Chapter & Hearse

  “Our company is interested in expanding our operations in New England. We were fortunate to find this property.”

  Not so fortunate for the man who’d died only five days before, but Tricia decided not to voice that opinion.

  “As your new neighbor, I’d like to invite you to my store for a cup of coffee. Do you have a few minutes to spare?”

  The man consulted his watch and then looked up, giving Tricia a dazzling smile. “Sì. Grazie.” She led him across the street, unlocked the door, and ushered him into Haven’t Got a Clue. He looked the place over and seemed to like what he saw. “Is very nice.”

  “Thank you. The coffee is over here,” she said, gesturing to the coffee station.

  Ginny entered Haven’t Got a Clue, clutching the blue bank bag. “The Cookery’s all buttoned up for the night,” she called, and stopped dead as her gaze zeroed in on Tricia’s guest. Her eyes widened until Tricia thought Ginny’s pupils might burst, and Tricia wondered if she was witnessing love at first sight.

  “Antonio Barbero, this is my assistant, Ginny Wilson. Ginny, meet Antonio.”

  Ginny staggered forward as Antonio made a small bow. He took Ginny’s hand, and when he kissed it, his gaze was riveted on hers. “Buona sera, signorina.”

  Ginny giggled. “Nice to meet you, uh, Antonio.” And she giggled again.

  “Antonio represents the company that’s buying the lot across the street.”

  Ginny giggled yet again. Really, it was embarrassing to witness her downward spiral into utter girlishness. “Why don’t you take a seat in the readers’ nook, and I’ll pour you that cup of coffee, Antonio,” Tricia said.

  The man finally relinquished Ginny’s hand and seemed to shake himself back to sense. “Sì, grazie.”

  “Siete benvenuto,” Tricia said and waved a hand in the direction of the comfy chairs.

  Antonio started off in that direction, and Ginny grabbed Tricia’s arm, whispering, “I didn’t know you could speak Italian.”

  “Just enough to get by,” Tricia said, manufacturing a smile, and stepped behind the counter, grabbing the coffeepot. “I’m afraid it’s not espresso, but we’ve never had any complaints about our coffee.”

  “I’m sure it will be beautiful—like the ladies in this shop,” Antonio said, and Ginny nearly swooned.

  Oh, she was so, so young, Tricia lamented, and poured coffee into one of the Haven’t Got a Clue tall cardboard coffee cups. “Do you take cream and sugar?” she asked, but he shook his head. She crossed the room to join him, handed him the cup, and took the adjacent seat.

  “Tell us about your employer,” Tricia said, dying to hear the dirt but trying to sound nonchalant.

  Antonio crossed his legs, showing off the sharp creases in his black trousers. “We are new in this country,” he said, “looking for opportunities for investment. We think New Hampshire and New England in general have great potential for tourist development. I hope you won’t think badly of us for that.”

  “No,” Tricia agreed, “the more the merrier. Will your employer be coming to Stoneham to see the property?”

  Antonio shook his head. “Is not necessary. I take care of things for the signora.”

  Ah, a married woman, Tricia thought, or at least an older woman. Then again, how many young women had the money for this type of investment? And it didn’t sound as though Ms. Ricita had to worry about her financial standings—or was she just as enamored of Antonio as Ginny was?

  “What other opportunities are you pursuing?” Tricia asked.

  Antonio took a sip of coffee before answering. “Hotels and restaurants. My employer wishes to branch out.”

  “The Brookside Inn on the other side of the village may be looking for an investor,” Tricia suggested.

  “Is a nice place?” Antonio asked.

  “The best in town. Head south out of town and you can’t miss it. I’d be happy to make some calls for you.”

  “That would be very generous of you. Grazie.”

  “What will you do with the property across the street?’ Ginny asked.

  “It will be used for retail, although my employer has not yet decided what to open. Perhaps antiques. Perhaps another bookstore. We must study the situation.”

  “Will you be staying in the area?” Ginny asked hopefully.

  “I am currently based in Manhattan, but it may become necessary for me to relocate as my employer develops properties in New England. I am told is very beautiful here in autumn.”

  “It’s the prettiest place on Earth,” Ginny agreed. “Maybe I could show you around sometime.”

  Antonio smiled. “Perhaps.” He lifted his cup to Tricia. “I’m afraid I must be on my way. I have appointments in Nashua later this evening.”

  “Your boss must be a slave driver, making you work on Sunday,” Ginny said.

  “Not at all. I enjoy my work, as I’m sure you must.”

  Again, Ginny giggled, her cheeks going pink once more.

  “If you’ll give me your card, I’ll make those calls and get back to you,” Tricia said.

  “Grazie.” Antonio took a gold business card holder from the inside pocket of his sports coat and extracted two cards. One he gave to Tricia, and the other to Ginny, who looked like she was about to bust.

  Once again, Antonio kissed their hands, and with a wave he said, “Ciao,” and was gone.

  Ginny let out a loud breath. “I think I’m in love. That is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met.”

  “Retract your tongue, girl, you’re positively drooling.”

  Ginny laughed, and again her cheeks flushed. She remembered the bank bag, and handed it to Tricia.

  “How did things go at the Cookery?” Tricia asked.

  “Not a bad day,” Ginny said, and dug into her purse for the keys to the Cookery. “But the cutout dresser struck again. I must’ve been helping a customer, and when I looked out about an hour ago, someone had put a black beret on the cutout’s head, and a pair of pink woolly gloves on its hands.”

  Tricia sighed. “And you didn’t see who did it?”

  Ginny shook her head. “I brought it in at closing. It took me nearly ten minutes to get those gloves off, and then I thought—why did I try to save them? I should have just cut them off.”

  Tricia sighed and closed the blinds on the shop’s door. “If nothing else, we at least know a little about the firm that’s bought the lot across the street. I think I’ll do a Google search when I get upstairs.”

  “You know, during a lull at the Cookery, I wondered why you didn’t buy the lot,” Ginny said.

  “Me?” Tricia asked.

  “Sure. It would’ve been a great investment. Eventually it would have paid for itself. If you rebuilt, you could either rent it out or move Haven’t Got a Clue to that location.”

  Tricia peered through the store’s main display window, studying the empty lot. If it had been one building over, the narrow lot would have been perfect for Angelica to expand Booked for Lunch—allowing her to serve a bigger crowd al fresco, at least during the summer months. In winter, she didn’t even bother to open the café on Sundays. Of course, if the Brookside Inn continued with its no-brunch Sundays, maybe it would pay Angelica to stay open during the winter. Then again, she didn’t get much time off, juggling two successful businesses and a budding writing career.

  “I’m surprised the lot sold so quickly,” Ginny said, and turned away from the window.

  “Me, too. But it just goes to prove that being a book town has put Stoneham on the map. Obviously someone thinks rebuilding here would be worthwhile. That’s especially comforting to know after the most recent economic downturn.”

  “It sure is. Well, gotta go.”

  “Thanks for helping out at the Cookery.”

  “No problem,” Ginny called, and headed for the door.

  “Wait—we should talk about visiting Billie Hanson at the bank tomorrow.”

  “Can’t right now,” Ginny said, and opened the door. “Meeti
ng a friend in ten minutes for dinner. See you tomorrow.” And out the door she went.

  Tricia frowned. Was Ginny avoiding the whole subject of the mortgage? Didn’t she understand what allowing the debt to mount was doing to her credit rating?

  As she reached for the cord of the display window’s blinds, Tricia saw a Sheriff’s Department cruiser coming up Main Street. It pulled up outside of Haven’t Got a Clue, and Captain Baker got out of the driver’s side. He retrieved his high-crowned hat and put it on before heading for Tricia’s door. This was certainly her evening for visitors. Noticing the CLOSED sign, Baker knocked.

  Tricia stepped over to the door and opened it. “My, you seem to be making a habit of visiting me after hours.”

  “I wish I could say this was a personal visit, but I’m afraid it’s business.”

  “Bob Kelly?’ Tricia asked.

  Baker nodded. Obviously he’d gotten her message. “I thought you might like to know St. Joseph’s Hospital is holding Mr. Kelly overnight for observation.”

  “That’s not unusual, is it? I mean, he could’ve been asphyxiated.”

  “Tricia, the gas meter at the back of his house had been tampered with, just like what happened at History Repeats Itself.”

  “What are you driving at?”

  “Chief Farrar and I concur; we believe Mr. Kelly may have been responsible. It’s possible he tried to kill himself.”

  Tricia’s mouth dropped. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Bob—attempt suicide? No way.” Tricia shook her head. “He just sewed up a deal to sell the empty lot on Main Street. Believe me, Bob loves money more than anything else. He’d never kill himself.”

  “According to several members of the Chamber of Commerce, Mr. Kelly has seemed depressed for the past couple of weeks. And if he was responsible for killing Jim Roth, he may have had reason to—”

  “Look, I may not be Bob’s best friend and advocate, but he wouldn’t kill anybody. He’s never been in any trouble with the law—why start now?”

  “Who says he’s never been in trouble?” Baker asked reasonably.

  Was it possible? Though Tricia had known Bob for just over two years, she knew virtually nothing about his past—except that he’d come from a home where food was sometimes scarce. Did Angelica know much more about him? Tricia would have to ask. And yet, Angelica hadn’t wanted to talk about Jake’s criminal past—would she be as tight-lipped about Bob’s past as well?

  Still, if Tricia trusted one thing about Bob, it was that he’d go to any lengths to save his own hide.

  “I don’t believe it. Bob would never risk his life to further a business deal. He owned the building. He could’ve been killed in that blast,” Tricia pointed out. “And now he’s made a deal to sell the property.”

  “Someone wants that lot?”

  “Yes, and until the building was destroyed, Bob was one of them. He’s got a lock on most of the property on Main Street. Renting out that real estate is the major source of his income.” Tricia shook her head again. “Besides, someone ransacked Bob’s house.”

  “He could have done that himself.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Tricia, there’s no gas stove—just a furnace. The wrench used to loosen the connection on the pipe was on Kelly’s kitchen counter.”

  “So? If someone did this to him, they might’ve left it there as a misleading clue. Did you look for fingerprints?”

  “It was wiped clean.”

  “Was there a suicide note? Was it signed?”

  “We found a typed letter on the kitchen counter. Mr. Kelly has denied writing it.”

  “Well, of course he would. You should be able to determine if the note came from Bob’s computer printer.”

  “Only if we confiscate all his home and office equipment. We’re not ready to do that now—but it’s an option.”

  “Do you seriously consider him a suspect?”

  Baker didn’t blink. “Yes. So much so, that we intend to present our evidence to the district attorney, possibly as early as tomorrow.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m deadly serious.”

  “But you have at least two other suspects.”

  “Who?”

  “Jim Roth’s mother. You have to admit her behavior at the memorial this morning was outrageous.”

  “She may have had a motive, but not the opportunity. She has an iron-clad alibi.”

  “Who?”

  “Her”—the captain paused, looked uncomfortable—“gentleman friend.”

  “They could be lying.”

  Baker didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “Who’s your other suspect?”

  It pained Tricia to say it. “Frannie Armstrong.”

  “Possible motive, but no opportunity. Your sister swears she was working at the Cookery Wednesday afternoon and never left the premises.”

  Tricia’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. Angelica had been cooking in her apartment for most of that day. She wouldn’t have known if Frannie ducked out for five or ten minutes. Had Angelica lied to Baker to protect Frannie?

  “Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this information about Mr. Kelly to yourself,” Baker said.

  “Even from my sister?” Tricia asked.

  “Especially from your sister.”

  Tricia laughed. “Do you have any siblings?”

  “I’ve got a brother.”

  “Not a sister.” She waved a hand in the air. “Then you just wouldn’t understand.”

  “Be that as it may, I don’t want you talking about this—to anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Then why did you tell me in the first place?”

  For the first time since she’d met him, Captain Baker seemed unsure of himself. He touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll be leaving now. Until next time.”

  He reached for the door handle, turned it, and left the store.

  Tricia watched as he got into his cruiser and took off, heading north once again.

  She lowered the blinds, grabbed the phone’s receiver, and dialed.

  Angelica picked up on the fourth ring.

  NINETEEN

  “Why did you have to call right now?” Angelica complained. “I’ve just run a bath. This lovely little bed-and-breakfast has one of those deep, old-fashioned claw-footed tubs. It must hold a million gallons. I intend to soak for at least an hour.”

  “You’ll probably pull the plug and let it run out when I tell you the latest,” Tricia said, and wished she’d used her cell phone so she could settle down in Haven’t Got a Clue’s readers’ nook. This call could become yet another marathon event. “I did as you asked, and went over to Bob’s house.”

  “So you mentioned in your message. I hope he wasn’t as obstinate as he’s been lately.”

  “Actually, he was unconscious when I got there,” Tricia said, keeping her voice neutral.

  “Good grief. I hope you’re joking,” Angelica said, her distress evident over the miles.

  “Someone tampered with his gas meter.”

  “Just like Jim’s! Oh, Tricia, is he okay?”

  “They took him to St. Joseph’s in Milford. He’s going to be okay. But they kept him overnight for observation. He’s on suicide watch.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. If Bob was going to kill himself, he would’ve done it when the market crashed in two thousand and eight.”

  “I know. But what’s worse, Captain Baker thinks Bob might’ve killed Jim Roth.”

  “Oh sure—and blew up his own building? Give me a break.”

  “Which is exactly what I told the captain.” Tricia considered asking Angelica about her vouching for Frannie on Wednesday afternoon, but figured she’d already dumped enough trouble in her sister’s lap. And she wasn’t about to mention the cutout being decked out in fun wear.

  Angelica sighed. “I guess I’d better let the water out of the tub, check out, and head home
.”

  “What about your book tour?”

  “Bob needs me,” she said, sounding resigned.

  “Right now, he needs a good lawyer more than he needs you. Maybe I should call my lawyer, Roger Livingston.”

  “He doesn’t deal with criminal cases. You’d better let me handle this. I’ll call him for a referral. Do you think they’re letting Bob take calls at the hospital?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “Pull out the phone book, will you? I’ll go scout up a pen and some paper.”

  By the time Tricia found the number, Angelica was ready to take down the information.

  “Are you really coming home?” Tricia asked.

  “That depends on what I hear from the hospital, Bob, and the attorney.”

  “I’m sorry, Angelica. I know you’ve worked hard for this tour—”

  “Yes, and I hate to disappoint all those people who’ll be showing up at the bookstores, just dying for me to autograph their copies of my book.” She sighed dramatically.

  “Well, I have one piece of good news for you—something I forgot to tell you this morning. Someone in Stoneham bought the winning Powerball lottery ticket. The prize is twenty million dollars.”

  “And how does that affect me?” Angelica asked.

  “I just thought you might like to know.”

  “Only if they spend a good portion of it at the Cookery and Booked for Lunch.” Angelica sighed once more. “I’ll call you later. Thanks for everything you’ve done over the last few days, Trish. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you.”

  Tricia’s mouth dropped. She’d never heard Angelica actually say those three words before. She swallowed. “I love you, too. Call me.”

  “I will. ’Bye.”

  “ ’ Bye.”

  Tricia replaced the receiver, feeling empty inside. Miss Marple jumped down from the shelf behind the counter, rubbed her head against Tricia’s arm, and gave a sympathetic “Yow.”

  Tricia gazed around Haven’t Got a Clue. Usually, she felt more at home in the store than she did in her loft. But now she felt restless.

  “Yow!” Miss Marple insisted, purring hopefully and head butting Tricia’s arm, which was now covered in long, gray cat hair.