She tried to put it out of her mind.
The sisters approached Tricia’s car, parked in Stoneham’s municipal lot. “I met Mrs. Capshaw this morning—widow of the pilot who crashed the plane on Thursday,” Tricia said as casually as she could, and pressed the button on her key fob.
“Don’t tell me you went and bothered the poor woman,” Angelica said accusingly.
“I did, and . . . I’m afraid she literally is poor. She said they were in terrible debt. Monty Capshaw had been sick with cancer for some time, but he’d been in remission. Still, his illness nearly wiped them out. She’s afraid she’s going to lose her house.”
“The poor woman,” Angelica said, and opened the passenger side door. She climbed inside.
Tricia did likewise. “I felt so sorry for her and her little dog.”
“Dog?” Angelica asked.
Tricia nodded. “What are those dinky, cutie-pie white dogs that look like toys?”
“Bichon frise?” Angelica suggested.
“Yeah, that’s the kind. His name is Sarge.”
“Sarge? Isn’t that what you’d name a German shepherd?”
“It seems to fit the little guy. He was very protective of Mrs. Capshaw,” she said, and turned the key in the ignition.
“Well, of course he was. She’s his mom. My little Pom-Pom was very protective of me, too. He would’ve given his life to save mine.” She sighed. “I still miss him every day.”
Tricia steered the car toward the lot’s exit. “She also said she’d received a couple of threatening phone calls. Who’d be so mean as to harass someone in her circumstances?”
“Let’s play devil’s advocate,” Angelica said. “David Black—or maybe Deborah’s mother. Those two had the most to gain.”
“Mrs. Capshaw said it was a woman’s voice on the phone, but I can’t believe Elizabeth could be so cruel.”
“Why not? Her daughter died. Most women will fight tooth and nail for their children.”
“So says the childless woman.”
“Hey, I may never have had kids, but I’ve got plenty of maternal instinct.”
“If you say so,” Tricia said, hoping her decision to agree with Angelica had been the right one. Sometimes Ange could be such a witch—arguing just for the sake of it.
Tricia approached Route 101 and slowed, tapping her right-hand turn signal. “I assume you know where we’re going.”
“Turn here and keep going. I’ll give you further instructions as we approach our destination.”
“Gosh, why would I ever need a GPS system when I have you in my front seat?”
“Just drive,” Angelica ordered.
This could be a very long evening, Tricia decided.
Angelica did know where she was headed, and very soon she’d directed Tricia to park on one of Portsmouth’s lesser-known streets. Or at least it hadn’t been known to Tricia until that moment.
The Foxleigh Gallery was housed in an old Victorian building in a not-quite-shabby neighborhood near the waterfront. The sandblasted brick and nineteenth-century architectural details lent old-world charm. The red crosswalks done in pavers were charming, but not good for three-inch heels and Angelica definitely wobbled as she walked. Tricia was glad she’d worn sensible flats, as they’d had to park a block away.
They stepped inside the brightly painted door and into the dim interior. A buzzer sounded, alerting someone that they’d entered. “Is there anything more obnoxious than that noise?” Angelica hissed.
“Shhh. Someone will hear you.”
“Do I care?”
The narrow building was completely devoid of potential customers. Its walls had been stripped back to the bare brick, with task lighting over each of the works of art that lined the walls at intervals. All but the load-bearing walls had been removed, making the space look a bit like a maze.
Tricia took a few more steps forward, cocked an ear, and stopped, with Angelica running into her back. She whirled. “Ouch!”
Angelica poked her in the ribs and nodded toward the back of the cavernous space. Footsteps forewarned that someone was approaching. As expected, it was the woman they’d seen at the funeral parlor that morning. She was still dressed in the tight-fitting black dress, but now she’d added costume jewelry to the ensemble, which made it seem more like cocktail attire than mourning wear.
“Hello. Can I help you?” the woman asked, with just the touch of an English accent.
“Yes,” Angelica said, stepping around Tricia. “We understand the gallery is featuring some of David Black’s sculptures.”
The woman studied Angelica’s face. “Didn’t I see you earlier today at—?”
“Yes, you did. I’m Angelica Miles, and this is my sister, Tricia. We were friends of Deborah’s.”
“Michele Fowler. I own Foxleigh Gallery,” she said and shook her head. “Such a tragedy. David’s handling it well, though, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Tricia said, her voice sounding colder than she’d meant.
Michele either missed it or chose to ignore it. “How tragic that she’ll never get to see her husband’s success as an internationally famous sculptor.”
Was the woman delusional? Did she know David’s last showing was an outdoor sale on the Milford oval?
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to David’s masterpiece.”
Angelica gave Tricia another dig in the ribs, stifling a laugh. “Masterpiece,” she whispered.
Michele led the way to the back of the gallery, where they passed various smaller bronze sculptures of horses with incredibly delicate legs, life-sized wooden carvings in the shape of various hats—top hats, tams, berets, and many more that Tricia didn’t quite catch, because at the back of the room stood a gigantic piece of metalwork that took her breath away.
“Triumph, by David Black,” Michele announced, waving her arm like Vanna White in front of a letter board.
Tricia gasped, her mouth falling open as she gazed up at David’s magnificent sculpture.
Several track lights from the ceiling pointed down on the formidable steel gate. It stood at least ten feet high and was at least twelve feet wide. The dull metal structure seemed to suck up the available light. From the vertical bars trailed colorful ribbons of metal, painted in playful pastels of pink, green, and blue, with just the hint of gold on the edges. Though static, the ribbons almost seemed to dance in some unseen breeze. Formidable yet . . . beautiful. What could have stood as a strong barrier was open and inviting.
A flush of exhilaration coursed through her, and Tricia found it hard to speak. “It’s . . . it’s—”
“Gorgeous,” Angelica supplied. “Who knew David had so much talent?”
“I did,” Michele said, sounding smug.
Tricia turned to face her. “It’s magnificent. Surely this belongs—”
“In a bigger, more impressive gallery than mine?” Michele challenged, turning her gaze back to the massive gate. She sniffed. “Yes, I suppose it does. I don’t imagine it’ll sell—not here in Portsmouth. But if someone from Boston sees it, it could lead to a commission. I’m sure I’m just the first stepping-stone to a very successful career for David Black.”
Angelica raised an eyebrow. “How do you feel about that?”
Michele sniffed again. Did she have allergies? “It never hurts to be the one who first discovers genius.”
Tricia found she couldn’t take her eyes off the piece. And some part of her yearned to own it. Thoughts flew through her mind. Could she get David to do a smaller scale steel gate for her own shop? Could he do something that would mesh with the store’s mystery theme? Perhaps a raven?
For a moment, she forgot how much she disliked the man and how angry he’d been when they’d last spoken.
A telephone rang from somewhere within the gallery. “If you’ll excuse me,” Michele said, and headed back toward the front of the building.
“Not bad,” Angelica said, circling the massive gate. “Not my taste of co
urse, but it’s a pretty significant piece of art.”
Tricia frowned. “Deborah always spoke of David’s hobby as though it were a joke—a waste of time. Ginny and Frannie made fun of his yard sculptures, too.”
“Then the joke was on all of them,” Angelica said. “Do you think Deborah ever saw this piece?”
“She would’ve had to change her tune if she did.” Tricia studied the heavy black gate. Her English professor had loved to find symbolism in everything. Did this work of art represent oppression—or the shackles of marriage? But the gates were parted, with no sign of a lock. And why did the colorful ribbons seem to scream freedom?
Tricia remembered what Julia Overline had said the day Deborah died. She’d overhead a telephone call that had upset Deborah, and Julia distinctly remembered Deborah mention the word gate. Who had she been speaking to—David?—or perhaps Michele? Had she been angry or perhaps jealous of David’s friendship with the gallery owner?
The Blacks had not been a happily married couple. They fought about money. They fought about the time Deborah spent in her store, and the time David devoted to his art. Could they have fought about Michele, too?
Deborah was dead.
David was now free . . . to pursue his art . . . to quit his job . . . to do whatever he wanted.
For a terrible moment, the word murdered flittered in Tricia’s brain.
“What are you thinking?” Angelica asked, taking in Tricia’s vacant expression.
“A very nasty thought.”
“About David? I’m not surprised,” Angelica said.
“What if . . . he wanted Deborah dead? What if that plane crash wasn’t an accident?”
Angelica sighed and did a theatrical eye roll. “Oh, you do read way too many mysteries.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Darling Tricia, you were there. You saw what happened with your own eyes. The plane ran out of gas. It crashed. End of story.”
Footsteps heralded Michele’s return.
“We’ll talk after we’re out of here,” Tricia whispered.
“It had better be over a couple of glasses of wine and dinner,” Angelica hissed.
Michele halted in front of the sisters. “I don’t suppose you’re going to purchase anything this evening.” Not the best example of customer service Tricia had ever witnessed.
“Not tonight,” Angelica agreed, “although”—she looked beyond Michele—“I’d like to take a closer look at those bronze horse sculptures. They’re marvelous. Can you tell me about the artist?”
“He’s from Western New York and sells a lot in Chicago and Philadelphia. I can give you a brochure,” Michele said, her demeanor softening at the prospect of a potential future sale.
Tricia dutifully followed them, her mind whirling with possibilities. She could use the time during Michele’s sales pitch to think things through before she shared her thoughts with Angelica, who was likely to tear her newborn theory to pieces.
Angelica swirled the pinot noir around in her glass, took a sip, and leveled her gaze at Tricia. “You’re definitely certifiable.”
Tricia picked up her own wineglass. “I think I make a pretty compelling argument.”
“In what universe?” Angelica abandoned her glass and turned her attention back to her dinner. Pasta with sausage, artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes, mushrooms, garlic, and lightly drizzled with olive oil. It smelled heavenly and tasted delicious. Tricia knew because she’d ordered the same dish, although she’d been too busy talking to eat much of the meal. Thank goodness for doggy bags—even if one didn’t own a dog.
“It all fits,” she insisted.
“Only in your warped mind.” Angelica speared a piece of pasta, chewed, and swallowed. “You know, I think I could improve on this recipe.”
“I’m serious,” Tricia insisted. “I wonder if Elizabeth might agree with my conclusions.”
“You’re not seriously thinking of sharing them with the poor woman. She just lost her daughter. Leave her alone.”
“But if Deborah was to confide in anyone, it would’ve been her mother.”
“I don’t confide in our mother,” Angelica exclaimed.
“She’s not the most nurturing woman on the planet,” Tricia agreed. “But Elizabeth might know if Deborah’s life was insured.”
“So what if it was? She had a son. Most people with children make those kinds of arrangements.”
“With Deborah gone, David gets everything he wanted. He’s shed of the Happy Domestic, a headstrong wife, and he can quit his jobs and dedicate his life to his art.”
“If Deborah had died any other way, you might have a case.”
“That plane circled around and around the village square. What if the pilot was sizing up the best angle of approach? What if he deliberately let his tanks run dry and at the last moment—pow!—plowed right into the gazebo?”
“But no pilot is going to deliberately crash into a stone gazebo to take out the head of the Founders’ Day celebration, wreck his plane, and kill himself in the process,” Angelica said and speared a mushroom. “If you’re thinking murder, why not blame Alexa and Boris Kozlov?”
“Why?”
“You said Deb tossed her trash in their Dumpster. I imagine that would piss off anyone.”
“Enough to kill?” Tricia asked.
“Why not? What if Alexa and Boris were fugitives?” Angelica asked, warming to her blossoming theory. “Maybe. . . .” Her eyes widened, as though a lightbulb had gone on over her head. “Maybe they were members of the Russian mafia. I mean, where did they ever get the money to open their own business?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tricia said. “I’d never believe that of Alexa.”
“Ah,” Angelica said, raising her right index finger as though to prove a point. “But you would believe it of Boris.”
Tricia frowned and shook her head. “Your mind is full of tommyrot.”
“Admit it, you have to have noticed he can’t look anyone in the eye. A born sneak, if ever I saw one.”
“You think Boris arranged to have Deborah killed because she illegally dumped her garbage in the Coffee Bean’s Dumpster?”
“You’re the idiot who believes Deborah was murdered, not me. But that doesn’t mean Boris isn’t guilty of something.”
Tricia mulled that over. Angelica had a point. That gave her two very good suspects. She did a mental shake of the head. Did she sound like the protagonist in a bad mystery if she tried to twist the facts to mesh with her version of events? Who killed over garbage? David was still her main suspect. Still, maybe what she needed to do was find out more about that pilot. And she thought she knew who to tap for that information.
Eleven
Tricia parked her Lexus in front of Russ Smith’s house at almost ten o’clock that Saturday night. The rain had made a repeat appearance but was now diminishing to a fine mist. Tricia grabbed her umbrella after parking at the curb outside his home. She’d have to be careful how she phrased her request for help—otherwise he’d think he might have another shot at a relationship with her and that was the last thing she wanted.
Before Tricia could raise her hand to press the doorbell, the door opened and a delighted Russ stood before her. “Tricia, what brought you to my doorstep tonight?”
“Deborah Black’s death. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
For a moment Russ looked panicked. He glanced over his shoulder toward the living room. Tricia could hear the roar of a crowd. A Red Sox game? Russ turned back. “Uh, sure. Come on in.” He held the door for her and she stepped into the small, familiar entryway.
“Hang up your coat,” Russ said, and dashed into the living room. Seconds later, the room went silent, and she heard the rustle of newspapers as he did a slap-dash cleanup. She took her time hanging up her coat and standing her damp umbrella in the corner so it could dry. When she turned, she found Russ standing uncomfortably close by.
“This way,” he said, as though she hadn’t
been in his home at least a hundred times, and ushered her into the living room. He gestured for her to sit on the couch, but she steered for the leather club chair instead. Russ perched on the edge of the couch, as though ready to leap up at any moment.
“I was surprised to see you at my door. I thought you didn’t like me anymore,” Russ said.
“I never said that.”
“You sure haven’t been friendly toward me for the last few months.”
“You seem to forget it was you who dumped me.”
“I’ve apologized at least a hundred times.”
“Yes, well, I’ve forgiven you for that. But we can’t have the kind of relationship we once had.” And I’d prefer that we had none at all, she refrained from saying. But she needed him right now. Did that make her a terrible person, using him like this?
Probably. But she thought she could live with herself. Maybe.
She didn’t want to think about that just now, and pressed on.
“How would you like to scoop the Nashua Telegraph?”
He looked at her skeptically. “Have you been snooping around in this plane crash business?”
“Not snooping. Just . . . asking some judicious questions. I’ve got the beginnings of a theory.”
Russ threw up his hands and turned away. “Theory? You can’t possibly think Deborah was murdered.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s ludicrous. You were there. You saw what happened.”
Tricia kept her cool, shrugged, and stood. “Okay, I’ll just call Portia McAllister.”
Russ scowled. She’d definitely hit a nerve. Portia was a reporter with Channel 10 in Boston and had covered the Zoë Carter murder some eighteen months before. Russ was jealous of any reporter in a larger city—especially since his plans to resume his career as a crime reporter in a larger city had fizzled out the previous year.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s your theory?” Russ asked.
Sentenced to Death bm-5 Page 10
