Sentenced to Death bm-5

by Lorna Barrett

  “Good morning,” Tricia said, grabbed a bookmark, and closed the copy of Ellery Queens’s Double, Double, setting it beside the newspaper she hadn’t yet had time to finish reading. “Although by the looks of the weather, we might not have many customers today.”

  “The perfect time to seek out a nice cozy murder mystery, sit down with a cup of cocoa, and put your feet up. Sounds like heaven.”

  “To me, too.”

  “Speaking of heaven, how did Deborah’s service go? You’re back a lot earlier than I would’ve thought. I was going to try to make it, and then . . .” She let the sentence hang, and sighed. “I didn’t want it to look like I was too eager to take over her store. You know, gloat over the body and everything.”

  “There was no body,” Tricia said, and picked a gray cat hair from her black sweater. Since the day was so gloomy, she hadn’t bothered to change out of her mourning attire. “There was no service. What is it with this town that people keep deciding there’s no need for the rituals surrounding death?” she asked. “First Jim Roth, now Deborah.”

  “What?” Ginny asked, aghast, and struggled out of the sleeves of her still-dripping slicker.

  Tricia crossed her arms. “David Black decided not to hold a ceremony. He thought a gathering would be enough. The cheapskate isn’t even going to spring for a paid death notice in the Stoneham Weekly News. And worse—worst of all—he showed up to the funeral home with another woman in tow.”

  Ginny’s mouth dropped. “A date? You’re kidding!”

  “No, I’m not. She was older than him, too. Angelica says she owns an art gallery in Portsmouth.”

  “Angelica certainly gets around,” Ginny said, and headed toward the back of the store to hang up her jacket.

  Tricia shrugged off the comment and then let out an exasperated breath. “What do you know about David Black’s sculptures?” she called.

  Ginny returned to the front of the store. She tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her left ear. “I saw some of them on display last month on the Milford oval. It was some kind of local starving artists’ display. Antonio wanted to see if he could find some local paintings to decorate the Brookview Inn.”

  “I heard David’s sculptures are rusty and ugly.”

  Ginny crossed her arms, rubbing them for warmth. “Rusty and rustic. I guess it’s an acquired taste.”

  “Did he sell much?”

  “I have no idea. We came late to the sale. In fact, most of the artists were already packing up. Antonio got a couple of paintings for a reduced price simply because the artists didn’t want to drag them home.”

  “Shrewd businessman,” Tricia said flatly.

  Ginny nodded at the newspaper on the cash desk. “Did you read the article about the pilot who crashed the plane?”

  Tricia looked up sharply. “No.” Ginny made a dive for the paper, but Tricia beat her to it. “Where is it?”

  “Inside the front section.”

  Tricia thumbed through the paper until she found an article at the bottom of page four. She scanned it, but it really didn’t say anything she didn’t already know—except for Monty Capshaw’s address. She pursed her lips, thinking . . .

  Ginny struck a pose, plastering her splayed fingers to her forehead, threw her head back, and squinted at the ceiling. “I predict you’re going on a very short journey. To Milford. To Olive Road. Where you will visit Elaine Capshaw and talk about the death of her husband and your dear friend Deborah.”

  Tricia leveled an icy stare at Ginny. “That’s not funny, Ginny.”

  Ginny laughed. “You may call me Madam Zola.”

  Tricia carefully refolded the newspaper. “As it happens, I have a lunch date. Would you mind watching the store?”

  “Not at all,” Ginny said.

  “Not only that,” Tricia said, “but Angelica and I have an appointment later this afternoon. Do you think you could close for me?”

  Ginny’s eyes widened. “I’d be very happy to do so. I just need—”

  Tricia turned for the cash desk, opened the register, and took out a key on an Edgar Allan Poe keychain. She was glad Stoneham Hardware opened early. She’d had the key made on her way back from the funeral home. “I should have given this to you ages ago.”

  Ginny sobered and grasped the key, holding it tight in her palm. “I’ll have to give it back to you in just a couple of weeks.”

  “If you’re good, I’ll let you keep the keychain,” Tricia said.

  Ginny laughed. “I’ll treasure it always. You’d better get going. You don’t want to keep Mrs. Capshaw waiting.”

  “I told you, I have a lunch date.”

  “At ten o’clock in the morning?”

  “Did I say lunch? I meant brunch.”

  “Sure,” Ginny said, drawing the word out for at least ten seconds.

  Head held high, Tricia collected her still-damp raincoat and umbrella from the back of the store. “I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

  Ginny, who had taken her station behind the cash desk called out, “Bring me back a burger and fries, will you?”

  Tricia stood before the front door that needed painting on 87 Olive Road, unsure of what she might say should anyone actually answer. The small Cape Cod home had seen happier days. An aura of neglect seemed to permeate the place.

  Plucking up her courage, Tricia transferred her umbrella to her left hand and pressed the plastic doorbell with her right. From somewhere inside came the muffled sound of barking. After thirty seconds with nothing happening, she tried again. And waited. The barking continued.

  Tricia glanced in the driveway. A green Honda was parked there. Perhaps Mrs. Capshaw had been bothered by the press and had simply given up answering her door.

  Just as Tricia was about to walk away, the door jerked open. A tired looking woman in her late fifties stood before her, struggling to hold on to a small, wiggling white dog. Her red-brown hair looked straggly, with a white stripe down the middle where she hadn’t colored it in months.

  “Mrs. Capshaw?” Tricia asked.

  “I have nothing to say to the press,” the woman said, and began to shut the door, but Tricia jammed her purse between the door and the casing. The little dog growled.

  Tricia stepped back but held her purse in place. “Please, I’m not a reporter, and I witnessed the crash.”

  Mrs. Capshaw opened the door just enough to show her face. “What do you want?” she asked suspiciously.

  “To talk to you about what happened.”

  “My husband crashed his plane. He’s dead. There’s nothing more to talk about.”

  She went to shut the door again, and Tricia blurted, “My best friend was killed.”

  Mrs. Capshaw’s lower lip trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. She opened the door, stepped back, put the dog down, and ushered Tricia inside. “Come on in. Watch out for Sarge. He’s small, but he bites.”

  The small fluffy dog sniffed Tricia’s ankles but didn’t seem about to attack, and Tricia gingerly followed the dog’s mistress into the living room.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Mrs. Capshaw apologized. “Since Thursday, I haven’t felt much like cleaning.”

  As she said, newspapers, with pictures of the crashed plane prominently displayed, lay across the coffee table in disarray, accompanied by dirty coffee mugs and several plates littered with crumbs. Mrs. Capshaw gestured for Tricia to take an empty seat, while she picked up and folded a colorful granny square afghan and tossed it onto the far side of the couch before taking a seat. She picked up a remote and muted the old black-and-white movie showing on her no-longer-new television. Sarge sat on his haunches between the two women, looking as fierce as a dog his size could manage.

  “What do you want me to say—that I’m sorry your friend died? Well, I’m sorry my husband died. I’m not sure I have enough pity for anyone else. I’m pretty much wallowing in it.”

  “I understand completely.” Tricia sighed. “How . . . how could this have happened? How could y
our husband’s plane have run out of gas?”

  “Monty might have lost track of time. Maybe his credit card had been refused, but he thought he would squeeze a few more minutes in the air with what he had in the tank. He could have just forgotten to fill the tank—he’d been forgetting a lot of things lately.” She shrugged and shook her head, leaning farther back into the worn leather couch.

  “What kind of things?” Tricia asked, trying not to sound too pushy.

  Mrs. Capshaw sighed once again. “He’d go to the store and forget why he went. Stupid things like that. It was a side effect from his meds.”

  Tricia’s eyes widened. “Meds?”

  Mrs. Capshaw nodded. “Monty hadn’t been well. Sometimes I wondered if he should even be flying, but he said the doctor hadn’t told him to stop, and he figured if he could still make money at it . . .”

  Did Mrs. Capshaw really believe that? Something in her voice seemed to belie that.

  “How ill was your husband?”

  “Cancer,” she admitted. “But he’s been in remission for a while now. What we originally thought was a death sentence has turned out to be more of a chronic disease.” She seemed to realize she’d spoken in the present tense and looked away. “We always thought the cancer would kill him, not flying. He really was a damned good pilot.”

  Tricia leaned forward, causing a wary Sarge to stand his ground, but at least he didn’t growl. It was then she noticed several envelopes on the coffee table. The return address was New Hampshire Mutual. Was Mrs. Capshaw checking up on her husband’s insurance policy? There was no tactful way to ask. Instead, she said, “Tell me about your husband.”

  Mrs. Capshaw sighed, her expression growing wistful. “He was a devil back when we were dating. He took me flying on our first date, complete with barrel rolls.” She stifled a laugh. “I threw up. That certainly made am impression on him. But he asked me out again the very next night, and this time we stayed firmly on the ground.”

  Tricia smiled. “Go on,” she urged.

  “He’d make me so angry I’d threaten to break up with him—and then he’d do something silly and sentimental and I’d fall for him all over again.”

  “How long did you date?”

  Mrs. Capshaw managed a weak smile. “Two months. We were married for thirty-eight years. In all that time, we never spent a night apart. Until now.”

  Never?

  “He was the sweetest man who ever lived. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She sighed, and her face went lax.

  Tricia studied the woman’s face. For a couple so devoted, she didn’t seem as bereft as one might have expected after suffering such a devastating loss. Or was it the fact that the cancer had shadowed their lives for so long—like a noose loosely wrapped around Capshaw’s neck—that when the end came his wife was grateful for the extra years they’d managed to eek out—and to be rid of the stress of waiting for the end?

  Mrs. Capshaw sighed again. “You seem awfully understanding for a woman whose friend was killed in this accident. I’ve received a couple of nasty calls, threatening you might say, from people professing to be friends of Deborah Black.”

  “I can’t imagine any one of her friends being so . . . so . . .” Words failed her. The idea of someone like Nikki, Frannie, or Julia doing something so callous or disrespectful was unthinkable. “Male or female?”

  “It was a woman.”

  “Have you told the police?”

  She nodded. “The calls were made from a pay phone.”

  Not many—if any—of those left in Stoneham. Tricia would have to keep an eye out for one. “I’m so sorry.”

  “To tell you the truth, I only let you in here so I could listen to your voice. But I’m sure it wasn’t you.”

  Thank goodness for small favors.

  “But you could be in danger.”

  Mrs. Capshaw managed a weak smile, cocking her head to gaze at her dog. “I have Sarge to protect me.”

  Tricia eyed the compact dog, still staring intently at her.

  “Don’t you have any family you can rely on?”

  Mrs. Capshaw shook her head. “We never had children. Monty had a couple of nieces and nephews, but I was never close to them. Or, I should say, they never wanted to be close to me. We’d get Christmas cards from that side of the family, but didn’t have much other contact.”

  “Do they live out of state?”

  “No. Everyone lives within twenty or so miles of here. We just never found reasons to get together. Look, I don’t want to appear rude, but . . .”

  Tricia took the hint and stood. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

  “Just tell me you aren’t planning on suing Monty’s estate. His illness took a toll on our finances. This house is mortgaged to the hilt. I’ve got nothing left.”

  The poor woman looked on the verge of tears. And hadn’t someone—Bob Kelly?—already said David Black had threatened to sue? She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already consulted a lawyer. After this morning, nothing he did would surprise her.

  Tricia made her way to the front door, but turned to speak to Mrs. Capshaw. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m so sorry for your loss—and for all your troubles.”

  Mrs. Capshaw scooped up Sarge. “I’ll probably lose my house,” she said, and sighed. She looked over her shoulder into the shabby interior of her home. “I’m sure some people would say it isn’t much of a loss, but . . . it’s all I’ve got left now.” She looked into the eyes of her adoring little dog. “Except for Sarge.”

  Tricia figured she’d better leave before both of them burst into tears. “Good-bye, Mrs. Capshaw.”

  Mrs. Capshaw closed the door. Tricia hesitated for a few moments, and soon she heard the muffled sound of the television.

  As she drove back toward Stoneham, Tricia contemplated her next move. Who on earth would blame Monty Capshaw’s widow for him crashing his plane? And a woman making threats? That didn’t make sense. It couldn’t have been Elizabeth . . . could it? And how could one gracefully ask a woman in mourning if she’d been making threatening phone calls?

  Tricia clenched the steering wheel. No, she refused to believe Elizabeth would be so crude. That said, Deborah did have two sisters. Could one of them have been upset enough to make a threatening call? Darn—why hadn’t she made a point to talk to them at the funeral? Tricia wasn’t even sure if they’d be staying in town another day or two. That was something she could ask Elizabeth.

  In the meantime, she needed more information. Much as she didn’t even like to speak to Russ Smith these days, digging into Capshaw’s background might be something she’d have to get him to do for her. Being a former big-time reporter, he knew the kinds of people to ask, where to find the information she might need.

  Need for what? To quench some insatiable nosiness within you? Why do you even care—let it go!

  But she couldn’t let it go. It nagged at her. It wasn’t so much the manner of Deborah’s death that bothered her now but that she’d died at all.

  Ten

  The rain had stopped, but the day was still gloomy as Tricia prepared to leave for the day. The whole idea of letting Ginny close Haven’t Got a Clue made her feel like a new mother abandoning her newborn to a teenager’s care. She’d left a minimum of cash in the till, locking the rest of the day’s receipts in the safe. Miss Marple had a litter box in the shop’s washroom, and Ginny had agreed to feed the cat before she locked up for the night.

  “Honest, Tricia, I can do this,” Ginny assured her, with more than a little irritation evident in her voice.

  Tricia sighed. “I know you can. And I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t trust you to do a good job, it’s just . . .”

  Ginny shook her head, a wry smile lighting her face. “Haven’t Got a Clue is your baby, and—”

  “Exactly! You know, it won’t take long before you feel the same way about the Happy Domestic.”

  “Except that it won’t really be mine.”

  “It’s the first big step
in the process. I’ll bet in a couple of years you’ll be presenting a business plan for your own shop to Billie Hanson at the Bank of Stoneham.”

  “Oh, sure, I was just starting to feel okay about all this new responsibility, and now you have to ruin it by reminding me that one day it’ll be me in that financial hot seat.”

  Tricia wasn’t fooled by Ginny’s words. “No pain, no gain.”

  Ginny smiled. “Get out of here. Your cat and your shop will be fine when you get back later tonight.”

  “I’m going,” Tricia declared, and grabbed her purse from behind the counter. She headed for the door. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Good night,” Ginny called.

  As Tricia went out, a customer came in.

  “Hi. Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. I’m Ginny. Let me know if you need any help finding a book.”

  The door closed and Tricia squared her shoulders and marched over to the Cookery, determined not to look back.

  Frannie stood behind the register, helping a customer when Tricia entered. She hadn’t stepped more than four feet into the shop before she saw Angelica pass through the door marked PRIVATE that led to her loft apartment. Angelica checked her watch. “Right on time, Tricia. Let’s move.” She turned her attention to Frannie as she neared the front of the store. “See you tomorrow.”

  Frannie nodded and finished ringing up the sale.

  Angelica trounced through the door without a care while Tricia meekly followed in her wake. Once outside, Angelica stopped short. “Come on, let’s go,” she urged.

  Tricia caught up to her. “You make it look so easy.”

  “Make what look easy?” Angelica asked shortly.

  “Leaving your store—your livelihood—in someone else’s hands.”

  Angelica gave a bored sigh. “Until I hired Frannie, I was stuck with incompetent boobs. She and I just clicked. Except for Darcy, who I hired out of desperation, I’ve had pretty good success.”

  That was an understatement. Angelica had hired and fired five or more assistants at the Cookery before she’d found success with Frannie. Since then, she’d seemed to have mastered the art of hiring competent employees. Meanwhile, though Tricia trusted both her own and Miss Marple’s lives to Ginny and Mr. Everett—she wasn’t sure she entirely trusted them to take care of her beloved store.