Chapter & Hearse bm-4

by Lorna Barrett

  “Yes, well—I don’t want to hold you up,” Tricia said, hoping she could put an end to their unwanted chat.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of time. No one’s going to be waiting up for me,” Darcy said, and laughed.

  Tricia could see why. “Well, I really must get going. It was great to see you.”

  “Yeah, you, too,” Darcy said, and finally pushed her cart forward. “See you.”

  Tricia exhaled a breath, grateful to be rid of Darcy, and turned her attention back to the mixes on the shelf in front of her. Maybe she’d try one for lemon squares. She had to admit, despite the garish color, Mrs. Roth’s lemon bars had tasted pretty good. If she made them from a mix, and they turned out well, she could put them out for the customers—which is what she should have done with the muffins she and Angelica had baked the night before.

  She tossed the box into her cart and headed down the aisle. When she got to the end, she could see the parking lot through the big windows at the front of the store. And out in the parking lot, standing by his junky pickup truck, was Russ Smith.

  Twenty

  Tricia felt the blood drain from her face. So much for telling herself she wasn’t afraid of Russ. The thing was, on the drive to the store, she’d kept looking in the rearview mirror, checking to make sure he hadn’t followed her. And now—there he was. Or was it just that after spending the better part of a year with her, he knew her habits? She often shopped on Sunday evenings after closing Haven’t Got a Clue. No matter, there he was, and Tricia felt trapped.

  She thought about her options. Confronting him—not a good idea; what if he became violent?—and calling for help. The problem was, calling for help meant calling some other male friend, and right now that amounted to Mr. Everett, who was hardly a threat to Russ, or Bob Kelly—who was in the hospital under suicide watch—not a good candidate to play knight in shining armor. That left . . . Grant Baker . . . and it was likely his presence would only infuriate Russ, making the situation even more precarious.

  A woman pushed her grocery cart around Tricia, who realized she must have been blocking the aisle for more than a minute. Another cart approached. “Are you okay, Tricia?” Darcy Gebhard asked. She looked from Tricia to the parking lot beyond. “Is that geeky guy with the glasses bothering you?”

  “I’m afraid he is.”

  Darcy looked back at Russ. “He’s the editor of the local weekly, isn’t he?”

  Tricia nodded.

  “I’m just about finished here. Let me check out my stuff, and then I’ll go have a talk with him,” Darcy said.

  “No, don’t. Until yesterday, I would’ve said he wasn’t violent. I can’t say that anymore.”

  “Yeah, I heard he slugged an off-duty sheriff’s deputy in the Bookshelf Diner last night.”

  “Word gets around.”

  “And how.” Darcy patted Tricia’s arm. “Don’t worry, honey. As a waitress, I’ve defused this kind of situation lots of times.”

  Tricia didn’t believe that for a moment, especially after what happened at the diner the day Jake bugged out early—but she hung back and waited, cell phone in hand, really to punch in 9-1-1 as Darcy pushed her cart of groceries out of the store and toward Russ.

  She found herself gripping the cart’s handle as she watched and waited. Russ kept looking toward the store, listening as Darcy talked. Eventually he nodded, got into his truck, and drove off. Tricia abandoned her cart—and the box of lemon bar mix—and headed for the exit. Darcy met her halfway.

  “What did you say to him?” Tricia asked, almost too anxious to hear the answer.

  Darcy shrugged. “I asked him to think about the consequences of going to jail for longer than just a night. How it would affect his business. That it might drive away advertising. I’ve always found hitting people in their wallets works best—at least in most situations.”

  “Thank you,” Tricia said, and she meant it.

  “Glad I could be of help. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow when I bring over the café’s receipts.”

  “Yeah. Thanks again, Darcy.”

  “No problem,” she said.

  This time, the phrase didn’t make Tricia cringe—much.

  Tricia wasn’t sure if she should continue her shopping mission, but the truth was she needed at least the basics: coffee, milk, and cat food. She saw no sign of Russ in the grocery store’s parking lot, nor when she parked her car in Stoneham’s municipal lot. Tricia held her key ring in one hand, with the store key in her fist—ready to use it as a weapon if necessary. She wasn’t going to act like one of those loony heroines in a bad mystery who walked into a dark alley, an attic, or a basement where a bad guy was waiting in the shadows. If Russ came at her, she was ready. She got out of her car, grabbed her groceries, and looked around. Still no sign of Russ.

  Tricia walked briskly toward Haven’t Got a Clue. It was only after she was inside the store with the door locked that the panic began to abate.

  Miss Marple yawned and stretched, then jumped down from one of the readers’ nook’s chairs. “Yow!” she said, with a what took you so long attitude.

  “You don’t want to know,” Tricia told the cat.

  She needed something to divert her attention, and the day’s events were certainly fodder for that, considering the three suspects in Jim’s murder: Bob, Frannie, and Mrs. Roth, none of whom seemed capable of murder.

  Ah, but could one of them have hired someone to do their dirty work? And who?

  Baker had hinted that Bob might not have had a squeaky clean past. But how would Mrs. Roth or Frannie connect with someone with a criminal background? It would have to be someone in Stoneham with a dubious background.

  Then it came to her: Jake Masters. He was a felon convicted of attempted murder. Something Darcy had said earlier came back to Tricia: If he could almost beat a man to death, what else was Jake capable of doing?

  As one of Angelica’s employees, Frannie had probably met Jake at least a couple of times. Ginny had quoted “hell hath no fury,” and Frannie was definitely a woman scorned.

  And how about Mrs. Roth? Could she have run into Jake at Booked for Lunch, or had she gone to dinner with her gentleman friend at La Parisienne? That seemed the least likely scenario.

  Tricia thought back to something she’d seen on Bob’s porch: a crushed cigarette butt. Jake smoked. Could he have had a reason to want Bob dead? He was loyal to Angelica, and she and Bob hadn’t been getting along all that well, but that was Bob’s fault—not that dealing with Angelica couldn’t get a bit aggravating. Still, could Jake have acted on his own, thinking he’d be doing Angelica a favor by getting rid of Bob? If so, why mess with the gas meter at History Repeats Itself? Bob spent hours alone at his realty office—and at his home, where the gas meter had been tampered with.

  Tricia wondered if the cigarette butt would still be on Bob’s porch. She could call Darcy to see what brand Jake smoked—or look behind Booked for Lunch. No doubt Jake tossed his butts into the alley. It was dark now, but she could check out Bob’s porch first thing in the morning, and if she found the butt, compare it with what she found behind Angelica’s café.

  With her mind whirling about the possibilities of Jake as bad guy, Tricia found she was too wound up to read a current or classic mystery, and instead spent the rest of the evening in the living room with Miss Marple on her lap as she reread Angelica’s cookbook. Tricia had proofread the manuscript for Easy-Does-It Cooking, which had seemed rather dull at the time. This time, though, she found the pictures of home-cooked meals and the lovely photo styling had a calming effect on her. And she was surprised at how much of Angelica had been infused into the writing, which she also found oddly comforting.

  All too soon it was bedtime. Tricia slunk into the bedroom without turning on a light, closed the blinds, and peeked out. No sign of Russ. But then, the west side of Main Street was bathed in shadows. He could be hiding in one of the shop doorways, watching for her lights to go on. Well, she wouldn’t give
him the satisfaction. She undressed for bed in the bathroom, and climbed into bed—a bed she had, on occasion, shared with Russ. Now the thought of his touch left her shaken.

  After her trouble at the market, Tricia was surprised she’d fallen asleep so easily. But twenty minutes later, the ringing phone demanded her attention. Was it Russ? Was he calling to badger her? This phone didn’t have caller ID. Tricia picked it up on the fourth ring. “Hello?” she said cautiously, expecting dead air.

  “I’m downstairs. Can I come up?” Angelica asked, her voice sounding shaky.

  “Oh, sure. What’s wrong?” Tricia answered, still sleepy.

  “I’ll explain when I get up there,” Angelica said, and hung up.

  Miss Marple was quite indignant when Tricia hauled herself out of bed, reached for her robe, and staggered toward the kitchen. By the time she got there, Angelica was already opening the door. With one look at Angelica’s ashen face, Tricia flew across the room to embrace her. The hug was intense. Funny, two years ago they might have exchanged air kisses that meant nothing. Now, they clung to one another, and the sentiment was real—and treasured.

  “Are you okay?” Tricia asked. “What happened?”

  “I had a scare on the road,” Angelica answered. “Boy, I could sure use a nice cup of tea.”

  “Tea, I’ve got. Come, sit down,” Tricia said, and ushered her sister to one of the stools at the kitchen island. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something stronger?”

  Angelica thought about it and nodded. “Stronger is probably better. Have you got any gin?”

  Tricia nodded and reached for the cabinet door, removing a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. She found a bottle of tonic water in her pantry, and reached for a tall glass.

  “Make it a short one—and not too much ice,” Angelica said.

  Miss Marple arrived, looking sleepy-eyed and annoyed, walked up to the island, stretched and yawned, and then jumped onto Angelica’s lap. Angelica petted the cat’s head. A year ago she probably would have tossed her aside, but now she seemed content to encourage Miss Marple’s purrs. Maybe one day soon Angelica would be ready to accept another pet. Cat . . . dog . . . it didn’t matter. Angelica had so much love to give, and not enough places to give it.

  Tricia put ice in the glass, poured two fingers of gin, topped the glass with tonic, found a spoon, and stirred the drink. “Sorry, I don’t have any limes.” She handed the drink to Angelica, who took a deep gulp.

  “I’ll have a cup of tea with you as soon as this stuff takes effect,” Angelica said.

  Tricia moved to the counter and filled the electric kettle with water. “What do you want? Earl Grey? Orange pekoe? Herb tea?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Orange pekoe it is,” Tricia said.

  Miss Marple rubbed her head against Angelica’s shoulder, leaving stray gray hairs, but instead of scolding her, Angelica bent down to kiss the cat’s head. Miss Marple’s back end flew into the air and she purred even louder, nuzzling Angelica’s chin.

  “Are you up to telling me what happened?” Tricia asked as she opened her cupboard, grabbed her shamrock-decorated teapot, and placed it on the counter.

  Angelica heaved a loud, dramatic sigh. “I checked out of the B and B and started for home. It was an uneventful drive until I was halfway between Nashua and Milford, when these bright lights came up behind me at an appalling speed. I figured I’d better get out of the way, and swerved to the right. The car zoomed right past me, bashed into the guardrail, straightened out, and kept going.”

  “They didn’t even stop to assess the damage?”

  “No. I was going to call the Sheriff’s Department, but I figured what could they do? I didn’t get the make of the car or see the license plate, and I was so tired, I didn’t want the hassle of waiting.”

  “The Nashua or Milford cops would’ve been there in a flash.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. I’m used to dealing with the county Mounties—and I just couldn’t be bothered.”

  Another reason for Stoneham to reestablish its own police force.

  “Angelica, this is the second incident you’ve had since you’ve been on the road. You said you had your tires slashed.”

  “That was the second,” she admitted sheepishly, “if you count nearly getting creamed in front of the hospital last Wednesday night. Tonight’s was the fifth incident.”

  “Good grief, Ange, what else haven’t you told me?” Tricia demanded.

  “Someone keyed the words fat bitch along the side of my car. I wonder how much that will cost to get rid of,” she said, wearily.

  “And what was number four?”

  “Two broken headlights.”

  “Oh, Ange,” Tricia admonished.

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “I’ve now gone past worry all the way to terrified.”

  “Until tonight, I figured these were just isolated incidents,” Angelica explained. “Or at least I wanted to believe that.”

  “It sounds to me like someone’s after you,” Tricia said.

  “It could just be a string of bad luck. Either that, or a literary critic would rather take it out on me personally. I’ll be glad when I’m done with my book tour and can sleep in my own bed every night. In fact, I think I’m going to try to come home more often.”

  “But it sounds like these incidents were meant to keep you off the road. Maybe you should cancel—or at least postpone—the rest of your tour.”

  “And piss off every independent bookseller in New England who put time, effort, and money into promoting my signings? I know how I’d feel if an author canceled on me at the last minute.” Angelica gulped the rest of her drink, getting cat hair on the glass, which was wet with condensation. “Now, please, can we change the subject?”

  “For the moment,” Tricia said, exasperated. She struggled to remember what had originally brought Angelica home. “When we last talked, you said you were going to find Bob a lawyer,” Tricia said.

  “Your Mr. Livingston was very helpful. He dispatched a criminal lawyer to St. Joseph’s and apparently has sprung Bob from the place. At this point, I’m merely paying his bill, and unless Bob starts talking, I’m not privy to attorney-client confidentiality.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Well, it’s the law,” Angelica said, resigned. She bent down and pressed another kiss on Miss Marple’s head. The cat basked in the attention. Tricia tried, but didn’t succeed, in suppressing a smile.

  “What happens next?” Tricia asked, and took two bone china mugs from the cupboard.

  “I don’t know,” Angelica said, and sighed. “I still haven’t heard from Bob, but I’m hoping I can salvage tomorrow night’s signing.” She shook her head, gently put Miss Marple down on the floor, and stood. “I’m way too rattled to go to bed. I need to bake. What have you got on hand?”

  “Not much more than I had last night.”

  Angelica frowned. “It’s enough to make a coffee cake. Do you like coffee cake?”

  “I love it,” Tricia said. She wasn’t sure she did, but right now Angelica needed positive reinforcement. Tricia took out the brown and white sugars, flour, baking powder, butter, and eggs, and arranged them on the counter while Angelica found an eight-inch-square baking pan.

  “I’ll have to adjust the recipe for this size pan, but it’ll taste just as good as one done in a Bundt pan,” Angelica said, and turned to take the vegetable spray from a cupboard.

  The kettle whistled, and Tricia made the tea, then got out of the way, letting Angelica take over. “Turn the oven on to three fifty, will you?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia did so, and then poured them both a cup of tea. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Bob is a murderer.” She placed Angelica’s cup before her on the counter, but Angelica was too preoccupied to notice.

  “Of course he’s not. But that means someone else is,” Angelica said as she measured flour into a bowl.

  Tricia ble
w on the steaming tea to cool it. “I’m beginning to think it might be Russ,” Tricia said in jest.

  “Really?” Angelica asked, intrigued, as she added baking powder to the bowl of flour.

  “No.” Tricia wasn’t going to mention her thoughts about Jake—at least not yet. “But we almost had another run-in this evening. It was Darcy who saved me.”

  “Darcy?” Angelica asked, and Tricia told her what had happened at the grocery store. “Don’t worry. We’ll find a way to deal with Russ,” Angelica said. “But right now, Bob is my main priority.” She put a stick of butter into a small bowl, put it in the microwave, set the the timer, and hit the Start button.

  “Speaking of Bob, don’t you find it suspicious that this Nigela Ricita Associates shows up and buys the empty lot the day after it’s put on the market?” Tricia asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. That it might actually be a good investment. Except for Jim, most of the booksellers were able to weather the financial meltdown without too much trouble.”

  “But that building was a prime piece of real estate,” Tricia stressed.

  The microwave dinged, and Angelica removed the bowl of melted butter. “Are you suggesting someone blew up the building to get Bob to sell?” Angelica asked.

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “I don’t believe it. It’s too far-fetched. And who’s to say the property would be put up for sale? Although, if it had been the Armchair Tourist that had gone up instead, I could’ve expanded my operations at Booked for Lunch and had a place for al fresco dining.”

  “You’re being terribly morbid.”

  “I’m being realistic,” Angelica said, and cracked an egg into a bowl.

  “I must admit I had the same idea,” Tricia said.

  “And you call me morbid?” Angelica said in a huff. “Tell me more about the new buyer,” she said, grabbing a fork from the silverware drawer and beating the egg.

  “I didn’t meet the buyer—just her representative. Antonio Barbero.”

  “Barbero—wasn’t that the horse that broke its leg at the Kentucky Derby?”