Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

They watched him as he left the silent conference room.

Nobody had mentioned Bob Kelly, or that he’d been conspicuous by his absence from the memorial service. He certainly hadn’t sounded unwell when Tricia had spoken to him earlier.

Tricia glanced at her watch. “We’d better go, too. I need to open the store in less than an hour.”

“I’ll see you there,” Mr. Everett said, and took Grace’s hand. He nodded a good-bye to Ginny, and Grace gave a halfhearted wave.

Ginny sighed. “I wonder if Frannie will show up at the Cookery.”

“Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I could sub for her today,” Ginny offered.

“But it’s your only day off.”

“I can use the money,” Ginny admitted. After all, she’d done it before. And Angelica wouldn’t be pleased if the Cookery lost a day’s revenue.

“Thanks, Ginny. I’ll walk with you to your car,” Tricia said, and picked up her own plate from the long, empty table. All that remained was the solitary pseudo-wedding cake, which hadn’t even been cut.

“Shouldn’t one of us take that picture of Jim?” Ginny asked.

Tricia glanced back at the giant, smiling picture of Jim, taken in happier times, that was still on the easel. “I don’t know anyone who’d want it. Not his mother—and at this point, I shouldn’t think Frannie would want it, either.”

The bright, warming sunshine was a stark difference from the gloom that had fallen inside the inn’s conference room. The flowering crabapple tree outside the entrance reminded Tricia that no matter what, life went on.

The parking lot was decidedly empty now that the mourners had left, and Tricia remembered her earlier conversation with a worried Eleanor. Could the inn really be shut down if they couldn’t find an investor?

“I’ll meet you at Haven’t Got a Clue. It’ll save time if I need to open the Cookery,” Ginny said, and headed for her car.

Tricia opened her car door, but before she could get inside, her cell phone chirped for attention. Since the car had been sitting in the hot sun, she stood outside it and took the call, recognizing Angelica’s number. “Hello.”

“Trish, are you still at the memorial service?”

“Just leaving. Boy, did you miss the fireworks. Chauncey Porter gave the eulogy, and then Jim’s mother burst in to refute everything Chauncey said—including the fact that Jim lied about his military career.”

“I always miss the good stuff,” Angelica said, but she didn’t sound all that enthralled.

“Where are you?” Tricia asked.

“In a parking lot in Bennington, Vermont. I’ve been trying to call Bob and still haven’t been able to reach him. Did he show up at the service?”

“As a matter of fact, he didn’t. But I spoke to him this morning. He said he wasn’t well, but I suspect he was more interested in making a buck.”

“Why?”

“Someone’s already bought the lot where History Repeats Itself used to be,” Tricia said.

“You’re kidding! Who’d want that?” Angelica asked. “The cost of redevelopment would be astronomical.”

“That’s what I thought. But don’t you think it bodes well for Stoneham?”

“I guess.”

“Aren’t you going to ask who bought it?” Tricia asked.

“Do I care?”

“A development company called Nigela Ricita Associates.”

“And that’s important because?” Angelica countered.

“Nobody’s ever heard of it. And guess what—the Brookview Inn might go up for sale.”

“You’re kidding!” Angelica sounded more interested in that tidbit. “But it’s always done so well.”

“Not lately, thanks to the construction across the street.”

“That’s too bad, but let’s get back to Bob. He’s not answering his home phone number, his cell, or the line at the realty office. Trish, I’m really getting worried.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not like Bob to ignore a call on his office phone.”

“Does he have caller ID? You said he’s been avoiding you.”

“Bob’s too cheap for caller ID.”

Suddenly, the sun didn’t feel quite so warm on Tricia’s back.

“Trish, will you please go over to Bob’s house and check up on him?”

“Ange!” Tricia protested, “I’ve got to open the store in less than an hour.”

“Bob only lives two blocks from your store. It’ll take you five minutes. Please? ”

Tricia sighed. “Oh, all right.”

“And call me when you get there,” Angelica pressed.

“Okay.” She remembered Frannie’s frantic and tearful exit from the service. “Um, you might want to give Frannie a call—to make sure she intends to open the Cookery this afternoon.”

“Why wouldn’t she open?”

“Mrs. Roth trashed not only her son, but Frannie, too. She said Jim had dumped Frannie just days before his death, and kind of hinted she might have killed him.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Frannie ran from the room in tears.” Tricia made a quick sweep of the nearly empty lot. “I suppose she might’ve gone home, if only just to change clothes. Uh, she was kind of dressed like a bride.”

“Why does everything juicy have to happen when I’m out of town?” Angelica demanded.

“But Captain Baker, who was also at the service, said he intended to talk to her.”

“Tell me more. On second thought—don’t. Get over to Bob’s. You can fill me in on everything else that happened later. Luckily, Sundays aren’t your busiest day at the shop.”

“What about your signing?”

“I don’t have to be there until one. There’s still time. Now get going to Bob’s.”

“All right,” Tricia said testily. “I’ll call you later.” And she folded her phone, tossing it into her purse. She got into the car, started it, and hit the air-conditioning button, then pulled out of the lot and headed for Bob’s house.

As usual for a Sunday morning in Stoneham, traffic was light, and as Angelica predicted, it took her only five minutes to arrive at Bob’s home, where she pulled up behind his car. The neighborhood looked half asleep. Only one of the neighbors was visible—a man mowing his lawn several houses away.

Tricia got out of her car, walked up the path, and climbed the steps to the porch. She rang the bell and waited. A bird called out from the bushes at the end of the porch. Tricia looked down and noticed a crushed cigarette butt lying next to one of the white plastic chairs. Bob didn’t smoke, and though he might have cheap lawn furniture, he kept the place neat and tidy.

Tricia frowned, glanced at her watch, and sighed. “Come on, Bob.” She pressed the bell again, heard the muffled chime from inside. The neighbor made another circuit around his yard, and the skin on the back of Tricia’s neck prickled. The broken window had been repaired, and she stepped over to peer inside.

Bob’s living room was a shambles. Furniture had been tipped over, books and papers lay scattered across the living room rug, and the pictures on the wall were askew. Tricia could see broken crockery in the hall leading to the kitchen. And on the far side of the room, lying in front of the fireplace, was a body—Bob.

Tricia rapped on the glass as hard as she dared. “Bob! Bob!” she called, but the figure on the rug did not move. She dived for the door handle and yanked at it, but of course it was locked.

She thought of Jim Roth—and how someone had messed with his gas meter—and what had happened when a spark ignited it.

She stepped away from the house, took out her cell phone, and punched in 9-1-1.

“I’d advise you to stand as far away from the house as possible, ma’am,” the dispatcher cautioned in as dispassionate a voice as Tricia had ever heard.