Tricia grabbed the plate of muffins, closed the car door, and walked around to the front of the inn. The Robert Paige Memorial Dialysis Center was under construction across the street. The lovely, peaceful woods had been bulldozed, and only the bones of the new building stood in the morning sunshine. It was hard to believe the gutted landscape would ever look like the attractive architectural drawing on the sign out front.
As Tricia walked up the flagstone path that led to the inn’s entrance, she noticed there were no flowers. The previous spring, pink begonias had welcomed the inn’s visitors. No window boxes full of geraniums brightened the long porch, and it looked like the paint was beginning to peel along some of the clapboards.
Tricia entered the lobby and headed for the reception desk. Thankfully, everything around her looked as lovely as usual, and she could hear the buzz of voices coming from the conference room.
“Tricia, it’s good to see you,” called Eleanor, the inn’s receptionist. “It’s been too long.”
“Yes, it has. I’ve been busy. I thought I’d stop and say hello before I joined the rest of the group.” Gosh, that made it sound like she was attending some kind of business meeting—not a memorial.
“It’s terrible about poor Mr. Roth,” Eleanor said. “I didn’t know him well, but we spoke sometimes when he’d arrive early for Chamber meetings.” Eleanor leaned in. “Although sad as the occasion is, we’re happy to have the business. Things haven’t been good lately. Bookings are down. We’re seeing less trade in the dining room. We’ve had to let one of the maids go, and even the weekend sous-chef. That’s why we’ve dropped our Sunday breakfast buffet.”
No wonder they had allowed Frannie to bring food to Jim’s wake. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Tricia said sympathetically.
“There’s even talk the inn may go up for sale,” Eleanor said with a catch in her voice.
Tricia’s mouth dropped. “I had no idea things were this bad.”
Eleanor nodded. “In the past, we’ve been able to weather these things—but this time. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Stoneham without the Brookview Inn? The thought was too painful to contemplate. “Can’t you hang on until the new dialysis center is built?” Tricia asked.
“It’s one of the reasons we’re doing so badly. The construction is very noisy. Guests come to the inn for peace and quiet. The sound of cement mixers and dump trucks starting at seven in the morning has been a real turnoff for our guests. The construction is due to last all summer and into the fall. The only saving grace is they don’t work weekends. To add another nail in the inn’s coffin, there’s talk a low-cost motel chain is interested in buying the Full Moon Nudist Camp to build a hundred-unit structure.”
“Do you think they’d sell the camp? I mean, after all the hoops they jumped through to develop that property?”
“Money talks,” Eleanor said. “If a motel is built, it would absolutely kill us.”
Tricia shook her head. “There will always be people interested in more than just low cost when it comes to travel. And I’ve heard there’s a developer looking into buying properties here in Stoneham,” she said. “Maybe they’d be interested in investing in the inn.”
“I hadn’t heard about that,” Eleanor said. “I’ll mention it to my boss. Do you know the name of the developer?”
“Nigela Ricita Associates, but I don’t know how you’d contact them.”
“Don’t worry—I’ll find out. Thanks for the tip.” Eleanor leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Did you hear the latest? The convenience store up by the highway sold the winning Powerball lottery ticket, and the prize was twenty million dollars.”
“That’s terrific news. Maybe that’ll bring some welcome relief to the local economy. Who won?” Tricia asked.
“I hope it’s me—but my tickets are at home. I’ll have to wait until my lunch break to check them.”
“Good luck,” Tricia said, giving Eleanor a thumbs-up.
Eleanor smiled hopefully, and waved a hand in the direction of the inn’s large conference room. “You can go straight in.”
Tricia nodded and headed in that direction. The murmur of voices grew louder as she approached. Since the parking lot had been full, she guessed it had been filled with Jim’s friends and not the inn’s guests. Clutching her plate of muffins, Tricia entered the conference room. A large easel stood just inside the door with a poster-sized print of Jim’s smiling face set up to greet the mourners. Talk about disconcerting! Her gaze immediately zeroed in on Russ. He didn’t notice her, since he was busy talking with Joyce Widman from the romance bookstore and jotting notes in his ever-present steno notebook. The puffy mouse below his left eye was an off-putting shade of purple. Served him right for being such a jerk the night before. Now, if he would just behave himself during the next hour—and not cross paths with Captain Baker.
Dressed in civvies, Baker stood at the sidelines along with a uniformed Deputy Henderson, watching the crowd. Had Baker brought along backup in case Russ stepped out of line? Baker caught sight of Tricia and nodded in her direction, but his face remained impassive. She acknowledged him, too, then caught sight of the elderly Dexter twins, again dressed identically—this time somber black dresses, dark hose, and dark shoes. They wore little pillbox hats with veils that had been popular nearly fifty years before. Could they have known Jim Roth, or were they looking for more signatures for their petition? Tricia looked closer, and sure enough, Midge was holding her clipboard. How rude of them to crash Jim’s memorial. Then again, what better place to make their case?
Tricia stepped over to the refreshment table to drop off her contribution. The assembled pastries, muffins, and fruit trays rivaled the best the inn had ever offered. But the pièce de résistance was the multilayered cake frosted in pastel yellow. It looked like . . . a wedding cake, complete with basket weave design, plastic pillars supporting each layer, and a fresh flower garnish. The only thing missing was the bride and groom topper.
Several sprays of flowers stood to one side. Tricia checked the cards. Several booksellers had gone in on each, and the bouquet of yellow roses from the staff at Haven’t Got a Clue was simple yet dignified. Conspicuously absent was an official remembrance from the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. Did that mean Frannie’s replacement wasn’t on top of things, or that because of her “rules are rules” attitude, she—and Bob Kelly—had withheld such a gesture out of pure spite?
The room was quite crowded, with knots of people Tricia didn’t know. They didn’t seem to be mingling with the other booksellers and Chamber members. Most of the booksellers had little time for social lives. Perhaps they were friends of Jim’s from out of town.
Tricia caught sight of her friend Deborah Black, clad in a floral dress made tight by the fact that she hadn’t quite lost all of her pregnancy weight. Tricia waggled her fingers in a wave, and Deborah broke away from the group she’d been chatting with, meeting Tricia halfway. “Good turnout, huh?” she said.
“Yes. Jim would’ve been proud,” Tricia agreed.
Deborah searched the faces in the room. “Is Angelica coming?”
“No, she had to go back on the road promoting her book. She should be back on Friday.”
“Good. I’ve ordered ten copies of her cookbook, and I’d like to have her sign them for my customers.”
“I’m sure she’d love to.”
Deborah nodded in the direction of the crowd she’d just left. “What’s with Frannie and that outfit?”
Had Frannie attended the wake in her usual dark slacks and a colorful aloha shirt? Tricia craned her neck, but all she could see was the back of Frannie’s dark head.
“I know black is no longer a funeral requirement, but surely that outfit she’s wearing is more appropriate for a wedding—in fact, more suited for the mature bride.”
Tricia frowned. Frannie had hoped to be Jim’s bride. She wouldn’t have worn—she couldn’t . . . .
She had.
Frannie st
epped away from the others, revealing white shoes and a white linen dress with a pink carnation pinned to the lapel of the matching jacket.
“And did you get a load of that cake?” Deborah said under her breath.
Tricia braved a smile. “It’s lovely.”
“I’ll bet it’s white cake under that frosting,” Deborah muttered. “What’s going on?”
“I really don’t know,” Tricia lied.
“And what’s he doing here?” Deborah asked.
Tricia followed her gaze to Captain Baker, who now stood alone at the side of the room. Since she’d entered the room, he’d lost the deputy and acquired a glass of punch and a plate of pastries. He looked uncomfortable. Was he off duty, or just trying to blend in with the crowd?
Tricia looked away. “I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation the other day, and I’ve got a business proposition for you, Deb.”
“That sounds interesting,” Deborah said, her eyes widening with interest.
“You’re really stressed out—”
“And how,” Deborah agreed.
“I wondered if you’d like to borrow Mr. Everett for a few hours now and then. He’d be more than willing to spell you during lunch, or if you wanted to catch up on your paperwork.”
Deborah’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh, Tricia, that is so nice of you to offer—but I couldn’t afford to pay—”
“I’m not asking you to. I’d be glad to help you—and so would Mr. Everett.”
Deborah’s hand moved up to cover her mouth, and she looked like she was about to cry. “It’s so sweet of you, but I just can’t accept.”
“Why?” Tricia asked, trying not to feel hurt.
Deborah seemed at a loss for words. “I just can’t.”
Tricia swallowed her disappointment. “Why don’t you think about it for a few days? Or just give a holler when you feel overwhelmed?”
Deborah nodded. “I will. I promise.” She cleared her throat, and looked for an escape. “I need another cup of coffee. You want one?” she asked.
Tricia shook her head.
“I’ll be back,” Deborah said, patted Tricia’s arm, and took off in the direction of the refreshment table.
Tricia let her gaze travel back to Captain Baker. He caught her eye and gave her a hesitant smile. Despite the way her conversation with Deborah had ended, she found herself smiling back—then caught sight of Russ watching her. The smile instantly evaporated. Captain Baker took a step forward, then stopped, looking at something behind Tricia. She turned, and saw Stoneham’s librarian, Lois Kerr, approaching.
“Tricia, I’m so pleased you made it. I hear I have you to thank for our latest donation.”
“Me?”
“Yes, Livvie Roth called the library yesterday afternoon. She’s donated the entire surviving stock from History Repeats Itself to the library, to use as we see fit. We’ll have quite a World War Two collection, and anything that we can’t use will go in our next book sale. Of course, some of the more valuable pieces we’ll try to sell to collectors, but it looks like it’ll generate quite a bit of revenue for us. Thank you so much for suggesting us to Mrs. Roth.”
“You’re very welcome. Do you know if she plans to attend this morning? When I last spoke with her, she was undecided.”
“I believe she said she was going to try to make it. Frannie has asked me to make the announcement about the donation.”
“It’ll be quite a tribute to Jim,” Tricia agreed.
Frannie approached. “Lois—Tricia, I’m so glad you both could come.”
Tricia gave Frannie a brief hug. “I’m glad to be here—for you, and for Jim,” she whispered. She pulled back.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Lois said, “I’m going to warm up my coffee.”
“We’ll be starting in just a few minutes,” Frannie warned. Lois gave her a brief wave and headed for the coffee urn.
“That’s a lovely outfit you have on,” Tricia said.
A blush rose on Frannie’s cheeks, and she looked down at herself. “Do you think? I bought it when I thought. . . .” Tears filled her eyes. “Last fall, Jim and I talked about getting married. But that’s all that came of it—talk. I guess I was foolish to buy it. And then when Jim was killed, I figured I’d never get the chance to look pretty for him. Then I thought—well, why not wear it today, in his honor?”
Tricia nodded, trying not to see it as the pathetic gesture it was.
“Of course, I haven’t told anyone but you about our hopes and plans, and I’m sure I can trust you not to say a word. Not even to Angelica.”
Tricia said nothing, and hoped she could get to Angelica before she mentioned it to Frannie. She gave the room a once-over.
“I see the Dexter sisters are here,” Tricia said.
Frannie let out a frustrated sigh and pursed her lips. “Those old biddies. They didn’t know Jim. They wanted a chance to speak—to urge everyone to sign their petition to reestablish a Stoneham police force. I told them no, but they wouldn’t leave, and are circulating the room asking people to sign. I’d give them a piece of my mind, but my mama taught me to respect my elders.”
Tricia saw a man adding his signature to the petition. She figured she ought to change the subject, before Frannie exploded in anger. “I spoke to Bob Kelly this morning. He said he didn’t feel well enough to make it.”
Frannie shrugged. “I’m not surprised. He’s kept a low profile since Jim’s death. If he hadn’t been in the building when it blew, I’m sure people would assume he was behind Jim’s death.”
“You sound like you’ve changed your mind about him.”
“There don’t seem to be any other viable suspects,” Frannie said, with a pointed look at Captain Baker. He just stared back.
Frannie looked at her watch. “I guess I’d better get things moving along. These dear people—as well as you and I—need to get their shops open in another hour or so. If you’ll excuse me.” Frannie crossed the room, but paused to speak to Chauncey Porter. He held a sheet of paper—his eulogy, no doubt. He nodded, and then Frannie stepped over to the refreshment table, picked up one of the glass punch cups and a spoon, and moved to the front of the room. Chauncey picked up the easel and poster, and set it beside Frannie. Tricia cringed as Frannie tapped the spoon on the glass. So much for keeping her feelings and aspirations a secret. Was Frannie determined to employ every wedding tradition at this wake?
“May I have your attention, please?” Frannie called.
The voices died down, and everyone stepped closer to the front of the room.
“It’s with deep sadness that we’re here today, to bid our friend Jim Roth good-bye.” She sighed, looked like she was about to cry, but then forced a smile. “I met Jim when he joined the Chamber of Commerce just five years ago. He was a great asset to the organization, as well as being the kindest, sweetest man you’d ever want to meet,” she continued. “Jim could be counted on to make great suggestions, and he always paid his dues on time. In addition, he—he. . . .” She seemed to struggle to find something else to say. “He was a wonderful man.”
A soft smattering of applause followed. Frannie waited for quiet to return before speaking again. “Jim’s good friend and Main Street neighbor, Chauncey Porter, will give the eulogy.”
Chauncey stepped up to the microphone, tapped it twice, and said, “Test, test.” A titter of laughter went through the waiting audience. Chauncey retrieved a pair of reading glasses from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, settled them on his nose, and glanced down at his speech.
“Friends, we’re here today to say good-bye to our neighbor, our fellow Chamber member, and a friend to us all. Jim Roth was all those things, but he was much, much more. Jim could be counted on to pitch in at Chamber meetings, bringing good ideas to help his fellow members and strengthen the organization, as well as helping out at the many charity events the Chamber sponsored.”
Tricia frowned. She hadn’t remembered Jim doing any of those things. Perha
ps he’d been more active before she’d come to Stoneham.
“Jim’s knowledge of history was vast—he was a veritable font of information. He was the perfect man to own a shop like History Repeats Itself, sharing what he knew about events of the past—from prehistoric days, right through the Cold War, to the conflicts in the Middle East. He may have missed his calling, for I believe he would’ve made a wonderful teacher. He would’ve made history fun for the kids of Stoneham High—or any other place of education.”
All around Tricia, heads nodded in agreement. Someone blew their nose, and there were several pairs of damp eyes as tears were brushed away. Head bent, her eyes covered by the wad of tissues in her hand, Frannie quietly sobbed. Russ scribbled in his steno pad, no doubt gathering material for Jim’s obit.
As Tricia looked around the room, she noticed Livvie Roth standing in the open doorway, listening to the tribute for her son. She gave Mrs. Roth a tentative smile and a brief wave, but the old woman’s eyes were riveted on Chauncey.
“But perhaps Jim Roth’s greatest legacy was the lives he saved in battle,” Chauncey continued. “Those of you who knew Jim well will remember his exciting tales of fighting in the jungles of Vietnam. Yes, Jim was also a decorated war hero. Once, in a heated firefight, he single-handedly saved the lives of seven men in his battalion. He was awarded a number of medals, which he proudly displayed in his shop. The Bronze Star, the Silver Star, and, of course, the Purple Heart for being wounded in battle.
“We will miss Jim. His winning smile, his friendly ways, and most of all his big heart. Farewell, dear friend. May you rest in peace.” Chauncey folded his notes, placed them in his suit pocket, and stepped away from the microphone.
Frannie took a shuddering breath and composed herself before she stepped back to the microphone. “Thank you, Chauncey. That was lovely. And now, I believe Lois Kerr, Stoneham’s librarian, would like to say a few words about Jim and another of his legacies.”
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