Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

“Come Wednesday, we will not have a pity party. Maybe I’ll buy a precooked lobster and one of Nikki’s mini cakes. You like lobster and frosting,” Tricia told Miss Marple, who agreed by purring.

“Then it’s decided,” Tricia said, with just the slightest catch in her voice. The plan sounded good—but she had a feeling that despite her resolve, a pity party might still be on the agenda. She would just have to resist the temptation.

The door rattled and Angelica returned, clutching a battered and discolored metal sifter that had obviously seen heavy use. “Look, Trish, it belonged to Grandma Miles,” she said, handing it over.

Tricia examined the sifter and smiled, remembering how she’d watched her grandmother use it when making cakes.

“I want you to have it,” Angelica said.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Tricia said and tried to hand the sifter back. “I know how much it means to you.”

Angelica refused to take it. “You don’t know how much it means to me to know you’re interested in baking. I want to encourage that in you.”

Tricia swallowed a lump in her throat and gazed at the worn red wooden handle. “Thank you, Ange. This is the nicest gift you could have given me.” A sentiment she would not have believed five minutes earlier.

Angelica beamed. “Let’s get to baking!”

And for the first time in her adult life, Tricia enjoyed it.

Tricia was up early the next morning, but when she called to wish Angelica a safe trip, she found her sister had already hit the road for her next round of book signings.

After her usual stint on the treadmill, a leisurely shower, and a cup of coffee, Tricia gathered her purse and the plate of big, beautiful muffins covered in plastic wrap, and headed down to Haven’t Got a Clue, with Miss Marple following her. Although it was only nine thirty, she decided to get to Jim Roth’s wake early, figuring Frannie might need help to get things set up. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” she told the cat, backed out the door, and locked it.

As she turned around, Tricia saw a SALE PENDING sticker had been plastered across the Kelly Realty FOR SALE sign. She turned right around, unlocked the door, and reentered Haven’t Got a Clue. Miss Marple still sat where Tricia had left her mere seconds before, and gazed at Tricia quizzically.

“I know, I know—but I’ve got to make a call,” she said, put her purse and the muffins on the counter, picked up the receiver, and dialed the old-fashioned rotary phone.

Bob Kelly answered on the fourth ring. “Hello,” he barked.

Tricia put on her sunniest voice. “Hi, Bob, it’s Tricia. I thought I’d give you a call to see how you’re feeling.”

“Fine,” he said succinctly.

“Do you need anything?” Tricia asked.

“No, thank you.” The man was positively infuriating.

“Will you be coming to Jim Roth’s memorial service this morning?”

“No. I’m not feeling well.”

He’d just said he was feeling fine. Tricia plowed ahead. “I see you’ve put a Sale Pending sign up on the lot on Main Street. I’m surprised it sold so fast. You put the For Sale sign up only yesterday. That was rather quick, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Tricia ground her teeth to keep her anger from seething. “Do you mind if I ask who bought it?”

“Some development company. I never heard of them before.”

“And they are?”

He sighed. “An outfit called Nigela Ricita Associates. Their representative contacted me last night. They want to sign the paperwork as soon as possible.”

“Sounds like a woman-owned business,” Tricia said.

“I don’t care who owns it, just as long as they pay me so I can dump the property. I don’t want to be associated with it.”

“Why not? It wasn’t your fault someone tampered with the gas meter.” She decided to push in the knife—just a little. “Was it?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you being so coy about what you were doing at History Repeats Itself the night of the explosion?”

“I’m not being coy. I was there to collect the rent. Period.”

“And did Jim pay you?”

“We hadn’t gotten that far.”

“Witnesses put you at the store for some time before the explosion.”

“What witnesses?” Bob demanded.

Okay, just one witness—Ginny. But Tricia wasn’t about to tell him that. “You’ll have to ask Captain Baker about that. But, come on, Bob, you know that keeping mum on what you were doing there just makes you look bad. You can’t afford a tarnished reputation.”

“My reputation is sterling.”

“Well, it won’t stay that way if it looks like you have something to hide.”

“This conversation is going nowhere,” Bob said. “Goodbye, Tricia.” Tricia heard a click, and then the line went dead. She replaced the receiver in its cradle.

“Yow!” Miss Marple said.

“Yes, he is being a big pill! I don’t know how Angelica can stand him.”

“Brrrrp!” Miss Marple agreed.

Tricia glanced at her watch. If she was lucky, she could make it to the inn in time for the . . . service? That didn’t seem the right word. Perhaps celebration of Jim’s life was a better description. “You’re in charge, Miss Marple,” she told the cat, collected her purse and the muffins once again, and struck out for the Brookview Inn.

It was exactly nine fifty-five when Tricia pulled into the Brookview Inn’s already full parking lot. Parked in a tow-away zone was a Sheriff’s Department cruiser. Had Captain Baker decided to attend the gathering—or had he sent one of his underlings to scope out the mourners?

There was one vehicle parked in the lot that Tricia had hoped she wouldn’t see: Russ’s junky old pickup truck. She’d been right: he’d made bail. I am not going to let his presence bother me. I won’t , Tricia told herself, but she didn’t feel all that confident. Still, perhaps he wouldn’t behave like a horse’s ass at what was supposed to be a solemn occasion.

Tricia grabbed the plate of muffins, closed the car door, and walked around to the front of the inn. The Robert Paige Memorial Dialysis Center was under construction across the street. The lovely, peaceful woods had been bulldozed, and only the bones of the new building stood in the morning sunshine. It was hard to believe the gutted landscape would ever look like the attractive architectural drawing on the sign out front.

As Tricia walked up the flagstone path that led to the inn’s entrance, she noticed there were no flowers. The previous spring, pink begonias had welcomed the inn’s visitors. No window boxes full of geraniums brightened the long porch, and it looked like the paint was beginning to peel along some of the clapboards.

Tricia entered the lobby and headed for the reception desk. Thankfully, everything around her looked as lovely as usual, and she could hear the buzz of voices coming from the conference room.

“Tricia, it’s good to see you,” called Eleanor, the inn’s receptionist. “It’s been too long.”

“Yes, it has. I’ve been busy. I thought I’d stop and say hello before I joined the rest of the group.” Gosh, that made it sound like she was attending some kind of business meeting—not a memorial.

“It’s terrible about poor Mr. Roth,” Eleanor said. “I didn’t know him well, but we spoke sometimes when he’d arrive early for Chamber meetings.” Eleanor leaned in. “Although sad as the occasion is, we’re happy to have the business. Things haven’t been good lately. Bookings are down. We’re seeing less trade in the dining room. We’ve had to let one of the maids go, and even the weekend sous-chef. That’s why we’ve dropped our Sunday breakfast buffet.”