“Well, I—”
“But Bob turned me down flat. I don’t understand it. I know he was angry about Jim’s back rent, and now he’s lost his building—but insurance should cover that.”
What was the value of a historic building in the middle of a thriving business section, Tricia wondered.
“So who’s going to speak?”
“I’ve asked Chauncey Porter from the Armchair Tourist. He used to talk to Jim at Chamber meetings, and they were next-door neighbors.”
“Did he agree?”
Frannie nodded. “And he said he’d call all the other Chamber members to see if anyone had anecdotes. I’m afraid anything I’d have to say wouldn’t be appropriate.” For a brief second Frannie smiled, and then her eyes filled with tears. She grabbed a tissue from the box behind the counter. “I can’t believe I’ll never see Jim again.”
The shop door opened, and a couple of middle-aged women entered the Cookery. Frannie turned away, struggling to regain her composure. She cleared her throat, opened her eyes wide, and plastered on a grin that would frighten a circus clown. “Welcome to the Cookery. Please let me know if you need any help.” Her voice was high and tight, and for a moment Tricia was afraid the customers would flee. But then they turned and escaped to the anonymity of the parallel bookshelves.
“I’d better get going. I’ll see you tonight, right?” Tricia said.
“Yes, of course.” The phone rang, and Frannie picked it up. “The Cookery, Frannie speaking. How may I help you?”
Tricia gave a wave as she exited the shop and headed for her own store.
She walked slowly, remembering she hadn’t yet called her attorney to talk about setting up a new mortgage for Ginny. She also wondered what Mr. Everett would think when he heard she was helping Ginny. Would he see it as favoritism, or perhaps expect some kind of equal treatment?
Tricia unlocked Haven’t Got a Clue, turning the sign on the door to OPEN. Miss Marple jumped down from her vigil on the readers’ nook’s large, square coffee table and trotted across the shop to join her, jumping onto the display case’s glass top. “Yow,” she announced.
“You said a mouthful,” Tricia agreed as she petted the cat.
The door rattled, and Ginny entered. “Sorry I’m late,” she called, and then looked at the clock, which said nine fifty-eight. “Almost late,” she amended.
“You’re just in time,” Tricia said. “I was about to call my attorney about the mortgage.”
Ginny stood there, mouth open, and then shook herself. “Good idea. Um, I have to get my apron,” she said, and scooted for the back of the store.
“Yow!” Miss Marple exclaimed.
Again Tricia petted the cat. “No, she didn’t seem very enthusiastic.” Tricia shrugged it off. Maybe Ginny had had a bad night. The door opened once more, letting in the day’s first customer. Ginny was still tying her apron, and intercepted the man before Tricia had a chance to greet him. It was just as well, as a Sheriff’s Department cruiser slowed in front of Haven’t Got a Clue, then pulled into an empty space in front of the Cookery. Captain Baker got out and looked toward what was left of History Repeats Itself before he turned back and walked toward Tricia’s store.
“Well, well, well. Looks like we’re about to have company,” Tricia told the cat. Miss Marple just yawned. Tricia moved from behind the counter to stand in front of the big display window as she waited for Baker.
The little bell over the door tinkled cheerfully as Captain Baker entered, but his expression was anything but happy.
Tricia straightened—so much that her spine hurt. “What can I do for you today, Captain?”
“You could call me Grant,” he said, removing his flat-brimmed hat. “You did for a while there.”
The rod up her spine seemed to grow in girth. “Yes, well, times were different then, weren’t they?” Why did she have to sound so . . . prissy?
“I wasn’t happy with the way things ended between us,” Baker said, his voice softening.
“I wasn’t all that happy about it, myself.” Good grief, if she looked in a mirror right now, she’d probably see Margaret Hamilton’s green witch face from The Wizard of Oz.
“There’s no chance Mandy and I will ever be together again, but until she fully recovers, I need to be there for her.”
Tricia felt her fists clench and her jaw tighten. “That’s very commendable of you.”
Baker’s eyes wandered, and he noticed Ginny was eavesdropping. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Look, can we go somewhere and have coffee or something? I’d like to talk to you”—he shot a glance in Ginny’s direction—“without an audience.”
Tricia shrugged. “I suppose. The café across the street isn’t open yet. How about the diner?”
“I was thinking of something a little more private. How about we get something from the Coffee Bean and take it to the park? It’s a beautiful day—what do you say?”
Again, Tricia shrugged. She turned. “Ginny, I’m going out for a few minutes.”
“Okay,” she said brightly, and waggled her eyebrows. No doubt she’d pump Tricia for information the minute she returned.
Tricia felt the blush creep over her cheeks, and turned away before Captain Baker could notice.
They exited the store, crossed the street, and entered the Coffee Bean. The aroma of freshly ground—and brewed—coffee was heavenly. Captain Baker ordered for them, remembering exactly how Tricia liked hers, and paid for it. Then they left, heading for the park on the edge of town. On the way, their conversation was polite but halfhearted. As they passed the Stoneham Weekly News, Tricia surreptitiously glanced into the big display window. Russ was at his desk, on the phone. He looked up and caught her eye; she quickly looked away.
Captain Baker led her toward the grand gazebo, a large, freestanding edifice of white-painted wood on a granite base. Its copper roof had gone a mellow green with age. Nearby was an empty forest green bench, where they sat.
“How’s your investigation going?” Tricia asked.
“Not as well as I’d hoped, which is one reason I wanted to talk to you. I can’t convince Bob Kelly to talk candidly. You know him well, and I hoped you could help me out.”
She didn’t know him all that well, but she wasn’t up to denying it. “What’s he not saying?”
“When I’ve tried to pin him down about the night of the explosion, he’s been evasive. I want to know exactly what happened in the minutes before all hell broke loose.”
“He hasn’t exactly been candid with me or my sister, either. Frankly, she’s worried. I know Jim was behind in his rent. Bob isn’t the most forgiving landlord—not that I can speak from actual experience. I’ve always paid my rent on time.”
“Do you know of anyone who held a grudge against Jim Roth?”
Tricia shook her head. “Why do you ask?”
“The gas meter behind the building may have been tampered with. I’m waiting to receive a detailed report from PSNH.”
Tricia shook her head. The idea that Jim’s death could have been premeditated was . . . well, rather shocking.
“What do you know about explosions?” Baker asked.
Tricia shrugged. “Boom! Destruction. That’s about it.”
Baker frowned. “There are several zones associated with an explosion. First is the pink zone. That’s where Mr. Roth was virtually vaporized: the flash point. No one in the pink zone survives.”
That wasn’t news to Tricia. “Go on,” she urged.
“Next is the yellow zone. Oddly enough, one can be killed in this zone but the body may not have a mark on it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the shock wave from the explosion that kills them. Next up, the white zone, which contains a strong obstacle—in this case, a brick wall. The area behind it may or may not be safe, depending on how much falling debris there is. With multiple obstacles, you get multiple shock waves, going in all directions. But in this instance, the shock wave moved down
the building, straight as a strike from a bowling ball.”
“And that’s why the building had to be taken down? This shock wave took out the load-bearing walls and the second and third floors?” Tricia asked.
Baker nodded. “After that is the blue zone. Bob Kelly was standing at the front of the store, at the far end of this zone, which is what saved him.”
“Lucky Bob.”
“Did Roth have an enemy—someone who might have been angry with him for any reason?” Baker asked.
“Well, sort of,” Tricia hedged; she thought it over, and shook her head again.
“What? Tell me.”
Tricia sighed, feeling like a rat for what she was about to say. “It seems Jim had a . . . girlfriend. Sort of.”
“Sort of?” Baker asked.
“Frannie Armstrong. She manages the Cookery for my sister. But she loved Jim—I’m sure of it. It was his mother she held a grudge against.”
“Why?”
“Because Jim wouldn’t leave his mother to be with her.”
“That could be a motive for murder,” Baker agreed.
“Only if Frannie was that kind of person—which she isn’t. And if she was, wouldn’t she be more likely to go after his mother—not Jim?”
“People make stupid, impulsive mistakes—especially when there’s passion involved.”
Passion? Frannie and Jim? Somehow, Tricia couldn’t imagine that. “Yes, but Frannie was at the Cookery, with three witnesses, at the time of the explosion.”
“There was a buildup of gas before the explosion. Was Ms. Armstrong at the bookstore all day?”
Tricia opened her mouth to answer, but then stopped. “I couldn’t say. When Angelica’s not in the store, Frannie holds the fort. She’s usually there from opening until closing. I sometimes wonder if she even takes bathroom breaks.”
“Was your sister in the store on Wednesday?”
Tricia shrugged. “I know she was working on the food for her launch party, probably in her loft apartment. I don’t know if she spent much time in the store that day.”
Baker nodded. “Looks like I need to talk to your sister—and Ms. Armstrong.”
“Please don’t tell Frannie I told you about her relationship with Jim. Though she didn’t actually tell me not to say anything, I don’t think she expected me to sic the law on her.”
Baker sipped his coffee. “It would’ve probably come up during the course of the investigation, anyway. Secrets rarely stay secret for long.”
A young mother pushed a stroller down the sidewalk while her toddler waved and called “Bye-bye.” Tricia waved back. Baker looked uncomfortable.
“Have you met Jim’s mother? She seems like a charming lady—” Except for that rather nasty smile she’d flashed when she’d offered Tricia a lemon bar. Still, Tricia tried to be charitable. “And she’s all alone in the world right now.”
“I spoke to her, too. She was very cooperative, but she didn’t mention her son had a lady friend.”
“She may not have known,” Tricia said, then remembered Frannie’s comment on Jim becoming ill when they were supposed to have a date.
“I take it you weren’t well acquainted with Jim Roth.”
“No. I saw him at Chamber meetings, but I don’t go all that often, and whenever we spoke, it was mostly small talk.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?”
Tricia thought about it, then sighed. “He used to run parlays.”
“Give me a for instance.”
“When Deborah Black had her baby, Jim ran a parlay. You know those grid things—choose a date and put down a dollar. My sister had been in town only a week, and she won. I think he did them for sports events, too. You know—the Super Bowl, the Final Four. I never paid much attention because I don’t like to gamble—even when it’s only a couple of dollars. It seems like such a waste—unless you win, of course.”
“Do you know when Roth ran the last one?”
Tricia shook her head. “My employee, Ginny, might. It seemed like she always entered. Do you think that could have had something to do with Jim’s death?”
“Right now I’m open to any possibility.” Baker drained his cup, got up, and tossed it into one of the park’s trash cans.
Tricia stood to follow him.
“You’ve been very helpful, Tricia.”
“If someone deliberately tampered with Jim’s gas meter, I want you to catch whoever did it.”
“Yes,” Baker agreed. “There’s always a chance Mr. Roth might not be the killer’s only victim.”
Ten
Ginny waited behind the door of Haven’t Got a Clue. “Well, well?” she asked as Tricia entered.
“Well, what?”
“Captain Baker took you for coffee. Was it a date? Are you two getting back together?” she asked excitedly.
“It was not a date. Captain Baker was on duty. We talked about Jim’s death. And I now know more about explosions than I ever cared to.”
“Bummer,” Ginny said, her shoulders slumping.
“Miss,” came a voice from the cash desk. “I’m ready to check out now.”
Tricia pushed up her sweater sleeves and headed for the register. The customer had made some good choices. Tess Gerritsen and P.D. James. As Tricia placed the customer’s twenty into the cash drawer, she caught sight of Grace’s check meant for Mrs. Roth. Jim’s memorial was only two days away. If Tricia was going to solicit funds for his aged mother, she’d have to get started.
She bid her customer good-bye, told Ginny her plan, and struck out with her list of Chamber of Commerce members. Her first stop: the Armchair Tourist.
Chauncey Porter had been the second or third bookseller to come to Stoneham, and though Tricia had once loved to travel—before she owned a bookstore and was now unable to leave it for more than a day or so—she couldn’t understand how Chauncey had kept afloat selling old atlases, maps, and Fodor guides. Or was it books by the likes of Bill Bryson, who mixed travel with observations on life, that sold the most? After all, the name of the store was the Armchair Tourist. Then again, it was probably Chauncey’s amazing ability to spin a yarn and keep an audience entertained. He’d be perfect for reminding the mourners at Sunday’s gathering what a great guy Jim was.
The Armchair Tourist was located next to what had been History Repeats Itself, and Tricia wondered how it had fared during and after the explosion. The crime scene tape was now gone, and she opened the door, greeted by the sound of an annoying buzz, not as friendly as the little bell that tinkled when a customer entered Haven’t Got a Clue. Chauncey, a portly gent with a full head of white hair and somewhere on the high side of sixty, sat behind the main counter on a padded stool. He turned his gaze to check out his visitor, peering over the tops of his reading glasses. “Ah, Miss Tricia, always lovely to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Chauncey. How’s business?”
Chauncey looked around his empty shop. “Fair to middling. Of course, it didn’t help that I lost a full day while they dismantled History Repeats Itself. But I suppose it could have been a lot worse.”
Tricia looked around, but didn’t see much in the way of damage. “Everything looks fine.”
“It does, now. When they finally let me in yesterday, I found all the bookshelves against the south wall had toppled. Worse, I lost most of my back outside wall—and quite a bit of inventory. It’s boarded over until the insurance company figures out what the settlement will be. Thank goodness I never let my insurance lapse when times were even leaner.” He looked around his shop, which was not graced with customers. “Business will pick up once the children are out of school and their families go on vacation.”
Tricia nodded. “I wish I could say I’m just here to visit, but I’m afraid it’s on a more serious note.”
“Yes, I wondered when you might come ’round to visit. I understand you’re collecting for Jim Roth’s elderly mother.”
Word certainly got around. “Do you know
her?”
“As a matter of fact, I met her only last week. She came in looking for information on Caribbean cruises. As it happened, I had just the book for her. A little dated, but the basic information is still viable. And I told her about my very first cruise—to the Greek Islands. It was back in seventy-eight, when I was a tour guide. There was this gaggle of giggling nuns who—”
“Yes, yes,” Tricia interrupted, hoping to stave off an entire review of his decades-old vacation. “I wish I could hear all about it, but I really must—”
“I completely understand, my dear.” Chauncey pushed a button on his cash register, and the drawer popped open. He pulled out a crisp ten-dollar bill and handed it to Tricia. “I’m sorry it couldn’t be more, but with the way business is—”
Tricia added the money to her envelope. “I’m pleased you’re willing to help Mrs. Roth. I’m sure she’ll be grateful, as well.”
“Glad to be of help.”
“I’ve got a card to sign,” she said, and handed it to Chauncey. He read the sparse lines of text, and then picked out a pen from a holder on the counter, signing his name, and that of his shop, with a flourish before handing it back to Tricia.
“Will you be at the memorial service on Sunday?” Tricia asked.
“Miss Frannie has asked me to give the eulogy.”
Oops! Tricia had forgotten that. “Then I’ll see you there,” she said, and sketched a wave.
Chauncey gave Tricia a smile and a return wave, and resumed his reading as she backed out the door.
One down, more than ten to go. It was going to be a long morning.
Tricia visited all the shops on the west side of Main Street, save for the Happy Domestic, which seemed to be inundated with customers. She’d try that later. The morning was quickly evaporating, so she also skipped the Stoneham Weekly News, the Chamber of Commerce office, and Kelly Realty. She’d catch up with them later.
Crossing the street, she made the Stoneham Patisserie her next stop on her whirlwind charity tour of Stoneham. So far, the standard donation was ten dollars. She’d thought the other Chamber members would have been more generous—but then she was hesitant to judge. She didn’t know what difficulties they were experiencing nor what their bottom lines could stand to lose.
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