A Fatal Chapter (16 page)

“No. And I don’t want you telling him, either.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to have someone tall and imposing to act as your bodyguard for a few days or weeks,” Angelica said, and bent down to retrieve paprika from her spice stash.

“No,” Tricia reiterated.

“All right. I’ll promise not to tell him, but only if you
do
speak to Grant. Now, promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Good. I’m sure we can get a couple of people to walk you home after the wake. Perhaps Antonio, if he shows up,” Angelica said, and sprinkled a good measure of paprika over the eggs.

“Why wouldn’t he come?”

“Oh, Ginny had an upset stomach this afternoon. He may not want to leave her . . . just in case it’s time for the baby to arrive.”

“Oh, dear. Keep me posted, will you?”

“Of course.”

“I hear you spoke to the Koslovs about their camera.”

Angelica nodded and pulled the plastic wrap from one of the drawers. “Boris wasn’t keen to set it up, but Alexa is furious about the flowers being destroyed. She had him set it up right outside their door, so I thought we could start there with our replanting.”

“Fine with me.”

“Good.” She covered the eggs and put them into the fridge. “Now, let’s eat. We don’t want to be late for Pete’s wake. I’ll pass the leftovers and you can choose what you want.”

Tricia stood to receive the bounty and was nearly overwhelmed by the foam containers Angelica handed her—five in all. Tricia placed them on the big granite island and opened them. Angelica hadn’t been kidding when she said salads. Egg salad, tuna salad, ham salad, chicken salad, and a leafy green salad.

Angelica supplied plates, serving spoons, forks, and a couple of rolls. “Dig in.”

Tricia picked up a spoon and doled out greens, then topped them with a small helping from each of the other salads. “This is my second picnic of the day,” she said.

“Picnics to me mean fun,” Angelica said. “Nothing to do with the pressures of the day, just relaxation.” She held up a finger. “Hang on, I forgot the best part.” She reached into the cupboard behind her and bought out a bag of barbeque potato chips.

“Good Lord—the calories!” Tricia cried.

“You don’t
have
to eat any,” Angelica said, opening the bag and spilling some onto her plate.

“The hell I don’t,” Tricia said, and took the bag from her sister,
dumping a small portion onto her waiting plate. Then she paused, staring at the bag and the bounty before her. “This reminds me of the time Grandma Miles took just the two of us to Cove Island Park.”

“I remember,” Angelica gushed. “Oh, we had so much fun that day. She brought along a couple of plastic bottles of bubbles, and we blew them at each other until we were both sticky.”

Tricia smiled. “You know, I think that’s my happiest childhood memory.”

“Really?” Angelica asked.

Tricia nodded. “At the time, Grandma was the person I loved the best, and now it’s you.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Angelica said, and grabbed one of the rolls.

“I’m not. I’m being honest.”

“I’m sorry to say that it took us both too long to appreciate each other. But you know, now that you know about my secret life, I think we could have a helluva good time together.”

“You want to share it with me?”

“I thought I made that clear the other day. And now with Antonio and Ginny and their kids . . . Just think of the fun we all could have.” She eyed Tricia with a sly grin. “Are you game?”

Tricia’s mouth curved into a smile, and she remembered what Pixie had said. “You bet your
ass.”

The Dog-Eared
Page was quite literally hopping—or at least several couples were dancing quite energetically to the beat of music that blared from the pub’s sound system when Tricia and Angelica arrived. Tricia held the door open for her sister, who carried a large tray with the deviled eggs and a full-sized carrot cake.

“Ah, there you are,” Michele called over the cacophony issuing from the speakers. “You can set that down over on that table in the corner.”

Angelica nodded and threaded her way through the crowd, which was at least three-deep at the bar. The eats table was loaded with platters of cold cuts, various rolls, condiments, pasta and potato salads, grapes, berries, and pineapple, different cheeses, and cookies. Nigela Ricita had been very generous.

Suddenly, the music ended, catching several people off guard, who’d been yelling to be heard. Looking sheepish, they lowered their
voices. Within seconds an old Beatles tune—and much quieter—issued from the sound system: “In My Life
.
”

The crowd stopped talking, listening to the haunting lyrics, growing somber. When the music ended, Michele raised her glass. “To Pete. God rest his soul.”

“To Pete,” the majority of patrons echoed, raising their glasses. Tricia didn’t even know most of the people who’d come to pay their respects to Pete. She and Angelica snaked their way through the crowd to get to the bar, where they ordered drinks: a martini for Angelica and a glass of Chardonnay for Tricia. With glasses in hand, they again made their way through the crowd to a booth on the side where Grace and Mr. Everett sat across from each other. Tricia sat next to Mr. E while Angelica eased in beside Grace.

The music hadn’t come back on, but the murmur of many voices made it difficult to hear.

“Glad you could join us,” Grace practically shouted. Before her sat a half-finished glass of her favorite sherry. Before Mr. Everett was a tall glass of what looked like ginger ale.

“Did you have something to eat?” Angelica asked.

“Not yet. What did you bring?”

“Curried deviled eggs and a carrot cake.”

Grace Harris-Everett’s eyes widened in delight. It was no secret that, like half the village, she loved Angelica’s carrot cake. “That sounds delightful.”

Suddenly the air was pierced with the sound of someone hitting a glass with a spoon, which effectively cut through the din. The murmur of voices died to nothing, and Michele again addressed the group. “A few of Pete’s friends would like to speak. First, his next-door neighbor, Sandra Marshall.”

An elderly woman sidled up to the bar. There wasn’t a sound in the room when she started to speak. “Ten years ago, Pete Renquist bought the house next to mine. My husband, Donald, had had a stroke and could no longer take care of our yard or driveway, but Pete stepped up to help. In the spring, summer, and fall, he’d cut my grass. In the winter he and his snowblower cleared my drive. I don’t know what I would have done without him. I don’t know how I’ll manage without him. I’ll miss his kindness. I’ll miss his sweet smile, his generosity. I don’t believe anyone ever had a better neighbor than Pete Renquist—” Her voice broke, and tears filled her eyes. She raised her glass, and everyone drank in Pete’s honor.

“We have others who want to toast Pete, too,” Michele said.

This time, a man of about thirty approached the bar. At Michele’s nod, he spoke. “I’m sorry, I don’t know a lot of you. My name is Rob Weber. I worked with Pete for the past two years at the Historical Society. He’s been a mentor to me, a real friend. I didn’t know a soul when I took the job and moved here, but he helped me find a place to live, even fed me for the first couple of weeks while I struggled to figure out a new town. He was a great guy.” Rob raised his glass, and everyone toasted.

Michele nodded in their direction, and Angelica picked up her glass and stood, then made her way over to the bar. Everyone quieted down once again.

“As president of the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce, I was privileged to spend time with Pete Renquist these last eight months. During that time we formed a solid working relationship that brought benefit to not only the Historical Society, but the people of Stoneham and its merchants. Though at times Pete could have a bit of a sharp tongue, he was never a bully. Like me, he came to love our little
adopted village and had only its best interests at heart. We shall miss him.” She raised her glass. “To Pete.”

“To Pete.”

Angelica returned to the table. Michele nodded toward the back of the room, and a number of people stepped aside to let the next speaker move up to the bar. Tricia’s eyes widened in surprise as she recognized Toni Bennett. She looked around, but the antique dealer’s contractor husband was nowhere in sight.

Toni’s face was flushed and her eyes were red-rimmed. She’d obviously been crying.

She spoke a few words too low for Tricia to hear. She cupped her ear as a male voice called out, “Can’t hear you!”

Toni started again. “Pete Renquist was my friend.” She stopped, wiping a tissue over her eyes, mopping the tears that leaked from them. “We worked together at the Stoneham Historical Society. He as an employee, me as a volunteer,” she managed, her voice breaking.

“Her performance is a little over the top, don’t you think?” Angelica whispered from across the table. Tricia held a finger to her lips and shushed her sister.

“I never met such a kind, considerate, and funny person,” Toni continued.

Kinder, more considerate, and more fun than her husband? Tricia wondered. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as Toni took a moment to collect her thoughts—and emotions—and Tricia turned to glance at the pub’s front entrance, where she saw Jim Stark standing, his shoulders hunched, his lips pursed, his face flushed with what could only be anger. His gaze was riveted on his wife, who seemed oblivious to his presence.

“Pete had his faults—we all do—but I choose to remember only the good, and I hope you will, too,” Toni said, and raised her glass.

Those all around her raised their glasses, too, and chorused, “To Pete.”

This time, Tricia didn’t raise her glass. She looked back to the pub’s entrance in time to see that Stark was no longer there, and she heard the door shut with a bang.

“That was weird,” Angelica said, just loud enough for Tricia to hear.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Tricia said.

“Will I?” Angelica asked coyly.

Tricia looked at the bottom of her rapidly diminishing drink. “Perhaps.”

Toni drained her glass, placed it on the bar, and, without further adieu, headed for the exit. Tricia watched her go. By the time the door closed behind Toni, the next speaker stood before the bar.

They listened as four more of Pete’s friends got up to give their heartfelt farewells. Afterward, Michele invited everyone to partake of the refreshments, and people swarmed the eats table.

“You’d better hurry if you want to get something to eat,” Tricia encouraged her tablemates.

Angelica shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

“Nor am I,” said Mr. Everett.

“I’d love a small slice of your wonderful carrot cake,” Grace said.

“I’ll go get you a piece,” Tricia volunteered, and got up from the table. She made her way through the crowd, waiting for her turn. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bob Kelly standing at the back of the pub with a beer in hand. He didn’t seem to be with anyone, and he had the expression of a hunted man. She turned away, only to find her ex-husband standing uncomfortably close.

“That was a nice speech Angelica gave,” Christopher very nearly hollered over the din.

“Yes.” Tricia didn’t want to make eye contact and looked around the person standing in front of her, hoping there would still be cake by the time she made it to the table.

“I thought I might run into you here, Trish.”

She said nothing, still staring ahead.

“I wanted to apologize again for the other night.”

“I forgive you,” Tricia said, still not looking at him.

“Can we talk?”

Finally she turned to him. “We are.”

“I mean
really
talk.”

“It seems like all we do is spar.”

“We need to clear the air.”

A man juggling a plate of food moved past them, allowing Tricia to step forward. Maybe she should just let Christopher talk and get it out of his system. Then maybe she could finally convince him that she wasn’t interested in resuming any kind of relationship with him.

“Okay,” she said at last. “I’m sitting with Grace and Mr. Everett. Once they leave, I’ll talk to you.”

Christopher immediately brightened. “Thanks, Trish. I’ll leave you alone until then.”

“Thank you.”

Christopher stepped away, heading for the bar.

“What a crowd,” the woman next to Tricia grumbled. “I had no idea Pete had so many friends.” The woman was attractive, albeit a little overweight, but she knew how to dress to overcome that obstacle. Her hair was a pleasant shade of blonde, and the makeup she wore accentuated her pretty blue eyes, downplaying the wrinkles from years of smiles.

“Me, either,” Tricia said.

“Were you a long-time friend of Pete’s?” the woman asked.

Tricia shook her head. “I only met him in March. My shop burned down. While I wait for the insurance company to pay my claim, I’m volunteering at the Chamber of Commerce. My sister is its president.”

“How nice. I mean about your sister. You must own the mystery store.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I met Pete during the restoration of the garden behind the Historical Society.”

“It’s lovely. I was just there the other day.”

Several people peeled away from the eats table, and Tricia and the woman were able to advance two steps closer.

“It was a lot of work to get it back to the way it was when Hiram Stone lived in the house, and it will take a lot of work to keep it that way, but well worth it.”

“It’s very peaceful. Before her”—Tricia hesitated—“accident, Janet Koch said Pete’s ashes would likely be scattered there.”

The woman’s smile was bittersweet. “He’d like that. He loved that house and the garden. I hope Pete rests in peace.”

“Me, too,” Tricia agreed with regret.

“I’m sorry. I should introduce myself. I’m Julia Harrison.” The woman offered Tricia her hand, and they shook.

“Tricia Miles.”

Julia Harrison—the woman Mariana had told Tricia about—just the person she had been hoping to meet. But how could she ask Julia about the relationship she’d never quite forged with Pete? She thought about it for a moment before an idea came to her.

“Pete was a sweetheart, but such a flirt,” Tricia said, and shook her head, plastering what she hoped was a wry smile across her lips.

Julie laughed and shook her head, too.

Another few people—plates heaped with food—turned away from the table and sidled through the crowd. Tricia and Julia stepped forward once again.

“What’s so funny?” Tricia asked.

“Pete. He was a great guy. Had a wonderful personality, but had an Achilles heel when it came to dating.”

“Oh?” Tricia asked.

“I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but—” Julia leaned closer and lowered her voice. “He suffered from ED.”

For a moment Tricia was befuddled.
Ed?

Julia seemed to note her confusion and whispered, “Erectile dysfunction.”

Tricia’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Julia nodded sadly. “Pete and I dated for a while. He was such a joy to be with. We could talk forever about the Historical Society, art, food, music—just about everything. But when it came to intimacy, we ran up against a brick wall.”

“But there are medications for that,” Tricia said.

“That’s what I told him, but he wouldn’t even consider it. He was too embarrassed to discuss it with even his doctor.” She shook her head sadly. “I may have hit the big five-oh, but I’m not dead yet. It broke us apart.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I was, too, but I got back into the dating game and met a great guy. I don’t know if we’ll end up together for the rest of our lives, but we enjoy each other’s company and have fun—in and out of the sack.” Julia giggled.

So, Pete’s flirting was just an over-the-top attempt to make people
believe he was some kind of lothario when in fact he was ashamed of a treatable medical condition. Tricia felt even sorrier for the poor man.

Finally, the last few people ahead of Tricia moved away from the decimated food table. Tricia was able to snag the last piece of carrot cake for Grace. She grabbed a plastic fork and some napkins while Julia scored a deviled egg, a roll, and a slice each of ham and cheese.

“It was nice to meet you, Julia.”

“Same here. I’ll make a point to visit your store when you reopen.”

“Thank you,” Tricia said, and turned, heading back for the table.

“Here you go,” she said, handing Grace the plate.

“Thank you, dear,” Grace said, and cut a small piece of cake. She sampled it and closed her eyes in bliss. When she swallowed, she said, “This has got to be the best carrot cake I’ve ever eaten. You are amazing, Angelica.”

“I can’t take credit for this one. Tommy, my short-order cook, took my recipe and bakes them on the side to make a few extra dollars. But don’t tell Nikki Brimfield over at the Patisserie.”