Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

Tricia left Ginny to help Angelica’s fans while she readied the cash register and made sure the tape in the credit card machine was full. After that, she rang up the sale of Angelica’s cookbooks while Ginny bagged them. Neither of them spoke until after the women had left the shop.

“Can I put this cutout somewhere else?” Ginny asked. “Having Angelica looking over my shoulder all day will drive me nuts.”

“That’s what Frannie said. She put it outside. But someone keeps doing stuff to it.”

“Stuff?”

“Dressing it up. Putting goofy glasses on it. If you put it outside, try to catch whoever is messing with it before they deface it.”

Ginny shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

“Oh, gosh, I promised Ange I’d buy a copy of her book. I’d better do that now,” Tricia said, and grabbed a copy.

“Better take one of the unsigned ones,” Ginny advised. “If customers are actually traveling to Stoneham to get them, we want to keep them happy.”

“You’re right. Ange can always sign mine later,” Tricia said. Ginny handed her a copy of the book from a box behind the counter. Tricia paid for it, gave Ginny a good-bye nod, and headed back for her own store.

Though she hadn’t really expected Frannie to show up for work, she had hoped she’d get a call. Once back inside Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia checked for messages, but there were none. It was time to consult Angelica’s emergency phone list once again.

Leaving Mr. Everett and Miss Marple in charge, Tricia headed for her loft to call Frannie. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to share with her customers.

Tricia settled on one of the kitchen’s island stools, and punched in Frannie’s number. She answered on the second ring. “Hello?” It was more of a question than a greeting.

“Frannie? It’s Tricia. I was calling to see if you’re all right.”

“No. But. . . . Oh, dear, I didn’t open the Cookery. Oh, Tricia, I’m so sorry. And I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’ve just been too upset,” Frannie said, and from her wobbly voice, it sounded like she’d been crying. Tricia got up and wandered into her living room, thanking those who followed Alexander Graham Bell for inventing the wireless phone.

“It’s okay. Ginny can cover for you for a few hours. Do you think you’ll be able to make it in later today?”

“Nooooo.” Frannie started crying again.

“It’s okay,” Tricia said at least five times before she could get Frannie to answer again. “Ginny’s willing to stay until closing. Do you think you’ll make it in tomorrow?”

Tricia heard the sound of Frannie blowing her nose—loudly—several times. “I’ll try.”

Tricia sighed. Perhaps that was the best she could expect right now. “Do you need company?” she asked, desperately hoping the answer was no. She really needed to attend to her own store.

“Thank you, but no. Penny and I will be okay.” Penny was Frannie’s orange-and-white cat.

Tricia moved into her bedroom, and stopped at the bank of windows that overlooked Main Street. “Maybe I could bring you something later—from the Bookshelf Diner?”

“Oh, no, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’m just so embarrassed. And to make it worse, Captain Baker followed me home from the Brookview after Jim’s . . . wake . . . and practically interrogated me. I think he actually believes I might’ve killed Jim. Me! I loved him. You have to believe me!” And Frannie started crying again.

Tricia cast about, desperate to find something to say to distract Frannie. Her gaze landed on the sign across the street. “Uh, did you know a development company bought the empty lot across the street?” Tricia asked. She wasn’t about to mention the name of Frannie’s dead lover’s store.

Frannie sniffed. “No. But I haven’t had time to think of much of anything, what with everything else that’s going on.”

“It was bought by a development company by the name of Nigela Ricita Associates.”

Frannie sniffed again. “I’ve heard that name before.”

“Oh?”

“But I can’t remember where.”

“Well, if you think of it, please let me know.”

Frannie blew her nose again.

“Do you think you’ll be in to work at the Cookery tomorrow?” Tricia asked again.

“I may have to wear a bag over my head but, yes, I’ll be there bright and early.”

“Thank you. I’ll be here at the store for the rest of the day, and have no plans for the evening, so if you need someone to talk to—”

“Thank you, Tricia. You’re a good friend.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tricia said, added a good-bye, and pushed down the phone’s rest buttons. There was another phone call she needed to make. She glanced at her watch. Angelica’s signing was for one o’clock, and it wasn’t yet one thirty. She’d still be tied up. And was it a good idea to tell her about Bob when she had more driving to do later in the day? Learning about Bob’s hospitalization might be too distracting.

Tricia hung up the receiver and decided to put off being the bearer of bad news. After all, there was probably nothing Angelica could do for Bob. And her attentions of late hadn’t been all that welcome. Then again, Tricia could just leave a message telling Angelica she’d checked up on Bob and would call later. That way Angelica wouldn’t worry, at least not too much, and would be able to carry on with her day’s agenda. Tricia picked up the receiver once more and dialed.

With that chore out of the way, she returned to Haven’t Got a Clue.

Booked for Lunch stayed open an extra hour on Sundays, and Tricia anticipated another visit from Darcy with the café’s cash and receipts, so she was surprised when it was Jake who showed up at her door a little after four that afternoon. Clearly, he didn’t want to be there, and tossed the blue bank bag onto the cash desk. “Here you go, Toots.”

Toots?

“Where’s Darcy?” Tricia asked.

“She had other things to do. Like I do,” he said, and turned for the door.

“Wait—what other things?”

He paused. “How would I know? I’m not her keeper. And you’re not mine.”

“Jake, please. We need to get along while Angelica’s gone.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Let me rephrase that. It’s in our best interests to get along while Angelica is gone.”

“If you say so.” Jake opened the door, and the bell’s cheerful tinkle made quite a contrast with the man’s sullen demeanor. He let the door slam shut behind him.

“Oh, dear,” Mr. Everett said. Tricia hadn’t seen him approach from the side shelves. “He certainly is a disagreeable person.”

“Yes, and we may have to put up with him until Angelica finishes her book tour.”

“How long is that?”

Tricia sighed. Another three weeks.”

“Oh, dear,” Mr. Everett said again, shook his head, and went back to straightening the bookshelves.

An hour later, Tricia tallied up the day’s results. Though they hadn’t been terribly busy, between them, Tricia and Mr. Everett had sold fourteen books during the four-plus hours they’d been open, none of them from the discount shelf and five of them by Agatha Christie.

Tricia turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED while Mr. Everett finished the last of his dusting. “Another good day,” he said, returning his lamb’s wool duster to the storage area in the back of the store.

“Not bad for a Sunday,” Tricia agreed. “Do you have any plans for the evening?”

“Grace wanted to go out to dinner, but now that the Brookview isn’t serving on weekends. . . .” He didn’t look brokenhearted, and Tricia suspected it meant one less disagreement about money—and who should pay for what.