Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

Tricia couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. Okay, it wasn’t right for someone to nearly kill someone, no matter what the circumstances, but to wish the victim had died was appalling.

“Maybe when Angelica has finished with her book tour, you might want to think about finding another job somewhere else,” Tricia suggested.

“I’ve been trying to get more hours at my other job—I waitress at a much fancier joint at night—but things have been slow, which is why I took the job at Booked for Lunch. I like the hours, and the tips aren’t bad, either. But I’ll probably only stay through the summer. I don’t want to be on the road all that much come winter. I’m thinking of heading south again.”

“Is that where you’re originally from?” Tricia asked, then wanted to smack herself in the head. If she wanted to end this conversation, she’d have to stop asking questions.

Darcy shook her head. “Massachusetts. I came to New Hampshire because a boyfriend of mine lived here. Boy, that was a mistake.”

“Yes, well—I don’t want to hold you up,” Tricia said, hoping she could put an end to their unwanted chat.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of time. No one’s going to be waiting up for me,” Darcy said, and laughed.

Tricia could see why. “Well, I really must get going. It was great to see you.”

“Yeah, you, too,” Darcy said, and finally pushed her cart forward. “See you.”

Tricia exhaled a breath, grateful to be rid of Darcy, and turned her attention back to the mixes on the shelf in front of her. Maybe she’d try one for lemon squares. She had to admit, despite the garish color, Mrs. Roth’s lemon bars had tasted pretty good. If she made them from a mix, and they turned out well, she could put them out for the customers—which is what she should have done with the muffins she and Angelica had baked the night before.

She tossed the box into her cart and headed down the aisle. When she got to the end, she could see the parking lot through the big windows at the front of the store. And out in the parking lot, standing by his junky pickup truck, was Russ Smith.

Tricia felt the blood drain from her face. So much for telling herself she wasn’t afraid of Russ. The thing was, on the drive to the store, she’d kept looking in the rearview mirror, checking to make sure he hadn’t followed her. And now—there he was. Or was it just that after spending the better part of a year with her, he knew her habits? She often shopped on Sunday evenings after closing Haven’t Got a Clue. No matter, there he was, and Tricia felt trapped.

She thought about her options. Confronting him—not a good idea; what if he became violent?—and calling for help. The problem was, calling for help meant calling some other male friend, and right now that amounted to Mr. Everett, who was hardly a threat to Russ, or Bob Kelly—who was in the hospital under suicide watch—not a good candidate to play knight in shining armor. That left . . . Grant Baker . . . and it was likely his presence would only infuriate Russ, making the situation even more precarious.

A woman pushed her grocery cart around Tricia, who realized she must have been blocking the aisle for more than a minute. Another cart approached. “Are you okay, Tricia?” Darcy Gebhard asked. She looked from Tricia to the parking lot beyond. “Is that geeky guy with the glasses bothering you?”

“I’m afraid he is.”

Darcy looked back at Russ. “He’s the editor of the local weekly, isn’t he?”

Tricia nodded.

“I’m just about finished here. Let me check out my stuff, and then I’ll go have a talk with him,” Darcy said.

“No, don’t. Until yesterday, I would’ve said he wasn’t violent. I can’t say that anymore.”

“Yeah, I heard he slugged an off-duty sheriff’s deputy in the Bookshelf Diner last night.”

“Word gets around.”

“And how.” Darcy patted Tricia’s arm. “Don’t worry, honey. As a waitress, I’ve defused this kind of situation lots of times.”

Tricia didn’t believe that for a moment, especially after what happened at the diner the day Jake bugged out early—but she hung back and waited, cell phone in hand, really to punch in 9-1-1 as Darcy pushed her cart of groceries out of the store and toward Russ.

She found herself gripping the cart’s handle as she watched and waited. Russ kept looking toward the store, listening as Darcy talked. Eventually he nodded, got into his truck, and drove off. Tricia abandoned her cart—and the box of lemon bar mix—and headed for the exit. Darcy met her halfway.

“What did you say to him?” Tricia asked, almost too anxious to hear the answer.

Darcy shrugged. “I asked him to think about the consequences of going to jail for longer than just a night. How it would affect his business. That it might drive away advertising. I’ve always found hitting people in their wallets works best—at least in most situations.”

“Thank you,” Tricia said, and she meant it.

“Glad I could be of help. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow when I bring over the café’s receipts.”

“Yeah. Thanks again, Darcy.”

“No problem,” she said.

This time, the phrase didn’t make Tricia cringe—much.

Tricia wasn’t sure if she should continue her shopping mission, but the truth was she needed at least the basics: coffee, milk, and cat food. She saw no sign of Russ in the grocery store’s parking lot, nor when she parked her car in Stoneham’s municipal lot. Tricia held her key ring in one hand, with the store key in her fist—ready to use it as a weapon if necessary. She wasn’t going to act like one of those loony heroines in a bad mystery who walked into a dark alley, an attic, or a basement where a bad guy was waiting in the shadows. If Russ came at her, she was ready. She got out of her car, grabbed her groceries, and looked around. Still no sign of Russ.

Tricia walked briskly toward Haven’t Got a Clue. It was only after she was inside the store with the door locked that the panic began to abate.

Miss Marple yawned and stretched, then jumped down from one of the readers’ nook’s chairs. “ Yow!” she said, with a what took you so long attitude.

“You don’t want to know,” Tricia told the cat.

She needed something to divert her attention, and the day’s events were certainly fodder for that, considering the three suspects in Jim’s murder: Bob, Frannie, and Mrs. Roth, none of whom seemed capable of murder.

Ah, but could one of them have hired someone to do their dirty work? And who?

Baker had hinted that Bob might not have had a squeaky clean past. But how would Mrs. Roth or Frannie connect with someone with a criminal background? It would have to be someone in Stoneham with a dubious background.

Then it came to her: Jake Masters. He was a felon convicted of attempted murder. Something Darcy had said earlier came back to Tricia: If he could almost beat a man to death, what else was Jake capable of doing?

As one of Angelica’s employees, Frannie had probably met Jake at least a couple of times. Ginny had quoted “hell hath no fury,” and Frannie was definitely a woman scorned.

And how about Mrs. Roth? Could she have run into Jake at Booked for Lunch, or had she gone to dinner with her gentleman friend at La Parisienne? That seemed the least likely scenario.

Tricia thought back to something she’d seen on Bob’s porch: a crushed cigarette butt. Jake smoked. Could he have had a reason to want Bob dead? He was loyal to Angelica, and she and Bob hadn’t been getting along all that well, but that was Bob’s fault—not that dealing with Angelica couldn’t get a bit aggravating. Still, could Jake have acted on his own, thinking he’d be doing Angelica a favor by getting rid of Bob? If so, why mess with the gas meter at History Repeats Itself? Bob spent hours alone at his realty office—and at his home, where the gas meter had been tampered with.