Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

“My point exactly.” Tricia again thought about, and rejected, the idea of mentioning her suspicions about Jake. She and Angelica were actually getting along, and she didn’t want to spoil it.

Angelica chewed on her thumbnail. “We’ve got to build a case against Mrs. Roth.”

Tricia laughed. “And how are we supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know. You’re the one who reads all those mysteries.”

“And police procedurals,” Tricia added.

“Then, go to it!” Angelica cried, exasperated.

“I can’t. I have a business to run.”

“You have two employees who can take care of it while you take a few hours to help your friends stay out of prison.” Tricia shook her head doubtfully. “Look,” Angelica continued, “all you have to do is establish reasonable doubt.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I’ve watched a lot of TV shows about lawyers.”

“It’s not that easy,” Tricia countered.

“Frannie can help you. She’s got an entire spy network out there, thanks to her years working at the Chamber of Commerce.”

That was true. Hadn’t Frannie already told Tricia about Mrs. Roth booking a cruise with money she expected to receive from Jim’s insurance policy? “Okay, that’s a possibility. But I’ll look like a hypocrite if I hand Jim’s mother the money I’ve been collecting for her, and then have the police come after her as a murderer. And there’s no guarantee she is.”

“Reasonable doubt,” Angelica repeated again, “that’s all you have to establish.”

Suddenly, Tricia wished she had recently reread some Erle Stanley Gardner books. She was no Paul Drake, and Angelica was certainly no Della Street—let alone Perry Mason. She shook her head. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“And what if Mrs. Roth is the murderer, and you let either Bob or Frannie go to jail? Then how would you feel?”

Terrible. “All right. I’ll try to think of something.”

Angelica let out a pent-up breath and reached out to touch Tricia’s arm. “Thank you.”

Tricia gave her sister a weak smile. She had the feeling she was going to find it much harder to fall asleep the next time her head hit the pillow.

Tricia awoke to low-hanging clouds heavy with rain, leaving her feeling depressed and anxious about Russ, about Bob, about just about everything. The weatherman’s prediction for more of the same didn’t lift her spirits, either, causing her to worry even more about Angelica going back on the road that morning.

Four miles on the treadmill, a shower, and coffee later, Tricia packed up Angelica’s coffee cake and she and Miss Marple went down the stairs. Miss Marple was ready to start work, and looked puzzled as Tricia grabbed her umbrella and raincoat from a peg at the back of the store before she deposited the coffee cake on the coffee station’s counter and started for the door. “I’ve got an errand to run,” she told the cat. “Mind the store while I’m gone.”

Miss Marple just blinked as Tricia pulled the door closed behind her.

Tricia decided to walk the two blocks to Bob’s house, figuring that parking at the curb in front would only bring attention to her and her mission.

Without a backward glance, she marched up the walk in front of Bob’s house and quietly climbed the steps to his porch, hoping not to alert Bob to her presence.

So far, so good.

She swept her gaze along the gray-painted wooden floor, but didn’t see the cigarette butt that had been there days before. Rats! Had Bob taken a broom to the porch? Tricia peered around the wicker love seat and chairs, wishing the day had been brighter. She was about to give up when she saw the butt in the far left corner. It must’ve been kicked or blown there.

Relieved, she withdrew a small pair of tweezers and a plastic snack bag from her slacks pocket. She sealed the bag and pulled a marker from her other pocket, writing a large numeral 1 on the bag. She blew on the ink to make sure it had dried before stowing the bag in her left pocket.

Her heart was pounding as she descended the stairs and started to purposefully walk back down to the street, fighting the urge to break into a run. But no one seemed to have seen her, and no one challenged her.

Within minutes, Tricia was back on Main Street, and turned for the alley that ran behind the west side of Stoneham’s main thoroughfare. She’d never walked that way before, and took note of how shabby the backs of the stores looked. Behind each building stood one or two Dumpsters, and Tricia’s fingers tightened around the handle of her umbrella as she approached the rear of Booked for Lunch. Had it only been eight months ago she’d found the body of her former college roommate in a garbage tote behind Angelica’s café?

She put that image out of her mind and concentrated on her task. Sure enough, the concrete apron outside the café was littered with soggy cigarette butts. She withdrew the tweezers and the second snack bag from her pocket, snagged a couple of sample butts, and sealed the bag’s zip lock. Stuffing the bag into her pocket, she decided to wait until she got back to Haven’t Got a Clue to compare the butts.

The damage to the back of the Armchair Tourist was evident from where she stood. As Chauncey had said, the back of his store was boarded over with plywood. She wondered if he’d find a large puddle in the back of his store when he opened for the day.

The concrete slab behind the now-empty lot was pitted and cracked, no doubt from debris that had hit after the explosion. It was eerie to look up and see gray sky where less than a week before a building had stood.

Although the rubble had been cleared, the ground was left uneven with potholes filled with rainwater. It wouldn’t be smart to cut through, but Tricia decided not to retrace her steps. That would take her back to the north end of Main Street, and Russ’s office. Instead, she continued south until she reached the end of the block, crossed the street, and doubled back to Haven’t Got a Clue with more than half an hour to spare before opening.

After hanging up her coat and soggy umbrella, Tricia headed for the cash desk and the old-fashioned phone that sat upon it. But before she dialed Captain Baker’s number, she placed the plastic bags containing the cigarette butts on the counter for a comparison. They were exact matches. Of course, she wasn’t sure if all cigarettes had the same filters and paper casings. That would be up to a trained investigator to decide. In the meantime, she had collected evidence that might put a killer in jail. Could there be anything more satisfying than to help see justice done?

Tricia picked up the receiver and dialed, and was surprised when Baker answered on the third ring.

“Grant? It’s Tricia Miles. I have a theory about who killed Jim Roth.”

“Oh?” he said, sounding mildly interested. His boss, Sheriff Wendy Adams, had never been this polite when Tricia had offered her views or suggestions in a criminal investigation.

“Now, don’t laugh—but what would you say the possibility was that one of the suspects hired someone to get rid of Jim Roth?”

A long silence followed that statement. For a moment, Tricia thought the line might have gone dead. Finally, Baker spoke. “Why would you think that?”

“They all seem to have alibis.”

“Seem to have?” Baker repeated.

Had the captain already figured out that Angelica had fudged about Frannie’s alibi? She decided to ignore that possibility and plunged on. “If Bob Kelly, Frannie Armstrong, or Livvie Roth didn’t kill Jim Roth, then someone else had to have done it.”

“That makes sense,” he said reasonably, if not enthusiastically.