Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

“Do you know when Roth ran the last one?”

Tricia shook her head. “My employee, Ginny, might. It seemed like she always entered. Do you think that could have had something to do with Jim’s death?”

“Right now I’m open to any possibility.” Baker drained his cup, got up, and tossed it into one of the park’s trash cans.

Tricia stood to follow him.

“You’ve been very helpful, Tricia.”

“If someone deliberately tampered with Jim’s gas meter, I want you to catch whoever did it.”

“Yes,” Baker agreed. “There’s always a chance Mr. Roth might not be the killer’s only victim.”

Ginny waited behind the door of Haven’t Got a Clue. “Well, well?” she asked as Tricia entered.

“Well, what?”

“Captain Baker took you for coffee. Was it a date? Are you two getting back together?” she asked excitedly.

“It was not a date. Captain Baker was on duty. We talked about Jim’s death. And I now know more about explosions than I ever cared to.”

“Bummer,” Ginny said, her shoulders slumping.

“Miss,” came a voice from the cash desk. “I’m ready to check out now.”

Tricia pushed up her sweater sleeves and headed for the register. The customer had made some good choices. Tess Gerritsen and P.D. James. As Tricia placed the customer’s twenty into the cash drawer, she caught sight of Grace’s check meant for Mrs. Roth. Jim’s memorial was only two days away. If Tricia was going to solicit funds for his aged mother, she’d have to get started.

She bid her customer good-bye, told Ginny her plan, and struck out with her list of Chamber of Commerce members. Her first stop: the Armchair Tourist.

Chauncey Porter had been the second or third bookseller to come to Stoneham, and though Tricia had once loved to travel—before she owned a bookstore and was now unable to leave it for more than a day or so—she couldn’t understand how Chauncey had kept afloat selling old atlases, maps, and Fodor guides. Or was it books by the likes of Bill Bryson, who mixed travel with observations on life, that sold the most? After all, the name of the store was the Armchair Tourist. Then again, it was probably Chauncey’s amazing ability to spin a yarn and keep an audience entertained. He’d be perfect for reminding the mourners at Sunday’s gathering what a great guy Jim was.

The Armchair Tourist was located next to what had been History Repeats Itself, and Tricia wondered how it had fared during and after the explosion. The crime scene tape was now gone, and she opened the door, greeted by the sound of an annoying buzz, not as friendly as the little bell that tinkled when a customer entered Haven’t Got a Clue. Chauncey, a portly gent with a full head of white hair and somewhere on the high side of sixty, sat behind the main counter on a padded stool. He turned his gaze to check out his visitor, peering over the tops of his reading glasses. “Ah, Miss Tricia, always lovely to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Chauncey. How’s business?”

Chauncey looked around his empty shop. “Fair to middling. Of course, it didn’t help that I lost a full day while they dismantled History Repeats Itself. But I suppose it could have been a lot worse.”

Tricia looked around, but didn’t see much in the way of damage. “Everything looks fine.”

“It does, now. When they finally let me in yesterday, I found all the bookshelves against the south wall had toppled. Worse, I lost most of my back outside wall—and quite a bit of inventory. It’s boarded over until the insurance company figures out what the settlement will be. Thank goodness I never let my insurance lapse when times were even leaner.” He looked around his shop, which was not graced with customers. “Business will pick up once the children are out of school and their families go on vacation.”

Tricia nodded. “I wish I could say I’m just here to visit, but I’m afraid it’s on a more serious note.”

“Yes, I wondered when you might come ’round to visit. I understand you’re collecting for Jim Roth’s elderly mother.”

Word certainly got around. “Do you know her?”

“As a matter of fact, I met her only last week. She came in looking for information on Caribbean cruises. As it happened, I had just the book for her. A little dated, but the basic information is still viable. And I told her about my very first cruise—to the Greek Islands. It was back in seventy-eight, when I was a tour guide. There was this gaggle of giggling nuns who—”

“Yes, yes,” Tricia interrupted, hoping to stave off an entire review of his decades-old vacation. “I wish I could hear all about it, but I really must—”

“I completely understand, my dear.” Chauncey pushed a button on his cash register, and the drawer popped open. He pulled out a crisp ten-dollar bill and handed it to Tricia. “I’m sorry it couldn’t be more, but with the way business is—”

Tricia added the money to her envelope. “I’m pleased you’re willing to help Mrs. Roth. I’m sure she’ll be grateful, as well.”

“Glad to be of help.”

“I’ve got a card to sign,” she said, and handed it to Chauncey. He read the sparse lines of text, and then picked out a pen from a holder on the counter, signing his name, and that of his shop, with a flourish before handing it back to Tricia.

“Will you be at the memorial service on Sunday?” Tricia asked.

“Miss Frannie has asked me to give the eulogy.”

Oops! Tricia had forgotten that. “Then I’ll see you there,” she said, and sketched a wave.

Chauncey gave Tricia a smile and a return wave, and resumed his reading as she backed out the door.

One down, more than ten to go. It was going to be a long morning.

Tricia visited all the shops on the west side of Main Street, save for the Happy Domestic, which seemed to be inundated with customers. She’d try that later. The morning was quickly evaporating, so she also skipped the Stoneham Weekly News , the Chamber of Commerce office, and Kelly Realty. She’d catch up with them later.

Crossing the street, she made the Stoneham Patisserie her next stop on her whirlwind charity tour of Stoneham. So far, the standard donation was ten dollars. She’d thought the other Chamber members would have been more generous—but then she was hesitant to judge. She didn’t know what difficulties they were experiencing nor what their bottom lines could stand to lose.

Tricia entered Stoneham’s only bakery, inhaling deeply of the aroma of fresh-baked bread, which was almost strong enough to lift her off her feet. Nikki Brimfield, the Patisserie’s owner, gave Tricia a quick wave as she finished waiting on a customer, and Tricia turned her attention to the delights in Nikki’s glass showcases. She was an artist with a pastry bag: cupcakes that looked like frogs—for boys?—and sunflowers—for girls and their moms. Scones, apple turnovers, chocolate and coconut cakes, and at least ten different kinds of cookies were enough to keep anyone chained to their treadmills and exercise bikes for the rest of their lives.

Nikki bid her customer adieu and turned to Tricia. “Great to see you, Trish. What can I get you today? Raspberry thumbprint cookies? Chocolate chips? Our oatmeal raisin cookies are made with whole wheat flour—extra good for you.”

“How about a dozen—four of each of those you mentioned?”

“Coming right up.” Nikki took a partially put together bakery box from a stack on the shelf.

“We haven’t had a chance to speak since History Repeats Itself blew up the other night,” Tricia said.

“Wasn’t that awful? Poor Jim,” Nikki said, grabbing a piece of baker’s tissue and placing four oatmeal cookies into the box.