Sentenced to Death bm-5

by Lorna Barrett

  Along with the day’s mail, Ginny had left several catalogs on the counter. During the last week, they’d talked about making lists of items they might like to feature during the upcoming Christmas season. Ginny had made out her wish list and clipped it to the top of the pile. Tricia ran a finger down items and smiled. They were all things she also had thought of ordering. It pleased her that Ginny was so in tune with the things she wanted for the store, which only made Ginny’s complaint earlier in the day so painful to recall. She’d have to get to Stoneham Hardware to have an extra key made for the store and give it to Ginny, and then she’d take Angelica up on her offer of an early dinner one night to show Ginny that she trusted her. That night was out of the question, as Baker wasn’t picking her up until after closing.

  Tricia sorted through the letters on top of the stack of mail. Bills and junk mail. On the bottom was a bubble-pack envelope. She glanced at the return address and sighed. It belonged to her ex-husband.

  She pulled at her collar to touch the chain around her neck. She still wore the locket he’d sent for her birthday two months before and suddenly realized what tomorrow’s date signified. It would have been their thirteenth wedding anniversary. They’d only lasted ten years, and she couldn’t even count that last year together as married bliss. Christopher’s midlife crisis had caused him to leave his stockbroker’s job—and Tricia, too—to go find himself in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. Since he left, they’d spoken only once on the telephone. Tricia had sent a brief thank-you note for the locket. It held a picture of Miss Marple. Christopher’s note had said, “To remind you of the one you love best.” It still irked her. After all, she hadn’t left him for a cat.

  She reached for the pair of scissors she kept in a coffee mug on the counter, along with an assortment of pens and pencils. Cutting the package open, she wondered what he had sent this time. Another locket? A bracelet?

  She cut through the extra bubbled plastic wound around a small green velvet jewelry box but hesitated before opening it. Was there a card? She looked inside the padded envelope. Sure enough, a small card remained at the bottom. She used the scissors to slice open the top. The picture was a watercolor of a swan swimming on a peaceful pond. Water lilies broke the surface of the water, and all was serene. Inside, Christopher had written: Ahh, for what might have been. Christopher.

  What might have been!

  Christopher had been the one who didn’t want to go through marriage counseling.

  Christopher had been the one to propose divorce.

  Christopher had been the one to leave.

  Tricia fought the seething anger that coursed through her. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to toss the card and the gift straight into the trash. How could the man be so . . . so insensitive?

  Or maybe he was just stupid.

  Alone, in the mountains—with another long winter ahead of him—maybe Christopher had mellowed. Maybe he was expecting her to make some kind of grand gesture.

  Come home, darling, all is forgiven.

  Ha! Fat chance of that happening.

  Tricia wrenched open the velvet jewelry box. This time he’d sent stud earrings. They sparkled like diamonds—but had to be cubic zirconium. No one in their right mind would send diamonds in a plain padded envelope without benefit of insurance and a return receipt.

  Cubic zirconium. Yes, their marriage had been a pale imitation of the real thing, too. At least, that was how she looked at it in retrospect.

  And how had Deborah Black viewed her marriage? She’d complained about David on numerous occasions but had she loved him as much as Tricia had loved Christopher? And did any of that matter now that she was dead?

  Eventually, Ginny and her customer approached the register. Tricia forced a smile, moved the catalogs aside, and bagged the purchase after Ginny had rung up the sale.

  “I know you’re going to love that Josephine Tey. It’s one of my favorites,” she said, and the woman gave her a quick thank-you before heading out the door. As soon as the door closed, she slumped against the counter. “Was the store busy while I’ve been gone?”

  “Off and on,” Ginny said. “That was an awful long lunch.”

  “I’m sorry I left you on your own so long, especially as Mr. Everett is down at the Happy Domestic. But I ended up at the bank with Elizabeth. We opened a scholarship account for Davey.”

  “What a great idea. And don’t worry. Nothing came up that I couldn’t handle.” Ginny bent down to straighten the bags under the counter.

  “I’m so sorry about this morning, too,” Tricia said, feeling guilty all over again. “But—”

  “Let’s forget I ever mentioned it.” Ginny frowned. “In fact, there’s something I need to talk to you about.” She bit her lip, hesitating.

  “Is something wrong?” Tricia asked.

  “Not wrong, exactly. It’s just that since we talked this morning, I’ve . . . I’ve been offered another job,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper.

  “Oh?” Tricia asked, dreading what she was about to hear.

  “You see, Antonio—”

  She didn’t need to say more. Good old aggressive Nigela Racita Associates had struck again!

  “He offered you the job of managing the Happy Domestic,” Tricia said, some part of her noting how flat her voice sounded.

  Ginny nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “How did you know?”

  “Elizabeth told me that David had accepted an offer.” Tricia swallowed but had to ask. “What did you tell him?”

  “That I had to think it over.”

  “What’s to think over?” Tricia said, trying to muster some enthusiasm.

  “Leaving you. And Miss Marple. And Mr. Everett. And, of course, Haven’t Got a Clue. Tricia, I love working here.”

  “Ginny, don’t be so sentimental,” Tricia said, though it was hard to keep emotion out of her voice. “This is a wonderful opportunity for you. I’m assuming you’ll make more money—”

  Ginny nodded.

  “And it’s the kind of experience you need so you can learn every aspect of running a business—so that you’ll be ready to open your own business one day.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Tricia shook her head. “No buts.”

  A tear trailed down Ginny’s cheek.

  “It’s hard to leave what you know and take on a new challenge, but I don’t know anyone else who could do a better job taking over for Deborah than you.”

  “But I don’t know her stock,” Ginny protested.

  “It’ll take you a week—if that—to learn it,” Tricia amended.

  “I wouldn’t know what to order, or the quantities—”

  “You. Will. Learn.”

  Ginny’s lower lip quivered. “What will you do without me? I’ve been here almost since the day you opened.”

  “I’ll have to hire someone else,” Tricia said reasonably.

  “But not everybody knows about mysteries—especially vintage mysteries.”

  “You didn’t know a thing about them before you came to work here,” Tricia reminded her. She made sure to keep her voice steady as she asked her next question. “Now, when will you take over running the Happy Domestic?”

  “If I accept the job, as soon as the paperwork goes through. Antonio thinks it’ll be a couple of weeks—maybe a month.”

  “You will accept the job. And it gives me plenty of time to find someone to take your place.”

  “What about Mr. Everett? Couldn’t he work more hours—?”

  Tricia shook her head. “He isn’t interested in working a full-time job.”

  “That’s right,” Ginny said quietly. “I suppose you’ll have to call an employment agency.”

  “I suppose,” Tricia said. She knew putting up a HELP WANTED sign in the window wouldn’t work. At least it hadn’t worked for Angelica when she’d been looking for help at the Cookery. But times were different. With so many jobs being shipped overseas, the locals seemed a tad more inter
ested in the shops along Main Street and the retail work they offered. Before she made one call, though, she’d ask Frannie. She was still the best source of information in the village, and she might know of someone who’d like to take the job. And it would give Tricia an excuse to talk to Frannie about Deborah.

  So there, Angelica!

  Tricia turned her mind back to the problem at hand. “What will happen to Elizabeth?”

  Ginny sighed. “Antonio says she can stay on as long as she likes—part-time, of course. I think that’ll suit her, as she intends to stay a part of Davey’s life. That is, if David will let her.”

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  Ginny shook her head. “Antonio was going to do that.”

  “When?”

  She glanced up at the clock. “Right about now. I don’t think she’ll be very happy about the situation. I have a feeling she hoped she’d be kept on to manage the store. But would she have the stamina to do that and take care of Davey, too?”

  “You’re probably right,” Tricia said, and felt even worse for Elizabeth. First losing her daughter, then her daughter’s store. And was there the chance David might take little Davey away from Stoneham?

  Tricia stood. “I think I’ll head over to the Cookery to see if Frannie knows anyone looking for a job. I’d like you to train whoever takes your place.”

  “Oh, sure,” Ginny said, and Tricia noticed the tears had dried. Well, did she expect Ginny to pine and wail over her decision to leave Haven’t Got a Clue? If she was honest, Ginny had put her career on hold to stay at this job for far too long.

  Tricia took three steps toward the door before Ginny’s voice stopped her. “Tricia?”

  She turned.

  “I just wanted to say how grateful I am for everything you taught me about running a business. It’s because of you I want to make this my life’s work. You’re my role model.”

  Tricia’s smile was halfhearted. She’d lost Deborah, and now she’d lose Ginny, too.

  Some days it didn’t pay to get out of bed.

  * * *

  Frannie stood behind the Cookery’s cash desk, waiting on a customer. “Oh yes, Ms. Miles’s next cookbook will be out early next year. Here, would you like a bookmark?”

  The man accepted it and gave a parting smile before he turned to exit the store.

  “Tricia, what’s up?” Frannie said in greeting.

  “Sad news, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “After yesterday, I don’t think I can take much more bad news.”

  “Sad,” Tricia corrected her, “not bad. Ginny’s leaving Haven’t Got a Clue.”

  Frannie’s hand flew to cover her mouth. “Oh no! What happened?”

  “She’s been offered another, better job.”

  “What could be better than working for you?”

  Tricia smiled at that. “Managing the Happy Domestic.”

  Frannie frowned. “I thought Elizabeth was taking over for Deborah.”

  “Apparently Deborah’s husband has already made a deal to sell the store.”

  “But Deborah’s only been dead a day,” Frannie protested.

  “That was my reaction, too.”

  “I’m happy for Ginny, but . . .” She paused, studying Tricia’s face. “You don’t look happy.”

  “I’m happy for Ginny, too, but I’m not happy to be losing such a wonderful assistant.”

  “She knows her stuff,” Frannie admitted. “I’m sure she’ll do a terrific job for the new owner.”

  “Nigela Racita Associates bought the store.”

  “Who else?” Frannie said with chagrin. “Whoever owns that company has deep pockets. Mark my words, it’s out to buy the whole village.”

  “I’ve had that same thought,” Tricia admitted.

  “You’re not the only one,” Frannie said. “Too bad I don’t go to the Chamber of Commerce meetings anymore. I’ll bet more than a couple of the members will be getting nervous.”

  “Or looking for a bailout?” Tricia suggested.

  “That, too.” Frannie frowned. “Was there something else you wanted to tell me?”

  “Ask. I’d like to hire someone here in Stoneham to take Ginny’s place rather than go to an employment agency. Do you know of anyone looking for a job?”

  “Only Cheryl Griffin, but I know Deborah wasn’t very happy having her as an employee. You wouldn’t like her, either.” Frannie leaned forward, lowered her voice, and spoke conspiratorially. “She’s a nut case.” That was easy to believe after the conversation Tricia had had with Cheryl earlier in the day. Frannie straightened. “I’ll let you know if I think of anyone else.”

  “Thanks.” Tricia sighed. How was she going to bring up Deborah’s name again?

  Frannie reached a hand out and touched Tricia’s arm. “We’re all sorry about poor Deborah.” She shook her head and frowned. “That husband of hers.”

  The perfect opening.

  “I heard they used to fight a lot.”

  Frannie leaned forward. “Almost every night lately and always over her store or his supposed work.”

  “Deborah said he worked two jobs.”

  Frannie scowled. “If you could call what he did work.”

  “I thought he was a welder,” Tricia said.

  “Yes, but that second job of his doesn’t really bring in any income. He does bad iron sculptures of birds with their wings extended and other weird-looking things. Their backyard is full of them—all rusty and ugly. If I’d been Deborah, I’d have been afraid to let little Davey out in the yard for fear he’d fall over one, cut himself, and get tetanus.”

  Deborah had never mentioned that David saw himself as some kind of artist. Just that his second job didn’t pay well. Had she been ashamed of his art? Had she seen it the same way Frannie did?

  “These arguments—do you think Deborah and David were close to divorce?”

  Frannie shrugged. “I can’t say. But more than once he stormed out of the house and didn’t return home until the wee hours. A couple of times, he never came home at all.”

  Tricia’s heart sank, and she wasn’t sure if it was because Deborah’s marriage had been foundering, or because Deborah hadn’t confided in her more. How well had she really known Deborah?

  The door at the back of the store opened, and Angelica emerged from the stairwell that led to her loft apartment. “Aha!” she called. “Didn’t I predict you’d be here to see Frannie this very day?”

  Tricia sighed. “I came to ask Frannie if she knew of anyone who needed a job. Ginny’s turned in her resignation.”

  “Oh dear,” Angelica said, suddenly full of concern.

  A customer entered the store, and Frannie straightened, ready to spring into action. “May I help you?”

  Angelica didn’t wait to hear the customer’s reply but grasped Tricia’s arm, steering her toward the door to the stairwell. “Why don’t we go talk about it upstairs. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Or something stronger, if you prefer.”

  Tricia found herself shuffling up the stairs behind her sister, feeling totally downcast. She followed Angelica inside the apartment and down the hall to the kitchen. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows and felt warm on her back as she took a seat at the large table.

  “It’s a bit warm for hot tea,” Angelica said, and instead opened the refrigerator and took out a glass jug filled with homemade ice tea. She snagged a couple of tumblers from the cupboard, filled them with ice from the freezer, and poured the tea. She set a glass on the table in front of Tricia. “Why are you moping around? I thought you were behind the idea of Ginny furthering her career.”

  “I am. I just hate to lose someone I trust so much.”

  “Wasn’t it just this morning Ginny was complaining that you didn’t trust her enough to let her open and close your store? That you didn’t let her go to the bank for you. That—”

  “Okay, maybe I should have given her a little more authority. I’m
not standing in her way. I just wish, well, that she could’ve stayed forever. She’s not only a good assistant, she’s a good friend.”

  “And good friends don’t stand in the way of one of them getting ahead. Look at you. You’ve already achieved your life’s dream.”

  “You make it sound like I should just give up and quit—or die.”

  “I’m not saying that at all. I’m just wondering, will you always be happy selling books? Isn’t there anything else you aspire to?”

  Tricia hadn’t given that much thought in the past few years. Her goal had always been to open Haven’t Got a Clue–or something very like it. She was happy here in Stoneham. She couldn’t imagine going back to her old life in Manhattan. And yet . . . could she imagine climbing all those steps to her loft apartment some twenty years in the future? Paper books might be a thing of the past the way e-books were proliferating. Was her chosen way of life doomed? She’d already had to stock items besides books to keep the customers satisfied. Edgar Allan Poe and other famous author coffee mugs, bookmarks, blank journals, key chains, and the like.

  “Hello!” Angelica called.

  Tricia looked up. “I’m sorry. I was lost in thought.”

  “Are you burned out?” Angelica asked, yet it sounded more like an accusation.

  Tricia shook her head sadly.

  “Maybe you need to be more like me,” Angelica said with the hint of a devious smile touching her lips. “Diversify a little bit.”

  “How?”

  Angelica shrugged. “I don’t know. Make a few investments. I’ve already got the Cookery, the café, and a writing career. Maybe you could start a day spa. We could sure use one around here.”

  “Why would I want to run a day spa?”

  “For fun! That’s why I opened Booked for Lunch.”

  “Are you crazy? You’ve had nothing but problems since you opened the café. From thieving employees to a dead body in your garbage.”