your . . . freegan friends?”
“She didn’t talk to me—she didn’t like me. The feeling was mutual. But she was friendly with some of the others. One of them told me she’d mentioned she was hanging around Stoneham to meet someone.”
“Did she find this person?”
Ginny shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Who are these people? Can I talk to them?”
“Stoneham is a small town. We don’t like to advertise who we are to just anyone. We don’t do much scavenging here in the village. We don’t want to catch the flack.”
“Where do you go to . . . find . . . what you’re looking for?”
“Sometimes Milford—but Nashua, mostly. But Brian and I have also been to Manchester and Portsmouth, too. We’ve got friends all over.”
“You said I’d know some of these people,” Tricia reminded her.
“I don’t feel comfortable telling you who—at least not without talking to them first.”
Good grief! Who could she be talking about? Fellow booksellers? Respected members of the Chamber of Commerce?
“Would you ask them if they’d mind speaking to me?”
“I’ll try,” Ginny said, “but I can’t promise that anyone will.”
Libby had mentioned the stigma attached to being a freegan. “Fair enough. But I’m not out to expose anyone. I just want to find out who killed Pammy, and why. You can understand that—right?”
“Yes. But I’m certain that none of my friends had anything to do with Pammy’s death. I’d stake my life on it.”
Tricia wasn’t sure that was a wise bet.
It was after five when the phone rang. Since Ginny was at the counter, she picked up the telephone. Tricia looked up from her position at the coffee station. She was proud of that phone, a relic from another age. She liked to imagine that Harriet Vane used the same kind of instrument to talk to Lord Peter Wimsey. The look of distaste on Ginny’s face, however, gave Tricia pause. Ginny laid the receiver on her chest to muffle the mouthpiece. “It’s Angelica. Does she have to remind everyone she talks to that she’s”—she dropped her voice to a whine—“ about to be published , and then give the daily countdown?”
Tricia flipped off the switch on the coffeemaker, removed the filter and grounds, and dumped them in the wastebasket before heading for the register and the phone. She took the receiver, which Ginny held out as if it had cooties. “Hey, Ange, what’s up?”
“I need your help,” Angelica said, her voice filled with drama. “Jake has taken off again, and I’ve got no one to help me, and—”
“Ange, I have a store to run—”
“Then can you loan me Ginny or Mr. Everett?”
“Mr. Everett has the afternoon off.”
“Again?” Angelica wailed.
“What do you need?” Tricia asked.
“I’ve got the kitchen back in shape for tomorrow’s lunch crowd, but I need help bringing my garbage over to the Cookery. Captain Baker took one of my garbage carts, and the other one is overflowing. I’ve got bags of trash I have to dump somewhere. I may even need to put some in your Dumpster. Will you help me, please?”
The last thing Tricia wanted to do was soil her pretty peach sweater set, but she couldn’t very well ask Ginny to ruin her clothes, either.
“I can give you ten minutes. No more.”
“That’s all I need. Now get over here, will you? I’ve got paperwork to finish over at the Cookery. Why I ever thought I could run two businesses at the same time . . .”
Tricia hung up the phone and shifted her gaze to her employee. Ginny didn’t look pleased.
“I’ve got to help Angelica with her trash problem,” she said, and forced a smile. “I’ll be back in about ten minutes.”
Ginny folded her arms across her chest, but made no comment.
Tricia headed for the door without a backward glance. Why should she feel guilty? After all, they weren’t exactly inundated with customers, and Angelica was her sister. She was short-staffed and—
Why was she making excuses—if only
“She didn’t talk to me—she didn’t like me. The feeling was mutual. But she was friendly with some of the others. One of them told me she’d mentioned she was hanging around Stoneham to meet someone.”
“Did she find this person?”
Ginny shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Who are these people? Can I talk to them?”
“Stoneham is a small town. We don’t like to advertise who we are to just anyone. We don’t do much scavenging here in the village. We don’t want to catch the flack.”
“Where do you go to . . . find . . . what you’re looking for?”
“Sometimes Milford—but Nashua, mostly. But Brian and I have also been to Manchester and Portsmouth, too. We’ve got friends all over.”
“You said I’d know some of these people,” Tricia reminded her.
“I don’t feel comfortable telling you who—at least not without talking to them first.”
Good grief! Who could she be talking about? Fellow booksellers? Respected members of the Chamber of Commerce?
“Would you ask them if they’d mind speaking to me?”
“I’ll try,” Ginny said, “but I can’t promise that anyone will.”
Libby had mentioned the stigma attached to being a freegan. “Fair enough. But I’m not out to expose anyone. I just want to find out who killed Pammy, and why. You can understand that—right?”
“Yes. But I’m certain that none of my friends had anything to do with Pammy’s death. I’d stake my life on it.”
Tricia wasn’t sure that was a wise bet.
It was after five when the phone rang. Since Ginny was at the counter, she picked up the telephone. Tricia looked up from her position at the coffee station. She was proud of that phone, a relic from another age. She liked to imagine that Harriet Vane used the same kind of instrument to talk to Lord Peter Wimsey. The look of distaste on Ginny’s face, however, gave Tricia pause. Ginny laid the receiver on her chest to muffle the mouthpiece. “It’s Angelica. Does she have to remind everyone she talks to that she’s”—she dropped her voice to a whine—“ about to be published , and then give the daily countdown?”
Tricia flipped off the switch on the coffeemaker, removed the filter and grounds, and dumped them in the wastebasket before heading for the register and the phone. She took the receiver, which Ginny held out as if it had cooties. “Hey, Ange, what’s up?”
“I need your help,” Angelica said, her voice filled with drama. “Jake has taken off again, and I’ve got no one to help me, and—”
“Ange, I have a store to run—”
“Then can you loan me Ginny or Mr. Everett?”
“Mr. Everett has the afternoon off.”
“Again?” Angelica wailed.
“What do you need?” Tricia asked.
“I’ve got the kitchen back in shape for tomorrow’s lunch crowd, but I need help bringing my garbage over to the Cookery. Captain Baker took one of my garbage carts, and the other one is overflowing. I’ve got bags of trash I have to dump somewhere. I may even need to put some in your Dumpster. Will you help me, please?”
The last thing Tricia wanted to do was soil her pretty peach sweater set, but she couldn’t very well ask Ginny to ruin her clothes, either.
“I can give you ten minutes. No more.”
“That’s all I need. Now get over here, will you? I’ve got paperwork to finish over at the Cookery. Why I ever thought I could run two businesses at the same time . . .”
Tricia hung up the phone and shifted her gaze to her employee. Ginny didn’t look pleased.
“I’ve got to help Angelica with her trash problem,” she said, and forced a smile. “I’ll be back in about ten minutes.”
Ginny folded her arms across her chest, but made no comment.
Tricia headed for the door without a backward glance. Why should she feel guilty? After all, they weren’t exactly inundated with customers, and Angelica was her sister. She was short-staffed and—
Why was she making excuses—if only
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