A Fatal Chapter

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

SEVENTEEN

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 Chardo

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 Be

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 fu

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.