EIGHTEEN

If Tricia had known she was destined for another night of vivid dreams she might have decided not to go to bed after spending a second evening emptying boxes containing Betsy Dittmeyer’s so-called treasures. This time she ended up surrounded by piles and piles of trash pressing upon her, and the sensation that invisible insects and mice crawled on and all around her. And from far across the warehouselike room, a candle dripped wax—threatening to set the place on fire.

She awoke early and immediately jumped in the shower. It took a lot of scrubbing before she felt clean once again.

After a leisurely breakfast that included perusing the Nashua Telegraph—which, as she’d predicted to Russ Smith, had done no follow-up story on Betsy’s murder—Tricia went down to her store to start the workday with Miss Marple bringing up the rear.

“Good morning,” Pixie called, arriving right on time. She saw the Bible sitting on the cash desk, where Tricia had left it the night before, and zeroed right in on it. “Hey, whatcha got there?”

“A Bible.”

“I can see that. Man, it’s older than both of us put together,” Pixie said and lifted the cover to look at the title page.

Tricia fought the urge to shoo her away. “It was a gift from Antonio Barbero.”

“Are you giving up bookselling to join a nunnery or something?” Pixie asked and laughed.

“Heavens, no.”

“Thank goodness. I like this job and don’t want to see it end,” Pixie said and headed for the back of the store to hang up her coat.

Once Pixie was settled in she pondered what title Sarah Jane should hold that day to entice customers, while Tricia planned to spend an hour or more studying Betsy’s Bible and the papers that were stuffed within its cover. Then the phone rang. Tricia picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue. This is—”

“Tricia? It’s Billie Burke at the Bank of Stoneham. I tried to get hold of Antonio Barbero and Angelica, but haven’t had any luck.”

“Sorry I can’t help you there.”

“Oh, but you can. There’s a crowd of people crawling all over the Dumpsters at the house across the street. If one of them gets hurt—”

“What can I do about it?”

“Call the Stoneham police.”

“Not to be a pain, but why don’t you call them?”

“Officially, it’s none of my business. But as you’re Angelica’s sister—”

“Gotcha. I’ll do it now. Thanks for calling.” Tricia pressed down on the old phone’s switch hook and waited for a dial tone and, since the situation wasn’t an emergency, she dialed the station’s regular phone number. She relayed the problem, but Polly couldn’t promise that the patrolling officer would arrive anytime soon. “How about Chief Baker?” Tricia asked.

“I’m not going to bother the chief with something so trivial,” Polly scolded.

If someone broke his or her neck while trespassing, the result would be anything but trivial.

“Thank you,” Tricia said and hung up. She considered calling Baker’s private cell phone number and decided to go for it, but only succeeded in reaching his voice mail. Still, she left a message.

“Pixie!” Tricia called.

Pixie scurried across the store. “What’s up?”

“I have to run yet another errand.”

“No problem. I serve at your pleasure, Madam President of Haven’t Got a Clue.”

Tricia smiled at such enthusiasm and retrieved her coat, hat, gloves, and scarf, and left her store, hurrying down the sidewalk toward what would soon be the Chamber of Commerce’s new home.

As Billie had said, there were at least five people inside and outside the Dumpster, picking through its contents.

“Excuse me,” Tricia called, but no one turned to look at her. “Excuse me!” she tried even louder, and still none of the men or women looked up. “Police raid!” she hollered in desperation.

That did it. Everyone looked up.

“You people have to leave right now. You’re trespassing.”

“Says who?” replied a brawny man of about fifty, bundled in a grubby Carhartt work jacket and pants, with at least a week’s worth of beard stubbling his cheeks.

“Says me. I represent the new leaseholder. You’re trespassing on private property. The police have been called and will be here any minute.”

“Sorry, but we don’t believe you,” said another man dressed in the same heavy-duty—and just as filthy—clothes as the first.

“I’ve been through everything that got tossed in the Dumpster, and there’s definitely nothing of value left.”

“We’ll be the judge of that,” the first man said smugly, and went back to tearing open the garbage bags and dumping the contents.

Tricia sidled past the big metal garbage bin to the smaller recycling bin, where two older women sifted through the ton or more of worthless paper.

“Excuse me, but you’re trespassing,” she tried again.

Neither of the women looked up. “Our bad,” one of them said and continued to work.

Frustrated, Tricia retraced her steps until she was again standing in front of the large Dumpster. She was about to pull out her phone when she saw Chief Baker hurrying toward her on the sidewalk.

“I take it you got my message,” she said, relieved.

“Yeah. Hey, guys,” Baker called and got no response from the pickers. He put his thumb and index finger between his lips and blew a loud wolf whistle. That got their attention. “Bernie, what the hell are you doing in there?”

Grumpy Guy Number One looked up. “Looking for treasure, what else?”

“You’re breaking half a dozen laws. If you don’t want me to arrest you and your people, you’ll have to leave right now.”

“Come on, Grant. A guy’s gotta make a living.”

“Well, find some other line of work—or else.”

Bernie frowned, but he and his cohort grudgingly climbed over the edge of the Dumpster and dropped to the ground. Another man held a large plastic trash bag filled with their spoils.

“Toss your bag of goodies into the Dumpster,” Baker ordered.

“Aw, come on. It’s no good to the owner. We heard she died earlier in the week.” And who besides Ginny, Antonio, Angelica, and Tricia knew that fact?

“Be that as it may,” Baker said, “clear out.”

“Wait,” Tricia said. “Let me have a look.” She moved to stand next to the third man, who held out a clear plastic bag. Something sparkly caught her eye and Tricia yanked off her gloves, stuffing them into her coat pockets before she reached into the bag to pull out what looked like a solitaire diamond ring. She glanced at Bernie, who quietly fumed.

Tricia examined the ring. It wasn’t a particularly large diamond, but it had to be worth something. How had they missed it the previous evening? She poked through the rest of the stuff, deciding nothing was of any real value—at least to her. She faced Baker. “They can have the rest.”

By then, the women had joined the group. In their bag were pieces of ephemera: old playing cards, greeting cards, a couple of calendars from before World War II, and some vintage postcards. Ginny must have gone through the boxes that contained this stuff, not knowing old paper could be worth something. Still, Tricia figured if she let the pickers keep what they’d found, they might not come back for more—or would it just entice them to return when nobody was around?

“They can keep this stuff, too,” she said. Nobody said thank you and instead glared at Tricia for ending their treasure hunt.

With much swearing and grumbling the men and women took off on foot. Tricia and Baker watched until they’d turned the corner, presumably to retrieve their transportation. “Do you think they’ll be back?” she asked.

Baker nodded. “The minute we leave.”

“I don’t care about the stuff they found; I’m more concerned with liability issues.”