Chapter & Hearse (11 page)

“It doesn’t seem to stop.”

“Go on. We’ll be fine,” he assured her.

Tricia ditched her Haven’t Got a Clue name tag and headed for the door. “I’ll be back when I can.”

No wonder Darcy was in a panic—the café was packed. As soon as Tricia entered, Darcy practically threw her order pad at Tricia and fled into the kitchen.

Tricia made a quick circuit around the dining room, verifying orders and refilling coffee cups. The patrons’ mood was impatient, but no one seemed on the verge of exploding into a rage—yet. Tricia pushed open the double doors to the kitchen. “What can I do?”

Wielding a wicked-looking knife, Darcy sliced a lettuce-filled sandwich in half, tossed a pickle spear and a handful of chips onto the plate, and shoved it forward on the counter, where it joined another sandwich-filled plate. “These are for table four.” She plunged a ladle into a large pot of soup. “We usually serve the soup first, but I need to be in Nashua by three—let’s get these people fed and out of here!”

Tricia eased the bowls and plates onto a large plastic tray, hefted it, and backed out of the kitchen—and straight into one of the disgruntled customers. The tray went flying, sending scalding soup, bread, lettuce, tuna, and pastrami sailing into the air to splatter the walls and floor.

“Was that my lunch?” an overweight man demanded, his mustard-stained shirt straining at the seams.

Darcy began to wail.

“Sir, we’re shorthanded and we’re doing the best we can. Please sit down.”

“I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes for my sandwich. I demand to see the manager.”

“You’re looking at her. Or at least the acting manager,” Darcy said with a nod toward Tricia.

“I’m sorry you had to wait,” Tricia said, trying to keep an edge from rising in her voice. “If you’ll let us get back to work, we’ll have your meal to you as soon as we can.”

Darcy abandoned her work space and grabbed a mop, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

“I want my lunch comped,” the man demanded.

“I’ll ask you again nicely, sir, please take your seat.”

He straightened, his jaw jutting forward. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll ask you to leave.”

“Don’t bother.” He turned to face the other customers. “I’m not waiting another minute for my food. Come on, Mabel, let’s get out of this dump!”

Tricia pushed though the door to watch the man depart, his red-faced companion slinking out behind him.

Darcy scooped up the bread and sandwich meat, and tossed it into the trash.

“Wash your hands and start over again,” Tricia said kindly.

Darcy nodded. “What table was that guy at?”

Tricia looked out at the dining room. “Four.”

“That
was
his lunch,” Darcy said, and went back to work.

Within fifteen minutes, all the customers had been served. The clock was edging toward two, and Darcy was looking antsy. “Now that things are under control, can you please tell me what happened and why Jake left in a huff?” Tricia asked.

Darcy looked away, squirming as she covered what was left of a head of lettuce with plastic wrap. “We kind of had a little tiff.”

“About what? And I sure hope it wasn’t loud enough to be heard by the customers.”

“We’re not
that
dumb,” Darcy countered. She opened the fridge and placed the lettuce and luncheon meats inside. “It was
all
Jake’s fault. He took at least four smoke breaks in two hours. The orders were piling up and the customers were getting cranky. I had to keep apologizing. I sure didn’t want them to think it was
me
goofing up.”

Tricia found herself grinding her teeth. Something about Jake had always rubbed her the wrong way. Was he deliberately acting up just because Angelica was away?

Darcy scraped a plate of uneaten food into a slop bucket. “You know, I have to give Angelica a lot of credit for giving people second chances.”

“Oh?” Tricia said, handing Darcy another stack of dirty dishes.

“I’m talking about Jake, of course,” Darcy said nonchalantly, and the gleam in her eye told Tricia she was ready to dish.

“Jake?” Tricia repeated. She didn’t have to play innocent.

“He was convicted of a felony. He’s not even allowed to vote, but Angelica depends on him to cook for her customers. That’s what I call real trust.”

“Why? Do you think he’d tamper with the food?”

“Oh, no. It’s just. . . .” She leaned in, and lowered her voice. “If he’s capable of breaking the law—what else is he capable of?”

“I guess that would depend on what he was convicted of. Do you know?”

Darcy shook her head. “Jake didn’t actually tell me this. I heard him on the phone talking to his parole officer.”

“Angelica has an eye for detail. I’m sure if she hired Jake, she knows all about his background.”
And why didn’t she tell me?
Probably because Tricia read too many mysteries, and not only would worry, but probably would have tried to talk Angelica out of hiring Jake. After all, these days the unemployment pool had plenty of acceptable candidates who didn’t have criminal records. Then again, it was commendable that she’d help someone down on his luck. Angelica hadn’t always had that reputation.

Darcy was still talking, and Tricia picked up on the word “explosion.” She hadn’t been paying attention. “I’m sorry. I must have zoned out for a second.”

“I was saying that it’s too bad about the guy who got killed. What was his name?”

“Jim Roth,” Tricia supplied.

“Yeah, him. They say he was killed immediately. That he didn’t suffer.”

“Mmm,” Tricia agreed.

“But man, what a way to go,” Darcy said. She didn’t sound at all sorry for poor Jim. But then, she probably hadn’t even seen, let alone met, the man. Darcy didn’t seem like a read-for-pleasure kind of person—and certainly didn’t seem the type to visit a history store that specialized in military nonfiction.

“Have you heard from Angelica?” Darcy asked.

“Yes, last night. She said she’d been calling the café for updates.”

“Yeah, I talked to her a couple of times. She hasn’t been real chatty, though.”

“She has a lot on her mind,” Tricia said.

Darcy glanced at the clock as she pushed the slop bucket to one side. “I’m outta here.”

“Wait—I don’t know what to do. I mean, I can clean up—but I don’t know where anything goes. And what about the rest of the dishes and all the pots and pans?”

“I’m sorry, Tricia,” Darcy said, already untying her apron, “but I really need to leave. I’ll finish busing the tables, and clear off the counter. The rest is common sense.”

“Can you at least show up early tomorrow to make sure things are set up properly?”

“I’ll try.”

“And what about Jake? Is he likely to show at all?”

“I sure hope so. I don’t know how to make soup. Usually Angelica starts it and Jake finishes. Without either of them—there goes half our menu.” Soup and a scoop—of egg, tuna, or crab salad—and soup and half a sandwich were the core of Angelica’s lunchtime offerings.

Darcy sidled past Tricia and entered the dining room.

Tricia surveyed the tiny kitchen. She’d need to mop the floor and wash the walls, wash all the dishes, then start on the dining room. She looked down at her pretty peach sweater and felt like crying. It was already stained with mustard and soup. Goodness knows how many more splotches would dot it before she was done. And it would take hours for her to tackle this mess alone.

She marched over to the wall phone, punched in a number, and waited for someone to answer.

“Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Ginny. How can I help you?”

“Have you ever aspired to have dishpan hands?” Tricia asked hopefully.

ELEVEN

The first
thing Tricia did upon returning to Haven’t Got a Clue was to hunt down the list of emergency numbers Angelica had left for her. Naturally, Jake’s number immediately rolled over to voice mail. He did, after all, leave Booked for Lunch for his regular job at a French bistro in Nashua. It took all her will-power to remain calm as she left a message asking him to call her at his earliest convenience. She couldn’t afford to alienate him—not with Angelica out of town and Darcy unable to cope in the kitchen. But knowing he had a criminal record had really upset her, and she needed to know what the man had done—and, as Darcy had hinted—might be capable of.

The shop door opened, the little bell above it ringing cheerfully, but instead of a customer, Tricia’s friend and fellow bookseller Deborah Black, owner of the Happy Domestic, stepped inside. “Hi, Tricia. I hear you’ve become a collections officer,” she said, waving a piece of paper. She slapped it down on the glass display case. A check.

“Hello, yourself. And what are you talking about?” Tricia asked.

Deborah batted at the ends of her long, dark hair, tossing it over her left shoulder. “Grace Harris stopped by my store this morning. Oops, I mean Grace Everett. I keep forgetting she remarried. Anyway, she said you were taking up a collection for Jim Roth’s mother, and I wanted to contribute.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” Tricia said, and instantly felt guilty. For a moment she’d almost forgotten she was spearheading the campaign. And worried what Frannie would say when she found out. “I canvassed the other shopkeepers, but you looked inundated when I was making my rounds.”

“I had a great morning. Wish they were all like that. So tell me, how did you get roped into becoming a collections officer?”

“I feel so sorry for the old lady—all alone in the world.”

“Have you met her?” Deborah asked.

“Yes, yesterday, in fact,” Tricia said, without elaborating. She was still a bit unnerved by the visit.

“I heard she didn’t have enough money for a funeral, the poor dear. Maybe this will help.”

“I’m sure she’ll be very grateful.” Time to change the subject. “What are you doing out of harness?”

“Sometimes I think I’ll go crazy if I have to spend another whole day at the store. Luckily, my mother helps out now and then. Today’s one of those days. Except she has to bring Davey”—Deborah’s toddler son—“with her. He’s napping right now, or else I’d be trapped. Would you believe David”—Deborah’s husband—“wants to talk about having more kids? Not with me!” Deborah had been more than a little stressed since Davey’s birth, as evidenced by the perpetual dark circles under her eyes. When the economy took a downturn, she’d had to let go her part-time employee, which made her a virtual slave to her store. Tricia didn’t envy her.

“Would you like a cup of coffee? Maybe that’ll perk you up,” Tricia suggested.

Deborah laughed. “It’s only caffeine that keeps me going.” Her smile wavered, and then her face crumpled and she began to sob.

Tricia hurried around the counter and gave her friend a hug. “What’s wrong? Can I help?” Deborah cried even louder.

Tricia pulled back and guided Deborah to the readers’ nook, where they sat.

Ginny appeared. “Can I help?’ she asked, concerned.

“Please get Deborah some coffee,” Tricia whispered. “And a tissue.”

Ginny nodded, and took off.

Deborah’s sniffling had begun to slow, and she wiped a hand at her eyes. “I’m sorry to dump on you like this, Tricia. I didn’t mean to.” Deborah looked around the store, and seemed relieved her meltdown hadn’t been witnessed by a crowd of customers.

“Don’t worry about it. Now, tell me all about it.”

“I don’t think I can handle it much longer. David won’t help at the store. My mother sees more of my child than I do. I’m a complete and utter failure,” she managed before the tears began again.

“That isn’t true,” Tricia said. “Is your store in the red?”

Deborah shook her head. “No. But—”

“You’re going through a rough time right now. We all are—”

“
You
managed to hold on to your employees,” Deborah accused.

Tricia leaned in and lowered her voice. “I’ve had to dip into my savings.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true, but Deborah didn’t need to know the details of Tricia’s financial situation.

Ginny reappeared with a large Haven’t Got a Clue cardboard coffee cup, a couple of cookies, and a wad of napkins. “Here, Deborah. You need to eat something, then you’ll feel better. They’re Nikki’s famous raspberry thumbprints.”

“Thank you, Ginny.” Deborah blew her nose on one of the napkins, took a sip of coffee, and nibbled on a cookie.

“Maybe this is a problem we should bring up at the next Chamber meeting,” Tricia suggested. “You’re not the only shopkeeper in Stoneham who’s had to let an employee go.”

“That’s right,” Ginny piped up. “I feel lucky to still have a job, and I know Mr. Everett feels the same.”

Now there was an idea. Mr. Everett was looking for more hours, and Deborah needed help but had no money. Maybe Tricia could do a labor loan—pay Mr. Everett to give Deborah a few hours of help a week. That sounded good, but Tricia also knew Deborah was proud—and stubborn, like Mr. Everett—and might not accept what she considered to be charity. Tricia would have to figure out a way to make it happen. In the meantime, all she could do was listen as Deborah vented her frustration with her husband, the paperwork running a business entailed, and the fear she was missing the best years of motherhood.

By the time Deborah left Haven’t Got a Clue, she’d calmed down, and promised not to have another sobfest the next time she and Tricia met.

“Gosh, maybe it’s lucky I haven’t had the time or money to open my own store,” Ginny said, her voice hushed. “I didn’t realize it could be so overwhelming.” She faced Tricia. “You and Angelica always manage to meet all your obligations, whether it’s family or business. With everything that’s happened in the past eighteen months, you two don’t let things get you down.”

Tricia managed a weak laugh. She wasn’t about to discuss the pitiable state of her love life with Ginny. “I don’t know about Angelica, but I’m a good actress.”

Ginny chewed at her lip, looking pensive.

“It’s a balancing act, Ginny. Some days are easier—less hectic—than others.” This was not one of those easy days. To prove that, an Apollo tour bus drove down Main Street. “Why don’t you check the coffeepot. Look’s like we’re about to get hit with another crowd of customers.”

The rest
of the day alternated between customer overload and nothing to do. But Tricia knew that when it came time to tally the day’s receipts, she’d be one very happy shopkeeper.

“See you tomorrow,” Ginny said, and headed out the door. As she left, Frannie entered, carrying a small Cookery shopping bag with handles. “Here’re the receipts for yesterday and today, along with the register tapes.”

“Thanks, Frannie,” Tricia said, and took the bag. Thankfully, Frannie seemed to have gotten over her snit about Tricia’s conversation with Captain Baker.

“I heard you’re collecting money for Jim’s mother,” Frannie said, her voice tinged with scorn.

Then again . . . .

Tricia let out a guilty laugh. “It was a kind of spur-of-the-moment thing. I mentioned to Grace Everett how Mrs. Roth told me she needed Jim’s income to survive, and Grace kind of set the ball rolling.”

“Grace is a nice person, but she has no clue about the
real
Olivia Roth.” Frannie leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing. “It turns out Mrs. Roth had a very big insurance policy on Jim.”

“How did you find that out?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell. Suffice to say someone overheard her conversation with Billie Hanson over at the Bank of Stoneham. Mrs. Roth arranged to have the money deposited directly into her account and to have Billie call her when it arrived.”

“That’s interesting.”

Frannie’s eyes narrowed. “
Very
interesting. Especially since the old biddy has been going around town telling everyone how destitute she is.”

Tricia sighed. She’d never heard Frannie speak with such spite. “It can take months before the insurance company releases the death benefits. How is she supposed to live?” she asked, reasonably.

“She’s got her husband’s Social Security and some investments. If she was really hard up, she could put the house up for sale. It’s in her name.”

Tricia frowned, remembering Mrs. Roth’s living room. “I got the impression the house belonged to Jim.”

Frannie shook her head. “Poor Jim never had a pot to piss in. He was a terrible money manager, which is one of the reasons his store was in trouble. He wanted his mother to take out a home equity loan so he could pay off his creditors, but she refused. He said they’d argued about it more than once.”

Did repeated disagreements over money give Mrs. Roth a motive for murder? No, Tricia refused to believe that little old lady could hurt a fly, let alone kill her only child—and her only living relative. At least, not in such a violent manner.

Not when poisoned lemon bars could do the trick.

“I know what you’re thinking, Tricia, and you’re wrong. Mrs. Roth is not a nice person. She kept Jim under her thumb his entire life. Until he started his own business, he never really had a life.”

“Where did he get the money to open History Repeats Itself?”

Frannie exhaled a deep breath. “His mother.”

“So she was one of his creditors?”

“His biggest,” Frannie sheepishly admitted.

“Then why didn’t she bail him out? Keeping the store afloat would’ve been in her best interest.”

“Not as long as I was in the picture. Jim as much as said so.”

Or was that what Frannie wanted to believe?

“I wonder if I should give Captain Baker a call and tell him about that insurance policy,” Frannie said.

Tricia swallowed. “If you feel you must.”

Frannie nodded, and changed the subject—for which Tricia was truly grateful. “I heard from Angelica. She’s very worried about Bob. She wants me to offer to help him with whatever he might need. I haven’t so far. He’d turn me down flat.”

“You worked closely with him for over ten years,” Tricia pointed out. “Angelica probably thinks you can read his mind.”

“Sometimes I believed I could. But we were hardly friends. And I can’t say I hold any warm feelings for him after the way he treated me at my job at the Chamber. And especially after the threats he made against Jim.”

“Threats?” Tricia asked.

Frannie’s cheeks colored. “I didn’t mean physical threats—but to evict him from his store. That probably would’ve killed Jim in itself,” she said bitterly.

“Then you don’t think he’s responsible for Jim’s death?”

“Of course not. Bob never dirties his hands on anything. And he definitely wouldn’t do anything where he might actually get hurt, like cause an explosion. He used to whine when he got a paper cut, so second-degree burns must’ve really put a twist in his boxers.”

“Did Captain Baker ask you about Bob?”

Frannie nodded. “Of course.”

“Did you tell him everything you just told me?”

“Maybe not everything,” Frannie admitted. “If he thinks Bob might’ve killed Jim, then he won’t be considering me as a suspect.”

Until that moment, Tricia wouldn’t have thought so, either. But now . . . she wasn’t so sure.

Once Frannie
had left, Tricia emptied her cash register, counted the day’s receipts, and put the receipts from Booked for Lunch into the sack along with those from the Cookery. Should she do bookwork, or have a bite to eat and read for a couple of hours? Yes, she had Julia Spencer-Fleming’s new Clare Fergusson mystery sitting on her nightstand, just begging to be started. She stowed the money in the safe under the cash desk and spun the lock, intending to take care of it in the morning.

“Come on, Miss Marple—we can always do the paperwork in the morning, right?”

Miss Marple rose and stretched, then jumped down from the shelf behind the cash desk, where she’d spent the bulk of her day. Tricia was heading for the stairs that led to her loft when the phone rang. She wasn’t going to answer it, but then considered that it might be Angelica calling, and headed back for the cash desk and picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue—”

“Tricia? It’s Russ. I was just listening to my police scanner—”

Tricia winced. His scanner had been the main reason for the lack of a reconciliation between them. Okay, him dumping her had been the main reason—but it had been her main reason for not missing him all that much.

“There’s a break-in in progress at Bob Kelly’s house,” he continued. “Are you interested?”

“Am I!”

“Lock up and meet me in the municipal parking lot.” The line went silent. Tricia slammed the phone down, grabbed her keys and sweater. “Sorry, Miss Marple, but dinner will be a little late tonight.”

Tricia flew for the exit, fumbled with the lock, then yanked the door shut behind her. Up ahead, Russ was already dashing across Main Street, heading for the municipal lot, and she jogged up the sidewalk, wishing she’d had time to change into running shoes.