Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

“I’m collecting money to help out Jim’s elderly mother. She’s all alone, and she depended on Jim’s income.”

“Oh, dear,” Nikki said, and finished filling the box. She tucked in the lid and then grabbed a piece of string from the holder that hung from the ceiling. With a few quick moves, she tied the box and broke the string, pushing the box toward Tricia, who already had her wallet out. She handed Nikki a ten.

Nikki rang up the sale, handed Tricia the change, and then she dipped back into the cash drawer and withdrew Tricia’s ten, handing it back to her. “This is for Jim.”

“Thank you. Would you like to sign the card?”

“Sure.” Nikki took the card, scribbled her name and the Patisserie on it, and handed it back to Tricia.

“I hope you’ll make it to the gathering on Sunday at the Brookview.”

“I wouldn’t miss it—even if it is my only day off,” Nikki said. “Besides, I have to deliver and set up the cake that Frannie ordered.”

Tricia frowned. Set up a cake? That sounded pretty elaborate for a memorial service, but she decided not to question it. “I’ll see you there. And thank you for helping Mrs. Roth.”

“Not a problem,” Nikki said cheerfully, and missed Tricia’s wince at that expression.

Tricia made one more stop, at Have a Heart, the home of used and out-of-print romance novels, where the owner, Joyce Widman, made yet another ten-dollar donation to the cause.

Tricia tiptoed past the Cookery, grateful Frannie was fully occupied. It wasn’t likely she would want to contribute to Mrs. Roth’s fund, and Tricia wasn’t sure how she was going to break the news to her that she’d been collecting for someone Frannie considered an archenemy.

Feet dragging, Tricia made it back to Haven’t Got a Clue. Ginny had gone to lunch, and Mr. Everett was helping a customer when Tricia stowed the collected money and signed card under the cash drawer, deciding she’d call the last three prospects on her list. If they were interested in donating, she’d make a point to get over to collect the cash. If they weren’t . . . .

Tricia timed her call to the Stoneham Weekly News for when she knew Russ would be out to lunch. She’d let his office manager/stringer/custodian pass along the news. She tried Bob’s realty office, and wasn’t surprised to get his answering machine. She left a message, but didn’t expect a reply. Bob wasn’t likely to contribute to a fund for Mrs. Roth when her son had owed him thousands of dollars in back rent, although maybe there was a chance he’d forgive that bad debt and not go after the estate to collect it. Then again, Bob hadn’t become the most successful businessman in Stoneham by being softhearted.

Ever efficient, Betsy Dittmeyer, secretary/receptionist at the Chamber of Commerce, answered the phone on the second ring. “Hi, Betsy. It’s Tricia Miles from Haven’t Got a Clue. I’m collecting money for Jim Roth’s elderly mother. As Jim was a Chamber member—”

“He was not,” Betsy said, her voice hard.

“I beg your pardon?” Tricia asked.

“Mr. Roth failed to pay his dues in January. At the time of his death, he was not a member of the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce.”

“Oh, well—”

“May I remind you that the Chamber is not a charity, and we don’t make donations frivolously.”

“I believe Jim was the first bookseller to join the Chamber. He was a member in good standing for at least four years. Doesn’t that make a difference?”

“As I said, the Chamber is not a charity. Rules are rules .”

If Frannie was still the face of the Chamber, she wouldn’t have been so coldhearted. She would have found some way to find the funds. Then again, Frannie hated Jim’s mother and would probably be upset if she’d been asked to do so.

Goodness, what a tangled web . . . .

It was with relief that Tricia put down the phone and went back to the business of bookselling. As she rang up yet another sale, she noted the titles and decided the day was turning out to be some kind of Travis McGee love fest. She’d already sold five or six copies of John D. MacDonald’s most popular books. That the author had been dead at least two decades was a testament to the popularity of his writing. She made a mental note to check the storeroom for more copies of his work, and would do it once Ginny got back from her lunch break.

“Thanks for shopping with us,” she told her customer, and handed her the sturdy paper shopping bag. Before the woman made it out the door, the phone rang. Tricia picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How can I—?”

“Tricia, this is Frannie. Did you tell that guy from the Sheriff’s Department about Jim and me?”

Oh, dear. “Um . . . it may have come up in conversation. Why?”

“He came into the store a couple of hours ago. I’ve been so busy, this is the first chance I’ve had to call and ask you about it.” And, from the sound of it, she’d been stewing about it ever since.

“I’m sorry, Frannie. He asked me to tell him everything I knew about Jim. You wouldn’t have wanted me to lie, would you?”

“Of course not. But did you have to volunteer that piece of information?”

“Yes, I did. But I also told him you’re practically chained to the store, and that I didn’t believe for a moment you were capable of hurting anyone.”

“You’re darn right.” Tricia heard the bell over the Cookery’s door go off. “Gotta go,” Frannie said, and hung up.

No sooner had Tricia put the receiver down than the phone rang again. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia, how—?”

“Jake’s already left for the day,” Darcy cried. “I’m all alone with a bunch of customers screaming for their food!”

Tricia glanced at the clock. “But it’s only one thirty. Booked for Lunch is open until at least two.”

“I know. What do I do? I can’t cook and wait on tables. If you can come over and take care of customers, I think I can handle the food for half an hour. Will you? Please, Tricia, please!”

Tricia glanced around her store filled with customers. Ginny was still at lunch, but luckily Mr. Everett was working that afternoon. She sighed. “I’ll be right over.” It took all her self-control not to slam the phone into its cradle. Damn that Jake!

“Another emergency over at Booked for Lunch?” Mr. Everett guessed.

“It doesn’t seem to stop.”

“Go on. We’ll be fine,” he assured her.

Tricia ditched her Haven’t Got a Clue name tag and headed for the door. “I’ll be back when I can.”

No wonder Darcy was in a panic—the café was packed. As soon as Tricia entered, Darcy practically threw her order pad at Tricia and fled into the kitchen.

Tricia made a quick circuit around the dining room, verifying orders and refilling coffee cups. The patrons’ mood was impatient, but no one seemed on the verge of exploding into a rage—yet. Tricia pushed open the double doors to the kitchen. “What can I do?”

Wielding a wicked-looking knife, Darcy sliced a lettuce-filled sandwich in half, tossed a pickle spear and a handful of chips onto the plate, and shoved it forward on the counter, where it joined another sandwich-filled plate. “These are for table four.” She plunged a ladle into a large pot of soup. “We usually serve the soup first, but I need to be in Nashua by three—let’s get these people fed and out of here!”

Tricia eased the bowls and plates onto a large plastic tray, hefted it, and backed out of the kitchen—and straight into one of the disgruntled customers. The tray went flying, sending scalding soup, bread, lettuce, tuna, and pastrami sailing into the air to splatter the walls and floor.