Chapter & Hearse

  With trepidation Tricia opened the gate and entered the garden that was the front yard. Before she had a chance to climb the steps, the front door opened. “Tricia, dear. Thank you so much for coming,” Mrs. Roth said. “Won’t you come in?” Decked out in a pink floral housedress, Mrs. Roth had covered her head with a faded bandana. From the looks of her grubby hands, she’d been doing some serious cleaning.

  Once again, Mrs. Roth gestured her to go ahead, and Tricia entered the little home’s living room, which had undergone quite a transformation. The tobacco-stained walls had been scrubbed. Gone were the military pictures that had once decorated them, replaced with still-life prints and oil paintings of roses, most of them in heavily gilded frames and in various sizes. The club chair and oversized plasma TV were also gone, replaced by a chintz-slipcovered love seat and chair. A white wicker table sat before them, with the silver tea set upon it. The ashtray was gone, and the side table, now doily covered, held Mrs. Roth’s library books and a milk glass bud vase with a single pink rose. A floor lamp sat close to the love seat, making a perfect little reading nook. Jim’s wartime display cases were gone, too, and in their place were little shelves filled with books and knickknacks—more of Mrs. Roth’s treasures.

  “You’ve been redecorating,” Tricia said.

  “Not really. I’ve just moved things around a bit.”

  “You did this all yourself?”

  “I had some help this morning,” she said, as evidenced by the two tea-stained cups still sitting on the silver tray.

  Mrs. Roth gazed at one of the rose paintings and sighed. “I’m so glad I never threw these away. They’ve been in storage for ages. Aren’t they pretty?”

  “Yes, very,” Tricia agreed.

  Mrs. Roth studied Tricia’s face and frowned. “You must think me a terrible mother, erasing James’s presence so quickly. I can assure you, I haven’t done so entirely. It was quite painful, but I went through his things, weeded out what couldn’t be donated or sold, and kept those that were most dear to him. They’re in his bedroom, which I think I’ll keep as a shrine to remember him by.”

  That was a little morbid, but Tricia did have to admit that with even these small changes, the house now seemed more like a home than a war museum.

  “Did you know the booksellers rescued as many of the books as they could from Jim’s store?”

  “Yes. A William Everett called to tell me that. He’s the one who brought the boxes of items for me to sort through. He could have tossed them in a Dumpster, for all I care.”

  “They could be worth quite a bit of money.”

  “I don’t have the means to sell them to the highest bidder. And sitting in a storage unit, they’ll just be another drain on my finances. I do wish someone had consulted me before they took that on.”

  “I’m afraid that was my fault. I suggested they try to rescue them.”

  Mrs. Roth’s lips pursed, but she didn’t comment.

  “Would you consider donating them to a worthy charity?”

  “Such as?”

  “If nothing else, the Stoneham Library’s next used-book sale. Lois Kerr is always looking for donations.”

  Mrs. Roth thought about it for a few moments. “That would be acceptable. Would you be willing to make the arrangements?”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “Will you also pay the fee on the storage unit?”

  Tricia hesitated, then forced a smile. “Of course.”

  “I don’t want to keep you from your shop, dear,” Mrs. Roth said, and pointed to the cartons that were stacked along one wall. “Do be careful when you lift them. Some of them are quite heavy.”

  She wasn’t kidding. Tricia struggled to pick up the top box, and carried it from the living room, through the kitchen, and into the attached garage. Mrs. Roth followed her like a puppy. “Where would you like me to put it?”

  “Just make a new pile over there,” Mrs. Roth directed.

  Mrs. Roth certainly had been clearing house, as evidenced by the stack of boxes and bags. Tricia wondered if there was anything left to put in Jim’s room to remember him by.

  “I’ve got a man coming on Monday to make an offer on some of the books and memorabilia. From what I understand, some of it’s quite valuable.” Mrs. Roth wrinkled her nose. “I never did like having it in the house.”

  The phone rang inside the house. “I’ll just go get that,” Mrs. Roth said, and hurried inside.

  Tricia took a look around the garage, grateful the door was up and light was spilling into the dusty room. Like the rest of the house, it was neat, with plastic shelves that held household cleaning products, garden tools, motor oil, and . . . a gallon jug of antifreeze in a bright yellow container. Yellow—the color of Mrs. Roth’s lemon bars. Antifreeze, made of ethylene glycol. Poison to man and beast.

  For some reason, the sight of it bothered Tricia, especially as she remembered the look on Mrs. Roth’s face when she’d mentioned that the lemon bars had been Jim’s favorite. Tricia looked back through the screen door and into the kitchen, where Mrs. Roth conversed on the phone. In only three days the old lady had practically erased all traces of her son from her home. Could she have wanted him gone? Could she have planned to help him leave this world?

  Tricia shuddered, and in the next second berated herself for being foolish. Jim had been killed in an explosion, not by poison. But what if the explosion hadn’t happened? How long would he have lived otherwise?

  FOURTEEN

  With Ginny and Mr. Everett already gone for the day, Tricia was ready to pack it in herself. The bell over the door rang, and Tricia looked up, expecting a last-minute customer, but instead Grant Baker stood in the doorway. “Oh, I was expecting a return phone call, not a visit,” she said. He was out of uniform, dressed in a dark green golf shirt and tan Dockers, looking tall, tanned, and tantalizing.

  “I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.”

  That was a lie. He lived closer to Manchester than Milford.

  “How’s Mandy?” Tricia almost managed to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  “Still in remission, still doing well,” Baker answered.

  But not well enough for him to resume a life without her.

  Stop it! Tricia told herself. She didn’t want their conversation to follow the previous night’s course.

  “You called,” Baker reminded Tricia. “You said you needed a favor.”

  “Yes. It turns out my sister has hired a convicted felon.”

  “Convicted of what?” Baker asked, interested.

  “That’s what worries me. He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Did you ask your sister?”

  “She’s out of town on a book tour.”

  “Oh, yes, Easy-Does-It Cooking by Angelica Miles. From Penguin. Published June first.”

  Tricia laughed. “How did you remember all that?”

  Baker scowled. “Because your sister has recited that little speech just about every time I’ve seen her. She’s like a broken record, but I suppose that’s good for sales.”

  “Yes, I guess it is.”

  “Now, what about this employee? Do you have a name?” Baker asked.

  “Jake Masters. He’s her short-order cook, and he also works evenings as a sous-chef at La Parisienne in Nashua. I’m not sure where he lives.”

  “That’s not much to go on. Have you got a license plate number?”

  “I’ve never seen his car.”

  “With all the mysteries you read, you of all people should know what a cop needs to track someone down.”

  “Well, I’m hardly in a position to give you his Social Security number.” Ouch! That was no way to win friends and influence people. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little on edge. I haven’t had a very good day.”

  “You could tell me about it over dinner.”

  Tricia blinked. “I could?”

  “That is, if you’re not otherwise occupied.”

  Tricia gazed arou
nd the empty store. Miss Marple sat on the readers’ nook coffee table. She yawned. “I suppose I could change my plans for the evening.”

  “And what were you planning on doing?”

  “Baking.”

  Baker snorted a laugh, then caught himself.

  “That was not meant to be funny.”

  “I’m sorry, but your gastronomic reputation precedes you.”

  She decided to ignore the slur on her cooking abilities. “What did you have in mind?”

  “The Bookshelf Diner, if you don’t mind.”

  Safe. Secure. And decidedly unromantic. Well, they were, after all, just friends. “Sure. Let me feed my cat, and I’ll be right with you.”

  “Fine.”

  Leaving Miss Marple in the apartment, Tricia grabbed a heavier sweater and headed back down to Haven’t Got a Clue. Baker was perusing a book, which he put back on the shelf at her arrival.

  “Would you like to borrow it?” Tricia asked.

  He shook his head. “I barely have time to read the newspaper. Shall we go?”

  Baker waited as Tricia locked the door, then ushered her down the sidewalk. “We’ll want to cross at the corner,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to break the law by jaywalking.”

  Tricia tried not to smile. She’d admonished him for doing just that soon after they’d met. “Who’d know? I’ve heard the response time for a Sheriff’s Department cruiser for a 9-1-1 call averages twenty minutes.”

  Baker frowned. “It’s a sad fact. This is a big county, and our resources only stretch so far.”

  “The other day I signed a petition to reestablish a police force in Stoneham. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  They paused at the corner. “I do. The Sheriff’s Department wasn’t eager to take on patrolling this area when the village nearly went bankrupt almost two decades ago.”

  “Were you here at the time?”

  “Little more than a raw recruit. I’ve got nineteen years in. I can retire next year—that is, if the rules don’t change. A lot of police forces are calling for longer periods of service. Soon officers will need more than just twenty years on the job before taking retirement.”

  “Isn’t that fiscally sound?”

  “A forty- or fifty-year-old officer can’t run after a suspect like he did fresh out of the academy.”

  They crossed the empty street and entered the diner, where they were seated in its front booth for the entire world to see—and in exactly the same seat Tricia had occupied for dinner with Russ just two nights before. Oh, well, Tricia reminded herself, this wasn’t really a date. It was a shared meal with a friend.

  Why did that word have to leave a sour taste in her mouth?

  Eugenia, the weeknight waitress, was not on duty, which meant Tricia might actually enjoy her meal. Then again, as she perused the uninspiring menu, she decided she might be wrong. It never changed. And the specials always seemed to be the same, too. Couldn’t they offer entrées that didn’t require a deep-fat fryer?

  Out of the corner of her eye, Tricia saw a familiar figure walk past the diner’s window: Russ. She looked back down at her menu, hoping he hadn’t noticed her. What was he doing in town? His office had been dark when Tricia and Baker had walked past it.

  “The fried chicken looks good,” Baker said, eyes glued to the colored photograph on the menu before him.

  “Not if you’re on statins.” She let her gaze stray to the window. Good. No sign of Russ.

  “Are you going to live forever?” Baker asked.

  “That’s my plan.”

  He folded his menu. “I predict you’ll order the Cobb salad.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because you always order the Cobb salad.”

  “I order plenty of other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “The spinach salad. The tuna plate. . . .”

  “Why don’t you order dessert? In fact, why don’t you order two of them?”

  “Life is short—eat dessert first, because you never know what might happen?” she asked, trying not to smile.

  Baker grinned. “Something like that.”

  Tricia glanced up at the window. Still no Russ. She turned her gaze back to the menu. Too bad she wasn’t a fan of sweets. Then again, she didn’t want Baker to think he could read her mind.

  Janice, the weekend night waitress, came over to the table, her order pad at the ready. “What can I get you folks?”

  Baker nodded in Tricia’s direction. She gave him a chagrined smile, and looked up at the waitress. “I think I’d like—”

  But before she could finish the sentence, a blur at the edge of her peripheral vision shouted, “Is this what we pay our taxes for? Public servants dithering in diners while a killer is on the loose?”

  Tricia looked up, and there, not five feet from their table, stood Russ Smith, his face twisted into an ugly snarl. She hadn’t noticed him enter. The diner had gone deadly quiet, with all eyes on their table. Janice backed up a few steps, looking uneasy.

  Tricia’s gaze darted to Baker’s face. For a moment he seemed oblivious of the interruption, his expression a study in tranquillity. Then he turned to Russ and said in a low voice, “Excuse me?”

  “You’re in charge of the Jim Roth murder investigation. Why aren’t you out there looking for his killer—keeping the citizens of Stoneham safe?”

  “I’m off duty. My men are following every lead. Now, if you’ll excuse me. . . .”

  “No, I won’t. What the hell are you doing here with my girl?”

  “Russ!” Tricia admonished with a scowl.

  Baker didn’t bother to look up. “I’m attempting to order my dinner. You’re making that extremely difficult. I suggest you leave before you embarrass yourself any more.”

  “Russ, please!” Tricia implored, but before she could say more, Russ launched himself at Baker, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him up and out of the booth. Baker’s eyes blazed and his arms came up, smashing at Russ’s, and the two of them went tumbling to the floor.

  Tricia struggled to get out of the booth. “Stop it! Stop it!”

  “I’m calling 9-1-1,” Janice hollered, and ran up the aisle.

  “I am 9-1-1!” Baker yelled, or tried to, as he dodged Russ’s ineffective blows. Giving up, he hauled off and slugged Russ, sending him sprawling backward. “Pal, you made a big mistake coming here tonight.” Baker got to his feet and then bent down to grab a groggy Russ by his shirt, pulling him onto his feet. Russ’s legs were rubbery, and he had a hard time standing.

  “You picked the wrong person to hassle, pal. You’re going down for assault and battery,” Baker said.

  “Grant, please don’t press charges. It was just Russ being”—she sighed, frustrated—“Russ.”

  “Yes, I will press charges. Look, Tricia, I’ve seen this happen far too often. No charges leveled, and the next thing you know, you’re a statistic of domestic violence.”

  Tricia met Baker’s level green gaze. She knew he was right. How many true crime books had she read chronicling the same pattern of abuse, stalking, and murder? But this was Russ Smith they were talking about.

  “Besides,” Baker continued, “it’s me who’ll be pressing charges, not you. That way he’s more likely to take his spite out on me instead of you.”

  A Sheriff’s Department cruiser pulled up outside the diner—again beating the twenty-minute response time—and a uniformed deputy got out, putting on his flat-brimmed hat. Tricia recognized the man: Deputy Placer. He came into the diner and eyed the three of them still standing there, with the rest of the patrons staring. “What have we got here, Captain?”

  “Mr. Smith attacked me. I’ve got a diner full of witnesses.” Several people nodded in agreement. “He’ll be taking a trip down to the county lockup. Assault and battery. I’m sure you can take care of him until I can get there to finish the paperwork.”

  “Not a problem,” Placer said, while Tricia ground her teeth. Placer
had already taken out his handcuffs. Seconds later, he had locked them around Russ’s wrists, grabbed the now-submissive man by the arm, and hauled him out of the diner. Everyone watched as he loaded Russ into the cruiser’s backseat, climbed into the driver’s seat, and drove off.

  Tricia and Baker resumed their seats. It took a few moments for the low murmur of voices to fill the diner once again. Tricia was afraid to look up and see the number of faces she’d recognize. This wasn’t how she’d expected the evening to turn out.

  Baker picked up his menu once again, turning back to the picture of crispy chicken and whipped potatoes.

  Tricia was the first to speak. “I don’t understand why Russ is acting like this. He dumped me,” she hissed. “And it’s not as if you and I even have a relationship.”

  Baker didn’t take his eyes off the menu. “I think of friendship as a relationship. And who knows what the future will bring?”

  Tricia felt a flush creeping up her neck to burn her cheeks. Did Baker expect her to put her life on hold while she waited for him to make up his mind to leave his ex-wife behind and make a new life? And wasn’t that more or less what Jim Roth had expected of Frannie?

  It wasn’t a question Tricia was willing to ask, at least not in front of a diner full of people.

  Janice came back to the table. “Do you want to try ordering now?” If she was trying to be funny, she’d missed the mark.

  “I think I’ve lost my appetite,” Tricia said.

  “I’ll have the fried chicken, the salad with poppy seed dressing, and a Geary’s.” Baker closed his menu. “My friend here will have a glass of chardonnay and a hot fudge sundae, heavy on the fudge.”

  “Grant,” Tricia protested.

  “Better keep one waiting in the wings, too. Just in case,” he said, handed Janice his menu, and winked.

  “Got it,” Janice said with a smile, collected Tricia’s menu, and turned away.

  “I don’t even like hot fudge sundaes,” Tricia said.

  “Of course you do. That is, you would if you’d let yourself like them. I’m sure there are lots of other good things in life you’d enjoy if you’d only let yourself.”