Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

And then Tricia stopped dead. Since she’d left Haven’t Got a Clue, a Kelly Realty FOR SALE sign had gone up in front of the empty lot where History Repeats Itself had been only four days before. Her fine-weather good feelings were instantly obliterated. Was it Jim Roth’s death due to a cigarette addiction, or the death of a building, that bothered her more? That structure had been a part of Stoneham during the good days and the bad—and it had been repurposed during the village’s current revitalization, outliving how many of its former owners and tenants.

Tricia turned away from the site and entered Haven’t Got a Clue. Ginny was at the cash desk, checking out a customer, while Mr. Everett helped someone in the back of the store. Tricia braved a smiled and joined Ginny, stowing her purchases behind the glass display case and bagging the books, adding a copy of the latest newsletter before handing the shopping bag to their customer. “Thanks for shopping with us,” she said, and let out a weary sigh as the customer exited the store.

“What’s wrong?” Ginny asked.

“Bob Kelly must be in a hurry to unload his empty lot.”

Ginny looked confused until Tricia pointed toward the large green sign across the street. “Oh, dear.”

Tricia shook herself. “I don’t want to think about it. In fact, let’s think of something much more pleasant. I made an appointment for you and me to go to the bank to talk to Billie Hanson today. She said she’d stay after closing, so we could go about one o’clock. I’ve already asked Mr. Everett to cover for us.”

Ginny looked away, her frown deepening. “Oh, well . . . I promised to have lunch with my friend Rhonda today. She’s only in town until tomorrow morning.” Ginny gave a nervous laugh. “She didn’t see any future in staying in Stoneham and moved away right out of high school. Maybe we could go to the bank on Monday or Tuesday?”

“Okay,” Tricia said, managing yet another counterfeit smile. “As soon as we have the figures, I’ll talk to my attorney about setting up a mortgage. You’ll want to consult your own attorney, as well.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about that.”

“You know I wouldn’t cheat you, but it would be in your best interest.”

“Yes, I suppose it would. I wonder what that would cost,” Ginny said, frowning.

“You do want to do this, don’t you?” Tricia asked.

“I’d be crazy to turn down an opportunity like this. Thousands of people across the country haven’t been so lucky.”

Then why are you dragging your feet on this? Tricia felt tempted to ask. Instead, she gave Ginny a hopeful smile. “Well, let me know when you’re available.”

Ginny’s return smile was halfhearted. “I will. Oh, I left my inventory sheets upstairs. I’d better go get them before they get lost.” And off she went.

Tricia frowned. The day had taken on a decidedly sour cast. First Jake, now Ginny.

Thinking of Jake reminded her about a call she needed to make. She picked up the old-fashioned receiver and dialed Captain Baker’s number. For once, she was glad voice mail picked up, directing her to another number should this be an emergency—yada, yada, yada. Finally, she got the beep to leave a message. “Grant, this is Tricia Miles. First of all, I apologize for last night. I didn’t mean to get testy with you. I let Bob Kelly’s bad mood influence my own, and that wasn’t fair to you.” Or me , she thought. “Could you give me a call? I kind of need a favor, too. Thanks.” She hung up the phone and wondered if she’d just made a big mistake.

Lunch, such as it was—yogurt again—came and went, and all too soon it was time for Tricia to head over to Livvie Roth’s little cottage.

As Tricia pulled up the drive, she was surprised to find stacks of cartons, along with large black plastic trash bags, at the curb. Jim had been dead not quite four days. Could his mother already be going through all of his belongings and throwing them away?

With trepidation Tricia opened the gate and entered the garden that was the front yard. Before she had a chance to climb the steps, the front door opened. “Tricia, dear. Thank you so much for coming,” Mrs. Roth said. “Won’t you come in?” Decked out in a pink floral housedress, Mrs. Roth had covered her head with a faded bandana. From the looks of her grubby hands, she’d been doing some serious cleaning.

Once again, Mrs. Roth gestured her to go ahead, and Tricia entered the little home’s living room, which had undergone quite a transformation. The tobacco-stained walls had been scrubbed. Gone were the military pictures that had once decorated them, replaced with still-life prints and oil paintings of roses, most of them in heavily gilded frames and in various sizes. The club chair and oversized plasma TV were also gone, replaced by a chintz-slipcovered love seat and chair. A white wicker table sat before them, with the silver tea set upon it. The ashtray was gone, and the side table, now doily covered, held Mrs. Roth’s library books and a milk glass bud vase with a single pink rose. A floor lamp sat close to the love seat, making a perfect little reading nook. Jim’s wartime display cases were gone, too, and in their place were little shelves filled with books and knickknacks—more of Mrs. Roth’s treasures.

“You’ve been redecorating,” Tricia said.

“Not really. I’ve just moved things around a bit.”

“You did this all yourself?”

“I had some help this morning,” she said, as evidenced by the two tea-stained cups still sitting on the silver tray.

Mrs. Roth gazed at one of the rose paintings and sighed. “I’m so glad I never threw these away. They’ve been in storage for ages. Aren’t they pretty?”

“Yes, very,” Tricia agreed.

Mrs. Roth studied Tricia’s face and frowned. “You must think me a terrible mother, erasing James’s presence so quickly. I can assure you, I haven’t done so entirely. It was quite painful, but I went through his things, weeded out what couldn’t be donated or sold, and kept those that were most dear to him. They’re in his bedroom, which I think I’ll keep as a shrine to remember him by.”

That was a little morbid, but Tricia did have to admit that with even these small changes, the house now seemed more like a home than a war museum.

“Did you know the booksellers rescued as many of the books as they could from Jim’s store?”

“Yes. A William Everett called to tell me that. He’s the one who brought the boxes of items for me to sort through. He could have tossed them in a Dumpster, for all I care.”

“They could be worth quite a bit of money.”

“I don’t have the means to sell them to the highest bidder. And sitting in a storage unit, they’ll just be another drain on my finances. I do wish someone had consulted me before they took that on.”

“I’m afraid that was my fault. I suggested they try to rescue them.”

Mrs. Roth’s lips pursed, but she didn’t comment.

“Would you consider donating them to a worthy charity?”

“Such as?”

“If nothing else, the Stoneham Library’s next used-book sale. Lois Kerr is always looking for donations.”

Mrs. Roth thought about it for a few moments. “That would be acceptable. Would you be willing to make the arrangements?”

“I’d be happy to.”

“Will you also pay the fee on the storage unit?”

Tricia hesitated, then forced a smile. “Of course.”

“I don’t want to keep you from your shop, dear,” Mrs. Roth said, and pointed to the cartons that were stacked along one wall. “Do be careful when you lift them. Some of them are quite heavy.”

She wasn’t kidding. Tricia struggled to pick up the top box, and carried it from the living room, through the kitchen, and into the attached garage. Mrs. Roth followed her like a puppy. “Where would you like me to put it?”