Chapter & Hearse (18 page)

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.”

He glared at her for a second, then put the mask back up to his face and closed his eyes.

“What happened?” Russ asked.

Bob shook his head, and again removed the mask. “I was taking a nap. I guess I must have smelled the gas, and tried to get up. That’s all I remember.”

Tricia scowled. She knew a lie when she heard one. The house was a shambles. No one could have slept through that kind of destruction.

The paramedics helped Bob onto the gurney, and this time he didn’t protest. “We’re ready to roll,” the female EMT said, ushering Tricia and Russ out of her path.

“Give me a call if you want a ride back from the hospital,” Russ volunteered.

Bob gave a feeble wave, and closed his eyes once more.

Tricia and Russ followed as the EMTs rolled the gurney across the grass and loaded Bob into the back of the ambulance. A minute or two later, they pulled away from the curb—with no lights or siren.

“Poor Bob’s having a string of bad luck,” Russ commented. “I’m beginning to wonder if the intended victim wasn’t Jim Roth at all.”

“You mean you’ve only
now
come to that conclusion?” Tricia asked, even though she’d come to the same conclusion only seconds before.

Russ bristled indignantly. “And what was your first clue?”

“The night someone tried to break into Bob’s house, of course. And the fact that he wouldn’t talk about his conversation with Jim Roth. He also had a security system installed. Everyone’s been so preoccupied with Jim’s death, they haven’t looked at the big picture.”

“Everyone but you?” he asked skeptically.

Tricia shrugged. “The question is, when is Captain Baker going to get around to making the connection?”

“Why don’t you just tell him? You seem to have his ear on a regular basis.”

“I don’t know why you’re jealous of my friendship with him.
You
dumped
me
, remember?”

“That was a mistake. I’ve been trying to win you back ever since.”

“I don’t
want
to be
won
. And for another thing, I may forgive—but I never forget.” And with that, Tricia turned and stalked back to her car. This time Russ did not follow.

Once in her car, Tricia retrieved her purse from the passenger seat and rummaged through it until she found her phone. Then she punched in Captain Baker’s private number. He wasn’t likely to answer if he was questioning Frannie or Mrs. Roth, or had gone home to change into his uniform, but she felt she should at least tell him about this latest development. Voice mail answered after three rings.

“Grant, it’s Tricia Miles. I don’t know how tuned in you are to emergency calls, but someone tampered with Bob Kelly’s gas meter—the same as what happened at History Repeats Itself. They’ve taken him to St. Joseph’s Hospital in Milford. Maybe you need to have more than just a friendly chat with Bob. Otherwise, he’s going to end up in the morgue—just as dead as Jim Roth.”

It was
after twelve o’clock when Tricia made it back to Haven’t Got a Clue, where she found not only Mr. Everett standing outside the door, but Ginny, too. “Where’ve you been?” Ginny scolded. “Frannie never showed up at the Cookery.”

“A number of customers came by, but we had to turn them away,” Mr. Everett said. “We were getting worried about you.”

“I’m sorry. I got a call from Angelica. She wanted me to go check on Bob Kelly. It’s a good thing I did,” she said, and explained how she’d found Bob.

“Wow,” Ginny breathed. “Was there an explosion? Is he okay?”

“No explosion, and he’ll be fine.”

“You’ll have to tell me more, but first we’d better get these stores open,” Ginny said. As usual, she had her priorities straight.

Tricia unlocked Haven’t Got a Clue, and Mr. Everett entered. He immediately reversed the CLOSED sign to OPEN and turned on the lights, while she and Ginny headed for the Cookery. No sooner had they opened the cookbook store’s door than a couple of customers arrived. “We saw Angelica Miles on TV last night. She said she owned this store, and that her new book was available. Do you have signed copies?” one woman asked.

“We sure do,” Ginny answered, and ushered the woman to a stock of copies by the register.

Tricia left Ginny to help Angelica’s fans while she readied the cash register and made sure the tape in the credit card machine was full. After that, she rang up the sale of Angelica’s cookbooks while Ginny bagged them. Neither of them spoke until after the women had left the shop.

“Can I put this cutout somewhere else?” Ginny asked. “Having Angelica looking over my shoulder all day will drive me nuts.”

“That’s what Frannie said. She put it outside. But someone keeps doing stuff to it.”

“Stuff?”

“Dressing it up. Putting goofy glasses on it. If you put it outside, try to catch whoever is messing with it before they deface it.”

Ginny shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

“Oh, gosh, I promised Ange I’d buy a copy of her book. I’d better do that now,” Tricia said, and grabbed a copy.

“Better take one of the unsigned ones,” Ginny advised. “If customers are actually traveling to Stoneham to get them, we want to keep them happy.”

“You’re right. Ange can always sign mine later,” Tricia said. Ginny handed her a copy of the book from a box behind the counter. Tricia paid for it, gave Ginny a good-bye nod, and headed back for her own store.

Though she hadn’t really expected Frannie to show up for work, she had hoped she’d get a call. Once back inside Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia checked for messages, but there were none. It was time to consult Angelica’s emergency phone list once again.

Leaving Mr. Everett and Miss Marple in charge, Tricia headed for her loft to call Frannie. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to share with her customers.

Tricia settled on one of the kitchen’s island stools, and punched in Frannie’s number. She answered on the second ring. “Hello?” It was more of a question than a greeting.

“Frannie? It’s Tricia. I was calling to see if you’re all right.”

“No. But. . . . Oh, dear, I didn’t open the Cookery. Oh, Tricia, I’m so sorry. And I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’ve just been too upset,” Frannie said, and from her wobbly voice, it sounded like she’d been crying. Tricia got up and wandered into her living room, thanking those who followed Alexander Graham Bell for inventing the wireless phone.

“It’s okay. Ginny can cover for you for a few hours. Do you think you’ll be able to make it in later today?”

“Nooooo.” Frannie started crying again.

“It’s okay,” Tricia said at least five times before she could get Frannie to answer again. “Ginny’s willing to stay until closing. Do you think you’ll make it in tomorrow?”

Tricia heard the sound of Frannie blowing her nose—loudly—several times. “I’ll try.”

Tricia sighed. Perhaps that was the best she could expect right now. “Do you need company?” she asked, desperately hoping the answer was no. She really needed to attend to her own store.

“Thank you, but no. Penny and I will be okay.” Penny was Frannie’s orange-and-white cat.

Tricia moved into her bedroom, and stopped at the bank of windows that overlooked Main Street. “Maybe I could bring you something later—from the Bookshelf Diner?”

“Oh, no, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I’m just so embarrassed. And to make it worse, Captain Baker followed me home from the Brookview after Jim’s . . . wake . . . and practically interrogated me. I think he actually believes I might’ve
killed
Jim.
Me!
I loved him. You have to believe me!” And Frannie started crying again.

Tricia cast about, desperate to find something to say to distract Frannie. Her gaze landed on the sign across the street. “Uh, did you know a development company bought the empty lot across the street?” Tricia asked. She wasn’t about to mention the name of Frannie’s dead lover’s store.

Frannie sniffed. “No. But I haven’t had time to think of much of anything, what with everything else that’s going on.”

“It was bought by a development company by the name of Nigela Ricita Associates.”

Frannie sniffed again. “I’ve heard that name before.”

“Oh?”

“But I can’t remember where.”

“Well, if you think of it, please let me know.”

Frannie blew her nose again.

“Do you think you’ll be in to work at the Cookery tomorrow?” Tricia asked again.

“I may have to wear a bag over my head but, yes, I’ll be there bright and early.”

“Thank you. I’ll be here at the store for the rest of the day, and have no plans for the evening, so if you need someone to talk to—”

“Thank you, Tricia. You’re a good friend.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tricia said, added a good-bye, and pushed down the phone’s rest buttons. There was another phone call she needed to make. She glanced at her watch. Angelica’s signing was for one o’clock, and it wasn’t yet one thirty. She’d still be tied up. And was it a good idea to tell her about Bob when she had more driving to do later in the day? Learning about Bob’s hospitalization might be too distracting.

Tricia hung up the receiver and decided to put off being the bearer of bad news. After all, there was probably nothing Angelica could do for Bob. And her attentions of late hadn’t been all that welcome. Then again, Tricia could just leave a message telling Angelica she’d checked up on Bob and would call later. That way Angelica wouldn’t worry, at least not too much, and would be able to carry on with her day’s agenda. Tricia picked up the receiver once more and dialed.