Sentenced to Death bm-5

by Lorna Barrett

  Tricia poked around the room, opening the armoire that hid the bulky old analog TV, with its dusty screen. Since it was hooked up to cable, it probably still functioned fine. A couple of pieces of stereo equipment also lived inside along with a stack of children’s CDs and DVDs, which had probably been used to entertain the day care’s clients. Tricia closed the doors once again, casting her gaze about the room.

  A large unpainted toy chest was backed against the wall, next to stacks of colorful plastic chairs made for tiny bottoms. On a shelf above it sat several remotes, no doubt for the equipment in the armoire.

  Tricia looked around. Still no sign of Brandy. She lifted the chest’s cover an inch or so and peeked inside. It was too dark to make out the jumble of objects inside. Throwing caution to the wind, she lifted the lid. Instead of toys, she found several framed photographs that had been tossed on top of a bunch of small pillows and yoga mats. On top was a darling photograph of a little white dog. A familiar little white dog.

  Tricia felt the hairs on her neck bristle: Sarge.

  Twenty-Six

  Tricia stared at the photograph, tracing her finger along the edge of the frame. There was no mistaking the woman who held Sarge in her arms: Elaine Capshaw.

  Elaine had told Tricia that she and her husband weren’t close to any of their local relatives. If so, what was Brandy Arkin doing with such a photo?

  Footsteps approached and Tricia almost let the chest’s lid slam. She tossed the photo back inside the chest, shut the lid and took several hurried steps away from it, trying not to look out of breath when Brandy reentered the room with a definite limp.

  As promised, Brandy held a square of dirty, yellow polar fleece with little tractors driving across it. It had a crocheted yellow border, which now hung ragged on two ends. Was it possible the thing could be repaired to its former state? Maybe Davey wouldn’t care what it looked like as long as he was reunited with it. Perhaps Mary Fairchild at By Hook or By Book could replicate the thing if Brandy destroyed the original.

  “Where’s that check?” Brandy demanded.

  Tricia gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, sorry. I guess I should have written it out while you were gone.”

  Brandy frowned.

  Tricia pulled her checkbook and a pen from her purse and proceeded to write out the check. She’d put a stop on it the minute the bank opened in the morning. She tore out the check and handed it to Brandy. And caught sight of a gold band on her right hand.

  Not a band—a Claddagh.

  Sweat broke out on the back of Tricia’s neck, and she swallowed. It was Brandy who had given Bob Kelly Monty Capshaw’s business card and encouraged him to give the pilot a call. And that sore leg? Sarge had bitten whoever attacked Elaine Capshaw. But why would Brandy threaten Elaine?

  Brandy’s frown increased as her gaze traveled around the room. “Something’s different. Have you been poking around in my things?”

  “Of course not,” Tricia lied, as every muscle in her body tensed. She had to get out of there.

  Brandy focused on the blanket chest and Tricia took a step to the left. The door was at least ten or twelve feet from where she stood. Had Brandy locked it behind her after she’d entered the house?

  Brandy tossed the piece of blanket on the floor, stalked over to the blanket chest, grabbed the handle, and flipped open the lid. As she looked down at the contents, the color drained from her face.

  Tricia bent down to retrieve the remnant of Davey’s blanket. “I’ll bring you the cash first thing tomorrow morning,” she said, already backing toward the door.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Brandy commanded.

  “I don’t understand,” Tricia bluffed.

  “You saw that picture. You know.”

  “What picture?”

  “You were at my aunt’s house the night she died,” Brandy accused.

  “I was?” Tricia said, hoping her voice hadn’t already betrayed her.

  “You took that miserable yappy dog to the vet.”

  No use denying that. But how did Brandy fit in? Elaine Capshaw was her aunt?

  And then she remembered Monty Capshaw’s obituary. It listed a couple of nieces: Brenda and Cara. Brandy was really Brenda?

  “I’ve got to get going,” Tricia said. “I’ll see you in the morning, and then I think our business will be finished.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Brandy said, and reached for a slender wooden bat—the kind used for T-ball. Had Brandy bludgeoned Elaine Capshaw to death with something similar?

  “There’s someone waiting for me outside. If I don’t turn up in the next couple of minutes, the Sheriff’s Department will be called.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m telling the truth,” Tricia insisted.

  “Sure, like you told the truth when you walked in here saying you wanted Davey Black’s blanket. Now, what do you really want?”

  “I was going to ask you to list some things on eBay for me. I understand that’s your new business.”

  Brandy shook her head. “David said you were suspicious about Deborah’s death.”

  “He did?” Oh boy. Why did she have to open her mouth and voice that opinion to so many people?

  Brandy tapped the end of the bat against her open left palm. “Deborah Black’s death was an accident—plain and simple.”

  “You’re right. I’m sure that’s what the National Transportation Safety Board will decide. I mean, why would someone deliberately let his gas tanks run dry and then crash his plane into a stone gazebo? It just doesn’t make sense. Unless . . .”

  Brandy tapped the bat harder against her palm. That had to smart.

  “Unless,” Brandy said, picking up the story, “he was well paid to do it.”

  “Ten thousand dollars?” Tricia volunteered.

  “Money that was supposed to come back to me when the will was read. That was the deal. But Elaine showed me the will—it had never been amended. I drove that miserable old fart to the attorney’s office myself. But the lawyer made me leave the room when Uncle Monty supposedly signed it. He said it would prove I wasn’t coercing the old man to make the changes.”

  “And did you coerce him?”

  Brandy snorted. “My uncle was already living under a death sentence. All I did was suggest a way to make it easier on his darling Elaine.”

  “And now she’s dead. I suppose under the terms of the original will, you and your sister would only inherit if Elaine were out of the picture.”

  “Yeah, and now I have to split my own ten grand with my sister,” she grated.

  “But now you get David. And isn’t that what you really wanted all along?”

  “I don’t even get him. He’s decided I’d be a liability in the hoity-toity art world. I’m not pretty enough, or thin enough, or educated enough for him. He’s looking to step up—to that old hag Michele Fowler.”

  “She’s far from a hag,” Tricia said.

  “She’s twenty years older than me! And yet he’d rather be with her than me! After all I did to—”

  “Set him free?” Tricia asked.

  “Of Deborah—of that rotten kid. Did you know Deborah’s mother plans to soak David for child support even though she knows the kid isn’t his?”

  “Is that why you tried to run Davey over the other night?”

  Brandy’s eyes grew wide, and she drew back her arm and swung the T-ball bat at Tricia.

  Tricia ducked, and the momentum—and her sore leg—threw Brandy off balance. Tricia raced for the door but fell over her own feet, tumbling to the floor. Brandy took advantage and charged at her, but Tricia dove for cover behind the bulky pink plastic child-sized house.

  The bat came down again and again, but the plastic was made to withstand the destructive power of ten small children. Still, Tricia cringed with each strike, her eyes darting to look for any avenue of escape. The former parlor, with its high ceilings, seemed almost cavernous.

  Bam!

  Tha
t split second of inattention cost her, as Brandy slammed the bat into Tricia’s upper arm. As Brandy drew back to strike again, Tricia scrambled to her left, but there was nothing there to hide behind.

  She grabbed the handle of the flimsy cabinet, yanking it open—an instant shield against Brandy’s fury.

  Brandy’s bat came down again and again against the door and the cabinet wobbled, the hinges pulling out of the flake board. Brandy screamed epithets as the bat hammered against the cabinet and it began to come apart in shreds.

  Tricia had pulled the handle closer to her body, ducking her head to avoid the blow, when the cabinet tilted crazily forward and fell, squashing Brandy like a bug.

  Twenty-Seven

  Champagne chilled in a silver bucket, but Tricia felt like doing anything but celebrate. Still, she didn’t think she’d succumb to tears, either. Ginny’s leaving was just another sad passage in life. And it wasn’t like she’d never see her onetime assistant again. Ginny would still live at the edge of town in her little cottage. She’d be working right across the street, and she might even show up at Chamber of Commerce meetings. But it would never be the same at Haven’t Got a Clue. Life moved on, but sometimes it seemed like Tricia was always being left behind. She fingered the diamond stud in her left ear and thought about Christopher.

  Had it only been days since the terrible events at the Tiny Tots Day Care? True, Brandy had not succumbed to her injuries, and Grant Baker assured Tricia she would have a long time to recover—in jail.

  Worse yet, after Brandy revealed David Black’s betrayal, a deputy had gone to Deborah’s and David’s home to find that Brandy had taken out her revenge on David, too. He would live. No doubt nursed back to health by Michele Fowler . . . until one or the other tired of the obligation.

  The shop door opened, but before Tricia could tell the person behind it that the store was closed, in barreled Antonio Barbero with a large cardboard box. “Can you help, per favore?” he called.

  Tricia reluctantly went to the door to hold it open, and was surprised to find three more people behind Antonio, all carrying what looked like rental equipment: tables, folding chairs, and a large coffee urn. “What’s all this?”

  “I hope you don’t mind my arranging for some food and drink for your guests.”

  “Where do you want the table set up?” asked one of the men in white chef togs.

  “Is this all stuff from the Brookview Inn?” Tricia asked.

  Antonio nodded. “Set up along that wall,” he told his minions. “There will be somewhere to plug in the coffee urn, will there not?” he asked Tricia.

  “Yes,” she answered, overwhelmed and a little annoyed that Antonio was hijacking her farewell party for Ginny. “You really didn’t have to do this. I ordered—”

  “Sweets for my sweet,” Antonio said, directing the rest of his workers on where to set up other equipment. “I spoke to Nikki at the Patisserie. We coordinated the entire menu.”

  “Menu?” Tricia asked, aghast.

  “But you must have hot hors d’oeuvres. Nothing is too good for Ginny,” Antonio said, deadly serious.

  Tricia could hardly complain because—he was right. But who was going to eat all the food his workers had brought?

  As if reading her mind, Antonio reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew a linen envelope. Tricia lifted the flap and withdrew an engraved invitation.

  Ms. Tricia Miles requests the honor of your presence . . .

  Good grief, it sounded more like a wedding invitation than an after-hours farewell party.

  She skimmed the rest of the note. “How many of these did you send out?”

  “Only thirty or forty.”

  “Thirty or forty?” Tricia squealed. How would they ever fit thirty or forty bodies into Haven’t Got a Clue?

  Russ Smith walked through the still-open door. He hadn’t been on Tricia’s invitation list, but as though anticipating her intention of throwing him out, he brandished his invitation. “And where’s the girl of the hour?” he asked with a grin.

  “Girl,” Tricia grated, wondering what she had ever seen in this Neanderthal of a man.

  “Why, Ginny, of course.”

  “She should be here any—” Before she could utter the word moment, Ginny entered Haven’t Got a Clue. She took one look around the room and her lips trembled. “Oh, Tricia, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me.”

  Tricia threw a sour look at Antonio. “Well, I—”

  “You have had the most wonderful employer. It is so sad you must leave this most welcoming place,” Antonio said, his teeth nearly gleaming. Had he just had them whitened? “But, I’m sure Tricia cannot blame me for stealing you away from her. You are already marvelous as the manager for the Happy Domestic. Do you not agree?” he said, with a pointed look at Tricia.

  She forced a smile. “Of course.” She turned a more genuine expression on her now-former employee. “I can’t take all the credit for—” She gestured toward the table now laden with food. “It was—”

  “The work of all your friends,” Antonio supplied.

  Ginny covered her mouth with her left hand, her eyes swimming with tears. She seemed about to speak, but before she could, the bell over the door jingled, and Angelica stepped over the threshold, carrying a large wrapped gift, with one of her gigantic purses slung over her left shoulder.

  “Well, doesn’t it look nice in here,” she said with an admiring smile at the food and the drink. “Tricia, I thought you said this was going to be a simple affair.”

  “Well, I—” But before she could elaborate, Nikki Brim-field from the Patisserie swooped in with a large tray piled high with cookies covered in plastic wrap.

  “Happy new job, Ginny,” she called. She looked fantastic in a tight black dress and heels, with her upswept hair pinned firm with a ruby-studded clip. She set the tray on the empty end of the long serving table and uncovered the cookies, before she doubled back and gave Ginny a warm hug. “Congratulations. This is a wonderful opportunity for you. I started out managing the Patisserie and now I own it. Maybe you’ll have the same luck.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Ginny said shyly, but she seemed to like the notion just the same.

  The bell over the door rang again, and this time it was Mr. Everett and his bride, Grace, who entered. “Congratulations, Ginny,” Grace called, and hurried over to plant a grandmotherly kiss on Ginny’s cheek, leaving the faintest imprint of red lipstick.

  “Thank you, Grace. I’m already overwhelmed. I just hope I can live up to Antonio’s expectations. And . . . Ms. Racita’s, too, of course.”

  Mr. Everett held out his hands, taking both of Ginny’s. “Miss Marple and I shall miss your sunny smile,” he said, and this time it was Ginny who kissed him.

  Mr. Everett actually blushed.

  “I love your moustache,” Ginny said. “What made you decide to go with the Poirot look instead of Selleck’s?”

  Mr. Everett cleared his throat. “It was Grace’s request.”

  “And isn’t he cute?” she gushed. “I had to order the moustache wax online.”

  “I think it looks very dignified,” Tricia said, and Mr. Everett’s blush deepened.

  Grace turned a fascinated gaze on Antonio. “When do we get to meet this woman of mystery who’s been buying up so much of Stoneham?”

  Tricia trained her gaze on Antonio. This was a question she’d been dying to ask herself.

  He shrugged. “Ms. Racita is so very busy. But I think she will have to come to Stoneham soon to see all that she has acquired. It would be in her best interests, I think.”

  Yes, Tricia thought. It would. But before she could voice that thought, the door opened again, and this time it was Bob Kelly. He held a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of red carnations—trust Bob not to spring for roses—but they were cheerful and he ignored the others and made a beeline for Ginny, handing her the flowers and lunging forward to plant a kiss on her cheek.

  “Thank you,
Bob,” she said, with just a bit of a strain in her voice.

  Angelica leveled a glare at Bob, who was standing much too close to Ginny, whose discomfort was quite evident. “Whoa, boy. Rein yourself in,” Angelica ordered.

  Bob turned, looking sheepish, and stepped back. “Hello, honey bun.”

  Hadn’t he yet noticed that Angelica hated that particular term of endearment?

  Angelica gazed at Ginny fondly. “You’re almost like a part of the family. I’m sorry you’re leaving Haven’t Got a Clue, but I’m so proud of you for taking the next step in your career.” She leaned in and gave Ginny an air kiss, then pulled back and smiled. She proffered her gift. “For your new home.”

  Ginny opened her mouth to protest—she’d had her home for over a year. But she accepted the gift and set it on the beverage counter. “Thank you, Angelica. I hardly know what to say.”

  “Open it,” Angelica encouraged.

  With the delight of a child at Christmas, Ginny ripped the paper and discarded the ribbon, lifting the lid on a beautifully crafted box, covered in gray silk organza, that looked more like a throw pillow. Ginny’s mouth dropped as she first gazed inside the box and then reached for the gift inside.

  “Oh, Angelica, it’s beautiful. Where did you get it?” she asked, lifting the beautiful bronze sculpture of a horse—one Tricia recognized as having been for sale at Foxleigh Gallery.

  “Just something I picked up on my travels,” she said. Tricia had seen the price tag. It wasn’t a Kmart blue-light special, by any means. She hadn’t realized Angelica was that fond of Ginny.

  “I’m overwhelmed by the kindness you’ve all shown me,” Ginny said, as the door opened, and Cheryl Griffin stuck her head inside. “Oh, wow. Is this a party?”