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  “Jim Roth,” Tricia supplied.

  “Yeah, him. They say he was killed immediately. That he didn’t suffer.”

  “Mmm,” Tricia agreed.

  “But man, what a way to go,” Darcy said. She didn’t sound at all sorry for poor Jim. But then, she probably hadn’t even seen, let alone met, the man. Darcy didn’t seem like a read-for-pleasure kind of person—and certainly didn’t seem the type to visit a history store that specialized in military nonfiction.

  “Have you heard from Angelica?” Darcy asked.

  “Yes, last night. She said she’d been calling the café for updates.”

  “Yeah, I talked to her a couple of times. She hasn’t been real chatty, though.”

  “She has a lot on her mind,” Tricia said.

  Darcy glanced at the clock as she pushed the slop bucket to one side. “I’m outta here.”

  “Wait—I don’t know what to do. I mean, I can clean up—but I don’t know where anything goes. And what about the rest of the dishes and all the pots and pans?”

  “I’m sorry, Tricia,” Darcy said, already untying her apron, “but I really need to leave. I’ll finish busing the tables, and clear off the counter. The rest is common sense.”

  “Can you at least show up early tomorrow to make sure things are set up properly?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And what about Jake? Is he likely to show at all?”

  “I sure hope so. I don’t know how to make soup. Usually Angelica starts it and Jake finishes. Without either of them—there goes half our menu.” Soup and a scoop—of egg, tuna, or crab salad—and soup and half a sandwich were the core of Angelica’s lunchtime offerings.

  Darcy sidled past Tricia and entered the dining room.

  Tricia surveyed the tiny kitchen. She’d need to mop the floor and wash the walls, wash all the dishes, then start on the dining room. She looked down at her pretty peach sweater and felt like crying. It was already stained with mustard and soup. Goodness knows how many more splotches would dot it before she was done. And it would take hours for her to tackle this mess alone.

  She marched over to the wall phone, punched in a number, and waited for someone to answer.

  “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Ginny. How can I help you?”

  “Have you ever aspired to have dishpan hands?” Tricia asked hopefully.

  ELEVEN

  The first thing Tricia did upon returning to Haven’t Got a Clue was to hunt down the list of emergency numbers Angelica had left for her. Naturally, Jake’s number immediately rolled over to voice mail. He did, after all, leave Booked for Lunch for his regular job at a French bistro in Nashua. It took all her will-power to remain calm as she left a message asking him to call her at his earliest convenience. She couldn’t afford to alienate him—not with Angelica out of town and Darcy unable to cope in the kitchen. But knowing he had a criminal record had really upset her, and she needed to know what the man had done—and, as Darcy had hinted—might be capable of.

  The shop door opened, the little bell above it ringing cheerfully, but instead of a customer, Tricia’s friend and fellow bookseller Deborah Black, owner of the Happy Domestic, stepped inside. “Hi, Tricia. I hear you’ve become a collections officer,” she said, waving a piece of paper. She slapped it down on the glass display case. A check.

  “Hello, yourself. And what are you talking about?” Tricia asked.

  Deborah batted at the ends of her long, dark hair, tossing it over her left shoulder. “Grace Harris stopped by my store this morning. Oops, I mean Grace Everett. I keep forgetting she remarried. Anyway, she said you were taking up a collection for Jim Roth’s mother, and I wanted to contribute.”

  “That’s very sweet of you,” Tricia said, and instantly felt guilty. For a moment she’d almost forgotten she was spearheading the campaign. And worried what Frannie would say when she found out. “I canvassed the other shopkeepers, but you looked inundated when I was making my rounds.”

  “I had a great morning. Wish they were all like that. So tell me, how did you get roped into becoming a collections officer?”

  “I feel so sorry for the old lady—all alone in the world.”

  “Have you met her?” Deborah asked.

  “Yes, yesterday, in fact,” Tricia said, without elaborating. She was still a bit unnerved by the visit.

  “I heard she didn’t have enough money for a funeral, the poor dear. Maybe this will help.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be very grateful.” Time to change the subject. “What are you doing out of harness?”

  “Sometimes I think I’ll go crazy if I have to spend another whole day at the store. Luckily, my mother helps out now and then. Today’s one of those days. Except she has to bring Davey”—Deborah’s toddler son—“with her. He’s napping right now, or else I’d be trapped. Would you believe David”—Deborah’s husband—“wants to talk about having more kids? Not with me!” Deborah had been more than a little stressed since Davey’s birth, as evidenced by the perpetual dark circles under her eyes. When the economy took a downturn, she’d had to let go her part-time employee, which made her a virtual slave to her store. Tricia didn’t envy her.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee? Maybe that’ll perk you up,” Tricia suggested.

  Deborah laughed. “It’s only caffeine that keeps me going.” Her smile wavered, and then her face crumpled and she began to sob.

  Tricia hurried around the counter and gave her friend a hug. “What’s wrong? Can I help?” Deborah cried even louder.

  Tricia pulled back and guided Deborah to the readers’ nook, where they sat.

  Ginny appeared. “Can I help?’ she asked, concerned.

  “Please get Deborah some coffee,” Tricia whispered. “And a tissue.”

  Ginny nodded, and took off.

  Deborah’s sniffling had begun to slow, and she wiped a hand at her eyes. “I’m sorry to dump on you like this, Tricia. I didn’t mean to.” Deborah looked around the store, and seemed relieved her meltdown hadn’t been witnessed by a crowd of customers.

  “Don’t worry about it. Now, tell me all about it.”

  “I don’t think I can handle it much longer. David won’t help at the store. My mother sees more of my child than I do. I’m a complete and utter failure,” she managed before the tears began again.

  “That isn’t true,” Tricia said. “Is your store in the red?”

  Deborah shook her head. “No. But—”

  “You’re going through a rough time right now. We all are—”

  “You managed to hold on to your employees,” Deborah accused.

  Tricia leaned in and lowered her voice. “I’ve had to dip into my savings.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true, but Deborah didn’t need to know the details of Tricia’s financial situation.

  Ginny reappeared with a large Haven’t Got a Clue cardboard coffee cup, a couple of cookies, and a wad of napkins. “Here, Deborah. You need to eat something, then you’ll feel better. They’re Nikki’s famous raspberry thumbprints.”

  “Thank you, Ginny.” Deborah blew her nose on one of the napkins, took a sip of coffee, and nibbled on a cookie.

  “Maybe this is a problem we should bring up at the next Chamber meeting,” Tricia suggested. “You’re not the only shopkeeper in Stoneham who’s had to let an employee go.”

  “That’s right,” Ginny piped up. “I feel lucky to still have a job, and I know Mr. Everett feels the same.”

  Now there was an idea. Mr. Everett was looking for more hours, and Deborah needed help but had no money. Maybe Tricia could do a labor loan—pay Mr. Everett to give Deborah a few hours of help a week. That sounded good, but Tricia also knew Deborah was proud—and stubborn, like Mr. Everett—and might not accept what she considered to be charity. Tricia would have to figure out a way to make it happen. In the meantime, all she could do was listen as Deborah vented her frustration with her husband, the paperwork running a business entailed, and the fear she was missing the best years of m
otherhood.

  By the time Deborah left Haven’t Got a Clue, she’d calmed down, and promised not to have another sobfest the next time she and Tricia met.

  “Gosh, maybe it’s lucky I haven’t had the time or money to open my own store,” Ginny said, her voice hushed. “I didn’t realize it could be so overwhelming.” She faced Tricia. “You and Angelica always manage to meet all your obligations, whether it’s family or business. With everything that’s happened in the past eighteen months, you two don’t let things get you down.”

  Tricia managed a weak laugh. She wasn’t about to discuss the pitiable state of her love life with Ginny. “I don’t know about Angelica, but I’m a good actress.”

  Ginny chewed at her lip, looking pensive.

  “It’s a balancing act, Ginny. Some days are easier—less hectic—than others.” This was not one of those easy days. To prove that, an Apollo tour bus drove down Main Street. “Why don’t you check the coffeepot. Look’s like we’re about to get hit with another crowd of customers.”

  The rest of the day alternated between customer overload and nothing to do. But Tricia knew that when it came time to tally the day’s receipts, she’d be one very happy shopkeeper.

  “See you tomorrow,” Ginny said, and headed out the door. As she left, Frannie entered, carrying a small Cookery shopping bag with handles. “Here’re the receipts for yesterday and today, along with the register tapes.”

  “Thanks, Frannie,” Tricia said, and took the bag. Thankfully, Frannie seemed to have gotten over her snit about Tricia’s conversation with Captain Baker.

  “I heard you’re collecting money for Jim’s mother,” Frannie said, her voice tinged with scorn.

  Then again . . . .

  Tricia let out a guilty laugh. “It was a kind of spur-of-the-moment thing. I mentioned to Grace Everett how Mrs. Roth told me she needed Jim’s income to survive, and Grace kind of set the ball rolling.”

  “Grace is a nice person, but she has no clue about the real Olivia Roth.” Frannie leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing. “It turns out Mrs. Roth had a very big insurance policy on Jim.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell. Suffice to say someone overheard her conversation with Billie Hanson over at the Bank of Stoneham. Mrs. Roth arranged to have the money deposited directly into her account and to have Billie call her when it arrived.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  Frannie’s eyes narrowed. “Very interesting. Especially since the old biddy has been going around town telling everyone how destitute she is.”

  Tricia sighed. She’d never heard Frannie speak with such spite. “It can take months before the insurance company releases the death benefits. How is she supposed to live?” she asked, reasonably.

  “She’s got her husband’s Social Security and some investments. If she was really hard up, she could put the house up for sale. It’s in her name.”

  Tricia frowned, remembering Mrs. Roth’s living room. “I got the impression the house belonged to Jim.”

  Frannie shook her head. “Poor Jim never had a pot to piss in. He was a terrible money manager, which is one of the reasons his store was in trouble. He wanted his mother to take out a home equity loan so he could pay off his creditors, but she refused. He said they’d argued about it more than once.”

  Did repeated disagreements over money give Mrs. Roth a motive for murder? No, Tricia refused to believe that little old lady could hurt a fly, let alone kill her only child—and her only living relative. At least, not in such a violent manner.

  Not when poisoned lemon bars could do the trick.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Tricia, and you’re wrong. Mrs. Roth is not a nice person. She kept Jim under her thumb his entire life. Until he started his own business, he never really had a life.”

  “Where did he get the money to open History Repeats Itself?”

  Frannie exhaled a deep breath. “His mother.”

  “So she was one of his creditors?”

  “His biggest,” Frannie sheepishly admitted.

  “Then why didn’t she bail him out? Keeping the store afloat would’ve been in her best interest.”

  “Not as long as I was in the picture. Jim as much as said so.”

  Or was that what Frannie wanted to believe?

  “I wonder if I should give Captain Baker a call and tell him about that insurance policy,” Frannie said.

  Tricia swallowed. “If you feel you must.”

  Frannie nodded, and changed the subject—for which Tricia was truly grateful. “I heard from Angelica. She’s very worried about Bob. She wants me to offer to help him with whatever he might need. I haven’t so far. He’d turn me down flat.”

  “You worked closely with him for over ten years,” Tricia pointed out. “Angelica probably thinks you can read his mind.”

  “Sometimes I believed I could. But we were hardly friends. And I can’t say I hold any warm feelings for him after the way he treated me at my job at the Chamber. And especially after the threats he made against Jim.”

  “Threats?” Tricia asked.

  Frannie’s cheeks colored. “I didn’t mean physical threats—but to evict him from his store. That probably would’ve killed Jim in itself,” she said bitterly.

  “Then you don’t think he’s responsible for Jim’s death?”

  “Of course not. Bob never dirties his hands on anything. And he definitely wouldn’t do anything where he might actually get hurt, like cause an explosion. He used to whine when he got a paper cut, so second-degree burns must’ve really put a twist in his boxers.”

  “Did Captain Baker ask you about Bob?”

  Frannie nodded. “Of course.”

  “Did you tell him everything you just told me?”

  “Maybe not everything,” Frannie admitted. “If he thinks Bob might’ve killed Jim, then he won’t be considering me as a suspect.”

  Until that moment, Tricia wouldn’t have thought so, either. But now . . . she wasn’t so sure.

  Once Frannie had left, Tricia emptied her cash register, counted the day’s receipts, and put the receipts from Booked for Lunch into the sack along with those from the Cookery. Should she do bookwork, or have a bite to eat and read for a couple of hours? Yes, she had Julia Spencer-Fleming’s new Clare Fergusson mystery sitting on her nightstand, just begging to be started. She stowed the money in the safe under the cash desk and spun the lock, intending to take care of it in the morning.

  “Come on, Miss Marple—we can always do the paperwork in the morning, right?”

  Miss Marple rose and stretched, then jumped down from the shelf behind the cash desk, where she’d spent the bulk of her day. Tricia was heading for the stairs that led to her loft when the phone rang. She wasn’t going to answer it, but then considered that it might be Angelica calling, and headed back for the cash desk and picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue—”

  “Tricia? It’s Russ. I was just listening to my police scanner—”

  Tricia winced. His scanner had been the main reason for the lack of a reconciliation between them. Okay, him dumping her had been the main reason—but it had been her main reason for not missing him all that much.

  “There’s a break-in in progress at Bob Kelly’s house,” he continued. “Are you interested?”

  “Am I!”

  “Lock up and meet me in the municipal parking lot.” The line went silent. Tricia slammed the phone down, grabbed her keys and sweater. “Sorry, Miss Marple, but dinner will be a little late tonight.”

  Tricia flew for the exit, fumbled with the lock, then yanked the door shut behind her. Up ahead, Russ was already dashing across Main Street, heading for the municipal lot, and she jogged up the sidewalk, wishing she’d had time to change into running shoes.

  Russ had already started his truck by the time Tricia caught up and jumped into the passenger seat. Her teeth nearly rattled as Russ shoved the vehicle in gear and took off with a s
queal of tires. “Why are you so interested in Bob’s house being broken into?” she asked.

  “So far he’s the only viable suspect in the Roth murder. And if it wasn’t him—” The pickup rounded the corner at a dangerous speed.

  “You think the real killer’s going after Bob?” Tricia asked.

  “It’s possible. Either that, or Bob’s just a wuss scared by what happened and is taking no chances.”

  “How do you know it was Bob who called in?”

  “I don’t.”

  Bob’s house loomed into view. Every light—inside and out—seemed to be switched on. Bob, clad in boxers and a T-shirt, stood on his front porch, shotgun in hand, looking down the darkened road. Behind him, a window gaped, its glass missing.

  Russ’s truck bounced to a halt at the curb. He opened his door and jumped out, with Tricia only seconds behind him.

  “Did you see him?” Bob shouted.

  “See who?”

  “Someone was trying to break into my house.” Bob pointed north. “He ran in that direction.”

  “Are you sure it was a guy?” Russ asked.

  Bob hesitated. “Pretty sure.”

  “Are you okay?” Tricia asked.

  Bob nodded. He had removed his bandages, and the skin on his arms was tight, red, and shiny. Beads of sweat covered his forehead, and he seemed to wince every time he moved.

  They all turned as the sound of a wailing police siren broke the twilight calm. “Better late than never,” Bob groused.

  A Sheriff’s Department cruiser rounded the corner and screeched to a halt just inches from Russ’s bumper, arriving much quicker than the average twenty minutes the Dexter twins had mentioned in their pitch for a Stoneham police force. Captain Baker bounded out of the vehicle, his hand resting on his open pistol holster. “What’s going on?”

  “The bad guy got away,” Tricia said, crossing her arms to ward off the encroaching night’s chill.

  “Someone tried to break into my house,” Bob said, indicating the broken window.

  Several of Bob’s neighbors had turned on their porch lights, and a few of them had gathered on their lawns to see what the trouble was.