She was about to turn up the Chamber’s driveway and walk to the back door when she saw one of the silk flowers lying on the sidewalk. She picked it up and looked around, but saw no one. Turning, she hurried for the door. The security light snapped on, bathing her in harsh light as she fumbled to unlock the door. Once inside, she double-locked the door and fought the urge to turn on every light in the place. Instead, she padded through the converted house to the darkened office up front and peered out the window. Across the way she thought she could see movement. Yes, someone dressed in dark clothing and a hoodie carried a large black garbage bag and skulked away.
Could it have been the late-night petal pincher?
FIFTEEN
Tricia hated the expression “slept like the dead,” but that’s exactly what had happened when she’d laid her head upon her pillow. And yet her sleep was not restful. Hours later, she’d awoken feeling foggy and somewhat disoriented. She was glad to give in to her usual routine of rising, walking, and buying coffee.
The Coffee Bean was between customers when she walked in. Alexa stood behind the counter. “Ah, the other sister,” she called, and laughed.
Tricia glanced at her watch. It was only seven thirty. Had Angelica beaten her there?
“I take it Angelica has already been over to see you?”
“Yes, and we are thrilled to help her catch the felon ruining the flowers,” she said with just a trace of a Russian accent.
A misdemeanor, maybe, but Tricia wasn’t about to argue with the barista. “Thank you.”
“Now, your usual brew?” Alexa asked.
A minute later, Tricia was on her way back to the Chamber to shower, dress, eat a modest breakfast, and feed her cat before starting the rest of her day.
The morning sun blazed through the Chamber’s front windows, giving the office a kind of cheerful glow. Mariana arrived, made a pot of coffee, turned on her radio, and all was right with the world.
The phone rang at 9:32, and caller ID told Tricia it was none other than Mr. Everett. She picked up the receiver with pleasure.
“Hello, Mr. Everett. How are you this lovely morning?”
“Very well indeed,” he said, and his voice conveyed his own pleasure. Oh, how she’d missed seeing the elderly gent on a daily basis.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve spoken with someone at the Historical Society about Peter Renquist’s memorial service. Naturally, they’re just as upset that Ms. Koch was assaulted. They would prefer to wait several weeks for her to recover—”
If she recovers, Tricia thought to herself.
“—before they plan any kind of service for Mr. Renquist. As she knew him best, they feel she should speak for the Society.”
“That does seem reasonable,” Tricia admitted.
“However, I did learn that there will be a gathering of Peter’s friends and some of his colleagues at the Dog-Eared Page this evening at about eight o’clock. I knew you would want to attend.”
“I certainly do.”
“Peter’s friends are invited to share their memories of him.”
“Will you?” Tricia asked.
“I fear that my association with Peter was so long ago that it would be irrelevant. But I do want to pay my respects.”
“Of course,” Tricia said.
“Very good. Grace and I will see you then.”
“Thank you, Mr. Everett.”
“I must get back to work. Frannie has a big box of books for me to inventory. It’s great fun, I must confess. I’ll see you this evening.”
“See you then. Good-bye.”
Tricia replaced the receiver, staring at it for a long moment, but then the phone rang again. She picked it up. “Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. This is Tricia. How may I help you?”
“Hello, love. Are you available for lunch?”
Tricia smiled at the sound of the voice with the lilting English accent. “Why, yes, I am. What did you have in mind, Michele?”
“The weather is spectacular, and I think it would be brilliant to have a picnic lunch. Are you game?”
Tricia couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on a real picnic. “Sounds wonderful. Where?”
“The Stoneham Rural Cemetery.”
“Oh!” Tricia said with a start.
“I want to do a preliminary scout to get a feel for the place, and as you’re going to be my study-buddy, I thought you might enjoy a ramble through the graves. It’ll be great fun,” she insisted.
Tricia tried to sound positive. “If you say so. Where shall we meet? What should I bring?”
“You don’t need to bring anything. We can meet right in the parking lot at the cemetery’s front entrance. Unless there’s a funeral, there shouldn’t be a crowd.” She laughed.
“What time?”
“Is one o’clock too late?”
“It’s just fine,” Tricia said. “I’ll see you there.”
“Brilliant. Cheerio.”
“Bye.” Tricia put the phone down.
“Got a hot lunch date with that hunky guy?” Mariana asked eagerly.
Tricia’s expression soured. “No. I’m picnicking with a friend.”
“Going anywhere romantic?” she asked slyly.
“The cemetery.”
“Oh,” Mariana said, startled.
Tricia tried not to smile, with limited success. She had no problem confounding Mariana.
• • •
The short ride along Stoneham’s back roads to the Stoneham Rural Cemetery was pleasant and treelined. The humidity had dropped, and as Michele had said, the weather was spectacular. As Tricia pulled into the nearly empty parking lot, she recognized Michele’s car. Michele sat behind the driver’s wheel, speaking into her cell phone. Tricia parked, got out of her car, and approached Michele’s. Across the way a middle-aged woman and a much older man stood over a grave. The woman was arranging a colorful bunch of flowers in an urn attached to a headstone while the old man wiped tears from his eyes. A picnic seemed so frivolous when others were in pain.
Still, Michele was here to celebrate the lives of the cemetery’s historical denizens—or at least bring attention to some of its more noteworthy occupants. Noteworthy if not infamous in some capacity.
Michele saw Tricia, waved, and quickly finished her conversation. She put the phone away and got out of her car. Key fob in hand, she popped the hatch of her Mini Cooper. “I hope you brought your appetite. The Brookview Inn is very generous with their portions.”
“I’ll try to make a dent,” Tricia promised.
Michele lifted a straw picnic basket out of the trunk, and Tricia shut the hatch.
“Hmm, it’s heavier than I thought,” Michele admitted. “It must be the iced tea—or maybe the cold packs. Would you mind?” she asked, offering Tricia one of the basket’s handles. It was a bit awkward, but the basket was indeed heavy. “There’s a bench under a tree not far from here.”
“Lead the way,” Tricia said.
The sun beat down on them as they made their way down the narrow ribbon of asphalt that wound through the cemetery. As it was older than the other cemeteries in the area, this one still allowed headstone monuments instead of flat markers. The monuments near the front of the cemetery were older, some of them wind-worn, chipped, and difficult to read.
“I wonder what these tombstones are made of,” Tricia said idly.
“Primarily granite, marble, and limestone,” Michele said, and gave a small laugh. “I’ve already started my research.”
“You really enjoy this, don’t you?” Tricia asked.
“I think the ghost walks will be great fun and a wonderful fundraiser for the cemetery. It costs money to maintain these old graves, and these monuments are all that’s left for the world to know about the generations of people who lived and died here
in Stoneham.”
“Sounds like you’ve adopted the village—and its predecessors.”
“I enjoy living here. When I was offered the job of managing the Dog-Eared Page, I wondered if I’d miss living in a larger city, but I don’t. I grew up in a small village in England, and while Stoneham is nothing like it, it’s a slower pace, and I’m at a time in life where I enjoy that.”
Tricia looked ahead to where a line of white oaks made a barrier not far from the black wrought iron fence that was the cemetery’s east border. As Michele had indicated, there was shade and a wood-and-metal bench painted forest green. In a minute, they’d made their way over to the bench and sat down. Michele opened the basket and removed a thermos and two plastic cups, setting them on the bench between them, then withdrew two square foam containers, handing one of them to Tricia.
Tricia opened her container to find two pieces of fried chicken, a small scoop of potato salad, two deviled egg halves, and a small plastic container that held what looked like pickled watermelon rind. “Oh, how lovely,” she said.
“Very American,” Michele said, pouring tea for them both. It was unsweetened with lemon, just what Tricia was used to.
“What did you take on a picnic in England?” Tricia asked, accepting the paper napkins Michele handed her.
“Cornish pasties. Scotch eggs. Grosvenor pie. Cheese-and-pickle sandwiches, or perhaps sausage rolls. I must make a batch soon—I’ve had a hankering for them for a while now.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had them.”
“Then you’re in for a treat. I’ll save you some.”
Tricia tasted the potato salad. It needed salt. As though anticipating her request, Michele dug through the basket and came up with a shaker. She opened the lid and handed it to Tricia.
“I must say, I prefer to salt my food myself, don’t you?” she asked Tricia.
“Yes.” She sprinkled a little on the salad. Perfect.
They ate for a minute or two in silence, enjoying the quiet as a gentle breeze caused the leafy branches above them to sway.
“You’re probably wondering why I asked you to come here today,” Michele said at last.
“It had crossed my mind.”
“I’m concerned about what happened to Janet Koch.”
“You mean you think that her accident and Pete’s death are connected?”
Michele nodded. “I’m very interested in the history and the upkeep of dear old cemeteries such as this, but I must admit, I’m a bit worried about doing the ghost walks—at least until your friend Chief Baker catches the person responsible for the attacks.”
“I can’t say I blame you,” Tricia said, and took a bite of chicken leg.
Michele shook her head. “I’m probably just being paranoid, but for now I’ve decided not to talk about it to anyone.”
“Have you told the Historical Society that you’ve changed your mind?”
Again she shook her head. “I still want to do the talks—and will prepare for them—but for the time being I would prefer not to advertise the fact. Now that Janet is out of commission, I’m not sure who to speak to at the Society.”
“I’m pretty sure Mr. Everett knows everyone there. In fact, he told me this morning that there’s to be a wake for Pete Renquist at the pub tonight. He and his wife intend to attend.”
Michele nodded. “I’ll ask him then. I’ve asked my bartender Shawn not to mention the ghost walks, and I’m asking you to do the same.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Michele picked at her potato salad.
“Are you afraid?” Tricia asked.
“I’m a Brit. Stiff upper lip and all that, but I am concerned. I shouldn’t like to be the next victim.”
Tricia looked down at her half-eaten lunch. She’d lost her appetite. She closed the lid on the foam box. At least she’d have leftovers for another lunch or dinner. It was time to change the subject. “What have you got planned for Pete’s pseudo wake?”
Michele shrugged. “Not much. Just a gathering where people can toast their friend and colleague. Nigela Ricita has authorized me to order eats from the Brookview Inn.” She laughed. “Company discount and all that. I’m sure Pete would have approved.”
Tricia would have to thank Angelica for that, too. Somehow she’d missed—or ignored—seeing Angelica’s softer, more thoughtful side, and felt a bit ashamed.
“You will be there,” Michele said. It almost sounded like a commandment.
“Of course.”
Michele smiled and nodded, then she, too, looked at her unfinished lunch and closed the lid. “I think I’ve had my fill for now. Would you like a brief tour of some of the older headstones and the stories I’ve learned about those buried beneath them?”
“Why not,” Tricia said.
They repacked the picnic basket and stood. Michele led the way.
They walked for several minutes in companionable silence until they came upon a stately granite obelisk. “I know who’s in this grave,” Tricia said. “Hiram Stone, founder of Stoneham.”
“You’ve got that right. I’m wondering what to say about him. I read the Founder’s Day pap on the official Stoneham website.”
“And you don’t agree?”
“Oh, the facts are mainly right, but they’ve painted the man as a saint, and he was far from that.”
“What’s the dirt?” Tricia asked, intrigued.
“The man was a notorious drunk and a letch who was enamored with the local temperance leader.”
“You made that up.”
“No, I didn’t—I promise you,” Michele said, smiling. “He was so bad, the village leaders thought it best to try and marry him off. That didn’t work, of course, because he was a dedicated skirt chaser. He was engaged to several women—probably gold diggers—who ultimately dumped him because they couldn’t stand his philandering.”
“He looks like such a staunch community leader in the portrait hanging in the village meeting hall.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret not many know. That isn’t Hiram Stone.”
“Who is it?” Tricia asked, shocked.
Michele shrugged. “At some point the village board decided they needed to honor the man, but all they had was this monument,” she said, indicating the tall pillar of granite before them. “One of the selectmen went on a trip to New York and bought the painting at an auction house. When he returned, the board announced finding a long-lost portrait of the village founder.”
Tricia shook her head, smiling wryly. “It makes a good story.”
“But I’m not sure the current Board of Selectmen would want me to tell it. Don’t worry. My research isn’t quite finished. I’ll find other wonderful stories to tell about the old gent.”
“I have no doubt you will,” Tricia said, a smile tugging at her lips.
They walked deeper into the cemetery, Michele pointing out several of the more unusual monuments with a funny or poignant story to go with each of them. Saddest of all were the graves of a family of children who’d died as the result of a virus. It was so sad to think that the diseases of the past had taken such a devastating toll on those with no access to the wonder drugs available to protect today’s children. How had their parents fared with such overwhelming loss? How had they carried on without those babies they’d loved with such tender care?
Finally, they wound their way back to the cemetery’s front entrance and their cars. The lot was empty now, but in the distance Tricia saw a figure watching them from the far side of the graveyard. It was a man, or at least she thought so, but from such a distance she really couldn’t be sure. And why was he staring at them?
Then again, maybe she was paranoid. The person was probably just facing in their direction, staring at a headstone, grieving for a loved one. She turned back to Michele.
>
“Thank you for a lovely lunch.”
“Don’t forget your leftovers,” Michele said, opening the picnic basket and extracting Tricia’s foam container, handing it to her.
“Thank you. I guess I’ll see you later this evening.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“See you then,” Tricia said, and got into her car. She started the engine and backed out of the parking space. But before she hit the accelerator to leave, she could have sworn she saw that the figure in the graveyard was still staring at them.
SIXTEEN
By the time Tricia made it back to the Chamber office, Pixie had arrived for her afternoon stint, and Mariana was full of questions about the cemetery lunch.
“It wasn’t that big a deal. We ate fried chicken and potato salad and did a lot of girl talk.”
“About what?” Mariana pressed.
Tricia shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t record our conversation.”
Mariana pursed her lips and went back to her desk, looking disappointed. Had her day been so dull that she wanted to live vicariously through someone’s—anyone’s—adventure, however dull?
“I think it’s a cool place to have lunch,” Pixie said. “I heard the Historical Society is going to have ghost walks this fall. I’m going to sign up. I wonder if they’ll have a special Halloween ghost walk? Do you think they’d want people to come in costume? I love to dress up.”
Tricia inspected Pixie’s costume of the day, which was a navy-themed dress with white piping and a jaunty sailor’s cap to top it off. For a stocky, dyed-redheaded, gold-toothed woman on the high side of fifty, Pixie looked quite cute.
Luckily, the subject was soon dropped, and the rest of the afternoon was lost to phone calls, paperwork, and envelope stuffing.
Mariana left right on time at five o’clock, which gave Tricia and Pixie time to talk, and it was then she realized she’d been waiting all afternoon to live vicariously through Pixie’s new adventures in love land. “Are you spending the evening with Fred?” she asked.
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