“I believe we can help you with at least a few of these. Let me show you where you can find the John Dickson Carr titles.”
Tricia smiled after them, then happened to glance out the window. It was already after ten, and there was Jake Masters casually strolling down the sidewalk, heading for Booked for Lunch. He should’ve arrived long before this to start the soup of the day.
Tricia signaled to Ginny, who was refilling the sugar at the coffee station. “I’ve got to step out for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
Ginny nodded, and returned to her task.
Tricia waited until it was safe and then crossed the street, intercepting Jake right outside Booked for Lunch. She could see Darcy inside, standing at the counter as she refilled saltshakers. Hands thrust into the pockets of his denim jacket, Jake halted in front of her.
“Shouldn’t you have been here long before now?” Tricia accused.
“We don’t open until eleven—I’ve got plenty of time to get things ready.”
“What about the soup?”
“Soup?” he asked, confused.
“Darcy says it needs to be started hours before Booked for Lunch opens. It’s the mainstay of Angelica’s menu.”
“Yeah, and I started it yesterday. It just needs to heat through. You got any other worries? You want to know how fine I dice the carrots or thin I slice the onions?”
Tricia crossed her arms over her chest. “Darcy tells me you were convicted of a felony.”
“That’s none of her damn business,” Jake grated.
“Angelica gave you this job. She deserves to know,” Tricia said.
“We’ve talked about it. And she doesn’t have a problem with my past.”
“What were you arrested for?” Tricia pressed.
“Jaywalking.”
“That’s not a felony.”
“And neither is keeping my business to myself. Look, you’d be better off talking to Angelica about the café—not Darcy. Maybe Angelica will be glad to answer any of your questions—because I sure as hell won’t. Now, you’re keeping me from that soup you’re so worried about. If you’ll excuse me.” He pushed past her and entered Booked for Lunch. Tricia watched as he confronted Darcy, who immediately went into defensive mode. They both turned to the window, Jake gesticulating wildly. Since discretion was the better part of valor, Tricia hightailed it out of there before Jake threw another hissy fit and stormed out of the café for a second day in a row—and maybe forever.
Thirteen
Tricia couldn’t remember such a slow Saturday in Stoneham. Okay, it wasn’t yet high tourist season, but surely there had to be people out there needing to find something new—or old—to read. The day continued to drag on. While Mr. Everett dusted the shelves, and Ginny was dispatched to the storeroom to update the inventory, Tricia called Billie Hanson at the bank and persuaded her to stay after hours to see her and Ginny about the mortgage. Why not move forward on the project now that Ginny had accepted her offer of financial assistance?
A stack of books awaited reshelving, but Tricia felt too lazy for real work. And besides, Jim Roth’s memorial service was the next day, and Frannie was expecting her to bake something to bring to it. Obviously, for this next attempt, she’d need the right ingredients and the proper tools. And she knew just where to get the latter.
After telling Mr. Everett she had to run an errand, Tricia grabbed her purse, left Haven’t Got a Clue, and walked over to the Cookery. The cutout of Angelica was once again outside the entrance. This time, someone had attached a pair of novelty Groucho Marx glasses, complete with funny nose and mustache, and between the splayed fingers was a cat’s cradle of string. Someone’s idea of a joke? Angelica certainly would not be pleased.
Tricia entered the store. Unlike Haven’t Got a Clue, the Cookery at least had one shopper. Frannie, who was helping the customer, waved and called out “Howdy,” letting Tricia know they’d talk when convenient. And since the manager-customer ratio could change in a heartbeat should a bus full of tourists arrive, Tricia figured she might as well look around and try to find what she needed to make a decent muffin recipe. First up, a cookbook dedicated to baking. Next, she selected what looked like a rubber muffin pan, new measuring spoons, a can of Maine blueberries, and a tin of baking power. She figured she could find the rest of the ingredients at the grocery store in Milford.
Once Frannie’s customer left the store, Tricia stepped up to the sales counter, her arms filled with books and other products.
“My, my—are you actually going to bake?” Frannie asked, inspecting the items Tricia placed on the counter.
“Yes. And why is everyone so amazed? Lots of people bake.”
“Not you.”
“Well, I do now. Or I will, as soon as I install this muffin pan in my kitchen. Do these rubber ones actually work? I mean—it won’t melt in my oven, will it?”
“Of course not. And it’s not rubber. This flexible silicone cookware is great. Easy cleanup, and it can withstand high oven temps—even up to five hundred degrees. All the chefs on the Food Network use them.”
“If you say so.”
Frannie totaled up the items. “It’s rumored that Livvie Roth has been seen in Milford—with a man.”
“Oh?”
Frannie nodded. “Imagine that, cavorting around at her age.”
Cavorting? Mrs. Roth? Then again, she did say she had dinner plans with a friend. “Where was she seen?”
“At the Milford Travel Agency, for one. Word is she’s booked a cruise—for two.”
“To where?”
“The Caribbean. She got one of those sell-out deals.” Frannie’s voice dripped with disapproval.
No surprise there. Chauncey Porter had said Mrs. Roth bought a book on cruises. “And did your spy tell you when she’s to depart?” Tricia asked.
“In two weeks. I hope they stick her below the waterline on a very rough sea.”
“Frannie,” Tricia scolded.
“I’m sorry, Tricia. I can’t help but feel a bit catty. That woman kept her son and me apart.”
“Are you absolutely sure it was Mrs. Roth, not Jim, who did that?”
Frannie gaped. “Are you suggesting that Jim would lie to me?”
“He wouldn’t be the first man to look for any excuse to avoid commitment.”
Frannie stared at the baking book in her hands, her mouth trembling. “Jim wasn’t like that. He—he wanted to be with me. He said so many times.”
“But?” Tricia prompted.
Frannie swallowed. She continued processing Tricia’s order, and didn’t answer. “That’ll be thirty-seven seventy-eight, please.”
Tricia sighed, and handed Frannie her credit card. She processed the rest of the sale without comment. Tricia changed the subject. “How are the plans for the memorial service coming along?”
“Pretty good,” Frannie said, weariness now coloring her tone. “I ordered a poster-sized print of a picture I took of Jim last fall—from the same place Angelica got her cutout. I’ll pick that up this evening. The Chamber of Commerce has an easel I can borrow—that is, if Bob doesn’t find out. I used Angelica’s name to get it. That Betsy Dittmeyer is a real stickler for rules. She shows about as much compassion as a worm would.”
“I’m sure Angelica won’t mind,” Tricia said, ignoring the slur—however truthful—on Betsy’s character. “Now, about that cutout—”
Frannie looked out the large display window, saw the most recent alteration to the cutout, and cringed. “Not again.”
“I don’t think Angelica would approve of her likeness being mocked.”
“I’ll take care of it as soon as you leave. I promise.”
“Maybe you should just put it in the back of the store, out of sight.”
“No can do. Angelica specifically told me to place it where the customers could see it.”
Tricia shrugged. “Okay.”
“Getting back to Jim,” Frannie continued, as though grateful to leav
e the subject of Angelica’s cutout. “I think he should have a good turnout. He was loved by just about everyone in town.”
And especially you, Tricia thought.
The credit card machine spit out a piece of paper. Tricia signed it, and handed it back to Frannie. With their transaction completed, Frannie handed Tricia her shopping bag and receipt.
“Will I be seeing you later this afternoon?” Tricia asked.
Frannie frowned. “What for?”
“The day’s receipts,” Tricia reminded her.
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Frannie gave a nervous laugh. “I wouldn’t have forgotten today. See?” She pointed to a pink Post-It attached to the register. “I made myself a reminder.”
The tense moment seemed to have passed, for which Tricia was grateful. The door opened, and several giggling women shoppers bustled inside. Hopefully, they had friends who’d just entered Haven’t Got a Clue.
“Okay, I’ll see you later this afternoon,” Tricia said, picked up her bag, gave a wave, and headed for the door.
The morning sun had defied the weatherman’s prediction of rain. Of course, everyone said they needed rain, and it was true that in retail, inclement weather encouraged the bored to go forth and shop, but too many rainy days weren’t good for the soul.
And then Tricia stopped dead. Since she’d left Haven’t Got a Clue, a Kelly Realty FOR SALE sign had gone up in front of the empty lot where History Repeats Itself had been only four days before. Her fine-weather good feelings were instantly obliterated. Was it Jim Roth’s death due to a cigarette addiction, or the death of a building, that bothered her more? That structure had been a part of Stoneham during the good days and the bad—and it had been repurposed during the village’s current revitalization, outliving how many of its former owners and tenants.
Tricia turned away from the site and entered Haven’t Got a Clue. Ginny was at the cash desk, checking out a customer, while Mr. Everett helped someone in the back of the store. Tricia braved a smiled and joined Ginny, stowing her purchases behind the glass display case and bagging the books, adding a copy of the latest newsletter before handing the shopping bag to their customer. “Thanks for shopping with us,” she said, and let out a weary sigh as the customer exited the store.
“What’s wrong?” Ginny asked.
“Bob Kelly must be in a hurry to unload his empty lot.”
Ginny looked confused until Tricia pointed toward the large green sign across the street. “Oh, dear.”
Tricia shook herself. “I don’t want to think about it. In fact, let’s think of something much more pleasant. I made an appointment for you and me to go to the bank to talk to Billie Hanson today. She said she’d stay after closing, so we could go about one o’clock. I’ve already asked Mr. Everett to cover for us.”
Ginny looked away, her frown deepening. “Oh, well . . . I promised to have lunch with my friend Rhonda today. She’s only in town until tomorrow morning.” Ginny gave a nervous laugh. “She didn’t see any future in staying in Stoneham and moved away right out of high school. Maybe we could go to the bank on Monday or Tuesday?”
“Okay,” Tricia said, managing yet another counterfeit smile. “As soon as we have the figures, I’ll talk to my attorney about setting up a mortgage. You’ll want to consult your own attorney, as well.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought about that.”
“You know I wouldn’t cheat you, but it would be in your best interest.”
“Yes, I suppose it would. I wonder what that would cost,” Ginny said, frowning.
“You do want to do this, don’t you?” Tricia asked.
“I’d be crazy to turn down an opportunity like this. Thousands of people across the country haven’t been so lucky.”
Then why are you dragging your feet on this? Tricia felt tempted to ask. Instead, she gave Ginny a hopeful smile. “Well, let me know when you’re available.”
Ginny’s return smile was halfhearted. “I will. Oh, I left my inventory sheets upstairs. I’d better go get them before they get lost.” And off she went.
Tricia frowned. The day had taken on a decidedly sour cast. First Jake, now Ginny.
Thinking of Jake reminded her about a call she needed to make. She picked up the old-fashioned receiver and dialed Captain Baker’s number. For once, she was glad voice mail picked up, directing her to another number should this be an emergency—yada, yada, yada. Finally, she got the beep to leave a message. “Grant, this is Tricia Miles. First of all, I apologize for last night. I didn’t mean to get testy with you. I let Bob Kelly’s bad mood influence my own, and that wasn’t fair to you.” Or me, she thought. “Could you give me a call? I kind of need a favor, too. Thanks.” She hung up the phone and wondered if she’d just made a big mistake.
Lunch, such as it was—yogurt again—came and went, and all too soon it was time for Tricia to head over to Livvie Roth’s little cottage.
As Tricia pulled up the drive, she was surprised to find stacks of cartons, along with large black plastic trash bags, at the curb. Jim had been dead not quite four days. Could his mother already be going through all of his belongings and throwing them away?
With trepidation Tricia opened the gate and entered the garden that was the front yard. Before she had a chance to climb the steps, the front door opened. “Tricia, dear. Thank you so much for coming,” Mrs. Roth said. “Won’t you come in?” Decked out in a pink floral housedress, Mrs. Roth had covered her head with a faded bandana. From the looks of her grubby hands, she’d been doing some serious cleaning.
Once again, Mrs. Roth gestured her to go ahead, and Tricia entered the little home’s living room, which had undergone quite a transformation. The tobacco-stained walls had been scrubbed. Gone were the military pictures that had once decorated them, replaced with still-life prints and oil paintings of roses, most of them in heavily gilded frames and in various sizes. The club chair and oversized plasma TV were also gone, replaced by a chintz-slipcovered love seat and chair. A white wicker table sat before them, with the silver tea set upon it. The ashtray was gone, and the side table, now doily covered, held Mrs. Roth’s library books and a milk glass bud vase with a single pink rose. A floor lamp sat close to the love seat, making a perfect little reading nook. Jim’s wartime display cases were gone, too, and in their place were little shelves filled with books and knickknacks—more of Mrs. Roth’s treasures.
“You’ve been redecorating,” Tricia said.
“Not really. I’ve just moved things around a bit.”
“You did this all yourself?”
“I had some help this morning,” she said, as evidenced by the two tea-stained cups still sitting on the silver tray.
Mrs. Roth gazed at one of the rose paintings and sighed. “I’m so glad I never threw these away. They’ve been in storage for ages. Aren’t they pretty?”
“Yes, very,” Tricia agreed.
Mrs. Roth studied Tricia’s face and frowned. “You must think me a terrible mother, erasing James’s presence so quickly. I can assure you, I haven’t done so entirely. It was quite painful, but I went through his things, weeded out what couldn’t be donated or sold, and kept those that were most dear to him. They’re in his bedroom, which I think I’ll keep as a shrine to remember him by.”
That was a little morbid, but Tricia did have to admit that with even these small changes, the house now seemed more like a home than a war museum.
“Did you know the booksellers rescued as many of the books as they could from Jim’s store?”
“Yes. A William Everett called to tell me that. He’s the one who brought the boxes of items for me to sort through. He could have tossed them in a Dumpster, for all I care.”
“They could be worth quite a bit of money.”
“I don’t have the means to sell them to the highest bidder. And sitting in a storage unit, they’ll just be another drain on my finances. I do wish someone had consulted me before they took that on.”
“I’m afraid that was my fault
. I suggested they try to rescue them.”
Mrs. Roth’s lips pursed, but she didn’t comment.
“Would you consider donating them to a worthy charity?”
“Such as?”
“If nothing else, the Stoneham Library’s next used-book sale. Lois Kerr is always looking for donations.”
Mrs. Roth thought about it for a few moments. “That would be acceptable. Would you be willing to make the arrangements?”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Will you also pay the fee on the storage unit?”
Tricia hesitated, then forced a smile. “Of course.”
“I don’t want to keep you from your shop, dear,” Mrs. Roth said, and pointed to the cartons that were stacked along one wall. “Do be careful when you lift them. Some of them are quite heavy.”
She wasn’t kidding. Tricia struggled to pick up the top box, and carried it from the living room, through the kitchen, and into the attached garage. Mrs. Roth followed her like a puppy. “Where would you like me to put it?”
“Just make a new pile over there,” Mrs. Roth directed.
Mrs. Roth certainly had been clearing house, as evidenced by the stack of boxes and bags. Tricia wondered if there was anything left to put in Jim’s room to remember him by.
“I’ve got a man coming on Monday to make an offer on some of the books and memorabilia. From what I understand, some of it’s quite valuable.” Mrs. Roth wrinkled her nose. “I never did like having it in the house.”
The phone rang inside the house. “I’ll just go get that,” Mrs. Roth said, and hurried inside.
Tricia took a look around the garage, grateful the door was up and light was spilling into the dusty room. Like the rest of the house, it was neat, with plastic shelves that held household cleaning products, garden tools, motor oil, and . . . a gallon jug of antifreeze in a bright yellow container. Yellow—the color of Mrs. Roth’s lemon bars. Antifreeze, made of ethylene glycol. Poison to man and beast.
For some reason, the sight of it bothered Tricia, especially as she remembered the look on Mrs. Roth’s face when she’d mentioned that the lemon bars had been Jim’s favorite. Tricia looked back through the screen door and into the kitchen, where Mrs. Roth conversed on the phone. In only three days the old lady had practically erased all traces of her son from her home. Could she have wanted him gone? Could she have planned to help him leave this world?
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