Chapter & Hearse

Three

Angelica closed the zipper on her large, shocking pink, Pierre Cardin suitcase. A mere nine hours after her scare at the hospital, the skin under her left eye was puffy, but makeup had done a good job of covering the purple bruise.

Tricia had shown up early on her sister’s doorstep, still worried about what had happened the night before. “I think you should reconsider going.”

Angelica placed her hands on her hips and frowned. “Every time the subject of my book tour comes up, you give me the impression you don’t approve.”

Tricia crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t think my opinion would be well received.”

“By who? Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“You think I’m wasting my time?” Angelica asked, and checked the zippered pocket of her makeup case.

Tricia didn’t answer.

Angelica raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe you’re jealous.”

“Jealous? Of what?”

“That I’m published and you’re not.”

Tricia’s mouth dropped. “I’ve never aspired to be published. I’m perfectly happy selling other people’s books.”

Angelica raised the other eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really. Really great authors.”

“Then you must be moping about next week.”

“Me, mope? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You’re upset because Mother and Daddy canceled their trip to visit in time for your birthday.”

“I am not.” Of course she was, but she hadn’t been surprised by their announcement the previous week, either. No, they’d come back from wintering in Rio in time for Angelica’s birthday, but for more years than Tricia could count, they’d been unavailable for Tricia’s natal day. Their father had often traveled for business during Tricia’s childhood, and their mother had volunteered for a number of charities. More than once her birthday celebration had been rescheduled to suit other people’s convenience. This year was to be no different.

“I told you,” Angelica continued, “when my book tour is over, I’ll bake you a cake, fix a nice dinner, and the three of us will celebrate your birthday.”

“The three of us?” Tricia asked.

“Sure, you, me, and Bob.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Of course it is.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I really don’t want to celebrate my birthday with your boyfriend.”

Angelica glared at her, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Tricia felt her cheeks grow hot. Angelica could have protested at least a little bit.

“Getting back to the subject at hand,” Angelica said, hauling her suitcase from the bed and heading for the door and the stairs that led to the Cookery below. Tricia picked up the other two suitcases and followed. Angelica never traveled light. “Why do you think this book tour is such a bad idea?”

“I didn’t say it was a bad idea. I just wonder if it’s a fiscally prudent idea. You’ve got your hands full with the Cookery and Booked for Lunch. The publicist you hired costs more than your advance—”

“That may be,” Angelica interrupted, “but she also arranged all these lovely book signings. And I’m going to be on the radio and interviewed on some cable access channels, too.”

“But will you ever see a royalty check? You sell a lot of hardcover remainders at the Cookery—which tells me there are an awful lot of cookbooks out there that the authors never see a dime from. You’re making only a couple of bucks per book. Your gas alone on this book tour will wipe out any potential profit.”

Angelica turned and paused. “Listen, Paula Deen didn’t start out with an award-winning TV show and a monthly magazine—she started with one cookbook. I’ve got to get my name out there if I’m ever going to reach her level of success.”

Tricia controlled the urge to scream. Nobody in the Miles family had ever had an ego as big as Angelica’s. Where had she acquired it? Maybe she was adopted and nobody had told Tricia—or the rest of the family. If she took a few hairs from Angelica’s brush, maybe she could have her DNA checked.

“Actually, after what happened at the hospital last night—” Tricia began.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was a stupid accident. Nothing is going to stop me from taking this trip.” And with that, Angelica took the larger of the suitcases Tricia held, stuffed it and the bigger case in the dumbwaiter, closed the door, and sent it to the Cookery below. “Now, I’ll try to call the store and the café at least a couple of times a day, but if Frannie or Jake or Darcy needs direction, I’ve told them to come to you. Okay?”

“I don’t know what good I’m going to be to Jake or Darcy, but—okay.”

“I’ve e-mailed you a copy of my itinerary and a list of emergency numbers.”

“Emergency numbers?” Tricia repeated.

“My employees’ home numbers, my agent, my editor—”

Why not the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker, too? Tricia thought.

“Frannie and Darcy will bring the day’s receipts over to you after closing. You will take them to the bank with your own deposits, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Tricia said, and sighed. They’d been over this at least a dozen times.

“And I want you to do everything you can to help Bob. I can’t be here for him this week, and he’s going to need someone to cheer him up.”

“Angelica—I have a business to run. And now you want me to run both of yours, too?”

“My employees can handle most things that come up, but they still might need some guidance. And you’ve said so yourself; Ginny is the best assistant in all of Stoneham. I’m sure she can handle anything that comes up on your end, too. Besides, I’ll only be gone a few days.”

“And be back a day or so before you take off again.”

Angelica shrugged. “That’s the price of success.” With a wave of her hand, she ushered Tricia to take the stairs, then turned, locked her apartment door, and started after her sister.

After helping Angelica load her car, Tricia waved good-bye and returned to Haven’t Got a Clue. Miss Marple waited behind the door and immediately scolded Tricia for leaving her alone. “You’re getting as snarky as Angelica,” Tricia warned the cat. She raised the blinds and was once again confronted with the gaping hole across the street, what had once been History Repeats Itself. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the slight breeze. A man had died in what was now just the shell of a building.

Miss Marple jumped onto the shelf in front of the display window and meowed for attention. Tricia absently petted the cat and tried to remember the last time she’d actually spoken to Jim Roth. It must have been months earlier at a Chamber of Commerce breakfast meeting. They’d compared notes about their stores’ holiday receipts. Haven’t Got a Clue not only had held its own but had done exceptional business, but Jim’s store hadn’t been as fortunate. Like many of the shop owners, he’d kept his expenses to a minimum—hiring no staff. Tricia often wondered if that contributed to the decline of a business. Working alone, could an owner get so burned out he’d lose the passion that inspired him to become an entrepreneur in the first place?

The shop door opened and Ginny barreled in. “Morning!” Since her breakup with her boyfriend, she’d been on time to work every day, and often, like today, she’d come in early to share a cup of coffee and trade village gossip with Tricia. She was vivacious, the customers loved her, and Tricia was fond of her, as well.

“Is the coffee on?” Ginny asked, heading for the coffee station.

“I didn’t get around to making it. I had to make sure Angelica got off all right.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ginny said, and popped a filter into the restaurant-sized coffeemaker.

Tricia’s gaze returned to the gaping hole in the storefronts across the street. It was lucky none of the other businesses had suffered more than broken glass and stock knocked from the shelves. It was also fortunate that the explosion had happened after hours, when the tourists had left for the day—otherwise the body count could’ve been much worse. She thought about Mr. Everett’s offer the night before, and wondered if he’d been successful in his efforts to save the books inside History Repeats Itself.

After a few moments, Ginny joined her. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a ring of keys. “I wanted to return these to you. They’re Angelica’s.”

“Thanks.” Tricia stowed them under the counter, intending to put them in a more secure place when time permitted.

“The electricity was still out when I got over to Booked for Lunch, but PSNH had restored it by ten o’clock, so everything is okay—nothing spoiled. A few items got knocked off the walls from the blast, but I cleaned up, and put as much of the launch party leftovers as I could in the fridge. The rest went into the freezer. I found another dome for the torte and left it on the counter for Angelica’s customers.”

“Why not put that in the fridge, too?”

Ginny shrugged. “Cakes go stale faster if they’re kept cold. Something I picked up when I worked for Doris Gleason. She used to lecture me about stuff like that. But it’s come in handy—or least it did last night.”

“Thanks for helping Ange. I’ll make sure she knows all that you’ve done.”

Ginny shrugged away the praise, and rested her elbows on the glass display case. “The fire chief said they’d probably have to come in today and knock down the rest of the building. It’s a safety hazard as it stands.”

“That won’t cheer Bob Kelly.”

Ginny shrugged. “Knowing him, it was probably insured to the hilt. He’ll make out okay.”

Yes, he probably would.

“You should have seen Mr. Everett in action last night—you would have been proud of him. He got ten or twelve volunteers to save a bunch of Jim Roth’s books.”

“Oh, good. That had me worried.”

Ginny laughed. “It was like a bucket brigade. The firemen handed out the books and the volunteers loaded them into their pickups and vans. Mr. Everett even got Harvey Carson at the Stoneham Mini Storage to open up for him—and to give him a month’s rent for half price.”

A lump of emotion rose in Tricia’s throat. “Do I tell you two enough how glad I am that you work for me?”

Ginny laughed. “Not nearly!” But her merriment was fleeting, and her expression quickly sobered. “For a minute there, we were so caught up in saving the books, we almost forgot that Jim had died.” She was quiet for a few moments, and Tricia glanced out the window at the destruction of what had been her neighbor’s store.

“To make matters worse,” Ginny continued, “I got more bad news when I collected my mail last night.” She reached into the pocket of her slacks and handed Tricia a wrinkled envelope. “This is the end of the road—at least for my little cottage in the woods.”

The return address was Bank of Stoneham. Tricia withdrew the creased letter and skimmed the wording. Imminent foreclosure on the house Ginny had put so much time and effort into, and had loved so much.

“I didn’t think it would happen this fast,” Ginny said wistfully, and sighed.

“When was the last time you made a payment?”

“A full payment? November. I’ve been paying what I could, but I’m still months behind. Without Brian, there’s no way I can make the full payments on my own. And I really don’t want to wait for Captain Baker or some other sheriff’s deputy to show up on my doorstep with an eviction notice, so I’ve already started packing.”

“Why didn’t you put it on the market?”

“I owe more than the market value. And the house is still all torn apart. Who’d be crazy enough to buy it as is?”

“Did you consult Bob Kelly?”

“I didn’t want him knowing my business.”

When the bank foreclosed, everybody—and especially Bob—would know about it. “Do you have enough money put aside to rent an apartment?”

Ginny sighed. “I think so. I’ve already started looking and have a few prospects. I might be able to sign the paperwork in a day or two. The problem is, I don’t know how I’m going to move all my stuff. All Brian’s friends with pickup trucks think I should’ve stood by him.”

Tricia wasn’t among that crowd. “How about if I paid for a rental truck? Do you have enough friends to help you fill it and move you?”

“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Yes, you could. Now please answer my question.”

“Maybe,” Ginny said, with a grateful smile. “Then all I’d have to do is find someone to store Brian’s stuff for him. So far, none of his friends have volunteered. I can’t afford to pay for a storage unit for him—and why should I? But if I leave it at the house, the bank will probably just toss it.”

“You’ve tried to do the right thing.”

“Yes. And look what it got me. My credit rating will take a beating for years.”

“But at least you won’t have to declare bankruptcy.”

Ginny shrugged. “I guess.”

The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the bookstore. Ginny retrieved their ceramic mugs, filled them, and joined Tricia at the window.

Tricia gave her employee a weak smile, and they both gazed at the ruin across the street. There had to be something Tricia could do to help Ginny, something better than just paying for a rental truck to move her possessions into some crummy apartment. The pickings in Stoneham weren’t that great.

Then it hit her. There was something she could do. She could pay off Ginny’s mortgage. Her divorce settlement had been extremely generous, and her grandmother had left the bulk of her estate to both Tricia and Angelica. It wasn’t something she ever talked about, but, quite frankly, she was filthy rich. And though she made many charitable contributions throughout the year, nothing would give her as much pleasure as helping someone she truly cared about.

If . . . it could be arranged. She’d have to visit the manager at the Bank of Stoneham, and wondered if she’d be able to fit that into her busy day.

“Poor Jim,” Ginny said, interrupting Tricia’s musings. “What a terrible thing. Here one minute—gone the next.”

“I wonder if he had any family,” Tricia said aloud, and thought again about Frannie’s reaction to his death.

“Someone told me he lived at home—with his mother. That’s kind of strange for a man his age, isn’t it?”

Tricia had to agree. Then again . . . “That poor woman. Does she live in the village?”

Ginny nodded. “I think she lives on Poplar Street.”

“Maybe I should pay her a visit to express my condolences. She must be beside herself.”

“You might want to pay a visit to Frannie, too. You saw how she reacted to Jim’s death. Don’t you think they had to be lovers or something?” Ginny asked, with a gleam in her eyes.

“It certainly came as a surprise to me.”

“They must have been discreet, since no one seemed to know about it.”

“Or maybe it was over a long time ago?” Tricia suggested.

Ginny shook her head. “Not the way she cried last night. Let’s keep an eye out for her. As soon as she walks by to open the Cookery, you can pounce on her.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind.”

“Damn, you’re no fun,” Ginny teased.

The shop door opened, admitting their first customer of the day. Immediately after, the telephone rang. Tricia stepped over to the counter and picked it up. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How can I help you?”

“Tricia, it’s Darcy from Booked for Lunch. The poultry guy is here, but Angelica didn’t leave any money to pay him.”

Tricia glanced out the window. She hadn’t noticed the Jefferson Poultry truck that was parked in front of Angelica’s café. “Is this your regular delivery?” she asked. Angelica was usually on top of these things. Then again, she’d been distracted by all the prep for her launch party and book tour.

“I guess,” Darcy said, not sounding at all certain. “I’m not usually here when deliveries are made. Angelica asked me to put in more time while she’s away—to kind of look after things.”

Yes. She had.

“All right. I’ll be right over with a check.”

“Thanks.”

Tricia hung up the phone and pulled the store’s checkbook from under the counter. “I’ve got to solve a problem over at the café,” she told Ginny.

Ginny nodded, and went back to helping the customer.

Tricia crossed the street and entered Booked for Lunch. Although the café wasn’t yet open, the truck driver sat at the counter, nursing a cup of what was no doubt free coffee, with a fat slice of Angelica’s coconut cake in front of him. Tricia knew that Angelica had reprimanded Darcy at least once for giving away the store.

Darcy Gebhard stood behind the counter, looking subdued. Something about her bugged Tricia. Dumpy was the word that best seemed to describe her. Maybe it was the ill-fitting clothes she wore, or the color of her dyed hair—red, bordering on magenta. Angelica had mentioned that she was the same age as Tricia, but for some reason she looked older—harder. But then if Tricia had worked only at minimum-wage jobs most of her adult life, she might make the same clothing and grooming choices. Only the woman’s perfectly manicured nails and the silver rings gracing each finger seemed to hint that she might aspire to more in life than waiting tables.

Tricia faced the deliveryman, noticing his grubby pants and shirt, the dirt under his fingernails, and made a note to herself never again to order the grilled chicken sandwich. “Hello, I’m Tricia. I understand you’ve just made a delivery.”

“Yeah. It’s already in the freezer. That’s not part of my job, you know. I just did it because I’m a nice guy.”

Hence, the free coffee and cake.

“Thank you. May I see the invoice?” He reached for a piece of paper on the counter and handed it to her. She inspected the items and the total at the bottom of the page. Everything looked in order. She noticed that Jake, the cook, along with his perpetual sneer, had appeared behind the half doors that separated the dining room from the kitchen. He didn’t bother to acknowledge her presence, and she ignored him as well. For some reason, Angelica thought the world of her short-order cook. Tricia didn’t share the sentiment.

She set the invoice and her checkbook on the counter, wrote out the check, tore it out, and handed it to the deliveryman. “Thank you for your patience.”

He pocketed the check. “Not a problem.”

Tricia’s teeth involuntarily clenched. She hated that phrase. Why couldn’t people just say, “You’re welcome”? She forced a smile and said it for him. Miss Manners wouldn’t approve—she chastised her readers who brought bad behavior to light, but so be it.

“May I have a receipt?”

The deliveryman looked to Darcy. “Just mark the invoice Paid in Full,” she suggested, scooped it up, and handed it to him. He complied, and handed it back to Tricia.

The deliveryman made no move to leave, and Jake and Darcy continued to stare at Tricia, making her feel uncomfortable. She forced another smile. “I’ll just be on my way—and I’ll see you later, Darcy.” She turned, and headed for the door.

“Thanks,” Darcy halfheartedly called after her.

Tricia took her time crossing the street to return to her own store. Something definitely hadn’t been right about her visit to Booked for Lunch. She’d have to talk to Angelica about it.

The bell over the door tinkled cheerfully as Tricia entered Haven’t Got a Clue, making her feel a little better. That is, until Ginny said, “Bob Kelly called while you were gone. He’s ready to come home from the hospital—and he needs some clothes.” She giggled. “I keep imagining him sitting in his hospital room, buck naked.”

Tricia wasn’t amused. “I can see I’m not going to get much done today.” She grabbed the overnight bag Angelica had left for Bob, gathered up her purse, found her keys, and headed for the door. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“Don’t worry—we’re open until seven,” Ginny called brightly, and waved a cheerful good-bye.

Bob wasn’t naked when Tricia arrived at his hospital room, but he was waiting impatiently. She handed him the overnight bag. “Angelica packed a sweat suit. She thought you’d be more comfortable in it.”

“I’ll be more comfortable when I get out of here. I need to stop at a pharmacy and get a prescription for pain pills filled. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. Should I call for a nurse and a wheelchair?”

Bob shook his head. “I’m walking out of here on my own power.” He got up from the room’s only chair, held the back of his hospital gown to cover his rear end, and hobbled across the floor to the bathroom. It took him some time to get dressed, but he didn’t ask for help, and Tricia wasn’t sure she’d have felt comfortable helping him. When he emerged some ten minutes later, she noticed his pallor, and felt ashamed for worrying about her own convenience.

“Let’s go,” she said cheerfully, and carried his overnight bag.

Bob waited on a bench outside the hospital while Tricia brought the car around. She parked it, and got out to help him into the passenger seat. His face looked ashen in the bright sunlight. Was he really in any shape to be left alone?

Tricia put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. Bob stared out the passenger window—not the best company. Tricia struggled to make small talk. “What about those Red Sox?”

“I hate baseball,” Bob muttered.

Okay.

Tricia pressed the brake for a red light. “Are you going to be able to change your dressings by yourself?”

“Yes.”

Usually you couldn’t shut Bob up, but suddenly he had nothing to say. She tried again. “Have you spoken to Captain Baker yet?”

“Yes.”

“And?” she prompted.

“I told him I didn’t have anything to say without an attorney present.”

Startled, Tricia tore her eyes from the road. “Bob! Why in the world would you need an attorney present? Do you have something to hide?”

“No.”

Tricia was getting tired of his blunt, single-syllable answers. “Then why—?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it, Tricia.”

Tricia clenched the steering wheel, squelching the urge to wrap her fingers around Bob’s throat. “Have you got an attorney?” she tried again.

“No.”

He really didn’t want to talk about it.

They drove in silence for several miles down Route 101. Tricia’s gaze was riveted on the road; Bob’s gaze was fixed out the passenger-side window. When Bob finally spoke, it was to direct Tricia to stop at the grocery store’s pharmacy in Milford. It took twenty minutes for Bob’s prescription to be filled. Bob waited in the car; Tricia waited in the store. After all, she’d promised to help Bob, not babysit or keep him company.

It was lunchtime when Tricia pulled into Bob’s drive-way. Parked at the curb was a Draper Security Systems truck. Tricia raised an eyebrow. “Having some work done, Bob?”

“Yes.” Yet another succinct answer. Tricia wasn’t sure if she was irritated by this new behavior or if she should celebrate it.

“Did you arrange for this while you were in the hospital?”

He glared at her. “No.”

Tricia leaned forward for a better look at the security company’s van. “Feeling insecure?”

His glare intensified. “No!”

His refusal to give a decent answer to any question was maddening. Tricia shifted her gaze once again. If he hadn’t ordered the work during his hospital stay, he must have arranged for it before then. Okay, so a couple of people had been killed—all right, murdered—during the past eight months. And there’d been a particularly vicious attack—but other than that, Stoneham was no more dangerous than East Los Angeles on a hot summer night, she thought facetiously.

Bob opened the passenger-side door, swung his legs out of the car, and paused. Just that slight movement brought a bead of sweat to his brow. “Thank you for the ride, Tricia.”

“You’re welcome.” Tricia gathered her purse and the pharmacy bag, got out of the car, and retrieved Bob’s overnight bag from the trunk.

Bob waited for her. “I’ll take that.”

“I’ll carry it to the house for you. It’s no trouble,” Tricia said.

“No,” he said firmly, “I’ll take it.”

Behind him, Tricia noticed the security guy waiting for Bob on the home’s small porch, and she realized Bob didn’t want her to hear the conversation he was about to have with the stranger. “I guess I’d better get going.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

“I’ll check up on you later. Angelica—”

“—worries too much. I’ll be fine.”

“Would you like me to get you some lunch, or—”

“No,” Bob said, firmly. “I’m fine. I’ll see you later, Tricia.”

She’d definitely been dismissed. She tried not to take it personally. After all, it got her off the hook for playing nursemaid to him for the next couple of days.

“Fine. I guess I’ll see you around, Bob.”

He said nothing. Just stood there.

Tricia turned, and walked back to her car.

Bob was still staring at her as she drove away.