Sentenced to Death

by Lorna Barrett

  No sooner had Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue than the phone rang. Tricia picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue. This is Tricia. How can I—?”

  “Tricia, it’s Russ. Can you meet me for coffee—in Milford?”

  “What’s wrong with your office?” she asked, suddenly annoyed.

  “I’m already here. I’ve got an emergency appointment with my dentist in forty-five minutes.”

  Tricia glanced at the clock on the wall. “Oh, all right, but I’ve got to wait until Ginny comes in. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Okay, but make it fast. I’ve got some news I think you’ll want to hear.” He gave her the directions and then hung up.

  Tricia replaced the receiver and frowned. “Why couldn’t he have just told her over the phone whatever he’d found out? Why all the intrigue?

  As she’d hoped, Ginny arrived early and Tricia flew out the door.

  The little diner Russ chose for their informational rendezvous was in a strip mall on Nashua Street, not far from the Milford Oval. The small restaurant was rather nondescript with pale yellow or beige walls (Tricia wasn’t sure quite what the color was), and a few halfhearted attempts at decor, like the fake flowers in glass bud vases on every table. Russ was ensconced in one of the back booths. The diner’s menu boasted the best seafood chowder in the state. Since Tricia had had no breakfast that morning, she asked about it, and was assured that at eleven forty-five it was readily available. In the meantime, she sipped her coffee.

  “Nice place,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “You won’t be so smug once you taste that chowder,” Russ said.

  “So what dental calamity has befallen you since last night?’ Tricia asked.

  “I’ve got a bridge ready to collapse and I want it fixed before it drops out of my mouth while eating a marshmallow.”

  “I didn’t realize your teeth were so fragile.”

  “I’m joking about the marshmallow. But a friend of mine lost a bridge while eating a soft dinner roll. I don’t want that to happen to me, and I’m willing to pay Sunday rates to see that it doesn’t.”

  Tricia wasted no more time on small talk. “So what have you found out about Monty Capshaw and how on earth did you do it so fast?”

  Russ leaned back in the booth, “I’ve got friends in high and low places, and a lot of them owe me favors—like you will after we talk.” He really must have dental problems, she decided. Every time he said something with an s, his tongue seemed to slip so that he spoke with a slight lisp.

  Tricia leveled her gaze at him. What he’d said was not the words of a man hoping for a reconciliation. “And when were you thinking of calling in this favor?”

  “Some time in the future. And don’t worry, it won’t be something you can’t deliver.” He sounded so damned smug. But before she could reply, the waitress arrived with her soup and a package of oyster crackers. Tricia plunged her spoon into the creamy chowder and took her first mouthful. Her eyes widened as she let the soup lie on her tongue for a moment to savor the taste.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Russ asked, rubbing it in.

  The menu hadn’t been bragging. This was the best seafood chowder she’d ever eaten—even topping Angelica’s, which was saying something.

  Tricia swallowed. “I will be coming back here on a regular basis. Angelica has got to try this.”

  Russ positively grinned. But Tricia hadn’t forgotten why the two of them were really there. “Monty Capshaw,” she reminded him.

  Russ leaned forward and dropped his voice. “The man was broke. He was days away from having his plane repossessed.”

  “What about the cancer? His wife said he was in remission.”

  Russ shook his head. “Not according to some of his buddies at the airfield. He didn’t want his wife to know that the cancer had come back. He was told he had three months.”

  “When was this?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. And he was looking for a way out of his money situation. That’s why he took the job flying the banner for Founders’ Day.”

  “Was he fit to fly?”

  Russ shook his head. “Not in the opinion of his cronies. They predicted something like this would happen.”

  Tricia shook her head. “I might think that if the plane hadn’t run out of fuel. You saw how he circled the village until his tanks were dry.”

  “You’re still trying to tie this into Deborah’s death, aren’t you?”

  “It just seems very convenient for David Black that his wife’s death suddenly opens so many doors for him.”

  “Like what?”

  “Out of a marriage that wasn’t working. Into the arms of a lover who can introduce him to the bigwigs in the art world. He’ll also get insurance money and the money from the sale of the store.”

  “So, he got lucky,” Russ said with a shrug.

  Tricia glowered at him before spooning up another mouthful of soup. “What about Capshaw—was he insured?”

  “To the hilt. He told his buddies that he would never leave his wife high and dry. And it looks like he didn’t.”

  “Too bad you couldn’t get a look at his bank accounts.”

  “Don’t be too sure I can’t.”

  “Russ!” she admonished.

  “What I mean,” he clarified, “is that I might know someone who can.”

  “That’s illegal,” she hissed, hoping no one nearby had heard his boast.

  “What are you looking for? Some kind of large payment to his savings or checking account?”

  Tricia frowned. “Something like that.”

  “I think I can find out.”

  “And what’s in it for you?” Tricia asked.

  “I think you may be right. There’s more to David Black than meets the eye.”

  “I know there is. I checked out his art at the Foxleigh Gallery in Portsmouth last night. He’s got a piece there that blows away everything he’s done before.”

  “His lawn art really sucks—but he has made money at it,” Russ said.

  “How would you know?” Tricia asked.

  “I ran a piece on him last summer in the Stoneham Weekly News.”

  “I must have missed it,” Tricia said, and scraped the last of her chowder from the bowl. The truth was, she rarely read the local weekly news rag. “Did David mention he was trying new things?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. But he wasn’t willing to talk about it at the time.”

  “I’d like to read the piece. Have you still got copies?”

  “Not hard copies. Call over to the office and ask one of the girls to e-mail it to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What else have you got on David Black?” Russ asked.

  “He doesn’t seem very interested in his son. His motherin-law says he hasn’t been with the boy since Deborah died.”

  Russ frowned. “He’s a rotten little kid. I can’t say I blame David.”

  “Davey’s just a baby,” Tricia said, taken aback.

  “Hitler started out as a child, too.”

  Tricia shook her head, pushed her bowl away, and wondered if she could get an order of the chowder to go. “Are you going to keep pursuing the story?”

  “I’ve got a business to run. You could do some of the legwork yourself.”

  “Like what?” Tricia asked.

  “Find out what else David Black has on his plate.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that? Stake him out?”

  “Why not? You’re also chums with the biggest gossips in the village. Frannie, for one.”

  “Ah, but she’s been closemouthed about some things lately.”

  “That’s something you could explore as well.” Russ looked at his watch and frowned. “There’s a dentist’s chair waiting with my name on it.” He reached for his wallet and peeled out a couple of ones. “You don’t mind paying for your soup yourself, do you?”

  Tricia shook her head. As a matter of fact, she didn’
t. This meant she owed him nothing—except some favor in the vague future. She didn’t like that—not one bit.

  “Call me tomorrow,” Russ said, got up from the booth, and left the diner.

  Tricia signaled the waitress, ordered soup to go, vacated the table, and paid the check. It took only a minute or two for her to-go order to arrive before she, too, left the diner. She was halfway to her car when she spied a jewelry store on the other side of the strip mall. A neon sign winked OPEN. Tacky, she thought, and instinctively reached for the post in her left ear. On the spur of the moment, she decided she could use some exercise. She and her little takeout bag headed for Maxwell & Sons.

  A small bell tinkled in greeting as she opened the door. No other customers loitered around the small, sedately decorated showroom, and in seconds a salesman stepped through a dark velvet curtain at the back of the shop. “May I help you?”

  Tricia stepped up to the glass showcase. “I hope so. I was wondering, can you tell cubic zirconium from a genuine diamond?”

  “That’s quite easy to determine. Do you have something you’d like checked?”

  Tricia touched her left earlobe, twisting the stud earring a quarter turn. “I got these earrings from a friend, and …”

  “Ah,” the gentleman said, and nodded in understanding. “Customers come in here all the time wanting to know the value of gifts they receive.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Tricia said. “I just wanted to make sure for … for …” Her mind whirled. “For insurance purposes.”

  The salesman’s placid expression never wavered. “Very good.”

  Tricia set her purse and the soup on the counter. She carefully removed her earring and handed it to the jeweler, who collected it in a soft gray shammy. He rubbed the stone for several seconds before he popped a loupe onto his eye and examined the earring. “Hmm.”

  Tricia felt her stomach muscles tense. Was that a good or bad “hmmm”?

  “May I take a look at the other?”

  Tricia removed and then handed him the second earring. He examined it with the same poker face, before removing the loupe. He pulled out a small scale and weighed each. “A full carat each.”

  “Cubic zirconium,” she stated.

  “Diamonds, ma’am. They’re both exquisite—and beautifully cut.”

  “Real diamonds?” Tricia asked, her throat tightening.

  “Did you want to sell them?”

  “No!” But did she want to keep such an expensive gift?

  Yes! Too bad they’d come from a man who’d unceremoniously dumped and then divorced her.

  And yet … why had Christopher now sent her two gifts of jewelry? She fingered the chain on her neck. On impulse, she unfastened the catch and handed the chain to the jeweler. “Is this chain real gold?”

  He inspected the chain, and then had a look at the locket. “Both fine specimens.” He opened the locket. “Pretty kitty.”

  “Thank you,” Tricia managed. Her head was spinning. What was she supposed to make of these gifts and the reason behind Christopher sending them?

  The jeweler handed back the necklace and Tricia refastened the chain, hiding the locket beneath her sweater once more. She put the earrings back on, too.

  “Were you interested in purchasing anything while you’re here?” the salesman asked.

  Tricia looked around the showroom. The man had been so nice about checking her jewelry, and since Ginny was leaving, maybe she should buy her a nice gift while she was here. It might be hard to get away from the shop once Ginny started working at the Happy Domestic and Tricia only had Mr. Everett working for her part time. “Yes. I’m looking for a gift. A friend of mine is about to start a new job and I thought it might be nice to get her something. Maybe a watch?”

  Ten minutes later, Tricia left the store with her purse, her takeout bag of chowder, and a gift-wrapped watch for Ginny.

  And a whole lot more on her mind than when she’d entered the store.

  THIRTEEN

  The words the Happy Domestic were beginning to grate on Tricia’s nerves, so much so that she decided to spend her three or four dollars for a good-bye card for Ginny at the convenience store up near the highway instead of patronizing what was once Deborah’s store. She picked up a couple of condolence cards, too, although she still wasn’t sure she wanted to send one to David.

  Traffic was light, and all too soon she found herself heading back from Stoneham’s municipal parking lot toward Haven’t Got a Clue. As she passed the Patisserie, she decided to stop in and buy a treat for Ginny. She loved cupcakes, especially those made and decorated by Nikki Brimfield, their friend and the Patisserie’s owner.

  Several customers stood in line to be waited on, and Tricia grabbed a ticket with a number from the little machine just inside the door. The heavenly aromas of bread, cookies, and pastries nearly lifted Tricia off the ground. She’d buy some of the raspberry thumbprint cookies Mr. Everett liked, too. Then she remembered that Mr. Everett was spending the day with Elizabeth Crane at—she winced—the Happy Domestic. Still, her customers would probably appreciate them.

  Tricia studied all the wonderful desserts in the large refrigerated case and decided to get a cupcake for herself, too. Since she’d begun allowing herself the occasional sweet treat during the past two months, she found she’d gained three pounds. She still ran four miles on the treadmill every morning, and her clothes still fit, save for one pair of slacks that felt a little too tight for all-day comfort. Was she letting herself go—or was it the inevitable middleage spread? No doubt Angelica, who’d always battled her weight, would laugh at the idea of being three pounds overweight.

  Tricia took stock of her life as the line grew shorter. Was she too worried about what men thought of her appearance? And what for? Grant Baker wanted a companion with no long-term commitment. Russ Smith still kind of pursued her, although for some reason had dropped the solicitous act this morning, which was good, as she couldn’t bear the thought of being with him ever again. And her ex-husband, Christopher, was sending her conflicting signals. He hadn’t wanted to stay married but now he was sending her expensive gifts. What did that mean?

  Nikki called out the next number, and the line dwindled yet again.

  Apple turnovers, date bars, iced cut-out cookies, or whole wheat oatmeal raisin cookies—were they really a toboggan ride to diet hell? Did eating comfort food somehow make you an inferior human being, or was it a red flag that should send one to the nearest shrink in search of the catalyst for such behavior? Grant-Russ-Christopher and all that each man represented could be the reason Tricia had indulged. No doubt about it, she wasn’t getting what she wanted or needed in a relationship, and an occasional cupcake or an extra cookie a day had somehow found its way into her usual routine. And honestly, three pounds wasn’t the be-all and end-all of life. In fact, it was just an extra forty-eight ounces. A two-liter bottle of soda was heavier.

  Okay, if the weight gain continued for too long, there could be trouble, but Tricia found the idea of a coconut cupcake now and then far too good to resist.

  “Fifty-eight,” Nikki called out, and Tricia realized that it was her turn to order. She raised her hand, stepped forward, and discarded her paper ticket in the little wicker basket atop the tall glass display case.

  “Hi, Tricia,” Nikki said brightly. Did her voice sound unusually high?

  “Hey, Nikki. It looks like it’s a coconut cupcake day. I’ll take two. And a dozen of your raspberry thumbprint cookies.” And an apple turnover—or four! something inside her wanted to shout, but she exercised all her self-control and let the order stand.

  Nikki placed the items in a white bakery box, well insulated with baker’s tissue. She tied the box with string and rang up the sale. Tricia handed her a ten-dollar bill, and Nikki made change. It was only then that Tricia realized there was no one behind her and that she and Nikki were the only ones in the shop.

  “Wasn’t Deborah’s send-off yesterday a drag?” Nikki as
ked, sounding more like her usual self. “And what was with David bringing a date? The man has no shame.”

  “I agree. And she’s older, too.”

  “A real cougar, I hear,” Nikki said snidely. “It seems Ms. Fowler makes a habit of seeking out younger artists.” She added the last with contempt. “Still, I don’t think she’s the love of David’s life; more like a stepping-stone to somewhere else.”

  “Oh?” Tricia asked. Hadn’t Michele Fowler said the same thing … more or less?

  Nikki nodded. “Seems to me I heard that David was fooling around with someone more close to home, but I can’t think who—or even where I heard it.”

  “Frannie?” Tricia suggested.

  Nikki shook her head. “Since Frannie was the source of so much gossip back in June and before, she seems to have handed off her Queen of the Rumor Mill title.”

  That made sense, as Frannie herself had been the object of scandal when her relationship to a murdered man had become public knowledge. Still, in the past, Frannie had been a wonderful source of information, and Tricia hated to see that source dry up. Then again, maybe it was a temporary thing. As Tricia’s grandmother was fond of saying, “a leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

  “I heard Ginny’s going to be taking over as manager when the sale of the Happy Domestic goes through,” Nikki said.

  “Yes. And I’ll be losing the best assistant in Stoneham.”

  “That’s true. But this also gives someone else the opportunity to be the next best assistant. Have you got anyone in mind?”

  Tricia shook her head. “If you know of anyone looking for a job that you think might be a good fit, I’d be glad to interview her.”

  “Or him?” Nikki asked.

  Tricia laughed. “Or him.” She looked at her watch. “I’d better get back to work.”

  “Thank you,” Nikki said, with what seemed like extra cheer, although the degree of her smile didn’t quite match.

  Tricia gave her a wave, exited the shop, and started down the sidewalk. As she passed the Cookery, she saw Frannie waiting on a customer. She raised her bakery-boxencumbered hand in a half wave but doubted Frannie even saw her. By now she was overloaded with purse, soup, watch, cards in a plain white grocery bag, and now the bakery box, and she had to juggle them all to open the door to Haven’t Got a Clue. She backed into the store, which was empty except for Ginny, who stood behind the cash desk.