Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

“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.”

“That’s right,” Ginny said. “But the taxpayers won’t pass the measure, anyway. I mean, they’ve turned it down the last four years. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Tricia said. But then another thought crossed her mind. If Stoneham had its own force, was she likely to see Captain Baker again?

It was a disconcerting thought. They weren’t an item, and probably never would be. But she liked him. She enjoyed seeing him on an irregular basis.

With their conversation at an end, Ginny returned to the coffee station to tidy up.

Tricia fingered the chain around her neck. So she might never see Grant Baker again. All things came to an end—just like her relationship with Christopher.

That didn’t mean she had to like it.

The day wore on. Customers came—and customers went. Finally, the hands on the clock crept toward closing time. Although sunset was still almost two hours away, the east side of Main Street had retreated into the shadow of its western neighbor. Tricia tidied the already orderly sales desk for the fourth time, and Miss Marple stirred from her nap, unhappy that the solar heat she’d enjoyed most of the afternoon had disappeared.

The shop door opened, but it wasn’t a customer. Instead, Grace Harris-Everett, Mr. Everett’s bride, entered Haven’t Got a Clue. “Hello, Tricia!”