Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

“What pretenses? You’re hungry—I’m hungry. And we’re talking about Jim’s death. That doesn’t mean it has to be the only topic of discussion. For instance—why don’t we talk about us?”

Tricia put her fork down. “There is no us . You made that quite plain last fall.”

“I also told you I was wrong.”

He had. But by then, she was already interested in Grant Baker—and that had gone nowhere, too.

“Let’s get back to Jim,” Tricia said. “Do you know what caused the explosion? Captain Baker didn’t seem to think the gas lamps were involved.”

“No. The firemen, sheriff’s deputies, and utility people were out back of the shop until late last night, checking things out. They spent an awful long time looking at the area where the meter had been. I’ll bet you dinner someone tampered with it. The flash point was at the back of the building.”

This wasn’t going to be much of an information exchange if that was all he could come up with. “No bet. The deal was, I pay for my dinner and you pay for yours. Bob wouldn’t risk destroying his own building—eviction is the easiest way to force a deadbeat out.”

“I’m told Jim never smoked in his shop, but he did out back. He lit a cigarette and— kaboom —the walls came tumbling down,” Russ said.

Tricia chewed and swallowed. “So Mrs. Roth said, and Captain Baker confirmed a cigarette lighter was responsible,” she said, and stabbed another piece of lettuce. “Who knew Jim’s habits? His customers? Fellow businessmen? How about the mailman or any of the delivery guys?”

“As far as I know,” Russ continued, “Jim had no enemies. In fact, outside of the shop and the occasional Chamber meeting, I don’t think he had much of a life. He lived with his mother, for chrissakes. I don’t think he’d ever lived on his own—or, God forbid, with someone of the opposite sex.”

“Why do you say that?” Tricia asked, again thinking about Frannie. Apparently she and Jim had been extremely discreet.

“You know how guys talk about sex. Jim never joined in.”

“Maybe he was a gentleman. Or do you think he was gay?”

“Not necessarily. Maybe he was just missing the romance chip.”

That was rich—coming from Mister I-never-turn-off-my-police-scanner-for-anything-or-anybody. Tricia turned her attention back to her food.

“I’ve spoken to a number of Chamber members, but the story’s pretty much the same,” Russ went on. “None of you booksellers have much of a social life, so no one seems to know much about their neighbors.”

Was that last an insult against Tricia, or did he really believe what he said? She chose to ignore it.

“It’s pretty hard to keep tabs on each other when we’re dealing with busloads of people on and off all day,” Tricia admitted. “Then again, some of us are keeping tabs on our neighbors, or at least I am while Angelica’s off on her book tour. I’ve already had to solve one crisis at Booked for Lunch. I have a feeling it won’t be the last.”

“Lucky you.” Russ had never been overly fond of Angelica, and the feeling had been mutual. “So where does that leave us? With just Bob as a key player?”

“I suppose.”

“There’s speculation he won’t rebuild,” Russ said.

Tricia dropped her fork. “What do you mean? There’s a gaping hole in the street. He has to rebuild.”

“My guess is he’ll take the insurance money and put the property up for sale.”

“Who’d buy it?”

“You’ve got a point. Rebuilding in a historic district will be prohibitively expensive. But if I know Bob, he’ll want to cut his losses.”

“It would be a shame.” And the view from Haven’t Got a Clue would be ruined forever—not that Tricia voiced that opinion.

Russ shrugged. “Then again, I’ve heard talk of a developer poking around, looking for investments here in Stoneham.”

“Really? Who?”

“I don’t have a name. I just heard a rumor.”

“From whom?”

Elbows on the table, Russ laced his fingers together and stared at Tricia. “I haven’t got a clue.”

Tricia refrained from commenting on that. “Would Bob sell to a developer? I didn’t think he’d even consider it. He sure wasn’t interested in talking about selling when I broached the subject with him prior to opening Haven’t Got a Clue.”

“Times, and people, change,” Russ said, and dived back into his chicken and biscuits.

Maybe so. But Russ hadn’t changed, and because of that, Tricia knew she’d be going home alone.

Tricia stared at the calculator’s digital readout and frowned. Three times she’d added up the figures, and three times they hadn’t matched the cash she’d counted out of Booked for Lunch’s bank pouch. That there was more cash than receipts didn’t make her feel better. A few dollars here and there wouldn’t have worried her—but the pouch had contained thirteen dollars more than the total of the receipts. Had someone lost or disposed of several of the grease-stained table receipts? The receipts were numbered, and sure enough, four of them were missing from the stack.

Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions , she told herself. Just because the numbers didn’t jibe didn’t mean someone—Darcy or Jake—had been light-fingered with the till. Maybe Darcy had messed up a few of them, had tossed them away, and rewritten the orders on a new order blank. If Tricia was the suspicious type, and it wasn’t so god-awful late, she might be inclined to check the café’s trash to look for missing order receipts. As she’d learned in the not-too-distant past, you could learn a lot about a business by going through its garbage. At least Darcy had brought over the day’s receipts. Frannie was supposed to do the same, and hadn’t. Still, that didn’t ring alarm bells. Tricia knew and trusted Frannie. Darcy had been working for Angelica for only three or four months.

Tricia filled out the bank deposit slip, put a rubber band around it and the day’s cash, and stowed it back in the bank pouch. She’d deposit it along with her own receipts in the morning.

Tricia glanced at the clock. It was already after eleven. Like an expectant parent, she’d hoped Angelica would call long before this.

Turning off the kitchen lights was the signal that bedtime had come, and Miss Marple roused herself from the stool where she’d been napping and jumped to the floor, stretching before trotting off toward the bedroom.

Tricia started to follow when at last the phone shattered the quiet. She grabbed it before it could ring again. “Angelica?”

“Yes, at last!” came the voice she’d been waiting for. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”

“Me, either,” Tricia said. “Why are you calling so late?”

“I only got to the hotel about half an hour ago. I jumped in the shower, and then into my jammies. I didn’t even get anything to eat tonight. If this place had a mini bar, I’d be raiding it now.”

Tricia carried the wireless phone over to the kitchen counter and sat down on the stool she’d abandoned only a minute before. She had a feeling this could be a marathon call. “Tell me all about it.”

And Angelica did—from the road trip to the north end of the state, down to the problem she’d encountered when she’d gone to fetch her car after her second signing of the day.

“Someone slashed your tires?” Tricia repeated in disbelief.

“All four of them,” Angelica said, not disguising her disgust. “The bookstore manager was terribly embarrassed, although not enough to offer to pay anything toward replacing them.”

“Who’s to say it was one of her customers?”