Lorna Barrett: Chapter & Hearse

“Oh, yeah,” Ginny said, and popped a filter into the restaurant-sized coffeemaker.

Tricia’s gaze returned to the gaping hole in the storefronts across the street. It was lucky none of the other businesses had suffered more than broken glass and stock knocked from the shelves. It was also fortunate that the explosion had happened after hours, when the tourists had left for the day—otherwise the body count could’ve been much worse. She thought about Mr. Everett’s offer the night before, and wondered if he’d been successful in his efforts to save the books inside History Repeats Itself.

After a few moments, Ginny joined her. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a ring of keys. “I wanted to return these to you. They’re Angelica’s.”

“Thanks.” Tricia stowed them under the counter, intending to put them in a more secure place when time permitted.

“The electricity was still out when I got over to Booked for Lunch, but PSNH had restored it by ten o’clock, so everything is okay—nothing spoiled. A few items got knocked off the walls from the blast, but I cleaned up, and put as much of the launch party leftovers as I could in the fridge. The rest went into the freezer. I found another dome for the torte and left it on the counter for Angelica’s customers.”

“Why not put that in the fridge, too?”

Ginny shrugged. “Cakes go stale faster if they’re kept cold. Something I picked up when I worked for Doris Gleason. She used to lecture me about stuff like that. But it’s come in handy—or least it did last night.”

“Thanks for helping Ange. I’ll make sure she knows all that you’ve done.”

Ginny shrugged away the praise, and rested her elbows on the glass display case. “The fire chief said they’d probably have to come in today and knock down the rest of the building. It’s a safety hazard as it stands.”

“That won’t cheer Bob Kelly.”

Ginny shrugged. “Knowing him, it was probably insured to the hilt. He’ll make out okay.”

Yes, he probably would.

“You should have seen Mr. Everett in action last night—you would have been proud of him. He got ten or twelve volunteers to save a bunch of Jim Roth’s books.”

“Oh, good. That had me worried.”

Ginny laughed. “It was like a bucket brigade. The firemen handed out the books and the volunteers loaded them into their pickups and vans. Mr. Everett even got Harvey Carson at the Stoneham Mini Storage to open up for him—and to give him a month’s rent for half price.”

A lump of emotion rose in Tricia’s throat. “Do I tell you two enough how glad I am that you work for me?”

Ginny laughed. “Not nearly!” But her merriment was fleeting, and her expression quickly sobered. “For a minute there, we were so caught up in saving the books, we almost forgot that Jim had died.” She was quiet for a few moments, and Tricia glanced out the window at the destruction of what had been her neighbor’s store.

“To make matters worse,” Ginny continued, “I got more bad news when I collected my mail last night.” She reached into the pocket of her slacks and handed Tricia a wrinkled envelope. “This is the end of the road—at least for my little cottage in the woods.”

The return address was Bank of Stoneham. Tricia withdrew the creased letter and skimmed the wording. Imminent foreclosure on the house Ginny had put so much time and effort into, and had loved so much.

“I didn’t think it would happen this fast,” Ginny said wistfully, and sighed.

“When was the last time you made a payment?”

“A full payment? November. I’ve been paying what I could, but I’m still months behind. Without Brian, there’s no way I can make the full payments on my own. And I really don’t want to wait for Captain Baker or some other sheriff’s deputy to show up on my doorstep with an eviction notice, so I’ve already started packing.”

“Why didn’t you put it on the market?”

“I owe more than the market value. And the house is still all torn apart. Who’d be crazy enough to buy it as is?”

“Did you consult Bob Kelly?”

“I didn’t want him knowing my business.”

When the bank foreclosed, everybody—and especially Bob—would know about it. “Do you have enough money put aside to rent an apartment?”

Ginny sighed. “I think so. I’ve already started looking and have a few prospects. I might be able to sign the paperwork in a day or two. The problem is, I don’t know how I’m going to move all my stuff. All Brian’s friends with pickup trucks think I should’ve stood by him.”

Tricia wasn’t among that crowd. “How about if I paid for a rental truck? Do you have enough friends to help you fill it and move you?”

“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Yes, you could. Now please answer my question.”

“Maybe,” Ginny said, with a grateful smile. “Then all I’d have to do is find someone to store Brian’s stuff for him. So far, none of his friends have volunteered. I can’t afford to pay for a storage unit for him—and why should I? But if I leave it at the house, the bank will probably just toss it.”

“You’ve tried to do the right thing.”

“Yes. And look what it got me. My credit rating will take a beating for years.”

“But at least you won’t have to declare bankruptcy.”

Ginny shrugged. “I guess.”

The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the bookstore. Ginny retrieved their ceramic mugs, filled them, and joined Tricia at the window.

Tricia gave her employee a weak smile, and they both gazed at the ruin across the street. There had to be something Tricia could do to help Ginny, something better than just paying for a rental truck to move her possessions into some crummy apartment. The pickings in Stoneham weren’t that great.

Then it hit her. There was something she could do. She could pay off Ginny’s mortgage. Her divorce settlement had been extremely generous, and her grandmother had left the bulk of her estate to both Tricia and Angelica. It wasn’t something she ever talked about, but, quite frankly, she was filthy rich. And though she made many charitable contributions throughout the year, nothing would give her as much pleasure as helping someone she truly cared about.

If . . . it could be arranged. She’d have to visit the manager at the Bank of Stoneham, and wondered if she’d be able to fit that into her busy day.

“Poor Jim,” Ginny said, interrupting Tricia’s musings. “What a terrible thing. Here one minute—gone the next.”

“I wonder if he had any family,” Tricia said aloud, and thought again about Frannie’s reaction to his death.

“Someone told me he lived at home—with his mother . That’s kind of strange for a man his age, isn’t it?”

Tricia had to agree. Then again . . . “That poor woman. Does she live in the village?”

Ginny nodded. “I think she lives on Poplar Street.”

“Maybe I should pay her a visit to express my condolences. She must be beside herself.”

“You might want to pay a visit to Frannie, too. You saw how she reacted to Jim’s death. Don’t you think they had to be lovers or something?” Ginny asked, with a gleam in her eyes.

“It certainly came as a surprise to me.”

“They must have been discreet, since no one seemed to know about it.”

“Or maybe it was over a long time ago?” Tricia suggested.

Ginny shook her head. “Not the way she cried last night. Let’s keep an eye out for her. As soon as she walks by to open the Cookery, you can pounce on her.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind.”

“Damn, you’re no fun,” Ginny teased.

The shop door opened, admitting their first customer of the day. Immediately after, the telephone rang. Tricia stepped over to the counter and picked it up. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia. How can I help you?”