Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

The little bell above the door rang and Tricia straightened, eager to welcome a last-minute customer, but it was only Russ Smith. Her shoulders slumped, her good mood gone. “Oh, it’s you.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

She sighed. “Nothing. What can I do for you, Russ?”

He sauntered up to the cash desk and petted Miss Marple, who eyed him warily. “I wondered if you were free for dinner tonight.”

“In case it’s escaped your attention, we are no longer an item.”

“It has not escaped my attention. But you’re alone—I’m alone. We’re not lovers, but I hope we’re still friends. And why can’t friends share a table at the Bookshelf Diner once in a while? We can even share the check.” Tricia was about to refuse when he spoke again. “Tonight’s special is chicken and biscuits,” he called in a singsong cadence.

“Which, if you’d paid attention in the past, you’d know would never entice me.”

“Okay, then, we can talk about the explosion at History Repeats Itself. I’ll tell you what I know, and you can share what you know.”

“What makes you think I know anything?”

Russ laughed. “Because I know you. You can’t help yourself when it comes to sleuthing. You’re like a heroin addict or something. All those mysteries you read have you thinking you’re Stoneham’s own Miss Marple.”

At the sound of her name, Tricia’s cat gave a spirited “ Yow!”

“I am not that old.”

“But you are that smart.”

Tricia shrugged. She wasn’t about to argue with the truth. She eyed him warily. With Angelica gone, she was feeling a tad lonely, and, as her grumbling stomach reminded her, she was hungry, too.

“All right. But don’t think we’re going to make a habit of this. And I can’t leave right now. The shop is officially open for another ten minutes. And I have to feed Miss Marple before I can go anywhere.”

“Feed her now. I’ll mind the store.”

Again she shrugged. He’d done it before.

Ten minutes later, Tricia locked the door to Haven’t Got a Clue, and she and Russ crossed the street, heading for the diner. They didn’t speak again until they’d been seated. Except for curt exchanges, Eugenia Hirt, the night waitress, hadn’t spoken with Tricia since the unpleasant situation the previous fall, nor would she make eye contact. At first it had bothered Tricia, but now she just ignored the silly girl.

“Bring us a couple of glasses of house red, and give us a few minutes, will you, Eugenia?” Russ asked.

She nodded, and pivoted to make a fast escape.

Tricia perused the menu. Same old, same old.

Russ rested his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Now, what has Bob Kelly told Angelica about the night of the explosion?”

Tricia didn’t look up, and considered the Cobb salad. “Nothing.”

“Oh come on, it’s me, Russ. You can tell me.”

“I can’t tell you, because Bob isn’t talking—to Angelica, to me, and, as far as I know, he’s not talking to anyone else, like Captain Baker, either.”

Russ frowned. “I’ve received the same cold shoulder.”

Speaking of which, Eugenia returned with their drinks, plunking them on the table and nearly spilling them. “Ready to order?” she asked.

She’d gone back to wearing the studs in her nose and eyebrow. It must drive her mother crazy, Tricia thought. “I’ll have the Cobb salad, with poppy seed dressing on the side.”

“Chicken and biscuits for me,” Russ said.

Eugenia nodded and again escaped.

Tricia picked up her glass and took a sip. “So, who dishes first—you or me?”

“Ladies first,” Russ said, and picked up his glass.

“Jim Roth’s mother didn’t see the point of holding a funeral service, since there’s no body to bury. So Frannie Armstrong is planning a memorial service for him on Sunday at the Brookside Inn.”

“Why Frannie?”

“Apparently they were friends.” That wasn’t a lie—it just wasn’t the whole truth. Besides, it was bound to come out eventually, anyway. Russ was a reporter. If he wanted more information on the subject, he would have to dig for it himself.

Tricia sipped her wine. “Have you started Jim’s obituary?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got an appointment to talk to his mother. She said she might be able to dig up some photographs. To tell you the truth, she didn’t sound all that interested in talking about her son. She didn’t even sound all that sad.”

“People express their grief in different ways,” Tricia offered, even though she’d wondered about Mrs. Roth’s true feelings toward her son. Should she bring the subject of radiator fluid into the conversation? Probably not. After all, she couldn’t even say she had suspicions . . . just . . . a funny feeling.

“I might get a few of the other booksellers to say something. Jim was well liked, but it doesn’t look like he was particularly close to anyone in town.”

Tricia thought about Frannie and bit her tongue. Mrs. Roth had mentioned that Jim was involved in other activities. What could she have meant?

“If his mother’s no help,” Russ continued, “I may forget the whole thing and just run a short piece about the explosion.”

“You’ll do what you have to,” Tricia said, and smoothed the curling edge on her paper placemat.

Before the lack of meaningful conversation could get awkward, Eugenia brought their food, carefully setting Russ’s down in front of him, and then nearly tossing the salad at Tricia. A grape tomato bounced from the bowl and onto the table.

“Hey!” Russ protested.

“Sorry,” Eugenia mumbled, sounding anything but, and took off again.

Tricia unwrapped her cutlery from the paper napkin that surrounded it. “Apparently she hasn’t forgiven me for what happened last fall.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

Tricia stabbed at a piece of lettuce. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Eugenia was lucky to get a sympathetic judge who gave her only probation and community service, or she might be in jail like her boyfriend,” Russ said, and dug into his chicken. “Back to Jim,” he said, and shoveled in a mouthful. Tricia waited impatiently until he had chewed and swallowed, and could speak again. “Now that it looks like his death may not have been accidental, who do you think did it?”

“Who said it wasn’t an accident?” Tricia asked.

“I’m a newspaperman. I don’t reveal my sources.”

Tricia glared at him.

“You didn’t answer my question. Do you think Bob Kelly might’ve offed old Jim?”

“Of course not. Angelica would never allow it.”

Russ laughed. “You’re probably right. But it’s been said Jim was behind on all his bills—his biggest creditor being Bob.”

“And if he wanted his money, I’m sure Bob wouldn’t go around killing anyone—much less destroy his own building. That would be a sure way of never seeing what was owed him. Bob is simply too cheap to kill when he can go to small claims court to get what’s owed him. Besides, they were supposedly friends.”

Again, Russ laughed. “Look at you—defending Bob Kelly. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Neither did Tricia. She dipped a piece of green pepper into her dressing. “Do you think there’s a viable suspect—besides Bob, I mean?”

Russ shook his head. “Nothing that’s come to light. But then it’s not quite twenty-four hours since it happened.”

Tricia leaned forward. “The way you spoke at my store, I thought you actually had something interesting to tell me.”

“You don’t find our conversation interesting?”

She turned her attention back to her salad. “I’d find it more interesting if I didn’t feel like you’d lured me here under false pretenses.”