Lorna Barrett: Chapter & Hearse

Angelica closed the zipper on her large, shocking pink, Pierre Cardin suitcase. A mere nine hours after her scare at the hospital, the skin under her left eye was puffy, but makeup had done a good job of covering the purple bruise.

Tricia had shown up early on her sister’s doorstep, still worried about what had happened the night before. “I think you should reconsider going.”

Angelica placed her hands on her hips and frowned. “Every time the subject of my book tour comes up, you give me the impression you don’t approve.”

Tricia crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t think my opinion would be well received.”

“By who? Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“You think I’m wasting my time?” Angelica asked, and checked the zippered pocket of her makeup case.

Tricia didn’t answer.

Angelica raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe you’re jealous.”

“Jealous? Of what?”

“That I’m published and you’re not.”

Tricia’s mouth dropped. “I’ve never aspired to be published. I’m perfectly happy selling other people’s books.”

Angelica raised the other eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really. Really great authors.”

“Then you must be moping about next week.”

“Me, mope? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You’re upset because Mother and Daddy canceled their trip to visit in time for your birthday.”

“I am not.” Of course she was, but she hadn’t been surprised by their announcement the previous week, either. No, they’d come back from wintering in Rio in time for Angelica’s birthday, but for more years than Tricia could count, they’d been unavailable for Tricia’s natal day. Their father had often traveled for business during Tricia’s childhood, and their mother had volunteered for a number of charities. More than once her birthday celebration had been rescheduled to suit other people’s convenience. This year was to be no different.

“I told you,” Angelica continued, “when my book tour is over, I’ll bake you a cake, fix a nice dinner, and the three of us will celebrate your birthday.”

“The three of us?” Tricia asked.

“Sure, you, me, and Bob.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Of course it is.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I really don’t want to celebrate my birthday with your boyfriend.”

Angelica glared at her, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Tricia felt her cheeks grow hot. Angelica could have protested at least a little bit.

“Getting back to the subject at hand,” Angelica said, hauling her suitcase from the bed and heading for the door and the stairs that led to the Cookery below. Tricia picked up the other two suitcases and followed. Angelica never traveled light. “Why do you think this book tour is such a bad idea?”

“I didn’t say it was a bad idea. I just wonder if it’s a fiscally prudent idea. You’ve got your hands full with the Cookery and Booked for Lunch. The publicist you hired costs more than your advance—”

“That may be,” Angelica interrupted, “but she also arranged all these lovely book signings. And I’m going to be on the radio and interviewed on some cable access channels, too.”

“But will you ever see a royalty check? You sell a lot of hardcover remainders at the Cookery—which tells me there are an awful lot of cookbooks out there that the authors never see a dime from. You’re making only a couple of bucks per book. Your gas alone on this book tour will wipe out any potential profit.”

Angelica turned and paused. “Listen, Paula Deen didn’t start out with an award-winning TV show and a monthly magazine—she started with one cookbook. I’ve got to get my name out there if I’m ever going to reach her level of success.”

Tricia controlled the urge to scream. Nobody in the Miles family had ever had an ego as big as Angelica’s. Where had she acquired it? Maybe she was adopted and nobody had told Tricia—or the rest of the family. If she took a few hairs from Angelica’s brush, maybe she could have her DNA checked.

“Actually, after what happened at the hospital last night—” Tricia began.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was a stupid accident. Nothing is going to stop me from taking this trip.” And with that, Angelica took the larger of the suitcases Tricia held, stuffed it and the bigger case in the dumbwaiter, closed the door, and sent it to the Cookery below. “Now, I’ll try to call the store and the café at least a couple of times a day, but if Frannie or Jake or Darcy needs direction, I’ve told them to come to you. Okay?”

“I don’t know what good I’m going to be to Jake or Darcy, but—okay.”

“I’ve e-mailed you a copy of my itinerary and a list of emergency numbers.”

“Emergency numbers?” Tricia repeated.

“My employees’ home numbers, my agent, my editor—”

Why not the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker, too? Tricia thought.

“Frannie and Darcy will bring the day’s receipts over to you after closing. You will take them to the bank with your own deposits, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Tricia said, and sighed. They’d been over this at least a dozen times.

“And I want you to do everything you can to help Bob. I can’t be here for him this week, and he’s going to need someone to cheer him up.”

“Angelica—I have a business to run. And now you want me to run both of yours, too?”

“My employees can handle most things that come up, but they still might need some guidance. And you’ve said so yourself; Ginny is the best assistant in all of Stoneham. I’m sure she can handle anything that comes up on your end, too. Besides, I’ll only be gone a few days.”

“And be back a day or so before you take off again.”

Angelica shrugged. “That’s the price of success.” With a wave of her hand, she ushered Tricia to take the stairs, then turned, locked her apartment door, and started after her sister.

After helping Angelica load her car, Tricia waved good-bye and returned to Haven’t Got a Clue. Miss Marple waited behind the door and immediately scolded Tricia for leaving her alone. “You’re getting as snarky as Angelica,” Tricia warned the cat. She raised the blinds and was once again confronted with the gaping hole across the street, what had once been History Repeats Itself. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the slight breeze. A man had died in what was now just the shell of a building.

Miss Marple jumped onto the shelf in front of the display window and meowed for attention. Tricia absently petted the cat and tried to remember the last time she’d actually spoken to Jim Roth. It must have been months earlier at a Chamber of Commerce breakfast meeting. They’d compared notes about their stores’ holiday receipts. Haven’t Got a Clue not only had held its own but had done exceptional business, but Jim’s store hadn’t been as fortunate. Like many of the shop owners, he’d kept his expenses to a minimum—hiring no staff. Tricia often wondered if that contributed to the decline of a business. Working alone, could an owner get so burned out he’d lose the passion that inspired him to become an entrepreneur in the first place?

The shop door opened and Ginny barreled in. “Morning!” Since her breakup with her boyfriend, she’d been on time to work every day, and often, like today, she’d come in early to share a cup of coffee and trade village gossip with Tricia. She was vivacious, the customers loved her, and Tricia was fond of her, as well.

“Is the coffee on?” Ginny asked, heading for the coffee station.

“I didn’t get around to making it. I had to make sure Angelica got off all right.”