Lorna Barrett: Chapter & Hearse

“Did you arrange for this while you were in the hospital?”

He glared at her. “No.”

Tricia leaned forward for a better look at the security company’s van. “Feeling insecure?”

His glare intensified. “No!”

His refusal to give a decent answer to any question was maddening. Tricia shifted her gaze once again. If he hadn’t ordered the work during his hospital stay, he must have arranged for it before then. Okay, so a couple of people had been killed—all right, murdered—during the past eight months. And there’d been a particularly vicious attack—but other than that, Stoneham was no more dangerous than East Los Angeles on a hot summer night, she thought facetiously.

Bob opened the passenger-side door, swung his legs out of the car, and paused. Just that slight movement brought a bead of sweat to his brow. “Thank you for the ride, Tricia.”

“You’re welcome.” Tricia gathered her purse and the pharmacy bag, got out of the car, and retrieved Bob’s overnight bag from the trunk.

Bob waited for her. “I’ll take that.”

“I’ll carry it to the house for you. It’s no trouble,” Tricia said.

“No,” he said firmly, “I’ll take it.”

Behind him, Tricia noticed the security guy waiting for Bob on the home’s small porch, and she realized Bob didn’t want her to hear the conversation he was about to have with the stranger. “I guess I’d better get going.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

“I’ll check up on you later. Angelica—”

“—worries too much. I’ll be fine.”

“Would you like me to get you some lunch, or—”

“No,” Bob said, firmly. “I’m fine. I’ll see you later, Tricia.”

She’d definitely been dismissed. She tried not to take it personally. After all, it got her off the hook for playing nursemaid to him for the next couple of days.

“Fine. I guess I’ll see you around, Bob.”

He said nothing. Just stood there.

Tricia turned, and walked back to her car.

Bob was still staring at her as she drove away.

Tricia parked her car and glanced at her watch. She still had nearly half an hour before Ginny’s lunch break, and wondered if she should walk over to the Bank of Stoneham to ask about paying off Ginny’s mortgage. It would probably be a waste of time. No doubt the manager would be away from her office during the noon hour. Still . . . .

A minute later, she walked into the bank and asked the receptionist if she could speak to someone about a mortgage.

“Sure. I’ll tell Billie you’re here. She’ll be glad to talk to you.” Tricia watched as the woman headed for a cubicle at the back of the bank.

It was said that Billie Hanson, manager of the Bank of Stoneham, was named after Billie Burke, the actress who played Glinda the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz . Not that she looked like that icon of the silver screen. She didn’t have long, frizzy red hair, nor was she tall. In fact, Billie, short and squat, reminded Tricia of a fireplug. And her close-cropped blonde hair and brusque demeanor had earned her the label of dyke from more than a few of the locals. Tricia didn’t know—nor care about—her sexual orientation. Billie had proven to be an apt businesswoman, and was a fellow member of the Chamber of Commerce.

Not a minute later, the receptionist waved for Tricia to follow her.

Billie stood behind her desk. “Tricia, good to see you. I hope you’re well.”

“I am, thanks. And I’m glad you could see me on such short notice.”

Billie ushered Tricia to one of the seats before her desk. “Always glad to talk to one of Stoneham’s best success stories.”

“Me?” Tricia asked.

“It’s no secret that you and your sister are probably the best businesswomen in town. And I’m pleased you’ve chosen to bank with us rather than one of the national banks in Nashua.”

Tricia liked to do business locally. The fact that the Bank of Stoneham was extremely convenient didn’t hurt, either.

Billie leaned forward on the desk, folding her hands and looking very businesslike. “What can I do for you today, Tricia?”

“I’d like to buy a mortgage.”

“Oh, you’ve found a home in the village? The stairs to that loft finally got to you, right?”

“Uh, no, actually. I don’t want to buy a house. I want to buy the mortgage of someone who has a house that’s about to go into foreclosure.”

Billie frowned. “That’s not a very sound business decision. If the person is in foreclosure, it’s not likely they’ll be able to pay you any more than they can pay us.”

“This person has had an unfortunate string of bad luck. I want to help her—not make money off of her.”

Billie frowned. “Mixing business with friendship is seldom a good idea. Usually one party grows dissatisfied. The friendship is often the first casualty—not to mention the investment.”

“I have thought of that. I’m prepared to walk away from the deal with a complete loss.”

Billie mulled that over for a few moments. “Let me take a guess. You’d like to save your employee, Ginny Wilson, from losing her home.”

“She really loves it. And she’s worked so hard to make that house a home. I’d like to do all I can to help her keep it.”

“Have you spoken to her about this?”

“Not yet. I wanted to see if it was possible before I brought up the subject. I don’t want to buy the house outright. Ginny isn’t one to take charity. But I thought if we could set up a manageable repayment schedule—something that she’s able to live with—in the long run it would benefit both of us.”

Billie exhaled a long breath. “Before you do anything, I think you should talk to Ms. Wilson. Make sure you’re on the same page. She may not want to feel beholden to you.”

“I thought I would surprise her.”

Billie shook her head. “That’s not a good idea. Talk to her. If she agrees, you may pay off the mortgage, including penalties, and I’d advise you to consult a real estate lawyer to set up a new mortgage for you, with terms you both can agree to.”

It wasn’t what Tricia wanted to hear, but it was sensible. She stood. “I’ll do that.” She offered Billie her hand. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Not a problem,” Billie said and smiled, missing Tricia’s cringe at her choice of words.

With Angelica away, Tricia felt uncomfortable going over to Booked for Lunch to take her midday meal, and instead raided her own refrigerator. Funny, in times past, she and Angelica had gone for years without speaking. Now, she found she missed her sister after only a few hours’ absence. Missed their daily bickering sessions. Missed Angelica’s company. And though she almost always ate the café’s tuna salad plate, she liked the convenience of slipping across the street and being served, as well as not having to clean up. The only one happy about her finding her own lunch was Miss Marple, who begged for and got an extra kitty snack.

Fifteen minutes and a container of lemon yogurt later, Tricia was back behind the counter at Haven’t Got a Clue. Ginny was with a customer, and Miss Marple had resumed her post on the shelf above the register to keep a careful watch on things and/or sleep the afternoon away.

The black Art Deco phone on Tricia’s cash desk jangled loudly. Tricia picked up the monstrously heavy receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue, Tri—”

“Tricia?” said a tearful voice that she instantly recognized as Frannie’s.

“What’s wrong?”

“I . . . I—” She seemed to choke on the words.

“Do you need someone to talk to?” Tricia asked, resigned.

“Do you mind?” Frannie had always appeared so strong; to hear the vulnerability in her voice was heart-wrenching.