Sentenced to Death

by Lorna Barrett

  “Uh … how much are the burgers?” Tricia asked.

  Ray pointed to a sign to her left.

  “I’ll have one with lettuce, tomato, and mayo.”

  “Ketchup?” he offered.

  “Of course.”

  “Coming right up, made to order,” Ray announced, and abandoned his polishing. He donned a pair of plastic gloves and went to work on the grill, which already had a couple of burgers waiting in the wings. “Would you like a soda with that?”

  “I’ll have a bottle of ice tea and one of those big chocolate chip cookies.” Tricia figured the more she bought, the more he might be willing to talk to her. Ray handed her the tea and cookie. She gave him a ten-dollar bill and waited as he made change.

  “I see something new has been added to your truck,” Tricia said, indicating the new graphics.

  “Yup, I’ve been bought out,” he said, but his words held pride, not shame.

  “Had you been trying to sell the business?”

  “Oh, no. I got a call from some Italian guy asking me if I’d be willing to talk. What he said made a lot of sense.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That I would do better not to compete with the diners in the village. So I upgraded. Got the grill. He was right. Burgers and dogs sell much better than sandwiches.”

  “So now you work for them?”

  “Yeah, and they’re paying me really well to do it, too.”

  “Are you on salary?” she asked.

  He nodded. “For the first time in twenty years. I’ll tell you, lady, it’s been tough these past couple of years, what with the economy and all. But now I have a five-year contract. If I decide to retire by then, well and good. Or maybe I’ll hang around for another five years. Who knows? Either way, this has been great for me.”

  Yes, it certainly had.

  The burger was done at last, and he wrapped it in paper and put it in a sack before handing it to her. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Nice talking to you,” Tricia said, and headed back down the street to Booked for Lunch. Angelica wasn’t likely to be happy, but the money she’d spent was well worth the information she’d received. Now, what was she going to do with it?

  Tricia pushed open the door café’s door to find Angelica at the counter, her manuscript pages one again spread out before her. She looked up. “There you are. I was beginning to worry. What with Ginny being robbed and all, Stoneham is turning into crime central.”

  “You got that right. But she’s okay, and Antonio authorized her to buy whatever she needs to get the store up and running again.”

  “What a guy,” Angelica said, and then focused in on the bag in one of Tricia’s hands, and the bottle of ice tea in the other. “What are you doing bringing food you purchased elsewhere into my café?” she demanded. “And for a third day in a row.”

  “I wanted to find out the dirt on Ray’s roach coach,” Tricia said, taking a seat at the counter.

  “Dirt?” Angelica said, suddenly sounding interested.

  “Ray has sold out.”

  “To whom?”

  “Who else? Nigela Racita Associates.”

  “What?” Angelica cried.

  “My sentiments exactly.” Tricia unwrapped the burger and took a bite. Not bad. She unscrewed the cap on her ice tea. “He’s got a five-year contract.”

  Angelica frowned. “Okay, let’s do a recap,” she said, and counted off her points on the fingers of her left hand. “One, this Nigela Racita outfit bought the lot two doors down from me. Two, they’ve heavily invested in the Brookside Inn. Three, they’ve taken over the Happy Domestic. And now they’ve taken over Ray’s roach coach. There can’t possibly be any other businesses on the selling block … or can there?”

  Tricia shrugged and took another bite of her burger. It was pretty tasty!

  “Since we were at the Happy Domestic with Ginny, I missed the Board of Selectmen’s meeting. Apparently Nigela Racita Associates was the talk of the town,” Angelica said. “Mary Fairchild from over at By Hook or By Book ordered lunch delivered this afternoon—so naturally I took it over. She attended the meeting and was willing to tell all. She’s worried this foreign outfit is going to take over the entire village. And she’s not the only one, either.”

  “I don’t blame her. It seems like the person behind that company is absolutely ruthless,” Tricia said, and wiped ketchup from the corner of her mouth.

  “What do you mean?” Angelica asked.

  “Swooping in to snatch up the Happy Domestic within hours of Deborah’s death. Locking out Elizabeth. Grabbing my best employee.”

  Angelica nodded thoughtfully. “That does sound pretty ruthless,” she agreed. “I hope they don’t come after me and mine—and that includes you.”

  “Haven’t Got a Clue is not for sale—at any price,” Tricia added, and took a sip of her ice tea.

  “Likewise the Cookery and Booked for Lunch,” Angelica piped up. “Still, I hear Ginny’s boyfriend looked really sharp when he unveiled the plans for the empty lot.”

  “Oh?”

  Angelica nodded. “Mary said he looked up old photos of Stoneham at the library and found there used to be a fire station here on Main Street. They’re going to build the façade to look like the old station. I guess someone asked if they were going to put the fire pole in and he said yes! Doesn’t that sound cool?”

  “What are they going to use the space for?”

  “On the bottom floor, a bar,” Angelica said and squealed with delight.

  “Here? In Stoneham?” Tricia asked, aghast.

  Angelica nodded. “And what’s wrong with that? At present, you either have to drink alone or risk a DUI arrest. And it’ll be an upscale bar, maybe serve tapas. In keeping with the whole book-town theme, it’ll be called the Dogeared Page. The plan is to keep people in the village after the bookstores close for the evening.”

  “I’m all for that—if it works.”

  “Why shouldn’t it work?” Angelica asked.

  “There’s nothing else for them to do. No theater, no movie house, and the only fine dining around here is the Brookside Inn, which isn’t exactly within walking distance. What will the other two floors be used for?”

  “Office space for Nigela Racita Associates.”

  “Will the big cheese herself show up, or will Antonio occupy it?”

  “Mary didn’t say.”

  “Did anything else happen at the meeting?” Tricia asked.

  “The Board of Selectmen have retained a lawyer from Boston at three hundred and fifty dollars an hour, anticipating a wrongful death suit from Deborah’s estate.”

  “That seems a reasonable precaution.”

  “Bob called. He’s in an absolute tizzy. And since it might be years before the estate has to make a claim, he and the village could be living with the threat hanging over them for a long time.”

  “The way David Black sold the Happy Domestic mere hours after Deborah’s death convinces me he isn’t likely to wait before he files suit.”

  Angelica sighed. “What’s with that guy juggling two women with his wife barely cold in the ground?”

  “Far from cold. Remember, he had her cremated.”

  Angelica ignored that piece of information. “You know, I’ll bet if we tried, we could squeeze more information out of Michele Fowler. Why don’t we invite her for drinks?”

  “Where?”

  “Well, if the new tapas bar was open we could invite her here, but the timeline calls for it to open next summer. We’ll have to go to Portsmouth. Have you got anything planned for this evening?”

  Tricia pushed the last of her burger aside. “No.” She frowned. “Something you said the other day has stuck with me.”

  “Darling Trish, everything I say should stick with you, but what pearls of wisdom are you referring to?”

  “When you asked if selling books was to be my only future.”

  “And now it isn’t?”

  “Not necessari
ly. But I guess when I saw myself in the future, it wasn’t alone. And yet—”

  “The pickings ain’t that good here in Stoneham,” Angelica supplied.

  “Exactly. Although … I spoke with Grant Baker this morning. He’s going to be retiring from the Sheriff’s Department at the end of December and taking a new job near here. He wants me to help him look for a house—maybe furnish it, too.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  “Maybe,” Tricia said, and drained the bottle of ice tea.

  Angelica gathered up her pages. “You don’t have to stay in Stoneham. You could close shop here and reopen in Boston or New York.”

  Tricia shook her head. “I like it here. It’s just that I would like it better if I were with someone. I mean, permanently.”

  “Well, if you don’t want to wait for Captain Baker, there’s always Internet dating,” Angelica suggested.

  Tricia glowered at her. “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested in him.”

  Angelica’s grin was positively evil. “Maybe we should talk to Antonio and suggest Nigela Ricita Associates start a dating firm.” The grin faded. “Heaven knows, I might be their first customer.”

  “Things still not right between you and Bob?”

  “How can they be? He cheated on me,” she said, the hurt evident in her voice. “I’m afraid all we can be now is friends. And how much can I trust a friend who’s already lied to me?” She exhaled sharply. “Back to Ms. Fowler. Are you interested?”

  Tricia shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Right. I’ll give her a call and set it up. What time? Eight okay for you?”

  “Fine.” Tricia got up and deposited her trash in the bin behind the counter.

  “I have a feeling that what we learn tonight is going to radically change a certain someone’s life—and not for the better,” Angelica said, with hint of smugness.

  “Do you know something you’re not telling me?” Tricia asked, giving her sister a suspicious look.

  “Who, little me?” Angelica said. “You know I always share all.” Her evil grin was back again. “Well, almost all.”

  Tricia grabbed her purse. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Tootles!” Angelica called.

  As Tricia made her way back to Haven’t Got a Clue, she thought about what Angelica had said. There was no way whatever she learned tonight would change anyone’s life. Still, a shiver ran down her neck, and she wished Angelica hadn’t decided to start making prophecies—especially negative ones.

  In Tricia’s experience, they had a tendency to come true.

  TWENTY

  “That’ll be one hundred ninety-six dollars and twenty-four cents,” Tricia said, and waited for her customer to dig into her purse to extract a credit card.

  “This is my first trip to Stoneham,” the chubby, middleaged woman exclaimed. “I’ve even booked a room at the Brookview Inn so I could spend a day or two just rummaging around all these lovely bookstores.”

  Rummage was the right word. The woman had practically examined each and every book on Haven’t Got a Clue’s shelves, refusing any help from Tricia. But she wasn’t going to sneer at a nearly two-hundred-dollar sale, either. Customers like this were few and far between. But now the question was, how was she going to get all these books to the woman’s car? Although it was near closing, Tricia hated to leave the shop unattended, even to help a customer carry books to the municipal lot. Especially when she was hoping to shut down early to get ready for her … nondate … with Angelica and Michele Fowler. Well, it was the closest she’d gotten to a night out on the town in … okay, five days. But her dinner with Grant Baker at the Brookview could hardly be classified as a date. After their frank conversation, she’d hoped he would have called. That he hadn’t …

  “Would you mind if I left these books here and picked them up tomorrow?” the woman asked.

  “Not at all,” Tricia said. Yes! Problem solved!

  “I’m going to have to rearrange the trunk of my car if I’m going to get all this stuff home, and I’m just too tired to tackle that tonight. Besides, I don’t want to miss dinner at the Brookview. I hear the chef is magnificent.”

  “I’ve eaten his food, and it’s pretty darn good.” Oh, how she missed Jake’s tuna salad!

  “I’ll just take my receipt and be back before noon tomorrow to pick up the books.”

  “They’ll be waiting for you,” Tricia said, and waved as the woman headed for the door.

  She packed the books in a heavy-duty shopping bag and stowed them behind the counter. The shop door opened and for a moment Tricia thought her customer had returned, but instead it was Boris Kozlov. While Tricia had patronized the Coffee Bean on hundreds of occasions, neither Boris nor his wife had ever been inside Tricia’s store. “This is a surprise,” Tricia said in a wary greeting.

  Boris looked around the shop before he approached the cash desk. He leaned in a little too close and lowered his voice, sounding like the villain in a cold-war flick. “I have someting for you.” He set a thin, plastic CD jewel case on the counter and pushed it toward her.

  “What’s this?” Tricia asked.

  “Someting you can use. Or at least someting your ex-employee and the new owner of the Happy Domestic can use.” Good grief. He sounded just like the cartoon character Boris Badenov.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Tricia said, trying to keep her voice neutral.

  “Is recording from video camera. I bought the equipment to film Deborah Black putting her trash in our Dumpster. I leave it on at night to see if her mother does the same ting. Last night it filmed more than trash. There’s a twenty-minute section I thought you should see. The robbery next door to me.”

  Tricia’s eyes widened. “You caught it on video?”

  “Digital. I downloaded it to DVD for you.”

  Tricia picked up the thin plastic case. It was scratched as though it had been in circulation for quite some time. “Why are you giving it to me and not the Sheriff’s Department?”

  Boris shook his head and grimaced with distaste. “I don’t like talking to the police. Bad memories from Russia.”

  “So you want me to be your go-between? They’re still going to want to talk to you.”

  “Then they can talk to Alexa. I don’t want to be involved, but I do want the dura who robbed the new owner of the Happy Domestic to go to jail—for a long, long time.”

  “You haven’t told me who robbed the place.”

  “I tink you know,” he said, and nodded. He straightened. “I go back to the shop now. Alexa can talk to the Sheriff’s Department any time they need. Good night, Tricia.”

  There was something creepy about the way he said her name. Almost like Bela Lugosi. She watched Boris slink out of the shop, grateful he wasn’t wearing a black cape and didn’t have fangs.

  Tricia eyed the shiny, unmarked DVD inside the case. She did have an idea who might have robbed the Happy Domestic—the very idea being too upsetting to contemplate. She glanced at the clock. The store was due to close in another ten minutes, and as there were no customers—why wait? She’d watch the video and then call Grant Baker and report that she had the DVD in her possession.

  Tricia set the jewel case back on the counter and headed for the door, turning the bolt and flipping the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

  The phone rang. Tricia was going to let it go to voice mail, but technically the store was still open. She picked it up on the fourth ring. “Haven’t Got a Clue. This is Tricia. How can I—”

  “Ms. Miles? This is Elaine Capshaw. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”

  “Not at all,” she fibbed. “Have you decided to take the job?” she asked hopefully.

  “What? Oh. To tell you the truth I haven’t given it a lot of thought.”

  Tricia sighed. “Then how can I help you?”

  “I don’t know who else to turn to.”

  That didn’t sound good. “What’s wrong?”

  “I got another one of tho
se phone calls a little while ago. From a woman. I still didn’t recognize the voice. She said I shouldn’t say anything about Monty to anyone—especially not the investigator from the National Transportation Safety Board.”

  “Steve Marsden,” Tricia supplied.

  “Yes. But I already have.”

  “Did you tell her that?” Tricia asked.

  “No!”

  Maybe you should have, Tricia thought with a pang of anxiety. “Did this woman threaten you?”

  “She told me to keep my mouth shut—or else. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. I haven’t got anyone, you see. And—”

  “You should call the Milford police.”

  “I didn’t want to be a bother.”

  “It’s not a bother, especially if you feel threatened.”

  “I don’t want them to think I’m some hysterical woman who’s afraid to be alone after the death of her husband,” she said, and yet Tricia could hear the fear in the older woman’s voice.

  “Would you like me to come over? I can call them for you. And I’ll stay with you so that you’ll have a friendly face around when they arrive,” she asked.

  “Oh, I’d appreciate that. Thank you. How soon can you make it?”

  Tricia glanced again at the clock and winced. Could she get there and back to meet Angelica by eight o’clock? Maybe, if she called the Milford police and excused herself soon after they arrived. “I can be there in about fifteen minutes. Will you be okay that long?”

  Elaine sniffed. “I think so. And I have Sarge here to protect me,” she said, and gave a mirthless laugh. Somewhere in the background, the tiny dog barked as though agreeing with her.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Tricia said, and hung up the phone. She grabbed her purse and, on impulse, shoved the DVD into it. She locked the door behind her, and jogged to the municipal parking lot and her car.

  The drive from Stoneham to Elaine Capshaw’s home on the outskirts of Milford took about ten minutes. Tricia parked her car at the curb, got out, and hurried up the walk to the house. Her stomach lurched when she saw the front door was open a crack.

  She looked around, saw no sign of anyone lurking nearby, and rapped on the screen door. “Mrs. Capshaw? Elaine?”