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.
“Amen,” 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 closed 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?”
Cheryl looked up. “Tricia?”
Tricia sat down next to her. “Can I help?”
“Not unless you’ve got a job opening.”
The question caused a chill to run down Tricia’s neck. “Sorry, not right now.”
Cheryl nodded and blew her nose. “I talked to every bookseller on Main Street before Deborah hired me. I doubt they have openings, either. Deborah could only afford to pay me minimum wage, but at least it was money coming in, you know?”
Tricia nodded, feeling sorry for the thin, pitiable woman—and a little guilty. She had to be about the same age as Tricia. Deborah had commented that she had little in the way of marketable job skills, but that she was better than having no one working with her at the Happy Domestic.
Maybe it was the ill-fitting clothes Cheryl wore or her slouching posture and too-large glasses that screamed “GEEK!” But then Tricia could identify with that. She’d worn glasses for years before undergoing Lasik eye surgery, and she’d been branded a nerd by the more popular girls in high school, who wouldn’t have been caught dead reading for pleasure, let alone reading vintage mysteries. Thankfully, she’d blossomed in college, where nobody seemed to care much about what she read or did. She doubted Cheryl had ever visited the halls of higher education.
“Is there a reason you don’t look for a job in Nashua or even in Milford?” Tricia asked.
“Oh, yeah—a big reason. I don’t have a car. The Bank of Stoneham repossessed it in April after I lost my job at Shaw’s in Nashua and couldn’t make the payments.”
Tricia refrained from asking why Cheryl had been let go. Probably just the slowdown in the economy. Lots of establishments had had to trim staff. She was glad she hadn’t had to do that.
“I’ve got three weeks to find something before my rent is due,” Cheryl continued. “It’s too bad they don’t pay you for blood anymore. That, I have plenty of. And I haven’t got anything left that I can sell after all I’ve been through this past year.”
Tricia swallowed and felt guilty because she was so well off, without a financial care in the world. And yet, bailing out Cheryl would only be a temporary solution. Should she offer her help, or would Cheryl take it as an insult?
“You know why there’s a problem finding jobs?” Cheryl said with a knowing nod of the head. “Illegal aliens took them all. I heard on TV that there are millions of them living among us right here in the US of A. All I can say is, they’ve got really good disguises, ’cuz I haven’t seen any that look like ET or Vulcans or Klingons or nothin’.”
Tricia covered her mouth with her hand, trying to keep a straight face, because it was evident Cheryl was dead serious. “I don’t think the news media was talking about extraterrestrials.”
“I don’t care what they’ve got extra—I just don’t want them to capture me and encase me in carbonite or make me a slave, mining borate on some distant planet.”
“Ohhh-kay,” Tricia said, and realized how Deborah had gotten away with paying Cheryl only minimum wage. The poor woman was clueless, if not delusional. She’d never be able to appreciate the clever puzzles laid in most mysteries. Heck, had she even read a Nancy Drew novel?
Tricia let her gaze wander back to the investigator stomping through the square’s grassy expanse. Finally, Marsden folded his phone and looked back down at the clipboard in his hand.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to the NTSB investigator,” Tricia said, grateful for a chance to escape.
“The who?” Cheryl asked.
Tricia pointed at the man across the way. “Him.”
Cheryl stood. “Thanks for talking to me, Tricia. I feel better now. Maybe I’ll call the unemployment office to see if anyone in Stoneham has posted a job.”
Tricia patted Cheryl’s arm. “Good luck.” She watched as Cheryl headed down the sidewalk and turned left, heading out of town on foot, and then Tricia marched across the lawn to catch up with Marsden once again.
“Mr. Marsden!” she called. He looked at her as if he’d forgotten they’d met only minutes before. Again, she introduced herself and repeated her question. “Have you determined what happened?”
Marsden stared at her. “Ma’am, it’s been less than twenty-four hours since the crash. It’ll be months before I m
ake my final report.”
“I realize that,” Tricia said. “I mean, does it look like it was strictly pilot error?”
“I’ve hardly had a chance to gather many facts, let alone make that kind of determination.”
Tricia pursed her lips. She should have known better than to expect any answers from a federal bureaucrat.
“Months, you say?” she tried again.
He nodded, looking a little bored.
Tricia sighed. It was no use even trying to engage the man in conversation. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”
“Thank you.” He turned without acknowledging her further and again consulted his clipboard.
Tricia turned and headed back for Haven’t Got a Clue.
Months. It could take months before a determination was made about the accident.
Tricia felt heat rise from her neck to color her cheeks. Maybe she was impatient, but she didn’t want to wait that long to hear whatever it was Steve Marsden and the NTSB had to say about the crash. What kind of idiot of a pilot lets his plane run out of gas? And just because Russ said it happened all the time didn’t mean it happened to Monty Capshaw. He wasn’t a kid, and presumably he’d been flying for years without incident.
Bob Kelly had to know something about the man. After all, he’d hired him. Tricia reversed course and started north once again, heading for Kelly Realty. Bob had to know a lot more than he’d admitted the afternoon before. Somehow Tricia was going to have to get him to talk.
Or else.
Four
Bob Kelly’s car was parked in front of his real estate office, but the locked door and CLOSED sign hanging in the window indicated he wasn’t in. Tricia backtracked two doors down to the log cabin that housed the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. Bob had been its president for at least a decade and often held court there. As owner of most of the real estate on Main Street, he controlled the rents and was the recipient of most of the prosperity that had come to Stoneham.
Prim, proper, and middle-aged Betsy Dittmeyer, the Chamber’s secretary for almost eighteen months, was not as friendly as her predecessor, Frannie May Armstrong. Nor was she a fount of useful information. A stickler for rules and regulations, she seemed to have memorized the Chamber’s bylaws, as well as some receptionist’s handbook, and played more of a gatekeeper’s role—shielding Bob from those he didn’t want to see. Tricia might well be on that list, so she decided it would be best to act as sweetly as possible when dealing with Betsy.
Sentenced to Death bm-5 Page 3
