The only question was—would he answer?
TWENTY-FOUR
“He’s deliberately avoiding me,” Tricia said, and braked for a red light. “And I left messages for him at his home, his office, the Chamber of Commerce, and on his cell phone.”
“Bob can be stubborn,” Angelica admitted from the passenger’s side of Tricia’s car as she inspected the polish on her nails.
“Maybe you could call him and ask him to get back to me.”
Angelica sighed, turning her attention to the road ahead of them. “Trish, how are you going to convince Bob—or the authorities—that Deborah’s death was premeditated when you still haven’t convinced me?”
“You could be a little more supportive,” Tricia said, as the light turned green. At least traffic wasn’t heavy at this hour.
“I set up this meeting with Michele Fowler, didn’t I? That’s got to count for something.”
“It does,” Tricia grudgingly agreed.
“I think the bar is down on the left. Snag that parking space just ahead, and we’ll walk.”
Tricia did as she was told, and the sisters got out of the car. Sure enough, the bar was only a couple of doors down. “How did you know?” Tricia asked.
Angelica gave a knowing shrug. “I drove it on my computer earlier this afternoon using Google Street View. A great little program.”
They paused in front of the bar. Nemo’s Deep Sea Dive sounded like it might be a dump, but instead it was a charming little tavern around the corner from the Foxleigh Gallery. Pseudo-portholes, lit from behind, suggested the life of the submariners depicted in Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. That is, if they ate a lot of fried seafood and guzzled beer and cocktails on a regular basis. The lighting was subdued, but the ambience was welcoming, as was the painfully thin hostess with the skintight sailor suit and jaunty cap.
“We’re meeting a friend. I believe she reserved a table. The name’s Fowler,” Angelica said.
“Oh, Mich. Yeah, she’s one of our regulars,” the young woman said, and grabbed three menus from the rack alongside the lectern that served as her post. “Right this way.” With a flip of her index finger, she indicated they should follow. She led Tricia and Angelica to a table near the side of the room, away from the bar and the swinging door to the kitchen.
“Would you like to order something from the bar?” the hostess asked.
“We’ll wait for our friend,” Angelica said.
The hostess nodded and left them alone.
They didn’t have long to wait. Michele arrived like a mini tornado. She stopped to say hello to every employee, who welcomed her like an old friend. Tricia suspected that everywhere she went, laughter soon followed.
Michele caught sight of them, fingered a wave, and rushed across the room to join them. “Am I terribly late?”
“Right on time,” Angelica said.
The hostess lost no time in returning. “What can I get you ladies?”
“A glass of chardonnay,” Tricia said.
“Chardonnay,” Angelica echoed.
“Merlot,” Michele said, and set her clutch purse on the table.
The hostess gave them a nod and headed toward the bar.
“Well, I suppose you want to know all the dirt about David Black and me,” Michele said. Apparently she didn’t see the need to waste time with idle chitchat.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Tricia said.
“We’ve had sex exactly six times over the last two or three weeks. Marvelous it was, too.”
“So your relationship is a pretty recent thing?”
“Definitely, although I’ve known David for almost a year now. He approached me about showing some of his horrible bird sculptures. Well, they’re strictly for the amateur art show circuit, aren’t they? I asked him if he was doing some serious work, and he showed me sketches for his beautiful gate—which was then a work in progress.”
“How long have you had the finished piece in your gallery?” Angelica asked.
“Three weeks.”
So, they’d celebrated the grand unveiling with a roll in the hay. Not very original, but if David was getting no kudos from his wife for his artwork—or anything else, apparently—and an attractive woman was all too willing to show her appreciation in some fashion, why wouldn’t he succumb to temptation?
“Did you know David was seeing someone else?” Tricia asked.
Michele sighed. “Obviously, ours was never an exclusive relationship.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Not a bit.”
The hostess arrived with their drinks, setting them down on cocktail napkins. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you,” Angelica said with a smile that said, Go away so we can talk!
She did so.
“I understand you had a conversation with David’s wife the day she died.”
Michele sighed. “I called to invite her to see David’s work. I’m afraid she was rather rude to me.”
“Did she know you were having an affair with her husband?”
“Possibly. But my intentions were sincere. I was hoping they’d get back together again.”
“Why?” Angelica asked, incredulous.
“David’s a very confused and unhappy man. Rather than gallivanting around with an incredibly attractive, older, sexy woman, I suspect he’d prefer to be home with a wife and family. Not that he ever mentioned it to me.”
“But he had a family,” Tricia insisted.
Michele raised a dark eyebrow. “I’ve since learned it was his wife who cheated on him—and a child that was not his own. Hard to pour on the love in a situation like that.”
“And yet you called her,” Angelica said.
“Men never know what’s good for them. They may have had their differences, but at the heart of things, I believe David really did love his wife.”
“And yet he was seeing you and Brandy Arkin.”
“Yes, what about this other woman? Is she good breeding stock?” Michele asked with a quirky smile. “Because I suspect more than anything what David wants and needs is a new family.”
“We don’t know that much about her,” Angelica said, “although until recently she owned a day care center. Sounds like that should make her the nurturing type.”
Michele quirked an eyebrow. “Maybe. David has big plans for his future.”
“Like opening a studio,” Tricia stated.
“Yes. I’ve seen it. It’s brilliant. And he intends to hire others to do welding jobs while he works on his sculptures. It’s a sound business plan. Mark my words, the man is destined for greatness.”
“And Deborah is dead,” Tricia said sadly.
“Everybody dies, eventually,” Michele said without judgment. “Let’s hope none of us goes before our time.” She raised her glass. Angelica did likewise. Tricia was slow to do so, but in the end, she did, too.
“Life is a journey,” Michele said. “At this point in my life I’ve been called a cougar by some of the women I used to hang with, and they’re right. But for the past five years I’ve had the time of my life, with a lot more action than I saw when I was in my so-called prime, if you know what I mean.”
Angelica smirked, but Tricia only felt bewildered. She’d been cast in the good-girl role for so long, she wasn’t sure she could break the mold—or even if she wanted to. And yet, on some level, she was extremely unhappy with her life. She missed loving somebody—and being loved in return.
“You girls are such fun. Something that’s been distinctly lacking in my life of late.” Michele took a swig of her drink and exhaled loudly. “There hasn’t been much of an economic recovery when it comes to the arts.” She stared at the lipstick staining the rim of her glass. “I’ll probably have to shut the gallery and declare bankruptcy before the end of the year.”
“Oh dear. What will you do?” Angelica asked.
“I’ll probably go back to managing a restaurant. I’ve done it be
fore. Right here, as a matter of fact.” So that’s why she’d greeted the staff with such enthusiasm. “The hours are hell and the pay stinks, but it’s a living. That is, if I can find a job. A lot of restaurants and bars have gone under.”
“A woman like you? You’ll find something,” Angelica said confidently.
“Keep your ears open. If you hear something, give me a call.” She stood. “Sorry, girls, but I’ve got a business appointment with one of my artists.” She waggled her eyebrows and grinned. “Thanks for the drink, and please do call me again, will you?”
“You bet,” Angelica said.
Tricia gave a self-conscious wave and turned her attention back to her dwindling glass of wine.
Angelica leaned back in her chair and sighed. “When I grow up, I want to be Michele Fowler.”
“Oh, please. She can’t be more than five years older than you.”
“And she’s having a lot more fun, too.”
Tricia frowned. “I’m surprised at you, Ange. You’ve been the wronged woman four times now, and yet you’ve taken to Michele, who thinks nothing of sleeping with other women’s husbands.”
“At least she’s honest about it. To her it’s just sex. She’s not interested in a relationship.”
“That makes a difference?”
“It shouldn’t … but I guess it does.” Angelica polished off the last of her wine.
Tricia did likewise. “It’s too bad she’s losing her job,” Tricia said, and examined her empty glass, wishing there was just one more sip.
“She’ll land on her feet. People like her usually do.” Angelica rummaged through her purse, and then threw a few dollar bills on the table. “We’d better go.”
The outside air was damp and brisk, with a hint of autumn yet to come. Tricia led the way to the car. “That was a waste of time.”
“Oh, I don’t know. We did find out a few things we didn’t know before.”
“The fact David wants a little wife at home and a family? I’m still angry at him for throwing it all away.”
“It sounds like Deborah cheated first.”
“And that sounds like you’re blaming the victim,” Tricia said.
“Deborah was a victim of the plane crash, not of a failed marriage. It seems as if she was just as much—if not more—to blame than David. And why are you so upset? Because Deborah wasn’t the paragon of virtue you thought she was?”
Tricia sighed. “I’m afraid you’re right, there. The woman I’ve been hearing about for the past seven days bears no resemblance to the woman I thought I knew—from stealing Dumpster space, to having a child that wasn’t her husband’s. I can’t help but feel there might be other secrets Deborah was hiding, and that we’ll never know who she really was.”
“Deborah’s gone. It’s time you let go of her.”
“To move on like she was never here?” Tricia asked.
“The real Deborah never revealed herself to you.”
“Which makes me question every friendship I’ve ever had.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But you do seem to trust people too easily.”
Tricia frowned. “So far, I haven’t done too bad.”
They reached the car, Tricia pressed the button on her key fob, and the doors unlocked. How come these conversations with Angelica always left her feeling depressed and dissatisfied with her life? It wasn’t as though Angelica had a completely blissful life, either. With four failed marriages behind her, she was no authority on happiness. And yet, despite all the grief that had come her way, Angelica seemed to rise above the discontent and sail through it, whereas Tricia seemed to dwell on the misfortunes that hit her. Angelica wanted to be more like Michele, but Tricia wished she could be more like Angelica. And maybe … just maybe … she always had.
All the way back to Stoneham, Angelica gabbed about her favorite subject: herself. This time, she went on and on about her plans for her next cookbook launch and the self-promotion book tour she would undertake. That would mean that Tricia would have to keep an eye out for the Cookery and Booked for Lunch once again—which was not something she wanted to do. She didn’t voice that opinion. Angelica wouldn’t listen to her protests, anyway.
As she approached the municipal parking lot, Tricia saw flashing lights and noticed a Sheriff’s Department patrol car parked at the north end of the alley that ran behind the Main Street stores on the west side. “Uh-oh. You don’t suppose there’s more trouble at the Happy Domestic, do you?” she asked, and pulled into the lot.
“There can’t be,” Angelica said. But the women hurriedly left the car and jogged across the street, circling behind the Stoneham Weekly News to end up in the mouth of the alley. The patrol car was empty and they bypassed it, heading down the eerily lit alley, their shadows bouncing against the brick walls, thanks to the patrol car’s flashing blue lights.
“What do you think is going on?” Angelica asked.
“Hey, you ladies shouldn’t be here,” one of the deputies said. Henderson, if Tricia remembered right. Sure enough, a hooded figure was bent over the trunk of a car that looked a lot like the one in Boris Kozlov’s surveillance video. Tricia watched as Captain Baker himself slapped handcuffs around the suspect’s right wrist and then grabbed the suspect’s left hand and cuffed it, too. He grabbed the person by the arm and hauled her (him?) forward. It was then Tricia recognized the suspect.
“Good grief, it’s Cheryl Griffin!” Tricia cried, trying to keep up as Baker hustled Cheryl down the alley. “I thought you didn’t have a car!”
“I borrowed it from my cousin,” Cheryl called over her shoulder.
“There must be some mistake,” Angelica said, following in Tricia’s wake. “Why would Cheryl want to rob the Happy Domestic?”
“We caught her red-handed,” Baker said. “And what are you doing here?”
Tricia hurried around them, causing Baker to halt. “We saw the lights on the patrol car.” Tricia turned her attention back to Cheryl. “What happened? Why on earth would you want to rob the Happy Domestic?”
“Elizabeth Crane fired me and refused to pay me my last week’s pay. I figured I’d take what she owed me in merchandise.”
“But Elizabeth doesn’t own the Happy Domestic. It’s under new management,” Tricia insisted.
“Like I care.”
“You had a clean record. Why would you ruin your reputation, risk going to jail, for such a paltry sum?” Tricia asked.
“Maybe a week’s pay means nothing to you, but I’m facing eviction. I have nowhere to go—no one to bail me out of my financial jam.”
“But, Cheryl,” Tricia protested.
“Don’t you get it? I want them to send me to jail. I hope I get two, maybe three years. Let the state take care of me. At least I’d have a roof over my head and three square meals a day. Maybe I could even learn a trade so that when I got out I could find a good job.”
And no one willing to hire you, Tricia thought. Well, perhaps Angelica. She had hired an ex-con, and that job had led to bigger and better things for Jake Masters. But it was more likely that Cheryl would get community service and an order to make restitution. That might drive her to commit even more—and more serious—crimes.
Baker shook his head and shoved Cheryl toward the waiting Sheriff’s Department cruiser and placed a hand on her head as he guided her into the backseat of the car.
“Do you think you can recover the stolen items?” Angelica asked.
“If we can get her to tell us where they are. My guess is, she’s already sold them.”
“What if she put the items on eBay?” Tricia asked.
“I can ask one of the guys to check it out.”
Tricia was about to tell him she’d bought a suspect figurine but decided not to. At this point, she had no clue who the seller was. She’d have to wait a couple of days until the figurine her friend Nancy had bought arrived in the mail. Then she’d know for sure if it was evidence the Sheriff’s Department could use. It could wait.
“How did you come to arrest Cheryl?” Angelica asked.
Baker looked at his prisoner in the car. “We got a tip that someone was trying to break into the Happy Domestic. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find that Ms. Griffin made the call herself.”
“She’s not likely to go to jail for a first offense, is she?” Tricia asked.
“It’s possible—if she has a really crummy lawyer and if she gets a vindictive judge. More likely she’ll be asked to do community service and make restitution.” Just as Tricia had thought. He opened the driver’s door. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said to Tricia, removed his hat, and climbed inside the cruiser.
Tricia bent down to speak to Cheryl through Baker’s open window. “Cheryl, Grace Harris-Everett of the Everett Charitable Foundation has been looking for you.”
“I don’t want charity!” Cheryl declared.
“She may have a job for you at the Stoneham Clothes Closet.”
Cheryl looked ready to cry. “Now you tell me!”
“Have Mrs. Everett call the county lockup. Maybe there’s something she can do for Miss Griffin,” Baker said, and put the cruiser in gear.
Tricia stepped back, and she and Angelica watched as Baker backed the patrol car into the street.
“So much for the great Stoneham robbery,” Angelica said with a shrug.
Tricia shook her head. “Poor Cheryl just hasn’t got a clue.”
“Great name for a mystery bookstore,” Angelica quipped.
“Very funny.”
“It looks like this puts your little investigation right back at square one,” Angelica said, and started walking again.
“I wasn’t investigating anything. I’m just curious about the goings-on here in Stoneham.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” Angelica reminded her. “Come on back to my place and I’ll fix you something to eat. Preferably made of leftover turkey.”
That wasn’t exactly what Tricia was in the mood for, but the pickings were even slimmer in her own refrigerator.
She followed Angelica to her loft apartment and settled down at the big kitchen table. She wondered if Miss Marple was sleeping or missing her. If the latter, she knew she would get a stern scolding when she returned home. Angelica’s home seemed so … empty without a cat. But it was useless to even bring up the subject of adding a feline friend to the mix. And honestly, Angelica was far too busy to take care of a pet.
Sentenced to Death Page 24