Текст книги "A Fatal Chapter"

Автор книги: Lorna Barrett

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

FOURTEEN

“I’m so happy, I think I might explode!” Angelica gushed as she started her car and put it in gear.

“Calm down, girl,” Tricia said, and laughed. It was well past eleven. The dinner—and the ensuing conversation—had gone on much longer than Tricia would have expected, considering how close Ginny was to delivering her baby. But everyone had been in such high spirits, no one had wanted the evening to end.

“I was so worried Ginny wouldn’t accept me as her mother-in-law, and yet now I feel like we’re really a family.” Angelica looked both ways before pulling out of the Brookview Inn’s parking lot, heading east. Antonio’s car had already disappeared from view.

“Ginny seemed pleased, especially when you answered her question about her taking on more responsibility—and the possibility of opening a new day care center.”

“A good employer makes sure her people are happy. If we were a bigger company, I’d have on-site day care.”

“How big do you expect NRA to get?” Tricia asked. Did she have a megalomaniac for a sister?

Angelica shrugged. “That depends on Antonio and the next generation of Barberos.”

“Do you want to make NRA a dynasty?”

“Why not?” Angelica said, and laughed.

“I hate to shatter your good mood, but we’ve still got to put silk flowers in the rest of the hanging baskets.”

“Even that boring task couldn’t upset me,” Angelica declared, and she turned left onto Main Street.

Every other business except the Dog-Eared Page had long since shuttered its doors for the day. The pub’s windows positively glowed, and Angelica slowed the car, hitting the power button on the driver’s window. They could hear music and laughter. “I knew opening that pub would be good for the village,” she said.

They rolled on past, and a few seconds later she turned right into the municipal parking lot. Angelica parked and they got out of the car. “We’ll change clothes and then get straight to work.”

But as they walked toward Main Street, Tricia looked toward the gas lamp nearest the entrance and her breath caught in her throat. “Oh, no,” she cried.

“What?” Angelica asked.

“Look!” Tricia pointed to the hanging basket. When they’d left for the Brookview Inn, it was resplendent with silk blooms; now only the live greenery remained.

Angelica let out a breath that sounded like a sob. “No!”

Tricia snagged Angelica’s arm, pulling her up the street. Every basket they’d worked on the night before had been denuded.

“How could someone have done this? Why didn’t anyone see it happen?” Angelica cried.

“It’s too late to call the police,” Tricia said.

“Grant didn’t take me seriously when I reported the vandalism in the first place—he’s not going to care about the theft of the silk flowers, either.” Angelica’s voice broke on the last word, and tears filled her eyes.

“There must be something we can do,” Tricia said, looking up and down the empty street. Up ahead and across the street, she noticed a light glowing at the Stoneham Weekly News. “Look, Russ must be working late. Let’s talk to him. Maybe he can put something in the paper about it.”

“I’ll put a bounty on the head of whoever is responsible,” Angelica threatened, and stalked off in the direction of the weekly newspaper. Tricia had to hurry to catch up.

Angelica banged on the big glass door. “Russ! Russ Smith! If you’re in there, open the door.”

It took a few moments, but finally Russ stuck his head out of his office door.

“Russ!” Tricia called.

He hurried for the door and quickly unlocked it. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s the flowers! They’re gone!” Angelica cried.

“Calm down—calm down. Come on in and sit down and tell me what on earth is going on.”

Angelica was so upset that her explanation made no sense, so Tricia took over.

Finally Russ waved his hands to end the tirade. “Okay, I got it, I got it. But it’s too late to put an item in the paper. It’s already gone to bed for the week.”

“Oh, no!” Angelica wailed.

“Now, now—don’t panic. I’ve got another idea,” Russ said. “You say you’ve still got fake flowers you can put in some of the baskets?”

Tricia nodded.

“We can capture the guy on video.”

“How?” Angelica demanded.

“Boris and Alexa Kozlov over at the Coffee Bean bought a camera when someone was filling their Dumpsters with trash. I’ll bet if you asked Alexa, she’d be fine with loaning it to you.”

“She loves the flowers—she’s told me that many times,” Angelica agreed.

“Maybe she could even get Boris to set it up for you.”

“That’s a great idea,” Tricia said.

“I’ll go over to the Coffee Bean the second they open in the morning and ask,” Angelica said.

“But first we’ve got to beautify all those pots of greenery,” Tricia said, starting to feel weary. Like Angelica, her good mood had evaporated when they’d found the flowers missing once more.

“There’s no point in replacing the flowers until we get that camera installed,” Angelica said, and stood.

Tricia and Russ stood as well. “I agree,” Tricia said. She looked at Russ for a long moment. “By the way, what are you doing here at the office so late at night when your wife is about to give birth?”

Russ shook his head. “Nikki’s not due for at least another week. I waited for her to fall asleep before coming here. If she wakes up, she knows where I am. I can be home in two minutes.”

Tricia frowned. Two minutes could be a long time if you needed to get to the hospital fast. But that was Russ and Nikki’s decision, and she wasn’t about to voice her opinion on the subject.

Angelica reached the door and turned. “Thank you, Russ. I was so distraught, I don’t think I’d have ever remembered the Koslov’s had that surveillance camera. But even if they didn’t, I’d pay big-time to get one put up so we could catch the vandal who’s ruining our flowers.”

“Keep me posted. It might make a fun story for next week’s issue,” he said before closing and locking the door behind them.

The sisters stood on the sidewalk outside the office. “I’m glad you saw Russ’s light on. Maybe by tomorrow we’ll have this mess with the flowers cleared up.”

“You mean two days from now,” Tricia complained, and shook her head.

“At least we’ll get to bed at a halfway decent hour tonight,” Angelica said. “For now, I’m going to put it out of my head and fall asleep and dream about my new grandchild.”

“You. A grandma. And you look spectacular,” Tricia teased.

“Don’t I just?” They laughed. It felt good. “Okay, it’s time for us to go our separate ways. I’ll see you in the morning.” Angelica gave Tricia a hug and they split up, with Tricia heading north for the Chamber and Angelica south for the Cookery. Tricia’s footfalls echoed—something she never heard during daylight hours. Main Street was well lit, and she often walked home alone at night from the Dog-Eared Page without fear. But the hairs on the back of her neck prickled as though someone were watching her. She quickened her pace.

She was about to turn up the Chamber’s driveway and walk to the back door when she saw one of the silk flowers lying on the sidewalk. She picked it up and looked around, but saw no one. Turning, she hurried for the door. The security light snapped on, bathing her in harsh light as she fumbled to unlock the door. Once inside, she double-locked the door and fought the urge to turn on every light in the place. Instead, she padded through the converted house to the darkened office up front and peered out the window. Across the way she thought she could see movement. Yes, someone dressed in dark clothing and a hoodie carried a large black garbage bag and skulked away.

Could it have been the late-night petal pincher?

FIFTEEN

Tricia hated the expression “slept like the dead,” but that’s exactly what had happened when she’d laid her head upon her pillow. And yet her sleep was not restful. Hours later, she’d awoken feeling foggy and somewhat disoriented. She was glad to give in to her usual routine of rising, walking, and buying coffee.

The Coffee Bean was between customers when she walked in. Alexa stood behind the counter. “Ah, the other sister,” she called, and laughed.

Tricia glanced at her watch. It was only seven thirty. Had Angelica beaten her there?

“I take it Angelica has already been over to see you?”

“Yes, and we are thrilled to help her catch the felon ruining the flowers,” she said with just a trace of a Russian accent.

A misdemeanor, maybe, but Tricia wasn’t about to argue with the barista. “Thank you.”

“Now, your usual brew?” Alexa asked.

A minute later, Tricia was on her way back to the Chamber to shower, dress, eat a modest breakfast, and feed her cat before starting the rest of her day.

The morning sun blazed through the Chamber’s front windows, giving the office a kind of cheerful glow. Mariana arrived, made a pot of coffee, turned on her radio, and all was right with the world.

The phone rang at 9:32, and caller ID told Tricia it was none other than Mr. Everett. She picked up the receiver with pleasure.

“Hello, Mr. Everett. How are you this lovely morning?”

“Very well indeed,” he said, and his voice conveyed his own pleasure. Oh, how she’d missed seeing the elderly gent on a daily basis.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve spoken with someone at the Historical Society about Peter Renquist’s memorial service. Naturally, they’re just as upset that Ms. Koch was assaulted. They would prefer to wait several weeks for her to recover—”

If she recovers, Tricia thought to herself.

“—before they plan any kind of service for Mr. Renquist. As she knew him best, they feel she should speak for the Society.”

“That does seem reasonable,” Tricia admitted.

“However, I did learn that there will be a gathering of Peter’s friends and some of his colleagues at the Dog-Eared Page this evening at about eight o’clock. I knew you would want to attend.”

“I certainly do.”

“Peter’s friends are invited to share their memories of him.”

“Will you?” Tricia asked.

“I fear that my association with Peter was so long ago that it would be irrelevant. But I do want to pay my respects.”

“Of course,” Tricia said.

“Very good. Grace and I will see you then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Everett.”

“I must get back to work. Frannie has a big box of books for me to inventory. It’s great fun, I must confess. I’ll see you this evening.”

“See you then. Good-bye.”

Tricia replaced the receiver, staring at it for a long moment, but then the phone rang again. She picked it up. “Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. This is Tricia. How may I help you?”

“Hello, love. Are you available for lunch?”

Tricia smiled at the sound of the voice with the lilting English accent. “Why, yes, I am. What did you have in mind, Michele?”

“The weather is spectacular, and I think it would be brilliant to have a picnic lunch. Are you game?”

Tricia couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on a real picnic. “Sounds wonderful. Where?”

“The Stoneham Rural Cemetery.”

“Oh!” Tricia said with a start.

“I want to do a preliminary scout to get a feel for the place, and as you’re going to be my study-buddy, I thought you might enjoy a ramble through the graves. It’ll be great fun,” she insisted.

Tricia tried to sound positive. “If you say so. Where shall we meet? What should I bring?”

“You don’t need to bring anything. We can meet right in the parking lot at the cemetery’s front entrance. Unless there’s a funeral, there shouldn’t be a crowd.” She laughed.

“What time?”

“Is one o’clock too late?”

“It’s just fine,” Tricia said. “I’ll see you there.”

“Brilliant. Cheerio.”

“Bye.” Tricia put the phone down.

“Got a hot lunch date with that hunky guy?” Mariana asked eagerly.

Tricia’s expression soured. “No. I’m picnicking with a friend.”

“Going anywhere romantic?” she asked slyly.

“The cemetery.”

“Oh,” Mariana said, startled.

Tricia tried not to smile, with limited success. She had no problem confounding Mariana.

•   •   •

The short ride along Stoneham’s back roads to the Stoneham Rural Cemetery was pleasant and treelined. The humidity had dropped, and as Michele had said, the weather was spectacular. As Tricia pulled into the nearly empty parking lot, she recognized Michele’s car. Michele sat behind the driver’s wheel, speaking into her cell phone. Tricia parked, got out of her car, and approached Michele’s. Across the way a middle-aged woman and a much older man stood over a grave. The woman was arranging a colorful bunch of flowers in an urn attached to a headstone while the old man wiped tears from his eyes. A picnic seemed so frivolous when others were in pain.

Still, Michele was here to celebrate the lives of the cemetery’s historical denizens—or at least bring attention to some of its more noteworthy occupants. Noteworthy if not infamous in some capacity.

Michele saw Tricia, waved, and quickly finished her conversation. She put the phone away and got out of her car. Key fob in hand, she popped the hatch of her Mini Cooper. “I hope you brought your appetite. The Brookview Inn is very generous with their portions.”

“I’ll try to make a dent,” Tricia promised.

Michele lifted a straw picnic basket out of the trunk, and Tricia shut the hatch.

“Hmm, it’s heavier than I thought,” Michele admitted. “It must be the iced tea—or maybe the cold packs. Would you mind?” she asked, offering Tricia one of the basket’s handles. It was a bit awkward, but the basket was indeed heavy. “There’s a bench under a tree not far from here.”

“Lead the way,” Tricia said.

The sun beat down on them as they made their way down the narrow ribbon of asphalt that wound through the cemetery. As it was older than the other cemeteries in the area, this one still allowed headstone monuments instead of flat markers. The monuments near the front of the cemetery were older, some of them wind-worn, chipped, and difficult to read.

“I wonder what these tombstones are made of,” Tricia said idly.

“Primarily granite, marble, and limestone,” Michele said, and gave a small laugh. “I’ve already started my research.”

“You really enjoy this, don’t you?” Tricia asked.

“I think the ghost walks will be great fun and a wonderful fundraiser for the cemetery. It costs money to maintain these old graves, and these monuments are all that’s left for the world to know about the generations of people who lived and died here in Stoneham.”

“Sounds like you’ve adopted the village—and its predecessors.”

“I enjoy living here. When I was offered the job of managing the Dog-Eared Page, I wondered if I’d miss living in a larger city, but I don’t. I grew up in a small village in England, and while Stoneham is nothing like it, it’s a slower pace, and I’m at a time in life where I enjoy that.”

Tricia looked ahead to where a line of white oaks made a barrier not far from the black wrought iron fence that was the cemetery’s east border. As Michele had indicated, there was shade and a wood-and-metal bench painted forest green. In a minute, they’d made their way over to the bench and sat down. Michele opened the basket and removed a thermos and two plastic cups, setting them on the bench between them, then withdrew two square foam containers, handing one of them to Tricia.

Tricia opened her container to find two pieces of fried chicken, a small scoop of potato salad, two deviled egg halves, and a small plastic container that held what looked like pickled watermelon rind. “Oh, how lovely,” she said.

“Very American,” Michele said, pouring tea for them both. It was unsweetened with lemon, just what Tricia was used to.

“What did you take on a picnic in England?” Tricia asked, accepting the paper napkins Michele handed her.

“Cornish pasties. Scotch eggs. Grosvenor pie. Cheese-and-pickle sandwiches, or perhaps sausage rolls. I must make a batch soon—I’ve had a hankering for them for a while now.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had them.”

“Then you’re in for a treat. I’ll save you some.”

Tricia tasted the potato salad. It needed salt. As though anticipating her request, Michele dug through the basket and came up with a shaker. She opened the lid and handed it to Tricia.

“I must say, I prefer to salt my food myself, don’t you?” she asked Tricia.

“Yes.” She sprinkled a little on the salad. Perfect.

They ate for a minute or two in silence, enjoying the quiet as a gentle breeze caused the leafy branches above them to sway.

“You’re probably wondering why I asked you to come here today,” Michele said at last.

“It had crossed my mind.”

“I’m concerned about what happened to Janet Koch.”

“You mean you think that her accident and Pete’s death are connected?”

Michele nodded. “I’m very interested in the history and the upkeep of dear old cemeteries such as this, but I must admit, I’m a bit worried about doing the ghost walks—at least until your friend Chief Baker catches the person responsible for the attacks.”

“I can’t say I blame you,” Tricia said, and took a bite of chicken leg.

Michele shook her head. “I’m probably just being paranoid, but for now I’ve decided not to talk about it to anyone.”

“Have you told the Historical Society that you’ve changed your mind?”

Again she shook her head. “I still want to do the talks—and will prepare for them—but for the time being I would prefer not to advertise the fact. Now that Janet is out of commission, I’m not sure who to speak to at the Society.”

“I’m pretty sure Mr. Everett knows everyone there. In fact, he told me this morning that there’s to be a wake for Pete Renquist at the pub tonight. He and his wife intend to attend.”

Michele nodded. “I’ll ask him then. I’ve asked my bartender Shawn not to mention the ghost walks, and I’m asking you to do the same.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Michele picked at her potato salad.

“Are you afraid?” Tricia asked.

“I’m a Brit. Stiff upper lip and all that, but I am concerned. I shouldn’t like to be the next victim.”

Tricia looked down at her half-eaten lunch. She’d lost her appetite. She closed the lid on the foam box. At least she’d have leftovers for another lunch or dinner. It was time to change the subject. “What have you got planned for Pete’s pseudo wake?”

Michele shrugged. “Not much. Just a gathering where people can toast their friend and colleague. Nigela Ricita has authorized me to order eats from the Brookview Inn.” She laughed. “Company discount and all that. I’m sure Pete would have approved.”

Tricia would have to thank Angelica for that, too. Somehow she’d missed—or ignored—seeing Angelica’s softer, more thoughtful side, and felt a bit ashamed.

“You will be there,” Michele said. It almost sounded like a commandment.

“Of course.”

Michele smiled and nodded, then she, too, looked at her unfinished lunch and closed the lid. “I think I’ve had my fill for now. Would you like a brief tour of some of the older headstones and the stories I’ve learned about those buried beneath them?”

“Why not,” Tricia said.

They repacked the picnic basket and stood. Michele led the way.

They walked for several minutes in companionable silence until they came upon a stately granite obelisk. “I know who’s in this grave,” Tricia said. “Hiram Stone, founder of Stoneham.”

“You’ve got that right. I’m wondering what to say about him. I read the Founder’s Day pap on the official Stoneham website.”

“And you don’t agree?”

“Oh, the facts are mainly right, but they’ve painted the man as a saint, and he was far from that.”

“What’s the dirt?” Tricia asked, intrigued.

“The man was a notorious drunk and a letch who was enamored with the local temperance leader.”

“You made that up.”

“No, I didn’t—I promise you,” Michele said, smiling. “He was so bad, the village leaders thought it best to try and marry him off. That didn’t work, of course, because he was a dedicated skirt chaser. He was engaged to several women—probably gold diggers—who ultimately dumped him because they couldn’t stand his philandering.”

“He looks like such a staunch community leader in the portrait hanging in the village meeting hall.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret not many know. That isn’t Hiram Stone.”

“Who is it?” Tricia asked, shocked.

Michele shrugged. “At some point the village board decided they needed to honor the man, but all they had was this monument,” she said, indicating the tall pillar of granite before them. “One of the selectmen went on a trip to New York and bought the painting at an auction house. When he returned, the board announced finding a long-lost portrait of the village founder.”

Tricia shook her head, smiling wryly. “It makes a good story.”

“But I’m not sure the current Board of Selectmen would want me to tell it. Don’t worry. My research isn’t quite finished. I’ll find other wonderful stories to tell about the old gent.”

“I have no doubt you will,” Tricia said, a smile tugging at her lips.

They walked deeper into the cemetery, Michele pointing out several of the more unusual monuments with a funny or poignant story to go with each of them. Saddest of all were the graves of a family of children who’d died as the result of a virus. It was so sad to think that the diseases of the past had taken such a devastating toll on those with no access to the wonder drugs available to protect today’s children. How had their parents fared with such overwhelming loss? How had they carried on without those babies they’d loved with such tender care?

Finally, they wound their way back to the cemetery’s front entrance and their cars. The lot was empty now, but in the distance Tricia saw a figure watching them from the far side of the graveyard. It was a man, or at least she thought so, but from such a distance she really couldn’t be sure. And why was he staring at them?

Then again, maybe she was paranoid. The person was probably just facing in their direction, staring at a headstone, grieving for a loved one. She turned back to Michele.

“Thank you for a lovely lunch.”

“Don’t forget your leftovers,” Michele said, opening the picnic basket and extracting Tricia’s foam container, handing it to her.

“Thank you. I guess I’ll see you later this evening.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“See you then,” Tricia said, and got into her car. She started the engine and backed out of the parking space. But before she hit the accelerator to leave, she could have sworn she saw that the figure in the graveyard was still staring at them.