EIGHTEEN

Tricia stayed up far too late reading Lauren Barker’s manuscript. As she read each page, unease crept through her. Her former lover Marshall Cambridge had owned a store devoted to true-crime books, but Lauren’s manuscript wasn’t like the tomes Marshall sold. It was nothing Tricia could put her finger on, so she put down the manuscript and powered up her laptop. Google truly was her best friend. She entered the name of the victim mentioned in Lauren’s manuscript and got no hits. She added keywords like the name of the town where the murder was to have taken place and still got nothing. She Googled unsolved murders in Connecticut, where Lauren had said the murder had taken place, and again came up with nothing that matched.

The subject of her tale stemmed from the killer’s sense of being wronged, something the narrator of the story seemed to think was an inconsequential slight but that the perpetrator of the crime viewed as akin to high treason.

As Tricia kept reading, a single thought kept circling through her brain…the possibility of an unreliable narrator. Lauren had painted the victim in an unflattering light. Was the author in sympathy with the perpetrator?

As she set the last page aside, Tricia wasn’t sure how she felt about what she’d read. Unsettled. The manuscript hadn’t read like a true-crime tome, nor did it follow the rules of mystery fiction. Was that because the genre was strange to the author? It sounded like an acceptable answer. And then Tricia asked herself a question, knowing the answer. Had it been a published book, would she have finished reading it? The answer was no. The narrative hadn’t been enough to hook her. If Lauren hadn’t been murdered, Tricia probably would have given up on it long before she’d reached the one-hundred-page mark.

So what did that say about Lauren Barker?

That she should probably have stuck to writing children’s books, and yet, that wasn’t a fair assessment. Tricia had probably read a first draft of a genre new to the author, so she probably should cut Lauren some slack. Lauren would have undoubtedly worked on the manuscript for months, maybe years before it saw print—if it ever did. And because Lauren’s success had been with a print publisher, Tricia’s gut feeling told her Lauren wouldn’t be satisfied transitioning to another genre without the backing of a traditional publisher.

Sometimes independent authors struck gold, but it was a hard slog, and just because anyone could self-publish a book didn’t mean it was good. Subscription services made thousands—maybe millions—of titles available, but that didn’t mean they were worthy of regard, either.

As she prepared for bed, Tricia thought about all the elements of the manuscript that seemed wrong, leaving her frustrated and grumpy. When she awoke the following day, she decided she needed an attitude adjustment before attending the gathering in Lauren’s honor. Despite more gray skies, she managed it thanks to her morning walk. Tricia almost always felt rejuvenated by exercise. Afterward, she fixed herself a one-egg omelet and a piece of toast with jam before showering and dressing for what she knew would be a somber occasion.

Fifteen minutes before the start of the service, Tricia met Angelica and David at the municipal parking lot.

“How was that new book you were telling me about?” Angelica asked coyly.

“Not as good as I’d hoped.”

“Well, then. You’ll have to tell me about it later. We’d better get going. The service should be starting soon.”

Angelica unlocked the car, and the three of them got inside, with David riding shotgun.

Contrary to what Tricia might have expected, the Stoneham High School gymnasium was packed when they arrived for what had been advertised as Lauren’s celebration of life. However, most of the faces in the crowd were unfamiliar. Those she did recognize were Stella Kraft, Dan Reed, Mary Fairchild, and, of course, Amelia Doyle, representing the library where Lauren had spent the last hours of her life.

A table sat at the back of the cavernous room, piled high with commercially baked sugar cookies slathered with pink frosting and colorful sprinkles. A coffee urn and sweating pitchers of ice water stood nearby, along with the thermal paper cups for the hot drinks and plastic cups for the cold. And, inevitably, adjacent to that table was another stacked high with copies of Lauren’s books, along with an apron-clad teenager standing behind a cash register, ready to sell them. Instead of a coffin or urn, a smiling, life-sized photo cutout of Lauren holding a copy of one of her books stood near a lectern.

“Did I not warn you the whole thing would be gauche?” Angelica whispered.

“You did,” Tricia muttered.

David shifted near Tricia’s elbow. For the unhappy occasion, he’d donned what Seinfeld fans knew as a “puffy” white shirt with ruffles on the sleeves and cascading from the neck over a black brocade waistcoat. His shoulder-length hair was again captured in a ponytail, and he looked like the hero in an eighteenth-century French novel. “Ladies, may I get you some refreshments?”

Angelica turned a sour eye on the cookies on offer. “No, thank you.”

Tricia shook her head. “None for me, either, but thanks.”

David shrugged.

“What do you make of the crowd? We hardly recognize anyone here,” Tricia said.

David nodded. “Apparently, they seem to be mostly school and public librarians from all over New England.”

“And what do they have to say?” Angelica inquired.

“That the Cuddly Chameleon books enticed a lot of kids to want to read. I’d say that’s one hell of a legacy. Hopefully, those books will keep ushering in new readers in the years to come, too.”

“They’ve sure captured Sofia’s heart, and I don’t doubt baby Will will enjoy them when he’s a little older.”

“About Sofia—” David began, but Tricia grabbed his arm, squeezing it, signaling that now was not the time to make such inquiries. He did not look pleased but gave her a nod in understanding.

“Should we mingle or try to find some seats?” Tricia asked.

“Mingle with whom?” Angelica asked.

The question was moot as Betty took her place before the podium and spoke into the microphone. “Testing. One. Two. Three.”

Tricia, Angelica, and David walked up the aisle that divided the rows of folding chairs, reminding Tricia of wedding guest factions. Bride’s family and friends on one side; groom’s on the other. But she suspected few in this audience knew more than one or more people in attendance. Still, Betty Barnes may have dug up a few people to share remembrances of Lauren Barker.

They took seats in the second row, with David on Tricia’s left and Angelica on her right.

Once those attending found seats, Betty cleared her throat and looked over the crowd. “I think I speak for all of you who’ve gathered here today when I say that we all mourn the loss of Lauren Barker’s work for the generations of children to come. But her stories live on—and autographed copies of such are available for purchase at the back of the room,” she added, and a portion of the audience members turned, craning their necks to take in the table with piles of books that bore Lauren’s signature.

“Today, we’ll hear from a number of friends that Lauren left behind,” Betty continued, “but first and foremost, I’d like to welcome to the podium one of the tennis world’s greatest players, and a newcomer to our humble village: Becca Dickson-Chandler.” And with that, Betty clapped her hands, lifting her head to acknowledge a newcomer at the back of the room.

Everyone turned as Becca emerged from the gymnasium’s double doors and walked down the aisle between the chairs toward the podium. The mood of the crowd seemed to change from somber to excitement as Becca, clad in a black linen suit, crisp white blouse, and three-inch heels, made her way down the aisle, their applause thunderous. For a moment, Tricia expected Becca to start blowing kisses to the throng while her acolytes tossed rose petals to soften her footsteps.

“Gimme a break,” Angelica muttered, rolling her eyes.

Upon reaching the head of the room, Becca acknowledged Betty, who’d moved aside while the former tennis star took over the lectern and waited for the commotion to die down. After adjusting the microphone, Becca gazed over those assembled, gripping the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began in earnest, “let me tell you about my dearest friend Lauren Barker.”

Tricia scowled. That wasn’t how Becca had described the woman to her.

“Lauren and I met near the beginning of my esteemed career that spanned almost two decades and brought me fame as the winner of trophies from Wimbledon to the French and Australian Opens. And during several of those years, Lauren was there for me, serving as my go-to girl and an integral part of Team Becca. She got me where I needed to go, enabling me to win the most prestigious awards the tennis world had to offer. Lauren was a small but vital cog in the glory of my illustrious career.” She paused dramatically to allow applause to follow.

“Oh, brother,” Angelica grumbled. “I thought we were here to celebrate Lauren’s life—not Becca’s.”

“Shhh!” Tricia admonished her sister.

“I’m with Angelica,” David muttered, which garnered him an ingratiating smile from Tricia’s sibling.

“It was while working for me,” Becca said, “that Lauren developed her much-loved character, the Cuddly Chameleon.”

“On company time? And she was okay with that?” David whispered.

“Not so much,” Tricia responded, remembering Becca’s assessment days before.

“So,” Becca continued, “I like to think that I might, in my own small way, have been a big part of Lauren’s literary success.”

“Good grief,” Angelica grated, but the rest of the audience had given Becca their rapt attention, apparently grateful to her for honoring the deceased author.

Becca yammered on for another five minutes, mostly tooting her own horn, but had the good grace to sense her audience was getting restless. “But I’m not the only one whose life Lauren touched.” She turned to Betty, who clambered to the podium again, snatching the microphone from its stand.

“Thank you, Ms. Dickson-Chandler, for sharing your memories with us here on this most solemn occasion.”

Becca made a grab for the mic, but Betty pivoted and encouraged those assembled to give the ex-champ a round of applause. Then Betty dispatched Becca to an empty chair at the end of the first row, just a few seats away from Tricia. Becca made eye contact with Tricia but quickly took her chair.

Betty returned the microphone to its stand and leaned into it. “Our next speaker is Mary Fairchild, a darling school friend who traveled the same public school path here in Stoneham as dear Lauren—every step of the way.” She lifted a hand as a gesture of welcome, and Mary stood. Judging from her rather terrified expression, Mary hadn’t expected to be called upon.

With dragging steps, Mary approached the lectern. Betty stepped back, and Mary’s startled gaze took in the audience. “Uh…” she began. “I…I guess I knew Lauren Barker since we both started kindergarten in Mrs. Morrow’s class.” She paused. Someone coughed. A cell phone’s ringtone broke the silence before being abruptly silenced. Mary looked out over the crowd like a deer caught in an SUV’s headlights.

“I, uh, can’t say Lauren and I were ever as close as she and Ms. Dickson-Chandler, but my best friend, Lori-Lynn, and I could always depend on Lauren to loan us a buck or two when we wanted to buy a couple of hot chocolates or a doughnut from the high school Future Business Leaders of America club.” She gave a nervous laugh. “We used to call her Lauren the Loner. We always paid her back,” Mary assured the audience. “That way, we always had a banker friend in Lauren, who only charged us ten percent interest.”

Those assembled, primarily women, looked at Mary with cold gazes. Her remembrance had not endeared her to them. Sensing this, Betty rushed back to the podium.

“Thank you, Ms. Fairchild, owner of the village’s craft store, By Hook or By Book. If you’re into yarn, Mary’s got you covered,” Betty gushed, but Mary only looked embarrassed by the endorsement. She ducked her head and practically ran back to her seat.

Betty plastered on a plastic grin and continued. “Our next speaker is Dan Reed, owner of the Bookshelf Diner, Stoneham’s most cozy eatery.”

“That’s just crap,” Angelica grated. “Booked for Lunch and even the Dog-Eared Page are cozier than Dan’s dump.”

“Shush!” Tricia ordered.

“If your tummy needs a refill, check out the Bookshelf Diner, only two blocks south from where I stand right now,” Betty encouraged. Had she sold commercial time to the people she recruited, or imposed upon them to speak on Lauren’s behalf?

Dan rose from his seat, just a little unsteady, Tricia noted, and made his way to the podium. Betty stood back, beaming.

Dan leaned onto the podium. “Welcome, welcome, welcome,” Dan slurred. Good grief, was the man drunk?

“I’m here today to tell you that the Cuddly Chameleon—Lauren Barker’s series of kids’ books”—he shot her cutout a look of contempt—“were written to blatantly brainwash our kids—not just here in Stoneham, but around the entire world.” And with that statement, Dan gestured to take in the whole room, nearly losing his grip on the lectern.

Betty looked appalled but didn’t move forward to stop him from elaborating.

“Do we want our children thinking about such subversive rhetoric? Subversive, I tell you! Nothing and no one can change their colors. Not even a slimy little lizard.”

David raised a hand. “Uh, excuse me, sir. But chameleons can do exactly that. When frightened, their skin does change color so they can blend in with their environment to be safe from predators. It’s a scientific fact.”

Dan narrowed his gaze. “And you’re a slimy little creep. You’re another one poisoning our children. And just look at the way you’re dressed. You shouldn’t be allowed to be near impressionable kids!”

But then Betty stepped forward and yanked the microphone from its stand. If she hadn’t known about Dan’s unfortunate view of the world before this, she did now.

“Thank you for speaking with us today, Mr. Reed.”

“I haven’t finished what I’ve got to say!” Dan complained, but no one in the audience seemed to care to listen.

“Thank you,” Betty said again, and gave Dan a little shove, indicating his time in the limelight was over. Dan retaliated by reaching out both hands, planting them on Betty’s shoulders, and pushing so hard the poor woman crashed to the floor, landing squarely on her bottom.

The crowd erupted in a collective gasp as Dan turned back to the lectern and Lauren’s picture, giving it a good kick to send it flying before grabbing the microphone again. “Our children have been perverted by the kind of crap people like Lauren Barker spewed—” he began, and the crowd began to rumble in protest. Those assembled were Lauren Barker fans.

“That bitch—and people like her—are the reason our country is in the kind of trouble we’re in today!”

But before Dan could elaborate, Police Chief Ian McDonald charged toward the podium, grabbed the microphone with one hand, and captured Dan’s arm with the other. The man yelped as though in pain, but McDonald didn’t let go. “I’m sorry, folks,” McDonald said, the Irish lilt in his voice coming on strong—and charming.

By then, Betty had been helped to her feet by several women from the front row of seats and was dusting herself off. Dragging a protesting Dan with him, McDonald conferred with Betty, and as Tricia sat so near, she could hear the whole exchange.

“Are you all right, ma’am? If you’d like to press assault charges, just let me know.”

“I…I don’t know,” Betty said, still shaken.

“Take some time to think about it and get back to me.”

“Thank you, Chief. I will,” Betty said.

“Mr. Reed and I have a previously scheduled meeting to attend.” McDonald glanced at the crowd before continuing. “We’ll be going now. Please carry on with Ms. Barker’s memorial,” he said sweetly.

McDonald then dragged a protesting Dan out of the gymnasium while the eyes of all those in attendance stared after them.

It took Betty another minute or so to regain her composure. By then, the entire audience had her back.

“Our next speaker,” Betty began, her voice just a little shaky, “is someone well known to our community, who was Lauren’s very first employer.” Betty looked over the audience. “Mr. William Everett, will you come up and tell us what you knew about Lauren Barker?”

Tricia’s head whipped around so fast she should have suffered whiplash. When they’d entered the gym, she hadn’t seen a sign of Mr. Everett, but there he was, accompanied by Grace, rising from his seat and heading toward the front of the assemblage.

The gym was deadly quiet. Most of the mourners had no clue who the next speaker was. And Tricia wondered why Mr. Everett hadn’t mentioned that he’d known Lauren Barker.

Though he was someone Tricia had always thought of as a shy and unassuming person, Mr. Everett stood ramrod straight in front of the microphone, and when he spoke, his voice was vibrant and strong.

“As Ms. Barnes explained, my name is William Everett, and in the past, I owned Everett’s Grocery on Stoneham’s main thoroughfare. I personally interviewed each and every employee who worked in my store, and Lauren Barker, then known as Lauren Cox, was hired as a part-time cashier. Lauren’s work was exemplary. She always showed up on time, never called in sick, and could be depended upon to do any task asked of her. She was, what one would say in those days, a good girl. She treated our customers with respect; she often regaled her fellow employees with songs she made up. Her beautiful soprano accompanied many tunes played on the store’s speakers. I often wondered if she might find a career as a vocalist. But that she found her niche as a writer filled my heart with joy, as I, myself, am a bibliophile. I know from my own grandchildren”—and at this, Angelica positively beamed—“that her stories touched the hearts of many a young girl and boy. And I mourn that her voice has now been silenced.”

Tricia had to swallow to not cry at her dear friend’s loving tribute to someone he probably hadn’t had contact with for twenty or thirty years. She raised her hand to give him a wave and Mr. Everett caught sight of her, giving her a small, warm smile before he left the lectern.

“Thank you, William,” Betty said as she watched his retreating back.

Eileen Harvick waved a hand to get Betty’s attention. So, at least one other Chamber member had attended the occasion.

“Yes?”

“Will Ms. Barker be buried here in Stoneham?”

Betty blushed. “I haven’t been told.”

“And who would tell her?” Angelica muttered.

“Angelica!” Tricia hissed.

“If I learn of another ceremony in Lauren’s honor,” Betty continued, “I’ll be sure to share it with all the Chamber members and, of course, the Stoneham Weekly News.”

Patti Perkins would probably already know if there was news on that front. Tricia looked around, surprised that Patti—and the other two women who kept the weekly fish wrapper in business—didn’t appear to be in attendance. Tricia thought she might give the office a call on Monday.

“Would anyone like to share a memory of Lauren?” Betty asked.

As most of the audience hadn’t personally known the deceased author, it wasn’t surprising that no one volunteered to speak. Betty looked expectantly at the assemblage for an uncomfortably long time before she wrapped up the proceedings.

“Thank you all for coming. Before you leave today, I hope you’ll drop by the refreshments table and help yourselves. And, of course, if you’d like a remembrance of Lauren, there’s a large assortment of autographed copies of her work that can be purchased by cash, check, or credit cards.”

Tricia’s gaze wandered but it seemed those around her found Betty’s invitation to be just as crass as she did.

Silence.

For a long minute.

Then a chair scraped across the gymnasium’s lacquered floor, and someone stood as though giving the rest of the crowd permission to leave.

Tricia, Angelica, and David waited until those behind them had cleared the aisle. No one seemed to be partaking in the cookies or the invitation to buy books as they shuffled out of the room. Tricia looked back to see Betty still standing at the podium with a look of fury coloring her cheeks.

---

* * *

Once outside, Tricia saw Stella Kraft heading for her car. She wore a large floppy hat, and despite the overcast day, sunglasses. “Stella!”

The older woman turned, saw it was Tricia who called her, and gave a halfhearted wave.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Tricia told Angelica and David, and hurried over to speak with Stella. “I was surprised to see you here.”

Stella frowned. “No more than me.” She shook her head. “After the way Lauren treated me at the book signing…” She let the sentence hang. “But she was my student. I wasn’t sure anyone local would show up—and from the looks of it, not many did.”

Tricia nodded. “What did you think of the remembrances?”

Stella eyed Tricia, probably wondering if she should be honest or keep her opinions to herself. “Pie in the sky,” she said before her gaze narrowed. “You didn’t answer my last few text messages.”

“I’m sorry to say I have nothing to report.”

Stella glared at Tricia skeptically. She nodded to Angelica and David. “You need to go. Your store will be opening soon.”

It was a pretty blunt dismissal, but Tricia nodded. “We’ll talk soon.”

Stella said nothing and turned for her car.

Tricia joined David and Angelica once again.

They drove back to Haven’t Got a Clue, in what seemed to Tricia like strained silence, where they let her out. “Have fun shopping,” she told them.

David gave a weak smile.

“See you for dinner at my place,” Angelica said.

Did that mean she planned on having lunch with David? Tricia hoped she wasn’t about to grill the poor guy.

Angelica nodded, glanced in her side mirror, and pulled the car away from the curb. Tricia could see David’s reflection in the side-view mirror. He didn’t look happy. Then the car sped up and out of view.

Tricia turned to see that the lights were on inside her shop. Mr. Everett had arrived before her. He had the beverage station up and running and had donned his apron, ready for the retail day.

“Thanks for getting everything ready.”

Mr. Everett rewarded her with a wan smile. “Just part of my job.”

“I’ll just hang up my coat and then join you at the reader’s nook.”

By the time she returned, Mr. Everett was seated in the nook with a steaming mug of coffee before him, and one in front of Tricia’s seat. After so many years, he knew how she took her brew.

“Thank you,” Tricia said, picking up her cup. “I was sure surprised to see you at Lauren Barker’s remembrance service. That was an eloquent eulogy you gave her,” Tricia commented.

Instead of accepting the compliment, Mr. Everett just looked sad. “I like to think I remember only the best of the people I’ve been acquainted with during my life’s journey,” he said.

Tricia could tell by her friend’s expression that he hadn’t told the whole truth when it came to his recollections of Lauren Barker. The man kept most of his opinions to himself, so Tricia had little hope he’d confide in her when it came to Lauren’s shortcomings. Still, she felt she needed to ask.

“Was there something about Lauren’s character you felt you couldn’t share?” she asked gently, not expecting an answer.

Mr. Everett mulled the question over for a long moment before answering. “Lauren was not what some would call a team player. She did her job, but she didn’t get along with a number of the other employees.”

“In what way?” Tricia asked.

Mr. Everett shook his head but didn’t look Tricia in the eyes. “There were always tensions and animosities among the teens in the store. Petty rivalries. Boys and girls going steady and then breaking up. On occasion, it led to a lot of drama.”

“Was there anyone in particular Lauren didn’t get along with?”

Mr. Everett shrugged. “The little tragedies of those days are now lost to me.”

That was too bad. But that Mr. Everett remembered such strained relations was enough for Tricia to hold as fact. But who could verify those trifling jealousies?

Mary Fairchild, for one, but who else?