Chapter & Hearse (4 page)

Then it hit her. There
was
something she could do. She could pay off Ginny’s mortgage. Her divorce settlement had been extremely generous, and her grandmother had left the bulk of her estate to both Tricia and Angelica. It wasn’t something she ever talked about, but, quite frankly, she was filthy rich. And though she made many charitable contributions throughout the year, nothing would give her as much pleasure as helping someone she truly cared about.

If . . . it could be arranged. She’d have to visit the manager at the Bank of Stoneham, and wondered if she’d be able to fit that into her busy day.

“Poor Jim,” Ginny said, interrupting Tricia’s musings. “What a terrible thing. Here one minute—gone the next.”

“I wonder if he had any family,” Tricia said aloud, and thought again about Frannie’s reaction to his death.

“Someone told me he lived at home—with his
mother
. That’s kind of strange for a man his age, isn’t it?”

Tricia had to agree. Then again . . . “That poor woman. Does she live in the village?”

Ginny nodded. “I think she lives on Poplar Street.”

“Maybe I should pay her a visit to express my condolences. She must be beside herself.”

“You might want to pay a visit to Frannie, too. You saw how she reacted to Jim’s death. Don’t you think they had to be lovers or something?” Ginny asked, with a gleam in her eyes.

“It certainly came as a surprise to me.”

“They must have been discreet, since no one seemed to know about it.”

“Or maybe it was over a long time ago?” Tricia suggested.

Ginny shook her head. “Not the way she cried last night. Let’s keep an eye out for her. As soon as she walks by to open the Cookery, you can pounce on her.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind.”

“Damn, you’re no fun,” Ginny teased.

The shop door opened, admitting their first customer of the day. Immediately after, the telephone rang. Tricia stepped over to the counter and picked it up. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How can I help you?”

“Tricia, it’s Darcy from Booked for Lunch. The poultry guy is here, but Angelica didn’t leave any money to pay him.”

Tricia glanced out the window. She hadn’t noticed the Jefferson Poultry truck that was parked in front of Angelica’s café. “Is this your regular delivery?” she asked. Angelica was usually on top of these things. Then again, she’d been distracted by all the prep for her launch party and book tour.

“I guess,” Darcy said, not sounding at all certain. “I’m not usually here when deliveries are made. Angelica asked me to put in more time while she’s away—to kind of look after things.”

Yes. She had.

“All right. I’ll be right over with a check.”

“Thanks.”

Tricia hung up the phone and pulled the store’s checkbook from under the counter. “I’ve got to solve a problem over at the café,” she told Ginny.

Ginny nodded, and went back to helping the customer.

Tricia crossed the street and entered Booked for Lunch. Although the café wasn’t yet open, the truck driver sat at the counter, nursing a cup of what was no doubt free coffee, with a fat slice of Angelica’s coconut cake in front of him. Tricia knew that Angelica had reprimanded Darcy at least once for giving away the store.

Darcy Gebhard stood behind the counter, looking subdued. Something about her bugged Tricia. Dumpy was the word that best seemed to describe her. Maybe it was the ill-fitting clothes she wore, or the color of her dyed hair—red, bordering on magenta. Angelica had mentioned that she was the same age as Tricia, but for some reason she looked older—harder. But then if Tricia had worked only at minimum-wage jobs most of her adult life, she might make the same clothing and grooming choices. Only the woman’s perfectly manicured nails and the silver rings gracing each finger seemed to hint that she might aspire to more in life than waiting tables.

Tricia faced the deliveryman, noticing his grubby pants and shirt, the dirt under his fingernails, and made a note to herself never again to order the grilled chicken sandwich. “Hello, I’m Tricia. I understand you’ve just made a delivery.”

“Yeah. It’s already in the freezer. That’s not part of my job, you know. I just did it because I’m a nice guy.”

Hence, the free coffee and cake.

“Thank you. May I see the invoice?” He reached for a piece of paper on the counter and handed it to her. She inspected the items and the total at the bottom of the page. Everything looked in order. She noticed that Jake, the cook, along with his perpetual sneer, had appeared behind the half doors that separated the dining room from the kitchen. He didn’t bother to acknowledge her presence, and she ignored him as well. For some reason, Angelica thought the world of her short-order cook. Tricia didn’t share the sentiment.

She set the invoice and her checkbook on the counter, wrote out the check, tore it out, and handed it to the deliveryman. “Thank you for your patience.”

He pocketed the check. “Not a problem.”

Tricia’s teeth involuntarily clenched. She hated that phrase. Why couldn’t people just say, “You’re welcome”? She forced a smile and said it for him. Miss Manners wouldn’t approve—she chastised her readers who brought bad behavior to light, but so be it.

“May I have a receipt?”

The deliveryman looked to Darcy. “Just mark the invoice Paid in Full,” she suggested, scooped it up, and handed it to him. He complied, and handed it back to Tricia.

The deliveryman made no move to leave, and Jake and Darcy continued to stare at Tricia, making her feel uncomfortable. She forced another smile. “I’ll just be on my way—and I’ll see you later, Darcy.” She turned, and headed for the door.

“Thanks,” Darcy halfheartedly called after her.

Tricia took her time crossing the street to return to her own store. Something definitely hadn’t been right about her visit to Booked for Lunch. She’d have to talk to Angelica about it.

The bell over the door tinkled cheerfully as Tricia entered Haven’t Got a Clue, making her feel a little better. That is, until Ginny said, “Bob Kelly called while you were gone. He’s ready to come home from the hospital—and he needs some clothes.” She giggled. “I keep imagining him sitting in his hospital room, buck naked.”

Tricia wasn’t amused. “I can see I’m not going to get much done today.” She grabbed the overnight bag Angelica had left for Bob, gathered up her purse, found her keys, and headed for the door. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“Don’t worry—we’re open until seven,” Ginny called brightly, and waved a cheerful good-bye.

Bob wasn’t
naked when Tricia arrived at his hospital room, but he was waiting impatiently. She handed him the overnight bag. “Angelica packed a sweat suit. She thought you’d be more comfortable in it.”

“I’ll be more comfortable when I get out of here. I need to stop at a pharmacy and get a prescription for pain pills filled. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. Should I call for a nurse and a wheelchair?”

Bob shook his head. “I’m walking out of here on my own power.” He got up from the room’s only chair, held the back of his hospital gown to cover his rear end, and hobbled across the floor to the bathroom. It took him some time to get dressed, but he didn’t ask for help, and Tricia wasn’t sure she’d have felt comfortable helping him. When he emerged some ten minutes later, she noticed his pallor, and felt ashamed for worrying about her own convenience.

“Let’s go,” she said cheerfully, and carried his overnight bag.

Bob waited on a bench outside the hospital while Tricia brought the car around. She parked it, and got out to help him into the passenger seat. His face looked ashen in the bright sunlight. Was he really in any shape to be left alone?

Tricia put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. Bob stared out the passenger window—not the best company. Tricia struggled to make small talk. “What about those Red Sox?”

“I hate baseball,” Bob muttered.

Okay.

Tricia pressed the brake for a red light. “Are you going to be able to change your dressings by yourself?”

“Yes.”

Usually you couldn’t shut Bob up, but suddenly he had nothing to say. She tried again. “Have you spoken to Captain Baker yet?”

“Yes.”

“And?” she prompted.

“I told him I didn’t have anything to say without an attorney present.”

Startled, Tricia tore her eyes from the road. “Bob! Why in the world would you need an attorney present? Do you have something to hide?”

“No.”

Tricia was getting tired of his blunt, single-syllable answers. “Then why—?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it, Tricia.”

Tricia clenched the steering wheel, squelching the urge to wrap her fingers around Bob’s throat. “Have you got an attorney?” she tried again.

“No.”

He really
didn’t
want to talk about it.

They drove in silence for several miles down Route 101. Tricia’s gaze was riveted on the road; Bob’s gaze was fixed out the passenger-side window. When Bob finally spoke, it was to direct Tricia to stop at the grocery store’s pharmacy in Milford. It took twenty minutes for Bob’s prescription to be filled. Bob waited in the car; Tricia waited in the store. After all, she’d promised to help Bob, not babysit or keep him company.

It was lunchtime when Tricia pulled into Bob’s drive-way. Parked at the curb was a Draper Security Systems truck. Tricia raised an eyebrow. “Having some work done, Bob?”

“Yes.” Yet another succinct answer. Tricia wasn’t sure if she was irritated by this new behavior or if she should celebrate it.

“Did you arrange for this while you were in the hospital?”

He glared at her. “No.”

Tricia leaned forward for a better look at the security company’s van. “Feeling insecure?”

His glare intensified. “No!”

His refusal to give a decent answer to any question was maddening. Tricia shifted her gaze once again. If he hadn’t ordered the work during his hospital stay, he must have arranged for it before then. Okay, so a couple of people had been killed—all right, murdered—during the past eight months. And there’d been a particularly vicious attack—but other than that, Stoneham was no more dangerous than East Los Angeles on a hot summer night, she thought facetiously.

Bob opened the passenger-side door, swung his legs out of the car, and paused. Just that slight movement brought a bead of sweat to his brow. “Thank you for the ride, Tricia.”

“You’re welcome.” Tricia gathered her purse and the pharmacy bag, got out of the car, and retrieved Bob’s overnight bag from the trunk.

Bob waited for her. “I’ll take that.”

“I’ll carry it to the house for you. It’s no trouble,” Tricia said.

“No,” he said firmly, “I’ll take it.”

Behind him, Tricia noticed the security guy waiting for Bob on the home’s small porch, and she realized Bob didn’t want her to hear the conversation he was about to have with the stranger. “I guess I’d better get going.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

“I’ll check up on you later. Angelica—”

“—worries too much. I’ll be fine.”

“Would you like me to get you some lunch, or—”

“No,” Bob said, firmly. “I’m fine. I’ll see you later, Tricia.”

She’d definitely been dismissed. She tried not to take it personally. After all, it got her off the hook for playing nursemaid to him for the next couple of days.

“Fine. I guess I’ll see you around, Bob.”

He said nothing. Just stood there.

Tricia turned, and walked back to her car.

Bob was still staring at her as she drove away.

FOUR

Tricia parked
her car and glanced at her watch. She still had nearly half an hour before Ginny’s lunch break, and wondered if she should walk over to the Bank of Stoneham to ask about paying off Ginny’s mortgage. It would probably be a waste of time. No doubt the manager would be away from her office during the noon hour. Still . . . .

A minute later, she walked into the bank and asked the receptionist if she could speak to someone about a mortgage.

“Sure. I’ll tell Billie you’re here. She’ll be glad to talk to you.” Tricia watched as the woman headed for a cubicle at the back of the bank.

It was said that Billie Hanson, manager of the Bank of Stoneham, was named after Billie Burke, the actress who played Glinda the Good Witch in
The Wizard of Oz
. Not that she looked like that icon of the silver screen. She didn’t have long, frizzy red hair, nor was she tall. In fact, Billie, short and squat, reminded Tricia of a fireplug. And her close-cropped blonde hair and brusque demeanor had earned her the label of dyke from more than a few of the locals. Tricia didn’t know—nor care about—her sexual orientation. Billie had proven to be an apt businesswoman, and was a fellow member of the Chamber of Commerce.

Not a minute later, the receptionist waved for Tricia to follow her.

Billie stood behind her desk. “Tricia, good to see you. I hope you’re well.”

“I am, thanks. And I’m glad you could see me on such short notice.”

Billie ushered Tricia to one of the seats before her desk. “Always glad to talk to one of Stoneham’s best success stories.”

“Me?” Tricia asked.

“It’s no secret that you and your sister are probably the best businesswomen in town. And I’m pleased you’ve chosen to bank with us rather than one of the national banks in Nashua.”

Tricia liked to do business locally. The fact that the Bank of Stoneham was extremely convenient didn’t hurt, either.

Billie leaned forward on the desk, folding her hands and looking very businesslike. “What can I do for you today, Tricia?”

“I’d like to buy a mortgage.”

“Oh, you’ve found a home in the village? The stairs to that loft finally got to you, right?”

“Uh, no, actually. I don’t want to buy a house. I want to buy the mortgage of someone who has a house that’s about to go into foreclosure.”

Billie frowned. “That’s not a very sound business decision. If the person is in foreclosure, it’s not likely they’ll be able to pay you any more than they can pay us.”

“This person has had an unfortunate string of bad luck. I want to help her—not make money off of her.”

Billie frowned. “Mixing business with friendship is seldom a good idea. Usually one party grows dissatisfied. The friendship is often the first casualty—not to mention the investment.”

“I have thought of that. I’m prepared to walk away from the deal with a complete loss.”

Billie mulled that over for a few moments. “Let me take a guess. You’d like to save your employee, Ginny Wilson, from losing her home.”

“She really loves it. And she’s worked so hard to make that house a home. I’d like to do all I can to help her keep it.”

“Have you spoken to her about this?”

“Not yet. I wanted to see if it was possible before I brought up the subject. I don’t want to buy the house outright. Ginny isn’t one to take charity. But I thought if we could set up a manageable repayment schedule—something that she’s able to live with—in the long run it would benefit both of us.”

Billie exhaled a long breath. “Before you do anything, I think you should talk to Ms. Wilson. Make sure you’re on the same page. She may not want to feel beholden to you.”

“I thought I would surprise her.”

Billie shook her head. “That’s not a good idea. Talk to her. If she agrees, you may pay off the mortgage, including penalties, and I’d advise you to consult a real estate lawyer to set up a new mortgage for you, with terms you both can agree to.”

It wasn’t what Tricia wanted to hear, but it was sensible. She stood. “I’ll do that.” She offered Billie her hand. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Not a problem,” Billie said and smiled, missing Tricia’s cringe at her choice of words.

With Angelica
away, Tricia felt uncomfortable going over to Booked for Lunch to take her midday meal, and instead raided her own refrigerator. Funny, in times past, she and Angelica had gone for years without speaking. Now, she found she missed her sister after only a few hours’ absence. Missed their daily bickering sessions. Missed Angelica’s company. And though she almost always ate the café’s tuna salad plate, she liked the convenience of slipping across the street and being served, as well as not having to clean up. The only one happy about her finding her own lunch was Miss Marple, who begged for and got an extra kitty snack.

Fifteen minutes and a container of lemon yogurt later, Tricia was back behind the counter at Haven’t Got a Clue. Ginny was with a customer, and Miss Marple had resumed her post on the shelf above the register to keep a careful watch on things and/or sleep the afternoon away.

The black Art Deco phone on Tricia’s cash desk jangled loudly. Tricia picked up the monstrously heavy receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue, Tri—”

“Tricia?” said a tearful voice that she instantly recognized as Frannie’s.

“What’s wrong?”

“I . . . I—” She seemed to choke on the words.

“Do you need someone to talk to?” Tricia asked, resigned.

“Do you mind?” Frannie had always appeared so strong; to hear the vulnerability in her voice was heart-wrenching.

“I’ll be right over.” Tricia hung up the phone.

“Don’t tell me,” Ginny said, and sighed. “Another crisis. This time I’m betting you’ll head for the Cookery.”

“Right in one. Angelica picked the wrong week to reach for bestsellerdom. Sorry.”

“Hey, I’m fine. And Mr. Everett will be here by one, so we’re covered.”

“Unless we get a couple of buses of tourists,” Tricia said.

“One can only hope,” Ginny chirped.

Tricia forced a smile and sailed out the shop door. Ah, youth. Ginny was remarkably chipper for someone in her circumstances. At that moment, Tricia envied her optimism. She had a feeling that for the foreseeable future, she’d be bouncing back and forth between her sister’s businesses like a Ping-Pong ball. Maybe she’d chart the time on a spreadsheet and present Angelica with an invoice. The thought made her smile—not that she’d follow through with it.

Tricia was startled to find Angelica’s larger-than-life cutout standing outside the Cookery. Frannie had taped a note between the photographed Angelica’s hands that read Get Your Signed Copy of
Easy-Does-It Cooking
Inside! As she reached for the door handle, Tricia wondered if the cutout would discourage—instead of encourage—customers to enter the Cookery.

There were no browsers inside the store. Frannie stood behind the cash desk. All traces of Angelica’s aborted book launch party were gone, as evidenced by the fresh vacuum tracks on the carpet. And it looked like the Cookery was having as slow a day as Haven’t Got a Clue.

As always, Frannie was dressed in one of her cheerful aloha shirts—this one turquoise with white hibiscus flowers in full bloom. Her face, however, was anything but jovial. Bloodshot eyes looked out from under her fringe of bangs, and her nose was crimson.

“Do you need a hug?” Tricia asked.

Frannie nodded, and burst into tears. She clung to Tricia as sobs wracked her slim body. Tricia patted her back as one would a small child. “What’s wrong?”

“My heart is broken forever,” Frannie wailed.

Tricia pulled back. “Come and sit down,” she said, and led Frannie to the only upholstered chair in the store. Angelica had no reader’s nook, saying it took up valuable retail space. Idly, Tricia wondered if she should have flipped the Cookery’s OPEN sign to CLOSED.

“Can I get you a glass of water or something?” she asked Frannie.

Frannie shook her head, and pulled a damp tissue from the pocket of her slacks to wipe her nose.

“Now, tell me all about it,” Tricia said.

“I’ve never told anyone before, but—” Frannie took a breath, exhaled it loudly, as though trying to steel herself. “Jim Roth and I were more than just casual friends.”

No surprise there. Tricia waited for more.

“In fact we were . . . lllllooov—” She couldn’t seem to say the word.

“Lovers?” Tricia supplied.

Frannie blushed, hung her head in shame, and nodded.

“Forgive me, Frannie, but you and Jim were two mature, single adults. What was wrong with the two of you seeing each other?”

“His mama didn’t approve.”

“But why?”

Frannie shrugged. She sniffled, and pressed another damp tissue to her nose.

“Bob still won’t say what he was doing at Jim’s store last night. Do you have any idea?” Tricia asked.

“Probably hounding him for the rent. History Repeats Itself hadn’t been doing so well, what with the economy and all, and Jim was a little bit behind.”

“How much is a little?”

Frannie winced. “Six months.”

No wonder Bob didn’t want to talk about it. He probably didn’t want it to seem like he had a motive for murder. It wasn’t like Bob to let someone slide for so long—and maybe his reticence was due to the fact he didn’t want others who owed back rent to find out.

“How long had Jim had the store?” Tricia asked.

“He was the first bookseller Bob lined up to open a shop here in Stoneham.”

“Had they been friends?”

Frannie nodded. “But Jim and I never really talked about Bob—we had so little time together, thanks to Jim’s mother,” she added bitterly.

“I suppose it was really quite sweet that he had his mother come to live with him.”

“That’s not exactly the way it was. He
always
lived with his mother,” Frannie reluctantly admitted.

“He’d never lived away from home?” Tricia asked, astounded. After all, Jim
was
in his fifties.

Frannie shook her head, clearly embarrassed for him. “I invited him to come live with me, but he said he couldn’t leave the old lady, even though he would’ve been only two blocks away. She’d come to depend on him. I mean, she
is
in her eighties.”

Had Jim, the man obsessed with warfare, been a spineless mama’s boy?

“I hadn’t talked to Jim in a few months. Am I remembering that he hadn’t been feeling well?”

Frannie nodded. “He had stomach problems that came and went. Never anything too alarming—just enough to make him cancel the few dates we made.”

Tricia frowned. “Did he see a doctor about it?”

“No. Like I said, it wasn’t anything he worried about. And the next day he usually felt fine. He really was strong as a horse.”

Tricia knew from experience—ten years of riding lessons—that horses were actually quite delicate creatures. “I wonder why Jim didn’t smell the gas.”

“He had terrible allergies, and with everything coming into bloom, he probably couldn’t smell a thing.” Frannie wiped at a tear.

Tricia laid a hand on Frannie’s thin shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Frannie.”

“I thought I was doing okay until I called the Baker Funeral Home to see what arrangements had been made for Jim.” She took a couple of gasping breaths.

“And?” Tricia prompted.

“Since there’s no body, Mr. Baker said Jim’s mother has decided against a wake or service.”

“Nothing?”

Frannie shook her head. No wonder she was so upset. Those rituals made acceptance of death easier on the loved ones left behind.

“I’m so sorry,” Tricia said again, knowing the words were inadequate. “But you know, there’s no reason Jim’s friends and colleagues can’t celebrate his life.”

“What do you mean?”

“We could hold a memorial service for him.”

Frannie’s eyes widened, and she sat up straighter. “Yes, we could.”

“We could invite the Chamber members and any other friends or relatives.”

“No other relatives,” Frannie said. “Jim was an only child—and so were both his parents.”

Tricia nodded.

“I think I should be the one to arrange it,” Frannie said, her voice suddenly stronger. “Jim wasn’t religious, so I don’t think it should be held in a church. I’ll call Eleanor at the Brookview Inn to see if I can book the function room for Sunday morning, when all the shops in town are closed—that way the other bookstore owners can come.”

“That’s a wonderful idea.” Planning the service would keep Frannie from dwelling too much on her grief—at least for a few days. Only time would dull her long-term pain.

Frannie stood, suddenly all business—there was a reason Angelica’s store had thrived under her management. “I have lots to do—and you’ve got your own store to tend to.”

Tricia gave her friend a smile. “I promised Angelica I’d be available if you or Darcy or Jake needed me, so don’t hesitate to call.”

“You have no idea how much you’ve already helped.” Frannie headed for the cash desk, found a legal pad and a pen, and quickly jotted down a few notes.

Tricia wished all life’s problems could be solved so easily.

“I’ll just let myself out,” Tricia said, and headed for the door. Then she paused, and turned to face Frannie. “Just one more question: What’s Angelica’s cutout doing outside the shop door?”