Chapter & Hearse (8 page)

“If his mother’s no help,” Russ continued, “I may forget the whole thing and just run a short piece about the explosion.”

“You’ll do what you have to,” Tricia said, and smoothed the curling edge on her paper placemat.

Before the lack of meaningful conversation could get awkward, Eugenia brought their food, carefully setting Russ’s down in front of him, and then nearly tossing the salad at Tricia. A grape tomato bounced from the bowl and onto the table.

“Hey!” Russ protested.

“Sorry,” Eugenia mumbled, sounding anything but, and took off again.

Tricia unwrapped her cutlery from the paper napkin that surrounded it. “Apparently she hasn’t forgiven me for what happened last fall.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

Tricia stabbed at a piece of lettuce. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Eugenia was lucky to get a sympathetic judge who gave her only probation and community service, or she might be in jail like her boyfriend,” Russ said, and dug into his chicken. “Back to Jim,” he said, and shoveled in a mouthful. Tricia waited impatiently until he had chewed and swallowed, and could speak again. “Now that it looks like his death may not have been accidental, who do you think did it?”

“Who said it wasn’t an accident?” Tricia asked.

“I’m a newspaperman. I don’t reveal my sources.”

Tricia glared at him.

“You didn’t answer my question. Do you think Bob Kelly might’ve offed old Jim?”

“Of course not. Angelica would never allow it.”

Russ laughed. “You’re probably right. But it’s been said Jim was behind on all his bills—his biggest creditor being Bob.”

“And if he wanted his money, I’m sure Bob wouldn’t go around killing anyone—much less destroy his own building. That would be a sure way of never seeing what was owed him. Bob is simply too cheap to kill when he can go to small claims court to get what’s owed him. Besides, they were supposedly friends.”

Again, Russ laughed. “Look at you—defending Bob Kelly. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Neither did Tricia. She dipped a piece of green pepper into her dressing. “Do you think there’s a viable suspect—besides Bob, I mean?”

Russ shook his head. “Nothing that’s come to light. But then it’s not quite twenty-four hours since it happened.”

Tricia leaned forward. “The way you spoke at my store, I thought you actually had something interesting to tell me.”

“You don’t find our conversation interesting?”

She turned her attention back to her salad. “I’d find it more interesting if I didn’t feel like you’d lured me here under false pretenses.”

“What pretenses? You’re hungry—I’m hungry. And we’re talking about Jim’s death. That doesn’t mean it has to be the only topic of discussion. For instance—why don’t we talk about us?”

Tricia put her fork down. “There is no
us
. You made that quite plain last fall.”

“I also told you I was wrong.”

He had. But by then, she was already interested in Grant Baker—and that had gone nowhere, too.

“Let’s get back to Jim,” Tricia said. “Do you know what caused the explosion? Captain Baker didn’t seem to think the gas lamps were involved.”

“No. The firemen, sheriff’s deputies, and utility people were out back of the shop until late last night, checking things out. They spent an awful long time looking at the area where the meter had been. I’ll bet you dinner someone tampered with it. The flash point was at the back of the building.”

This wasn’t going to be much of an information exchange if that was all he could come up with. “No bet. The deal was, I pay for my dinner and you pay for yours. Bob wouldn’t risk destroying his own building—eviction is the easiest way to force a deadbeat out.”

“I’m told Jim never smoked in his shop, but he did out back. He lit a cigarette and—
kaboom
—the walls came tumbling down,” Russ said.

Tricia chewed and swallowed. “So Mrs. Roth said, and Captain Baker confirmed a cigarette lighter was responsible,” she said, and stabbed another piece of lettuce. “Who knew Jim’s habits? His customers? Fellow businessmen? How about the mailman or any of the delivery guys?”

“As far as I know,” Russ continued, “Jim had no enemies. In fact, outside of the shop and the occasional Chamber meeting, I don’t think he had much of a life. He lived with his mother, for chrissakes. I don’t think he’d ever lived on his own—or, God forbid, with someone of the opposite sex.”

“Why do you say that?” Tricia asked, again thinking about Frannie. Apparently she and Jim had been extremely discreet.

“You know how guys talk about sex. Jim never joined in.”

“Maybe he was a gentleman. Or do you think he was gay?”

“Not necessarily. Maybe he was just missing the romance chip.”

That was rich—coming from Mister I-never-turn-off-my-police-scanner-for-anything-or-anybody. Tricia turned her attention back to her food.

“I’ve spoken to a number of Chamber members, but the story’s pretty much the same,” Russ went on. “None of you booksellers have much of a social life, so no one seems to know much about their neighbors.”

Was that last an insult against Tricia, or did he really believe what he said? She chose to ignore it.

“It’s pretty hard to keep tabs on each other when we’re dealing with busloads of people on and off all day,” Tricia admitted. “Then again, some of us
are
keeping tabs on our neighbors, or at least I am while Angelica’s off on her book tour. I’ve already had to solve one crisis at Booked for Lunch. I have a feeling it won’t be the last.”

“Lucky you.” Russ had never been overly fond of Angelica, and the feeling had been mutual. “So where does that leave us? With just Bob as a key player?”

“I suppose.”

“There’s speculation he won’t rebuild,” Russ said.

Tricia dropped her fork. “What do you mean? There’s a gaping hole in the street. He
has
to rebuild.”

“My guess is he’ll take the insurance money and put the property up for sale.”

“Who’d buy it?”

“You’ve got a point. Rebuilding in a historic district will be prohibitively expensive. But if I know Bob, he’ll want to cut his losses.”

“It would be a shame.” And the view from Haven’t Got a Clue would be ruined forever—not that Tricia voiced that opinion.

Russ shrugged. “Then again, I’ve heard talk of a developer poking around, looking for investments here in Stoneham.”

“Really? Who?”

“I don’t have a name. I just heard a rumor.”

“From whom?”

Elbows on the table, Russ laced his fingers together and stared at Tricia. “I haven’t got a clue.”

Tricia refrained from commenting on that. “Would Bob sell to a developer? I didn’t think he’d even consider it. He sure wasn’t interested in talking about selling when I broached the subject with him prior to opening Haven’t Got a Clue.”

“Times, and people, change,” Russ said, and dived back into his chicken and biscuits.

Maybe so. But Russ hadn’t changed, and because of that, Tricia knew she’d be going home alone.

EIGHT

Tricia stared
at the calculator’s digital readout and frowned. Three times she’d added up the figures, and three times they hadn’t matched the cash she’d counted out of Booked for Lunch’s bank pouch. That there was more cash than receipts didn’t make her feel better. A few dollars here and there wouldn’t have worried her—but the pouch had contained thirteen dollars more than the total of the receipts. Had someone lost or disposed of several of the grease-stained table receipts? The receipts were numbered, and sure enough, four of them were missing from the stack.

Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions
, she told herself. Just because the numbers didn’t jibe didn’t mean someone—Darcy or Jake—had been light-fingered with the till. Maybe Darcy had messed up a few of them, had tossed them away, and rewritten the orders on a new order blank. If Tricia was the suspicious type, and it wasn’t so god-awful late, she might be inclined to check the café’s trash to look for missing order receipts. As she’d learned in the not-too-distant past, you could learn a lot about a business by going through its garbage. At least Darcy had brought over the day’s receipts. Frannie was supposed to do the same, and hadn’t. Still, that didn’t ring alarm bells. Tricia knew and trusted Frannie. Darcy had been working for Angelica for only three or four months.

Tricia filled out the bank deposit slip, put a rubber band around it and the day’s cash, and stowed it back in the bank pouch. She’d deposit it along with her own receipts in the morning.

Tricia glanced at the clock. It was already after eleven. Like an expectant parent, she’d hoped Angelica would call long before this.

Turning off the kitchen lights was the signal that bedtime had come, and Miss Marple roused herself from the stool where she’d been napping and jumped to the floor, stretching before trotting off toward the bedroom.

Tricia started to follow when at last the phone shattered the quiet. She grabbed it before it could ring again. “Angelica?”

“Yes, at last!” came the voice she’d been waiting for. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”

“Me, either,” Tricia said. “Why are you calling so late?”

“I only got to the hotel about half an hour ago. I jumped in the shower, and then into my jammies. I didn’t even get anything to eat tonight. If this place had a mini bar, I’d be raiding it now.”

Tricia carried the wireless phone over to the kitchen counter and sat down on the stool she’d abandoned only a minute before. She had a feeling this could be a marathon call. “Tell me all about it.”

And Angelica did—from the road trip to the north end of the state, down to the problem she’d encountered when she’d gone to fetch her car after her second signing of the day.

“Someone slashed your tires?” Tricia repeated in disbelief.

“All four of them,” Angelica said, not disguising her disgust. “The bookstore manager was terribly embarrassed, although not enough to offer to pay anything toward replacing them.”

“Who’s to say it was one of her customers?”

“Exactly. It took forever for Triple A to tow it to their garage. It should be ready for me by nine o’clock tomorrow, which gives me just enough time to drive to Conway for tomorrow’s lunchtime signing.”

“I’m sorry you had such a bad day. It wasn’t that great here, either.”

“How’s Bob?” Angelica asked, ignoring Tricia’s hint that maybe she needed to vent as well.

Tricia sighed. “Grumpy.”

“I suppose that’s only natural after what he went through last night. I tried calling him several times, but all I got was voice mail. Do you think he could’ve been sleeping the whole day?”

“Could be. Did you know he’d ordered a security system to be installed at his house?”

“No. He never mentioned it.”

“The firm was finishing up when I dropped him off this morning. I asked him about it, but, like last night, he wasn’t talking.”

“That’s not like Bob.” Angelica sighed. “I hope he calls before I have to take off tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sure he will,” Tricia lied. She thought about what Russ had said. “There’s a rumor Bob won’t rebuild on Main Street—that he’ll sell the land Jim’s store stood on. Russ heard there’s a developer looking for investment properties in Stoneham. Do you think Bob would sell?”

“It’s possible,” Angelica said, but she didn’t sound very sure. “Anything else new?”

“I’ve been thinking about helping Ginny with her mortgage.”

Silence greeted that statement. And then, “Please tell me I just heard wrong. You’re going to—?”

“Help Ginny with her mortgage,” Tricia repeated.

“Help how?”

“I’m going to pay it off, and then I’ll have Roger Livingston set up a repayment schedule on terms Ginny can actually afford.”

“On what you pay her?”

“Hey, I pay her more than the going rate.”

“I know, but it’s still not enough to make mortgage payments.”

Tricia took a burn to that remark.

“I’ve got another question: Why?” Angelica asked.

“So she doesn’t lose her house.”

Angelica sighed. “Let me tell you, as a cookbook author, this idea of yours is a recipe for disaster.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Ginny’s your subordinate. Now she’ll feel beholden to you. Friction will build up. One day it’ll explode—taking whatever friendship the two of you have with it. And don’t you dare give me that look.”

Tricia felt anger boiling within her. “What look?” she asked through clenched teeth, knowing her sister couldn’t see her through the phone.

“The one that says, ‘I won’t believe you simply because I don’t want to.’ If you really think about it, you’ll agree with me. And is losing Ginny’s friendship something you really want to risk?”

First Billie Hanson and now Angelica. Didn’t anyone have faith in the power of kindness and friendship anymore?

Tricia heard Angelica heave another sigh, and wished she hadn’t brought up the subject. Time to change it. “By the way, Ange, you owe me two hundred and forty-five dollars and sixty-three cents.”

“What for?”

“Chicken. Just after you left this morning, the poultry man made a delivery to the café and demanded a check before he’d leave it.”

“There must be some mistake. I don’t use that much chicken in a month.”

“That was the amount on the invoice.”

Tricia could picture her sister frowning. “Well, okay. You know I’m good for it.”

“Yes, I do. Just out of curiosity, how close do the café’s cash and order receipts add up on an average day?”

“Within a dollar or two. You know how it is—take a penny, leave a penny. Why?”

“The café’s cash didn’t match the orders. It was thirteen dollars over.”

“Better over than under.”

“Mmm,” Tricia halfheartedly agreed.

“Did Frannie bring over the Cookery’s receipts?” Angelica asked.

“No. She probably just forgot. And I’m not surprised, either. She was extremely upset about Jim Roth’s death. In fact, this morning she admitted to me that she and Jim had been lovers.”

“You’re kidding!” Angelica gushed.

“Nope. His mother decided not to hold a funeral, so Frannie’s planning a memorial service. It’ll be Sunday morning so that the booksellers don’t have to close shop.”

“Poor Frannie. And damn, I can’t be there. I’ve got a signing in Bennington.”

“Poor Frannie? Don’t you mean poor Jim? He’s the one who was pulverized,” Tricia reminded her sister.

“Of course. But I didn’t think Frannie had ever even been with anyone . . . if you know what I mean. Now to find out she’s been having an illicit love affair—well. . . .”

“Not that illicit. They were two unencumbered, consenting adults.”

“Mmm. If I get a chance, I’ll give her a call tomorrow morning to get all the dirt firsthand. And find out what happened to today’s banking.”

Tricia looked at the clock. “It’s late. I’d better let you go.”

“Thanks for taking care of the café for me. I’ll make it up to you somehow.” She paused. “I know, I’ll buy you a nice big present. You deserve something deliciously girly and sweet for your birthday. That is, if I ever get any time to myself in the next couple of days and can shop.”

Tricia frowned. Girly and sweet? She made no comment. “Remind me—just when will you be coming home?”

“Next Friday.”

Which seemed a million years from right then, Tricia decided. Still, she tried to sound upbeat. “Okay, see you then. Call me when you can, and you take care, now.”

“Good night, Trish. And think about what I said about Ginny. If you go through with this plan, you might lose a good employee, and a friend.”

“Good night!” Tricia said and hung up the phone.

An annoyed Miss Marple had reappeared and sat at her feet. “
Yow!”
she said
.

“Don’t you take Angelica’s side,” Tricia warned, but later, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, all she could think about was the threat of Ginny one day hating her, and Angelica saying, “I told you so.”

Tricia was
up with the birds the next morning. After showering and dressing, she spied the locket Christopher had sent her, still lying on the dresser where she’d left it the night before. It was time to make a decision—banish it to the back of the closet, or wear it.

She decided to wear it, once again tucking it inside her sweater. After all, it was likely to be the only birthday gift she would receive.

Tricia fingered the chain next to her skin. Birthdays were meant to be special, she’d decided at a very early age. The fact that hers hadn’t been as special as Angelica’s had been a source of great hurt and puzzlement. That’s why, as an adult, she used to plan to be somewhere special, doing something special, on her special day. Paris, Rome, San Francisco . . . and until the last year of her marriage, her husband had bought into that idea, too.

Tricia tightly held the chain at her neck and thought wistfully of those days.

Since nobody else was interested in her birthday, maybe she should do something to treat herself. There were day spas in Nashua, but that wasn’t really her thing. She wasn’t a clotheshorse, so a day trip to Boston for shopping wasn’t something she’d aspire to, either. She couldn’t really cook—and though Angelica had promised her what would probably be a gourmet meal, she did not want to celebrate her birthday with Bob Kelly. She needed nothing—any book she wanted she got as stock for her store, read it, and then it put on the sales floor. She needed nothing material, like jewelry or furniture.

If she was honest with herself, besides her parents and Angelica, there were only two people on the planet she would care to spend her special day with: her grandmother, who’d been dead for over twenty years, and . . . Christopher . . . neither of whom was available.

Birthdays were probably overrated, anyway. A baby emerged from the womb, and it was the mother who had suffered through pregnancy (an extremely difficult one, Tricia had always been told). Shouldn’t it be the mother who was honored with cake, flowers, and gifts? Of course, the year Tricia had done just that, it hadn’t been well received. For some reason, the unexpected child had never been able to please her parents the way that Angelica had charmed them.

Tricia let go of the chain, and the urge to discard the gift again surfaced—and yet she didn’t rip it from around her neck. Something had spurred Christopher to send it. Maybe it was only guilt, but it had been the first contact he’d initiated since their split. She would not disregard that, but neither could she give it too much credence. It was what it was—only a locket and chain—but at least Christopher had thought fondly of her, and she could accept that at face value.

Tricia shook herself. She was getting maudlin in her old—or should she accept it as just middle?—age.

Never mind. She had two errands to run that morning—with both venues opening at nine o’clock. That gave her only an hour before Haven’t Got a Clue opened at ten. She’d have to hurry. And she’d have to find time during the next day or so to canvass the Chamber of Commerce members to collect money in Jim’s honor for his mother. Yet another chore: Tricia needed to get a card for them to sign, too. One more stop to put on her places-to-go list.

Tricia and Miss Marple descended the stairs to Haven’t Got a Clue. Miss Marple deigned to check out the large square table in the reader’s nook while Tricia opened the blinds that covered the large display window overlooking Main Street. She noted that a Sheriff’s Department cruiser sat outside History Repeats Itself, with a deputy inside—probably guarding the site to keep rubberneckers away. Crime scene tape fluttered in the slight morning breeze. It surrounded not only what was left of Jim Roth’s store, but was still tied to the buildings on either side of it. Booked for Lunch hadn’t been affected, thank goodness. Angelica didn’t need that headache on top of all her other worries.

The bank was Tricia’s first stop that morning, where she deposited cash and checks for Haven’t Got a Clue and Booked for Lunch. She’d have to make another run tomorrow for the Cookery. Or maybe she’d wait until Monday, to save wear and tear on the soles of her shoes. Next up was a stop at the Stoneham Library.