Chapter & Hearse bm-4

by Lorna Barrett

  “That was Barbaro—and it was at the Preakness. Believe me, there was nothing horsey about Antonio. Ginny’s quite smitten with him.”

  Angelica waved a hand in dismissal. “She’ll get over him.” She thought about it for a moment. “She probably won’t. You’d think after what Brian did, she’d be off men forever.”

  “Rod cheating on you didn’t make you swear off men.”

  “More’s the pity. At least Ginny never married her scoundrel.” Angelica mixed brown sugar with a little flour.

  “True, but she’s still facing credit problems that will dog her for years.”

  “Oh, yeah, how’s that mortgage thing going?” Angelica asked, and poured the wet ingredients into the dry, stirring the mixture.

  “Ginny’s been stalling. I don’t understand it.”

  “Maybe she came to her senses. It’s not good for an employee to be so beholden to a boss. It wouldn’t be in her best interest in the long run.”

  “Are you saying you think I’d take advantage of her sense of loyalty?”

  “You, never. But she should always be open to opportunities, and let’s face it, ringing up mysteries isn’t going to get her that shop she wants.”

  No, it wouldn’t. And neither would hanging on to the little cottage in the woods.

  “Eventually, Ginny’s going to need to look for something that’s going to pay far more than even you can afford to give her. Or she’s going to have to marry well.” Angelica laughed. “Look what marrying well has done for me.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already thinking about marrying Antonio Barbero,” Tricia said, and sipped her tea.

  Angelica shook her head. “Poor Ginny’s been alone for almost eight months, and let’s face it, the prospects of her finding someone here in Stoneham are slim. This guy probably seems heaven sent. That is, until he disappoints her.”

  Tricia laughed. “She just met him, and already he’s breaking her heart?”

  Angelica shrugged, and poured the batter into the prepared pan and sprinkled the brown sugar mixture over the top. “I’ve been down that road too many times myself. I know the signs.”

  That was too depressing a subject to dive into yet again. Tricia changed the subject. “What are your plans for the morning?”

  Angelica popped the coffee cake into the oven and set the timer. “Talk to Bob. Talk to the lawyer. And no doubt talk to Captain Baker. Or at least argue with him.”

  “I’m a bit concerned about something you’ve already told him.”

  Angelica picked up the dirty bowls and measuring equipment and set them in the sink. “What’s that?”

  “That you could vouch for Frannie the afternoon Jim died.”

  “Why are you concerned?” Angelica asked, running warm water into the bowls.

  “Because you spent most of the day cooking for your launch party.”

  “Don’t remind me of that fiasco,” Angelica said.

  “I’m serious, Ange. What if this whole thing ends up in court? Can you swear on a Bible that Frannie never left the Cookery?”

  Angelica opened her mouth to answer but said nothing, and turned back to the sink.

  “Aha!”

  “Don’t ‘aha’ me. Frannie wouldn’t leave the store unattended. I can swear to that.”

  “It’s not the same thing, and you know it.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Let my boyfriend or my employee go to jail? Somebody killed Jim Roth, and I don’t think it was either Bob or Frannie.”

  “That leaves Jim’s mother.”

  Angelica nodded vigorously. “You said she made a spectacle of herself at the memorial service. If she hated him so much, surely she had a motive to kill him.”

  “Captain Baker says she’s got an alibi—her boyfriend.”

  “Who could’ve lied,” Angelica countered.

  “Like you did about Frannie?”

  Angelica’s gaze narrowed. “I didn’t lie. I made an educated assumption. And who’s to say there isn’t someone else out there who had a motive to kill Jim?”

  “If there is, he or she hasn’t come forward.”

  “And who wants to advertise themselves as a murderer?” Angelica asked.

  “My point exactly.” Tricia again thought about, and rejected, the idea of mentioning her suspicions about Jake. She and Angelica were actually getting along, and she didn’t want to spoil it.

  Angelica chewed on her thumbnail. “We’ve got to build a case against Mrs. Roth.”

  Tricia laughed. “And how are we supposed to do that?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the one who reads all those mysteries.”

  “And police procedurals,” Tricia added.

  “Then, go to it!” Angelica cried, exasperated.

  “I can’t. I have a business to run.”

  “You have two employees who can take care of it while you take a few hours to help your friends stay out of prison.” Tricia shook her head doubtfully. “Look,” Angelica continued, “all you have to do is establish reasonable doubt.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “I’ve watched a lot of TV shows about lawyers.”

  “It’s not that easy,” Tricia countered.

  “Frannie can help you. She’s got an entire spy network out there, thanks to her years working at the Chamber of Commerce.”

  That was true. Hadn’t Frannie already told Tricia about Mrs. Roth booking a cruise with money she expected to receive from Jim’s insurance policy? “Okay, that’s a possibility. But I’ll look like a hypocrite if I hand Jim’s mother the money I’ve been collecting for her, and then have the police come after her as a murderer. And there’s no guarantee she is.”

  “Reasonable doubt,” Angelica repeated again, “that’s all you have to establish.”

  Suddenly, Tricia wished she had recently reread some Erle Stanley Gardner books. She was no Paul Drake, and Angelica was certainly no Della Street—let alone Perry Mason. She shook her head. “This doesn’t feel right.”

  “And what if Mrs. Roth is the murderer, and you let either Bob or Frannie go to jail? Then how would you feel?”

  Terrible. “All right. I’ll try to think of something.”

  Angelica let out a pent-up breath and reached out to touch Tricia’s arm. “Thank you.”

  Tricia gave her sister a weak smile. She had the feeling she was going to find it much harder to fall asleep the next time her head hit the pillow.

  Twenty-One

  Tricia awoke to low-hanging clouds heavy with rain, leaving her feeling depressed and anxious about Russ, about Bob, about just about everything. The weatherman’s prediction for more of the same didn’t lift her spirits, either, causing her to worry even more about Angelica going back on the road that morning.

  Four miles on the treadmill, a shower, and coffee later, Tricia packed up Angelica’s coffee cake and she and Miss Marple went down the stairs. Miss Marple was ready to start work, and looked puzzled as Tricia grabbed her umbrella and raincoat from a peg at the back of the store before she deposited the coffee cake on the coffee station’s counter and started for the door. “I’ve got an errand to run,” she told the cat. “Mind the store while I’m gone.”

  Miss Marple just blinked as Tricia pulled the door closed behind her.

  Tricia decided to walk the two blocks to Bob’s house, figuring that parking at the curb in front would only bring attention to her and her mission.

  Without a backward glance, she marched up the walk in front of Bob’s house and quietly climbed the steps to his porch, hoping not to alert Bob to her presence.

  So far, so good.

  She swept her gaze along the gray-painted wooden floor, but didn’t see the cigarette butt that had been there days before. Rats! Had Bob taken a broom to the porch? Tricia peered around the wicker love seat and chairs, wishing the day had been brighter. She was about to give up when she saw the butt in the far left corner. It must’ve been kicked or blown there.

&nbs
p; Relieved, she withdrew a small pair of tweezers and a plastic snack bag from her slacks pocket. She sealed the bag and pulled a marker from her other pocket, writing a large numeral 1 on the bag. She blew on the ink to make sure it had dried before stowing the bag in her left pocket.

  Her heart was pounding as she descended the stairs and started to purposefully walk back down to the street, fighting the urge to break into a run. But no one seemed to have seen her, and no one challenged her.

  Within minutes, Tricia was back on Main Street, and turned for the alley that ran behind the west side of Stoneham’s main thoroughfare. She’d never walked that way before, and took note of how shabby the backs of the stores looked. Behind each building stood one or two Dumpsters, and Tricia’s fingers tightened around the handle of her umbrella as she approached the rear of Booked for Lunch. Had it only been eight months ago she’d found the body of her former college roommate in a garbage tote behind Angelica’s café?

  She put that image out of her mind and concentrated on her task. Sure enough, the concrete apron outside the café was littered with soggy cigarette butts. She withdrew the tweezers and the second snack bag from her pocket, snagged a couple of sample butts, and sealed the bag’s zip lock. Stuffing the bag into her pocket, she decided to wait until she got back to Haven’t Got a Clue to compare the butts.

  The damage to the back of the Armchair Tourist was evident from where she stood. As Chauncey had said, the back of his store was boarded over with plywood. She wondered if he’d find a large puddle in the back of his store when he opened for the day.

  The concrete slab behind the now-empty lot was pitted and cracked, no doubt from debris that had hit after the explosion. It was eerie to look up and see gray sky where less than a week before a building had stood.

  Although the rubble had been cleared, the ground was left uneven with potholes filled with rainwater. It wouldn’t be smart to cut through, but Tricia decided not to retrace her steps. That would take her back to the north end of Main Street, and Russ’s office. Instead, she continued south until she reached the end of the block, crossed the street, and doubled back to Haven’t Got a Clue with more than half an hour to spare before opening.

  After hanging up her coat and soggy umbrella, Tricia headed for the cash desk and the old-fashioned phone that sat upon it. But before she dialed Captain Baker’s number, she placed the plastic bags containing the cigarette butts on the counter for a comparison. They were exact matches. Of course, she wasn’t sure if all cigarettes had the same filters and paper casings. That would be up to a trained investigator to decide. In the meantime, she had collected evidence that might put a killer in jail. Could there be anything more satisfying than to help see justice done?

  Tricia picked up the receiver and dialed, and was surprised when Baker answered on the third ring.

  “Grant? It’s Tricia Miles. I have a theory about who killed Jim Roth.”

  “Oh?” he said, sounding mildly interested. His boss, Sheriff Wendy Adams, had never been this polite when Tricia had offered her views or suggestions in a criminal investigation.

  “Now, don’t laugh—but what would you say the possibility was that one of the suspects hired someone to get rid of Jim Roth?”

  A long silence followed that statement. For a moment, Tricia thought the line might have gone dead. Finally, Baker spoke. “Why would you think that?”

  “They all seem to have alibis.”

  “Seem to have?” Baker repeated.

  Had the captain already figured out that Angelica had fudged about Frannie’s alibi? She decided to ignore that possibility and plunged on. “If Bob Kelly, Frannie Armstrong, or Livvie Roth didn’t kill Jim Roth, then someone else had to have done it.”

  “That makes sense,” he said reasonably, if not enthusiastically.

  “And there’s already someone here in Stoneham who is a convicted felon—convicted of attempted murder. Suppose this person was paid to get rid of Jim.”

  “Would you be talking about the short-order cook in your sister’s restaurant? The one you asked me to check up on?”

  “I would.”

  “And what makes you think Jake Masters killed Jim Roth?”

  “I’ve collected some evidence.”

  “What evidence?” Baker asked sharply. “Please don’t tell me you moved this evidence from where you found it. That you touched it. That—”

  “Of course I didn’t touch it with my hands. I used tweezers.”

  “But you did move it.”

  “Well, yes—”

  “Which would taint it.”

  “Oh, dear,” Tricia said, realizing he was right. And why hadn’t she thought of that before she’d donned her trench coat and played Columbo?

  “Tricia, why didn’t you call me before you decided to play detective?”

  “I figured you might not be interested in what I had to say. After all, your boss—”

  “Is not me—and when are you going to get that through your head?”

  Silence seemed to be the best reply to that question.

  “What was this possible evidence that is now unusable?”

  “Cigarette butts. I remembered seeing one on Bob Kelly’s porch on Sunday morning, after Jim Roth’s memorial gathering. Bob doesn’t smoke, which means someone who does smoke was at his house. Possibly someone who didn’t belong there. Like the person who tried to break into Bob’s house on Friday and whoever tried to kill him on Sunday. I got to thinking about Jake and all the smoke breaks he takes at Booked for Lunch, and wondered if there’d be a match.”

  “So you picked up that butt and then compared it to the butts behind your sister’s café?”

  “They’re the same.”

  “Just because Kelly had a visitor who smoked, and Jake Masters smokes, in no way ties him to the murder of Jim Roth. Something you haven’t considered is motive.”

  “I have. Jake is extremely loyal to Angelica. Bob has not been treating her very well of late, and—”

  “Isn’t it more likely that your sister would try to kill Kelly?”

  “Of course not! Angelica was at the Cookery at the time of the explosion. She was out of town when someone tried to break into Bob’s house and when someone tried to kill him by tampering with his gas meter.”

  “And why wouldn’t your sister hire this guy to do these things?”

  “My sister is not a murderer—she wouldn’t hire someone to commit a murder; she’s—”

  “Just as viable a suspect as Kelly, Anderson, and old lady Roth.”

  Good grief. Not only had Tricia created reasonable doubt, but reasonable suspicion—against her own sister!

  Another long silence followed. Tricia’s fingers clenched the heavy receiver in a death grip as she fought back six kinds of panic. What had she done? Was there a way to fix it?

  Finally, Baker spoke. “As it turns out, I checked up on this guy Masters.”

  “And?”

  “Yes, he is a convicted felon. However, he was a model prisoner. He learned food service when he was in prison. He works two jobs, reports to his parole officer, and has not gotten so much as a parking ticket since he was released from jail two years ago.”

  “Oh.” It was all Tricia could think to say.

  “Look, why don’t we pretend you never made this call?” Baker said.

  “That might be a very good idea,” Tricia agreed, feeling incredibly stupid.

  “Tricia,” Baker said, his tone sympathetic, “I don’t want you to feel you can’t come to me with these kinds of theories.”

  Very charitable of him. “But?”

  “Please, please, in future, leave the evidence collection to professionals. Say those cigarette butts could’ve been linked to the person behind all these crimes; your interfering would make them inadmissible in court.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be interested, and now I feel stupid. I’ve read enough police procedurals and legal thrillers to know better. I guess I got carried away.”


  “I understand,” Baker said. And he really seemed to.

  “You won’t mention this to Sheriff Adams, will you?” Tricia asked, trying to blot out the memories of how that insufferable woman had embarrassed her in the past.

  “I won’t,” Baker promised. “Now, why don’t you go back to bookselling, and I’ll go back to—”

  “Eating doughnuts and drinking coffee?” Tricia asked.

  “That’s exactly what I was going to say,” Baker said, and Tricia could hear the amusement in his voice. “And I’ll keep you posted on how the investigation is going if you promise not to—”

  “Interfere?” Tricia supplied.

  “I was going to say put yourself in harm’s way. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Yes,” she said contritely.

  “Okay. Have a good day.”

  “You, too,” Tricia said, and hung up.

  Miss Marple regarded her from her perch behind the register.

  “Okay, so I blew it. Don’t rub it in,” Tricia said.

  Miss Marple merely gave a bored “Yow.”

  Mondays were Mr. Everett’s day off, and Ginny arrived a full twenty minutes ahead of opening, a few minutes after Tricia had ended her call with Captain Baker.

  By the time Ginny had made a fresh batch of coffee, Tricia had set up the cash register, and joined Ginny at the coffee station for a fortifying cup. Ginny looked suspiciously at the coffee cake that sat on the station’s counter. “Did you bake it?”

  Tricia shook her head. “Angelica did—last night.”

  “I thought I saw her car in the municipal lot. This must have been another unexpected visit. Wasn’t she supposed to be out on the road for at least another week?”

  “Until Friday,” Tricia confirmed.

  Ginny picked up a square of coffee cake, sniffed it, apparently decided it smelled okay, and took a bite, leaving a trail of brown sugar crumbs tumbling down on the carpet. “Mmm. No doubt about it—your sister can bake.” She brushed more sugar from the top of her apron. “What’s on tap for today?” Ginny asked, and bent to gather up the crumbs on the floor.

  “I need to be out of the store for a while today. Errands to run,” Tricia said with an unconvincing laugh. “Do you mind?”