Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

“Exactly. It took forever for Triple A to tow it to their garage. It should be ready for me by nine o’clock tomorrow, which gives me just enough time to drive to Conway for tomorrow’s lunchtime signing.”

“I’m sorry you had such a bad day. It wasn’t that great here, either.”

“How’s Bob?” Angelica asked, ignoring Tricia’s hint that maybe she needed to vent as well.

Tricia sighed. “Grumpy.”

“I suppose that’s only natural after what he went through last night. I tried calling him several times, but all I got was voice mail. Do you think he could’ve been sleeping the whole day?”

“Could be. Did you know he’d ordered a security system to be installed at his house?”

“No. He never mentioned it.”

“The firm was finishing up when I dropped him off this morning. I asked him about it, but, like last night, he wasn’t talking.”

“That’s not like Bob.” Angelica sighed. “I hope he calls before I have to take off tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sure he will,” Tricia lied. She thought about what Russ had said. “There’s a rumor Bob won’t rebuild on Main Street—that he’ll sell the land Jim’s store stood on. Russ heard there’s a developer looking for investment properties in Stoneham. Do you think Bob would sell?”

“It’s possible,” Angelica said, but she didn’t sound very sure. “Anything else new?”

“I’ve been thinking about helping Ginny with her mortgage.”

Silence greeted that statement. And then, “Please tell me I just heard wrong. You’re going to—?”

“Help Ginny with her mortgage,” Tricia repeated.

“Help how?”

“I’m going to pay it off, and then I’ll have Roger Livingston set up a repayment schedule on terms Ginny can actually afford.”

“On what you pay her?”

“Hey, I pay her more than the going rate.”

“I know, but it’s still not enough to make mortgage payments.”

Tricia took a burn to that remark.

“I’ve got another question: Why?” Angelica asked.

“So she doesn’t lose her house.”

Angelica sighed. “Let me tell you, as a cookbook author, this idea of yours is a recipe for disaster.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Ginny’s your subordinate. Now she’ll feel beholden to you. Friction will build up. One day it’ll explode—taking whatever friendship the two of you have with it. And don’t you dare give me that look.”

Tricia felt anger boiling within her. “What look?” she asked through clenched teeth, knowing her sister couldn’t see her through the phone.

“The one that says, ‘I won’t believe you simply because I don’t want to.’ If you really think about it, you’ll agree with me. And is losing Ginny’s friendship something you really want to risk?”

First Billie Hanson and now Angelica. Didn’t anyone have faith in the power of kindness and friendship anymore?

Tricia heard Angelica heave another sigh, and wished she hadn’t brought up the subject. Time to change it. “By the way, Ange, you owe me two hundred and forty-five dollars and sixty-three cents.”

“What for?”

“Chicken. Just after you left this morning, the poultry man made a delivery to the café and demanded a check before he’d leave it.”

“There must be some mistake. I don’t use that much chicken in a month.”

“That was the amount on the invoice.”

Tricia could picture her sister frowning. “Well, okay. You know I’m good for it.”

“Yes, I do. Just out of curiosity, how close do the café’s cash and order receipts add up on an average day?”

“Within a dollar or two. You know how it is—take a penny, leave a penny. Why?”

“The café’s cash didn’t match the orders. It was thirteen dollars over.”

“Better over than under.”

“Mmm,” Tricia halfheartedly agreed.

“Did Frannie bring over the Cookery’s receipts?” Angelica asked.

“No. She probably just forgot. And I’m not surprised, either. She was extremely upset about Jim Roth’s death. In fact, this morning she admitted to me that she and Jim had been lovers.”

“You’re kidding!” Angelica gushed.

“Nope. His mother decided not to hold a funeral, so Frannie’s planning a memorial service. It’ll be Sunday morning so that the booksellers don’t have to close shop.”

“Poor Frannie. And damn, I can’t be there. I’ve got a signing in Bennington.”

“Poor Frannie? Don’t you mean poor Jim? He’s the one who was pulverized,” Tricia reminded her sister.

“Of course. But I didn’t think Frannie had ever even been with anyone . . . if you know what I mean. Now to find out she’s been having an illicit love affair—well. . . .”

“Not that illicit. They were two unencumbered, consenting adults.”

“Mmm. If I get a chance, I’ll give her a call tomorrow morning to get all the dirt firsthand. And find out what happened to today’s banking.”

Tricia looked at the clock. “It’s late. I’d better let you go.”

“Thanks for taking care of the café for me. I’ll make it up to you somehow.” She paused. “I know, I’ll buy you a nice big present. You deserve something deliciously girly and sweet for your birthday. That is, if I ever get any time to myself in the next couple of days and can shop.”

Tricia frowned. Girly and sweet? She made no comment. “Remind me—just when will you be coming home?”

“Next Friday.”

Which seemed a million years from right then, Tricia decided. Still, she tried to sound upbeat. “Okay, see you then. Call me when you can, and you take care, now.”

“Good night, Trish. And think about what I said about Ginny. If you go through with this plan, you might lose a good employee, and a friend.”

“Good night!” Tricia said and hung up the phone.

An annoyed Miss Marple had reappeared and sat at her feet. “ Yow!” she said .

“Don’t you take Angelica’s side,” Tricia warned, but later, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, all she could think about was the threat of Ginny one day hating her, and Angelica saying, “I told you so.”

Tricia was up with the birds the next morning. After showering and dressing, she spied the locket Christopher had sent her, still lying on the dresser where she’d left it the night before. It was time to make a decision—banish it to the back of the closet, or wear it.

She decided to wear it, once again tucking it inside her sweater. After all, it was likely to be the only birthday gift she would receive.

Tricia fingered the chain next to her skin. Birthdays were meant to be special, she’d decided at a very early age. The fact that hers hadn’t been as special as Angelica’s had been a source of great hurt and puzzlement. That’s why, as an adult, she used to plan to be somewhere special, doing something special, on her special day. Paris, Rome, San Francisco . . . and until the last year of her marriage, her husband had bought into that idea, too.

Tricia tightly held the chain at her neck and thought wistfully of those days.

Since nobody else was interested in her birthday, maybe she should do something to treat herself. There were day spas in Nashua, but that wasn’t really her thing. She wasn’t a clotheshorse, so a day trip to Boston for shopping wasn’t something she’d aspire to, either. She couldn’t really cook—and though Angelica had promised her what would probably be a gourmet meal, she did not want to celebrate her birthday with Bob Kelly. She needed nothing—any book she wanted she got as stock for her store, read it, and then it put on the sales floor. She needed nothing material, like jewelry or furniture.

If she was honest with herself, besides her parents and Angelica, there were only two people on the planet she would care to spend her special day with: her grandmother, who’d been dead for over twenty years, and . . . Christopher . . . neither of whom was available.