Chapter & Hearse (17 page)

Tricia looked away. “I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation the other day, and I’ve got a business proposition for you, Deb.”

“That sounds interesting,” Deborah said, her eyes widening with interest.

“You’re really stressed out—”

“And how,” Deborah agreed.

“I wondered if you’d like to borrow Mr. Everett for a few hours now and then. He’d be more than willing to spell you during lunch, or if you wanted to catch up on your paperwork.”

Deborah’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh, Tricia, that is so nice of you to offer—but I couldn’t afford to pay—”

“I’m not asking you to. I’d be glad to help you—and so would Mr. Everett.”

Deborah’s hand moved up to cover her mouth, and she looked like she was about to cry. “It’s so sweet of you, but I just can’t accept.”

“Why?” Tricia asked, trying not to feel hurt.

Deborah seemed at a loss for words. “I just can’t.”

Tricia swallowed her disappointment. “Why don’t you think about it for a few days? Or just give a holler when you feel overwhelmed?”

Deborah nodded. “I will. I promise.” She cleared her throat, and looked for an escape. “I need another cup of coffee. You want one?” she asked.

Tricia shook her head.

“I’ll be back,” Deborah said, patted Tricia’s arm, and took off in the direction of the refreshment table.

Tricia let her gaze travel back to Captain Baker. He caught her eye and gave her a hesitant smile. Despite the way her conversation with Deborah had ended, she found herself smiling back—then caught sight of Russ watching her. The smile instantly evaporated. Captain Baker took a step forward, then stopped, looking at something behind Tricia. She turned, and saw Stoneham’s librarian, Lois Kerr, approaching.

“Tricia, I’m so pleased you made it. I hear I have you to thank for our latest donation.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Livvie Roth called the library yesterday afternoon. She’s donated the entire surviving stock from History Repeats Itself to the library, to use as we see fit. We’ll have quite a World War Two collection, and anything that we can’t use will go in our next book sale. Of course, some of the more valuable pieces we’ll try to sell to collectors, but it looks like it’ll generate quite a bit of revenue for us. Thank you so much for suggesting us to Mrs. Roth.”

“You’re very welcome. Do you know if she plans to attend this morning? When I last spoke with her, she was undecided.”

“I believe she said she was going to try to make it. Frannie has asked me to make the announcement about the donation.”

“It’ll be quite a tribute to Jim,” Tricia agreed.

Frannie approached. “Lois—Tricia, I’m so glad you both could come.”

Tricia gave Frannie a brief hug. “I’m glad to be here—for you, and for Jim,” she whispered. She pulled back.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Lois said, “I’m going to warm up my coffee.”

“We’ll be starting in just a few minutes,” Frannie warned. Lois gave her a brief wave and headed for the coffee urn.

“That’s a lovely outfit you have on,” Tricia said.

A blush rose on Frannie’s cheeks, and she looked down at herself. “Do you think? I bought it when I thought. . . .” Tears filled her eyes. “Last fall, Jim and I talked about getting married. But that’s all that came of it—talk. I guess I was foolish to buy it. And then when Jim was killed, I figured I’d never get the chance to look pretty for him. Then I thought—well, why not wear it today, in his honor?”

Tricia nodded, trying not to see it as the pathetic gesture it was.

“Of course, I haven’t told anyone but you about our hopes and plans, and I’m sure I can trust you not to say a word. Not even to Angelica.”

Tricia said nothing, and hoped she could get to Angelica before she mentioned it to Frannie. She gave the room a once-over.

“I see the Dexter sisters are here,” Tricia said.

Frannie let out a frustrated sigh and pursed her lips. “Those old biddies. They didn’t know Jim. They wanted a chance to speak—to urge everyone to sign their petition to reestablish a Stoneham police force. I told them no, but they wouldn’t leave, and are circulating the room asking people to sign. I’d give them a piece of my mind, but my mama taught me to respect my elders.”

Tricia saw a man adding his signature to the petition. She figured she ought to change the subject, before Frannie exploded in anger. “I spoke to Bob Kelly this morning. He said he didn’t feel well enough to make it.”

Frannie shrugged. “I’m not surprised. He’s kept a low profile since Jim’s death. If he hadn’t been in the building when it blew, I’m sure people would assume he was behind Jim’s death.”

“You sound like you’ve changed your mind about him.”

“There don’t seem to be any other viable suspects,” Frannie said, with a pointed look at Captain Baker. He just stared back.

Frannie looked at her watch. “I guess I’d better get things moving along. These dear people—as well as you and I—need to get their shops open in another hour or so. If you’ll excuse me.” Frannie crossed the room, but paused to speak to Chauncey Porter. He held a sheet of paper—his eulogy, no doubt. He nodded, and then Frannie stepped over to the refreshment table, picked up one of the glass punch cups and a spoon, and moved to the front of the room. Chauncey picked up the easel and poster, and set it beside Frannie. Tricia cringed as Frannie tapped the spoon on the glass. So much for keeping her feelings and aspirations a secret. Was Frannie determined to employ every wedding tradition at this wake?

“May I have your attention, please?” Frannie called.

The voices died down, and everyone stepped closer to the front of the room.

“It’s with deep sadness that we’re here today, to bid our friend Jim Roth good-bye.” She sighed, looked like she was about to cry, but then forced a smile. “I met Jim when he joined the Chamber of Commerce just five years ago. He was a great asset to the organization, as well as being the kindest, sweetest man you’d ever want to meet,” she continued. “Jim could be counted on to make great suggestions, and he always paid his dues on time. In addition, he—he. . . .” She seemed to struggle to find something else to say. “He was a wonderful man.”

A soft smattering of applause followed. Frannie waited for quiet to return before speaking again. “Jim’s good friend and Main Street neighbor, Chauncey Porter, will give the eulogy.”

Chauncey stepped up to the microphone, tapped it twice, and said, “Test, test.” A titter of laughter went through the waiting audience. Chauncey retrieved a pair of reading glasses from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, settled them on his nose, and glanced down at his speech.

“Friends, we’re here today to say good-bye to our neighbor, our fellow Chamber member, and a friend to us all. Jim Roth was all those things, but he was much, much more. Jim could be counted on to pitch in at Chamber meetings, bringing good ideas to help his fellow members and strengthen the organization, as well as helping out at the many charity events the Chamber sponsored.”

Tricia frowned. She hadn’t remembered Jim doing any of those things. Perhaps he’d been more active before she’d come to Stoneham.

“Jim’s knowledge of history was vast—he was a veritable font of information. He was the perfect man to own a shop like History Repeats Itself, sharing what he knew about events of the past—from prehistoric days, right through the Cold War, to the conflicts in the Middle East. He may have missed his calling, for I believe he would’ve made a wonderful teacher. He would’ve made history fun for the kids of Stoneham High—or any other place of education.”

All around Tricia, heads nodded in agreement. Someone blew their nose, and there were several pairs of damp eyes as tears were brushed away. Head bent, her eyes covered by the wad of tissues in her hand, Frannie quietly sobbed. Russ scribbled in his steno pad, no doubt gathering material for Jim’s obit.

As Tricia looked around the room, she noticed Livvie Roth standing in the open doorway, listening to the tribute for her son. She gave Mrs. Roth a tentative smile and a brief wave, but the old woman’s eyes were riveted on Chauncey.

“But perhaps Jim Roth’s greatest legacy was the lives he saved in battle,” Chauncey continued. “Those of you who knew Jim well will remember his exciting tales of fighting in the jungles of Vietnam. Yes, Jim was also a decorated war hero. Once, in a heated firefight, he single-handedly saved the lives of seven men in his battalion. He was awarded a number of medals, which he proudly displayed in his shop. The Bronze Star, the Silver Star, and, of course, the Purple Heart for being wounded in battle.

“We will miss Jim. His winning smile, his friendly ways, and most of all his big heart. Farewell, dear friend. May you rest in peace.” Chauncey folded his notes, placed them in his suit pocket, and stepped away from the microphone.

Frannie took a shuddering breath and composed herself before she stepped back to the microphone. “Thank you, Chauncey. That was lovely. And now, I believe Lois Kerr, Stoneham’s librarian, would like to say a few words about Jim and another of his legacies.”

Lois stepped forward, but before she could say a word, a voice from the back of the room pierced the quiet. “I have a few things to say, as well.”

Everyone turned as Livvie Roth entered the conference room, threading her way through the crowd. Clad in a stunningly loud, magenta floral dress, she seemed ill-dressed for a memorial service, and the dark expression covering her face was menacing enough to frighten small animals and children. This was not at all the sometimes sweet, little old lady Tricia had met previously.

Livvie stepped up to the microphone. She took a few moments to look each and every person in the room in the eye. “I, too, came here today to tell you about my son.” Mrs. Roth’s hard gaze raked her audience once again. “I heard what Ms. Armstrong said, that he was a kind and decent man. I listened with interest to Mr. Porter’s tall tales. But I’m here to tell you that James Winston Roth was a liar and a cad. He treated me, his own mother, like a servant. He took my money, kept me homebound, and even drove my car—not allowing me its use. He could never have become a teacher. Jim never even graduated high school. He learned much of what he knew about history from comic books and the Military Channel. He was a terrible businessman. His store was on the brink of bankruptcy through bad management and his gambling habit. Even Gamblers Anonymous couldn’t keep him away from the craps tables. Did you know about that?”

No one said a word, or even nodded. Several guests looked embarrassed. Had they known Jim from GA meetings? Tricia felt like a rubbernecker at a crash site, but she, too, could not look away.

“Worst of all, James lied about his military record,” Mrs. Roth continued. “He had none! He was declared Four-F by the Selective Service, and often bragged that if he hadn’t been found ineligible to serve, he would have escaped to Canada to dodge the draft. Those medals he displayed on the walls of his store were bought at an estate sale!”

Tricia looked around and saw mouths hanging open in shock and dismay.

“And you,” Mrs. Roth said with disgust, staring at Frannie. “When I heard it was you who’d set up this farce of a service, I was livid. How dare you prance around here in a wedding dress, talking about James as though he had any use for you?”

All eyes roved to Frannie, who stood stock still at the front of the room.

“This pitiable woman desperately wanted to believe James was going to marry her,” Mrs. Roth said with scorn. “Did she tell you he’d dumped her just days before his death?”

Captain Baker’s eyes narrowed. Frannie’s eyes widened in horror, and her jaw dropped.

“Yes,” Mrs. Roth continued, “that was the kind of man James Roth was. Dishonest, deceitful, and a bully to the end. It is the saddest thing a mother can say about her child, but the world is better off without him.”

And with that, she gave Frannie a parting glare and stepped away from the microphone. The mourners moved back, giving her plenty of space as she stalked out of the conference room.

A deadly silence followed her departure. The guests looked at each other in shared shock, all trying not to look at Frannie. For a terribly long moment, Frannie stood there, dumbfounded, and then she burst into tears. Grace, who was the closest, rushed to her side, but was pushed away as Frannie bolted from the room. Ginny ran after her, with Russ right on her heels.

Tricia sidled up to Captain Baker and whispered, “Looks like you’ve now got three suspects.”

SEVENTEEN

Tricia had
never seen a room clear out so fast. Within seconds of Frannie’s humiliated escape, most of the rest of the mourners grabbed their serving plates and scattered. Even the Dexter sisters gave up their petition quest and filed out after the others. Only Tricia, Mr. Everett, Grace, and Captain Baker remained to take in the chaos.

Ginny quickly returned. “I thought maybe Frannie had run to the bathroom to have a good cry, but I couldn’t find her. I looked in the parking lot, and her car’s gone.” She shook her head. “Boy, Mrs. Roth’s announcements were a bit of a shocker, weren’t they?”

“It certainly doesn’t sound like she’ll miss him,” Tricia agreed.

“But do you think it’s possible she might have killed her own son?” Ginny pressed.

“That’s infanticide,” Grace said, appalled.

“Jim was no baby,” Ginny said with a smirk.

Tricia frowned. “I have to admit Mrs. Roth is one strange duck. She’d started redecorating her home—removing Jim’s presence—before he’d even had a chance to be missed. That alone doesn’t make her look good.”

“Why didn’t you mention that before?” Baker asked.

She shrugged. “I guess I didn’t want her to look heartless. Then again . . . I entertained the thought she might’ve been poisoning Jim.”

“Poison?” It was Mr. Everett’s turn to be appalled.

“That first day I met her, she kind of creeped me out. She offered me a lemon bar cookie that had a strange, almost glowing yellow color. It reminded me of antifreeze. And then, not two days later, I saw a gallon jug of the stuff in her garage.”

“Many people store antifreeze. It doesn’t make them criminals,” Grace said.

Tricia turned to Captain Baker. “Did the medical examiner’s office do any toxicology tests on what was left of Jim?”

Baker looked uncertain. “They weren’t able to scrape up much—although I can certainly ask. But they wouldn’t have been looking for that kind of evidence, so there’s a possibility they didn’t do more than a DNA test to prove he’d died in the blast.”

“Tricia, you can’t be serious,” Grace chided. “No mother would kill her only child, no matter how bad a boy he was.” Tricia knew Grace spoke from experience, but there was plenty of evidence to the contrary.

“It depends on how abusive he was. She said Jim was a lifelong bully,” Ginny said.

“But that’s not the impression he gave his customers, or his friends at the Chamber of Commerce,” Tricia said in Jim’s defense. “There’s got to be some middle ground.”

“He lied about his military service,” Mr. Everett said, aghast.

“Don’t forget,” Ginny said, “we’ve now got another suspect: Frannie. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ ” she quoted.

“Oh, dear,” Mr. Everett murmured. “Oh, dear, oh, dear.”

“I never knew they were dating. Do you think it’s true that Jim dropped her just days before he died?” Grace asked.

“Then why would she go to all the trouble of arranging this memorial service?” Ginny asked.

“To avert suspicion,” Baker answered. “I’ll be having a talk with both Mrs. Roth
and
Ms. Armstrong.” He nodded in Tricia’s direction. “If you’ll excuse me.”

They watched him as he left the silent conference room.

Nobody had mentioned Bob Kelly, or that he’d been conspicuous by his absence from the memorial service. He certainly hadn’t sounded unwell when Tricia had spoken to him earlier.

Tricia glanced at her watch. “We’d better go, too. I need to open the store in less than an hour.”

“I’ll see you there,” Mr. Everett said, and took Grace’s hand. He nodded a good-bye to Ginny, and Grace gave a halfhearted wave.

Ginny sighed. “I wonder if Frannie will show up at the Cookery.”

“Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I could sub for her today,” Ginny offered.

“But it’s your only day off.”

“I can use the money,” Ginny admitted. After all, she’d done it before. And Angelica wouldn’t be pleased if the Cookery lost a day’s revenue.

“Thanks, Ginny. I’ll walk with you to your car,” Tricia said, and picked up her own plate from the long, empty table. All that remained was the solitary pseudo-wedding cake, which hadn’t even been cut.

“Shouldn’t one of us take that picture of Jim?” Ginny asked.

Tricia glanced back at the giant, smiling picture of Jim, taken in happier times, that was still on the easel. “I don’t know anyone who’d want it. Not his mother—and at this point, I shouldn’t think Frannie would want it, either.”

The bright, warming sunshine was a stark difference from the gloom that had fallen inside the inn’s conference room. The flowering crabapple tree outside the entrance reminded Tricia that no matter what, life went on.

The parking lot was decidedly empty now that the mourners had left, and Tricia remembered her earlier conversation with a worried Eleanor. Could the inn really be shut down if they couldn’t find an investor?

“I’ll meet you at Haven’t Got a Clue. It’ll save time if I need to open the Cookery,” Ginny said, and headed for her car.

Tricia opened her car door, but before she could get inside, her cell phone chirped for attention. Since the car had been sitting in the hot sun, she stood outside it and took the call, recognizing Angelica’s number. “Hello.”

“Trish, are you still at the memorial service?”

“Just leaving. Boy, did you miss the fireworks. Chauncey Porter gave the eulogy, and then Jim’s mother burst in to refute everything Chauncey said—including the fact that Jim lied about his military career.”

“I always miss the good stuff,” Angelica said, but she didn’t sound all that enthralled.

“Where are you?” Tricia asked.

“In a parking lot in Bennington, Vermont. I’ve been trying to call Bob and still haven’t been able to reach him. Did he show up at the service?”

“As a matter of fact, he didn’t. But I spoke to him this morning. He said he wasn’t well, but I suspect he was more interested in making a buck.”

“Why?”

“Someone’s already bought the lot where History Repeats Itself used to be,” Tricia said.

“You’re kidding! Who’d want that?” Angelica asked. “The cost of redevelopment would be astronomical.”

“That’s what I thought. But don’t you think it bodes well for Stoneham?”

“I guess.”

“Aren’t you going to ask who bought it?” Tricia asked.

“Do I care?”

“A development company called Nigela Ricita Associates.”

“And that’s important because?” Angelica countered.

“Nobody’s ever heard of it. And guess what—the Brookview Inn might go up for sale.”

“You’re kidding!” Angelica sounded more interested in that tidbit. “But it’s always done so well.”

“Not lately, thanks to the construction across the street.”

“That’s too bad, but let’s get back to Bob. He’s not answering his home phone number, his cell, or the line at the realty office. Trish, I’m really getting worried.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not like Bob to ignore a call on his office phone.”

“Does he have caller ID? You said he’s been avoiding you.”

“Bob’s too cheap for caller ID.”

Suddenly, the sun didn’t feel quite so warm on Tricia’s back.

“Trish, will you please go over to Bob’s house and check up on him?”

“Ange!” Tricia protested, “I’ve got to open the store in less than an hour.”

“Bob only lives two blocks from your store. It’ll take you five minutes.
Please?
”

Tricia sighed. “Oh, all right.”

“And call me when you get there,” Angelica pressed.

“Okay.” She remembered Frannie’s frantic and tearful exit from the service. “Um, you might want to give Frannie a call—to make sure she intends to open the Cookery this afternoon.”

“Why wouldn’t she open?”

“Mrs. Roth trashed not only her son, but Frannie, too. She said Jim had dumped Frannie just days before his death, and kind of hinted she might have killed him.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Frannie ran from the room in tears.” Tricia made a quick sweep of the nearly empty lot. “I suppose she might’ve gone home, if only just to change clothes. Uh, she was kind of dressed like a bride.”

“Why does everything juicy have to happen when I’m out of town?” Angelica demanded.

“But Captain Baker, who was also at the service, said he intended to talk to her.”

“Tell me more. On second thought—don’t. Get over to Bob’s. You can fill me in on everything else that happened later. Luckily, Sundays aren’t your busiest day at the shop.”

“What about your signing?”

“I don’t have to be there until one. There’s still time. Now get going to Bob’s.”

“All right,” Tricia said testily. “I’ll call you later.” And she folded her phone, tossing it into her purse. She got into the car, started it, and hit the air-conditioning button, then pulled out of the lot and headed for Bob’s house.

As usual for a Sunday morning in Stoneham, traffic was light, and as Angelica predicted, it took her only five minutes to arrive at Bob’s home, where she pulled up behind his car. The neighborhood looked half asleep. Only one of the neighbors was visible—a man mowing his lawn several houses away.

Tricia got out of her car, walked up the path, and climbed the steps to the porch. She rang the bell and waited. A bird called out from the bushes at the end of the porch. Tricia looked down and noticed a crushed cigarette butt lying next to one of the white plastic chairs. Bob didn’t smoke, and though he might have cheap lawn furniture, he kept the place neat and tidy.

Tricia frowned, glanced at her watch, and sighed. “Come on, Bob.” She pressed the bell again, heard the muffled chime from inside. The neighbor made another circuit around his yard, and the skin on the back of Tricia’s neck prickled. The broken window had been repaired, and she stepped over to peer inside.

Bob’s living room was a shambles. Furniture had been tipped over, books and papers lay scattered across the living room rug, and the pictures on the wall were askew. Tricia could see broken crockery in the hall leading to the kitchen. And on the far side of the room, lying in front of the fireplace, was a body—Bob.