Sentenced to Death

by Lorna Barrett

  “I don’t confide in our mother,” Angelica exclaimed.

  “She’s not the most nurturing woman on the planet,” Tricia agreed. “But Elizabeth might know if Deborah’s life was insured.”

  “So what if it was? She had a son. Most people with children make those kinds of arrangements.”

  “With Deborah gone, David gets everything he wanted. He’s shed of the Happy Domestic, a headstrong wife, and he can quit his jobs and dedicate his life to his art.”

  “If Deborah had died any other way, you might have a case.”

  “That plane circled around and around the village square. What if the pilot was sizing up the best angle of approach? What if he deliberately let his tanks run dry and at the last moment—pow!—plowed right into the gazebo?”

  “But no pilot is going to deliberately crash into a stone gazebo to take out the head of the Founders’ Day celebration, wreck his plane, and kill himself in the process,” Angelica said and speared a mushroom. “If you’re thinking murder, why not blame Alexa and Boris Kozlov?”

  “Why?”

  “You said Deb tossed her trash in their Dumpster. I imagine that would piss off anyone.”

  “Enough to kill?” Tricia asked.

  “Why not? What if Alexa and Boris were fugitives?” Angelica asked, warming to her blossoming theory. “Maybe… .” Her eyes widened, as though a lightbulb had gone on over her head. “Maybe they were members of the Russian mafia. I mean, where did they ever get the money to open their own business?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Tricia said. “I’d never believe that of Alexa.”

  “Ah,” Angelica said, raising her right index finger as though to prove a point. “But you would believe it of Boris.”

  Tricia frowned and shook her head. “Your mind is full of tommyrot.”

  “Admit it, you have to have noticed he can’t look anyone in the eye. A born sneak, if ever I saw one.”

  “You think Boris arranged to have Deborah killed because she illegally dumped her garbage in the Coffee Bean’s Dumpster?”

  “You’re the idiot who believes Deborah was murdered, not me. But that doesn’t mean Boris isn’t guilty of something.”

  Tricia mulled that over. Angelica had a point. That gave her two very good suspects. She did a mental shake of the head. Did she sound like the protagonist in a bad mystery if she tried to twist the facts to mesh with her version of events? Who killed over garbage? David was still her main suspect. Still, maybe what she needed to do was find out more about that pilot. And she thought she knew who to tap for that information.

  ELEVEN

  Tricia parked her Lexus in front of Russ Smith’s house at almost ten o’clock that Saturday night. The rain had made a repeat appearance but was now diminishing to a fine mist. Tricia grabbed her umbrella after parking at the curb outside his home. She’d have to be careful how she phrased her request for help—otherwise he’d think he might have another shot at a relationship with her and that was the last thing she wanted.

  Before Tricia could raise her hand to press the doorbell, the door opened and a delighted Russ stood before her. “Tricia, what brought you to my doorstep tonight?”

  “Deborah Black’s death. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  For a moment Russ looked panicked. He glanced over his shoulder toward the living room. Tricia could hear the roar of a crowd. A Red Sox game? Russ turned back. “Uh, sure. Come on in.” He held the door for her and she stepped into the small, familiar entryway.

  “Hang up your coat,” Russ said, and dashed into the living room. Seconds later, the room went silent, and she heard the rustle of newspapers as he did a slap-dash cleanup. She took her time hanging up her coat and standing her damp umbrella in the corner so it could dry. When she turned, she found Russ standing uncomfortably close by.

  “This way,” he said, as though she hadn’t been in his home at least a hundred times, and ushered her into the living room. He gestured for her to sit on the couch, but she steered for the leather club chair instead. Russ perched on the edge of the couch, as though ready to leap up at any moment.

  “I was surprised to see you at my door. I thought you didn’t like me anymore,” Russ said.

  “I never said that.”

  “You sure haven’t been friendly toward me for the last few months.”

  “You seem to forget it was you who dumped me.”

  “I’ve apologized at least a hundred times.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve forgiven you for that. But we can’t have the kind of relationship we once had.” And I’d prefer that we had none at all, she refrained from saying. But she needed him right now. Did that make her a terrible person, using him like this?

  Probably. But she thought she could live with herself. Maybe.

  She didn’t want to think about that just now, and pressed on.

  “How would you like to scoop the Nashua Telegraph?”

  He looked at her skeptically. “Have you been snooping around in this plane crash business?”

  “Not snooping. Just … asking some judicious questions. I’ve got the beginnings of a theory.”

  Russ threw up his hands and turned away. “Theory? You can’t possibly think Deborah was murdered.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s ludicrous. You were there. You saw what happened.”

  Tricia kept her cool, shrugged, and stood. “Okay, I’ll just call Portia McAllister.”

  Russ scowled. She’d definitely hit a nerve. Portia was a reporter with Channel 10 in Boston and had covered the Zoë Carter murder some eighteen months before. Russ was jealous of any reporter in a larger city—especially since his plans to resume his career as a crime reporter in a larger city had fizzled out the previous year.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s your theory?” Russ asked.

  Tricia sat once again. She leaned forward and looked him straight in the eye. “Monty Capshaw had cancer. His wife was surprised that he hadn’t had his license lifted for health reasons, especially since his medication left him forgetful.”

  “Forgetful enough not to fill his gas tank?” Russ asked.

  “That’s something for you to find out.”

  “And what if he was flying with a suspended license?”

  “The ramifications from that ought to be obvious.” Even to you, she felt like adding, but refrained.

  Russ nodded. “If I were Bob Kelly, I’d be pretty damned worried. What else have you got?”

  “How soon do you think you can find out about Capshaw’s license?”

  “I might have something tomorrow. I’ll let you know. Maybe we could get together for lunch or dinner and discuss it.”

  “Why don’t you just call me, and we’ll go from there.”

  Russ sighed. “All right. Whatever I find out, I’ll share with you. Deal?” He held out his hand.

  Reluctant as she was to shake on it, Tricia accepted his hand. As expected, he didn’t want to let go. She had to yank her hand free and glared at him.

  “Rumor has it that David Black intends to sue anyone he thinks he can get a nickel out of,” Tricia said.

  “Which sounds reasonable under the circumstances.”

  “Frannie Armstrong lives a few houses from the Blacks. She says they fought almost every night.”

  “About?”

  “Money, for one. It seems that Deborah’s life was heavily insured and David is her only beneficiary,” she bluffed, since she hadn’t yet had time to ask Elizabeth about it.

  “That’s not unusual.”

  “But even more telling—David was seen on Friday evening at the Brookview Inn with the same woman he brought to the funeral parlor. They were drinking champagne, no doubt celebrating the sale of Deborah’s store.”

  “Yeah, I heard Ginny’s going to manage it,” Russ said as he sorted through the magazines and papers on the coffee table, coming up with a steno pad and pen. “What’s the woman’s name?”

  “Michele Fowler. She
owns the Foxleigh Gallery in Portsmouth. David is exhibiting some of his metal sculptures there.”

  “How does all this relate to the pilot who was killed?”

  “Monty Capshaw had been sick for a long time. He was heavily in debt. What reasonable man would want to leave his wife in that situation? He flew that plane in circles around the village until he ran out of gas. Why didn’t he steer for the Half Moon Nudist Camp? It’s not far from the village and he could have landed safely instead of destroying a village landmark and killing himself and Deborah—as well as putting scores of other people at risk.”

  “Are you saying he committed suicide for an insurance payout?”

  “It may have been the only way he could be sure his wife was financially secure.”

  Russ shook his head. “I still don’t get what this has to do with Deborah’s death.”

  “Double jeopardy. Someone could also have paid him to crash the plane. Someone who knew Deborah would be at that place and that time.”

  “Her husband?” Russ shook his head. “Sounds pretty farfetched to me. And even if it was true, how could you prove it?”

  Tricia bit her lip and frowned. She didn’t have a clue.

  The status of Monty Capshaw’s pilot’s license wasn’t the only thing on Tricia’s mind. The fact that the name Nigela Racita Associates kept popping up in Stoneham was beginning to grate on her. Why was this particular firm so focused on this one little village in New Hampshire? Did they have other holdings, and if so, where were they?

  Tricia settled at the desk in her living room and powered up her laptop. Miss Marple jumped onto her lap and head butted her chin. “Now now, Miss Marple,” Tricia scolded, and gently set the cat down on the floor. Miss Marple circled the chair and jumped up from the opposite side, landing on Tricia’s lap with a very pleased “Brrrp!”

  Tricia reached around the cat to type a URL into her browser. Seconds later, the Google home page appeared. She typed in the words Nigela Racita Associates and hit enter. The last time she’d Googled the firm, only one entry, for its Website, appeared. This time, however, the entire screen was filled with entries, most of them either press releases or links to articles in the Web version of the Nashua Telegraph.

  Miss Marple butted Tricia’s hand, knocking it away from her wireless mouse. She disliked using the laptop’s built-in mouse pad, preferring something with a little more heft. Miss Marple saw it as a toy and more than once had batted it off the desk and onto the floor. “Don’t be naughty,” Tricia admonished, but Miss Marple continued to nudge her hand with her cool, damp nose.

  Despite the cat’s persistence, Tricia clicked the top link and the NRA Website popped up on her screen. Like the acronym for the National Recovery Act, Nigela Racita Associates had cribbed a version of the winged motif as its logo. The site still boasted only a few pages and had no information on its owner or its local rep, Antonio Barbero, and clicking the contact us link only brought up a blank e-mail form addressed to contact@NRAssociatesNH.com.

  Tricia clicked on the Current Projects page. It, too, had been updated, to include the Brookview Inn and its renovation, with a picture and a link to that dedicated Website. Of course, it was too early for the company to list the Happy Domestic among its assets, and nothing was posted except the address of the empty lot where History Repeats Itself had once stood.

  She closed the page, frustrated. There must be other sources of information she could tap. But if the company was privately held, it had no obligation to the public to make any kind of disclosures.

  Tricia clicked on each of the rest of the links and read through the news reports but found nothing new or of particular interest. Talking to Antonio had not been productive in the past. Could he have confided company chitchat to Ginny? If so, was there a possibility she might be willing to discuss it? Tricia vowed to ask Ginny the next morning.

  It was getting late. Tricia shut down her computer, lifted the cat from her lap, and placed her on the floor. Miss Marple let out a disgruntled “Yow!” but Tricia rose from her chair before the cat could jump on her again.

  “Time for bed,” Tricia said, and Miss Marple trotted off toward the bedroom. Five minutes later, an exhausted Tricia climbed between the cool sheets on her bed and turned off the light. She didn’t feel like reading and lay in the dark staring at the ceiling.

  It bothered her that everyone dismissed her belief that Deborah had been murdered. The stars just didn’t align to bring one person—David Black—that kind of good fortune. Not unless they had help. He was taking a little too much pleasure from his so-called loss, and no one but Tricia seemed the least bit suspicious.

  TWELVE

  Tricia wasn’t the only one up early the next morning. When she went down to the shop to retrieve her morning paper, she saw Elizabeth Crane, with little Davey straddling her hip, unlocking the door to the Happy Domestic.

  The Coffee Bean was already open, so she grabbed a ten from the cash drawer, locked the store, and headed across the street. A couple of minutes later, she took the two cups of coffee she’d purchased and knocked on the door to the Happy Domestic. “We’re closed,” Elizabeth called out, her voice muffled.

  “It’s Tricia. I brought you some coffee.” She had to yell three times before Elizabeth came out of the back of the store, saw her, and hurried to open the door. “Goodness, you’re up early,” she chided, and took the offered cup. “I think I have some cookies in the back. They might not be at their best—”

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” Tricia said. Once again, Tricia saw Davey behind the childproof gate, already playing with some wooden blocks—or rather, hurling them against the wall, each of them leaving a dent. Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice. She pulled a stool out from behind the counter and sat on it, leaving Tricia to stand.

  “Have you heard anything from the investigators?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t expect to. But I don’t like the rumors going around town about David and that Fowler woman.”

  “I went to her gallery last evening to see David’s sculpture.”

  “Junk—all of it,” she said, bitterly.

  “I haven’t seen his yard sculptures, but the piece I saw there was truly magnificent.”

  Elizabeth scowled and took another sip of coffee. She looked around the tidy shop with its cheerful merchandise and the lovely displays. “David can’t wait to unload this place. I should have bought into the business when I had the chance—right when Deborah started it. Later, when she was in a tight financial spot, she couldn’t let me. She didn’t want to be responsible for me losing my nest egg should the business—fold. And now David’s selling it right out from under me,” she said bitterly. “It’s like he wants to erase all trace of Deborah.”

  Tricia had to bite her tongue not to spill her suspicions about David. Now isn’t the time, she reminded herself.

  “And worst of all—I’ve heard the new owners have hired your Ginny to be the manager. She’s younger than Deborah was. How can I take orders from her when I know the shop and its stock better than she ever will?”

  “Please don’t blame Ginny for any of this. She was offered the job and it was in her best interests to take it. I’ve worked with her for two and a half years. She’s good. And she’ll do right by Deborah’s store.”

  “I know. It’s just”—Elizabeth grabbed a tissue from a box under the counter and pressed it to her leaking eyes—“it’s all happened so fast. Four days ago, Deborah and I were making lists for our holiday orders. Now she’s dead, and the store has been sold, and I’ll be relegated to part-time assistant. That is until the new owners decide I’m excess baggage and get rid of me altogether.”

  Tricia didn’t know what to say, how to comfort the woman. She looked away, taking in the tall spindle card rack. It was turned so that the sympathy cards faced her. She’d been so busy she hadn’t thought to send Elizabeth—or David—a sympathy card. And would it be in bad taste to buy one from Deborah’s own store?


  Elizabeth took a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry to dump all this on you, Tricia. I simply don’t have anyone else to talk to about it.”

  “What about your other children?”

  “They say I should walk away from the store—let David do what he wants to do and not make a fuss. They’re afraid if I make waves he’ll keep me from seeing Davey—and none of us want that.”

  “Do you think David would actually be that cruel?” Tricia asked.

  Elizabeth sighed. “I don’t know what to think. I’ve already lost Deborah. I don’t want to end up without Davey in my life, too.”

  “But you’ve had Davey since—” She bit her tongue to keep from reminding Elizabeth about Deborah’s death. “Since Thursday, right? Hasn’t he spent any time with his father?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “But that doesn’t mean David might change his mind in an instant and take him away from me.”

  “Shouldn’t he be with his father?” Tricia asked.

  “David never wanted children,” Elizabeth spat.

  That wasn’t what Deborah had said. Earlier in the summer, she’d told Tricia that David wanted more children and that she was the one who wasn’t prepared to have another child. Had she shared that information with her own mother?

  “Please don’t tell Ginny my real feelings about her taking over the store,” Elizabeth said.

  “I won’t,” Tricia promised, but Ginny was perceptive. She’d know exactly how Elizabeth felt. Still, managing a staff—or in this case one part-time person—was what Ginny needed to learn if she was either going to climb the Nigela Racita Associates corporate ladder—or own her own store one day.

  Elizabeth drained her cup and stood, which seemed like a not-so-subtle hint that it was time for Tricia to leave.

  She took it. “I’d better be off. It’s sure to be a busy day.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said, and tossed her cup into the trash. “I have a lot to accomplish before David yanks the store out from under me. I’d better get to it. I’m sure I’ll see you around, Tricia.”

  Tricia forced a smile at the dismissal and headed for the door.

  She had liked Elizabeth’s daughter much better than she liked Elizabeth.