Chapter & Hearse bm-4

by Lorna Barrett

  Tricia entered Stoneham’s only bakery, inhaling deeply of the aroma of fresh-baked bread, which was almost strong enough to lift her off her feet. Nikki Brimfield, the Patisserie’s owner, gave Tricia a quick wave as she finished waiting on a customer, and Tricia turned her attention to the delights in Nikki’s glass showcases. She was an artist with a pastry bag: cupcakes that looked like frogs—for boys?—and sunflowers—for girls and their moms. Scones, apple turnovers, chocolate and coconut cakes, and at least ten different kinds of cookies were enough to keep anyone chained to their treadmills and exercise bikes for the rest of their lives.

  Nikki bid her customer adieu and turned to Tricia. “Great to see you, Trish. What can I get you today? Raspberry thumbprint cookies? Chocolate chips? Our oatmeal raisin cookies are made with whole wheat flour—extra good for you.”

  “How about a dozen—four of each of those you mentioned?”

  “Coming right up.” Nikki took a partially put together bakery box from a stack on the shelf.

  “We haven’t had a chance to speak since History Repeats Itself blew up the other night,” Tricia said.

  “Wasn’t that awful? Poor Jim,” Nikki said, grabbing a piece of baker’s tissue and placing four oatmeal cookies into the box.

  “I’m collecting money to help out Jim’s elderly mother. She’s all alone, and she depended on Jim’s income.”

  “Oh, dear,” Nikki said, and finished filling the box. She tucked in the lid and then grabbed a piece of string from the holder that hung from the ceiling. With a few quick moves, she tied the box and broke the string, pushing the box toward Tricia, who already had her wallet out. She handed Nikki a ten.

  Nikki rang up the sale, handed Tricia the change, and then she dipped back into the cash drawer and withdrew Tricia’s ten, handing it back to her. “This is for Jim.”

  “Thank you. Would you like to sign the card?”

  “Sure.” Nikki took the card, scribbled her name and the Patisserie on it, and handed it back to Tricia.

  “I hope you’ll make it to the gathering on Sunday at the Brookview.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it—even if it is my only day off,” Nikki said. “Besides, I have to deliver and set up the cake that Frannie ordered.”

  Tricia frowned. Set up a cake? That sounded pretty elaborate for a memorial service, but she decided not to question it. “I’ll see you there. And thank you for helping Mrs. Roth.”

  “Not a problem,” Nikki said cheerfully, and missed Tricia’s wince at that expression.

  Tricia made one more stop, at Have a Heart, the home of used and out-of-print romance novels, where the owner, Joyce Widman, made yet another ten-dollar donation to the cause.

  Tricia tiptoed past the Cookery, grateful Frannie was fully occupied. It wasn’t likely she would want to contribute to Mrs. Roth’s fund, and Tricia wasn’t sure how she was going to break the news to her that she’d been collecting for someone Frannie considered an archenemy.

  Feet dragging, Tricia made it back to Haven’t Got a Clue. Ginny had gone to lunch, and Mr. Everett was helping a customer when Tricia stowed the collected money and signed card under the cash drawer, deciding she’d call the last three prospects on her list. If they were interested in donating, she’d make a point to get over to collect the cash. If they weren’t . . . .

  Tricia timed her call to the Stoneham Weekly News for when she knew Russ would be out to lunch. She’d let his office manager/stringer/custodian pass along the news. She tried Bob’s realty office, and wasn’t surprised to get his answering machine. She left a message, but didn’t expect a reply. Bob wasn’t likely to contribute to a fund for Mrs. Roth when her son had owed him thousands of dollars in back rent, although maybe there was a chance he’d forgive that bad debt and not go after the estate to collect it. Then again, Bob hadn’t become the most successful businessman in Stoneham by being softhearted.

  Ever efficient, Betsy Dittmeyer, secretary/receptionist at the Chamber of Commerce, answered the phone on the second ring. “Hi, Betsy. It’s Tricia Miles from Haven’t Got a Clue. I’m collecting money for Jim Roth’s elderly mother. As Jim was a Chamber member—”

  “He was not,” Betsy said, her voice hard.

  “I beg your pardon?” Tricia asked.

  “Mr. Roth failed to pay his dues in January. At the time of his death, he was not a member of the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce.”

  “Oh, well—”

  “May I remind you that the Chamber is not a charity, and we don’t make donations frivolously.”

  “I believe Jim was the first bookseller to join the Chamber. He was a member in good standing for at least four years. Doesn’t that make a difference?”

  “As I said, the Chamber is not a charity. Rules are rules.”

  If Frannie was still the face of the Chamber, she wouldn’t have been so coldhearted. She would have found some way to find the funds. Then again, Frannie hated Jim’s mother and would probably be upset if she’d been asked to do so.

  Goodness, what a tangled web . . . .

  It was with relief that Tricia put down the phone and went back to the business of bookselling. As she rang up yet another sale, she noted the titles and decided the day was turning out to be some kind of Travis McGee love fest. She’d already sold five or six copies of John D. MacDonald’s most popular books. That the author had been dead at least two decades was a testament to the popularity of his writing. She made a mental note to check the storeroom for more copies of his work, and would do it once Ginny got back from her lunch break.

  “Thanks for shopping with us,” she told her customer, and handed her the sturdy paper shopping bag. Before the woman made it out the door, the phone rang. Tricia picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How can I—?”

  “Tricia, this is Frannie. Did you tell that guy from the Sheriff’s Department about Jim and me?”

  Oh, dear. “Um . . . it may have come up in conversation. Why?”

  “He came into the store a couple of hours ago. I’ve been so busy, this is the first chance I’ve had to call and ask you about it.” And, from the sound of it, she’d been stewing about it ever since.

  “I’m sorry, Frannie. He asked me to tell him everything I knew about Jim. You wouldn’t have wanted me to lie, would you?”

  “Of course not. But did you have to volunteer that piece of information?”

  “Yes, I did. But I also told him you’re practically chained to the store, and that I didn’t believe for a moment you were capable of hurting anyone.”

  “You’re darn right.” Tricia heard the bell over the Cookery’s door go off. “Gotta go,” Frannie said, and hung up.

  No sooner had Tricia put the receiver down than the phone rang again. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia, how—?”

  “Jake’s already left for the day,” Darcy cried. “I’m all alone with a bunch of customers screaming for their food!”

  Tricia glanced at the clock. “But it’s only one thirty. Booked for Lunch is open until at least two.”

  “I know. What do I do? I can’t cook and wait on tables. If you can come over and take care of customers, I think I can handle the food for half an hour. Will you? Please, Tricia, please!”

  Tricia glanced around her store filled with customers. Ginny was still at lunch, but luckily Mr. Everett was working that afternoon. She sighed. “I’ll be right over.” It took all her self-control not to slam the phone into its cradle. Damn that Jake!

  “Another emergency over at Booked for Lunch?” Mr. Everett guessed.

  “It doesn’t seem to stop.”

  “Go on. We’ll be fine,” he assured her.

  Tricia ditched her Haven’t Got a Clue name tag and headed for the door. “I’ll be back when I can.”

  No wonder Darcy was in a panic—the café was packed. As soon as Tricia entered, Darcy practically threw her order pad at Tricia and fled into the kitchen.

  Tricia made a quick circuit around the dining room,
verifying orders and refilling coffee cups. The patrons’ mood was impatient, but no one seemed on the verge of exploding into a rage—yet. Tricia pushed open the double doors to the kitchen. “What can I do?”

  Wielding a wicked-looking knife, Darcy sliced a lettuce-filled sandwich in half, tossed a pickle spear and a handful of chips onto the plate, and shoved it forward on the counter, where it joined another sandwich-filled plate. “These are for table four.” She plunged a ladle into a large pot of soup. “We usually serve the soup first, but I need to be in Nashua by three—let’s get these people fed and out of here!”

  Tricia eased the bowls and plates onto a large plastic tray, hefted it, and backed out of the kitchen—and straight into one of the disgruntled customers. The tray went flying, sending scalding soup, bread, lettuce, tuna, and pastrami sailing into the air to splatter the walls and floor.

  “Was that my lunch?” an overweight man demanded, his mustard-stained shirt straining at the seams.

  Darcy began to wail.

  “Sir, we’re shorthanded and we’re doing the best we can. Please sit down.”

  “I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes for my sandwich. I demand to see the manager.”

  “You’re looking at her. Or at least the acting manager,” Darcy said with a nod toward Tricia.

  “I’m sorry you had to wait,” Tricia said, trying to keep an edge from rising in her voice. “If you’ll let us get back to work, we’ll have your meal to you as soon as we can.”

  Darcy abandoned her work space and grabbed a mop, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

  “I want my lunch comped,” the man demanded.

  “I’ll ask you again nicely, sir, please take your seat.”

  He straightened, his jaw jutting forward. “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll ask you to leave.”

  “Don’t bother.” He turned to face the other customers. “I’m not waiting another minute for my food. Come on, Mabel, let’s get out of this dump!”

  Tricia pushed though the door to watch the man depart, his red-faced companion slinking out behind him.

  Darcy scooped up the bread and sandwich meat, and tossed it into the trash.

  “Wash your hands and start over again,” Tricia said kindly.

  Darcy nodded. “What table was that guy at?”

  Tricia looked out at the dining room. “Four.”

  “That was his lunch,” Darcy said, and went back to work.

  Within fifteen minutes, all the customers had been served. The clock was edging toward two, and Darcy was looking antsy. “Now that things are under control, can you please tell me what happened and why Jake left in a huff?” Tricia asked.

  Darcy looked away, squirming as she covered what was left of a head of lettuce with plastic wrap. “We kind of had a little tiff.”

  “About what? And I sure hope it wasn’t loud enough to be heard by the customers.”

  “We’re not that dumb,” Darcy countered. She opened the fridge and placed the lettuce and luncheon meats inside. “It was all Jake’s fault. He took at least four smoke breaks in two hours. The orders were piling up and the customers were getting cranky. I had to keep apologizing. I sure didn’t want them to think it was me goofing up.”

  Tricia found herself grinding her teeth. Something about Jake had always rubbed her the wrong way. Was he deliberately acting up just because Angelica was away?

  Darcy scraped a plate of uneaten food into a slop bucket. “You know, I have to give Angelica a lot of credit for giving people second chances.”

  “Oh?” Tricia said, handing Darcy another stack of dirty dishes.

  “I’m talking about Jake, of course,” Darcy said nonchalantly, and the gleam in her eye told Tricia she was ready to dish.

  “Jake?” Tricia repeated. She didn’t have to play innocent.

  “He was convicted of a felony. He’s not even allowed to vote, but Angelica depends on him to cook for her customers. That’s what I call real trust.”

  “Why? Do you think he’d tamper with the food?”

  “Oh, no. It’s just. . . .” She leaned in, and lowered her voice. “If he’s capable of breaking the law—what else is he capable of?”

  “I guess that would depend on what he was convicted of. Do you know?”

  Darcy shook her head. “Jake didn’t actually tell me this. I heard him on the phone talking to his parole officer.”

  “Angelica has an eye for detail. I’m sure if she hired Jake, she knows all about his background.” And why didn’t she tell me? Probably because Tricia read too many mysteries, and not only would worry, but probably would have tried to talk Angelica out of hiring Jake. After all, these days the unemployment pool had plenty of acceptable candidates who didn’t have criminal records. Then again, it was commendable that she’d help someone down on his luck. Angelica hadn’t always had that reputation.

  Darcy was still talking, and Tricia picked up on the word “explosion.” She hadn’t been paying attention. “I’m sorry. I must have zoned out for a second.”

  “I was saying that it’s too bad about the guy who got killed. What was his name?”

  “Jim Roth,” Tricia supplied.

  “Yeah, him. They say he was killed immediately. That he didn’t suffer.”

  “Mmm,” Tricia agreed.

  “But man, what a way to go,” Darcy said. She didn’t sound at all sorry for poor Jim. But then, she probably hadn’t even seen, let alone met, the man. Darcy didn’t seem like a read-for-pleasure kind of person—and certainly didn’t seem the type to visit a history store that specialized in military nonfiction.

  “Have you heard from Angelica?” Darcy asked.

  “Yes, last night. She said she’d been calling the café for updates.”

  “Yeah, I talked to her a couple of times. She hasn’t been real chatty, though.”

  “She has a lot on her mind,” Tricia said.

  Darcy glanced at the clock as she pushed the slop bucket to one side. “I’m outta here.”

  “Wait—I don’t know what to do. I mean, I can clean up—but I don’t know where anything goes. And what about the rest of the dishes and all the pots and pans?”

  “I’m sorry, Tricia,” Darcy said, already untying her apron, “but I really need to leave. I’ll finish busing the tables, and clear off the counter. The rest is common sense.”

  “Can you at least show up early tomorrow to make sure things are set up properly?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And what about Jake? Is he likely to show at all?”

  “I sure hope so. I don’t know how to make soup. Usually Angelica starts it and Jake finishes. Without either of them—there goes half our menu.” Soup and a scoop—of egg, tuna, or crab salad—and soup and half a sandwich were the core of Angelica’s lunchtime offerings.

  Darcy sidled past Tricia and entered the dining room.

  Tricia surveyed the tiny kitchen. She’d need to mop the floor and wash the walls, wash all the dishes, then start on the dining room. She looked down at her pretty peach sweater and felt like crying. It was already stained with mustard and soup. Goodness knows how many more splotches would dot it before she was done. And it would take hours for her to tackle this mess alone.

  She marched over to the wall phone, punched in a number, and waited for someone to answer.

  “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Ginny. How can I help you?”

  “Have you ever aspired to have dishpan hands?” Tricia asked hopefully.

  Eleven

  The first thing Tricia did upon returning to Haven’t Got a Clue was to hunt down the list of emergency numbers Angelica had left for her. Naturally, Jake’s number immediately rolled over to voice mail. He did, after all, leave Booked for Lunch for his regular job at a French bistro in Nashua. It took all her will-power to remain calm as she left a message asking him to call her at his earliest convenience. She couldn’t afford to alienate him—not with Angelica out of town and Darcy unable to cope in the kit
chen. But knowing he had a criminal record had really upset her, and she needed to know what the man had done—and, as Darcy had hinted—might be capable of.

  The shop door opened, the little bell above it ringing cheerfully, but instead of a customer, Tricia’s friend and fellow bookseller Deborah Black, owner of the Happy Domestic, stepped inside. “Hi, Tricia. I hear you’ve become a collections officer,” she said, waving a piece of paper. She slapped it down on the glass display case. A check.

  “Hello, yourself. And what are you talking about?” Tricia asked.

  Deborah batted at the ends of her long, dark hair, tossing it over her left shoulder. “Grace Harris stopped by my store this morning. Oops, I mean Grace Everett. I keep forgetting she remarried. Anyway, she said you were taking up a collection for Jim Roth’s mother, and I wanted to contribute.”

  “That’s very sweet of you,” Tricia said, and instantly felt guilty. For a moment she’d almost forgotten she was spearheading the campaign. And worried what Frannie would say when she found out. “I canvassed the other shopkeepers, but you looked inundated when I was making my rounds.”

  “I had a great morning. Wish they were all like that. So tell me, how did you get roped into becoming a collections officer?”

  “I feel so sorry for the old lady—all alone in the world.”

  “Have you met her?” Deborah asked.

  “Yes, yesterday, in fact,” Tricia said, without elaborating. She was still a bit unnerved by the visit.

  “I heard she didn’t have enough money for a funeral, the poor dear. Maybe this will help.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be very grateful.” Time to change the subject. “What are you doing out of harness?”

  “Sometimes I think I’ll go crazy if I have to spend another whole day at the store. Luckily, my mother helps out now and then. Today’s one of those days. Except she has to bring Davey”—Deborah’s toddler son—“with her. He’s napping right now, or else I’d be trapped. Would you believe David”—Deborah’s husband—“wants to talk about having more kids? Not with me!” Deborah had been more than a little stressed since Davey’s birth, as evidenced by the perpetual dark circles under her eyes. When the economy took a downturn, she’d had to let go her part-time employee, which made her a virtual slave to her store. Tricia didn’t envy her.