Chapter & Hearse

Nine

After a stop at the convenience store to pick up a condolence card, Tricia made it back to the municipal parking lot with a full ten minutes before she needed to open her store. While she’d been gone, the Sheriff’s Department cruiser had departed, and a large Dumpster had appeared outside of History Repeats Itself, taking up almost three parking spaces, while the neck of a tall wrecking crane towered over the back of the building. Construction workers in hard hats tossed bricks and other rubble into the Dumpster, making a terrible clatter. She sighed. The sound of demolition was sure to put off more than just her customers, and she wondered how soon the wreckers could complete their task.

The lights were on in the Cookery, and the photographic version of Angelica was once again outside the shop door. This time, however, it was wearing a sombrero and a colorful serape. The note telling customers they could find Angelica’s book inside was now pinned to the fabric.

Tricia knocked on the door. Stationed at the cash desk, Frannie looked up, gave her a wave, and rounded the counter to open the door. “Hi, Tricia, what brings you over so early?” The words were cheerful, but her expression was anything but. Frannie’s eyes were swollen and bloodshot, no doubt from crying. And she wore her least cheerful aloha shirt—the black one with the solemn white calla lilies. Someone had once told Tricia the calla lily was a flower of death. Despite that, it was still her favorite.

Frannie didn’t look like she needed another problem, but Tricia’s first loyalty was to her sister. “Was there something you forgot to do yesterday?”

Frannie frowned, her brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t think so.”

Tricia nodded toward the register.

“Oh, my goodness! I was supposed to give you yesterday’s receipts, wasn’t I?”

Tricia nodded.

“I’m so sorry. I locked them in the safe last night, and then just opened as usual this morning. Does Angelica know?”

“She did ask.”

Frannie winced. “Am I in big trouble?”

Tricia shook her head. “No. But could you have them separated for me this evening? I’ll need to go to the bank tomorrow.”

“But won’t Angelica be back on Friday?”

“Next Friday, but I don’t think she’ll have time to do much of anything, besides laundry, before she has to go back on the road. It’s going to be a rough month, I’m afraid—for her and for us.” By “us,” she also meant Darcy and Jake. “I take it you haven’t heard from Angelica? She did say she was going to call this morning.”

“The phone hasn’t rung yet.”

Hmm. Angelica had said her car would be ready by nine. Perhaps she’d forgotten . . . .

Tricia jerked a thumb behind her, toward the door. “What happened to the cutout of Angelica?”

Frannie managed a laugh. “That’s how I found it when I went to bring it in last night. Someone thought it was funny, I guess. But Angelica’s book does feature some Tex-Mex and Mexican recipes, so I thought I’d just leave it as is. Do you want me to take them off now?”

Tricia sighed. “I wouldn’t want it to offend anyone.”

“Ah, good idea,” Frannie said. “As soon as I get a chance, I’ll put it back the way it was. But maybe I’ll take a picture of it first,” she said, with just the hint of mirth in her eyes.

“How’re the plans for the memorial service going?” Tricia asked.

“Fine. I’ve booked the conference room at the Brookside Inn. Did you know they’re in financial trouble? They’ve shut down the restaurant—at least part of the time.”

“I hope you’re kidding,” Tricia said, remembering many fine meals she’d eaten there, and the excellent room service when she’d stayed at the inn prior to moving into her loft.

Frannie shook her head. “Nope.”

“But where will we have our Chamber breakfasts?”

“They’ll have to go back to the Bookshelf Diner, I guess.” Which they both knew was really too small to accommodate the entire group.

“I convinced the inn to let us bring in the food for Jim’s send-off, but they’ll supply the tables, chairs, and linens and let us make coffee and tea. Of course, I had to sign a waiver in case anyone gets sick so the inn can’t be sued, but I’m not worried about that. I’ve already asked Nikki Brimfield, and she said she’d bring a cake and maybe some fresh Danish. Do you think you could bring something—maybe a coffee cake?”

Tricia bake? “Um . . . sure.” She’d have to see if she could order something from Nikki’s Patisserie. She hadn’t actually baked anything since earning her Girl Scout cooking badge way too many years before. “What time?”

“Ten. I asked Bob Kelly to speak, since he knew Jim the best—except for me, of course, but I don’t think that would be fitting. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, I—”

“But Bob turned me down flat. I don’t understand it. I know he was angry about Jim’s back rent, and now he’s lost his building—but insurance should cover that.”

What was the value of a historic building in the middle of a thriving business section, Tricia wondered.

“So who’s going to speak?”

“I’ve asked Chauncey Porter from the Armchair Tourist. He used to talk to Jim at Chamber meetings, and they were next-door neighbors.”

“Did he agree?”

Frannie nodded. “And he said he’d call all the other Chamber members to see if anyone had anecdotes. I’m afraid anything I’d have to say wouldn’t be appropriate.” For a brief second Frannie smiled, and then her eyes filled with tears. She grabbed a tissue from the box behind the counter. “I can’t believe I’ll never see Jim again.”

The shop door opened, and a couple of middle-aged women entered the Cookery. Frannie turned away, struggling to regain her composure. She cleared her throat, opened her eyes wide, and plastered on a grin that would frighten a circus clown. “Welcome to the Cookery. Please let me know if you need any help.” Her voice was high and tight, and for a moment Tricia was afraid the customers would flee. But then they turned and escaped to the anonymity of the parallel bookshelves.

“I’d better get going. I’ll see you tonight, right?” Tricia said.

“Yes, of course.” The phone rang, and Frannie picked it up. “The Cookery, Frannie speaking. How may I help you?”

Tricia gave a wave as she exited the shop and headed for her own store.

She walked slowly, remembering she hadn’t yet called her attorney to talk about setting up a new mortgage for Ginny. She also wondered what Mr. Everett would think when he heard she was helping Ginny. Would he see it as favoritism, or perhaps expect some kind of equal treatment?

Tricia unlocked Haven’t Got a Clue, turning the sign on the door to OPEN. Miss Marple jumped down from her vigil on the readers’ nook’s large, square coffee table and trotted across the shop to join her, jumping onto the display case’s glass top. “Yow,” she announced.

“You said a mouthful,” Tricia agreed as she petted the cat.

The door rattled, and Ginny entered. “Sorry I’m late,” she called, and then looked at the clock, which said nine fifty-eight. “Almost late,” she amended.

“You’re just in time,” Tricia said. “I was about to call my attorney about the mortgage.”

Ginny stood there, mouth open, and then shook herself. “Good idea. Um, I have to get my apron,” she said, and scooted for the back of the store.

“Yow!” Miss Marple exclaimed.

Again Tricia petted the cat. “No, she didn’t seem very enthusiastic.” Tricia shrugged it off. Maybe Ginny had had a bad night. The door opened once more, letting in the day’s first customer. Ginny was still tying her apron, and intercepted the man before Tricia had a chance to greet him. It was just as well, as a Sheriff’s Department cruiser slowed in front of Haven’t Got a Clue, then pulled into an empty space in front of the Cookery. Captain Baker got out and looked toward what was left of History Repeats Itself before he turned back and walked toward Tricia’s store.

“Well, well, well. Looks like we’re about to have company,” Tricia told the cat. Miss Marple just yawned. Tricia moved from behind the counter to stand in front of the big display window as she waited for Baker.

The little bell over the door tinkled cheerfully as Captain Baker entered, but his expression was anything but happy.

Tricia straightened—so much that her spine hurt. “What can I do for you today, Captain?”

“You could call me Grant,” he said, removing his flat-brimmed hat. “You did for a while there.”

The rod up her spine seemed to grow in girth. “Yes, well, times were different then, weren’t they?” Why did she have to sound so . . . prissy?

“I wasn’t happy with the way things ended between us,” Baker said, his voice softening.

“I wasn’t all that happy about it, myself.” Good grief, if she looked in a mirror right now, she’d probably see Margaret Hamilton’s green witch face from The Wizard of Oz.

“There’s no chance Mandy and I will ever be together again, but until she fully recovers, I need to be there for her.”

Tricia felt her fists clench and her jaw tighten. “That’s very commendable of you.”

Baker’s eyes wandered, and he noticed Ginny was eavesdropping. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Look, can we go somewhere and have coffee or something? I’d like to talk to you”—he shot a glance in Ginny’s direction—“without an audience.”

Tricia shrugged. “I suppose. The café across the street isn’t open yet. How about the diner?”

“I was thinking of something a little more private. How about we get something from the Coffee Bean and take it to the park? It’s a beautiful day—what do you say?”

Again, Tricia shrugged. She turned. “Ginny, I’m going out for a few minutes.”

“Okay,” she said brightly, and waggled her eyebrows. No doubt she’d pump Tricia for information the minute she returned.

Tricia felt the blush creep over her cheeks, and turned away before Captain Baker could notice.

They exited the store, crossed the street, and entered the Coffee Bean. The aroma of freshly ground—and brewed—coffee was heavenly. Captain Baker ordered for them, remembering exactly how Tricia liked hers, and paid for it. Then they left, heading for the park on the edge of town. On the way, their conversation was polite but halfhearted. As they passed the Stoneham Weekly News, Tricia surreptitiously glanced into the big display window. Russ was at his desk, on the phone. He looked up and caught her eye; she quickly looked away.

Captain Baker led her toward the grand gazebo, a large, freestanding edifice of white-painted wood on a granite base. Its copper roof had gone a mellow green with age. Nearby was an empty forest green bench, where they sat.

“How’s your investigation going?” Tricia asked.

“Not as well as I’d hoped, which is one reason I wanted to talk to you. I can’t convince Bob Kelly to talk candidly. You know him well, and I hoped you could help me out.”

She didn’t know him all that well, but she wasn’t up to denying it. “What’s he not saying?”

“When I’ve tried to pin him down about the night of the explosion, he’s been evasive. I want to know exactly what happened in the minutes before all hell broke loose.”

“He hasn’t exactly been candid with me or my sister, either. Frankly, she’s worried. I know Jim was behind in his rent. Bob isn’t the most forgiving landlord—not that I can speak from actual experience. I’ve always paid my rent on time.”

“Do you know of anyone who held a grudge against Jim Roth?”

Tricia shook her head. “Why do you ask?”

“The gas meter behind the building may have been tampered with. I’m waiting to receive a detailed report from PSNH.”

Tricia shook her head. The idea that Jim’s death could have been premeditated was . . . well, rather shocking.

“What do you know about explosions?” Baker asked.

Tricia shrugged. “Boom! Destruction. That’s about it.”

Baker frowned. “There are several zones associated with an explosion. First is the pink zone. That’s where Mr. Roth was virtually vaporized: the flash point. No one in the pink zone survives.”

That wasn’t news to Tricia. “Go on,” she urged.

“Next is the yellow zone. Oddly enough, one can be killed in this zone but the body may not have a mark on it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the shock wave from the explosion that kills them. Next up, the white zone, which contains a strong obstacle—in this case, a brick wall. The area behind it may or may not be safe, depending on how much falling debris there is. With multiple obstacles, you get multiple shock waves, going in all directions. But in this instance, the shock wave moved down the building, straight as a strike from a bowling ball.”

“And that’s why the building had to be taken down? This shock wave took out the load-bearing walls and the second and third floors?” Tricia asked.

Baker nodded. “After that is the blue zone. Bob Kelly was standing at the front of the store, at the far end of this zone, which is what saved him.”

“Lucky Bob.”

“Did Roth have an enemy—someone who might have been angry with him for any reason?” Baker asked.

“Well, sort of,” Tricia hedged; she thought it over, and shook her head again.

“What? Tell me.”

Tricia sighed, feeling like a rat for what she was about to say. “It seems Jim had a . . . girlfriend. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Baker asked.

“Frannie Armstrong. She manages the Cookery for my sister. But she loved Jim—I’m sure of it. It was his mother she held a grudge against.”

“Why?”

“Because Jim wouldn’t leave his mother to be with her.”

“That could be a motive for murder,” Baker agreed.

“Only if Frannie was that kind of person—which she isn’t. And if she was, wouldn’t she be more likely to go after his mother—not Jim?”

“People make stupid, impulsive mistakes—especially when there’s passion involved.”

Passion? Frannie and Jim? Somehow, Tricia couldn’t imagine that. “Yes, but Frannie was at the Cookery, with three witnesses, at the time of the explosion.”

“There was a buildup of gas before the explosion. Was Ms. Armstrong at the bookstore all day?”

Tricia opened her mouth to answer, but then stopped. “I couldn’t say. When Angelica’s not in the store, Frannie holds the fort. She’s usually there from opening until closing. I sometimes wonder if she even takes bathroom breaks.”

“Was your sister in the store on Wednesday?”

Tricia shrugged. “I know she was working on the food for her launch party, probably in her loft apartment. I don’t know if she spent much time in the store that day.”

Baker nodded. “Looks like I need to talk to your sister—and Ms. Armstrong.”

“Please don’t tell Frannie I told you about her relationship with Jim. Though she didn’t actually tell me not to say anything, I don’t think she expected me to sic the law on her.”

Baker sipped his coffee. “It would’ve probably come up during the course of the investigation, anyway. Secrets rarely stay secret for long.”

A young mother pushed a stroller down the sidewalk while her toddler waved and called “Bye-bye.” Tricia waved back. Baker looked uncomfortable.

“Have you met Jim’s mother? She seems like a charming lady—” Except for that rather nasty smile she’d flashed when she’d offered Tricia a lemon bar. Still, Tricia tried to be charitable. “And she’s all alone in the world right now.”

“I spoke to her, too. She was very cooperative, but she didn’t mention her son had a lady friend.”

“She may not have known,” Tricia said, then remembered Frannie’s comment on Jim becoming ill when they were supposed to have a date.

“I take it you weren’t well acquainted with Jim Roth.”

“No. I saw him at Chamber meetings, but I don’t go all that often, and whenever we spoke, it was mostly small talk.”

“Can you tell me anything about him?”

Tricia thought about it, then sighed. “He used to run parlays.”

“Give me a for instance.”

“When Deborah Black had her baby, Jim ran a parlay. You know those grid things—choose a date and put down a dollar. My sister had been in town only a week, and she won. I think he did them for sports events, too. You know—the Super Bowl, the Final Four. I never paid much attention because I don’t like to gamble—even when it’s only a couple of dollars. It seems like such a waste—unless you win, of course.”

“Do you know when Roth ran the last one?”

Tricia shook her head. “My employee, Ginny, might. It seemed like she always entered. Do you think that could have had something to do with Jim’s death?”

“Right now I’m open to any possibility.” Baker drained his cup, got up, and tossed it into one of the park’s trash cans.

Tricia stood to follow him.

“You’ve been very helpful, Tricia.”

“If someone deliberately tampered with Jim’s gas meter, I want you to catch whoever did it.”

“Yes,” Baker agreed. “There’s always a chance Mr. Roth might not be the killer’s only victim.”