Chapter & Hearse (20 page)

“He could have done that himself.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Tricia, there’s no gas stove—just a furnace. The wrench used to loosen the connection on the pipe was on Kelly’s kitchen counter.”

“So? If someone did this to him, they might’ve left it there as a misleading clue. Did you look for fingerprints?”

“It was wiped clean.”

“Was there a suicide note? Was it signed?”

“We found a typed letter on the kitchen counter. Mr. Kelly has denied writing it.”

“Well, of course he would. You should be able to determine if the note came from Bob’s computer printer.”

“Only if we confiscate all his home and office equipment. We’re not ready to do that now—but it’s an option.”

“Do you seriously consider him a suspect?”

Baker didn’t blink. “Yes. So much so, that we intend to present our evidence to the district attorney, possibly as early as tomorrow.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m deadly serious.”

“But you have at least two other suspects.”

“Who?”

“Jim Roth’s mother. You have to admit her behavior at the memorial this morning was outrageous.”

“She may have had a motive, but not the opportunity. She has an iron-clad alibi.”

“Who?”

“Her”—the captain paused, looked uncomfortable—“gentleman friend.”

“They could be lying.”

Baker didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “Who’s your other suspect?”

It pained Tricia to say it. “Frannie Armstrong.”

“Possible motive, but no opportunity. Your sister swears she was working at the Cookery Wednesday afternoon and never left the premises.”

Tricia’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. Angelica had been cooking in her apartment for most of that day. She wouldn’t have known if Frannie ducked out for five or ten minutes. Had Angelica lied to Baker to protect Frannie?

“Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this information about Mr. Kelly to yourself,” Baker said.

“Even from my sister?” Tricia asked.

“Especially from your sister.”

Tricia laughed. “Do you have any siblings?”

“I’ve got a brother.”

“Not a sister.” She waved a hand in the air. “Then you just wouldn’t understand.”

“Be that as it may, I don’t want you talking about this—to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

“Then why did you tell me in the first place?”

For the first time since she’d met him, Captain Baker seemed unsure of himself. He touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll be leaving now. Until next time.”

He reached for the door handle, turned it, and left the store.

Tricia watched as he got into his cruiser and took off, heading north once again.

She lowered the blinds, grabbed the phone’s receiver, and dialed.

Angelica picked up on the fourth ring.

NINETEEN

“Why did
you have to call right now?” Angelica complained. “I’ve just run a bath. This lovely little bed-and-breakfast has one of those deep, old-fashioned claw-footed tubs. It must hold a million gallons. I intend to soak for at least an hour.”

“You’ll probably pull the plug and let it run out when I tell you the latest,” Tricia said, and wished she’d used her cell phone so she could settle down in Haven’t Got a Clue’s readers’ nook. This call could become yet another marathon event. “I did as you asked, and went over to Bob’s house.”

“So you mentioned in your message. I hope he wasn’t as obstinate as he’s been lately.”

“Actually, he was unconscious when I got there,” Tricia said, keeping her voice neutral.

“Good grief. I hope you’re joking,” Angelica said, her distress evident over the miles.

“Someone tampered with his gas meter.”

“Just like Jim’s! Oh, Tricia, is he okay?”

“They took him to St. Joseph’s in Milford. He’s going to be okay. But they kept him overnight for observation. He’s on suicide watch.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. If Bob was going to kill himself, he would’ve done it when the market crashed in two thousand and eight.”

“I know. But what’s worse, Captain Baker thinks Bob might’ve killed Jim Roth.”

“Oh sure—and blew up his own building? Give me a break.”

“Which is exactly what I told the captain.” Tricia considered asking Angelica about her vouching for Frannie on Wednesday afternoon, but figured she’d already dumped enough trouble in her sister’s lap. And she wasn’t about to mention the cutout being decked out in fun wear.

Angelica sighed. “I guess I’d better let the water out of the tub, check out, and head home.”

“What about your book tour?”

“Bob needs me,” she said, sounding resigned.

“Right now, he needs a good lawyer more than he needs you. Maybe I should call my lawyer, Roger Livingston.”

“He doesn’t deal with criminal cases. You’d better let me handle this. I’ll call him for a referral. Do you think they’re letting Bob take calls at the hospital?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“Pull out the phone book, will you? I’ll go scout up a pen and some paper.”

By the time Tricia found the number, Angelica was ready to take down the information.

“Are you really coming home?” Tricia asked.

“That depends on what I hear from the hospital, Bob, and the attorney.”

“I’m sorry, Angelica. I know you’ve worked hard for this tour—”

“Yes, and I hate to disappoint all those people who’ll be showing up at the bookstores, just dying for me to autograph their copies of my book.” She sighed dramatically.

“Well, I have one piece of good news for you—something I forgot to tell you this morning. Someone in Stoneham bought the winning Powerball lottery ticket. The prize is twenty million dollars.”

“And how does that affect me?” Angelica asked.

“I just thought you might like to know.”

“Only if they spend a good portion of it at the Cookery and Booked for Lunch.” Angelica sighed once more. “I’ll call you later. Thanks for everything you’ve done over the last few days, Trish. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you.”

Tricia’s mouth dropped. She’d never heard Angelica actually say those three words before. She swallowed. “I love you, too. Call me.”

“I will. ’Bye.”

“ ’ Bye.”

Tricia replaced the receiver, feeling empty inside. Miss Marple jumped down from the shelf behind the counter, rubbed her head against Tricia’s arm, and gave a sympathetic “
Yow.”

Tricia gazed around Haven’t Got a Clue. Usually, she felt more at home in the store than she did in her loft. But now she felt restless.

“Yow!”
Miss Marple insisted, purring hopefully and head butting Tricia’s arm, which was now covered in long, gray cat hair.

“It’s not time for your dinner yet.” Then, as she thought about it, Tricia realized the only things she had in her fridge were blueberry muffins and leftover pizza, neither of which sounded appealing. “I think I’ll drive to Milford to get supplies.”

“Yow!”

“You know you don’t like riding in the car. Besides, they have a no-animals policy,” Tricia said. She grabbed the lint roller she kept under the counter.

“Yow!”
Miss Marple said more emphatically.

“Yes, I will buy you more kitty cookies. And afterward, I’ll sit on the couch and read, and you can sit on my lap and get cat hair all over my slacks. Won’t that be fun?”

“Yow!”
Miss Marple agreed.

Tricia replaced the roller and snagged her purse from under the cash desk. “You’re in charge while I’m gone,” she said, and locked the door behind her.

As Tricia headed up the sidewalk toward the municipal parking lot to retrieve her car, she felt a prickle on the back of her neck. She looked to her left and saw Russ standing in the window of his office, watching her. Was he really planning on stalking her? She quickened her pace, and when she got in her car, she locked the door, feeling shaken.

“I am not afraid of him—I am
not
afraid of him,” she said, but her hand was shaking as she tried to put the key into the ignition.

By the time she’d arrived at the grocery store, less than ten minutes later, Tricia was berating herself for allowing Russ to upset her. She had too many other things on her mind to let him have that kind of power over her.

Tricia left her car in the parking lot, making sure she locked it, and entered the store. Grocery shopping had to be one of the most boring aspects of life, at least for her, but at that moment she was grateful for the distraction. Usually she kept to the outside aisles of the store, where the healthier products were located, but today she felt like wandering the aisles. Who knew there were so many variations on the basic baked bean? Pit barbeque, bourbon and brown sugar, Southern style . . . .

Tricia shook her head and rounded the corner into the baking aisle. Her second muffin experience had been much more satisfying than the first, bolstering her confidence. As she studied the wall of boxed cake, cookie, and brownie mixes, she wondered if maybe she’d been too ambitious by starting to bake from scratch. Maybe she should stick to prepackaged mixes, for which all you needed was water, oil, or an egg.

She was standing there, considering a carrot cake mix when
Bang!
Her cart slammed into her stomach. She glanced up, irritated to see Darcy Gebhard standing before her.

“Oops!” Darcy said, and giggled.

Tricia exhaled a breath, counted to ten, and then forced a smile. “Darcy. What are you doing here?”

“Shopping. Everybody’s got to do it sometime.”

Yes, and wasn’t it Tricia’s good fortune that Darcy ran into her? No! She glanced down at her empty cart, wishing she had a list to consult—anything to occupy her attention. Then maybe Darcy might take the hint and move on. No such luck.

“I found out why Jake went to jail,” Darcy said. “Want to know?”

Okay, that got Tricia’s attention. She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t want to appear too eager.

“Attempted murder,” Darcy said, a gleam in her eye.

Tricia swallowed, but when she spoke, she kept her voice steady. “It turns out Angelica knows all about Jake’s past.”

“I wish I had. I probably never would have taken the job. Who wants to work with a murderer?”

“You said it was attempted murder.”

“Just because the guy didn’t die doesn’t mean Jake didn’t do his best to try to kill him.”

“What were the circumstances?” Tricia asked.

“I thought you said Angelica knows all about it.” Darcy said.

“
She
does.
I
don’t.”

Darcy shrugged. “Oh. Well, it seems he went berserk and almost beat a guy to death. Too bad he recovered, else Jake would still be in jail.”

Tricia couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. Okay, it wasn’t right for someone to nearly kill someone, no matter what the circumstances, but to wish the victim had died was appalling.

“Maybe when Angelica has finished with her book tour, you might want to think about finding another job somewhere else,” Tricia suggested.

“I’ve been trying to get more hours at my other job—I waitress at a much fancier joint at night—but things have been slow, which is why I took the job at Booked for Lunch. I like the hours, and the tips aren’t bad, either. But I’ll probably only stay through the summer. I don’t want to be on the road all that much come winter. I’m thinking of heading south again.”

“Is that where you’re originally from?” Tricia asked, then wanted to smack herself in the head. If she wanted to end this conversation, she’d have to stop asking questions.

Darcy shook her head. “Massachusetts. I came to New Hampshire because a boyfriend of mine lived here. Boy, that was a mistake.”

“Yes, well—I don’t want to hold you up,” Tricia said, hoping she could put an end to their unwanted chat.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of time. No one’s going to be waiting up for me,” Darcy said, and laughed.

Tricia could see why. “Well, I really must get going. It was great to see you.”

“Yeah, you, too,” Darcy said, and finally pushed her cart forward. “See you.”

Tricia exhaled a breath, grateful to be rid of Darcy, and turned her attention back to the mixes on the shelf in front of her. Maybe she’d try one for lemon squares. She had to admit, despite the garish color, Mrs. Roth’s lemon bars had tasted pretty good. If she made them from a mix, and they turned out well, she could put them out for the customers—which is what she should have done with the muffins she and Angelica had baked the night before.

She tossed the box into her cart and headed down the aisle. When she got to the end, she could see the parking lot through the big windows at the front of the store. And out in the parking lot, standing by his junky pickup truck, was Russ Smith.

TWENTY

Tricia felt
the blood drain from her face. So much for telling herself she wasn’t afraid of Russ. The thing was, on the drive to the store, she’d kept looking in the rearview mirror, checking to make sure he hadn’t followed her. And now—there he was. Or was it just that after spending the better part of a year with her, he knew her habits? She often shopped on Sunday evenings after closing Haven’t Got a Clue. No matter, there he was, and Tricia felt trapped.

She thought about her options. Confronting him—not a good idea; what if he became violent?—and calling for help. The problem was, calling for help meant calling some other male friend, and right now that amounted to Mr. Everett, who was hardly a threat to Russ, or Bob Kelly—who was in the hospital under suicide watch—not a good candidate to play knight in shining armor. That left . . . Grant Baker . . . and it was likely his presence would only infuriate Russ, making the situation even more precarious.

A woman pushed her grocery cart around Tricia, who realized she must have been blocking the aisle for more than a minute. Another cart approached. “Are you okay, Tricia?” Darcy Gebhard asked. She looked from Tricia to the parking lot beyond. “Is that geeky guy with the glasses bothering you?”

“I’m afraid he is.”

Darcy looked back at Russ. “He’s the editor of the local weekly, isn’t he?”

Tricia nodded.

“I’m just about finished here. Let me check out my stuff, and then I’ll go have a talk with him,” Darcy said.

“No, don’t. Until yesterday, I would’ve said he wasn’t violent. I can’t say that anymore.”

“Yeah, I heard he slugged an off-duty sheriff’s deputy in the Bookshelf Diner last night.”

“Word gets around.”

“And how.” Darcy patted Tricia’s arm. “Don’t worry, honey. As a waitress, I’ve defused this kind of situation lots of times.”

Tricia didn’t believe that for a moment, especially after what happened at the diner the day Jake bugged out early—but she hung back and waited, cell phone in hand, really to punch in 9-1-1 as Darcy pushed her cart of groceries out of the store and toward Russ.

She found herself gripping the cart’s handle as she watched and waited. Russ kept looking toward the store, listening as Darcy talked. Eventually he nodded, got into his truck, and drove off. Tricia abandoned her cart—and the box of lemon bar mix—and headed for the exit. Darcy met her halfway.

“What did you say to him?” Tricia asked, almost too anxious to hear the answer.

Darcy shrugged. “I asked him to think about the consequences of going to jail for longer than just a night. How it would affect his business. That it might drive away advertising. I’ve always found hitting people in their wallets works best—at least in most situations.”

“Thank you,” Tricia said, and she meant it.

“Glad I could be of help. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow when I bring over the café’s receipts.”

“Yeah. Thanks again, Darcy.”

“No problem,” she said.

This time, the phrase didn’t make Tricia cringe—much.

Tricia wasn’t
sure if she should continue her shopping mission, but the truth was she needed at least the basics: coffee, milk, and cat food. She saw no sign of Russ in the grocery store’s parking lot, nor when she parked her car in Stoneham’s municipal lot. Tricia held her key ring in one hand, with the store key in her fist—ready to use it as a weapon if necessary. She wasn’t going to act like one of those loony heroines in a bad mystery who walked into a dark alley, an attic, or a basement where a bad guy was waiting in the shadows. If Russ came at her, she was ready. She got out of her car, grabbed her groceries, and looked around. Still no sign of Russ.

Tricia walked briskly toward Haven’t Got a Clue. It was only after she was inside the store with the door locked that the panic began to abate.

Miss Marple yawned and stretched, then jumped down from one of the readers’ nook’s chairs. “
Yow!”
she said, with a
what took you so long
attitude.

“You don’t want to know,” Tricia told the cat.

She needed something to divert her attention, and the day’s events were certainly fodder for that, considering the three suspects in Jim’s murder: Bob, Frannie, and Mrs. Roth, none of whom seemed capable of murder.

Ah, but could one of them have
hired
someone to do their dirty work? And who?

Baker had hinted that Bob might not have had a squeaky clean past. But how would Mrs. Roth or Frannie connect with someone with a criminal background? It would have to be someone in Stoneham with a dubious background.

Then it came to her: Jake Masters. He was a felon convicted of attempted murder. Something Darcy had said earlier came back to Tricia: If he could almost beat a man to death, what else was Jake capable of doing?

As one of Angelica’s employees, Frannie had probably met Jake at least a couple of times. Ginny had quoted “hell hath no fury,” and Frannie was definitely a woman scorned.

And how about Mrs. Roth? Could she have run into Jake at Booked for Lunch, or had she gone to dinner with her gentleman friend at La Parisienne? That seemed the least likely scenario.

Tricia thought back to something she’d seen on Bob’s porch: a crushed cigarette butt. Jake smoked. Could he have had a reason to want Bob dead? He was loyal to Angelica, and she and Bob hadn’t been getting along all that well, but that was Bob’s fault—not that dealing with Angelica couldn’t get a bit aggravating. Still, could Jake have acted on his own, thinking he’d be doing Angelica a favor by getting rid of Bob? If so, why mess with the gas meter at History Repeats Itself? Bob spent hours alone at his realty office—and at his home, where the gas meter had been tampered with.

Tricia wondered if the cigarette butt would still be on Bob’s porch. She could call Darcy to see what brand Jake smoked—or look behind Booked for Lunch. No doubt Jake tossed his butts into the alley. It was dark now, but she could check out Bob’s porch first thing in the morning, and if she found the butt, compare it with what she found behind Angelica’s café.

With her mind whirling about the possibilities of Jake as bad guy, Tricia found she was too wound up to read a current or classic mystery, and instead spent the rest of the evening in the living room with Miss Marple on her lap as she reread Angelica’s cookbook. Tricia had proofread the manuscript for
Easy-Does-It Cooking
, which had seemed rather dull at the time. This time, though, she found the pictures of home-cooked meals and the lovely photo styling had a calming effect on her. And she was surprised at how much of Angelica had been infused into the writing, which she also found oddly comforting.

All too soon it was bedtime. Tricia slunk into the bedroom without turning on a light, closed the blinds, and peeked out. No sign of Russ. But then, the west side of Main Street was bathed in shadows. He could be hiding in one of the shop doorways, watching for her lights to go on. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She undressed for bed in the bathroom, and climbed into bed—a bed she had, on occasion, shared with Russ. Now the thought of his touch left her shaken.

After her trouble at the market, Tricia was surprised she’d fallen asleep so easily. But twenty minutes later, the ringing phone demanded her attention. Was it Russ? Was he calling to badger her? This phone didn’t have caller ID. Tricia picked it up on the fourth ring. “Hello?” she said cautiously, expecting dead air.

“I’m downstairs. Can I come up?” Angelica asked, her voice sounding shaky.

“Oh, sure. What’s wrong?” Tricia answered, still sleepy.

“I’ll explain when I get up there,” Angelica said, and hung up.

Miss Marple was quite indignant when Tricia hauled herself out of bed, reached for her robe, and staggered toward the kitchen. By the time she got there, Angelica was already opening the door. With one look at Angelica’s ashen face, Tricia flew across the room to embrace her. The hug was intense. Funny, two years ago they might have exchanged air kisses that meant nothing. Now, they clung to one another, and the sentiment was real—and treasured.

“Are you okay?” Tricia asked. “What happened?”

“I had a scare on the road,” Angelica answered. “Boy, I could sure use a nice cup of tea.”

“Tea, I’ve got. Come, sit down,” Tricia said, and ushered her sister to one of the stools at the kitchen island. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something stronger?”

Angelica thought about it and nodded. “Stronger is probably better. Have you got any gin?”

Tricia nodded and reached for the cabinet door, removing a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. She found a bottle of tonic water in her pantry, and reached for a tall glass.

“Make it a short one—and not too much ice,” Angelica said.

Miss Marple arrived, looking sleepy-eyed and annoyed, walked up to the island, stretched and yawned, and then jumped onto Angelica’s lap. Angelica petted the cat’s head. A year ago she probably would have tossed her aside, but now she seemed content to encourage Miss Marple’s purrs. Maybe one day soon Angelica would be ready to accept another pet. Cat . . . dog . . . it didn’t matter. Angelica had so much love to give, and not enough places to give it.

Tricia put ice in the glass, poured two fingers of gin, topped the glass with tonic, found a spoon, and stirred the drink. “Sorry, I don’t have any limes.” She handed the drink to Angelica, who took a deep gulp.

“I’ll have a cup of tea with you as soon as this stuff takes effect,” Angelica said.

Tricia moved to the counter and filled the electric kettle with water. “What do you want? Earl Grey? Orange pekoe? Herb tea?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Orange pekoe it is,” Tricia said.

Miss Marple rubbed her head against Angelica’s shoulder, leaving stray gray hairs, but instead of scolding her, Angelica bent down to kiss the cat’s head. Miss Marple’s back end flew into the air and she purred even louder, nuzzling Angelica’s chin.

“Are you up to telling me what happened?” Tricia asked as she opened her cupboard, grabbed her shamrock-decorated teapot, and placed it on the counter.

Angelica heaved a loud, dramatic sigh. “I checked out of the B and B and started for home. It was an uneventful drive until I was halfway between Nashua and Milford, when these bright lights came up behind me at an appalling speed. I figured I’d better get out of the way, and swerved to the right. The car zoomed right past me, bashed into the guardrail, straightened out, and kept going.”

“They didn’t even stop to assess the damage?”

“No. I was going to call the Sheriff’s Department, but I figured what could they do? I didn’t get the make of the car or see the license plate, and I was so tired, I didn’t want the hassle of waiting.”

“The Nashua or Milford cops would’ve been there in a flash.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. I’m used to dealing with the county Mounties—and I just couldn’t be bothered.”

Another reason for Stoneham to reestablish its own police force.

“Angelica, this is the second incident you’ve had since you’ve been on the road. You said you had your tires slashed.”

“That was the second,” she admitted sheepishly, “if you count nearly getting creamed in front of the hospital last Wednesday night. Tonight’s was the fifth incident.”

“Good grief, Ange, what else haven’t you told me?” Tricia demanded.

“Someone keyed the words
fat bitch
along the side of my car. I wonder how much that will cost to get rid of,” she said, wearily.

“And what was number four?”

“Two broken headlights.”

“Oh, Ange,” Tricia admonished.

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I’ve now gone past worry all the way to terrified.”

“Until tonight, I figured these were just isolated incidents,” Angelica explained. “Or at least I wanted to believe that.”

“It sounds to me like someone’s after you,” Tricia said.

“It could just be a string of bad luck. Either that, or a literary critic would rather take it out on me personally. I’ll be glad when I’m done with my book tour and can sleep in my own bed every night. In fact, I think I’m going to try to come home more often.”

“But it sounds like these incidents were
meant
to keep you off the road. Maybe you should cancel—or at least postpone—the rest of your tour.”

“And piss off every independent bookseller in New England who put time, effort, and money into promoting my signings? I know how I’d feel if an author canceled on me at the last minute.” Angelica gulped the rest of her drink, getting cat hair on the glass, which was wet with condensation. “Now, please, can we change the subject?”

“For the moment,” Tricia said, exasperated. She struggled to remember what had originally brought Angelica home. “When we last talked, you said you were going to find Bob a lawyer,” Tricia said.

“Your Mr. Livingston was very helpful. He dispatched a criminal lawyer to St. Joseph’s and apparently has sprung Bob from the place. At this point, I’m merely paying his bill, and unless Bob starts talking, I’m not privy to attorney-client confidentiality.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”