Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

Frannie rolled her eyes. “It kept staring at me. It was like having Angelica looking over my shoulder all morning. I finally couldn’t stand it, and put it outside. Don’t worry, I’ll bring it in if it looks like rain.”

Tricia nodded, but secretly hoped someone would steal the cutout. Much as she loved her sister, Tricia couldn’t stand looking at the thing, either.

It was well after one by the time Tricia returned to her store, and Ginny had disappeared up the stairs to Haven’t Got a Clue’s second-floor employee break room. Mr. Everett stood behind the sales counter, helping a customer, while Miss Marple looked on. She was always interested in promoting good customer relations.

Mr. Everett finished ringing up the sale and wished his customer good-bye before greeting Tricia. “Hello, Ms. Miles. Isn’t it a lovely day?” he said without much enthusiasm. He swept a hand toward the front display window and the sunny street beyond.

She glanced around the empty store. “Looks like another slow day,” she observed.

“Yes, but the economy has picked up, and good weather brings tour buses,” he said, but his voice lacked its usual cheerfulness.

“I want to thank you for saving those books last night. Ginny told me all about it.”

Mr. Everett shrugged. “It was the right thing to do.”

Tricia nodded. “How’s Grace? Has her cold improved?”

He nodded. “Her sniffles have abated and she is her smiling self once more.”

“And where is your smile?”

Mr. Everett’s frown deepened.

Perhaps it was time to open a more candid dialogue. “Mr. Everett, you’ve seemed preoccupied for several weeks. Is something wrong?”

“You’re very perceptive, Ms. Miles. But I don’t like to burden my friends with my petty troubles.”

“Maybe I could help.”

He seemed to wrestle with the idea. “Perhaps. You see, it’s . . . it’s Grace.”

“Oh, dear, I hope her cold hasn’t gotten worse.”

“Oh, no. As I said, her sniffles have almost disappeared.” His expression grew more solemn. “It’s her . . . her . . . her generosity.”

Generosity a problem? “I don’t understand.”

“When Grace and I married, I had some outstanding debts—all tied to the closing of my grocery store. However, when my statements arrived this last month, I found that she’d paid off all my creditors.” His cheeks colored, and he avoided her gaze. “I’m afraid we had words over it.”

“Oh, dear.”

He nodded, his gaze heavy with . . . disappointment?

“I’m sure she had the very best of intentions,” Tricia said.

“Oh, no doubt. But . . . my pride, you see.”

Tricia nodded. Pride goeth before a fall , she repeated silently to herself. “You can’t let this come between you. The two of you have been so happy together.”

“Yes. And I’m sure we shall be again. Although I’m afraid desperate measures may be necessary to alleviate this situation.”

“Desperate?” Tricia repeated. She didn’t like the sound of this.

“I may have to take out a loan,” Mr. Everett said and gave a heavy sigh; and suddenly Tricia felt just as weary. The day was barely half over, and already she felt wiped out. It also seemed as though she’d started a new career—personal counselor to half of Stoneham.

Before she could give a word of advice or comfort, the shop door opened. A woman customer entered, and Mr. Everett sprang into action, as though grateful for the opportunity to end their conversation.

Tricia headed for the coffee station. She needed a strong jolt of caffeine to jump-start her afternoon. But the pot held only dregs. She poured them out and started a fresh pot, working on automatic pilot.

She thought again how used she’d gotten used to having Angelica around during the past year and a half, and now that she was gone—albeit for only a couple of days—Tricia felt oddly isolated. Poor Mrs. Roth must be feeling terribly alone. Since Jim was an only child, and had been recruited by Bob to relocate to Stoneham, the poor woman might have no one to reach out to. And it was obvious Frannie wouldn’t extend a hand of friendship to her anytime soon.

On impulse, Tricia crossed the store and grabbed the slim phone book from behind the cash desk, hoping the Roth home still had a landline. In less than a minute, she found the number and dialed it. Someone picked up on the second ring.

“Hello,” said a wavering voice.

“Mrs. Roth? My name is Tricia Miles. I own the mystery bookstore here in Stoneham. I was a friend of Jim’s. I’m so sorry for your loss. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“How kind of you to ask,” said the old woman, with more than a hint of an English accent. “As it happens, I could use some help. James had the family car. I’m sure it’s probably still parked in the municipal lot, but I have no way to get there to retrieve it. I’m afraid my knees couldn’t handle a hike that far.”

“I’d be happy to pick you up and take you to the car.”

“If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience,” she said.

“Not in the least. When would you like to go?”

“Is an hour from now too soon?”

“Not at all.”

“Thank you, dear.” She gave Tricia the address. “I’ll look forward to meeting you. James never did introduce me to any of his lady friends.”

Tricia choked back a laugh. “Jim and I were members of the Chamber of Commerce. Sadly, I didn’t know him all that well.”

“I see,” said the old lady, her voice cool. “Well, I’ll see you in an hour, then.”

Tricia heard a click, and the line went silent. She frowned at the receiver, feeling a bit dismayed. Had Mrs. Roth been expecting Frannie to call? Had she believed Tricia that she and Jim had only been acquaintances?

As she replaced the receiver in its cradle, Tricia wasn’t at all sure she should have made the call.

Tricia parked her car at the curb outside 44 Poplar Street at precisely two o’clock. The outside of the Roth home looked like something out of a travel brochure for Merrie Olde England. The house was not at all in keeping with its Victorian neighbors, but instead looked like a whitewashed country cottage, sans thatched roof. A white picket fence surrounded the property, reining in what would, in weeks, no doubt be a magnificent cottage garden. The perennials hadn’t yet burst into flower, but a few strategically planted annuals already made a cheerful welcome.

Tricia unlocked the gate, making sure the latch closed behind her. If Mrs. Roth had a canine friend, she wouldn’t want to be responsible for its getting loose. She followed the flagstone path to the fire-engine red front door, which sported a glossy black medallion from which the white house number seemed to jump out at her. A brass knocker below it was in the shape of a lion’s head, reminding her of the one described in Dickens’s A Christmas Carol . She knocked, and seconds later the door opened.

Mrs. Roth, a stooped, elderly woman—probably in her late seventies or early eighties—was dressed in a floral housedress and a maroon cardigan sweater. Her snowy hair was neatly coiffed—perhaps she went to the same hairdresser as Grace Everett.

“Hello, Mrs. Roth. I’m Tricia Miles.”

“Thank you for coming, Miss Miles.”

“Please, call me Tricia.”

“Won’t you come in?” The older woman stood back, and beckoned Tricia through the entryway and into a small living room. Tricia’s nose twitched at the odor of stale cigarette smoke. The inside of the home did not match its outward appearance. Instead of having white walls, the interior was dark. Framed pictures of military planes and uniformed soldiers dotted the walls. A gleaming silver sword with a gold hilt and a red tassel hung over the faux brick fireplace. Taking up one whole corner of the room was a large plasma TV. A leather club chair sat before it, with an oak side table and a large, empty ashtray beside it. The rest of the room housed bookshelves and display cases with swastika-covered war souvenirs. At least one shelf had been emptied, its books neatly stacked in several cardboard cartons.