Sentenced to Death

by Lorna Barrett

  “Do you need help?” Ginny asked, and a sleepy Miss Marple looked up from her comfy spot on one of the chairs in the reader’s nook.

  “No, thanks,” Tricia said.

  Ginny spied the bakery box. “Nothing says lovin’ like something from the Patisserie’s oven.”

  “I bought us some coconut cupcakes,” Tricia said, and trucked across the carpet to join Ginny.

  “Oh, yum. And just in time for lunch.”

  “I’ve sort of already eaten mine, so this will be dessert. Hang on while I go put this in my fridge,” she said, brandishing the bag with the soup in it and hoping Ginny wouldn’t ask about the other bags. She left the bakery box and trudged up the stairs to her loft apartment, with Miss Marple following in her wake. Of course, that meant Tricia had to give the cat a kitty snack before she could put away her purchases, but Miss Marple had finished by the time Tricia was ready to head back downstairs. She sat patiently at the door to the stairs while Tricia called Angelica at Booked for Lunch to tell her not to save a tuna plate for her.

  “I’ve already eaten—the world’s best seafood chowder—and I brought some home for you, so don’t eat lunch. I’ll bring it over at the usual time.”

  “Nothing compares to my chowder recipe,” Angelica declared.

  “You might change your mind once you taste this.”

  “If you say so,” Angelica said, and sounded distinctly bored.

  Tricia hung up the phone and headed for the door. Perhaps to echo Angelica, Miss Marple gave her a bored “Yow” in passing.

  Ginny was waiting for Tricia at the coffee station. She’d put on some cheerful Southwest-inspired new age music, and had placed the cupcakes on small paper plates that Tricia kept for just such purposes. “I waited for you to come down before I poured the coffee,” Ginny said.

  The hackles rose on Tricia’s neck at Ginny’s solemn tone. Was something unpleasant and smelly about to hit the proverbial fan?

  Ginny didn’t wait long to share her anxiety. “I’m beginning to have second thoughts about taking the new job,” she admitted, and picked at the paper skin on her cupcake.

  “Whatever for?” Tricia asked, reaching for her coffee.

  “Deborah could never really make the Happy Domestic pay for itself. What if I can’t make it pay, either? I’m younger than she was—this is a lot of responsibility. Antonio has let me know that his boss doesn’t tolerate failure.”

  “Has Antonio ever failed Ms. Racita?”

  “Not so far,” Ginny said, and took a bite of her cupcake.

  “He’s not much older than you, and he seems to have good business sense. I doubt he would have picked you to take over the Happy Domestic if he didn’t think you could handle it.”

  “But I’m his girlfriend,” she said, sounding mortified. “I could put his job in jeopardy if I fail.”

  Tricia sighed. It was bad enough she was going to lose Ginny, who truly was the best assistant she could have wished for. How easy—and selfish—it would be for her to encourage Ginny in these flights of doubt. Instead, she donned an almost maternal expression of pride. “I predict you will flourish at the Happy Domestic. I have so much faith in you, and I regret not showing it more often. This whole business with me not giving you a key to Haven’t Got a Clue wasn’t that I didn’t trust you. It’s just that I …” Tricia stopped for a moment, unsure how to continue. “Haven’t Got a Clue is what I longed for. Dreamed of. Worked so hard to obtain and years to achieve. I’m afraid I wasn’t willing to share it with anyone.” She had to stop herself for a moment, to swallow down the emotion that threatened to choke her.

  And it wasn’t Ginny she was thinking of—it was all the hurt she felt when Christopher told her he wanted out of their marriage. It was the months she’d lived alone in the aftermath of his rejection. Then a friend mentioned meeting Bob Kelly and told her of his efforts to recruit booksellers to some little backwater of a town in New Hampshire. The friend thought only a sucker would risk their financial future on opening a used bookstore in the middle of nowhere. But Tricia had been intrigued by Bob’s grand plans to re-create a piece of the little Welsh village of Hay-on-Wye in the not so wilds of southern New Hampshire. And Tricia’s business hadn’t just survived—it had thrived. And in many respects, so had she.

  “Ginny, this is the next step in your life. You weren’t sure you’d survive what happened with Brian, and look at you now. You’ve got a new man in your life, you’ve got a wonderful new job. Things can only get better.”

  Ginny nodded, and nibbled at her cupcake.

  “I have faith in you. Antonio has faith in you. And Nigela Racita must have faith in you, too.”

  Tricia had just about run out of cheerleader commentary and was grateful when the door opened and a couple of customers entered the store. Tricia greeted them and then paused to think of something she ought to do—to give Ginny an opportunity to forget about her frets.

  “Can you handle things here, Ginny? I’ve yet to canvass the neighborhood for donations for Davey Black’s education fund.”

  “Sure,” Ginny said, and straightened.

  Tricia retrieved her list, an envelope, and traded spots with Ginny. Tricia gave Ginny a smile and a wave, then set off.

  The first name on her list: By Hook or By Book.

  Tricia rarely made it to the craft bookstore. The truth was, she just didn’t have time for hobbies. In fact, her hobby, repairing old, tattered books, had taken a backseat since she’d opened Haven’t Got a Clue. And while she’d refinished a couple of pieces of furniture, the results had not been all that pleasing, and she’d had to pay someone to fix what she’d nearly ruined.

  Mary Fairchild was By Hook or By Book’s second owner, having taken over after the original proprietress had nearly gone bankrupt during the worst of the great recession. An incredibly sharp businesswoman, Mary had a seemingly endless supply of crafting talent. She painted, knitted, crocheted, quilted, reupholstered, gardened, and baked heavenly concoctions that rivaled Nikki Brimfield’s best pastries. Added to all that, she was also one of the nicest people Tricia had ever met. And best of all, she had turned out to be one of Tricia’s most frequent customers. If Tricia wanted to talk about mysteries, she only had to go next door for a visit.

  The little bell over Mary’s door tinkled sweetly as Tricia entered By Hook or By Book. Mary, dressed in one of her quilted vests, sat behind her cash desk, crochet hook in hand, whipping off what looked like another shrug—a shawl with arms. She sold them from a rack beside the register and was no doubt stocking up for the cool weather that would soon be upon them.

  “Tricia, what brings you out and about on this lovely summer day?”

  “I’m collecting money for Deborah Black’s young son.”

  Mary frowned. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get to the funeral service yesterday. Then again, from what I gather, there really wasn’t a service.”

  “No. I feel like I was cheated out of saying good-bye to Deborah.”

  Mary nodded sympathetically and gazed out the shop’s front display window. The empty lot where History Repeats Itself had once stood always reminded Tricia of a smile with a missing tooth. She thought about Russ’s loose bridge and wondered if his dentist had recemented it. “I’ll be so glad when they start to rebuild,” Tricia said.

  “Yes, and from what I understand, it won’t be long before they start. I heard there might be an announcement at tomorrow night’s Board of Selectmen’s meeting. I know I’m going to be there. How about you?”

  Tricia shook her head. “It’s not my cup of tea, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m more interested in who is going to make the announcement. There’s talk that Nigela Racita herself might be at the meeting,” Mary said with a wily grin.

  “You’re kidding,” Tricia said. Suddenly she was more interested in attending what was usually a very long, boring meeting. “Where did you hear this?”

  “I had dinner last night at the Brookview Inn. You know how Eleanor
loves to gossip.”

  She hadn’t mentioned anything so compelling to Tricia on Friday night. But then, Tricia had been preoccupied by first Grant Baker’s threat to talk over something serious, and then later by Antonio dining with David Black and Michele Fowler.

  “What do you know about this woman?” Tricia asked.

  “Very little,” Mary admitted, “and I’ve asked around, too.”

  “I tried Googling the firm but got nowhere fast,” Tricia said.

  “The corporate headquarters is a lawyer’s office on a side street in Flemington, New Jersey,” Mary said.

  “How did you find that out?”

  “My sister lives there. I asked her to look up the address, which is just a few blocks from her office building.”

  “That’s strange. Antonio always gave the impression that the firm had offices in Manhattan.”

  “They might have incorporated in Jersey to save money—they may well have offices somewhere else. Private companies are so hard to pin down,” Mary said. “They don’t have to make their balance sheets public, and from what I can tell, the only place they’ve invested is right here in Stoneham.”

  “Why Stoneham?” Tricia asked.

  “Maybe the same reason I came here. It’s a quaint little New England town. We’ve got a pretty good tourist trade, and we’re close enough to Boston to make a great escape to civilization when the mood strikes.”

  “I’m dying to know more about the mysterious woman who runs the company. Why does Antonio do all her bidding? Why doesn’t she show up in person?”

  Mary shrugged. “According to Eleanor, Ms. Racita chose all the new linens and paint colors for the inn, even though all she’d seen were pictures of the place. She seems to have good taste, if nothing else.”

  “Yes, but is she old, young, middleaged? She’s got to have bags of money to invest if she could buy the lot across the street, invest in the inn, and now buy the Happy Domestic.”

  “Yes, Eleanor mentioned that to me, and I hear your Ginny is going to run it. She’ll be perfect as manager. She’s so good with customers.”

  “I hate losing her,” Tricia confessed. “I hope I have luck finding someone as good as her.” She sighed. “I’m sure to see Antonio before tomorrow. I’ll make sure to ask him if his employer will be at the meeting.”

  “Good, then you can let me know, because I’ll want a seat up front to check her out. Now, didn’t you say you were collecting money for Deborah’s son?” Mary asked.

  Mary had a heart of gold, and though she hadn’t known Deborah well, she wrote out a check for fifty dollars.

  Tricia wished the rest of the shopkeepers were as generous, but as she left each shop, she couldn’t condemn them for smaller donations, either. Not everyone’s balance sheet had recovered from the great recession. Still, everyone she’d spoken to had made a donation and lamented Deborah’s passing. Yet none of them had known her well—some barely knew who she was. “That smiling woman with the long hair,” Joyce Widman from the Have a Heart romance bookstore had said.

  And, of course, Tricia bypassed the Coffee Bean while on her mission to obtain donations.

  By the time she’d made the rounds, she noticed Booked for Lunch had closed for the day. After making a stop at Haven’t Got a Clue to retrieve her takeout container of chowder, Tricia headed across the street to the café to hit up the last person on her list of shopkeepers. After all, Angelica had been willing to donate days before.

  “Soup’s on,” Tricia called as she entered the empty café. Once again, Angelica sat at the counter surrounded by manuscript pages. “Still not finished with that?”

  Angelica frowned, taking in the container. She shook her head and sneered at the offered chowder. “I’ve got three weeks before I have to turn in the book. I’m going to polish it until it sparkles.”

  “I thought you weren’t happy writing another Easy-Does-It cookbook. Why get so stressed over it?”

  “I’d rather be turning in my Italian cookbook—which is finished and ready to go—but I’ve got to give them what they contracted for. And besides, it’ll have my name on it. I’ll be damned if I’ll put out an inferior product.”

  Tricia felt duly chastised. “Besides bestowing the gift of chowder, I’m collecting for Davey Black’s education fund.”

  “Oh, yes,” Angelica abandoned the soup and grabbed her purse from behind the counter. She wrote out a check and handed it to Tricia. “Now, finally, I can eat.” She picked up the container and headed for the café’s tiny kitchen. “I thought I might go to the Board of Selectmen’s meeting tomorrow night. Want to come?” Angelica asked, removing the lid from the container and smelling the chowder. She didn’t pull a face, which Tricia took to be a good sign.

  “You know I’m not interested in local politics.” Tricia said. “Besides, they’ll likely only talk about the plane crash and the village’s liability. I really don’t care to have it all hashed out again.”

  Angelica patted her shoulder. “I don’t blame you. I’m not all that interested myself, but I promised Bob I’d go with him to keep him company. Besides, he hinted there might be an announcement on the repurposing of the empty lot two doors down from me.”

  “Mary over at By Hook or By Book said the same thing.”

  “Don’t you want to know about it?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia shrugged. “Antonio knows.”

  “Yes, and apparently he’s not saying anything. I mean, if Ginny had mentioned it to you, wouldn’t you have said something about it to me?” Angelica asked, and dumped the soup into a small saucepan.

  “Definitely.”

  Angelica lit one of the burners on the big commercial stove and transferred the pot from the counter to it. “So come to the meeting tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want to go. Although it’s said Nigela Racita herself might show up.

  Angelica’s eyes widened and she almost grinned. “Really?”

  Tricia nodded. “But it’s only a rumor. I’m not sure I want to waste my time without proof. You can tell me what happened on Tuesday.”

  “Oh, all right,” Angelica said with a shrug. She sighed. “What’s gotten into you lately? You’re almost as grumpy as me.”

  It was Tricia’s turn to sigh. Maybe it was time to level with Angelica about at least one thing that was bothering her. She took another breath to work up her courage and forged ahead. “Ange, there’s something I’ve been keeping from you.”

  Angelica looked stricken. “My God, Tricia—you’re not dying, are you? Is that why you went into town this morning? To see a doctor?”

  Tricia’s heart skipped a beat. “No! Why would you even think that? Besides, it’s Sunday. No doctor I know has office hours on Sunday.” Then again, Russ had gotten his dentist into the office only hours before.

  Angelica leaned against the counter and fanned her face with her hand. “Don’t scare me like that. And what on earth could you have ever kept from me? Your life is an open book—and it’s not a mystery.”

  Tricia sighed, and reached beneath the collar of her sweater to pull out the chain and the locket attached to it. “Look at this.”

  Angelica stepped close, lifted the locket with its calla lily motif, and gazed at it. “Pretty. Where did you get it?”

  “You won’t believe this, but from Christopher—for my birthday in June.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” Angelica accused.

  “I wasn’t sure what to make of it.”

  Angelica opened the locket and frowned. “Why is there a picture of Miss Marple in there?”

  “The note that came with it said, ‘To remind you of the one you love most.’ ”

  “Is Miss Marple the one you love most?” Angelica asked, looking and sounding offended.

  “Besides my family? I guess so. Not that I would admit that to anyone but you.”

  “Trish, Miss Marple is a cat.”

  “Duh!”

  “Was Christopher jealous of your pet?” Angelica as
ked.

  “I never thought so. The last time I spoke to him, he said he missed her.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Almost two years ago.”

  Angelica sighed, closed the locket, and gently replaced it on Tricia’s chest. “Weird.” She grabbed a wooden spoon from out of a crock holding utensils, and stirred the soup.

  “You want double weird? Those earrings you admired yesterday—” Tricia began.

  “The cubic zirconia?”

  “They’re not.”

  “Not what?”

  “Cubic zirconium. I had them checked by a jeweler in Milford this morning. They’re the real thing—one-carat diamonds. Christopher sent them.”

  Angelica smiled. “Not bad. What was the occasion?”

  “What would have been our thirteenth wedding anniversary.”

  “Why would a man who dumped you suddenly start sending you gifts?” Angelica asked, paused in her stirring, and sampled the soup. She frowned.

  “Guilt?” Tricia suggested.

  “Wouldn’t flowers be a lot cheaper?’ Angelica asked.

  Tricia shrugged.

  Angelica’s eyes widened and she positively grinned. “Maybe he’s trying to win you back.”

  “I hardly think so. I mean, if he was that interested, wouldn’t he call—or at least send an e-mail?”

  “He sent the jewelry snail mail?”

  Tricia nodded. “Without insurance—or even delivery confirmation.”

  “Well, that’s was just plain dumb. Have you contacted him to say thank you?”

  Tricia shook her head. “I’m not sure I should encourage him.”

  “ ‘Good manners above all,’ ” Angelica said, quoting their long-dead grandmother.

  “I know. But what’s his agenda?” Tricia asked. “He dumped me and moved two thousand miles away.”

  “You said it, guilt!” Angelica reiterated in a singsong cadence.

  “And I repeat—what am I supposed to do?”