Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

No wonder they had allowed Frannie to bring food to Jim’s wake. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Tricia said sympathetically.

“There’s even talk the inn may go up for sale,” Eleanor said with a catch in her voice.

Tricia’s mouth dropped. “I had no idea things were this bad.”

Eleanor nodded. “In the past, we’ve been able to weather these things—but this time. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Stoneham without the Brookview Inn? The thought was too painful to contemplate. “Can’t you hang on until the new dialysis center is built?” Tricia asked.

“It’s one of the reasons we’re doing so badly. The construction is very noisy. Guests come to the inn for peace and quiet. The sound of cement mixers and dump trucks starting at seven in the morning has been a real turnoff for our guests. The construction is due to last all summer and into the fall. The only saving grace is they don’t work weekends. To add another nail in the inn’s coffin, there’s talk a low-cost motel chain is interested in buying the Full Moon Nudist Camp to build a hundred-unit structure.”

“Do you think they’d sell the camp? I mean, after all the hoops they jumped through to develop that property?”

“Money talks,” Eleanor said. “If a motel is built, it would absolutely kill us.”

Tricia shook her head. “There will always be people interested in more than just low cost when it comes to travel. And I’ve heard there’s a developer looking into buying properties here in Stoneham,” she said. “Maybe they’d be interested in investing in the inn.”

“I hadn’t heard about that,” Eleanor said. “I’ll mention it to my boss. Do you know the name of the developer?”

“Nigela Ricita Associates, but I don’t know how you’d contact them.”

“Don’t worry—I’ll find out. Thanks for the tip.” Eleanor leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Did you hear the latest? The convenience store up by the highway sold the winning Powerball lottery ticket, and the prize was twenty million dollars.”

“That’s terrific news. Maybe that’ll bring some welcome relief to the local economy. Who won?” Tricia asked.

“I hope it’s me—but my tickets are at home. I’ll have to wait until my lunch break to check them.”

“Good luck,” Tricia said, giving Eleanor a thumbs-up.

Eleanor smiled hopefully, and waved a hand in the direction of the inn’s large conference room. “You can go straight in.”

Tricia nodded and headed in that direction. The murmur of voices grew louder as she approached. Since the parking lot had been full, she guessed it had been filled with Jim’s friends and not the inn’s guests. Clutching her plate of muffins, Tricia entered the conference room. A large easel stood just inside the door with a poster-sized print of Jim’s smiling face set up to greet the mourners. Talk about disconcerting! Her gaze immediately zeroed in on Russ. He didn’t notice her, since he was busy talking with Joyce Widman from the romance bookstore and jotting notes in his ever-present steno notebook. The puffy mouse below his left eye was an off-putting shade of purple. Served him right for being such a jerk the night before. Now, if he would just behave himself during the next hour—and not cross paths with Captain Baker.

Dressed in civvies, Baker stood at the sidelines along with a uniformed Deputy Henderson, watching the crowd. Had Baker brought along backup in case Russ stepped out of line? Baker caught sight of Tricia and nodded in her direction, but his face remained impassive. She acknowledged him, too, then caught sight of the elderly Dexter twins, again dressed identically—this time somber black dresses, dark hose, and dark shoes. They wore little pillbox hats with veils that had been popular nearly fifty years before. Could they have known Jim Roth, or were they looking for more signatures for their petition? Tricia looked closer, and sure enough, Midge was holding her clipboard. How rude of them to crash Jim’s memorial. Then again, what better place to make their case?

Tricia stepped over to the refreshment table to drop off her contribution. The assembled pastries, muffins, and fruit trays rivaled the best the inn had ever offered. But the pièce de résistance was the multilayered cake frosted in pastel yellow. It looked like . . . a wedding cake, complete with basket weave design, plastic pillars supporting each layer, and a fresh flower garnish. The only thing missing was the bride and groom topper.

Several sprays of flowers stood to one side. Tricia checked the cards. Several booksellers had gone in on each, and the bouquet of yellow roses from the staff at Haven’t Got a Clue was simple yet dignified. Conspicuously absent was an official remembrance from the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. Did that mean Frannie’s replacement wasn’t on top of things, or that because of her “rules are rules” attitude, she—and Bob Kelly—had withheld such a gesture out of pure spite?

The room was quite crowded, with knots of people Tricia didn’t know. They didn’t seem to be mingling with the other booksellers and Chamber members. Most of the booksellers had little time for social lives. Perhaps they were friends of Jim’s from out of town.

Tricia caught sight of her friend Deborah Black, clad in a floral dress made tight by the fact that she hadn’t quite lost all of her pregnancy weight. Tricia waggled her fingers in a wave, and Deborah broke away from the group she’d been chatting with, meeting Tricia halfway. “Good turnout, huh?” she said.

“Yes. Jim would’ve been proud,” Tricia agreed.

Deborah searched the faces in the room. “Is Angelica coming?”

“No, she had to go back on the road promoting her book. She should be back on Friday.”

“Good. I’ve ordered ten copies of her cookbook, and I’d like to have her sign them for my customers.”

“I’m sure she’d love to.”

Deborah nodded in the direction of the crowd she’d just left. “What’s with Frannie and that outfit?”

Had Frannie attended the wake in her usual dark slacks and a colorful aloha shirt? Tricia craned her neck, but all she could see was the back of Frannie’s dark head.

“I know black is no longer a funeral requirement, but surely that outfit she’s wearing is more appropriate for a wedding—in fact, more suited for the mature bride.”

Tricia frowned. Frannie had hoped to be Jim’s bride. She wouldn’t have worn—she couldn’t . . . .

She had.

Frannie stepped away from the others, revealing white shoes and a white linen dress with a pink carnation pinned to the lapel of the matching jacket.

“And did you get a load of that cake?” Deborah said under her breath.

Tricia braved a smile. “It’s lovely.”

“I’ll bet it’s white cake under that frosting,” Deborah muttered. “What’s going on?”

“I really don’t know,” Tricia lied.

“And what’s he doing here?” Deborah asked.

Tricia followed her gaze to Captain Baker, who now stood alone at the side of the room. Since she’d entered the room, he’d lost the deputy and acquired a glass of punch and a plate of pastries. He looked uncomfortable. Was he off duty, or just trying to blend in with the crowd?

Tricia looked away. “I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation the other day, and I’ve got a business proposition for you, Deb.”

“That sounds interesting,” Deborah said, her eyes widening with interest.

“You’re really stressed out—”

“And how,” Deborah agreed.

“I wondered if you’d like to borrow Mr. Everett for a few hours now and then. He’d be more than willing to spell you during lunch, or if you wanted to catch up on your paperwork.”