Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

Did repeated disagreements over money give Mrs. Roth a motive for murder? No, Tricia refused to believe that little old lady could hurt a fly, let alone kill her only child—and her only living relative. At least, not in such a violent manner.

Not when poisoned lemon bars could do the trick.

“I know what you’re thinking, Tricia, and you’re wrong. Mrs. Roth is not a nice person. She kept Jim under her thumb his entire life. Until he started his own business, he never really had a life.”

“Where did he get the money to open History Repeats Itself?”

Frannie exhaled a deep breath. “His mother.”

“So she was one of his creditors?”

“His biggest,” Frannie sheepishly admitted.

“Then why didn’t she bail him out? Keeping the store afloat would’ve been in her best interest.”

“Not as long as I was in the picture. Jim as much as said so.”

Or was that what Frannie wanted to believe?

“I wonder if I should give Captain Baker a call and tell him about that insurance policy,” Frannie said.

Tricia swallowed. “If you feel you must.”

Frannie nodded, and changed the subject—for which Tricia was truly grateful. “I heard from Angelica. She’s very worried about Bob. She wants me to offer to help him with whatever he might need. I haven’t so far. He’d turn me down flat.”

“You worked closely with him for over ten years,” Tricia pointed out. “Angelica probably thinks you can read his mind.”

“Sometimes I believed I could. But we were hardly friends. And I can’t say I hold any warm feelings for him after the way he treated me at my job at the Chamber. And especially after the threats he made against Jim.”

“Threats?” Tricia asked.

Frannie’s cheeks colored. “I didn’t mean physical threats—but to evict him from his store. That probably would’ve killed Jim in itself,” she said bitterly.

“Then you don’t think he’s responsible for Jim’s death?”

“Of course not. Bob never dirties his hands on anything. And he definitely wouldn’t do anything where he might actually get hurt, like cause an explosion. He used to whine when he got a paper cut, so second-degree burns must’ve really put a twist in his boxers.”

“Did Captain Baker ask you about Bob?”

Frannie nodded. “Of course.”

“Did you tell him everything you just told me?”

“Maybe not everything,” Frannie admitted. “If he thinks Bob might’ve killed Jim, then he won’t be considering me as a suspect.”

Until that moment, Tricia wouldn’t have thought so, either. But now . . . she wasn’t so sure.

Once Frannie had left, Tricia emptied her cash register, counted the day’s receipts, and put the receipts from Booked for Lunch into the sack along with those from the Cookery. Should she do bookwork, or have a bite to eat and read for a couple of hours? Yes, she had Julia Spencer-Fleming’s new Clare Fergusson mystery sitting on her nightstand, just begging to be started. She stowed the money in the safe under the cash desk and spun the lock, intending to take care of it in the morning.

“Come on, Miss Marple—we can always do the paperwork in the morning, right?”

Miss Marple rose and stretched, then jumped down from the shelf behind the cash desk, where she’d spent the bulk of her day. Tricia was heading for the stairs that led to her loft when the phone rang. She wasn’t going to answer it, but then considered that it might be Angelica calling, and headed back for the cash desk and picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue—”

“Tricia? It’s Russ. I was just listening to my police scanner—”

Tricia winced. His scanner had been the main reason for the lack of a reconciliation between them. Okay, him dumping her had been the main reason—but it had been her main reason for not missing him all that much.

“There’s a break-in in progress at Bob Kelly’s house,” he continued. “Are you interested?”

“Am I!”

“Lock up and meet me in the municipal parking lot.” The line went silent. Tricia slammed the phone down, grabbed her keys and sweater. “Sorry, Miss Marple, but dinner will be a little late tonight.”

Tricia flew for the exit, fumbled with the lock, then yanked the door shut behind her. Up ahead, Russ was already dashing across Main Street, heading for the municipal lot, and she jogged up the sidewalk, wishing she’d had time to change into running shoes.

Russ had already started his truck by the time Tricia caught up and jumped into the passenger seat. Her teeth nearly rattled as Russ shoved the vehicle in gear and took off with a squeal of tires. “Why are you so interested in Bob’s house being broken into?” she asked.

“So far he’s the only viable suspect in the Roth murder. And if it wasn’t him—” The pickup rounded the corner at a dangerous speed.

“You think the real killer’s going after Bob?” Tricia asked.

“It’s possible. Either that, or Bob’s just a wuss scared by what happened and is taking no chances.”

“How do you know it was Bob who called in?”

“I don’t.”

Bob’s house loomed into view. Every light—inside and out—seemed to be switched on. Bob, clad in boxers and a T-shirt, stood on his front porch, shotgun in hand, looking down the darkened road. Behind him, a window gaped, its glass missing.

Russ’s truck bounced to a halt at the curb. He opened his door and jumped out, with Tricia only seconds behind him.

“Did you see him?” Bob shouted.

“See who?”

“Someone was trying to break into my house.” Bob pointed north. “He ran in that direction.”

“Are you sure it was a guy?” Russ asked.

Bob hesitated. “Pretty sure.”

“Are you okay?” Tricia asked.

Bob nodded. He had removed his bandages, and the skin on his arms was tight, red, and shiny. Beads of sweat covered his forehead, and he seemed to wince every time he moved.

They all turned as the sound of a wailing police siren broke the twilight calm. “Better late than never,” Bob groused.

A Sheriff’s Department cruiser rounded the corner and screeched to a halt just inches from Russ’s bumper, arriving much quicker than the average twenty minutes the Dexter twins had mentioned in their pitch for a Stoneham police force. Captain Baker bounded out of the vehicle, his hand resting on his open pistol holster. “What’s going on?”

“The bad guy got away,” Tricia said, crossing her arms to ward off the encroaching night’s chill.

“Someone tried to break into my house,” Bob said, indicating the broken window.

Several of Bob’s neighbors had turned on their porch lights, and a few of them had gathered on their lawns to see what the trouble was.

“How tall was he? What was he wearing?” Baker asked.

“I couldn’t say how tall. Jeans and a black leather jacket. A black motorcycle helmet, too.”

Russ, pen in hand, was madly scribbling in his steno notebook.

“But you said he took off on foot?” Baker looked at all of them. “Did you hear a motorcycle start up?”

They all shook their heads. “I’m going to call it in,” Baker said, and headed back to his cruiser.

“I’m going to talk to the neighbors,” Russ said, and took off at a trot.

Bob had taken a seat on one of the white wicker chairs on his porch. His upper lip was beaded with sweat. Tricia couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. “Is there anything I can do for you, Bob?”

“No! And I wish everybody would stop asking me that. If I wanted help, I’d ask.”

Tricia’s mouth dropped in shock.

Bob looked panicky. “I’m sorry, Tricia. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. It’s just—” He sighed. “Please don’t tell Angelica. About this attempted break-in or that I yelled at you. She’s not very happy with me right now, and I don’t want to make her even angrier.”