“No, thank you.” He was the last person on the planet she wanted to be with. “I think I’ll just go home to my cat and lose myself in a good book.”
Russ nodded toward Haven’t Got a Clue, where several people stood clustered around the entrance. “It doesn’t look like you’re going to get a quiet evening, after all.”
Tricia recognized the women standing in front of her shop and barely said good-bye to Russ before jaywalking across the street. Before she even made it to her doorstep, Frannie Mae Armstrong lunged forward and burst into tears. “She’s dead. Oh, Tricia, Deborah’s dead!”
Tricia found herself patting Frannie’s bony back, as the other women clustered around her. Nikki Brimfield, owner of the Patisserie, and Julia Overline hurried close, and Tricia found herself in the middle of a group hug, with much snuffling and wiping of eyes with damp tissues. The three women were all members of Haven’t Got a Clue’s Tuesday Night Book Club, as Deborah had been—not that she managed to make it to many meetings. But the women—and Mr. Everett—had shared a lot in the past two years. It was only natural they’d come together in their grief as well.
After what seemed like a full minute, Tricia managed to extricate herself from the warm, weepy mass of women and jangled her keys. “Come on inside and we’ll commiserate.”
Frannie tried to pull herself together, and the women waited for Tricia to open the door, turn on the lights, and usher them inside.
“Coffee, anyone?” she called.
Nikki raised a hand. “I’ll make it.” She’d done it before on nights when either Mr. Everett or Ginny had been unable to attend the club meetings, and Tricia let her. Tricia led the other two women to the reader’s nook. Miss Marple had been sleeping on a pile of magazines. She raised herself, stretched, and began to purr as Frannie and Julia took their seats.
“I just can’t believe it,” Frannie said, and another tear seeped from her eye. Tricia was determined not to start crying, but just in case, she figured she’d better retrieve the box of tissues she kept under the cash desk.
“Now, now,” Julia said, trying to comfort Frannie. “Deborah wouldn’t want you tearing yourself up like this.”
“I spoke with her only yesterday,” Frannie said. When she was upset, her Texas twang grew more pronounced. “It was about the Founders’ Day ceremony. I apologized because I couldn’t be there. Now I’m so glad I wasn’t. I don’t think I could live with the memory.”
Tricia winced. She was going to have to learn to live with that particular memory, and the thought of hashing it out again and again held no appeal, and she said so.
“Oh, Tricia, I had no idea,” Frannie apologized, and Tricia took the third of the chairs, flopping into it. Immediately, Miss Marple crept across the table and arrived on her lap, giving her chin a friendly head butt, and revving her purrs into overdrive. Tricia petted the cat, wishing she could just go upstairs to her apartment, pour herself a glass of wine, and stop thinking about the day’s events.
“I was in the Happy Domestic just this morning,” Julia admitted. “I bought the cutest little decoupage waste basket, and a book on organizing the home.” She sighed. “Poor Deborah. She was in such a state.”
Nikki reappeared from the washroom with a pot full of water for the coffeemaker. “Why was she upset?”
Julia shrugged. “She was on the phone when I got there. I didn’t hear much of the conversation—although she was whispering really loudly into the phone. And then she slammed down the receiver. She was so flushed, I thought for a moment she might faint, but when I asked if she was okay, she said she just needed a glass of water. She went in the back of the store and stayed there for the longest time. There were a couple of customers that needed to be waited on, and I found myself trying to help them find what they wanted. Finally, I had to call Deborah from the back room to take care of them. I wouldn’t have felt right trying to use her cash register.”
“What did she say when she finally came back into the store?” Tricia asked.
Julia shrugged. “Something about having to take care of the baby. But you know, I didn’t hear him back there. And I could’ve sworn after I left that I saw Deborah’s mother with the stroller walking up Main Street.”
“That’s odd,” Frannie said, and looked thoughtful.
“Could you tell if it was a man or a woman she was talking to?” Tricia asked, curiosity getting the best of her.
Julia shook her head. “Deborah had her back to me through most of the conversation, and of course I didn’t want her to think I was eavesdropping.”
Tricia stifled a laugh. Knowing Julia, she must have been straining to hear every word.
“Do you remember anything she said?” Frannie asked. “It could be important.”
Julia frowned, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Seems to me she said something about a gate. I have no idea what that would have meant.”
That didn’t make sense to Tricia, either.
“Tricia, I thought I saw you outside the Patisserie when it … when it happened,” Nikki said, and choked on the last word. “You had little Davey, so you must’ve spoken to Deborah before the accident. Did she seem okay to you then?”
Tricia frowned. “She seemed nervous. I figured it was because she had to give a speech in front of half the village and a bunch of tourists. But maybe she was upset about her phone call. I guess we’ll never know.”
Nikki brought a tray with Haven’t Got a Clue’s paper cups that Tricia supplied for customers, some packets of sugar and sweetener, some nondairy creamer, and stir spoons. She set the tray on the nook’s large square table, and passed out cups to everyone, before taking the only empty seat. “How about a toast to Deborah?”
The others nodded and looked toward Tricia to do the honors.
I will not cry. I will not cry.
She lifted her paper cup, and the others followed suit. “To Deborah. We didn’t know her as long as we would have liked—or as well. But she was our friend, and she will be terribly missed.”
The others nodded, touched cups, and then drank.
They were silent for a long time, each of them mourning Deborah in her own way.
Tricia kept thinking about what Julia said. A gate. Why on earth would Deborah be talking about a gate, and why was she so angry?
Sadly, they would probably never know.
THREE
The next morning, Tricia awoke with the dawn, and leaving a sleepy Miss Marple in bed, she got up, dressed in sweats, and ran her usual four miles on the treadmill. She glanced at the clock. It had been twenty hours since Deborah’s death. She had a feeling she’d be marking that occasion in hours and days for some time to come.
After showering and changing for the day, Tricia switched on her TV to find the Nashua TV stations had begun their newscasts with the crash story, although the reports didn’t tell Tricia much more than she already knew or had seen for herself. As expected, the story topped that morning’s Nashua Telegraph’s front page, too, along with several other related stories found on the inside pages. They, too, were of little value.
A look out Haven’t Got a Clue’s big display window proved that not much else had changed in Stoneham overnight. Amy Schram, from the Milford Nursery, watered the hanging geraniums that decorated Main Street. Customers were already flocking to the Coffee Bean for their first caffeine jolt of the day before heading to work.
Life went on without Deborah Black.
Tricia turned to take in her shop. Her first task: get the coffee ready. Maybe immersing herself in the mundane would insulate her from the pain of losing her friend—at least for a little while.
Ginny arrived some fifteen minutes before Haven’t Got a Clue was to open. She was dry-eyed but pale. Had she, too, spent the night lying awake, thinking about the plane crash? “Good morning,” she said, with none of her usual enthusiasm.
“Good morning. At least, let’s hope it’s better than yesterday afternoon,” Tricia said.
“A
men,” Ginny said, and stepped up to the cash desk. “You were much closer to Deborah than I was. If you don’t feel like working this morning, I can handle things here in the shop.”
“Oh, no. I’m fine.”
Ginny frowned. “Tricia, sometimes I get the feeling you don’t trust me.”
Tricia’s mouth dropped. “What?”
“I mean, I’ve been working for you for over two years. The only time you let me open and close for you was when Angelica broke her ankle and you had to take care of her. But since then, you haven’t asked me to open or close once. I’ve never gone to the bank for you. You’ve never even given me a key to the store.”
Tricia swallowed and felt her face flush. “Oh, Ginny. I … I don’t know what to say.”
Everything Ginny had said was true, but it wasn’t a lack of trust that kept Tricia from giving her more responsibility. “I’m always here,” she explained. “It didn’t seem necessary to—” Excuses, excuses, a little voice inside Tricia said. Ginny had never before voiced a grievance. What had brought this on?
And then Tricia realized what—or rather who—was behind this.
Antonio Barbero. As the in-town representative of Nigela Racita Associates, he’d already poached Angelica’s short-order cook for the Brookview Inn—what was he planning now? And then she remembered. He’d already voiced an interest in obtaining the Happy Domestic for his employer. Was he considering installing Ginny as manager? Did he feel she was too loyal to Tricia? Was Ginny more likely to leave Haven’t Got a Clue if she felt unappreciated or undervalued?
Since Antonio and Ginny were romantically involved, it wouldn’t do for Tricia to criticize him in any way. Instead, she spoke from the heart.
“I’m sorry, Ginny. It hadn’t occurred to me that you might want more responsibility. You already do so much around here. I’ve been very happy with your work.”
“And you pay me very well, I’m certainly not complaining about that. It’s just that …”
Tricia tried to ignore her annoyance. Damn that Antonio for filling Ginny’s head with the seeds of dissatisfaction so that he could swoop in and …
Ginny crossed the store and set her purse under the glass display case that served as a cash desk. “I was surprised to see the Happy Domestic is open this morning,” she said, changing the subject.
“What?” Tricia crossed to the window. Sure enough, the lights were on inside Deborah’s shop, and the CLOSED sign had been turned to OPEN. Tricia bit her lip and considered her options. Stay here with Ginny and continue a conversation that needed resolution, or escape and find out what was going on at the Happy Domestic.
“I think I’ll head over and see what’s going on across the street. If you don’t mind.”
“If you trust me to handle things here while you’re gone,” Ginny said, somewhat testily.
Tricia ignored the remark. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Ginny nodded, and Tricia headed out the door, already dreading her return.
She turned the brass door handle and pushed open the heavy wood and glass door to the Happy Domestic. Cheerful harp music played on the store’s stereo system, belying the sadness she felt at entering the comfortable, eclectic shop she knew so well. Deborah had done a wonderful job with her displays, and the scent of potpourri was never overpowering. Everything was perfect—just the way Deborah had left it the day before.
Elizabeth stood next to a set of glass display shelves, feather duster in hand. From somewhere in the back of the store, Tricia heard little Davey singing an unintelligible version of the alphabet song.
“Elizabeth?”
Deborah’s mother turned, her eyes bloodshot and puffy. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in a week. “Tricia. Thank you for coming over.” She lurched toward Tricia and embraced her in a tight hug. Tricia patted her back, not knowing what else to do.
At last, Elizabeth pulled back and wiped her eyes.
“I was surprised to see the open sign,” Tricia said.
“David wanted me to close the doors for good, but I just couldn’t. I didn’t know what to do with myself, either. I mean, it’s up to David to make the”—her voice broke—“funeral arrangements.” Fighting tears, Tricia reached out, rested a hand on Elizabeth’s arm, waiting for her to recover. She sniffed and straightened. “He’s made it clear he doesn’t want any input from the rest of Deborah’s family.”
“When will the service be held?” Tricia asked.
“David’s scheduled it for tomorrow morning at nine over at the Baker Funeral Home.”
“Tomorrow?” Tricia repeated, disbelieving.
“That hardly gives my girls Paige and Terry time to get here to say good-bye. Although … it won’t be an open coffin.” Elizabeth’s lower lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears.
Tricia reached out again and placed a comforting hand on Elizabeth’s arm. She didn’t even want to imagine the horrific injuries Deborah had incurred. The rescue workers had shrouded the crash site with tarps, keeping the curious at bay, and then removed the bodies in black zippered bags.
Scheduling the funeral an hour before all the stores opened meant the owners, many of whom did not have employees to cover for them, would not have to forgo the service or close their stores.
A stuffed blue bunny sailed through the air and landed at Tricia’s feet. A baby gate held little Davey penned in the small office at the back of the store. She picked up the toy and returned it to its owner, who promptly began to chew its ear.
Tricia studied the wooden baby gate that stood about three feet tall and kept Davey from entering and destroying the delicate glassware and other items on the shop’s shelves. Could that be the gate that Julia had mentioned the day before? It didn’t seem likely.
Elizabeth wiped her eyes and sniffed. “Davey lost his blankie a few weeks back, and it takes real effort to get him off to sleep. Last night was the worst. I don’t know if it’s just because he misses Deborah or he doesn’t like being in a strange crib at night.”
“Strange crib?”
“He’s been with me since … since yesterday.”
“Shouldn’t he be with his father?” Tricia said, then instantly regretted it. Her tone had held a touch of reproach.
Elizabeth shrugged. “David says he can’t deal with the baby right now. Not with everything else on his mind. I can’t say I blame him.”
That seemed wrong on so many levels.
Elizabeth sniffed again, turning to look down on her grandson. “Any day now, Davey’s going to figure out how to scale that barrier, and then I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t watch him and run the store.”
“I thought Deborah had hired help.”
“I had to let Cheryl go. Until I know what’ll happen with the store, I can’t afford to spend money foolishly.”
Tricia remembered a conversation she’d had with Mr. Everett earlier in the summer. He’d been willing to help out at Deborah’s store. She imagined he’d be even more eager to help out now. Back in June, he’d won the New Hampshire Powerball lottery and had since been hounded by people looking for handouts. “I spoke to Deborah at the beginning of the summer about loaning her one of my employees at no cost to her. That offer’s still open.”
Instead of replying, Elizabeth leapt forward and hugged Tricia once again. “Thank you. I don’t know how I can ever repay you, but I’ll gladly take you up on it.”
Tricia pulled back. “As it happens, Mr. Everett is looking for a change of scenery in the short term. This should work out well for both of you.”
Elizabeth managed a weak smile. “Thank you for being Deborah’s friend. She always spoke well of you.”
Tricia fought back a tear. “I’m glad I can help.” She swallowed hard, trying to appear strong. “I’d better get going. I have a store to run.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Thank you for stopping by. And thank you for sending Mr. Everett. I can sure use the help.”
She walked Tricia to the door and cl
osed it behind her.
Tricia looked right and left, intending to cross the street, then noticed someone standing within the cordoned-off village square. The NTSB investigator? There was only one way to find out. Tricia struck off for the park.
The carnival rides and other equipment had already vacated the small park, leaving behind trampled grass and scattered litter. Tricia paused on the sidewalk to watch as a man with a clipboard walked the perimeter of the park. He jotted down a note and then raised the camera that had been slung around his neck. “Hello,” she called.
The man looked up.
“Are you the NTSB investigator?”
The man frowned, and his gaze shifted suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”
Tricia’s gaze moved to the rut in the ground where the plane had ripped up the sod before coming to rest. “My friend was killed here yesterday.”
The man stepped closer. “Mrs. Black?”
Tricia nodded, and held out her hand. “I’m Tricia Miles. I run the mystery bookstore here in the village—Haven’t Got a Clue.”
The man shook on it. “Steve Marsden. Sorry about your loss.” The words were mechanical, what everyone who deals with the bereaved is trained to say. Still, Tricia appreciated hearing them said.
“Have you determined what happened?” she asked.
Marsden’s cell phone rang. “Hang on a minute. I’ve got to take this call,” he said, opened the phone, and turned away. “Yeah, what have you got for me … ?”
Tricia sighed. He wasn’t going to get away without answering some of her questions. She turned, looking for one of the benches that wasn’t within the roped off perimeter, and saw Cheryl Griffin sitting on one. Tears streamed from beneath the woman’s glasses. She held a damp tissue against her nose, her gaze focused on the bare patch of ground where the plane had come to a sudden halt the day before.
Tricia felt herself drawn to the grieving woman, who’d worked for Deborah for the past month or so. She didn’t know her well but had met her a couple of times when she’d stopped in the Happy Domestic. “Cheryl,” she called softly. “Are you okay?”
Sentenced to Death Page 3
