A Fatal Chapter

by Lorna Barrett

“Sounds good,” Tricia said, taking a seat at the kitchen island.

  Angelica put two slices into the toaster and turned for her own breakfast. “I’ve got some bad news.”

  “Another death?” Tricia asked, horrified.

  “No! I called the Milford Nursery. They had a big sale over the weekend. Their stock has been decimated. They can’t replace the hanging baskets.”

  “Oh, no! The flowers are such a draw for the tourists. What are you going to do?”

  “I could call all over the state, but the cheapest and easiest solution just might be silk,” she said flatly.

  “You mean . . . fake flowers?” Tricia asked, aghast.

  “Some of them look very lifelike,” Angelica said optimistically.

  “Yeah, the expensive ones. What’s your budget?”

  “There is no budget. It’s coming out of Nigela Ricita’s pockets.”

  “At least they’re deep.”

  “I’m just worried that whoever decapitated all those petunias and pansies will just yank out the silk replacements.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  Angelica looked thoughtful but said nothing more.

  “Who’s going to scour the local craft stores?” Tricia asked.

  “I’ve got to be in Portsmouth by ten, and I have a meeting in Manchester after lunch. How about Pixie?”

  Tricia shook her head, remembering the cheesy Christmas decorations Pixie had fallen in love with and had wanted to use to decorate Haven’t Got a Clue the previous holiday season. “Her heart would be in the right place, but I don’t think she’s a good judge of such things.”

  “Would you have time to shop?”

  “Only if you think the Chamber can spare me.”

  “Yes,” Angelica said emphatically. “Can you go this morning?”

  “I guess. I have a lunch date today, but I can check out the big craft store on Route 101 before then.”

  “Even if we can only decorate the baskets lining Main Street, it would at least be welcoming to the tourists when they get off the buses.”

  “And when is redecorating the baskets going to happen?”

  Angelica grimaced. “Tonight.”

  “And who is going to do it?” Tricia asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Why, you and me of course.”

  “Of course. What about Antonio?”

  “You can’t expect him to leave Ginny late at night with the baby due to arrive at any moment.”

  No, she didn’t.

  “Couldn’t Nigela Ricita Associates pull someone from the Brookview Inn to do this?”

  “And let it get out that we’re replacing the real flowers with silk?”

  “Somebody’s bound to notice.”

  Angelica’s lips pursed.

  “Okay. Do I even have to ask who’s going to be climbing the ladder?” Tricia asked.

  “You know I’m afraid of heights,” Angelica said, appalled at the idea.

  Yes, she did.

  Tricia drained her cup. “I have just enough time to shower and change before Mariana reports for work at the Chamber.”

  “If I haven’t told you lately, I really appreciate all the work you’re doing for the Chamber. I don’t know what I’ll do when you go back to your real life, and it will be all too soon.”

  Not soon enough, Tricia thought. “I’m happy I can take on some of the work to make it easier on you.”

  “The Chamber is now big enough that it needs a dedicated employee to run it—not a part-time volunteer, and that’s where I’m going to steer it. The membership has already grown faster in the past eight months than I’d considered it would during my two-year tenure.”

  “It’s your leadership,” Tricia said. Angelica shook her head in denial, but she did look pleased at the sentiment. “I’ve gotta go,” Tricia said, getting up from her stool and pausing at the sink to rinse her paper cup before placing it in the recycling bin.

  “I’ll see you later,” Angelica called as Tricia headed for the stairs.

  As Tricia closed the Cookery’s door behind her, she pondered the kind of personality that could deprive the villagers and tourists of the beauty the flowers had brought. Could it have been Bob? Her thoughts had immediately gone to him, but only because he’d been annoying her of late. The truth was that there were plenty of villagers who were unhappy with the changes that had come to Stoneham during the past five years and were quite vocal about it. They were the ones who’d elected Earl Winkler.

  Why did the sourpusses in life want to ruin things for everyone else?

  • • •

  The big arts-and-crafts store on Route 101 was running a sale, and Tricia cleaned them out of silk flowers. The manager had come to the register to help bag the sale, pleased that she could put out the Halloween and Thanksgiving stock that was already languishing in her storeroom.

  It was getting close to noon when Tricia returned to the village and pulled into the municipal parking lot. Instead of hauling her purchases to the Chamber office, she left the bags of faux flowers in the trunk. They weren’t going to wilt, even under the blistering midday sun.

  She had just enough time to stop at Booked for Lunch to pick up the orders she’d phoned in hours before, then carried them two doors down to the Happy Domestic. Technically Ginny wasn’t supposed to be working. She was officially on maternity leave, but staying at home with nothing to do but fret did not sit well with her. “I’d rather stay occupied,” she’d said more than once.

  Tricia entered the shop and the bell over the door jangled. The sound was like a knife thrust to her soul. It sounded so like the one at Haven’t Got a Clue. Some days the sound didn’t bother her, and others, like today, the pain from the loss of her store was almost too much to bear.

  Ginny’s assistant, Brittney, was helping a customer, but she gestured with her thumb, indicating the backroom. Tricia nodded and headed that way. “Hello,” she called before pushing through the saloon doors that separated the retail operation from the much smaller storeroom that doubled as an office.

  Ginny sat at the big beat-up desk with stacks of paperwork before her. She looked up and a grin lit her features. “Thank goodness you’re here. I could eat a bear—raw!”

  “And risk trichinosis?”

  “I thought you could only get that from undercooked pork.”

  “Pork, bears, and other wild game infected with parasites. Do you really want to take the risk?”

  Ginny looked down at her bulging belly. “No. Besides, I already know that you’ve got a BLT and a cup of the soup of the day. Which is . . . ?”

  “Black bean.”

  “Oh, my favorite—except it hasn’t treated me well since . . .” Again she looked down at her belly.

  “More information than I needed to know,” Tricia said, and laughed. She took the seat across from Ginny and doled out the foam containers, plasticware, and napkins. Instead of her usual tuna plate, Tricia had ordered a julienned salad. Miss Marple would love some of the excess slices of ham and cheese as an indulgent snack. Since she knew it was Ginny’s favorite dessert, Tricia had also ordered a piece of Angelica’s decadent carrot cake for the two of them to splurge on and share.

  “It won’t be long now,” Tricia said.

  “A week from today, if the calculations are right.”

  “What are your plans after the baby arrives?” Tricia asked, dipping a piece of lettuce into her dressing.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about that,” Ginny said, her voice subdued.

  “You’ve changed your mind about working?” Tricia asked, surprised.

  Ginny dipped her spoon into the soup and stirred. “Not at all. But I might change my mind about where I work.”

  “You’d give up the Happy Domestic? But I thought you were happy here.”

 
“I have been deliriously happy here, but I’m not sure the hours are conducive to a happy family life.”

  “Your boss seems quite amenable when it comes to flexible hours.”

  “I’ve been very lucky,” Ginny admitted, taking a bite of her sandwich.

  Tricia poked at her salad. She’d known things would change once the baby arrived, but the thought of not seeing Ginny on a regular basis caught her off guard.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Ginny said once she’d swallowed. “I might like to try my hand at management of another kind.”

  “Oh?”

  “While I would love to work with Antonio either at the Brookview Inn or the office down the street, I don’t think it’s good for a couple to be attached at the hip day and night.”

  “Is there an opening at NRA?” Tricia asked. Angelica hadn’t mentioned it, but then she hadn’t gone into the details of how her business ran, either.

  “I don’t know. I think it could be fun to work on projects that have end dates, not just picking baubles, waiting on customers, and banking the receipts. Maybe NRA will open another business here in town. Maybe they’d let me manage a couple of different stores or other parts of the operation.” She shrugged. “What I’d really like is a job with more regular hours—and weekends off would sure be a treat, too.”

  “Have you spoken to Antonio about that?”

  “He doesn’t have a problem with it.”

  “Has he mentioned it to your boss?”

  Ginny shook her head. “I’ve asked him not to. Not just yet, at least. And I’d like to talk to Ms. Ricita directly.”

  And you’ll get that opportunity sooner than you know, Tricia thought. She decided to move away from the subject. “Have you come up with names for the baby yet?”

  Ginny nodded. “If it’s a girl, Sofia, after Antonio’s mother. If it’s a boy, William, after my father and Mr. Everett.”

  It stood to reason Antonio wouldn’t name his son after his own father. The man had abandoned him. It was Angelica who’d bought him clothes and paid for his schooling. “Mr. Everett will like that.”

  “As my folks live down south now, it’s likely he’ll be a bigger part of the baby’s life.”

  “Will your parents come up to see the baby?”

  “Oh, sure. They don’t mind New Hampshire during the summer, but if our next one arrives in winter, they’d wait until spring to visit.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  She shrugged. “I’m okay with it. I’ve still got family here,” she said, and smiled. “You and Grace and Mr. Everett. You’re all like family to me.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” Because I do, too, Tricia thought.

  Ginny scraped the last of the soup from her container. “Oh, that was good, but I think I’ll save the other half of my sandwich for later. Especially if we’re going to make a dent in that piece of cake.” She wrapped the sandwich in one of the paper napkins and returned it to the foam container. Struggling up from her chair, she deposited the container in the small fridge she kept under the table that housed the printer and other office supplies.

  “We really need to convince Angelica to stop using foam take-out boxes at Booked for Lunch. They’re horrible for the environment.”

  “You know, I’ll bet if you pitched a cost-effective alternative, she would seriously take it under consideration,” Tricia said, closing the container on the remains of her salad.

  Ginny eyed her speculatively. “That’s a good idea. She’s been awfully nice to me lately. Well, ever since the wedding.”

  “Really?” Tricia asked, opening the container that held the slab of carrot cake.

  Ginny looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. She picked up one of the plastic forks but waited for Tricia to cut the cake in two. Tricia wasn’t as fond of the sour cream frosting as Ginny, so she took the lower portion, settling it onto one of the paper napkins before pushing the other piece across the desk to Ginny.

  Ginny sampled a bite, letting it sit on her tongue for a bit before chewing and swallowing—her usual routine.

  “Well?” Tricia asked.

  “Nobody makes carrot cake as good as Angelica. I especially like her maple icing.”

  “Maple?” Tricia asked. “Since when does she make it that way?”

  “She’s always made it this way.” Tricia seldom ate cake and took a bite. It was good, and the maple frosting was a lot less cloying and sweet than that traditionally associated with carrot cake.

  Ginny cut another piece but paused before eating it. “So, you found Pete Renquist.”

  “He was alive at the time,” Tricia began in her own defense.

  “So I heard.”

  “Did you know him?”

  Ginny shook her head. “But I heard rumors.”

  “Oh?” Tricia asked, playing dumb.

  “That he was a bit of a letch, but relatively harmless.”

  “Did he ever flirt with you?” Tricia asked.

  Again Ginny shook her head. She ate another bite of cake. “He seemed harmless enough, and honestly, the guy was old enough to be my father. I heard he hit on older women.”

  “You mean like me?” Tricia asked with dread. Pete was always flirting with her.

  “Heck, no. Older than you. Ladies in their fifties.”

  An age that was only five years ahead for Tricia.

  “The ones who’ve got empty nests and time on their hands to volunteer at fudd-dudd places like the Historical Society. That said, I heard the old broads ate up the attention. Their husbands had long ago given up giving them compliments.”

  Was that how Toni Bennett felt? Though well preserved, she was probably fifty years old. She said she’d been volunteering at the Historical Society for at least ten years, long before Pete had become its president.

  “Do you know anyone like that?” Tricia asked.

  Ginny scraped some of the icing from what was left of her cake. “Julia Harrison is one of my regular customers. She’s a widow who often comes in on a Saturday. She hates to drive to Nashua, so she does her gift buying here—lots of figurines and pretty whatnots for her granddaughter. Once she kind of hinted that she was interested in Pete and that they’d dated a few times, but that it didn’t work out.”

  “Did she give a reason?”

  “Nope.” Ginny slid the last piece of cake onto her fork.

  Tricia took a bite of cake. She thought she knew of the woman, half remembering an article that Russ Smith had run in the Stoneham Weekly News about the Historical Society’s Italianate garden.

  “Does this woman volunteer for the Stoneham Horticultural Society?” she asked.

  “I think so. Why?”

  “No reason.” Tricia ate another bite of cake.

  “Any word on the insurance coming through for the store?” Ginny asked. She was only being polite—showing interest in Tricia’s problems—but it seemed that Tricia was asked that question at least ten times a day, and after six months it depressed the heck out of her not to have an affirmative reply.

  “Not yet,” she answered with a forced smile, and ate the last bite of cake.

  “You must be sick of waiting.”

  “I was sick of waiting a mere week after the fire—let alone six months later.”

  “Well, it can’t be much longer. In fact, I’ll bet you five dollars you hear from them before the baby arrives,” she said, and looked down fondly at her belly.

  “If only,” Tricia said wistfully. She gathered up the napkins and cutlery and tossed them away while Ginny shook her head at the waste. “I’d better get back to work.”

  “Same time next week?” Ginny asked hopefully.

  “If you’re not in the hospital.”

  “Hospital?” Ginny asked, confused.

  “You are going to have a
baby,” Tricia reminded her.

  Ginny laughed. “And, boy, will I be glad when it’s over.”

  Tricia thought about the proposed dinner she and Angelica were to have with Ginny and Antonio. Since Ginny hadn’t mentioned it, she decided she’d better not.

  Ginny struggled to her feet, and Tricia moved around the desk to give her a brief hug. “If the baby comes early, I’ll have Antonio call you right away.”

  Tricia pulled back. “I’ll be waiting for his call.”

  “Thanks for lunch,” Ginny called as Tricia left the office.

  More customers had entered the store since her arrival, and Brittney waved to Tricia from her post at the register.

  Lunch with Ginny was always a pleasure, and speaking with her had presented Tricia with a lead on one of Pete’s ex-girlfriends/paramours. Now all Tricia had to do was think of an excuse to meet Julia Harrison.

  • • •

  Mariana’s radio was on when Tricia returned to the Chamber office. She kept it turned to a soft rock station, and though Tricia didn’t dislike the tunes, she did get bored of the station’s limited repertoire. She wondered if Pixie and Mr. Everett got bored of the CDs she’d played at Haven’t Got a Clue—a mix of new age and Celtic-influenced music. They’d never complained, but then, she hadn’t complained to Mariana, either.

  As Pixie was occupied with the new membership directory, it was up to Tricia to take care of a few low-priority tasks in her absence before she grabbed the tri-town phone directory and looked up the number for the Stoneham Horticultural Society. Was there a chance Mariana knew Julia Harrison? She decided to ask.

  “Mariana, do you know a woman named Julia Harrison?”

  “Sure. We go to the same church.”

  “She works at the Horticultural Society, doesn’t she?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Volunteers, then?” Tricia asked.

  Mariana shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “She’s a widow, right?”

  Mariana nodded. “Her husband died a few years back. Car wreck. It was an icy night.”

  “That’s so sad,” Tricia said with sympathy.

  “Yeah, he was a great guy.”

  The conversation waned.

  Tricia didn’t want to call the woman with Mariana listening, but she pulled up the online white pages website, typed in Julia’s name, and got a message that said, “We did not find a match.” Perhaps Julia didn’t have a landline, or if she did, it was listed under her deceased husband’s name. Tricia decided she’d call the Horticultural Society when Mariana was out of the office.