Chapter & Hearse bm-4 Page 5

  “Maybe I could help.”

  He seemed to wrestle with the idea. “Perhaps. You see, it’s . . . it’s Grace.”

  “Oh, dear, I hope her cold hasn’t gotten worse.”

  “Oh, no. As I said, her sniffles have almost disappeared.” His expression grew more solemn. “It’s her . . . her . . . her generosity.”

  Generosity a problem? “I don’t understand.”

  “When Grace and I married, I had some outstanding debts—all tied to the closing of my grocery store. However, when my statements arrived this last month, I found that she’d paid off all my creditors.” His cheeks colored, and he avoided her gaze. “I’m afraid we had words over it.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  He nodded, his gaze heavy with . . . disappointment?

  “I’m sure she had the very best of intentions,” Tricia said.

  “Oh, no doubt. But . . . my pride, you see.”

  Tricia nodded. Pride goeth before a fall, she repeated silently to herself. “You can’t let this come between you. The two of you have been so happy together.”

  “Yes. And I’m sure we shall be again. Although I’m afraid desperate measures may be necessary to alleviate this situation.”

  “Desperate?” Tricia repeated. She didn’t like the sound of this.

  “I may have to take out a loan,” Mr. Everett said and gave a heavy sigh; and suddenly Tricia felt just as weary. The day was barely half over, and already she felt wiped out. It also seemed as though she’d started a new career—personal counselor to half of Stoneham.

  Before she could give a word of advice or comfort, the shop door opened. A woman customer entered, and Mr. Everett sprang into action, as though grateful for the opportunity to end their conversation.

  Tricia headed for the coffee station. She needed a strong jolt of caffeine to jump-start her afternoon. But the pot held only dregs. She poured them out and started a fresh pot, working on automatic pilot.

  She thought again how used she’d gotten used to having Angelica around during the past year and a half, and now that she was gone—albeit for only a couple of days—Tricia felt oddly isolated. Poor Mrs. Roth must be feeling terribly alone. Since Jim was an only child, and had been recruited by Bob to relocate to Stoneham, the poor woman might have no one to reach out to. And it was obvious Frannie wouldn’t extend a hand of friendship to her anytime soon.

  On impulse, Tricia crossed the store and grabbed the slim phone book from behind the cash desk, hoping the Roth home still had a landline. In less than a minute, she found the number and dialed it. Someone picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello,” said a wavering voice.

  “Mrs. Roth? My name is Tricia Miles. I own the mystery bookstore here in Stoneham. I was a friend of Jim’s. I’m so sorry for your loss. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “How kind of you to ask,” said the old woman, with more than a hint of an English accent. “As it happens, I could use some help. James had the family car. I’m sure it’s probably still parked in the municipal lot, but I have no way to get there to retrieve it. I’m afraid my knees couldn’t handle a hike that far.”

  “I’d be happy to pick you up and take you to the car.”

  “If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience,” she said.

  “Not in the least. When would you like to go?”

  “Is an hour from now too soon?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She gave Tricia the address. “I’ll look forward to meeting you. James never did introduce me to any of his lady friends.”

  Tricia choked back a laugh. “Jim and I were members of the Chamber of Commerce. Sadly, I didn’t know him all that well.”

  “I see,” said the old lady, her voice cool. “Well, I’ll see you in an hour, then.”

  Tricia heard a click, and the line went silent. She frowned at the receiver, feeling a bit dismayed. Had Mrs. Roth been expecting Frannie to call? Had she believed Tricia that she and Jim had only been acquaintances?

  As she replaced the receiver in its cradle, Tricia wasn’t at all sure she should have made the call.

  Five

  Tricia parked her car at the curb outside 44 Poplar Street at precisely two o’clock. The outside of the Roth home looked like something out of a travel brochure for Merrie Olde England. The house was not at all in keeping with its Victorian neighbors, but instead looked like a whitewashed country cottage, sans thatched roof. A white picket fence surrounded the property, reining in what would, in weeks, no doubt be a magnificent cottage garden. The perennials hadn’t yet burst into flower, but a few strategically planted annuals already made a cheerful welcome.

  Tricia unlocked the gate, making sure the latch closed behind her. If Mrs. Roth had a canine friend, she wouldn’t want to be responsible for its getting loose. She followed the flagstone path to the fire-engine red front door, which sported a glossy black medallion from which the white house number seemed to jump out at her. A brass knocker below it was in the shape of a lion’s head, reminding her of the one described in Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. She knocked, and seconds later the door opened.

  Mrs. Roth, a stooped, elderly woman—probably in her late seventies or early eighties—was dressed in a floral housedress and a maroon cardigan sweater. Her snowy hair was neatly coiffed—perhaps she went to the same hairdresser as Grace Everett.

  “Hello, Mrs. Roth. I’m Tricia Miles.”

  “Thank you for coming, Miss Miles.”

  “Please, call me Tricia.”

  “Won’t you come in?” The older woman stood back, and beckoned Tricia through the entryway and into a small living room. Tricia’s nose twitched at the odor of stale cigarette smoke. The inside of the home did not match its outward appearance. Instead of having white walls, the interior was dark. Framed pictures of military planes and uniformed soldiers dotted the walls. A gleaming silver sword with a gold hilt and a red tassel hung over the faux brick fireplace. Taking up one whole corner of the room was a large plasma TV. A leather club chair sat before it, with an oak side table and a large, empty ashtray beside it. The rest of the room housed bookshelves and display cases with swastika-covered war souvenirs. At least one shelf had been emptied, its books neatly stacked in several cardboard cartons.

  “Won’t you step this way?” the old lady asked, and directed Tricia to the dining room. “Do you have time to join me in a pot of tea?”

  “Oh, please, I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “To be quite honest, I’d welcome the company.”

  Tricia managed a smile. “Thank you. I’d enjoy that.”

  Mrs. Roth’s eyes brightened. “Please make yourself at home. I’ll only be a moment.” And she tottered off to the kitchen.

  Tricia glanced around the immaculate dining room. Not so much as a speck of dust marred any surface. Unlike the living room, this room was definitely a woman’s territory—full of knickknacks and doilies, glassware and china. An assortment of brown transferware dishes decorated the buff-colored walls. Dinner plates, luncheon plates, cake plates, and even saucers hung high on the walls, just below the ceiling, making an attractive border. The antique china cabinet, filled with an assortment of bone china tea services, stood against the north wall. Sitting atop the oak and glass cabinet were three soapstone vases and two Russian tea glasses. Above them hung a bashed and battered pewter platter—no doubt a family heirloom. Another cabinet held an assortment of chintz china—not a whole set, but the mismatched pieces made a cheerful floral garden. Cups and saucers, sugar and creamer sets, and several small pieces that Tricia couldn’t identify.

  Mrs. Roth entered the dining room and set a polished silver tray with teapot, sugar and creamer, a plate of bar cookies, and a bowl of sliced lemons onto the table. “I hope you like Earl Grey. I find it a soothing treat in the middle of the afternoon.”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  “Would you like to select a cup?” Mrs. Roth asked, waving a hand at
the oak cup shelf on the east wall.

  “Oh, I couldn’t. They’re all so lovely. I’d be afraid of breaking it.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. I use all my treasures. What good is having them if they don’t get used? And each of my cups has a story.”

  Tricia moved to stand in front of the shelf. Flowers graced most of the cups; violets, bluebells—daffodils appeared to be a favorite—and every cup had a unique shape. She chose one with a bold pattern of pink and blue flowers that stood out against a black background and gold rim.

  Mrs. Roth smiled. “I thought you might choose that one. It’s one of my favorites.”

  “And its story?” Tricia prompted.

  “It was given to me by my late mother. A wedding gift.” Her smile waned. “I didn’t get many, you see. Mr. Roth and I were married at the Registrar’s office. A week later, I left England for good.”

  “Did you ever return?”

  Mrs. Roth’s wrinkled mouth quavered. “Not for many years. I’d always hoped to go back there to live—after my husband died, of course. But by then all my family was gone, and all my friends had either died or moved away.”

  “How sad for you.”

  Mrs. Roth nodded. “I’ve certainly had my share of heartache. And now dear James is gone.” She sank into one of the chairs at the dining table and sighed. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “Now I’m all alone in this world.”

  So, no dog after all.

  Tricia moved closer, hesitant to rest a comforting hand on the elderly woman’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know him well, but Jim seemed like a wonderful person. Everyone seems to have loved him.”

  “Oh, yes, he was well loved.” Was there a bit of anger in her voice?

  Mrs. Roth squeezed her eyes shut, pulled a floral hankie from the sleeve of her sweater, and dabbed at her nose. “My poor, poor James. For years I begged him to quit smoking. I knew it would kill him one day.”

  “Kill him?” Tricia asked.

  “That nice man from the Sheriff’s Department said it appeared Jim’s cigarette lighter touched off the explosion.”

  Tricia wasn’t sure what to say in reply, and cast about the room, her gaze landing on the teapot. “Should I pour?”

  Mrs. Roth’s head bobbed.

  Grateful for something to do, Tricia chose another cup from the shelf, set it in front of the old lady, lifted the heavy silver pot, and poured the tea. Setting the pot down, she took a seat at the table and waited for Mrs. Roth to compose herself. When the old lady raised her cup to her lips, her hands had stopped shaking. She reached for one of the bar cookies.

  Tricia cleared her throat. “You have a lovely home. It looks like Jim had quite a diverse collection of war memorabilia.”

  “Disgusting, isn’t it?” the old lady said. “Too many people glorify violence, and James’s collection has overrun the house. My only havens have been this room”—her gaze wandered around the dining room—“my bedroom, and my garden.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing your garden in full bloom.”

  “It’s taken me five years to achieve. James wouldn’t help.” Her voice dripped with disapproval. “But then he spent so much time at the shop—and with his other activities—that sometimes I’d spend less than ten minutes a day with him.”

  “It must have been very lonely for you.”

  “Only in the winter, when I couldn’t be in my garden. But I have my books”—she indicated a small stack of library books on the sideboard—“and they’re a great comfort to me.”

  Tricia sipped her tea and was pleased to see they were all mysteries by the great mistresses: Allingham, Christie, Sayers, and Tey.

  “Since there was no body to bury, I’ve decided not to hold any kind of service for James,” Mrs. Roth volunteered.

  “Yes, I heard.”

  Mrs. Roth frowned. “Oh?”

  Tricia backpedaled. “One of Jim’s friends contacted the Baker Funeral Home to find out if any arrangements had been made.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Roth said, but there was something in her tone that conveyed her disapproval. She sighed. “I see no need for a service. We have no family. And the expense—”

  “But, surely Jim’s friends—”

  Again, Mrs. Roth shook her head. “I simply can’t afford it. The shop hadn’t been doing well, and now my income has—” Her voice broke, and again she dabbed the hankie at her nose. “All that is beside the point. My family had no history of burials, anyway.”

  “I don’t understand,” Tricia said.

  “In England, there are very few new burial sites. Or at least that was how it was when I lived there. You can rent a grave for a term—say, one hundred years, and then—”

  “They dig you up?” Tricia asked, aghast.

  Mrs. Roth nodded. “That’s what happened to my grandmother. That’s why cremation is so popular. My parents, my friends, and their husbands were all cremated, and their ashes spread in a garden of remembrance. If you liked, you could buy a rosebush in someone’s memory, and they’d put the ashes under or nearby.”

  Good God, Tricia thought, a loved one reduced to plant fertilizer!

  “Of course, poor James was . . . was—” Mrs. Roth swallowed the catch in her voice and continued. “I think I shall plant a rosebush in my garden to remember James by. It’ll be pretty, and—” She stared at the dining table, shook her head, but did not continue the sentence.

  Tricia waited until the old lady composed herself once again. “Would you be opposed to some of Jim’s friends setting up a memorial service?” Tricia asked, crossing her fingers, since Frannie was already planning such an event.

  Mrs. Roth looked up, the barest hint of annoyance shadowing her eyes. “I don’t know. I suppose that would be all right. But—”

  “I’d be glad to let you know when the arrangements have been completed.” Tricia decided not to mention Frannie at this point. The poor woman had enough on her mind.

  Mrs. Roth reached across the table and placed her hand on Tricia’s. “Thank you, dear. You’re so very kind.” She looked around the table, cleared her throat, and reached for the plate of bar cookies. “Won’t you have a lemon square? They were James’s favorite treat. I often made them for him.”

  Tricia hesitated. She wasn’t a big sweets fan, and the bright yellow color was a bit off-putting. It reminded her of the radiator fluid that had leaked from her last car. She remembered something Frannie had said about Jim becoming ill just before their dates. If Mrs. Roth hadn’t approved of Jim dating, might a few drops of coolant put him out of commission for a few hours? She hesitated, told herself she was being foolish, and reached for one of the cookies, took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Mmm, it’s delicious.”

  Mrs. Roth’s eyes narrowed, her mouth quirking into a crooked smile. A shiver ran through Tricia. She wasn’t at all sure she liked Mrs. Roth.

  Six

  It was nearly three o’clock when Ginny said, “Mail call!” and dumped a pile of envelopes and packages on Haven’t Got a Clue’s glass display case, startling Tricia. Awash in order forms to restock the coffee station, she hadn’t heard the door open and the mailman come in.

  “Bills, bills, bills,” Ginny said with a laugh. “Makes me feel like I’m at home.”

  The door opened again, and a customer walked in. “Can I help you?” Ginny asked, and left Tricia to deal with the mail. She sorted through the envelopes, separating them into piles.

  Among the bills and circulars was a squat package. Tricia scrutinized the return address. There was only one person she knew in Colorado—her ex-husband, Christopher. They hadn’t spoken in at least eighteen months, not since she’d called him, needing to hear a friendly voice after Doris Gleason’s murder. Since they’d parted, she hadn’t received so much as a Christmas card from him, and now this—whatever it was. A birthday gift, perhaps? If so, jewelry, most likely. He’d bought her rings, earrings, necklaces, and bracelets for birthdays and Christmases, and after he’d l
eft her, she’d found it unbearable to wear any of his presents. They now resided in her jewelry box, stuffed in the back of her closet. She’d gone to a discount store and chosen an inexpensive—but dependable—Timex watch as her only piece of adornment—that and a few pairs of post earrings.

  Tricia turned the box over and shook it, but nothing rattled inside. Christopher hadn’t insured it, so whatever was inside probably wasn’t valuable. And if it was meant as a birthday gift, was she supposed to wait until next Wednesday to open it?

  The heck with that! She fumbled for the box cutter she kept under the counter and slit the tape that sealed the box. Inside the cardboard, nestled between two layers of foam peanuts and wrapped in a protective sheet of bubble wrap, was a red-velvet-covered box. Yup. Jewelry. At least Christopher always had good taste. She extracted the box and opened it. Inside was a lovely oval locket engraved with calla lilies—her favorite flower. Christopher hadn’t forgotten. She opened the locket and found he’d inserted a picture of Miss Marple. She frowned. She’d half expected he’d put a picture of himself inside. That maybe he was thinking of her. That maybe he’d gotten over his midlife crisis and was thinking of returning to her.

  She searched the box. Sure enough, on the bottom was a small white envelope. The flap had been tucked inside. She removed the card, which had a watercolor of calla lilies on the front, and opened it. It was Christopher’s familiar handwriting, all right. She read the lines:

  To remind you of the one you love the most.

  Love,

  Christopher

  Tricia frowned at the words, puzzled and hurt. Yes, she loved Miss Marple, but did he think she was incapable of loving a person as much? She had loved him with her heart and soul, and he had left her for a life of solitude in the Colorado mountains.

  She was fighting back tears when an out-of-breath Darcy Gebhard pushed through Haven’t Got a Clue’s front door. “Tricia!”

  Tricia wiped her tearing eyes, stuffed the box under the counter, and tried to keep her voice level. “What can I do for you, Darcy?”