Chapter & Hearse

Twenty-Three

Tricia dug through her purse to find her car keys, then remembered Ginny had driven her and Frannie to the convenience store. She snatched her cell phone and stabbed in Grant Baker’s personal number but, as expected, got only his voice mail. She left a message as she walked back to the store to get Ginny. “Grant, this is Tricia Miles. You’d better put out an APB on Bob Kelly. He’s gone after Jim Roth’s killer. It’s too complicated to explain—but he feels Jim was killed by a woman, a mutual acquaintance. Please call me back as soon as you get this message.”

She paused at the convenience store’s door. Inside everyone was still celebrating. She turned her back on the merry-makers and punched in 9-1, then paused before she hit the last digit. What was she going to tell the dispatcher?

Tricia closed her phone, shoved it back in her purse, and yanked open the convenience store’s door, searching for Ginny.

A crowd of people encircled Grace and Mr. Everett. Reporters with microphones pelted them with questions, and the cameras continued to roll. Ginny stood on the edge of the crowd, teetering on tiptoe. Tricia threaded her way through the crowd and grabbed Ginny’s arm. The poor girl nearly stumbled while trying to right herself.

“What’s up?” she demanded.

Tricia started pulling Ginny toward the door. “We have to leave. Now!”

“Where are we going?” Ginny demanded

“To follow Bob.”

“Why?”

Tricia pushed through the double glass doors. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

“What about Frannie?”

“She’ll have to find her own way home. Come on.”

Finally Ginny seemed to understand the urgency of the situation, and hurried down the road to retrieve her car, with Tricia dogging her footsteps. Ginny pressed the unlock button on her key fob and the women jumped into the car.

“You’ll have to turn around. Bob headed back into Stoneham,” Tricia said.

“Where do you think he’d go? His house?” Ginny asked, and started the car.

“Maybe. We should probably start there.”

“Why are we chasing Bob?”

“It’s a long story, but he may know who killed Jim Roth—and more important, why.”

“Oh, boy,” Ginny cried with glee. “I always wanted to go on one of these adventures with you. Usually Angelica gets all the fun.”

“This is not fun. Bob is—and maybe we could be, too—facing a life-and-death situation.”

“Who are we chasing?”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know!”

Ginny frowned, and looked at the gas indicator on the dashboard. “We’ve been at this for almost an hour now, Tricia, riding up and down the streets of Stoneham. Bob isn’t here.”

Tricia exhaled an exasperated breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Take me back to Haven’t Got a Clue and drop me off. You may as well go home. And I’ll give you some money for gas. I appreciate you driving me around in circles.”

“Hey, you promised me dinner at the Bookshelf Diner,” Ginny reminded her, and to prove it, her stomach growled loudly.

Tricia sighed again. Yes, she had promised Ginny dinner, but after all the worry while they’d been driving around, she’d lost her appetite.

Ginny pulled into the municipal parking lot and turned off the engine. “Ooh, look at that gorgeous Jaguar,” she said, pointing toward a maroon car parked at the north end of the lot, far from other cars that might dent its doors. A sleek, chrome cat adorned the hood of the vehicle.

“Who do you suppose that belongs to?” Ginny asked as they got out of her aging Focus.

“I have no idea,” Tricia said, and couldn’t care less. “Come on, let’s go to the diner” and get this over with, she added to herself.

They crossed the street and entered the Bookshelf Diner. “At last, a customer!” called Eugenia, the evening waitress, and then she recognized Tricia and Ginny and scowled. “What do you want?”

“What do you think?” Ginny said, sarcastically. “We came here to eat. And if you have a problem with that, I suggest you ask the manager to step in.” She turned to Tricia, her tone dramatically sweeter. “Where would you like to sit, Tricia?”

The diner was completely empty. Was everyone still at the convenience store celebrating the announcement of the Powerball winners? “Anywhere,” Tricia answered. She’d forgotten Eugenia would be on duty. The bad blood that had passed between her and Ginny the previous fall was obviously still there. Tricia followed Ginny to the second booth in, and took her seat, facing into the restaurant.

“May we have menus, please?” Ginny asked, unable to keep the contempt out of her voice as she spoke to Eugenia.

Eugenia tossed a couple of menus on the table and stalked off.

“I’m sorry I suggested we come here,” Tricia apologized. “I’d forgotten about your situation with Eugenia.”

“I haven’t, and I make a point of coming in at least once a week just to annoy her.”

“Ginny!” Tricia admonished.

“Well, after what she put me—put all of us—through last fall. . . .” She let the sentence drop, and concentrated on her menu.

“Order anything you want,” Tricia said, and let her gaze fall on the salad portion of the menu.

“I’m starved. Would it be okay if I ordered a steak dinner?”

“The sky’s the limit,” Tricia assured Ginny, frowning as she read and reread the words “Cobb salad.” All of a sudden, resentment filled her. She was sick to death of salad. She’d eaten salads for years. She’d run a million miles on her treadmill in an effort to keep what Angelica teased as her girlish figure, and for what? To please some man? Christopher had dumped her for a life of solitude. Russ had turned out to be a major jerk, and Grant Baker was too preoccupied with his ex-wife’s illness to spend quality time with her.

Angelica had never been what Tricia would call svelte, and yet she’d never hurt for male companionship.

Grant had been right. Life was short. Start with dessert.

Tricia closed her menu and set it on the table.

Ginny, too, looked up, but it wasn’t Tricia she gazed at. Tricia turned and saw Antonio Barbero standing outside the window. He caught sight of them and waggled his fingers in a wave.

Ginny’s smile lit up her face, and her eyes widened. “Ohmigod,” she said through her teeth, like a ventriloquist. “Do you think he might come in?”

Tricia smiled. “Let’s ask him.” She beckoned Antonio to enter the diner.

“Here he comes!” Ginny nearly squealed, still doing her Sherri Lewis imitation.

“Buona sera, signorina e signora.” He reached out to kiss Ginny’s hand. She giggled like a schoolgirl.

“Would you like to join us?” Tricia asked.

Antonio smiled. “It would be my pleasure.” Ginny slid over, and he sat down beside her—close beside her. Ginny’s fair skin blushed bright pink, and Tricia fought the urge to laugh.

“Why don’t we start with a glass of wine? Would you like red or white?” Tricia asked Antonio.

“Red. Like lovely Ginny’s hair.” If anything, Ginny’s blush grew even deeper.

Tricia looked up. Eugenia stood at the back of the diner, scowling. Tricia waved, and Eugenia pushed herself away from the wall, stalking toward their table. “Yes?” she asked defiantly.

“Three glasses of the house red.”

But Eugenia was too busy staring at Antonio to write down the order. “Who’re you?”

“Antonio Barbero, from Nigela Ricita Associates. Pleased to meet you”—he read her name tag—“Eugenia.”

Tricia stifled a laugh. He said the word as though it might be the name of a disease. Ginny giggled yet again.

It was Eugenia’s turn to blush. “Three glasses of red, coming up.” Somehow she managed to keep the surliness out of her tone. She turned and walked slowly back to the kitchen, her hips swaying.

“Would you like to look at my menu, Antonio?” Ginny asked, her voice almost an octave higher than usual. She cleared her throat and handed it to him.

“I love American diners. The food is so disgustingly fattening, yet so wonderfully delicious. So much so, I rarely eat in them.”

“You must be starved for real Italian cooking,” Tricia said.

He shook his head. “No, no. I cook for myself. One day I would like to cook for you two ladies, as well. You are my first friends here in Stoneham and have made me feel so welcome.”

Ginny said nothing. Tricia wasn’t sure she was actually breathing—she looked ready to explode. Obviously, she wasn’t going to be able to carry her share of the conversational load. “What brings you back to town?” Tricia asked Antonio.

“I want to check out the site before my architect comes tomorrow.”

“Surely the sale won’t go through until after the insurance company settles with the current owner.”

“Oh, sì, I know. But my employer wants to be ready to start construction the day after we close on the property.”

“What’s the hurry?” Ginny asked, and then added, “not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Time is money,” Antonio answered. “I will be on the site every day, overseeing the construction.”

“Every day?” Ginny asked eagerly. “And when do you think that will be?”

“Hopefully in the fall. My employer has many friends in the insurance business. I’m sure she can speed up the process. The polizia have already signed off on the cause of the explosion that destroyed the old building.” He shook his head. “My employer wants the new building to have the same character—to blend in with the rest of the street. Of course, it will have many upgrades: insulation, up-to-date HVAC systems. But the turisti will not know it was not there for one hundred years.”

Eugenia arrived with a tray, placed paper napkins on the table, and set the glasses down. She did so with care, and this time when she spoke, her voice held respect. “What may I get you, sir?”

Antonio waved a hand to take in Ginny and Tricia. “Ladies first.”

“I’ll have the house salad with raspberry vinaigrette,” Ginny said politely. So much for a big steak dinner.

“Tricia?” Antonio said.

“I’ll have the strawberry shortcake—with extra whipped cream, thank you.”

“Tricia?” Ginny asked, amazed at her choice.

“Life is short. Eat dessert first,” she said simply.

Antonio frowned, looking like he might have missed something.

“And you?” Eugenia asked, her voice soft—almost soothing—as she clenched her pencil, poised to write down his order. She hadn’t written down either Tricia’s or Ginny’s request.

“Steak, medium rare. Baked potato. And salad.” Antonio collected Tricia’s menu and handed them both to Eugenia.” Grazie.”

Eugenia looked almost as love-struck as Ginny. She gave a little laugh and said, “No problem,” making Tricia cringe.

Ginny waited for Eugenia to retreat before speaking again. “Do you think you’ll be moving to Stoneham anytime soon?”

Tricia resisted the urge to shake her head, keeping her teeth clenched. Don’t be so obvious, she wanted to warn Ginny, who gazed at Antonio with cow eyes. Either Antonio didn’t notice, or he had chosen to overlook it. He shook his head. “Not until later this summer. I have much business to take care of before I can relocate. And I wish to thank you, Ms. Miles, for giving me the number of the manager at the Brookview Inn. We are speaking tomorrow about a possible alliance. My employer is very interested in investigating the possibilities.”

“You wouldn’t buy the inn outright?” Tricia asked.

“At this point, we are only talking about possibilities. Who knows if we will come to an agreement? I was just telling Bob Kelly—”

“You’ve spoken with Bob?” Tricia asked. “When?”

“About twenty minutes ago.”

“We spent the last hour looking for him,” Ginny said.

“I’m surprised he took your call. He’s been ignoring all mine,” Tricia said. “Did he say where he was or where he was going?”

Antonio shook his head.

“Just that he had business out of town. A mission of mercy, I think he called it.”

Tricia instantly thought of Angelica. If someone was after Bob, could they be after Angelica as well? She thought of all the little accidents and mishaps Angelica had experienced since Wednesday evening, and suddenly they seemed even more sinister.

“I have to go,” Tricia said, grabbed her purse, and struggled to get out of the booth. She paused only long enough to dig into her wallet for two twenty-dollar bills. “You two have fun.”

“Tricia, where are you going?” Ginny asked, concerned.

“I just remembered something I have to do. I’ll see you in the morning, Ginny,” she said, gave a quick wave, and hurried for the door.

“Ciao,” Antonio called after her.

Once outside, Tricia pulled out her cell phone and hit autodial for Angelica’s phone. It went to voice mail on the fourth ring. “It’s Angelica. I’m not available right now. Leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Ange, it’s Tricia. No time to explain, but someone may be after you—the same person who killed Jim Roth. Call me as soon as you get this message, and don’t trust anyone! I mean no one—not even Bob! Call me!”

Tricia flipped the phone shut and broke into a jog, heading for Haven’t Got a Clue, her thoughts racing. Where was Angelica’s next signing? She couldn’t remember. She had printed out her whole book tour itinerary, and a copy was taped to the fridge and another was under the counter at Haven’t Got a Clue.

Tricia was breathless by the time she reached Haven’t Got a Clue. She fumbled with her keys, unlocked the door, and burst inside. Miss Marple was sitting on the sales counter and rose with a sharp “Yow!”

“No time now,” Tricia told the cat, and practically skidded around the cash desk. “I’ve got to warn Angelica!” She pawed through the stuff littering the shelf under the counter and found the printed sheet, then ran her finger down the page until she found Monday night’s signing in Woodstock. The old rotary phone on the counter was too slow, so she punched in the number on her cell phone.

“Crazy Hermit Bookstore, Martha here. How can I help you?”

“Angelica Miles is supposed to sign her cookbook tonight at your store.”

“That’s right.”

“This is an emergency. I need to speak with her right away.”

“I’m sorry, but the signing ended about half an hour ago. Ms. Miles has already left the store.”

“Did she say where she was going? To her hotel?”

“I think she said she was driving home.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I wish I could help you more.”

“Thank you. You’ve already been a big help.” Tricia folded her phone. What should she do now? If whoever killed Jim and had already gone after Bob was gunning for Angelica, too, she would be the most vulnerable on the road. In fact, every time the person attacked, he or she had targeted Angelica’s car—or targeted Angelica with his or her own car.

Tricia’s mind raced. Angelica had said that whoever chased her on the road the night before had hit a guardrail. Darcy’s car was out of commission and she needed a ride from Jake. Could she have been chasing Angelica?

That didn’t seem likely. Angelica had never mentioned that Darcy knew anyone in Stoneham prior to her taking the waitressing job at Booked for Lunch. But then, why would Angelica discuss her employee in great detail? She certainly hadn’t mentioned Jake’s past.

Darcy had been an acceptable, if annoying, employee. Angelica trusted her with the cash receipts.

Which hadn’t been adding up.

And it had been Jake who’d brought the receipts over for the past two days—not Darcy.

And what about that order of chicken Angelica had known nothing about? Darcy had seemed nervous when Tricia wrote out the check for the deliveryman. Jake had been watching from the café’s small kitchen, and had said nothing. Could he and Darcy be in on all this together?

Tricia didn’t want to believe that. Not with all the faith Angelica had put in Jake.

She pawed through the papers to find Angelica’s list of emergency numbers and came across Darcy’s phone number. She dialed it, but there was no answer—not even voice mail.

She glanced at the clock. By now Jake would be at his second job at La Parisienne in Nashua. Unless that was a fabrication, too. But, no, Captain Baker confirmed he worked there. She was getting herself all shook up and confused. She looked up that number on Angelica’s list and dialed.

“La Parisienne, this is Patty. We have a one-hour wait for seating. Can I take your reservation?”

“Patty? My name is Tricia Miles. I’m a friend of the sous-chef—Jake Masters—” That was a bald-faced lie. “I need to speak to him—it’s an emergency.”

“Kitchen help can’t take calls during working hours. Let me take your number, and Jake can return your call on his break.”

“Did you hear me—this is an emergency! Someone’s life could be at stake. Now, please let me talk to Jake.”

Patty exhaled an impatient breath. “Hold on.”

Tricia heard the thud of the phone being put down. In the background she could hear the buzz of voices in the tiny, crowded dining room.

The minutes ticked by. Finally, Jake came on the phone. “Hello?”

“Jake, it’s Tricia Miles—”

“Are you trying to get me fired? We’re up to our armpits in customers, and—”

“What’s going on with Darcy?”

“Look, I’m going to hang up—”

“Jake, I think she might be out to get Angelica. Did she tell you what her car was in the shop for?”

There was a pause, and again Tricia could hear La Parisienne’s patrons in the background—laughing, the clinking of glasses and silverware. “She said she hit a guardrail. The front end was out of alignment. She also had a big dent in the right front quarter panel, but was going to get that fixed another time.” That was consistent with Angelica’s description.

“What was with that shipment of chicken that was delivered last Thursday? Angelica didn’t know anything about it.”

“Ahhh,” he groaned, which didn’t sound encouraging. “The thing is . . . there was no shipment. Darcy and the deliveryman split the money.”

“Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”

“I don’t know you. I was waiting for Angelica to come back.”

“You have her number. You could’ve called her.”

“Look, now wasn’t the time to rat on Darcy over a couple hundred bucks’ worth of chicken. I mean—we need her right now to keep the place open while Angelica’s on her book tour.” He said the words “book tour” as though it was a frivolous waste of time. “Believe me, I’ve documented everything Darcy’s done. I’m sure you noticed I’ve brought over the receipts for the past two days. I saw her being light-fingered with the till—and pocketing some of the receipts. I need that job. I don’t want to see Booked for Lunch close because of that stinking little bitch’s gambling debts.”

Gambling debts! Frannie suspected Jim had met some little hussy at a Gamblers Anonymous meeting in Nashua. Darcy lived in Nashua.

“Jake, tell me everything you know about Darcy. I think she’s already killed one man. She may be after Angelica, too. I need your help to keep my sister safe.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Tricia.”

“Did she know Jim Roth, the man killed in the explosion last week?”

“Of course. We’d see him outside the shop when he’d take his smoke breaks.”

“Does Darcy smoke?”

“Same brand as me.”

Maybe those cigarette butts might still come in handy—Tricia was glad she hadn’t yet tossed them. But she still had other questions that needed answering. “Did Angelica leave a copy of her itinerary with you at the café?”

“Sure, but—”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

Jake hesitated. “I don’t remember. Friday—maybe Saturday. I can’t be sure.”

Darcy had been adamant about leaving work on time— time enough to race around half of New England chasing after Angelica? Slashing her tires? Smashing her headlights? Keying the paint on her car? Why? Had Bob refused to dump Angelica for Darcy?

“I’ve got Darcy’s number,” Jake said. “I’ll give her a call, but I don’t think—”

“I’ve already tried calling her. There was no answer. I called the bookstore where Angelica was signing, but she’d already left for home. Bob Kelly went off to intercept her, but there’s a lot of highway between Woodstock, Vermont, and Stoneham.”

“Call the Sheriff’s Department. Don’t you have a friend on the force?”

“I’ve already got a call in to Captain Baker, but so far he hasn’t gotten back to me.”

“Call the dispatcher. He or she should be able to track him down, especially if he’s the lead investigator on the Roth homicide.”

Damn! Why hadn’t Tricia thought of that?

“I’ll do it right now.”

“And I’ll make a few calls to see what I can find out—and hope like hell I don’t lose my job over this.”

“Will you call me back?”

“Give me your number.” He took it down and hung up—with no good-bye, no nothing. Tricia wasn’t about to berate him on his phone etiquette, and instead punched in 9-1-1.