Chapter & Hearse (6 page)

SIX

It was
nearly three o’clock when Ginny said, “Mail call!” and dumped a pile of envelopes and packages on Haven’t Got a Clue’s glass display case, startling Tricia. Awash in order forms to restock the coffee station, she hadn’t heard the door open and the mailman come in.

“Bills, bills, bills,” Ginny said with a laugh. “Makes me feel like I’m at home.”

The door opened again, and a customer walked in. “Can I help you?” Ginny asked, and left Tricia to deal with the mail. She sorted through the envelopes, separating them into piles.

Among the bills and circulars was a squat package. Tricia scrutinized the return address. There was only one person she knew in Colorado—her ex-husband, Christopher. They hadn’t spoken in at least eighteen months, not since she’d called him, needing to hear a friendly voice after Doris Gleason’s murder. Since they’d parted, she hadn’t received so much as a Christmas card from him, and now this—whatever it was. A birthday gift, perhaps? If so, jewelry, most likely. He’d bought her rings, earrings, necklaces, and bracelets for birthdays and Christmases, and after he’d left her, she’d found it unbearable to wear any of his presents. They now resided in her jewelry box, stuffed in the back of her closet. She’d gone to a discount store and chosen an inexpensive—but dependable—Timex watch as her only piece of adornment—that and a few pairs of post earrings.

Tricia turned the box over and shook it, but nothing rattled inside. Christopher hadn’t insured it, so whatever was inside probably wasn’t valuable. And if it was meant as a birthday gift, was she supposed to wait until next Wednesday to open it?

The heck with that! She fumbled for the box cutter she kept under the counter and slit the tape that sealed the box. Inside the cardboard, nestled between two layers of foam peanuts and wrapped in a protective sheet of bubble wrap, was a red-velvet-covered box. Yup. Jewelry. At least Christopher always had good taste. She extracted the box and opened it. Inside was a lovely oval locket engraved with calla lilies—her favorite flower. Christopher hadn’t forgotten. She opened the locket and found he’d inserted a picture of Miss Marple. She frowned. She’d half expected he’d put a picture of himself inside. That maybe he was thinking of her. That maybe he’d gotten over his midlife crisis and was thinking of
returning
to her.

She searched the box. Sure enough, on the bottom was a small white envelope. The flap had been tucked inside. She removed the card, which had a watercolor of calla lilies on the front, and opened it. It was Christopher’s familiar handwriting, all right. She read the lines:

To remind you of the one you love the most.

Love,

Christopher

Tricia frowned at the words, puzzled and hurt. Yes, she loved Miss Marple, but did he think she was incapable of loving a person as much? She had loved him with her heart and soul, and he had left her for a life of solitude in the Colorado mountains.

She was fighting back tears when an out-of-breath Darcy Gebhard pushed through Haven’t Got a Clue’s front door. “Tricia!”

Tricia wiped her tearing eyes, stuffed the box under the counter, and tried to keep her voice level. “What can I do for you, Darcy?”

Darcy brandished a blue banking pouch. “I’ve brought over the day’s receipts.”

Tricia cringed. Ginny and her customer both looked up. Did Darcy have to announce it to the world at large?

She handed over the pouch, and Tricia quickly stowed it under the counter. She lowered her voice. “Perhaps tomorrow you could bring it over in a plain paper bag so as not to draw it to my customers’ attention.”

“Oh, sure.” Darcy laughed. “Oh, I get it. You don’t want me to make myself a mugging target. Good thinking.”

Was the woman completely clueless? Tricia consulted the clock once again. It usually took Angelica more than an hour to wind things down at the café; she was a stickler for cleanliness. However, Jake was probably long gone, and Tricia wondered if Darcy had been as thorough in her end-of-day tasks. “You seem like you’re in a hurry.”

Darcy raked a hand through her too-long bangs. “Yeah, I gotta get moving. I’m helping a friend get her garden in shape. Don’t want to be late.” With her brightly lacquered nails and fingers full of silver rings, she hardly seemed the gardening type.

“Gotta run,” she said, making an abrupt about-face. “See you tomorrow.” And out the door she went.

Ginny and her customer approached the cash desk. “I’ll just ring that up for you,” Ginny said.

Tricia stepped aside and bagged the order, tossing in a copy of store’s latest newsletter as well as a couple of bookmarks she’d received from current mystery authors, and handed the bag to the customer before she glanced out the front display window. Darcy was heading in the direction of the municipal parking lot. Who wanted to garden at the hottest part of the day? Tricia shook her head.

“What’s up?” Ginny asked, once the customer had departed.

“Darcy. She’s an odd duck.”

“Yeah. She’s either overly friendly or just plain ignores you.”

“I didn’t think you’d eaten at Booked for Lunch all that often.”

“I haven’t. But I’ve run into her a few times around town. She’s almost as obnoxious as Angelica’s cook. The few times I’ve run into him and said hello, he’s sneered and ignored me.”

“Good.” At Ginny’s startled expression, Tricia explained. “I mean I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels that way about him. Angelica thinks the world of him.”

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Ginny commented. “I’m going to straighten the shelves in back. Call me if you need me.”

Tricia nodded. Once Ginny was out of sight, she brought out Christopher’s gift. Miss Marple jumped down to the counter from her perch on the wall behind Tricia.
Brrrrrp!

“Christopher thinks I love you best.”

Miss Marple rubbed her head against Tricia’s arm, as though to say, “Well, of course you do!”

Tricia held the locket in her fist, wondering what she should do with it. Should she throw it away or . . . wear it?

Throw it away
, the hurt, angry part of her said.

Keep it
, the part of her that still ached for Christopher begged.

Tricia grasped the chain and opened the clasp, fumbling to fasten it around her neck. But instead of wearing it outside her sweater, she tucked it inside. She didn’t want to talk about it or show it to Ginny. This would be her secret. And if she never wore it after today, that was okay, too.

Tossing the box and packaging in the wastebasket, she sorted through the rest of the mail. Nothing too pressing; nothing very interesting. Miss Marple soon became bored and returned to her perch above and behind the sales counter.

The bell over the door rang, and two elderly women entered Haven’t Got a Clue. That alone wouldn’t have startled Tricia, but the fact that the ladies were dressed alike, in matching tennis shoes, dark slacks, and floral tops, and wore the same hairstyle, made them look like they’d been stamped out with a cookie cutter. How old could they be? In their seventies? Perhaps eighties?

“Good morning. My name is Midge Dexter, and this is my sister Muriel,” said the first of the women.

“We’re twins!” Muriel chimed in, and then giggled. “I’m the baby. I was born fourteen minutes after Midge.” Midge gave her sister a look that said she’d heard that line a little too often.

Tricia fought to keep from smirking, and cleared her throat. “Very nice to meet you, ladies. What can I do for you?”

“We’d like you to sign our petition,” Midge said, indicating the clipboard she held under one arm. “We want to reestablish a police force here in Stoneham.”

“We’ve been without one for almost eighteen years,” Muriel piped up.

“The Sheriff’s Department isn’t really equipped to keep the law in a village like ours. Did you know the average response time for a 9-1-1 call is almost twenty minutes? And thanks to the influx of tax revenue, we feel the time is right to resubmit our request to the Board of Selectmen.”

“You’ve made this request before?” Tricia asked.

Midge nodded. “For the past four years. Why is the village spending money on foolish things like gas lamps when we should be protecting our citizens from murderers?”

“Yes,” Muriel continued for her sister, “we’ve had four murders in less than two years. It had been years—”

“Decades,” Midge interrupted.

“—since anyone was killed here in Stoneham, and since the booksellers moved here—” Muriel slapped a hand across her mouth to cut herself off.

“You think the booksellers are responsible for an increase in crime?” Tricia asked.

“No, dear,” Midge said, “just you.”

“Me?” Tricia cried. Oh, boy, here came that same “village jinx” label she’d been stuck with since Doris Gleason had been murdered some eighteen months before.

“Well, you do seem to be falling over corpses every few months,” Muriel said.

“I did not fall over Jim Roth’s corpse. In fact, there was no corpse,” Tricia said, a bit more emphatically than she’d planned.

“But you were on your way to his store when the explosion happened,” Midge said.

“You must’ve been born under an unlucky star,” Muriel added, nodding sagely.

Tricia wasn’t sure how to reply to that.

“Now,” Midge said, pushing her clipboard forward, “we need at least two hundred and fifty signatures. Won’t you be the first merchant on Main Street to sign our petition?”

“Yes, it would be symbolic,” Muriel agreed. “And I’m sure if you signed it, the rest of the booksellers would be more inclined to sign it, too.”

“How much is this likely to cost taxpayers?” Tricia asked, playing devil’s advocate.

“Thousands,” Muriel said.

“Oh, no, dear, millions,” Midge corrected. “Over the long haul, that is. But I’m sure everyone in the village will sleep better at night knowing we have our own officers patrolling the streets and keeping us safe. I know I will.”

“Me, too,” Muriel agreed.

With no sales or income taxes, property taxes paid for all that was needed in New Hampshire—from filling the potholes to paying the state’s public servants. As far as Tricia knew, all of the booksellers leased the properties that housed their stores, but the landowners—Bob Kelly in particular—passed the property tax expense on to their leaseholders.

“Let me guess,” Tricia said, “I’ll bet you ladies rent your home.”

“How did you know?” Muriel asked with a smile.

“Just a lucky guess.

“Why couldn’t the Milford police just patrol Stoneham, too? They already take care of Amherst and other surrounding towns,” Tricia pointed out.

“That wouldn’t do,” Midge said, “not when Stoneham is such a large tourist draw. People come to visit from all over New England and the mid-Atlantic states.”

“Yes, but those people aren’t paying property taxes,” Tricia pointed out.

“Well, why should they? They don’t live here.”

“That’s exactly my point,” Tricia said.

“Do you need a pen, dear?” Muriel asked. Had she even been following this last portion of the conversation?

Tricia shook her head and grabbed a pen from the mug by the side of the register, and signed the petition. She handed the clipboard back to Midge.

“Thank you so much,” Muriel gushed. “Come, sister, we must go next door to the Cookery. I want to buy that cookbook by that local author named Angelica Miles. They say she’s going to be the next Paula Deen.”

“Wait, don’t you want my employees to sign your petition?” Tricia asked.

Midge giggled. “Dear, they already have.” The sisters gave Tricia a smile and a wave, and headed out the door.

Ginny was behind the coffee station, tidying up, and Tricia called her over. “You signed a petition to restore a Stoneham police department?”

“Yeah, the Dexter sisters nailed me at the convenience store early this morning. They got Mr. Everett in the parking lot before he came in.”

“Did you know they consider me the cause of most of the crime in Stoneham?”

“Um . . . yes, they may have mentioned that. I defended you, of course.”

“And what did they say?” Tricia asked.

“That you’re . . . a jinx.”

Tricia’s hands clenched and she winced. “Am I never going to live that down?”

“Tricia, you’re in New England. People around here have long memories.”

“But I never caused anyone’s death,” she protested.

“I know . . . that’s why they only consider you a jinx, not a murderer. Look at it this way,” Ginny said, “if Stoneham has its own police force, you’ll never have to meet up with Sheriff Adams ever again.”

“As it is, I’ve been lucky not to meet up with her for months.”

“It’s a win-win situation,” Ginny said.

“As a homeowner, how much do you think your taxes will go up?”

It was Ginny’s turn to wince. “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. But then, I’m losing my house to foreclosure. Why did you sign the petition?”

“It was a reasonable request. I know several times I haven’t called the Sheriff’s Department to report things because I didn’t want to wait for a deputy to show up. Maybe with a police presence, crime will go down. Not that it’s really a problem. Most of our shoplifters aren’t from Stoneham—they’re visitors to the village.”