Sentenced to Death

by Lorna Barrett

  Unlike the last time she’d arrived at the Capshaw home, there was no barking from within. “Elaine?” she yelled louder.

  Still no answer.

  “Sarge! Sarge!” she called. No sign of the dog, either. Elaine’s car was still parked in the driveway, so unless she’d left in a hurry, she had to still be inside the house. Gripped with indecision, Tricia considered her options. Should she charge inside like the heroine in a bad mystery—and risk running into whoever had spooked Elaine—or call for backup and feel foolish if the woman had simply fled to one of the neighbor’s homes to look for comfort?

  Tricia deliberated for a full ten seconds before she turned away from the door and walked down the steps. She pulled out her phone and punched in 9-1-1. Within seconds a male voice answered: “Hillsborough County 9-1-1 Emergency. Please state your name and the nature of your emergency.”

  “Tricia Miles. I want to report a breakin.” As she gave them the rest of the particulars, Tricia walked around the house, trying to peek in the windows, but as when she visited the first time, all the drapes had been drawn. She couldn’t see a thing inside.

  As she rounded the corner of the house, a Milford police cruiser pulled up to the curb. A young officer got out of the car, and seemed in no hurry. Tricia reported his arrival to the dispatcher and folded her phone.

  “You called the police?” the officer asked. He wore his sandy-colored hair in a brush cut, looking like he’d stepped right out of the police academy—or boot camp.

  Tricia nodded. “Mrs. Capshaw called me not more than fifteen minutes ago and asked me to come over. She’d received a threatening phone call. I saw the door was open and figured I’d better call the police.”

  “Did you go inside?”

  She shook her head.

  The officer nodded. “You stay here.” He strode up to the front door, knocked, called inside, and then entered.

  Tricia bit her lip as she waited. It seemed a long time before the pale, grim-faced officer came out of the house, holding a handheld radio, probably talking to his superiors or dispatcher. Another patrol car raced down the street, lights flashing but no siren, and came to a screeching halt at the curb. The officer jumped out the car and ran for the house. Both officers went back inside, and Tricia’s stomach knotted as she feared the worst.

  Before long, several more patrol cars and a fire rescue squad had arrived. Everyone along the chain of command took their shot at her and asked again and again why she was there, why she had called 9-1-1, and finally, confirmed that a woman inside the home was indeed dead. By then Tricia was so upset, it was all she could do to keep from crying. She had liked Elaine and hoped they could work together and become friends.

  An older man in uniform approached her. “Ma’am? I’m Chief Aaron Strauss of the Milford Police Department. I’m sorry to have to ask, but we’d like you to come inside and make an identification. Do you think you could do that?”

  It was the last thing Tricia wanted to do, but she found herself nodding and let him take her arm, guiding her up the steps and into the house.

  Despite the fact that every light in the living room had been turned on, an aura of gloom penetrated each corner of the room. Tricia’s nose twitched at the coppery tang of blood that filled the air.

  “It’s pretty gruesome,” the burly police chief warned, as Tricia approached the prone figure that lay on the floor between the faded couch and the Formica coffee table.

  Tricia steeled herself. She’d seen plenty of grisly corpses on television dramas—but they were actors—or dummies—with makeup and colored Karo syrup simulating injuries, not the real thing. She moved her gaze up the length of Elaine’s body. She held something in her hand—but Tricia couldn’t exactly see what it was. She dared look at the bloody mess that had been the back of Elaine Capshaw’s head, gasped, and quickly turned away.

  “That’s her,” she managed, and took a couple of gasping breaths to regain her control.

  “Would you like to sit down, ma’am?” the officer with the brush cut asked.

  “I’m okay,” Tricia lied, and focused her attention on the framed print of a pot of red geraniums that hung on the opposite wall. “Chief Strauss, I think you ought to know that Mrs. Capshaw’s husband died in the plane that crashed in the Stoneham Square on Thursday. The National Transportation Safety Board is looking into it, but there’s a possibility her death is related to his.”

  The police chief scowled. “I doubt it.”

  Tricia bristled at this superior tone.

  “What happened to her dog?” she asked the young officer standing next to the chief.

  “He’s hurt pretty bad, ma’am,” the officer—Malcolm, by his name tag—said. “Whoever killed the lady of the house probably kicked the little dog like a football. Looks like traces of blood around his mouth. He may have bitten the attacker. We’ll have the lab team take a swab.”

  “What will happen to him?” Tricia asked

  “I’ll see if one of the guys can take it to the vet,” the chief said. “I’ll also have one of my men check the hospitals for dog bite reports. But my guess is they’ll have to put the dog down.” He shook his head and turned away.

  Tricia’s hand flew to her throat—and instinctively she grabbed the locket’s chain and thought of the picture of Miss Marple within it. “I’d hate for that to happen. Would it be okay if I took him to the vet?” she asked Officer Malcolm.

  The officer eyed the chief, who hadn’t seemed that interested. “I’ll ask the sarge. He’s a soft touch—has a whole menagerie at home.”

  Tricia shook her head at the irony. “That’s the dog’s name—Sarge.”

  The officer nodded. “The chief may have more questions for you later. Would you like to wait in the kitchen?”

  Again she shook her head. “I’ll wait outside, if that’s okay.” At his nod of approval, she exited the house, grateful to inhale the cool, crisp evening air.

  Dusk had fallen by the time one of the firemen came out of the house with what looked like a bundle of towels. “Ma’am, one of the officers said you were willing to take the victim’s dog to a vet?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll put him in your car. I don’t think you should touch him.”

  “Will he bite?” Tricia asked.

  He shook his head. “I’ve tied a makeshift muzzle around his jaws. When you get to the vet, let them come get him. They’ll know best how to handle him so he isn’t hurt further.”

  They walked toward Tricia’s car and she opened the door to the backseat. With care, the fireman settled the dog, who whimpered softly. Sarge turned his sad brown eyes on Tricia. He seemed to be pleading, Help me!

  The fireman handed Tricia a scrap of paper with an address on it. “I called the vet. They’ll be waiting for you.” He looked down at the dog and frowned. “Poor little guy. I hope he makes it.” The fireman gave Tricia a weak smile and a parting nod and went back inside to join his comrades.

  Chief Strauss approached Tricia once again. “Ma’am, where can we reach you if we have any further questions?”

  Tricia opened her car door and retrieved her purse, extracting one of her business cards. She wrote her home and cell numbers on the back before handing it to him.

  Strauss touched the bill of his cap in farewell and walked back to the house.

  Tricia got in her car and started the engine. Before she put the car in gear, she glanced at the address on the slip of paper the fireman had given her. It was the same place she took Miss Marple for her annual shots, not far from the strip mall that housed the diner and jeweler she’d visited just days before. She turned to look at the little dog. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be panting very fast. “I’ll get you some help, Sarge. I promise.”

  She started the car and pulled away from the curb, hoping she could keep her word.

  TWENTY-ONE

  It was long past eight o’clock when Tricia finally made it back to Stoneham, and she was ravenous. But as she
hadn’t done any shopping, there was still nothing of substance in her fridge, and the thought of yogurt or toast wasn’t at all appetizing—not after what she’d been through that evening. Worse, she hadn’t phoned Angelica to tell her she couldn’t make their rendezvous with Michele Fowler. Oddly enough, Angelica hadn’t called her, either.

  Tricia pulled into the municipal parking lot, cut the engine, and pulled out her cell phone. Angelica answered on the first ring. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important. Are you alone?”

  “Absolutely!” Angelica said with chagrin.

  “Then can I come over and mooch something to eat?”

  “Sure. What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there. See you in a minute.”

  It took two minutes by the time Tricia let herself into the Cookery and made her way up the stairs to Angelica’s loft apartment. Angelica met her at the door. “Is it a hot cocoa, wine, or something-stronger kind of funk you’re in?”

  “Wine sounds good.”

  “I just happen to have a couple of bottles. Red or white? Although it rather depends on what leftover you choose as your entrée. Come on in.”

  Tricia followed her sister down the corridor to the loft’s kitchen that overlooked Main Street. Angelica hadn’t bothered to draw the blinds, and the gas lights down below glowed, attracting an assortment of insects that buzzed around them.

  Angelica opened the door to the fridge to survey its contents. “I’ve got tons of food—all recipes I’ve tested for the new cookbook.”

  “Good grief, is that an entire roast turkey in there?” Tricia asked in disbelief, peering over her sister’s shoulder.

  “What’s left of one. I told you, I’m working on Easy-Does-It Holidays. My editor wants me to include a section on how to make use of Thanksgiving leftovers. Of course, I don’t have any cranberry sauce, but if you don’t mind it sliced cold, I could whip up a salad and some veggies or make you a turkey salad sandwich. Or would you rather have turkey tetrazzini or turkey curry?”

  “How hot is the curry?” Tricia asked.

  “Hot enough to curl your hair. And I’ll zap a papadum in the microwave for you, too.”

  “I’ll go for it. Now pour me a glass of white wine and I’ll tell you a tale that might curl your hair, too.”

  “Oh, this sounds interesting,” Angelica said, and snagged a couple of glasses from the cupboard and the wine from the fridge. She poured.

  “I got a phone call from Elaine Capshaw just as I was about to close the store.”

  “And?” Angelica dutifully prompted.

  “She’d received another threatening call. I tried to convince her to call the police, but she asked me to come over to be with her when she did. It couldn’t have been fifteen minutes from the time I left until—”

  “Let me guess—you got there and she was gone,” Angelica said, taking a plastic-wrap-covered bowl from the fridge.

  “No, she was dead.”

  Angelica scowled, and with hands on hips demanded, “Don’t tell me you found her?”

  “Almost. Whoever called her made good on their threat before I could get there. She’d been bludgeoned to death.”

  Angelica winced as she transferred the curry to a saucepan.

  “Her poor little dog suffered a similar fate,” Tricia said.

  Angelica’s head snapped up. “Someone killed her dog?” she cried in anguish.

  Tricia shook her head. “No, but it’s badly injured. I ended up taking the little guy to the local vet—that’s where I’ve been for the past two hours. He’s already cost me half a grand, and it looks like I’m responsible for him, unless a relative or one of Elaine’s neighbors claims him. If that doesn’t happen, I suppose I’ll call the Humane Society or maybe a dog rescue service to find him a home. If he recovers.”

  “Oh, no!” Angelica cried, distressed.

  Tricia nodded. “According to the vet, Sarge’s lungs were bruised. He must’ve been kicked into a wall or some other solid object.”

  “Bruising is better than busted ribs,” Angelica said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

  “Maybe, maybe not. There’s a danger his lungs could fill with fluid, and then he’d probably—” Tricia stopped before saying the D word. Angelica had once had a poodle she’d loved. She’d said she’d never recovered from losing her little Pom-Pom. Hearing about Sarge’s injuries might be too painful for her.

  Angelica’s bottom lip trembled, and she looked close to tears. “That poor, poor puppy.”

  Tricia frowned. “I’ve met him three times now, and he seems like a wonderful little dog. I wonder if Grace and Mr. Everett would like a pet—if he makes it, that is.”

  Angelica sighed. “They’d be good doggy parents,” she agreed.

  Tricia nodded. “I’ll ask Mr. Everett in the morning.”

  “So what do you think happened to Elaine? It had to be a friend—or someone she knew, right? Why else would a frightened woman open the door?”

  “That’s what I figured—and so did the Milford cops. But she told me when we met on Saturday that she had no one to depend on and said it again tonight when she phoned me. I’m sure that’s why she called me to come be with her.”

  “You were lucky the killer was already gone. Or should I say, smart not to barge in on a crime scene. Did you actually see the body?”

  Tricia winced. “Yes. The police asked me to identify her.”

  “Was she in worse shape than Kimberly Peters?”

  Kimberly, the niece of the late New York Times bestselling author Zoë Carter, had been hit in the mouth with a baby sledgehammer. It had been Tricia who’d found her. She’d survived the attack, although she’d required extensive dental reconstruction.

  Tricia shook her head. “That was worse. Still, identifying a body is not my favorite pastime.”

  “Here, you stir this, and I’ll get that papadum going,” Angelica said.

  Tricia did as she was told, taking over at the stove, and watched as Angelica opened the cupboard and took a flat disc of what looked like yellow plastic from a cellophane bag. She squirted it with cooking spray, placed it in the microwave, and punched in twenty-two seconds. Tricia never tired of seeing a papadum transform from something flat and dull into a tasty, bumpy flatbread.

  “You know, Elaine had something in her hand. I didn’t really see it. But it looked like a knickknack or something.”

  “Why would she be holding a knickknack when someone was trying to kill her?”

  Tricia shrugged. “She’d turned her back on this person. You wouldn’t do that if you were afraid.”

  “So you think it was someone she knew?”

  “It had to be.”

  Angelica grabbed a plate, a fork, and a serving spoon, and thrust them at Tricia. “Take as much as you want.”

  Tricia spooned the curry onto her plate while Angelica placed the finished papadum on another plate at the spot where Tricia usually sat. Tricia took her seat while Angelica refilled their glasses.

  “How was your day?” Tricia asked, and plunged her fork into the curry, wishing it sat on a bed of Basmati rice.

  “Oh, the usual. In fact, more boring than usual. I feel like I’m awash in paperwork. Anything else happen to you today?”

  Tricia tasted the curry and gasped. Angelica hadn’t been kidding when she’d said it was hot. “Wow. Is this the recipe you’re using in your book?”

  “Of course not. I make it triple strength for myself. Americans are such wimps when it comes to adding spices.”

  Tricia grabbed her wine and took a healthy swig. Ahh—relief! “I take it you’ve never been to the Southwest.”

  “Of course I have. There are always exceptions to the rule.”

  Tricia took another mouthful of curry, and while volcanic, it did not displease her, but again she wished for rice. She bit into the papadum, which promptly shattered, sending shards across her place mat. It, too, was wonderful.

  As she swallowed, she remember
ed her visit from Boris Kozlov. “Good grief! I almost forgot.” She jumped up from her chair and grabbed her purse from the counter. Rummaging through it, she came up with the DVD Boris had given her hours before.

  “What is that?” Angelica asked, swirling the wine in her glass.

  “Video from the Coffee Bean’s surveillance camera. Boris Kozlov set it up to catch Deborah tossing her garbage in his Dumpster. He told me it shows who robbed the Happy Domestic last night.”

  Angelica’s eyes snapped wide open. She got up and grabbed the jewel box from Tricia’s hand. “Let’s watch it.” Without waiting for an answer, Angelica headed for the living room and the DVD player.

  Tricia tossed what was left of her papadum onto her plate and followed.

  Angelica had the remote in her hand and the DVD drawer was already open by the time Tricia placed her dish on the coffee table and made herself comfortable on the leather couch. Angelica took the wing chair to her left, aimed the remote, and the drawer slid shut. The TV’s blank screen flashed gray and the alley behind the Coffee Bean came into view. Nothing happened for what seemed an eon. Tricia dug back into her curry.

  “I think Boris is playing a joke on you,” Angelica said after a couple of minutes went by with no action on the tube.

  “Give it a chance,” Tricia said, scraping the bottom of her plate. As she swallowed the last mouthful, a car pulled into the frame.

  “Okay,” Angelica said with relish. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” But when the figure emerged from the car, its head was covered by the hood of a sweatshirt. “Damn!”

  “Indeed,” Tricia agreed.

  The person walked out of camera range. Tricia picked up her wineglass and sat back. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Tricia wished the burglar would hurry up and make a reappearance. After all, how long did it take to trash a small book and gift shop?

  “This is pretty boring,” Angelica said, and got up from her chair, heading for the kitchen. “Do you want a refill?”

  “ ‘I wouldn’t say no,’ ” Tricia said, quoting a line from one of John Mortimer’s Rumpole stories. It went right over Angelica’s head.

  Angelica returned to the living room with the wine bottle, topped up Tricia’s glass, and made herself comfortable once again, before the hoody-clad figure returned to the TV screen, encumbered by a large carton.