Sentenced to Death bm-5

by Lorna Barrett

  “That’s a good idea. I could make Elizabeth the trustee, and then no matter what happens with David in the future, Davey will be all set.”

  “Don’t you think you’d better ask her first?”

  “Do you honestly think she’s going to refuse?”

  “No. But it doesn’t hurt to ask. Besides, it’s just good manners.”

  “I guess you’re right. I’ll give her a call and see if she can meet me at the bank sometime soon.”

  “Why wait? Do it now.” Back out came the purse, and Angelica handed Tricia her cell phone.

  Two minutes later, it was a done deal. With Mr. Everett willing to cover for her, Elizabeth agreed to meet Tricia at the bank in fifteen minutes.

  Tricia folded Angelica’s phone and handed it back to her, then picked up her fork and continued to eat her lunch. Angelica shuffled her pages and stacked them in a neat pile. “I’m not getting any work done here. I may as well go home.”

  “The book not going well?” Tricia asked.

  “It would be going a lot better if I weren’t doing another Easy-Does-It cookbook. I thought I’d be getting my foot in the publishing door with the first one, and then they’d let me do something a little more creative. But no. Now they want the same thing, only different. Why did I have to be so successful my first time out?”

  Tricia laughed. “I’ll bet that’s a problem a lot of authors would love to have.” She’d certainly heard it enough at the author signings she’d hosted over the past two years.

  Angelica stood. “Have you thought about what you’re going to say to David when he finds out you’ve made Elizabeth guardian of Davey’s scholarship money?”

  “Why do I have to tell him anything?”

  Angelica raised her arms as though in surrender. “It’s going to get around, and I don’t think he’s going to be pleased. Everyone knows he doesn’t like you.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  Angelica sighed, but didn’t bother to reply.

  “Besides, I don’t like him, either. And after Deborah’s funeral, I never have to put up with him again.”

  “Stoneham is a small village,” Angelica pointed out, “and you know how things can get ugly when the townspeople stick up for one of their own and shun the newcomers.”

  “David and Deborah were originally from somewhere on Long Island, not natives of Stoneham. And the villagers have hardly embraced the booksellers.”

  “They’re coming around,” Angelica said. “And I’m counting on them eating here at Booked for Lunch when the winter rolls around and the tourists stay home until spring.”

  Tricia ate her last bite of tuna and pushed the plate away. “You worry too much.”

  “With all the bodies you’ve found in this town, I’d think you’d be a little more concerned.”

  Tricia blinked, taken aback. “Do you honestly think David would threaten me over something as innocuous as setting up a scholarship fund for his son?”

  “Of course not. But you’ve already interfered by loaning Mr. Everett to work in Deborah’s store—a store David wants to close as soon as possible.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Everybody’s talking about it.”

  Tricia was getting tired of hearing about everybody—especially if Angelica wasn’t willing or able to identify who they were. “I’m not afraid of David Black.”

  “Well, maybe you ought to be. Deborah was,” Angelica said casually. “And now she’s dead.”

  Five

  Tricia stared at her sister, unable to believe what she’d just heard. “Aren’t you the one who told me the crash was an accident?”

  “Of course it was,” Angelica said. “And wasn’t it handy that it came at a time when the Blacks were having marital problems?”

  “They argued about the amount of time Deborah spent at the store—I’ll grant you that. But they weren’t on the verge of divorce, either.”

  “That’s not what Frannie says.”

  “Frannie?”

  “Well, she lives on the same street as Deb and David. All the neighbors knew about their shouting matches—usually at night when people wanted to sleep.”

  Tricia wasn’t sure how to react to that news. She’d thought Deborah had told her everything. She’d certainly complained about David often enough, but she hadn’t mentioned that their marriage was as strained as Angelica—more likely, Frannie—had indicated. And why hadn’t Frannie mentioned it the previous evening when members of the Tuesday Night Book Club came to Haven’t Got a Clue to commiserate?

  Tricia glanced at her watch. She had to meet Elizabeth at the bank, so there was no chance she could talk to Frannie any time soon. And she couldn’t ask Elizabeth such a question in the bank for everyone to hear.

  Tricia pursed her lips, angry at herself for succumbing to idle gossip. And if what Angelica said was true, she felt a little hurt, too, that Deborah hadn’t been as honest with her as she’d thought.

  She got up from her stool, carried her dishes into the kitchen, and dumped them into the slop sink. By the time she came back into the dining room, Angelica had gathered her manuscript and her purse and had her key out ready to lock up.

  “When shall I tell Frannie you’ll be over to talk to her?” Angelica asked, with just a touch of a sneer in her voice.

  “I have no plans to talk to Frannie today.”

  “I’ll tell her you’ll see her tomorrow then, shall I?”

  Tricia gave her sister a sour smile. “Thank you for the lunch. I’ll see you later.”

  “Today? I thought your plan was to spend the evening with your cat and a book.”

  “I am a woman of mystery,” Tricia reminded her.

  “Since when?” Angelica asked as she ushered Tricia toward the door.

  The answer was since she’d opened a mystery bookstore. And it had been a long time since she’d felt this awkward and unsure—high school, in fact. But Angelica seemed to have the knack to take her back to those feelings with only a couple of sentences.

  “Has anybody ever accused you of being a bully?” Tricia asked, stopping dead.

  Angelica nearly ran into her. “Of course. And I’m working on it.”

  “How’s that? By bullying more or less?” Tricia asked.

  “Go to the bank!” Angelica ordered, and pushed Tricia toward the door once again.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And don’t call me ma’am!”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “That’s better.”

  Angelica closed and locked the café’s door.

  The Bank of Stoneham was filled with customers, people eager to deposit their paychecks and obtain cash for the weekend, when Tricia entered. Elizabeth waited for her, sitting in a chair reserved for those in line to speak to a customer service rep. All of them were busy, so it was Billie Hanson, the bank’s stocky manager, who called them to her office and personally took care of them.

  “That does it for the paperwork,” Billie said at last, and held up a finger, indicating they should wait a moment before leaving. “Let me get you a folder to put your deposit slips and other papers in. I’ll be right back.” She rose from her chair and left Tricia and Elizabeth sitting in the two visitor chairs in front of her desk.

  Elizabeth turned to Tricia and wiped a few tears from her eyes. “I can’t thank you enough, for everything you’ve done for us. Mr. Everett has already been such a help—and now this for Davey.” She pulled a wadded tissue from her purse and pressed it against her nose. “I can’t believe everything that’s happened since yesterday. And to make matters worse, David’s already accepted an offer on Deborah’s store.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth. I’m so sorry.”

  “My daughter has only been dead twenty-six hours and already that man has sold off her most valuable asset.”

  “How could anyone be so cold?” Tricia asked, and yet she had to voice the question that was burning on her tongue. “Was it to—?”

  “Ni
gela Racita Associates,” Elizabeth finished with a nod and a scowl.

  “Shouldn’t you have done an inventory first? Shouldn’t there have been—”

  “David asked me last night for a ball-park estimate on what the store was worth. Apparently, they offered fifty thousand more than my figure.”

  “That is generous.” Especially since Deborah’s store hadn’t been all that profitable. If nothing else, no one could say Nigela Racita Associates wasn’t at least giving fairmarket value for the assets it obtained. Picking up the Happy Domestic meant that in the space of two months, the development company now owned three local enterprises. Perhaps it was time to find out a little more about the firm. Tricia made a mental date for later that evening with her computer and Google.

  Tricia glanced at her watch. “I’d better get back to my store. I’ve been missing half the day. Ginny’s probably . . .” She hesitated. Happy about it, she thought, but aloud she finished, “Wondering if I fell off the planet.” She stood.

  “Thank you again, Tricia.”

  Tricia bent down and gave Elizabeth a hug before leaving the cubicle.

  Billie met her halfway to the door, and paused to speak to her. “It’s a good thing you’re doing, Tricia, setting up that trust fund for Davey Black. The whole village will be behind you.”

  “The whole village?” Tricia asked.

  Billie shrugged. “I know some of the villagers don’t like the booksellers, but nobody likes to think of a baby losing his mother. I think you’ll find the people of Stoneham have large hearts.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I’d better get back to Elizabeth,” Billie said, and sketched a wave good-bye before heading back to her cube.

  Tricia watched her, then started when someone touched her on the shoulder. She whirled. A woman who looked about thirty, with short-cropped dark hair, stood in front of her. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help overhearing you talking about a bank account for Davey Black.”

  “Yes. After what happened to his mother, her friends and colleagues want to establish an education fund for her son.”

  “I didn’t know Mrs. Black well. Davey was with us for only six weeks.”

  Tricia looked at the woman, puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  The woman gave a tired smile. “I’m Brandy Arkin. My sister and I run Tiny Tots Day Care over on Fifth Street.”

  “Oh.” Tricia had heard of their business. Deborah had placed Davey in their care—and that’s where he’d broken his arm, falling from a piece of outdoor play equipment. Deborah felt the owners had been negligent, and while she decided not to sue, she had filed a complaint with the county.

  “We’d like to make a contribution to the fund. Can I write you a check?” Brandy asked.

  “Um, sure.” Tricia said.

  Brandy stepped over to the customer counter, set her purse down, rummaged through it, and pulled out a checkbook. She scribbled for a few moments before handing Tricia a check. Ten dollars. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something—especially as Deborah and Tiny Tots Day Care hadn’t parted on happy terms. “Thank you. I’m sure Deborah would’ve been pleased.”

  “I wish it could be more, but under the circumstances . . .”

  The economy had picked up some, but Tricia knew a lot of small businesses were still suffering. And laid-off workers didn’t send their children to day care.

  “It was very nice meeting you, Ms.—”

  “Arkin,” the woman supplied. She smiled. “See you around the village.”

  Tricia watched as the woman headed for the door. She turned back for the counter and picked up a deposit slip. She may as well add the check to the new account.

  Five minutes later, she exited the building and headed back to Haven’t Got a Clue, dreading that she’d have to walk past the park yet another time.

  Steve Marsden was still on site, only now he sat on one of the park benches that had been pushed to the side, balancing a laptop on his knees. In front of him stood Captain Baker. He saw Tricia, turned back to Marsden, and mouthed a few words before hurrying to intercept her.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  “How are you doing?” he asked, concern coloring his voice.

  She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” Her gaze drifted to the uneven ground and dry dirt where only yesterday had been healthy lawn.

  “I was wondering, do you have anything planned for this evening?” Captain Baker asked. She shook her head. “I was thinking . . . maybe you’d like to go out to dinner?”

  Tricia sighed. Baker was just as bad as Russ when it came to issuing last-minute invitations.

  “I’ve got something to tell you,” Baker continued, “and I’d rather do it in person than over the phone. Now isn’t a good time.” He looked back at Marsden for a few seconds.

  What could he possibly have to tell Tricia? That his estranged wife’s condition had worsened and he needed a shoulder to cry on. Or maybe he was retiring from the Sheriff’s Department and taking a job in Florida or Timbuktu.

  Or maybe he was just lonely and wanted a sympathetic ear.

  She could be that person. Heck, she’d been doing that for almost a year now.

  “Sure, I had nothing planned for this evening.” The whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  “Fine. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty. Why don’t you wear that peachy-colored dress.”

  It was the nicest dress Tricia owned. So, this dinner engagement—she couldn’t really call it a date; they hadn’t had one of those in a long, long time—was to feature more than just diner fare. “I’ll see you then,” Tricia said, and smiled as Baker tipped his hat before turning back to Marsden.

  Tricia started down the street again but decided that instead of crossing, she’d stop at the Coffee Bean. Haven’t Got a Clue’s coffee supply was getting low.

  She entered the Coffee Bean and inhaled deeply. She never tired of the rich, mingled aromas of coffee on offer. She’d picked a good time to stop in—the store was empty, which meant its owners would have time to talk.

  Alexa and Boris Kozlov had emigrated from Russia to the United States a decade before. Alexa reminded Tricia of the Soviet women weightlifters of old; tall, muscular, and a little bit more than androgynous, with a rather husky voice to go with the package. Tricia always envisioned someone with the name of Boris to be big, beefy, and jovial, but this Boris was none of those things. Alexa had worked hard to eradicate her accent; Boris had not. Alexa joked with her customers, making them feel at home. Boris brooded and seldom looked his patrons in the eye.

  Tricia preferred to deal with Alexa.

  “Good to see you, Tricia,” Alexa said. “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll take two pounds of the French roast ground coffee and a cup of it to go, please.”

  “Coming right up,” Alexa said, and stepped over to the big rack that housed at least twenty different flavored coffees. She poured the beans into a specialty bag with the Coffee Bean logo emblazoned on it and then transferred them to the coffee grinder to her left. “What’s new?”

  “I’m collecting money for an education fund for Deborah Black’s son, Davey. Would you like to donate something?”

  Alexa hesitated.

  “Nyet,” Boris growled, and let go of a case of their store’s paper cups. It banged against the side of the counter. “Why should we give a ting to that dura?”

  Tricia didn’t speak Russian, but she knew an epithet when she heard one.

  “Boris!” Alexa admonished, and looked embarrassed.

  “Something wrong?” Tricia asked in all innocence.

  Alexa’s face colored. “Our neighbor was not our favorite person.”

  That didn’t seem right. Everyone loved Deborah.

  “That vor dura,” Boris snarled, and for a moment Tricia thought he might accentuate that statement by spitting. Bewildered, she bounced her gaze between the husband and wife.

  Again, Alexa hesitated be
fore speaking. “We had a problem. . . .” She paused, as though trying to think of a polite way to phrase something unpleasant. “Garbage.”

  Tricia blinked, startled. “Garbage?”

  “That dura always put her trash in our Dumpster,” Boris said, his voice rising. “Then she’d lie about it. She’d blame her help, she’d blame teenagers.”

  Alexa nodded in agreement. “We set up a camera to catch her. Even when we showed her the video, she still denied she did it,”

  “She was a thieving dura and a liar,” Boris growled.

  Deborah’s business did generate a lot of boxes and packing material, and Tricia seemed to remember seeing garbage totes behind the Happy Domestic—much smaller and cheaper than the Dumpsters behind Haven’t Got a Clue. Deborah had been struggling to cut costs for a long time. Was it possible she’d literally dumped the majority of her garbage in her neighbor’s backyard?

  “How long has this been going on?” Tricia asked.

  “Since the day that dura opened her store,” Boris said.

  That was at least three years, and in that time Tricia had never heard about it. She said so.

  “We keep our business to ourselves,” Alexa said.

  “If we’d said something, we might have shamed her into keeping her garbage to herself,” Boris added.

  That didn’t exactly make sense, but Tricia got the gist of his complaint.

  Alexa bagged Tricia’s purchase, handed her the cup of coffee, and rang up the sale.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that you and Deborah didn’t get along. I’m also a little confused.”

  “We’re hearing the store will be sold quickly,” Alexa said. News sure got around fast. “We hope our new neighbor will respect our Dumpster.”

  “If they don’t—” Boris swiped his index finger across his throat, like a knife slash.

  Tricia swallowed, glad she didn’t have the Kozlovs as her neighbors. As she left the store, she wondered if Deborah had ever felt the same way.

  Six

  Ginny was with a customer when Tricia finally returned to Haven’t Got a Clue. Miss Marple greeted her as though she hadn’t seen her in years, and demanded to be made a fuss over. All that petting produced a lot of cat hair, and Tricia had to seek out the lint roller from under the cash desk to keep her pretty white blouse from looking like a gray angora sweater.