Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

“Won’t you step this way?” the old lady asked, and directed Tricia to the dining room. “Do you have time to join me in a pot of tea?”

“Oh, please, I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“To be quite honest, I’d welcome the company.”

Tricia managed a smile. “Thank you. I’d enjoy that.”

Mrs. Roth’s eyes brightened. “Please make yourself at home. I’ll only be a moment.” And she tottered off to the kitchen.

Tricia glanced around the immaculate dining room. Not so much as a speck of dust marred any surface. Unlike the living room, this room was definitely a woman’s territory—full of knickknacks and doilies, glassware and china. An assortment of brown transferware dishes decorated the buff-colored walls. Dinner plates, luncheon plates, cake plates, and even saucers hung high on the walls, just below the ceiling, making an attractive border. The antique china cabinet, filled with an assortment of bone china tea services, stood against the north wall. Sitting atop the oak and glass cabinet were three soapstone vases and two Russian tea glasses. Above them hung a bashed and battered pewter platter—no doubt a family heirloom. Another cabinet held an assortment of chintz china—not a whole set, but the mismatched pieces made a cheerful floral garden. Cups and saucers, sugar and creamer sets, and several small pieces that Tricia couldn’t identify.

Mrs. Roth entered the dining room and set a polished silver tray with teapot, sugar and creamer, a plate of bar cookies, and a bowl of sliced lemons onto the table. “I hope you like Earl Grey. I find it a soothing treat in the middle of the afternoon.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Would you like to select a cup?” Mrs. Roth asked, waving a hand at the oak cup shelf on the east wall.

“Oh, I couldn’t. They’re all so lovely. I’d be afraid of breaking it.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. I use all my treasures. What good is having them if they don’t get used? And each of my cups has a story.”

Tricia moved to stand in front of the shelf. Flowers graced most of the cups; violets, bluebells—daffodils appeared to be a favorite—and every cup had a unique shape. She chose one with a bold pattern of pink and blue flowers that stood out against a black background and gold rim.

Mrs. Roth smiled. “I thought you might choose that one. It’s one of my favorites.”

“And its story?” Tricia prompted.

“It was given to me by my late mother. A wedding gift.” Her smile waned. “I didn’t get many, you see. Mr. Roth and I were married at the Registrar’s office. A week later, I left England for good.”

“Did you ever return?”

Mrs. Roth’s wrinkled mouth quavered. “Not for many years. I’d always hoped to go back there to live—after my husband died, of course. But by then all my family was gone, and all my friends had either died or moved away.”

“How sad for you.”

Mrs. Roth nodded. “I’ve certainly had my share of heartache. And now dear James is gone.” She sank into one of the chairs at the dining table and sighed. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “Now I’m all alone in this world.”

So, no dog after all.

Tricia moved closer, hesitant to rest a comforting hand on the elderly woman’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know him well, but Jim seemed like a wonderful person. Everyone seems to have loved him.”

“Oh, yes, he was well loved.” Was there a bit of anger in her voice?

Mrs. Roth squeezed her eyes shut, pulled a floral hankie from the sleeve of her sweater, and dabbed at her nose. “My poor, poor James. For years I begged him to quit smoking. I knew it would kill him one day.”

“Kill him?” Tricia asked.

“That nice man from the Sheriff’s Department said it appeared Jim’s cigarette lighter touched off the explosion.”

Tricia wasn’t sure what to say in reply, and cast about the room, her gaze landing on the teapot. “Should I pour?”

Mrs. Roth’s head bobbed.

Grateful for something to do, Tricia chose another cup from the shelf, set it in front of the old lady, lifted the heavy silver pot, and poured the tea. Setting the pot down, she took a seat at the table and waited for Mrs. Roth to compose herself. When the old lady raised her cup to her lips, her hands had stopped shaking. She reached for one of the bar cookies.

Tricia cleared her throat. “You have a lovely home. It looks like Jim had quite a diverse collection of war memorabilia.”

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” the old lady said. “Too many people glorify violence, and James’s collection has overrun the house. My only havens have been this room”—her gaze wandered around the dining room—“my bedroom, and my garden.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing your garden in full bloom.”

“It’s taken me five years to achieve. James wouldn’t help.” Her voice dripped with disapproval. “But then he spent so much time at the shop—and with his other activities—that sometimes I’d spend less than ten minutes a day with him.”

“It must have been very lonely for you.”

“Only in the winter, when I couldn’t be in my garden. But I have my books”—she indicated a small stack of library books on the sideboard—“and they’re a great comfort to me.”

Tricia sipped her tea and was pleased to see they were all mysteries by the great mistresses: Allingham, Christie, Sayers, and Tey.

“Since there was no body to bury, I’ve decided not to hold any kind of service for James,” Mrs. Roth volunteered.

“Yes, I heard.”

Mrs. Roth frowned. “Oh?”

Tricia backpedaled. “One of Jim’s friends contacted the Baker Funeral Home to find out if any arrangements had been made.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Roth said, but there was something in her tone that conveyed her disapproval. She sighed. “I see no need for a service. We have no family. And the expense—”

“But, surely Jim’s friends—”

Again, Mrs. Roth shook her head. “I simply can’t afford it. The shop hadn’t been doing well, and now my income has—” Her voice broke, and again she dabbed the hankie at her nose. “All that is beside the point. My family had no history of burials, anyway.”

“I don’t understand,” Tricia said.

“In England, there are very few new burial sites. Or at least that was how it was when I lived there. You can rent a grave for a term—say, one hundred years, and then—”

“They dig you up?” Tricia asked, aghast.

Mrs. Roth nodded. “That’s what happened to my grandmother. That’s why cremation is so popular. My parents, my friends, and their husbands were all cremated, and their ashes spread in a garden of remembrance. If you liked, you could buy a rosebush in someone’s memory, and they’d put the ashes under or nearby.”

Good God, Tricia thought, a loved one reduced to plant fertilizer!

“Of course, poor James was . . . was—” Mrs. Roth swallowed the catch in her voice and continued. “I think I shall plant a rosebush in my garden to remember James by. It’ll be pretty, and—” She stared at the dining table, shook her head, but did not continue the sentence.

Tricia waited until the old lady composed herself once again. “Would you be opposed to some of Jim’s friends setting up a memorial service?” Tricia asked, crossing her fingers, since Frannie was already planning such an event.

Mrs. Roth looked up, the barest hint of annoyance shadowing her eyes. “I don’t know. I suppose that would be all right. But—”

“I’d be glad to let you know when the arrangements have been completed.” Tricia decided not to mention Frannie at this point. The poor woman had enough on her mind.

Mrs. Roth reached across the table and placed her hand on Tricia’s. “Thank you, dear. You’re so very kind.” She looked around the table, cleared her throat, and reached for the plate of bar cookies. “Won’t you have a lemon square? They were James’s favorite treat. I often made them for him.”