It was then Tricia remembered the Chamber of Commerce membership list that Betsy Dittmeyer had put together. It wasn’t really a list, more a dossier of the Chamber’s members, and the information she’d gathered on each member didn’t chronicle their nobler aspects. The document was filled with vile assumptions and vicious gossip. Tricia had always meant to delete the file but somehow had never gotten around to doing so.
She abruptly turned, walking into the leash and nearly tripping over the dog. “Come on, Sarge. We’re cutting our walk short.” And she started down Locust Street once again at almost a jog, with the poor pup struggling to keep up with her.
Tricia only slowed when she entered the driveway of the Chamber’s office. She opened the door and unhooked Sarge from his leash. “Be a good boy and go to bed,” she told him, thankful Miss Marple was nowhere in sight. She shut the door to the stairs behind her and took them two at a time. At the landing, she turned right toward her sitting room. Miss Marple was asleep on the chair. Tricia headed straight for the small table that served as a desk and booted up her laptop, thankful she’d been good about storing her files on an off-site server. It took only a minute or two before she pulled up the document and scanned down to the listing for the Stoneham Historical Society. Sure enough, Pete Renquist was listed as their representative.
A former junkie, who did time in the Essex County, New Jersey, lockup for possession with intent to sell narcotics. Was released when the charges fell through on a technicality and kicked the habit. He was a deadbeat dad, whose ex-wife had to sue for back child support, and his wages at the Stoneham Historical Society were garnished until he paid off the backlog.
Where had Betsy gotten all that information from? Had she had access to Social Security numbers, hacked bank accounts, and other databases?
And then it suddenly occurred to Tricia who else who knew about the file: Angelica, Chief Baker, and perhaps a few of his officers, and, of course, Bob Kelly.
Tricia’s stomach tightened.
What possible reason would Bob have had to kill Pete Renquist and brutally assault Janet Koch? The attacks on them must have had something to do with the Historical Society—and possibly the ghost walks. Had Bob ever even mentioned the Historical Society to Angelica?
Angelica might not want to talk about Bob. She had been his lover for several years, but since their breakup, she’d made it clear they were no longer even friends. She had never spoken a word against the man, and it angered her when Tricia did. But surely she’d break that silence if Bob proved to be a killer.
Bob a killer? Tricia still found it hard to wrap her mind around that thought. Still, his life of crime had started early. As a teen, he’d skipped town to avoid the community service he’d been sentenced to perform after being convicted of a youthful indiscretion. And then, of course, there was the legal problem he’d been trying so hard to get out of. His fingerprints had been found at Stan Berry’s home after the place had been ransacked following his death. Bob owned the property, and she supposed his attorney might try to say he had a right to be in the home . . . but not when the victim’s son had shown an interest in renegotiating the lease. Bob had wanted him out so he could rent the place for more money to someone else. It was going to cost him a lot of money to get out of that one without serving some kind of time in addition to the reinstatement of the sentence of community service he’d skipped out on so many years before.
But Bob a killer?
No, Tricia couldn’t believe it.
Could someone else have had access to Betsy Dittmeyer’s files? Again, she’d have to ask Angelica.
Tricia bit her lip. What other possible suspects could there be? Earl Winkler? On the last morning of his life, Pete and Earl had exchanged angry words about the proposed ghost walks. Had they argued on other occasions? Earl was a grumpy old man, but that didn’t mean he was a killer.
Janet Koch might be the key to knowing who had killed Renquist; was that why Pete’s killer had tried to eliminate her, too?
The Historical Society seemed to be the common denominator. No doubt Chief Baker had already spoken with all of its staff. Tricia had told him she’d stay out of it, and she’d meant it. But she also seemed to have a knack for getting people to talk—and often about things they later regretted. And yet, she didn’t have a rapport with the rest of the Historical Society’s workforce. She’d always dealt with Pete and Janet, and she doubted Angelica knew any of its members on a personal basis, either.
Tricia thought about the cocktail party she’d attended on the Society’s grounds when the Italianate garden had been rededicated the previous summer. The Brookview Inn had catered the affair. Would Antonio or one of his staff have dealt with just Pete and Janet, or would someone else on its staff have been assigned to deal with the inn and its personnel? Tricia knew a few of the people who worked at the inn, but they blamed her—not Stan Berry’s killer—for the unfortunate events that had occurred after the murderer had been exposed. They wouldn’t willingly talk to her, and Antonio wasn’t one to gossip, and even now that they were almost related, she was sure he wouldn’t do anything to anger Angelica when it came to possibly jeopardizing Tricia’s safety. Count him out as an accessory.
Mariana hadn’t worked for the Chamber all that long, but Frannie Armstrong had worked for the organization for over ten years before coming to work for Angelica at the Cookery. She was no fan of Bob, who’d treated her poorly, but she’d known him longer than anyone else Tricia could think of. Frannie had an encyclopedic memory, and she loved to gossip—on any subject. Of course, their friendship had cooled somewhat after Tricia had pointed out that Frannie might make a plausible suspect for Betsy Dittmeyer’s death. Still, Tricia was determined to talk to her before she shared her suspicions with Angelica or Chief Baker.
Tricia closed the file and shut down her computer. She looked across the room. Miss Marple hadn’t stirred. She got up, tiptoed across the room, and went down the stairs. She found Sarge in his basket. “Walkies,” she called. The dog hadn’t been asleep, and he shot out of his bed like a cannonball.
Hooking the leash to his collar, they started for the door. Tricia only hoped Frannie would be able to tell her what she needed to know.
TWENTY
Frannie looked over her shoulder. “Well, this is a nice surprise.” Sarge barked and pulled at his leash. He and Frannie were great friends, too. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have made sure I had a dog biscuit for you.”
“Both of us?” Tricia asked, and laughed.
“Sorry, I don’t eat yogurt or tuna, and that’s about all you eat,” Frannie said pointedly.
Tricia ignored the jibe. “It’s been such a long time since we talked,” Tricia said.
Frannie looked up, eying her suspiciously. “It has.”
“How have you been?”
“Fine.” Silence fell between them. Then Frannie asked, “Didn’t I see you and Sarge walking down my street only half an hour ago?”
“You did,” Tricia admitted. “We’re just retracing our steps, trying to get in another mile or two. Isn’t that right Sarge?”
Sarge barked in agreement. Tricia hadn’t known a dog could lie.