Part 9 (1/2)
”Could you introduce me to them?” Tricia asked eagerly.
”You already know them.”
Tricia blinked. She couldn't imagine anyone she knew in Stoneham who would be reduced to digging through garbage for food. ”Who?”
Ginny shrugged. ”Well, for one--me.”
SEVEN.
Tricia's mouth dropped. It felt like someone had just kicked her in the stomach. It took a long moment before she could speak again. ”Ginny, I can't believe you dig through garbage for food.”
”I never intended for you to know,” Ginny said, her head lowered so she did not meet Tricia's gaze.
”Why would you do such a thing, especially after Brian ended up in the hospital last spring with food poisoning?”
”Ah, but he wasn't poisoned by anything we got Dumpster diving.”
That was true. Brian had eaten tainted food meant for Tricia.
”Just answer one question. Why? And don't tell me you're making a political statement.”
Ginny sighed. ”I was a freegan back in college. I thought I didn't have any money back then, but now it's a matter of economic survival. Buying our house has been a lot more expensive than either of us thought it would be--that's why we can never afford a nice wedding.”
”Are you sorry you bought the house?”
”When I pay the bills, yes. When I drive home from work at night and see the lights on in our little cottage, no, I'm not sorry. We both love the house. It just needed a lot more work than we antic.i.p.ated, and we have to cut corners where we can.”
”Have you thought about using the Stoneham Food Shelf?”
Ginny shook her head. ”That's for desperate people.”
”And you don't think digging through trash to get your food is a desperate measure?”
Ginny held her head high. ”No, I don't. Although I don't like to advertise it,” she added sheepishly.
The shop door opened, and a man and woman entered the store.
Tricia stood straighter and forced a smile. ”h.e.l.lo. Welcome to Haven't Got a Clue. Can I help you find anything?”
”No, just browsing,” said the woman, who gave her a return smile.
”Our authors are shelved in alphabetical order. Nonfiction t.i.tles are on the left. Please, help yourself to some coffee, and let us know if you need help or a recommendation.”
”Will do,” said the man, and he and the woman split up, each heading for a different part of the store.
Tricia turned her attention back to Ginny. ”I don't know that we should continue this conversation.”
”Agreed. At least this part of it. But you wanted to know about Pammy,” Ginny reminded her.
”Yes. What was she doing in Stoneham? Did she confide in you or any of 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 m.u.f.fle 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.