Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

“What’s going on?” Ginny asked suspiciously.

“Just a little surprise,” Tricia said, finding it hard to keep the Cheshire cat grin from her face. She pulled off the towel. “Voilà!”

Ginny leaned in close and scrutinized the plate. “What are they?” she asked, with the hint of a curled lip.

“Blueberry muffins,” Tricia answered, taken aback. I made them myself.”

Ginny bent lower to examine the “goodies.” She pointed to one of the colored protrusions. “Blueberry? Then what are those red things?”

“Well, they’re actually not blueberries. I didn’t have any, so I substituted Craisins.”

Ginny shot a look at Mr. Everett, whose eyes seemed unnaturally large in his wrinkled face. “And why are these . . . muffins . . . here?” Ginny asked with wariness.

“To sample. Frannie asked me to bring something to Jim’s wake tomorrow, and I figured I’d better do a trial run before then. I haven’t done all that much baking,” Tricia admitted.

Mr. Everett swallowed, looking like he’d just been goosed.

Tricia picked up one of the muffins. “Go on,” she urged, “try one.”

“Have you eaten any of them?”

“This is my first,” Tricia admitted. She wasn’t about to say only Miss Marple had done a taste test.

Ginny hesitated before plucking one of the muffins from the plate.

“Why don’t I pour the coffee?” Mr. Everett volunteered, and escaped to the other side of the coffee station.

Ginny stared at the muffin in her hand. “It feels a little damp.”

“They may have still been a bit warm when I put them in the microwave last night. I didn’t want Miss Marple to get into them.”

“I can see why,” Ginny said. She swallowed, closed her eyes, and bit into the muffin. She chewed, and chewed, and chewed, but didn’t seem to swallow.

Throwing caution to the wind, Tricia bit into her own muffin—and nearly gagged. She grabbed a napkin and spat the gummy mass into it. “Forgive me,” she said, embarrassed.

Ginny had stopped chewing. She’d opened her eyes, but they seemed stuck in a permanent wince.

“Oh, Ginny—get rid of it!” Tricia handed her assistant a handful of the paper napkins, and she, too, spat out what was left of the masticated muffin.

“That was dreadful,” Tricia admitted.

“Did you follow the recipe?” Ginny asked, her voice sounding strangled.

“Of course. Well, I did make a few substitutions,” Tricia admitted.

“Such as?”

“I used Craisins instead of blueberries, and I didn’t have any baking powder, so I used baking soda instead.”

Ginny shuddered, still grimacing, and smacked her lips.

“Quick, you’d better drink this,” Mr. Everett advised, handing Ginny her coffee mug. She gulped the hot brew, and gasped.

Tricia, too, took her coffee and downed a mouthful, hoping to obliterate the lingering taste of the muffin. They’d smelled delicious while baking—how had they mutated into such a vile-tasting, rubbery mass?

Tricia walked around the counter, grabbed the plate, and dumped the rest of the offending muffins into the trash. Mr. Everett and Ginny seemed to be looking anywhere but in Tricia’s direction. Thankfully, the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Tricia said, and hightailed it for the cash desk and the Art Deco phone. She picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue; this is Tricia. How may I help you?”

“Hello, Tricia, this is Livvie Roth—James’s mother. Am I calling at a bad time?”

“Not at all. What can I do for you?”

“You were so kind to help me the other day. I was wondering if you could spare me a few minutes today.”

“I’d be glad to. What do you need?”

“One of the booksellers brought over some boxes of memorabilia Jim had at the shop. I wanted to go through them to determine if anything was worth saving. I’ve done that now. Do you think you could help me move the cartons from the house into the garage? It would probably only take a few minutes.”

“I’d be glad to come over. Would this evening be all right?”

“Oh, dear. I’ve promised to have dinner with a friend.”

“That’s okay, I can make it this afternoon. How about two o’clock?”

“That would be fine. Thank you, dear. I’ll see you then. Good-bye.”

Tricia hung up the phone and frowned.

“Something wrong, Ms. Miles?” Mr. Everett asked.

“That was Jim Roth’s mother. She said a bookseller had brought some boxes of rescued items from Jim’s store. I thought everything had gone into the storage unit.”

“I took them over,” Mr. Everett admitted. “They were rather fragile fabric items, and I was worried they might be damaged.”

“That was very thoughtful of you.”

Ever too bashful to accept a compliment, Mr. Everett merely shrugged.

“Ginny and I have an errand to run later this afternoon. Would you mind taking care of Haven’t Got a Clue while we’re gone? It should only take an hour.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Thank you. And I have another favor to ask. Would you be open to helping out over at the Happy Domestic for an hour or so during lunch hour a couple of days a week? Since she lost her only employee, I’m afraid Deborah’s been pretty frazzled. Of course I’ll pay you for your time.”

Mr. Everett chewed his lip for a moment. “I could use the money.” He looked around to make sure Ginny was out of earshot. “I’m determined to repay Grace.”

Tricia’s frown returned. “Are you sure you want to make an issue of it? I believe she thought she’d be easing your financial burden.”

“ I believe a person should make their own way in this world. A man should provide for his family—not the other way around.”

Tricia wasn’t up to arguing about outdated chivalry, and she was glad she’d asked Ginny not to say anything about her refinanced mortgage. No doubt Mr. Everett wouldn’t approve of that, either.

“Have you spoken to Ms. Black about my helping out?” Mr. Everett asked.

“Not yet. I’ll let you know what she says and when she can use you.”

“Very good.”

The shop door opened and a lone customer entered. Mr. Everett perked up. “May I help you, sir?”

“Yes. I’m looking to fill several gaps in my collection.” The slight, older gent withdrew a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his sports shirt and handed it to Mr. Everett, who studied it for a moment.

“I believe we can help you with at least a few of these. Let me show you where you can find the John Dickson Carr titles.”

Tricia smiled after them, then happened to glance out the window. It was already after ten, and there was Jake Masters casually strolling down the sidewalk, heading for Booked for Lunch. He should’ve arrived long before this to start the soup of the day.

Tricia signaled to Ginny, who was refilling the sugar at the coffee station. “I’ve got to step out for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Ginny nodded, and returned to her task.

Tricia waited until it was safe and then crossed the street, intercepting Jake right outside Booked for Lunch. She could see Darcy inside, standing at the counter as she refilled saltshakers. Hands thrust into the pockets of his denim jacket, Jake halted in front of her.

“Shouldn’t you have been here long before now?” Tricia accused.

“We don’t open until eleven—I’ve got plenty of time to get things ready.”

“What about the soup?”

“Soup?” he asked, confused.

“Darcy says it needs to be started hours before Booked for Lunch opens. It’s the mainstay of Angelica’s menu.”

“Yeah, and I started it yesterday. It just needs to heat through. You got any other worries? You want to know how fine I dice the carrots or thin I slice the onions?”