Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

She pawed through the papers to find Angelica’s list of emergency numbers and came across Darcy’s phone number. She dialed it, but there was no answer—not even voice mail.

She glanced at the clock. By now Jake would be at his second job at La Parisienne in Nashua. Unless that was a fabrication, too. But, no, Captain Baker confirmed he worked there. She was getting herself all shook up and confused. She looked up that number on Angelica’s list and dialed.

“La Parisienne, this is Patty. We have a one-hour wait for seating. Can I take your reservation?”

“Patty? My name is Tricia Miles. I’m a friend of the sous-chef—Jake Masters—” That was a bald-faced lie. “I need to speak to him—it’s an emergency.”

“Kitchen help can’t take calls during working hours. Let me take your number, and Jake can return your call on his break.”

“Did you hear me—this is an emergency! Someone’s life could be at stake. Now, please let me talk to Jake.”

Patty exhaled an impatient breath. “Hold on.”

Tricia heard the thud of the phone being put down. In the background she could hear the buzz of voices in the tiny, crowded dining room.

The minutes ticked by. Finally, Jake came on the phone. “Hello?”

“Jake, it’s Tricia Miles—”

“Are you trying to get me fired? We’re up to our armpits in customers, and—”

“What’s going on with Darcy?”

“Look, I’m going to hang up—”

“Jake, I think she might be out to get Angelica. Did she tell you what her car was in the shop for?”

There was a pause, and again Tricia could hear La Parisienne’s patrons in the background—laughing, the clinking of glasses and silverware. “She said she hit a guardrail. The front end was out of alignment. She also had a big dent in the right front quarter panel, but was going to get that fixed another time.” That was consistent with Angelica’s description.

“What was with that shipment of chicken that was delivered last Thursday? Angelica didn’t know anything about it.”

“Ahhh,” he groaned, which didn’t sound encouraging. “The thing is . . . there was no shipment. Darcy and the deliveryman split the money.”

“Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”

“I don’t know you. I was waiting for Angelica to come back.”

“You have her number. You could’ve called her.”

“Look, now wasn’t the time to rat on Darcy over a couple hundred bucks’ worth of chicken. I mean—we need her right now to keep the place open while Angelica’s on her book tour.” He said the words “book tour” as though it was a frivolous waste of time. “Believe me, I’ve documented everything Darcy’s done. I’m sure you noticed I’ve brought over the receipts for the past two days. I saw her being light-fingered with the till—and pocketing some of the receipts. I need that job. I don’t want to see Booked for Lunch close because of that stinking little bitch’s gambling debts.”

Gambling debts! Frannie suspected Jim had met some little hussy at a Gamblers Anonymous meeting in Nashua. Darcy lived in Nashua.

“Jake, tell me everything you know about Darcy. I think she’s already killed one man. She may be after Angelica, too. I need your help to keep my sister safe.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Tricia.”

“Did she know Jim Roth, the man killed in the explosion last week?”

“Of course. We’d see him outside the shop when he’d take his smoke breaks.”

“Does Darcy smoke?”

“Same brand as me.”

Maybe those cigarette butts might still come in handy—Tricia was glad she hadn’t yet tossed them. But she still had other questions that needed answering. “Did Angelica leave a copy of her itinerary with you at the café?”

“Sure, but—”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

Jake hesitated. “I don’t remember. Friday—maybe Saturday. I can’t be sure.”

Darcy had been adamant about leaving work on time— time enough to race around half of New England chasing after Angelica? Slashing her tires? Smashing her headlights? Keying the paint on her car? Why? Had Bob refused to dump Angelica for Darcy?

“I’ve got Darcy’s number,” Jake said. “I’ll give her a call, but I don’t think—”

“I’ve already tried calling her. There was no answer. I called the bookstore where Angelica was signing, but she’d already left for home. Bob Kelly went off to intercept her, but there’s a lot of highway between Woodstock, Vermont, and Stoneham.”

“Call the Sheriff’s Department. Don’t you have a friend on the force?”

“I’ve already got a call in to Captain Baker, but so far he hasn’t gotten back to me.”

“Call the dispatcher. He or she should be able to track him down, especially if he’s the lead investigator on the Roth homicide.”

Damn! Why hadn’t Tricia thought of that?

“I’ll do it right now.”

“And I’ll make a few calls to see what I can find out—and hope like hell I don’t lose my job over this.”

“Will you call me back?”

“Give me your number.” He took it down and hung up—with no good-bye, no nothing. Tricia wasn’t about to berate him on his phone etiquette, and instead punched in 9-1-1.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you shouldn’t be calling Emergency Services to track down a member of the Sheriff’s Department,” the 9-1-1 operator said.

“But this is an emergency! Who else am I supposed to call at a time like this?” Tricia tried to explain for the third time.

“Misuse of an emergency—”

“Oh, never mind,” Tricia said and flipped her phone shut.

There was only one thing to do—try to intercept Angelica along the way.

And what if Angelica had deviated from her Mapquest printout?

Tricia grabbed her purse and keys and headed for the door. She ran to the municipal parking lot, but with every step she thought better of her haphazard plan. There were hundreds of miles of highway between where Angelica might be and where Tricia was now. The old finding-a-needle-in-a-haystack analogy fit this situation perfectly. And Tricia had promised Captain Baker she would not put herself in harm’s way. The logical thing to do was to stay put, be available by phone, and hope and pray Angelica would be okay.

Tricia turned and started back for Haven’t Got a Clue. She’d make a big pot of coffee. Maybe she’d call Deborah to wait with her . . . not that Deborah could get away. Her husband probably wouldn’t want to forgo a Red Sox game to watch the baby. She could call Ginny, but she might still be with Antonio Barbero, and if she was, wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted.

Thank goodness for Miss Marple. She’d been a true companion through some of the lowest times of Tricia’s life.

As she slowly walked back to her store, Tricia sorted through her keys, pausing in front of the Cookery. Something caught her eye, and she looked at the door. The little CLOSED sign that hung on a chain was gently swinging—as though someone had just looked out the blind-covered window.

But no one should be inside the Cookery.

Tricia had last seen Frannie at the convenience store. She’d probably gotten a ride back into the village, and if so, her home, not the Cookery, would’ve been her destination. She had no reason to be inside the store at this hour.

Angelica’s car was not in the parking lot, and Tricia and Frannie were the only other people who had the keys to the Cookery.

Don’t put yourself in harm’s way .

Tricia opened her phone, dialed Captain Baker’s number once more, and listened to it ring and ring and ring before voice mail kicked in. She waited for the tone. “Grant, it’s Tricia. Please call me back on my cell phone as soon as possible. Please!”