Chapter & Hearse bm-4

by Lorna Barrett

  “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. “Meeting 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 k
nown 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.

  “It’s not time for your dinner yet.” Then, as she thought about it, Tricia realized the only things she had in her fridge were blueberry muffins and leftover pizza, neither of which sounded appealing. “I think I’ll drive to Milford to get supplies.”

  “Yow!”

  “You know you don’t like riding in the car. Besides, they have a no-animals policy,” Tricia said. She grabbed the lint roller she kept under the counter.

  “Yow!” Miss Marple said more emphatically.

  “Yes, I will buy you more kitty cookies. And afterward, I’ll sit on the couch and read, and you can sit on my lap and get cat hair all over my slacks. Won’t that be fun?”

  “Yow!” Miss Marple agreed.

  Tricia replaced the roller and snagged her purse from under the cash desk. “You’re in charge while I’m gone,” she said, and locked the door behind her.

  As Tricia headed up the sidewalk toward the municipal parking lot to retrieve her car, she felt a prickle on the back of her neck. She looked to her left and saw Russ standing in the window of his office, watching her. Was he really planning on stalking her? She quickened her pace, and when she got in her car, she locked the door, feeling shaken.

  “I am not afraid of him—I am not afraid of him,” she said, but her hand was shaking as she tried to put the key into the ignition.

  By the time she’d arrived at the grocery store, less than ten minutes later, Tricia was berating herself for allowing Russ to upset her. She had too many other things on her mind to let him have that kind of power over her.

  Tricia left her car in the parking lot, making sure she locked it, and entered the store. Grocery shopping had to be one of the most boring aspects of life, at least for her, but at that moment she was grateful for the distraction. Usually she kept to the outside aisles of the store, where the healthier products were located, but today she felt like wandering the aisles. Who knew there were so many variations on the basic baked bean? Pit barbeque, bourbon and brown sugar, Southern style . . . .

  Tricia shook her head and rounded the corner into the baking aisle. Her second muffin experience had been much more satisfying than the first, bolstering her confidence. As she studied the wall of boxed cake, cookie, and brownie mixes, she wondered if maybe she’d been too ambitious by starting to bake from scratch. Maybe she should stick to prepackaged mixes, for which all you needed was water, oil, or an egg.

  She was standing there, considering a carrot cake mix when Bang! Her cart slammed into her stomach. She glanced up, irritated to see Darcy Gebhard standing before her.

  “Oops!” Darcy said, and giggled.

  Tricia exhaled a breath, counted to ten, and then forced a smile. “Darcy. What are you doing here?”

  “Shopping. Everybody’s got to do it sometime.”

&nbs
p; Yes, and wasn’t it Tricia’s good fortune that Darcy ran into her? No! She glanced down at her empty cart, wishing she had a list to consult—anything to occupy her attention. Then maybe Darcy might take the hint and move on. No such luck.

  “I found out why Jake went to jail,” Darcy said. “Want to know?”

  Okay, that got Tricia’s attention. She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t want to appear too eager.

  “Attempted murder,” Darcy said, a gleam in her eye.

  Tricia swallowed, but when she spoke, she kept her voice steady. “It turns out Angelica knows all about Jake’s past.”

  “I wish I had. I probably never would have taken the job. Who wants to work with a murderer?”

  “You said it was attempted murder.”

  “Just because the guy didn’t die doesn’t mean Jake didn’t do his best to try to kill him.”

  “What were the circumstances?” Tricia asked.

  “I thought you said Angelica knows all about it.” Darcy said.

  “She does. I don’t.”

  Darcy shrugged. “Oh. Well, it seems he went berserk and almost beat a guy to death. Too bad he recovered, else Jake would still be in jail.”

  Tricia couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. Okay, it wasn’t right for someone to nearly kill someone, no matter what the circumstances, but to wish the victim had died was appalling.

  “Maybe when Angelica has finished with her book tour, you might want to think about finding another job somewhere else,” Tricia suggested.

  “I’ve been trying to get more hours at my other job—I waitress at a much fancier joint at night—but things have been slow, which is why I took the job at Booked for Lunch. I like the hours, and the tips aren’t bad, either. But I’ll probably only stay through the summer. I don’t want to be on the road all that much come winter. I’m thinking of heading south again.”

  “Is that where you’re originally from?” Tricia asked, then wanted to smack herself in the head. If she wanted to end this conversation, she’d have to stop asking questions.

  Darcy shook her head. “Massachusetts. I came to New Hampshire because a boyfriend of mine lived here. Boy, that was a mistake.”