Sentenced to Death bm-5

by Lorna Barrett

  Tricia sat once again. She leaned forward and looked him straight in the eye. “Monty Capshaw had cancer. His wife was surprised that he hadn’t had his license lifted for health reasons, especially since his medication left him forgetful.”

  “Forgetful enough not to fill his gas tank?” Russ asked.

  “That’s something for you to find out.”

  “And what if he was flying with a suspended license?”

  “The ramifications from that ought to be obvious.” Even to you, she felt like adding, but refrained.

  Russ nodded. “If I were Bob Kelly, I’d be pretty damned worried. What else have you got?”

  “How soon do you think you can find out about Capshaw’s license?”

  “I might have something tomorrow. I’ll let you know. Maybe we could get together for lunch or dinner and discuss it.”

  “Why don’t you just call me, and we’ll go from there.”

  Russ sighed. “All right. Whatever I find out, I’ll share with you. Deal?” He held out his hand.

  Reluctant as she was to shake on it, Tricia accepted his hand. As expected, he didn’t want to let go. She had to yank her hand free and glared at him.

  “Rumor has it that David Black intends to sue anyone he thinks he can get a nickel out of,” Tricia said.

  “Which sounds reasonable under the circumstances.”

  “Frannie Armstrong lives a few houses from the Blacks. She says they fought almost every night.”

  “About?”

  “Money, for one. It seems that Deborah’s life was heavily insured and David is her only beneficiary,” she bluffed, since she hadn’t yet had time to ask Elizabeth about it.

  “That’s not unusual.”

  “But even more telling—David was seen on Friday evening at the Brookview Inn with the same woman he brought to the funeral parlor. They were drinking champagne, no doubt celebrating the sale of Deborah’s store.”

  “Yeah, I heard Ginny’s going to manage it,” Russ said as he sorted through the magazines and papers on the coffee table, coming up with a steno pad and pen. “What’s the woman’s name?”

  “Michele Fowler. She owns the Foxleigh Gallery in Portsmouth. David is exhibiting some of his metal sculptures there.”

  “How does all this relate to the pilot who was killed?”

  “Monty Capshaw had been sick for a long time. He was heavily in debt. What reasonable man would want to leave his wife in that situation? He flew that plane in circles around the village until he ran out of gas. Why didn’t he steer for the Half Moon Nudist Camp? It’s not far from the village and he could have landed safely instead of destroying a village landmark and killing himself and Deborah—as well as putting scores of other people at risk.”

  “Are you saying he committed suicide for an insurance payout?”

  “It may have been the only way he could be sure his wife was financially secure.”

  Russ shook his head. “I still don’t get what this has to do with Deborah’s death.”

  “Double jeopardy. Someone could also have paid him to crash the plane. Someone who knew Deborah would be at that place and that time.”

  “Her husband?” Russ shook his head. “Sounds pretty farfetched to me. And even if it was true, how could you prove it?”

  Tricia bit her lip and frowned. She didn’t have a clue.

  The status of Monty Capshaw’s pilot’s license wasn’t the only thing on Tricia’s mind. The fact that the name Nigela Racita Associates kept popping up in Stoneham was beginning to grate on her. Why was this particular firm so focused on this one little village in New Hampshire? Did they have other holdings, and if so, where were they?

  Tricia settled at the desk in her living room and powered up her laptop. Miss Marple jumped onto her lap and head butted her chin. “Now now, Miss Marple,” Tricia scolded, and gently set the cat down on the floor. Miss Marple circled the chair and jumped up from the opposite side, landing on Tricia’s lap with a very pleased “Brrrp!”

  Tricia reached around the cat to type a URL into her browser. Seconds later, the Google home page appeared. She typed in the words Nigela Racita Associates and hit enter. The last time she’d Googled the firm, only one entry, for its Website, appeared. This time, however, the entire screen was filled with entries, most of them either press releases or links to articles in the Web version of the Nashua Telegraph.

  Miss Marple butted Tricia’s hand, knocking it away from her wireless mouse. She disliked using the laptop’s built-in mouse pad, preferring something with a little more heft. Miss Marple saw it as a toy and more than once had batted it off the desk and onto the floor. “Don’t be naughty,” Tricia admonished, but Miss Marple continued to nudge her hand with her cool, damp nose.

  Despite the cat’s persistence, Tricia clicked the top link and the NRA Website popped up on her screen. Like the acronym for the National Recovery Act, Nigela Racita Associates had cribbed a version of the winged motif as its logo. The site still boasted only a few pages and had no information on its owner or its local rep, Antonio Barbero, and clicking the contact us link only brought up a blank e-mail form addressed to contact@NRAssociatesNH.com.

  Tricia clicked on the Current Projects page. It, too, had been updated, to include the Brookview Inn and its renovation, with a picture and a link to that dedicated Website. Of course, it was too early for the company to list the Happy Domestic among its assets, and nothing was posted except the address of the empty lot where History Repeats Itself had once stood.

  She closed the page, frustrated. There must be other sources of information she could tap. But if the company was privately held, it had no obligation to the public to make any kind of disclosures.

  Tricia clicked on each of the rest of the links and read through the news reports but found nothing new or of particular interest. Talking to Antonio had not been productive in the past. Could he have confided company chitchat to Ginny? If so, was there a possibility she might be willing to discuss it? Tricia vowed to ask Ginny the next morning.

  It was getting late. Tricia shut down her computer, lifted the cat from her lap, and placed her on the floor. Miss Marple let out a disgruntled “Yow!” but Tricia rose from her chair before the cat could jump on her again.

  “Time for bed,” Tricia said, and Miss Marple trotted off toward the bedroom. Five minutes later, an exhausted Tricia climbed between the cool sheets on her bed and turned off the light. She didn’t feel like reading and lay in the dark staring at the ceiling.

  It bothered her that everyone dismissed her belief that Deborah had been murdered. The stars just didn’t align to bring one person—David Black—that kind of good fortune. Not unless they had help. He was taking a little too much pleasure from his so-called loss, and no one but Tricia seemed the least bit suspicious.

  Twelve

  Tricia wasn’t the only one up early the next morning. When she went down to the shop to retrieve her morning paper, she saw Elizabeth Crane, with little Davey straddling her hip, unlocking the door to the Happy Domestic.

  The Coffee Bean was already open, so she grabbed a ten from the cash drawer, locked the store, and headed across the street. A couple of minutes later, she took the two cups of coffee she’d purchased and knocked on the door to the Happy Domestic. “We’re closed,” Elizabeth called out, her voice muffled.

  “It’s Tricia. I brought you some coffee.” She had to yell three times before Elizabeth came out of the back of the store, saw her, and hurried to open the door. “Goodness, you’re up early,” she chided, and took the offered cup. “I think I have some cookies in the back. They might not be at their best—”

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” Tricia said. Once again, Tricia saw Davey behind the childproof gate, already playing with some wooden blocks—or rather, hurling them against the wall, each of them leaving a dent. Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice. She pulled a stool out from behind the counter and sat on it, leaving Tricia to stand.

  “Have you heard anything from
the investigators?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t expect to. But I don’t like the rumors going around town about David and that Fowler woman.”

  “I went to her gallery last evening to see David’s sculpture.”

  “Junk—all of it,” she said, bitterly.

  “I haven’t seen his yard sculptures, but the piece I saw there was truly magnificent.”

  Elizabeth scowled and took another sip of coffee. She looked around the tidy shop with its cheerful merchandise and the lovely displays. “David can’t wait to unload this place. I should have bought into the business when I had the chance—right when Deborah started it. Later, when she was in a tight financial spot, she couldn’t let me. She didn’t want to be responsible for me losing my nest egg should the business—fold. And now David’s selling it right out from under me,” she said bitterly. “It’s like he wants to erase all trace of Deborah.”

  Tricia had to bite her tongue not to spill her suspicions about David. Now isn’t the time, she reminded herself.

  “And worst of all—I’ve heard the new owners have hired your Ginny to be the manager. She’s younger than Deborah was. How can I take orders from her when I know the shop and its stock better than she ever will?”

  “Please don’t blame Ginny for any of this. She was offered the job and it was in her best interests to take it. I’ve worked with her for two and a half years. She’s good. And she’ll do right by Deborah’s store.”

  “I know. It’s just”—Elizabeth grabbed a tissue from a box under the counter and pressed it to her leaking eyes—“it’s all happened so fast. Four days ago, Deborah and I were making lists for our holiday orders. Now she’s dead, and the store has been sold, and I’ll be relegated to part-time assistant. That is until the new owners decide I’m excess baggage and get rid of me altogether.”

  Tricia didn’t know what to say, how to comfort the woman. She looked away, taking in the tall spindle card rack. It was turned so that the sympathy cards faced her. She’d been so busy she hadn’t thought to send Elizabeth—or David—a sympathy card. And would it be in bad taste to buy one from Deborah’s own store?

  Elizabeth took a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry to dump all this on you, Tricia. I simply don’t have anyone else to talk to about it.”

  “What about your other children?”

  “They say I should walk away from the store—let David do what he wants to do and not make a fuss. They’re afraid if I make waves he’ll keep me from seeing Davey—and none of us want that.”

  “Do you think David would actually be that cruel?” Tricia asked.

  Elizabeth sighed. “I don’t know what to think. I’ve already lost Deborah. I don’t want to end up without Davey in my life, too.”

  “But you’ve had Davey since—” She bit her tongue to keep from reminding Elizabeth about Deborah’s death. “Since Thursday, right? Hasn’t he spent any time with his father?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “But that doesn’t mean David might change his mind in an instant and take him away from me.”

  “Shouldn’t he be with his father?” Tricia asked.

  “David never wanted children,” Elizabeth spat.

  That wasn’t what Deborah had said. Earlier in the summer, she’d told Tricia that David wanted more children and that she was the one who wasn’t prepared to have another child. Had she shared that information with her own mother?

  “Please don’t tell Ginny my real feelings about her taking over the store,” Elizabeth said.

  “I won’t,” Tricia promised, but Ginny was perceptive. She’d know exactly how Elizabeth felt. Still, managing a staff—or in this case one part-time person—was what Ginny needed to learn if she was either going to climb the Nigela Racita Associates corporate ladder—or own her own store one day.

  Elizabeth drained her cup and stood, which seemed like a not-so-subtle hint that it was time for Tricia to leave.

  She took it. “I’d better be off. It’s sure to be a busy day.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said, and tossed her cup into the trash. “I have a lot to accomplish before David yanks the store out from under me. I’d better get to it. I’m sure I’ll see you around, Tricia.”

  Tricia forced a smile at the dismissal and headed for the door.

  She had liked Elizabeth’s daughter much better than she liked Elizabeth.

  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 fr
om 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.”