Chapter & Hearse (3 page)

“I’ll be okay,” he insisted after Angelica had fussed around his bed, adjusting the covers for the fifth time.

“I just want you to be comfortable.”

“Right now I’m comfortable. Although when those pain meds wear off. . . .” He let the sentence trail off, and closed his eyes.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Tricia asked.

“Jim and I were talking. He went out back for a smoke. There was a loud
whoosh,
and then the next thing I knew, I was lying on the sidewalk outside his shop, surrounded by firemen and a lot of glass,” Bob said, not opening his eyes.

“What were the two of you talking about just before all that happened?” Tricia asked.

“Nothing much,” he said, without inflection. Bob didn’t seem very disturbed by the death of his friend.

“Did you smell gas before the place blew?”

Bob sniffed. “Not with my allergies. Look, I’m really tired. Why don’t you girls go on home? I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“But Angelica won’t be here tomorrow,” Tricia said. “She’ll be starting the first leg of her book tour.”

“Of course I won’t,” Angelica declared, and then lowered her voice, placing her hand gently on Bob’s shoulder. “I’m staying right here with Bob until he’s fully recovered.”

He opened his eyes. “No, you’re not. You’ve worked too hard to get all the publicity this tour will give your book. You can’t afford to cancel—especially at this late hour. And I’m speaking literally and figuratively. I will manage.” His tone indicated he was finished with that subject.

“When did the doctor say you could leave, Bob?” Tricia asked.

“Probably tomorrow or the next day. I’ll have to arrange for a ride home. Perhaps a cab.”

“Don’t be silly. I’d be glad to take you home whenever you’re released,” Tricia said.

“Yes, and I’ll stop by your place and pack a bag for you,” Angelica said. “You can’t go home wearing a hospital gown, and your clothes are ruined.”

“No,” Tricia agreed solemnly, “Captain Baker would probably arrest you for mooning all of Stoneham.”

Bob made no comment. He lacked a sense of humor at the best of times, and no doubt whatever painkillers they’d given him had also dulled his senses.

“I’ll just leave you two alone to say good night. Ange, I’ll get the car and meet you at the front entrance,” Tricia said, and backed out of the room. “I hope you feel better, Bob.”

He didn’t answer.

Tricia did not like hospitals, and neither did she like traversing a dark parking lot to find her car. But in minutes she’d retrieved her Lexus and pulled around to the hospital’s front entrance to await Angelica. Ten minutes later, she was still waiting. A security guard approached her car. She rolled down the window.

“Didn’t you see the sign?” He jerked a thumb toward a white sign with red lettering: NO PARKING OR STANDING.

“I have to pick up my sister,” Tricia protested.

The guard shook his head. “You can’t tie up the lane in front of the entrance. You’ll have to keep circling until she comes out.”

Tricia exhaled a loud sigh, started the car, and pulled away. She’d circled three times before she saw Angelica waiting on the sidewalk.

Another car stood at the curb. Where was that security guard now? Tricia pulled over, out of the fire lane, stopped her car, and shifted into PARK. As Angelica stepped off the sidewalk to cross the drive, Tricia heard the roar of an engine. She turned to see the high beams of a car come barreling up from behind.

Angelica froze, the car’s bright headlights illuminating her. At the last second, she seemed to come alive and jumped out of the zooming car’s path. Tricia heard the thud as her sister landed on the hood of her Lexus. In seconds, she was out of the car.

“Ange! Are you all right?”

Angelica did not move. Terrified, Tricia reached for her sister’s limp arm, checking for a pulse. It was there—racing.

Angelica groaned, braced her arms on the hood, and pushed herself up. “What was that?”

“A car!”

“I know it was a car,” Angelica growled. She looked around, dazed. “Where’s my purse?”

Her giant handbag had gone sailing into the air just before she’d hit the Lexus. Tricia glanced around, found the leather purse and its contents scattered across the asphalt. She stooped to pick up all the odds and ends. “Are you okay?”

“Bruised only,” Angelica said, gently touching the skin under her left eye.

“We should call the police.”

“What for?”

“Someone just tried to kill you!”

“Don’t be silly. It was probably just a teenager on a joy ride.”

“At a hospital?” Tricia asked, incredulous.

Angelica waved away her concerns. “And anyway, what would we tell the cops? Did you see what kind of car it was—or even the color?”

“No,” Tricia admitted, handing over Angelica’s purse. “But we should at least tell hospital security.”

Angelica reached for the passenger-side door handle. “Forget it. I’m tired. And we’ve still got to stop at Bob’s house so I can pack that bag for him.” She got in the car, buckled her seat belt, and leaned back against the headrest. Tricia got in, and with shaking hands turned the key once more and pulled away from the hospital’s now silent entrance.

Angelica made small talk all the way home, mostly on the subject of her upcoming book tour. Tricia kept glancing up at the rearview mirror, worried those bright headlights might zoom up behind her once again.

THREE

Angelica closed
the zipper on her large, shocking pink, Pierre Cardin suitcase. A mere nine hours after her scare at the hospital, the skin under her left eye was puffy, but makeup had done a good job of covering the purple bruise.

Tricia had shown up early on her sister’s doorstep, still worried about what had happened the night before. “I think you should reconsider going.”

Angelica placed her hands on her hips and frowned. “Every time the subject of my book tour comes up, you give me the impression you don’t approve.”

Tricia crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t think my opinion would be well received.”

“By who? Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“You think I’m wasting my time?” Angelica asked, and checked the zippered pocket of her makeup case.

Tricia didn’t answer.

Angelica raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe you’re jealous.”

“Jealous? Of what?”

“That I’m published and you’re not.”

Tricia’s mouth dropped. “I’ve never aspired to be published. I’m perfectly happy selling other people’s books.”

Angelica raised the other eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really. Really great authors.”

“Then you must be moping about next week.”

“Me, mope? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You’re upset because Mother and Daddy canceled their trip to visit in time for your birthday.”

“I am not.” Of course she was, but she hadn’t been surprised by their announcement the previous week, either. No, they’d come back from wintering in Rio in time for Angelica’s birthday, but for more years than Tricia could count, they’d been unavailable for Tricia’s natal day. Their father had often traveled for business during Tricia’s childhood, and their mother had volunteered for a number of charities. More than once her birthday celebration had been rescheduled to suit other people’s convenience. This year was to be no different.

“I told you,” Angelica continued, “when my book tour is over, I’ll bake you a cake, fix a nice dinner, and the three of us will celebrate your birthday.”

“The three of us?” Tricia asked.

“Sure, you, me, and Bob.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Of course it is.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I really don’t want to celebrate
my
birthday with
your
boyfriend.”

Angelica glared at her, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Tricia felt her cheeks grow hot. Angelica could have protested at least a little bit.

“Getting back to the subject at hand,” Angelica said, hauling her suitcase from the bed and heading for the door and the stairs that led to the Cookery below. Tricia picked up the other two suitcases and followed. Angelica
never
traveled light. “Why do you think this book tour is such a bad idea?”

“I didn’t say it was a bad idea. I just wonder if it’s a fiscally prudent idea. You’ve got your hands full with the Cookery and Booked for Lunch. The publicist you hired costs more than your advance—”

“That may be,” Angelica interrupted, “but she also arranged all these lovely book signings. And I’m going to be on the radio and interviewed on some cable access channels, too.”

“But will you ever see a royalty check? You sell a lot of hardcover remainders at the Cookery—which tells me there are an awful lot of cookbooks out there that the authors never see a dime from. You’re making only a couple of bucks per book. Your gas alone on this book tour will wipe out any potential profit.”

Angelica turned and paused. “Listen, Paula Deen didn’t start out with an award-winning TV show and a monthly magazine—she started with one cookbook. I’ve got to get my name out there if I’m ever going to reach her level of success.”

Tricia controlled the urge to scream. Nobody in the Miles family had ever had an ego as big as Angelica’s. Where had she acquired it? Maybe she was adopted and nobody had told Tricia—or the rest of the family. If she took a few hairs from Angelica’s brush, maybe she could have her DNA checked.

“Actually, after what happened at the hospital last night—” Tricia began.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was a stupid accident. Nothing is going to stop me from taking this trip.” And with that, Angelica took the larger of the suitcases Tricia held, stuffed it and the bigger case in the dumbwaiter, closed the door, and sent it to the Cookery below. “Now, I’ll try to call the store and the café at least a couple of times a day, but if Frannie or Jake or Darcy needs direction, I’ve told them to come to you. Okay?”

“I don’t know what good I’m going to be to Jake or Darcy, but—okay.”

“I’ve e-mailed you a copy of my itinerary and a list of emergency numbers.”

“Emergency numbers?” Tricia repeated.

“My employees’ home numbers, my agent, my editor—”

Why not the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker, too?
Tricia thought.

“Frannie and Darcy will bring the day’s receipts over to you after closing. You
will
take them to the bank with your own deposits, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Tricia said, and sighed. They’d been over this at least a dozen times.

“And I want you to do everything you can to help Bob. I can’t be here for him this week, and he’s going to need someone to cheer him up.”

“Angelica—I have a business to run. And now you want me to run both of yours, too?”

“My employees can handle most things that come up, but they still might need some guidance. And you’ve said so yourself; Ginny is the best assistant in all of Stoneham. I’m sure she can handle anything that comes up on your end, too. Besides, I’ll only be gone a few days.”

“And be back a day or so before you take off again.”

Angelica shrugged. “That’s the price of success.” With a wave of her hand, she ushered Tricia to take the stairs, then turned, locked her apartment door, and started after her sister.

After helping
Angelica load her car, Tricia waved good-bye and returned to Haven’t Got a Clue. Miss Marple waited behind the door and immediately scolded Tricia for leaving her alone. “You’re getting as snarky as Angelica,” Tricia warned the cat. She raised the blinds and was once again confronted with the gaping hole across the street, what had once been History Repeats Itself. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the slight breeze. A man had died in what was now just the shell of a building.

Miss Marple jumped onto the shelf in front of the display window and meowed for attention. Tricia absently petted the cat and tried to remember the last time she’d actually spoken to Jim Roth. It must have been months earlier at a Chamber of Commerce breakfast meeting. They’d compared notes about their stores’ holiday receipts. Haven’t Got a Clue not only had held its own but had done exceptional business, but Jim’s store hadn’t been as fortunate. Like many of the shop owners, he’d kept his expenses to a minimum—hiring no staff. Tricia often wondered if that contributed to the decline of a business. Working alone, could an owner get so burned out he’d lose the passion that inspired him to become an entrepreneur in the first place?

The shop door opened and Ginny barreled in. “Morning!” Since her breakup with her boyfriend, she’d been on time to work every day, and often, like today, she’d come in early to share a cup of coffee and trade village gossip with Tricia. She was vivacious, the customers loved her, and Tricia was fond of her, as well.

“Is the coffee on?” Ginny asked, heading for the coffee station.

“I didn’t get around to making it. I had to make sure Angelica got off all right.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ginny said, and popped a filter into the restaurant-sized coffeemaker.

Tricia’s gaze returned to the gaping hole in the storefronts across the street. It was lucky none of the other businesses had suffered more than broken glass and stock knocked from the shelves. It was also fortunate that the explosion had happened after hours, when the tourists had left for the day—otherwise the body count could’ve been much worse. She thought about Mr. Everett’s offer the night before, and wondered if he’d been successful in his efforts to save the books inside History Repeats Itself.

After a few moments, Ginny joined her. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a ring of keys. “I wanted to return these to you. They’re Angelica’s.”

“Thanks.” Tricia stowed them under the counter, intending to put them in a more secure place when time permitted.

“The electricity was still out when I got over to Booked for Lunch, but PSNH had restored it by ten o’clock, so everything is okay—nothing spoiled. A few items got knocked off the walls from the blast, but I cleaned up, and put as much of the launch party leftovers as I could in the fridge. The rest went into the freezer. I found another dome for the torte and left it on the counter for Angelica’s customers.”

“Why not put that in the fridge, too?”

Ginny shrugged. “Cakes go stale faster if they’re kept cold. Something I picked up when I worked for Doris Gleason. She used to lecture me about stuff like that. But it’s come in handy—or least it did last night.”

“Thanks for helping Ange. I’ll make sure she knows all that you’ve done.”

Ginny shrugged away the praise, and rested her elbows on the glass display case. “The fire chief said they’d probably have to come in today and knock down the rest of the building. It’s a safety hazard as it stands.”

“That won’t cheer Bob Kelly.”

Ginny shrugged. “Knowing him, it was probably insured to the hilt. He’ll make out okay.”

Yes, he probably would.

“You should have seen Mr. Everett in action last night—you would have been proud of him. He got ten or twelve volunteers to save a bunch of Jim Roth’s books.”

“Oh, good. That had me worried.”

Ginny laughed. “It was like a bucket brigade. The firemen handed out the books and the volunteers loaded them into their pickups and vans. Mr. Everett even got Harvey Carson at the Stoneham Mini Storage to open up for him—and to give him a month’s rent for half price.”

A lump of emotion rose in Tricia’s throat. “Do I tell you two enough how glad I am that you work for me?”

Ginny laughed. “Not nearly!” But her merriment was fleeting, and her expression quickly sobered. “For a minute there, we were so caught up in saving the books, we almost forgot that Jim had died.” She was quiet for a few moments, and Tricia glanced out the window at the destruction of what had been her neighbor’s store.

“To make matters worse,” Ginny continued, “I got more bad news when I collected my mail last night.” She reached into the pocket of her slacks and handed Tricia a wrinkled envelope. “This is the end of the road—at least for my little cottage in the woods.”

The return address was Bank of Stoneham. Tricia withdrew the creased letter and skimmed the wording. Imminent foreclosure on the house Ginny had put so much time and effort into, and had loved so much.

“I didn’t think it would happen this fast,” Ginny said wistfully, and sighed.

“When was the last time you made a payment?”

“A full payment? November. I’ve been paying what I could, but I’m still months behind. Without Brian, there’s no way I can make the full payments on my own. And I really don’t want to wait for Captain Baker or some other sheriff’s deputy to show up on my doorstep with an eviction notice, so I’ve already started packing.”

“Why didn’t you put it on the market?”

“I owe more than the market value. And the house is still all torn apart. Who’d be crazy enough to buy it as is?”

“Did you consult Bob Kelly?”

“I didn’t want him knowing my business.”

When the bank foreclosed, everybody—and especially Bob—would know about it. “Do you have enough money put aside to rent an apartment?”

Ginny sighed. “I think so. I’ve already started looking and have a few prospects. I might be able to sign the paperwork in a day or two. The problem is, I don’t know how I’m going to move all my stuff. All Brian’s friends with pickup trucks think I should’ve stood by him.”

Tricia wasn’t among that crowd. “How about if I paid for a rental truck? Do you have enough friends to help you fill it and move you?”

“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Yes, you could. Now please answer my question.”

“Maybe,” Ginny said, with a grateful smile. “Then all I’d have to do is find someone to store Brian’s stuff for him. So far, none of his friends have volunteered. I can’t afford to pay for a storage unit for him—and why should I? But if I leave it at the house, the bank will probably just toss it.”

“You’ve tried to do the right thing.”

“Yes. And look what it got me. My credit rating will take a beating for years.”

“But at least you won’t have to declare bankruptcy.”

Ginny shrugged. “I guess.”

The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the bookstore. Ginny retrieved their ceramic mugs, filled them, and joined Tricia at the window.

Tricia gave her employee a weak smile, and they both gazed at the ruin across the street. There had to be something Tricia could do to help Ginny, something better than just paying for a rental truck to move her possessions into some crummy apartment. The pickings in Stoneham weren’t that great.