Part 17 (1/2)

For some reason, she wasn't really afraid--more annoyed, perhaps. Someone had decided to crank up the fear factor. If the person on the phone could shoot at her windows with a BB gun, they certainly could have done so with a high-powered rifle. And thanks to the Supreme Court, any crank with a desire to start his own well-armed militia had the go-ahead from the country's top lawmakers.

She should probably call the Sheriff's Department and report this. But at this time of night, she'd have to deal with some deputy pulled off patrol. She glanced at the glowing numerals on her bedside clock. She didn't want to wait the hour or more it might take for one to arrive, and decided instead to just call Captain Baker in the morning.

Tricia sidled along the wall, reached for the drapery pull. Before she did, she peeked out the window one last time . . . and saw a dark shape scurry into the shadow-filled doorway of Booked for Lunch. Could it be the shooter?

Heart pounding, she watched and waited.

A car rolled by, its headlights cutting through the darkness and then receding into the gloom.

Suddenly the figure darted out--its arms raised above its head--and hurled something round into the street.

The pumpkin exploded onto the asphalt. Tricia stared at the resulting mess, entranced--and missed seeing where the figure went.

She watched and waited as another car drove past, skirting what was now just refuse.

After a good five minutes with no other sign of the vandal, she pulled the cord and the curtains closed across the bank of windows. Even with them closed, Tricia decided not to turn on her bedside lamp. As she undressed and got ready for bed in the dark, she kept thinking about the demolished jack-o'-lantern, wondering if the shooter and the vandal could be the same person. She also contemplated the holes in her bedroom window, and worried what her caller's next move would be.

THIRTEEN.

”Ms. Miles,” Captain Baker said firmly, ”you should have called the Sheriff's Department as soon as someone shot at your windows. We're here to protect the citizens of Stoneham.”

Tricia glanced out the front window of Haven't Got a Clue to where Baker's cruiser was parked. ”I've always wondered about that. The other towns around here all have their own police departments. Why does Stoneham depend on the Sheriff's Department for protection?”

”The Board of Selectmen dissolved the Stoneham Village Police during the early 1990s, when the village was going broke. They never voted to reinstate it. But that's beside the point. You should have called us last night.”

”What for? By the time a deputy arrived, the shooter would've been long gone.” Tricia sounded a whole lot braver than she'd felt the night before, and she'd spent a good part of the night lying in bed and worrying. ”Besides,” she continued, ”I haven't had a very warm reception from the Sheriff's Department in the past.”

”I know about your past difficulties with Sheriff Adams. That's why I'm investigating Pamela Fredericks's murder. I want you to call my office--day or night--if you have anything to report. If there's an emergency, they can get hold of me in a matter of minutes.”

Tricia exhaled a breath. ”Okay. As a matter of fact, I do have something else to report. For the last couple of days I've been receiving”--she hesitated; they weren't really threatening calls--”annoying phone calls.”

Baker's eyes narrowed. ”How many have you received?”

Tricia shrugged. ”Eight or ten.” Her voice grew softer, as though she expected a rebuke. ”Maybe more.”

Baker looked ready to explode. ”I don't suppose you saved any of them,” he managed through gritted teeth.

”Just one. It's on my home answering machine.”

”Is that a different number from the shop?”

”Yes.”

”I suppose you're listed in the phone book as well.”

”Just under my last name and first initial. But it's a P for Patricia, not T, and everyone around here knows me as Tricia.”

”It doesn't matter, if the caller knows your address. Now, do you mind if I listen to this call?”

”Not at all. I'll show you the holes in my window, as well. If you'll follow me.”

Baker grabbed his hat from the store's sales counter and followed Tricia to the back of the shop. Miss Marple scampered ahead of them. She wasn't about to be left behind with Ginny when she could follow Tricia upstairs and perhaps have an extra helping of cat cookies.

Tricia unlocked the apartment door and preceded Baker inside, with Miss Marple scooting in ahead of both of them. She jumped onto one of the kitchen stools and gave a sharp ”Yow!”

”You don't need a treat right now,” Tricia told her, and the disgruntled cat sat on her haunches and glared at her owner.

Baker looked around the converted loft s.p.a.ce. ”Nice.”

”Thank you.” Tricia held out her hand, indicating the way. ”The window with the BB holes overlooks the street.”

Tricia led the way to her bedroom, glad she'd made the bed, and even dusted the nightstand, earlier that morning.

”Nice place,” Baker said, eying the s.p.a.ce, his glance landing on the queen-sized bed, where it seemed to stay for far too long.

”The window,” Tricia prompted, indicating the gla.s.s across the way.

Baker shook his head, becoming all business once again. He moved to the window to examine the damage, and then s.h.i.+fted his gaze to take in the rooftops across the way. ”The perfect vantage point.”

”My thoughts exactly.”

”You ought to keep your curtains shut for the time being.”

”I did close them last night.”

He reached for the traverse cord. ”Daytime, too,” he said as the drapes closed. The light grew dim, and the room seemed to shrink.

”I also saw something else last night.”

”Oh?”

”The person who's been smas.h.i.+ng pumpkins.”

”When was this?”

”Just after the shots were fired. I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman--or a teenager. Just that the person was”--she paused, realizing what it was she'd seen the night before, but that hadn't registered until this moment--”chunky.”

Baker frowned. ”A fat vandal? You're saying it wasn't a kid?”

Tricia shrugged. ”They say that thirty-three percent of today's youth are overweight-to-obese,” she offered. ”The person was dressed all in black. He or she raised the pumpkin over his or her head and then--splat!”

”Splat,” he repeated with no inflection.

She nodded.

”I want you to know I have looked into this pumpkin vandalism, and I can tell you that not one parent or homeowner in Stoneham has reported any stolen or smashed pumpkins.”