Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

Tricia knocked on the door. Stationed at the cash desk, Frannie looked up, gave her a wave, and rounded the counter to open the door. “Hi, Tricia, what brings you over so early?” The words were cheerful, but her expression was anything but. Frannie’s eyes were swollen and bloodshot, no doubt from crying. And she wore her least cheerful aloha shirt—the black one with the solemn white calla lilies. Someone had once told Tricia the calla lily was a flower of death. Despite that, it was still her favorite.

Frannie didn’t look like she needed another problem, but Tricia’s first loyalty was to her sister. “Was there something you forgot to do yesterday?”

Frannie frowned, her brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t think so.”

Tricia nodded toward the register.

“Oh, my goodness! I was supposed to give you yesterday’s receipts, wasn’t I?”

Tricia nodded.

“I’m so sorry. I locked them in the safe last night, and then just opened as usual this morning. Does Angelica know?”

“She did ask.”

Frannie winced. “Am I in big trouble?”

Tricia shook her head. “No. But could you have them separated for me this evening? I’ll need to go to the bank tomorrow.”

“But won’t Angelica be back on Friday?”

“Next Friday, but I don’t think she’ll have time to do much of anything, besides laundry, before she has to go back on the road. It’s going to be a rough month, I’m afraid—for her and for us.” By “us,” she also meant Darcy and Jake. “I take it you haven’t heard from Angelica? She did say she was going to call this morning.”

“The phone hasn’t rung yet.”

Hmm. Angelica had said her car would be ready by nine. Perhaps she’d forgotten . . . .

Tricia jerked a thumb behind her, toward the door. “What happened to the cutout of Angelica?”

Frannie managed a laugh. “That’s how I found it when I went to bring it in last night. Someone thought it was funny, I guess. But Angelica’s book does feature some Tex-Mex and Mexican recipes, so I thought I’d just leave it as is. Do you want me to take them off now?”

Tricia sighed. “I wouldn’t want it to offend anyone.”

“Ah, good idea,” Frannie said. “As soon as I get a chance, I’ll put it back the way it was. But maybe I’ll take a picture of it first,” she said, with just the hint of mirth in her eyes.

“How’re the plans for the memorial service going?” Tricia asked.

“Fine. I’ve booked the conference room at the Brookside Inn. Did you know they’re in financial trouble? They’ve shut down the restaurant—at least part of the time.”

“I hope you’re kidding,” Tricia said, remembering many fine meals she’d eaten there, and the excellent room service when she’d stayed at the inn prior to moving into her loft.

Frannie shook her head. “Nope.”

“But where will we have our Chamber breakfasts?”

“They’ll have to go back to the Bookshelf Diner, I guess.” Which they both knew was really too small to accommodate the entire group.

“I convinced the inn to let us bring in the food for Jim’s send-off, but they’ll supply the tables, chairs, and linens and let us make coffee and tea. Of course, I had to sign a waiver in case anyone gets sick so the inn can’t be sued, but I’m not worried about that. I’ve already asked Nikki Brimfield, and she said she’d bring a cake and maybe some fresh Danish. Do you think you could bring something—maybe a coffee cake?”

Tricia bake? “Um . . . sure.” She’d have to see if she could order something from Nikki’s Patisserie. She hadn’t actually baked anything since earning her Girl Scout cooking badge way too many years before. “What time?”

“Ten. I asked Bob Kelly to speak, since he knew Jim the best—except for me, of course, but I don’t think that would be fitting. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, I—”

“But Bob turned me down flat. I don’t understand it. I know he was angry about Jim’s back rent, and now he’s lost his building—but insurance should cover that.”

What was the value of a historic building in the middle of a thriving business section, Tricia wondered.

“So who’s going to speak?”

“I’ve asked Chauncey Porter from the Armchair Tourist. He used to talk to Jim at Chamber meetings, and they were next-door neighbors.”

“Did he agree?”

Frannie nodded. “And he said he’d call all the other Chamber members to see if anyone had anecdotes. I’m afraid anything I’d have to say wouldn’t be appropriate.” For a brief second Frannie smiled, and then her eyes filled with tears. She grabbed a tissue from the box behind the counter. “I can’t believe I’ll never see Jim again.”

The shop door opened, and a couple of middle-aged women entered the Cookery. Frannie turned away, struggling to regain her composure. She cleared her throat, opened her eyes wide, and plastered on a grin that would frighten a circus clown. “Welcome to the Cookery. Please let me know if you need any help.” Her voice was high and tight, and for a moment Tricia was afraid the customers would flee. But then they turned and escaped to the anonymity of the parallel bookshelves.

“I’d better get going. I’ll see you tonight, right?” Tricia said.

“Yes, of course.” The phone rang, and Frannie picked it up. “The Cookery, Frannie speaking. How may I help you?”

Tricia gave a wave as she exited the shop and headed for her own store.

She walked slowly, remembering she hadn’t yet called her attorney to talk about setting up a new mortgage for Ginny. She also wondered what Mr. Everett would think when he heard she was helping Ginny. Would he see it as favoritism, or perhaps expect some kind of equal treatment?

Tricia unlocked Haven’t Got a Clue, turning the sign on the door to OPEN. Miss Marple jumped down from her vigil on the readers’ nook’s large, square coffee table and trotted across the shop to join her, jumping onto the display case’s glass top. “ Yow, ” she announced.

“You said a mouthful,” Tricia agreed as she petted the cat.

The door rattled, and Ginny entered. “Sorry I’m late,” she called, and then looked at the clock, which said nine fifty-eight. “Almost late,” she amended.

“You’re just in time,” Tricia said. “I was about to call my attorney about the mortgage.”

Ginny stood there, mouth open, and then shook herself. “Good idea. Um, I have to get my apron,” she said, and scooted for the back of the store.

“Yow!” Miss Marple exclaimed.

Again Tricia petted the cat. “No, she didn’t seem very enthusiastic.” Tricia shrugged it off. Maybe Ginny had had a bad night. The door opened once more, letting in the day’s first customer. Ginny was still tying her apron, and intercepted the man before Tricia had a chance to greet him. It was just as well, as a Sheriff’s Department cruiser slowed in front of Haven’t Got a Clue, then pulled into an empty space in front of the Cookery. Captain Baker got out and looked toward what was left of History Repeats Itself before he turned back and walked toward Tricia’s store.

“Well, well, well. Looks like we’re about to have company,” Tricia told the cat. Miss Marple just yawned. Tricia moved from behind the counter to stand in front of the big display window as she waited for Baker.

The little bell over the door tinkled cheerfully as Captain Baker entered, but his expression was anything but happy.

Tricia straightened—so much that her spine hurt. “What can I do for you today, Captain?”

“You could call me Grant,” he said, removing his flat-brimmed hat. “You did for a while there.”

The rod up her spine seemed to grow in girth. “Yes, well, times were different then, weren’t they?” Why did she have to sound so . . . prissy?