Chapter & Hearse (19 page)

With that chore out of the way, she returned to Haven’t Got a Clue.

Booked for Lunch stayed open an extra hour on Sundays, and Tricia anticipated another visit from Darcy with the café’s cash and receipts, so she was surprised when it was Jake who showed up at her door a little after four that afternoon. Clearly, he didn’t want to be there, and tossed the blue bank bag onto the cash desk. “Here you go, Toots.”

Toots?

“Where’s Darcy?” Tricia asked.

“She had other things to do. Like I do,” he said, and turned for the door.

“Wait—what other things?”

He paused. “How would I know? I’m not her keeper. And you’re not mine.”

“Jake, please. We need to get along while Angelica’s gone.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Let me rephrase that. It’s in our best interests to get along while Angelica is gone.”

“If you say so.” Jake opened the door, and the bell’s cheerful tinkle made quite a contrast with the man’s sullen demeanor. He let the door slam shut behind him.

“Oh, dear,” Mr. Everett said. Tricia hadn’t seen him approach from the side shelves. “He certainly is a disagreeable person.”

“Yes, and we may have to put up with him until Angelica finishes her book tour.”

“How long is that?”

Tricia sighed. Another three weeks.”

“Oh, dear,” Mr. Everett said again, shook his head, and went back to straightening the bookshelves.

An hour later, Tricia tallied up the day’s results. Though they hadn’t been terribly busy, between them, Tricia and Mr. Everett had sold fourteen books during the four-plus hours they’d been open, none of them from the discount shelf and five of them by Agatha Christie.

Tricia turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED while Mr. Everett finished the last of his dusting. “Another good day,” he said, returning his lamb’s wool duster to the storage area in the back of the store.

“Not bad for a Sunday,” Tricia agreed. “Do you have any plans for the evening?”

“Grace wanted to go out to dinner, but now that the Brookview isn’t serving on weekends. . . .” He didn’t look brokenhearted, and Tricia suspected it meant one less disagreement about money—and who should pay for what.

“I’ll be off now,” Mr. Everett said. “I shall see you on Tuesday.”

“Have a nice evening and have a good day off,” Tricia said, and closed the door behind him. She didn’t bother to lock it, since Ginny would be arriving in minutes with the Cookery’s daily receipts.

Tricia looked out the window and saw a well-dressed man standing with his back toward the street, looking over the lot where History Repeats Itself had once stood. He held a clipboard and seemed to be making notes. She grabbed her keys, locked the door, and headed across the road. The man looked up as Tricia approached.

“Hello, my name is Tricia Miles.” She held out her hand. “I own Haven’t Got a Clue, the mystery bookstore across the street.”

“How do you do?” said the young man, with the hint of an Italian accent. “I am Antonio Barbero. Very nice to meet you.” And he kissed the back of Tricia’s hand.

She stifled the urge to giggle. Antonio had to be at least ten years younger than her.

“Are you here representing the new owner?” Tricia asked.

“
Sì.
Nigela Ricita Associates.” He offered no other information.

“I was surprised this lot was bought so quickly,” Tricia said, hoping to draw the man out.

“Our company is interested in expanding our operations in New England. We were fortunate to find this property.”

Not so fortunate for the man who’d died only five days before, but Tricia decided not to voice that opinion.

“As your new neighbor, I’d like to invite you to my store for a cup of coffee. Do you have a few minutes to spare?”

The man consulted his watch and then looked up, giving Tricia a dazzling smile. “
Sì. Grazie.
” She led him across the street, unlocked the door, and ushered him into Haven’t Got a Clue. He looked the place over and seemed to like what he saw. “Is very nice.”

“Thank you. The coffee is over here,” she said, gesturing to the coffee station.

Ginny entered Haven’t Got a Clue, clutching the blue bank bag. “The Cookery’s all buttoned up for the night,” she called, and stopped dead as her gaze zeroed in on Tricia’s guest. Her eyes widened until Tricia thought Ginny’s pupils might burst, and Tricia wondered if she was witnessing love at first sight.

“Antonio Barbero, this is my assistant, Ginny Wilson. Ginny, meet Antonio.”

Ginny staggered forward as Antonio made a small bow. He took Ginny’s hand, and when he kissed it, his gaze was riveted on hers. “
Buona sera, signorina
.”

Ginny giggled. “Nice to meet you, uh, Antonio.” And she giggled again.

“Antonio represents the company that’s buying the lot across the street.”

Ginny giggled yet again. Really, it was embarrassing to witness her downward spiral into utter girlishness. “Why don’t you take a seat in the readers’ nook, and I’ll pour you that cup of coffee, Antonio,” Tricia said.

The man finally relinquished Ginny’s hand and seemed to shake himself back to sense. “
Sì, grazie.
”

“
Siete benvenuto,
” Tricia said and waved a hand in the direction of the comfy chairs.

Antonio started off in that direction, and Ginny grabbed Tricia’s arm, whispering, “I didn’t know you could speak Italian.”

“Just enough to get by,” Tricia said, manufacturing a smile, and stepped behind the counter, grabbing the coffeepot. “I’m afraid it’s not espresso, but we’ve never had any complaints about our coffee.”

“I’m sure it will be beautiful—like the ladies in this shop,” Antonio said, and Ginny nearly swooned.

Oh, she was so,
so
young, Tricia lamented, and poured coffee into one of the Haven’t Got a Clue tall cardboard coffee cups. “Do you take cream and sugar?” she asked, but he shook his head. She crossed the room to join him, handed him the cup, and took the adjacent seat.

“Tell us about your employer,” Tricia said, dying to hear the dirt but trying to sound nonchalant.

Antonio crossed his legs, showing off the sharp creases in his black trousers. “We are new in this country,” he said, “looking for opportunities for investment. We think New Hampshire and New England in general have great potential for tourist development. I hope you won’t think badly of us for that.”

“No,” Tricia agreed, “the more the merrier. Will your employer be coming to Stoneham to see the property?”

Antonio shook his head. “Is not necessary. I take care of things for the
signora.
”

Ah, a married woman
, Tricia thought, or at least an older woman. Then again, how many young women had the money for this type of investment? And it didn’t sound as though Ms. Ricita had to worry about her financial standings—or was she just as enamored of Antonio as Ginny was?

“What other opportunities are you pursuing?” Tricia asked.

Antonio took a sip of coffee before answering. “Hotels and restaurants. My employer wishes to branch out.”

“The Brookside Inn on the other side of the village may be looking for an investor,” Tricia suggested.

“Is a nice place?” Antonio asked.

“The best in town. Head south out of town and you can’t miss it. I’d be happy to make some calls for you.”

“That would be very generous of you.
Grazie.
”

“What will you do with the property across the street?’ Ginny asked.

“It will be used for retail, although my employer has not yet decided what to open. Perhaps antiques. Perhaps another bookstore. We must study the situation.”

“Will you be staying in the area?” Ginny asked hopefully.

“I am currently based in Manhattan, but it may become necessary for me to relocate as my employer develops properties in New England. I am told is very beautiful here in autumn.”

“It’s the prettiest place on Earth,” Ginny agreed. “Maybe I could show you around sometime.”

Antonio smiled. “Perhaps.” He lifted his cup to Tricia. “I’m afraid I must be on my way. I have appointments in Nashua later this evening.”

“Your boss must be a slave driver, making you work on Sunday,” Ginny said.

“Not at all. I enjoy my work, as I’m sure you must.”

Again, Ginny giggled, her cheeks going pink once more.

“If you’ll give me your card, I’ll make those calls and get back to you,” Tricia said.

“
Grazie
.” Antonio took a gold business card holder from the inside pocket of his sports coat and extracted two cards. One he gave to Tricia, and the other to Ginny, who looked like she was about to bust.

Once again, Antonio kissed their hands, and with a wave he said, “
Ciao,
” and was gone.

Ginny let out a loud breath. “I think I’m in love. That is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met.”

“Retract your tongue, girl, you’re positively drooling.”

Ginny laughed, and again her cheeks flushed. She remembered the bank bag, and handed it to Tricia.

“How did things go at the Cookery?” Tricia asked.

“Not a bad day,” Ginny said, and dug into her purse for the keys to the Cookery. “But the cutout dresser struck again. I must’ve been helping a customer, and when I looked out about an hour ago, someone had put a black beret on the cutout’s head, and a pair of pink woolly gloves on its hands.”

Tricia sighed. “And you didn’t see who did it?”

Ginny shook her head. “I brought it in at closing. It took me nearly ten minutes to get those gloves off, and then I thought—why did I try to save them? I should have just cut them off.”

Tricia sighed and closed the blinds on the shop’s door. “If nothing else, we at least know a little about the firm that’s bought the lot across the street. I think I’ll do a Google search when I get upstairs.”

“You know, during a lull at the Cookery, I wondered why
you
didn’t buy the lot,” Ginny said.

“Me?” Tricia asked.

“Sure. It would’ve been a great investment. Eventually it would have paid for itself. If you rebuilt, you could either rent it out or move Haven’t Got a Clue to that location.”

Tricia peered through the store’s main display window, studying the empty lot. If it had been one building over, the narrow lot would have been perfect for Angelica to expand Booked for Lunch—allowing her to serve a bigger crowd al fresco, at least during the summer months. In winter, she didn’t even bother to open the café on Sundays. Of course, if the Brookside Inn continued with its no-brunch Sundays, maybe it would pay Angelica to stay open during the winter. Then again, she didn’t get much time off, juggling two successful businesses and a budding writing career.

“I’m surprised the lot sold so quickly,” Ginny said, and turned away from the window.

“Me, too. But it just goes to prove that being a book town has put Stoneham on the map. Obviously someone thinks rebuilding here would be worthwhile. That’s especially comforting to know after the most recent economic downturn.”

“It sure is. Well, gotta go.”

“Thanks for helping out at the Cookery.”

“No problem,” Ginny called, and headed for the door.

“Wait—we should talk about visiting Billie Hanson at the bank tomorrow.”

“Can’t right now,” Ginny said, and opened the door. “Meeting a friend in ten minutes for dinner. See you tomorrow.” And out the door she went.

Tricia frowned. Was Ginny avoiding the whole subject of the mortgage? Didn’t she understand what allowing the debt to mount was doing to her credit rating?

As she reached for the cord of the display window’s blinds, Tricia saw a Sheriff’s Department cruiser coming up Main Street. It pulled up outside of Haven’t Got a Clue, and Captain Baker got out of the driver’s side. He retrieved his high-crowned hat and put it on before heading for Tricia’s door. This was certainly her evening for visitors. Noticing the CLOSED sign, Baker knocked.

Tricia stepped over to the door and opened it. “My, you seem to be making a habit of visiting me after hours.”

“I wish I could say this was a personal visit, but I’m afraid it’s business.”

“Bob Kelly?’ Tricia asked.

Baker nodded. Obviously he’d gotten her message. “I thought you might like to know St. Joseph’s Hospital is holding Mr. Kelly overnight for observation.”

“That’s not unusual, is it? I mean, he could’ve been asphyxiated.”

“Tricia, the gas meter at the back of his house had been tampered with, just like what happened at History Repeats Itself.”

“What are you driving at?”

“Chief Farrar and I concur; we believe Mr. Kelly may have been responsible. It’s possible he tried to kill himself.”

Tricia’s mouth dropped. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Bob—attempt suicide? No way.” Tricia shook her head. “He just sewed up a deal to sell the empty lot on Main Street. Believe me, Bob loves money more than anything else. He’d never kill himself.”

“According to several members of the Chamber of Commerce, Mr. Kelly has seemed depressed for the past couple of weeks. And if he was responsible for killing Jim Roth, he may have had reason to—”

“Look, I may not be Bob’s best friend and advocate, but he wouldn’t kill anybody. He’s never been in any trouble with the law—why start now?”

“Who says he’s never been in trouble?” Baker asked reasonably.

Was it possible? Though Tricia had known Bob for just over two years, she knew virtually nothing about his past—except that he’d come from a home where food was sometimes scarce. Did Angelica know much more about him? Tricia would have to ask. And yet, Angelica hadn’t wanted to talk about Jake’s criminal past—would she be as tight-lipped about Bob’s past as well?

Still, if Tricia trusted one thing about Bob, it was that he’d go to any lengths to save his own hide.

“I don’t believe it. Bob would never risk his life to further a business deal. He owned the building. He could’ve been killed in that blast,” Tricia pointed out. “And now he’s made a deal to sell the property.”

“Someone wants that lot?”

“Yes, and until the building was destroyed, Bob was one of them. He’s got a lock on most of the property on Main Street. Renting out that real estate is the major source of his income.” Tricia shook her head again. “Besides, someone ransacked Bob’s house.”