Chapter & Hearse bm-4

by Lorna Barrett

  Lois stepped forward, but before she could say a word, a voice from the back of the room pierced the quiet. “I have a few things to say, as well.”

  Everyone turned as Livvie Roth entered the conference room, threading her way through the crowd. Clad in a stunningly loud, magenta floral dress, she seemed ill-dressed for a memorial service, and the dark expression covering her face was menacing enough to frighten small animals and children. This was not at all the sometimes sweet, little old lady Tricia had met previously.

  Livvie stepped up to the microphone. She took a few moments to look each and every person in the room in the eye. “I, too, came here today to tell you about my son.” Mrs. Roth’s hard gaze raked her audience once again. “I heard what Ms. Armstrong said, that he was a kind and decent man. I listened with interest to Mr. Porter’s tall tales. But I’m here to tell you that James Winston Roth was a liar and a cad. He treated me, his own mother, like a servant. He took my money, kept me homebound, and even drove my car—not allowing me its use. He could never have become a teacher. Jim never even graduated high school. He learned much of what he knew about history from comic books and the Military Channel. He was a terrible businessman. His store was on the brink of bankruptcy through bad management and his gambling habit. Even Gamblers Anonymous couldn’t keep him away from the craps tables. Did you know about that?”

  No one said a word, or even nodded. Several guests looked embarrassed. Had they known Jim from GA meetings? Tricia felt like a rubbernecker at a crash site, but she, too, could not look away.

  “Worst of all, James lied about his military record,” Mrs. Roth continued. “He had none! He was declared Four-F by the Selective Service, and often bragged that if he hadn’t been found ineligible to serve, he would have escaped to Canada to dodge the draft. Those medals he displayed on the walls of his store were bought at an estate sale!”

  Tricia looked around and saw mouths hanging open in shock and dismay.

  “And you,” Mrs. Roth said with disgust, staring at Frannie. “When I heard it was you who’d set up this farce of a service, I was livid. How dare you prance around here in a wedding dress, talking about James as though he had any use for you?”

  All eyes roved to Frannie, who stood stock still at the front of the room.

  “This pitiable woman desperately wanted to believe James was going to marry her,” Mrs. Roth said with scorn. “Did she tell you he’d dumped her just days before his death?”

  Captain Baker’s eyes narrowed. Frannie’s eyes widened in horror, and her jaw dropped.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Roth continued, “that was the kind of man James Roth was. Dishonest, deceitful, and a bully to the end. It is the saddest thing a mother can say about her child, but the world is better off without him.”

  And with that, she gave Frannie a parting glare and stepped away from the microphone. The mourners moved back, giving her plenty of space as she stalked out of the conference room.

  A deadly silence followed her departure. The guests looked at each other in shared shock, all trying not to look at Frannie. For a terribly long moment, Frannie stood there, dumbfounded, and then she burst into tears. Grace, who was the closest, rushed to her side, but was pushed away as Frannie bolted from the room. Ginny ran after her, with Russ right on her heels.

  Tricia sidled up to Captain Baker and whispered, “Looks like you’ve now got three suspects.”

  Seventeen

  Tricia had never seen a room clear out so fast. Within seconds of Frannie’s humiliated escape, most of the rest of the mourners grabbed their serving plates and scattered. Even the Dexter sisters gave up their petition quest and filed out after the others. Only Tricia, Mr. Everett, Grace, and Captain Baker remained to take in the chaos.

  Ginny quickly returned. “I thought maybe Frannie had run to the bathroom to have a good cry, but I couldn’t find her. I looked in the parking lot, and her car’s gone.” She shook her head. “Boy, Mrs. Roth’s announcements were a bit of a shocker, weren’t they?”

  “It certainly doesn’t sound like she’ll miss him,” Tricia agreed.

  “But do you think it’s possible she might have killed her own son?” Ginny pressed.

  “That’s infanticide,” Grace said, appalled.

  “Jim was no baby,” Ginny said with a smirk.

  Tricia frowned. “I have to admit Mrs. Roth is one strange duck. She’d started redecorating her home—removing Jim’s presence—before he’d even had a chance to be missed. That alone doesn’t make her look good.”

  “Why didn’t you mention that before?” Baker asked.

  She shrugged. “I guess I didn’t want her to look heartless. Then again . . . I entertained the thought she might’ve been poisoning Jim.”

  “Poison?” It was Mr. Everett’s turn to be appalled.

  “That first day I met her, she kind of creeped me out. She offered me a lemon bar cookie that had a strange, almost glowing yellow color. It reminded me of antifreeze. And then, not two days later, I saw a gallon jug of the stuff in her garage.”

  “Many people store antifreeze. It doesn’t make them criminals,” Grace said.

  Tricia turned to Captain Baker. “Did the medical examiner’s office do any toxicology tests on what was left of Jim?”

  Baker looked uncertain. “They weren’t able to scrape up much—although I can certainly ask. But they wouldn’t have been looking for that kind of evidence, so there’s a possibility they didn’t do more than a DNA test to prove he’d died in the blast.”

  “Tricia, you can’t be serious,” Grace chided. “No mother would kill her only child, no matter how bad a boy he was.” Tricia knew Grace spoke from experience, but there was plenty of evidence to the contrary.

  “It depends on how abusive he was. She said Jim was a lifelong bully,” Ginny said.

  “But that’s not the impression he gave his customers, or his friends at the Chamber of Commerce,” Tricia said in Jim’s defense. “There’s got to be some middle ground.”

  “He lied about his military service,” Mr. Everett said, aghast.

  “Don’t forget,” Ginny said, “we’ve now got another suspect: Frannie. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ ” she quoted.

  “Oh, dear,” Mr. Everett murmured. “Oh, dear, oh, dear.”

  “I never knew they were dating. Do you think it’s true that Jim dropped her just days before he died?” Grace asked.

  “Then why would she go to all the trouble of arranging this memorial service?” Ginny asked.

  “To avert suspicion,” Baker answered. “I’ll be having a talk with both Mrs. Roth and Ms. Armstrong.” He nodded in Tricia’s direction. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  They watched him as he left the silent conference room.

  Nobody had mentioned Bob Kelly, or that he’d been conspicuous by his absence from the memorial service. He certainly hadn’t sounded unwell when Tricia had spoken to him earlier.

  Tricia glanced at her watch. “We’d better go, too. I need to open the store in less than an hour.”

  “I’ll see you there,” Mr. Everett said, and took Grace’s hand. He nodded a good-bye to Ginny, and Grace gave a halfhearted wave.

  Ginny sighed. “I wonder if Frannie will show up at the Cookery.”

  “Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I could sub for her today,” Ginny offered.

  “But it’s your only day off.”

  “I can use the money,” Ginny admitted. After all, she’d done it before. And Angelica wouldn’t be pleased if the Cookery lost a day’s revenue.

  “Thanks, Ginny. I’ll walk with you to your car,” Tricia said, and picked up her own plate from the long, empty table. All that remained was the solitary pseudo-wedding cake, which hadn’t even been cut.

  “Shouldn’t one of us take that picture of Jim?” Ginny asked.

  Tricia glanced back at the giant, smiling picture of Jim, taken in happier times, that was still on the easel. “I don’t know anyone who
’d want it. Not his mother—and at this point, I shouldn’t think Frannie would want it, either.”

  The bright, warming sunshine was a stark difference from the gloom that had fallen inside the inn’s conference room. The flowering crabapple tree outside the entrance reminded Tricia that no matter what, life went on.

  The parking lot was decidedly empty now that the mourners had left, and Tricia remembered her earlier conversation with a worried Eleanor. Could the inn really be shut down if they couldn’t find an investor?

  “I’ll meet you at Haven’t Got a Clue. It’ll save time if I need to open the Cookery,” Ginny said, and headed for her car.

  Tricia opened her car door, but before she could get inside, her cell phone chirped for attention. Since the car had been sitting in the hot sun, she stood outside it and took the call, recognizing Angelica’s number. “Hello.”

  “Trish, are you still at the memorial service?”

  “Just leaving. Boy, did you miss the fireworks. Chauncey Porter gave the eulogy, and then Jim’s mother burst in to refute everything Chauncey said—including the fact that Jim lied about his military career.”

  “I always miss the good stuff,” Angelica said, but she didn’t sound all that enthralled.

  “Where are you?” Tricia asked.

  “In a parking lot in Bennington, Vermont. I’ve been trying to call Bob and still haven’t been able to reach him. Did he show up at the service?”

  “As a matter of fact, he didn’t. But I spoke to him this morning. He said he wasn’t well, but I suspect he was more interested in making a buck.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone’s already bought the lot where History Repeats Itself used to be,” Tricia said.

  “You’re kidding! Who’d want that?” Angelica asked. “The cost of redevelopment would be astronomical.”

  “That’s what I thought. But don’t you think it bodes well for Stoneham?”

  “I guess.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask who bought it?” Tricia asked.

  “Do I care?”

  “A development company called Nigela Ricita Associates.”

  “And that’s important because?” Angelica countered.

  “Nobody’s ever heard of it. And guess what—the Brookview Inn might go up for sale.”

  “You’re kidding!” Angelica sounded more interested in that tidbit. “But it’s always done so well.”

  “Not lately, thanks to the construction across the street.”

  “That’s too bad, but let’s get back to Bob. He’s not answering his home phone number, his cell, or the line at the realty office. Trish, I’m really getting worried.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s not like Bob to ignore a call on his office phone.”

  “Does he have caller ID? You said he’s been avoiding you.”

  “Bob’s too cheap for caller ID.”

  Suddenly, the sun didn’t feel quite so warm on Tricia’s back.

  “Trish, will you please go over to Bob’s house and check up on him?”

  “Ange!” Tricia protested, “I’ve got to open the store in less than an hour.”

  “Bob only lives two blocks from your store. It’ll take you five minutes. Please?”

  Tricia sighed. “Oh, all right.”

  “And call me when you get there,” Angelica pressed.

  “Okay.” She remembered Frannie’s frantic and tearful exit from the service. “Um, you might want to give Frannie a call—to make sure she intends to open the Cookery this afternoon.”

  “Why wouldn’t she open?”

  “Mrs. Roth trashed not only her son, but Frannie, too. She said Jim had dumped Frannie just days before his death, and kind of hinted she might have killed him.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Frannie ran from the room in tears.” Tricia made a quick sweep of the nearly empty lot. “I suppose she might’ve gone home, if only just to change clothes. Uh, she was kind of dressed like a bride.”

  “Why does everything juicy have to happen when I’m out of town?” Angelica demanded.

  “But Captain Baker, who was also at the service, said he intended to talk to her.”

  “Tell me more. On second thought—don’t. Get over to Bob’s. You can fill me in on everything else that happened later. Luckily, Sundays aren’t your busiest day at the shop.”

  “What about your signing?”

  “I don’t have to be there until one. There’s still time. Now get going to Bob’s.”

  “All right,” Tricia said testily. “I’ll call you later.” And she folded her phone, tossing it into her purse. She got into the car, started it, and hit the air-conditioning button, then pulled out of the lot and headed for Bob’s house.

  As usual for a Sunday morning in Stoneham, traffic was light, and as Angelica predicted, it took her only five minutes to arrive at Bob’s home, where she pulled up behind his car. The neighborhood looked half asleep. Only one of the neighbors was visible—a man mowing his lawn several houses away.

  Tricia got out of her car, walked up the path, and climbed the steps to the porch. She rang the bell and waited. A bird called out from the bushes at the end of the porch. Tricia looked down and noticed a crushed cigarette butt lying next to one of the white plastic chairs. Bob didn’t smoke, and though he might have cheap lawn furniture, he kept the place neat and tidy.

  Tricia frowned, glanced at her watch, and sighed. “Come on, Bob.” She pressed the bell again, heard the muffled chime from inside. The neighbor made another circuit around his yard, and the skin on the back of Tricia’s neck prickled. The broken window had been repaired, and she stepped over to peer inside.

  Bob’s living room was a shambles. Furniture had been tipped over, books and papers lay scattered across the living room rug, and the pictures on the wall were askew. Tricia could see broken crockery in the hall leading to the kitchen. And on the far side of the room, lying in front of the fireplace, was a body—Bob.

  Eighteen

  Tricia rapped on the glass as hard as she dared. “Bob! Bob!” she called, but the figure on the rug did not move. She dived for the door handle and yanked at it, but of course it was locked.

  She thought of Jim Roth—and how someone had messed with his gas meter—and what had happened when a spark ignited it.

  She stepped away from the house, took out her cell phone, and punched in 9-1-1.

  “I’d advise you to stand as far away from the house as possible, ma’am,” the dispatcher cautioned in as dispassionate a voice as Tricia had ever heard.

  “But what if he’s suffocating?”

  “You won’t help him if you die in the explosion, too.”

  Within in a minute, wailing sirens broke the midmorning quiet. Thank goodness the Stoneham Fire Department was only a couple of blocks away. Its bright red pumper truck pulled up in front of Bob’s house, with the rescue unit right behind. And bringing up the rear was Russ’s junky old pickup truck. He jumped out and met Tricia on the sidewalk across the street from Bob’s house. “I heard the call on my police scanner.”

  Of course.

  “What’s the story here?” Russ demanded.

  Tricia ignored him as Fire Chief Farrar hurried over to join them. “Man down?”

  “Yes, in the living room. There may be a gas leak. It looks like Bob’s lying on the floor, unconscious.”

  He nodded, and headed for the house.

  The other firefighters were already converging on the porch, dressed in protective gear and masks, and armed with hatchets. They thought to do what Tricia hadn’t: look under the welcome mat for the key. They found it, opened the door, and cautiously went inside.

  Tricia found herself clenching her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she waited for something to happen. Russ put a protective arm around her, and she angrily shrugged it off.

  “I only meant to be reassuring,” Russ said, but again Tricia ignored him.

  Finally, after what seemed
like hours, but was probably less than two minutes, two firefighters dragged an unconscious Bob from the house, shuffled down the steps, and laid him on the ground. Tricia ran across the street, with Russ in hot pursuit.

  She stood by helplessly as one of the firefighters took off his mask and covered Bob’s face. In a few moments, Bob roused and was coughing—a very good sign.

  The Stoneham volunteer ambulance pulled to the curb, its lights flashing, and in moments the paramedics had exited the vehicle and relieved the firefighters.

  Fire Chief Farrar trundled down the porch steps and waved Tricia and Russ aside, giving the paramedics more room to work. “Ms. Miles, Russ. I thought you’d like to know someone had tampered with the gas meter. We’re airing the place out now.”

  “Will Bob be okay?”

  He nodded. “They’ll take him to St. Joseph’s Hospital in Milford, just to make sure. It’s a good thing you showed up when you did. You undoubtedly saved his life.”

  “How about that meter?” Russ asked. “Same as at History Repeats Itself?”

  The chief hesitated, and instead of answering Russ’s question, said, “We shut off the gas. Now it’s up to the Sheriff’s Department to determine if there’re any fingerprints. My guess is no. But maybe Mr. Kelly saw something and can give them an inkling of who they should go after.”

  And maybe he couldn’t. Or more likely—wouldn’t.

  “Can we talk to Bob?” Russ asked.

  Bob sat on the grass, his mouth and nose still covered by an oxygen mask, talking with the paramedics and, from the muffled sound of it, insisting he did not need to go to the hospital.

  “I guess, but don’t interfere with the EMTs,” Chief Farrar said, and waved at one of his men that he’d be right there. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Tricia and Russ walked across Bob’s lawn until they stood in front of him. Bob moved the mask aside. “Don’t tell Angelica about this, Tricia. Otherwise, she’ll be calling me day and night, and I don’t want her to worry.”

  “She might not worry so much if you actually answered her calls.”