Sentenced to Death bm-5

by Lorna Barrett

  “Yes, but—”

  “It’s okay, Ginny,” Tricia assured her, forcing a smile. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”

  Ginny looked doubtful. “I wouldn’t feel right leaving you in the lurch like this.”

  “It’s all right,” Tricia said. “I’ll take back Mr. Everett tomorrow, and we’ll go on from there.” It was amazing how she managed to keep her voice sounding downright cheerful, when she felt anything but happy about the situation. A change of subject was definitely called for. “How did Elizabeth take the news?” she asked Antonio.

  He frowned. “I haven’t yet spoken with Mrs. Crane. From what Mr. Black tells me, she will not take the news well.”

  “He’s going to let you break it to her?” Tricia asked. Typical cowardly behavior on David’s part.

  “Sí,” Antonio said, and looked uncomfortable. “As my employer says, ‘It’s why I make the big bucks.’ ”

  “When will you do it?” Tricia asked.

  Antonio glanced at the clock. “I should do it now—to get it over with.”

  Ginny nodded. “What do you want me to do tomorrow?”

  “We can talk about this over dinner. I will take you anywhere you want to go—as long as it’s the Brookview Inn,” he said with a laugh.

  Ginny giggled. “That would be lovely.”

  “You should go home and change—make yourself beautiful, for a beautiful evening,” he amended.

  “I’ve still got half an hour to go before we close,” Ginny said.

  “It’s okay. You can go,” Tricia said.

  Ginny shook her head. “I wouldn’t feel right. This is . . .” Her voice caught in her throat. She swallowed before continuing. “It’s my last day here at Haven’t Got a Clue.” A tear leaked from her left eye and she brushed it away.

  “You are destined for bigger things, amore mio,” Antonio said softly. He put an arm around Ginny’s shoulder and pulled her close. She held on to him for a long moment, and Tricia was glad there weren’t any customers in the shop. In fact, she felt like she was intruding on their private moment, but it was her shop, after all. She cleared her throat.

  Ginny pulled back. “You go ahead. I’ll meet you at the Brookview in an hour.”

  Antonio kissed her. “I’ll call ahead and have them put champagne on ice. Nothing is too good for the newest team member of Nigela Racita Associates.”

  “When do we get to meet your elusive leader?” Tricia asked.

  Antonio shrugged, his smile sly. “One of these days.”

  “So she won’t be at the Board of Selectmen’s meeting tomorrow?”

  Antonio shrugged again but said, “She has not said so.” He turned back to Ginny. “Ciao, mi amore.” He gave her another quick peck on the lips and was gone. The sound of the slamming door seemed to echo off the tin ceiling.

  Tricia and Ginny looked at each other for a long moment.

  “I’m sorry, Tricia. I didn’t plan for this to happen so quickly,” Ginny apologized.

  “I understand.” And I wish I’d called that employment agency before this. She glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. The agency wouldn’t open again until eight in the morning.

  “I’ll go get the vacuum cleaner and run it over the carpet before I—”

  “Don’t bother,” Tricia said. “You may as well hang up your apron for the last time and take off.”

  Ginny grabbed the apron strap that hung from her neck. “I was kind of hoping to keep it . . . as a souvenir. Would that be okay?”

  “Of course,” Tricia said. It wasn’t much good to anyone else, since Ginny’s name was embroidered on it.

  Ginny reached into her apron pocket and withdrew the key to the store. “I guess I’d better return this to you.” She sighed. “I only had it for two days.”

  Tricia took the offered key and removed it from the ring, returning that to Ginny. “Keep the ring as a reminder of your time here.”

  Ginny smiled. “Thanks.”

  “And don’t think you’re going to get away without some kind of a party to celebrate your new job.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Ginny said.

  “It’s no trouble at all. We’ll do it on a Sunday—after our stores close—and we’ll invite all the other shopkeepers and anyone else you’d like to attend.”

  “Thank you, Tricia. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for everything I’ve learned here.”

  Tricia waved the praise aside. “Now, shoo! I’m sure we’ll talk in the next couple of days.”

  “I’d like that, too. In fact, would you mind if I called you if I have any problems? Just for the first few days.”

  Tricia didn’t have to fake a smile this time. “Of course you can. I feel honored you value my opinion so highly.”

  Ginny laughed. Tricia was going to miss that sweet sound. “You’re my idol,” Ginny gushed, and suddenly lunged forward to give Tricia a hug. Despite the fact she was losing the absolute best assistant in all of Stoneham, Tricia smiled again.

  Ginny pulled back and wiped another tear from her eye. “I’d better leave now, before I start bawling.”

  Tricia sniffed. “Me, too. And it’s not like we won’t see each other. Maybe we’ll even sit together at some Chamber of Commerce breakfasts.”

  “That would be great.”

  Ginny retrieved her purse from under the counter and headed for the door. She paused before opening it and turned back to take in Haven’t Got a Clue. “I’ll miss you, old mystery bookstore.”

  “Go,” Tricia said, and laughed.

  Ginny smiled, opened the door, and left, without a backward glance.

  “Yow!” Miss Marple said, from her perch behind the cash desk.

  “Yes, I’ll miss her, too. We seem to witness a lot of people leaving our lives, don’t we, Miss Marple?”

  The cat jumped down from the shelf and was soon nuzzling her head against Tricia’s arm as if to say, I won’t leave you.

  The words on Christopher’s birthday card to her came back with a poignant pang: The one you love most.

  “Yow!” Miss Marple said again, and Tricia turned back to the register to start her end-of-day tasks. She caught sight of her list of booksellers to hit for Davey Black’s education fund and realized she’d missed her opportunity to hit up Antonio for a donation.

  Before she had a chance to berate herself, the shop door burst open once again. Mr. Everett stood there, wild-eyed. “I quit!” he said with disgust.

  “What happened now?” Tricia asked, wearily.

  “Mrs. Crane and I had a disagreement over trash,” he said.

  That got Tricia’s attention. “Oh?”

  He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Once again, Tricia was glad there were no customers in the store. He walked up to the cash desk, and Miss Marple transferred her attentions from Tricia’s arm to Mr. Everett’s welcoming hand.

  “Earlier this afternoon,” he began, “Mrs. Crane asked me to take out the trash but to put it in the Dumpster behind the Coffee Bean. I protested, but she assured me that Mrs. Black and the Kozlovs had an agreement. I did as I was told, and Mr. Kozlov came thundering out the back of the Coffee Bean. I thought for a moment he might hit me.”

  “Oh dear,” Tricia said, and winced.

  “I repeated what Mrs. Crane said, but he told me in no uncertain terms that they did not have any agreement about the trash. He also said if he caught me putting trash in their Dumpster again, he would call the Sheriff’s Department and report me,” he said with indignation.

  Tricia sighed. “What did Elizabeth say when you went back inside the Happy Domestic?”

  “That Mr. Kozlov was wrong. Deborah’s agreement was with Mrs. Kozlov, and I was to wait until after closing to put the remainder of the trash in the Coffee Bean’s Dumpster. I refused.”

  “As well you should have,” Tricia said. “I prefer to think Elizabeth is mistaken rather than that she lied to you. But Alexa was just as upset about
the whole situation as her husband. She would have told me if she’d had an agreement with Deborah.”

  “My refusal was not acceptable to Mrs. Crane. She called me insubordinate. She called me several other unflattering names as well.”

  “Elizabeth did that?” The thought of anyone picking on Mr. Everett appalled her.

  “I understand the woman is in mourning. I understand she’s under stress, but there really is no call to stoop to profanity when dealing with an employee—especially when that employee is being paid by a third party,” he continued.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Everett. I had no idea when I asked to you to work at the Happy Domestic that it would lead to . . . to this.”

  “May I come back to work for you tomorrow?”

  “Yes, you certainly may. And please forgive me for sending you to the Happy Domestic. I had no idea it would be so uncomfortable for you. If it’s any consolation, Ginny will be taking over as manager tomorrow.”

  “She should be told about the trash situation. Perhaps she can convince the new owners to pay for a proper-sized Dumpster.”

  “I’m sure she will.”

  Mr. Everett stared at Tricia for a few long moments. “This was Ginny’s last day?” he asked, his mouth drooping. He rubbed at the bristles of the growing mustache under his nose.

  “The purchase went through on the Happy Domestic much faster than anyone could’ve anticipated.”

  “So that’s why Mr. Barbero came to the Happy Domestic.”

  Tricia nodded. “He’s breaking the bad news to Elizabeth.”

  “When he arrived, she dismissed me for the day. I daresay that was a stroke of luck for me. I wouldn’t want her to take out any more of her anger on me.”

  “I’m so sorry I put you into that position, Mr. Everett. It won’t happen again. And I’ll speak to Elizabeth about the way she treated you.”

  He shook his head and raised a hand to stop her. “That won’t be necessary. She’s no longer in charge of the store. And I have confidence Ginny would never treat her employees as Mrs. Crane treated me.” Mr. Everett smiled once again. “I’ll look forward to coming to work tomorrow, Ms. Miles. Now, I’d best get home to Grace. She’s making meat loaf for dinner.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” And what was Tricia going to have for dinner? It was grocery night—the task she hated most. Maybe Angelica had some leftovers in her fridge she’d be willing to share. As long as the cabinet was well stocked with cat food, Tricia saw no need to hit the grocery store for at least another week.

  Mr. Everett waved from the door and closed it behind him.

  Tricia glanced at her watch. The store was officially open for another fifteen minutes, but a glance out the front window informed her the sidewalks of Stoneham were about ready to roll up for the night, and she flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

  As Tricia went through the rest of her list of end-of-theday chores, her mind kept wandering back to the scene that might still be going on at the Happy Domestic. Poor Elizabeth. Poor Antonio.

  Her fury rose. David Black was a bully, a coward, and a cad. Angelica had said Deborah was afraid of him. Tricia couldn’t quite picture that. But from what she’d seen during the past few days, the man certainly fit her picture of a prime suspect in Deborah’s death. He’d known she was going to be at the Founders’ Day opening ceremonies. He had to have known the timing of her speech. Could he and Monty Capshaw have been in cahoots?

  Monty was dying. Would his insurance have paid if he’d died from the cancer, or would it have paid a lot more if he’d died while flying his plane?

  The cliché “hitting two birds with one stone” seemed like it was meant for this scenario.

  “I’m going to confront him,” she said aloud.

  “Yow!” Miss Marple protested.

  “Deborah might have been afraid of David, but I’m not,” Tricia asserted, and grabbed her purse.

  “Yow!” Miss Marple warned more strenuously, but Tricia’s mind was made up. “I’ll be back in a while. You’re in charge!” And she closed and locked the door behind her.

  David Black’s car sat in the driveway of the neat, white-painted home he and Deborah had shared on Oak Street. At least, she assumed it was his car. She hadn’t seen Deborah’s minivan since the day she’d died. It had been parked in the municipal parking lot. Had David already sold it, too?

  Tricia parked behind the late-model Acura. She supposed he couldn’t have afforded a Hummer. That would better fit the macho image he seemed to have of himself. Of course, now that they no longer made them, maybe his next vehicle would be a Mercedes.

  Tricia marched up to the door. What was she going to say to him? They hadn’t parted on good terms the day before. Would he even open the door?

  She ascended the stairs and pressed the door bell. From inside, she could hear an electronic version of the Westminster chimes. It hardly seemed to go with the humble abode, but then maybe it had been Deborah’s idea of a joke.

  The door opened and David stood before her, dressed in a holey gray sweatshirt and grubby jeans. Could the holes have come from sparks from welding? If so, shouldn’t he have worn some kind of protection over his clothes?

  “What do you want?” David asked, sounding weary. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Was it guilt that kept him from peaceful slumber?

  “We need to talk. About Deborah,” Tricia said.

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  “David, please.”

  He sighed. “What the hell,” he said, and walked away from the door.

  Tricia entered the home. She’d never actually been inside the house before, although she’d often dropped Deborah off after one of their Wednesday night girls-only dinners. The descriptor that came to mind was . . . cutseypoo. The living room sported all-white slip-covered furniture, with not a sign that a small child lived in the home. The accent colors were pastel, and the walls were filled with shabby-chic accessories. Not the real thing but the kinds of pictures and knickknacks Deborah sold at the Happy Domestic. And while Deborah was herself a bookseller, there were no signs of any books or magazines cluttering up the room.

  Was the rest of the house so precious? Or had Deborah given David—and little Davey—rooms for themselves?

  “Sit if you want,” David said.

  “Are you going to stand?”

  “Deborah doesn’t like me sitting on the furniture in my work clothes.”

  “Deborah isn’t here,” Tricia pointed out.

  David looked at her in what looked like disbelief and then laughed. “That’s right. I can do what I damn well please now.”

  “It seems that’s all you’ve done since she died,” Tricia pointed out.

  His expression hardened. “Don’t start on me.”

  “Someone needs to. You’ve sold your wife’s store, her car—” She paused, waiting for David to deny it, but he didn’t. “You didn’t hold a ceremony to mark her death. And you’ve totally neglected your own son.”

  “That you’ve got wrong,” he said with a sneer. “Davey isn’t my child.”

  Tricia blinked, taken aback.

  “You mean you hadn’t noticed he doesn’t look a thing like me?” David accused.

  “He takes after Deborah’s family,” Tricia said, but suddenly realized that wasn’t true, either.

  “It’s pretty easy to determine these things nowadays. All I had to do was wipe a swab on the inside of Davey’s cheek and do the same to myself. I sent them to a lab. Do you want to read the report yourself, or will you take my word on it?”

  Tricia opened her mouth to speak but could think of nothing to say. Finally she blurted, “How long have you known?”

  “A little over a year.”

  Tricia’s knees felt wobbly and she sank onto one of the slip-covered chairs. David towered over her.

  “But Deborah said you wanted more children.”

  “Stupid of me, wasn’t it? I thought if we had our own child, maybe we c
ould save our marriage.”

  “Then who . . . ?”

  “Who’s Davey’s father? Some jerk she met at one of those gift shows she went to in New York. Believe me, when she told him, he disappeared fast. He was smarter than me.”

  Tricia had known Deborah during most of her pregnancy. She hadn’t let on at that time that she and David were having marital problems. That had come later—after Davey’s birth. About the same time David found out he wasn’t the boy’s father?

  “You’re not totally innocent yourself,” Tricia bluffed. “You and Michele Fowler . . .”

  “We’re friends,” he said, and then a sly smile crept onto his lips. “And maybe just a little more. Deborah cheated first—and Davey’s the living proof.”

  But it had been only a couple of months since Deborah had said David wanted more children. Had their marriage soured that much in just mere weeks? Could that be a reason for him wanting to rid his life of her?

  “You’ve made out well since her death. I heard the shop sold for more than it was worth. What will you do now? Open a studio?”

  “It’s really none of your business—any of this—but yeah, I intend to buy a place up on the highway that I’ve had my eye on. Now I have the means to do it. I’m putting in my two weeks’ notice at work tomorrow.”

  “How generous of you,” Tricia said with contempt. Then again, Ginny had reluctantly given less than a day’s notice.

  “Look, I’ve got things to do. It’s time you left.”

  “But—”

  David grabbed her arm and pulled her up from the chair, pushing her toward the door. “It’s been a nice visit. Don’t hurry back. In fact, if we never speak again, it’ll be fine with me.”

  “But Deborah—”

  “Is dead, and it’s time we both moved on.”

  Did he realize how guilty his attitude made him look? Here he was the classic cuckold husband wanting revenge. What better excuse was there for murder?

  “Good night,” David said, pushed Tricia over the threshold, and closed the door behind her.

  Tricia stalked back to her car, got inside, and pulled her cell phone from her purse. She punched in Elizabeth’s number and waited. After four rings, it rolled over to voice mail, so she left a message asking Elizabeth to call her. Elizabeth may have been too upset by Antonio’s visit to be taking calls. Tricia couldn’t blame her. But she needed to do something and she had an idea of what that might be.