  “She made Pete and Donna Anderson tear down their fence three years ago because it was inches over her property line. She could have just signed a paper saying she knew it was on her property and didn’t dispute it, but instead she threatened them with a lawsuit and made them tear it down. It cost them a couple of thousand dollars to make things right.”

  “I take it you weren’t on friendly enough terms to call each other by first names.”

  “It wasn’t my choice,” Margaret said ruefully. “Her husband, Jerry, would at least acknowledge us if we were out in the yard, but Mrs. Dittmeyer would pretend she hadn’t seen us when she’d get out of her car or come out to get her mail.”

  So far, Tricia had learned nothing more about Betsy than she knew when she’d first driven up. Did Margaret really know anything about the woman, or was she just a lonely person who wanted someone to talk to, and should Tricia say anything that would give her more fodder for gossip?

  “I haven’t heard anything about a funeral service being planned,” Tricia tried instead.

  “I don’t suppose there will even be one. I think Mrs. Dittmeyer alienated just about everyone she knew.”

  “I understand she has a sister,” Tricia said.

  Margaret nodded. “She was over to the house just a couple of hours ago. She’s been coming and going for the past couple of days. She introduced herself to me the day after Mrs. Dittmeyer died.”

  Had she? “Is she emptying the house?”

  “Oh, no. At least I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her carrying anything to her car.” She hesitated. “Although . . . she always seems to have a different purse when she leaves.”

  Betsy probably had a bunch of them. You could stuff a lot of small collectibles into a big purse. Then again, Christopher said Betsy had a lot of money. Was there a chance she’d been liquidating her assets and hiding the money in her house? But why?

  Margaret shook her head. “I never did understand that woman, and now I guess I never will. At least I have hope that the next person who moves in will keep up the property and get rid of all the trash. And maybe he or she will be a lot friendlier, too.”

  Tricia nodded. There didn’t seem to be much else to add. “Thank you for speaking with me, Margaret. I think I’ll try to get hold of Betsy’s sister to ask about the funeral arrangements.”

  “Would you like me to tell her you dropped by the next time I see her?”

  That wouldn’t be a good idea at all. It would tip Joelle off that Tricia was still snooping around. She wished she hadn’t given her name, although even if she hadn’t Tricia was sure Margaret would have given Joelle a thorough description and might even have taken down her license plate number. “That won’t be necessary. We’re acquainted,” she said simply and left it at that. “I’d better go now. Thank you so much for speaking with me.”

  “Come back anytime,” Margaret said and followed Tricia out onto her stoop.

  Tricia went straight back to her car. Since Margaret hadn’t known much about Betsy, it was likely none of the other neighbors would, either. And she knew Margaret would report back to Joelle if she did any further snooping around Betsy’s property. And what else was she looking for that she hadn’t already seen when she’d been inside the house?

  Margaret waved as Tricia pulled out of the driveway. As she drove down the street she looked up at her rearview mirror and saw that she was still being watched. Rats. She was sure to hear from Joelle before the day was through.

  An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of Tricia’s stomach. Did Joelle, who’d been disinherited, have a compelling motive for murder? And if she had killed her sister . . . was there a possibility she might kill again?

  FOURTEEN

  Tricia parked her car in its usual spot in the Stoneham municipal parking lot. The wind was still wicked as she cut across the lot to reach the sidewalk. She paused for a moment, looking over at the Stoneham Weekly News. She hadn’t spoken to Russ Smith in several weeks. Perhaps she ought to visit and offer her congratulations on the new arrival and maybe bend his ear about Betsy Dittmeyer’s death. Russ often had information that Tricia wasn’t privy to, although six months before he’d told her that after sharing an important piece of information that she owed him a big favor, and that one day he would collect. It had sounded ominous. She hoped today wouldn’t be the day.

  She crossed the street and entered the newspaper’s office. Patty Perkins sat behind a counter staring intently at her computer screen. She looked up and smiled brightly. “Hey, Tricia. I haven’t seen you around here in quite a while.”

  “’Tis the season. I feel like I’ve been hibernating in my store. There sure haven’t been many customers since the Christmas rush ended.”

  Patty nodded. “Yeah, our display ad revenues are way behind last year at this time. I’m going to have to start calling our regulars and see what we can do about t
hat. But that’s not why you’re here today. Did you want to talk to Russ?”

  Tricia looked toward Russ’s closed office door. “If he’s available.”

  She grimaced. “He’s going over the accounts. I’m sure he’d welcome any interruption about now. Go right on in.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tricia stepped around the counter and rapped her knuckles against the hollow-core door. She opened the door a crack and stuck her head inside. “Hi, Russ. Are you terribly busy?”

  Russ looked up from his computer screen. “Yeah. But these spreadsheets are depressing the hell out of me. Come on in and sit down—and try to cheer me up, will you?”

  Tricia stepped inside the office and closed the door. She tugged off her coat, hanging it on the back of Russ’s guest chair, and took the empty seat in the shabby little office she had come to know so well. She and Russ had once been lovers but that had ended when he’d dumped her, thinking he was going to find a job with a large-circulation paper in bigger city. That hadn’t worked out and he’d tried to get back together with her. When that hadn’t worked, he’d stalked her. That ended when he’d gone for counseling and started dating Nikki. Until she’d spoken to Nikki a few days before, Tricia had assumed they were quite happy.

  “Nikki shared your big announcement with me. Congratulations, Daddy,” she said with a smile.

  Russ shrugged and his expression was anything but happy. “If you say so.”

  “Oh, come on, Russ. This is wonderful news.”

  The man looked positively depressed. “It would have been . . . if we had your money.”

  “Hey, the two of you have two successful businesses. Okay, this is the leanest part of the retail year, but things will pick up—and soon. I’m sure of it.”

  “From your lips to our cash registers.” He shook his head and looked sadder yet. “The truth is, ever since I had the misfortune of buying this rag I haven’t had a pot to piss in. Nikki owes so much on the Patisserie that we’re really struggling—and I don’t see things getting better anytime soon.”