Lorna Barrett - Chapter & Hearse

“I don’t think you’ll shoot me,” Tricia bluffed, keeping her voice level, but her gaze was riveted on the chrome-plated gun barrel.

Darcy’s smile was positively evil. “What have I got to lose?”

Something moved behind the shop door’s blinds, momentarily diverting Tricia’s attention.

“That’s the oldest trick in the book,” Darcy said, employing yet another cliché, “and I’m not falling for it.”

Then, in a clash of shattering glass and splintering wood, the door burst open, but instead of Captain Baker, it was Bob Kelly who plunged into the shop. Darcy barely had time to react before Bob tackled her like a Patriots linebacker.

Darcy went sprawling, but quickly rolled onto her back.

The gun exploded, and Tricia felt a searing pain along her left bicep. She fell to her knees with a yelp of pain as Bob knocked the gun from Darcy’s hand and sat atop her, holding her wrists to keep her from punching him.

“Stop struggling,” Bob ordered, as Darcy started to laugh.

“This is just like old times, isn’t it, Bobby? Remember the times you’d tie me up before we had sex? Remember the times you had me spank you?”

“Bob!” Tricia cried, incredulous. “I’m shot!”

“Pull up your sleeve,” Bob ordered.

Tricia did as she was told, expecting to find a neat bullet hole and lots of blood, but instead the wound was more like a deep scrape—and boy, did it hurt.

“I’m not as young as I used to be, Tricia,” Bob said with some urgency. “I’d appreciate it if you’d get on the damn phone and call the Sheriff’s Department. Then run outside and see if you can flag down someone to help us!”

“Oh, good idea!” Tricia extricated her phone from her slacks pocket and opened it, but before she could dial 9-1-1, she saw a Sheriff’s Department cruiser pulled up outside.

In seconds, Captain Baker stood in the doorway, his service revolver in hand. “What’s going on here?”

“Bob just captured Jim Roth’s killer,” Tricia said. “Look at my arm. She tried to kill me, too!”

“I could use some help here,” Bob said, still holding on to a struggling Darcy.

“Where’s the gun?” Baker asked.

“Somewhere on the floor, by the side bookshelves,” Tricia said, pointing.

Baker holstered his gun and advanced on Bob and Darcy, detaching his handcuffs from his belt. He bent down, attaching one of the cuffs to Darcy’s left wrist.

“I didn’t kill anybody,” Darcy hollered. “These two dragged me inside the shop—Bob tried to rape me!”

“Oh, yeah, then how did Tricia get shot?” Baker asked.

“I was protecting myself,” Darcy cried.

“You can tell me all about it down at the station,” Baker said, as Bob climbed off his ex-lover and let the captain take over. His forehead and upper lip were covered in sweat, and his face was an ugly shade of purple.

“What’s going on?” Tricia and Bob turned at the sound of a voice in the shop doorway. “Who kicked in my door?” Angelica demanded.

“That was me, Honey Bunch. Darcy was threatening to shoot Tricia.”

“Threaten, hell,” Tricia said. “She shot me! Look!”

Angelica hurried inside the shop, threw the light switch, and the shop was as bright as day. “Are you okay?” she demanded, and Tricia brandished the welt on her arm. Angelica inspected it. “Hmm—looks like it’s only a flesh wound.”

“Hey, what’s happening?’ came another voice at the open doorway. The room exploded in flashes of light as Russ Smith depressed the shutter on his Nikon with lightning speed.

“Darcy killed Jim Roth, tried to kill me and Angelica, and shot Tricia,” Bob said.

“All right,” Russ cried, absolutely delighted. “Just in time for Friday’s edition of the Stoneham Weekly News !”

Hands on hips, Angelica turned and gave Russ the loudest raspberry Tricia had ever heard.

Tricia glanced down at her throbbing arm and seconded the sentiment.

After the paramedics had inspected Tricia’s arm, applied antiseptic and a bandage, and left the scene, there wasn’t much to do except wait for the emergency enclosure people to come and fix the Cookery’s door. Darcy had already been dragged off to the county lockup, and several deputies had taken statements. Still, it was after midnight by the time Tricia made it back to Haven’t Got a Clue and found that a sleepy Miss Marple had waited up for her.

Mr. Everett hadn’t made it to work on Tuesday—he’d been too busy trying to duck the press and hordes of people who’d heard about his windfall and were looking for a handout. He and Grace had already had their phone number changed, and were giving it out only to trusted friends. But he assured Tricia he would make it to work on Wednesday.

Angelica had hit the road for yet another round of book signings, vowing to return on Friday. Tricia’s belated birthday dinner was on hold because Angelica said she and Bob needed to hash out what—if any—of their relationship was still viable. Tricia didn’t mind. Having dinner with Bob wasn’t big on her list of things to do, anyway.

The Tuesday Night Book Club met as usual, but instead of talking about their featured read, the group was more interested in seeing Tricia’s bullet wound and hearing the tale of how she was instrumental in the capture of Darcy Gebhard. Frannie was notably absent from the meeting.

By the time Wednesday morning rolled around, Tricia found herself feeling mildly depressed. After all, she was now officially one year older. She and Miss Marple came down to work early, and Tricia was just setting up for coffee when she heard a knock at the door. It was only nine fifteen—a whole forty-five minutes before the store was due to open. She peeked through the blinds and saw Ginny standing there. She unlocked the door and let Ginny inside.

“Happy birthday!” she cried, and gave Tricia an enthusiastic hug.

“I didn’t know you knew,” Tricia said.

Ginny’s smile was genuine. “Angelica was afraid you’d be lonely on your birthday, so she made a point of telling both me and Mr. Everett.”

“That was sweet of her. I wish she could be here today, but when you get to my age—”

“Like you’re some old fogey?” Ginny asked, laughing.

“—you don’t want to celebrate the same way you did when you were younger.”

“So you’ve got no big plans for the day?”

“I’ll probably just have a glass of wine later today. Although I had thought of splitting a precooked lobster with Miss Marple.”

“Don’t skimp on the melted butter,” Ginny advised.

The door rattled, and Mr. Everett and Grace entered Haven’t Got a Clue. “Good morning, and happy birthday, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

“Happy birthday, Tricia,” Grace echoed.

“Thank you, and welcome back, Mr. Everett—or should I say Mr. Millionaire?” Tricia said, laughing.

Mr. Everett winced. “I’m certainly glad I can come back to work today, to get back to my real life. I wasn’t made for celebrity,” he said with disgust.

“I’m so pleased you decided to stay with us here at Haven’t Got a Clue,” Tricia said. “We need you, Mr. Everett.”

“And I need the three of you,” he admitted.

“Three?” Ginny asked.

“Don’t forget Miss Marple,” Mr. Everett said. “I’m sad to say that winning the lottery was the worst thing that could have happened to us.”

“Why?” Ginny asked. “Are the people asking for hand-outs already out of control?”

“Yes,” Grace admitted. “I didn’t know there was such misery and misfortune in the world until we won that money. Yesterday we received over one hundred begging letters in the mail. That was less than twenty-four hours after it was announced we’d won.”