Sentenced to Death bm-5

by Lorna Barrett

  Davey pounded a picture of a Dalmatian with his chubby index finger. “Doggy, doggy!” he insisted.

  “These past few days you’ve seen the worst of me,” Elizabeth continued, “and learned the worst of Deborah. I’m her mother. I know she was no saint, but she was my daughter and I loved her unconditionally. Isn’t that what a parent is supposed to do?”

  “I always thought so,” Tricia said quietly. She didn’t want to think too hard on that statement. It was too painful a place for her to go.

  Another tear leaked from Elizabeth’s eye and she dabbed at it with the knuckles of her right hand. Tricia reached under the counter and brought out the tissue box, which seemed to be getting quite a workout this week.

  Elizabeth took one and blew her nose.

  “Where will you go?” Tricia asked.

  “Back to Long Island. I have friends there, and my other girls aren’t far away. Somehow Davey and I will build a new life.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “We’ve got no other choice.”

  “Nana, Nana! Doggy,” Davey insisted with the joy that only a small child can experience.

  There didn’t seem to be much else to say, so Tricia began with, “Good luck. If there’s anything else I can do for you before you go, please let me know.”

  “I’ve already abused the friendship you had with Deborah.” She took a deep breath and looked toward the door. “I’d best be going. I’m heading to the liquor store in Milford to see if I can scrounge up some boxes. I may as well start packing today.” She grabbed the handles of the stroller and headed for the exit. She opened the door. “Wave good-bye to Tricia, Davey.”

  Davey looked up from his book, raised his hand, and opened and closed it several times. “Bye-bye.”

  Tricia waved back. “Good-bye, Davey.”

  Elizabeth gave Tricia a parting smile and left the store.

  Miss Marple appeared at Tricia’s elbow, giving her a loving head butt. “That was unexpected.”

  Miss Marple said, “Yow!”

  The bell tinkled again as the shop door opened, but instead of a customer it was Angelica.

  “Good morning, good morning!” she chimed, sporting a jubilant grin. As usual, she was dressed in her waitress uniform, but she carried two cups from the Coffee Bean. Unfortunately, Tricia was feeling coffeed out.

  “You seem unusually happy,” she said.

  “I’m celebrating this morning. I’ve just come from the post office where I sent off my manuscript to my editor.”

  “I thought you still had a few weeks.”

  “When you’ve accomplished perfection, there’s no reason to hang on to it a second longer.”

  “Perfection?” Tricia asked skeptically, accepting her cup.

  “Of course, darling.”

  “Post office? I thought most authors turned in their manuscripts electronically these days.”

  “My contract says hard copy, and you know what a stickler I am for following the rules.”

  Tricia laughed, glad she hadn’t had a mouthful of coffee when she heard that one. Snorting coffee was not a pleasant experience.

  “Well, you’re not the only one with good news. Someone’s already claimed Elaine Capshaw’s dog,” Tricia said.

  “Claimed him? I thought you were responsible for him.” Angelica said.

  “So did I. But when I called to check up on him this morning, they said he’d been claimed. Probably by a neighbor. I never even got to ask Mr. Everett if he wanted a little doggy friend.”

  Angelica shrugged. “It’s probably for the best.”

  Tricia nodded. “More news. Elizabeth is leaving town and taking Davey with her.”

  “I thought I saw her leaving your store. Well, you won’t see me shed a tear.”

  “She came here to apologize.”

  “It would have been nice if she’d apologized to Ginny and me, too,” Angelica said in a huff.

  “It was a blanket apology I’m supposed to pass on,” Tricia fibbed.

  “Oh, well, then all is forgiven. Did she have any idea who tried to run her down on Tuesday night?”

  “No.”

  “It was probably just an accident,” Angelica said, and sipped her coffee. She glanced up at the clock, and nearly choked. “Is that the time? Good grief. The lunch crowd will be over at Booked for Lunch any moment now.”

  “What crowd? It’s been dead around here, thanks to the Founders’ Day celebration being canceled.”

  “I know. You’d think we would’ve had at least the usual amount of tourists. It’s like some kind of retail curse has been put on the entire village. But it can’t last for long,” she said, regaining her cheer. “Now don’t forget, we’re meeting Michele Fowler for drinks later.”

  “It looks like it’ll be the highlight of my day,” Tricia said.

  “Now, now,” Angelica admonished. “Let’s not be bitter.”

  Tricia sighed. “I’ll try.”

  Angelica turned for the door. “See you,” she called, and as she left the store, Grace Harris-Everett entered. So far, not one paying customer had entered Haven’t Got a Clue that day.

  Still, the sight of Grace brought a smile to Tricia’s lips. She’d lost her grandmother too many years ago, but she counted her friendship with Grace as in the same league, and hoped Grace somehow did the same.

  “Hello, Tricia,” Grace said. “And hello to you, too, Miss Marple.”

  Miss Marple jumped down from her perch behind the register to accept Grace’s attention. She purred effusively and head-butted Grace’s chin with almost wild abandon.

  “My, my,” Grace said, enjoying the feline attention. “I can see I must come and visit more often.”

  “What brings you here today?” Tricia asked.

  “William tells me you’ve held the fort for two days now. It must be terribly lonely for you—both of you.”

  “I’m afraid he’s right. I miss both him and Ginny terribly. I thought I’d found a wonderful replacement in Elaine Capshaw. . . .”

  “Yes,” Grace said, turning somber. “I’ve heard. But soon William will be back to Haven’t Got a Clue. He does love working here, you know. Although no one has hounded him for his lottery winnings since he’s been at the Happy Domestic.” She leaned forward and whispered, “He thinks it’s due to his new moustache.”

  Tricia tried to stifle a smile, with poor results. “I love having him work here,” she said. “But you still haven’t told me what brought you in today.”

  “I understand you’ve been collecting money for Deborah’s son’s education fund. The Everett Charitable Foundation fund would like to make a contribution.” She dipped into her purse and withdrew a check.

  “Thank you, Grace. That’s very sweet of you both.”

  “We were quite fond of Deborah,” she said, and handed the check to Tricia. One thousand dollars—the biggest contribution to date.

  “Thank you very much, Grace,” Tricia said. “I’ll make sure this goes into Davey’s account when I do my banking—probably tomorrow. Are you still enjoying the work you do for the foundation?”

  “Heavens, yes,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Dear William suggested I take over my late husband’s home office and make that our headquarters. It’s worked out nicely. I so enjoy working on the Website and researching the requests. And we’re going to establish a job bank in connection with the Food Shelf. Libby Hirt is coordinating the effort.”

  “It’s something that’s needed. Haven’t Got a Clue may be the first to sign up. I’m going to need to replace Ginny, but I can’t hire just anyone.”

  “We’d only send suitable candidates,” Grace assured her.

  “Whatever you do, please don’t send me Cheryl Griffin. She’s already interviewed—if that’s what you could call it. I don’t think she’d work well selling mysteries.”

  “Cheryl is looking for work?” Grace asked.

  “Yes. She was working part time at the Happy Domestic, but Elizabeth had to let her go when Deborah die
d.”

  Grace nodded. “I see.”

  “I guess she’s in pretty dire straits. She said she’s about to be evicted.”

  “Oh my. Well, I’ll have to see about the foundation giving her a helping hand. There’s also an opening for a clerk at the Clothes Closet. Do you know her telephone number? Perhaps she’d like to interview for the job.”

  Tricia was about to say no but then remembered she had a copy of Cheryl’s résumé. She bent down to look under the counter and came up with the paper. She scanned the text, but the telephone number had been crossed out. “Oh dear. It’s not on her résumé.” Perhaps Cheryl had her phone service cut off for nonpayment. How was an employer supposed to contact her if there was a job opening?

  “Let me write down that address. Perhaps I can stop by her home and tell her about the job bank and how she can list herself.”

  “I don’t need this résumé. You can have it,” Tricia said, and handed Grace the paper.

  She read it over. “My, with all this retail experience, it sounds like she’d be perfect for the Clothes Closet.” She folded the résumé and placed it in her purse.

  “How can I list my opening?” Tricia asked.

  “Go to the Food Shelf’s Website. There’s a link for the job bank. Fill out the form, and Libby will contact you.” She gave Miss Marple’s head another pat. “Well, I must be off. Lots to do.”

  “I’m glad you stopped in. It’s always so nice to see you.”

  “And you, too, dear.” Grace gave a wave and headed for the door.

  “Yow!” Miss Marple said in parting.

  With Grace now gone, once again the store seemed . . . empty. The lack of customers was disconcerting. Tricia glanced at the clock. It was hours before she and Angelica were to meet with Michele Fowler. Hours and hours of not much to do, and lots of things she’d rather be doing.

  Tricia was going to have to hire someone to take Ginny’s place pretty darn quick. She brought out her laptop, followed Grace’s instructions, and posted the opening on the job bank’s site. Now to wait—and hope—she got more than just one referral.

  As she closed her computer, Tricia happened to glance out the shop’s front window. Bob Kelly was just leaving the Happy Domestic. Was he paying a courtesy call on Ginny, or had Deborah been behind in her rent and he’d come to nag for his money?

  Bob bypassed the Coffee Bean. He was too cheap to pay for gourmet coffee, and no doubt the Kozlovs were current on their rent. He paused in front of Booked for Lunch, which had been closed for some time. Was that a wistful expression on his face as he turned away? His infidelity had been the cause for the less-than-warm reception Angelica had been giving him of late.

  Bob’s next stop was the Armchair Tourist; Chauncey Porter must be late with his rent. Back in June he’d told Tricia that times were hard.

  With nothing better to do, Tricia stared at the storefront, waiting for Bob to leave. Miss Marple appeared at Tricia’s elbow, took up the vigil beside her, and began to purr.

  “I’ll bet Bob knows more than he’s telling about Monty Capshaw,” she told Miss Marple.

  “Yow!” the cat agreed.

  “And he’s sure kept a low profile since the Founders’ Day celebration was canceled.”

  Miss Marple rubbed her head against Tricia’s arm, as though in agreement.

  “And why does he have Betsy Dittmeyer running interference for him over at the Chamber of Commerce?”

  Miss Marple had no answer for that, either.

  “I’m going to intercept him when he comes back down the street. Maybe I can get him to talk.” She looked down at the cat, whose whiskers twitched skeptically. “I grant you, it’s a long shot—but I’m sure somehow Bob knows something that could help us solve what happened to Deborah.”

  That was apparently too much speculation for Miss Marple, who jumped off the cash desk and trotted over to the reader’s nook, settling herself on one of the comfortable chairs.

  “ ‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ ” Tricia quoted, and went back to waiting.

  Bob certainly took his time—twenty minutes, in fact—before he exited the Armchair Tourist and started back up the street. Had all the booksellers on the east side of Main Street paid their rent, or did Bob have a sixth sense that told him Tricia would be gunning for him?

  Tricia scurried around the counter and out the door. “Bob! Bob!” she called.

  An eighteen-wheeled truck lumbered by, cutting off her sight of Bob. She waited for the truck to pass—but after it had, she couldn’t even see Bob. At first. For a man who had no formal exercise routine, Bob jogged up Main Street at an astounding speed. “Bob!” Tricia hollered, but he didn’t look back. As Tricia couldn’t leave the store unattended, she stalked back to Haven’t Got a Clue.

  If ever a man looked guilty about something, it was Bob.

  Tricia picked up the receiver. If she couldn’t track him down in person, the next best thing was to try to get him on the phone.

  The only question was—would he answer?

  Twenty-Four

  “He’s deliberately avoiding me,” Tricia said, and braked for a red light. “And I left messages for him at his home, his office, the Chamber of Commerce, and on his cell phone.”

  “Bob can be stubborn,” Angelica admitted from the passenger’s side of Tricia’s car as she inspected the polish on her nails.

  “Maybe you could call him and ask him to get back to me.”

  Angelica sighed, turning her attention to the road ahead of them. “Trish, how are you going to convince Bob—or the authorities—that Deborah’s death was premeditated when you still haven’t convinced me?”

  “You could be a little more supportive,” Tricia said, as the light turned green. At least traffic wasn’t heavy at this hour.

  “I set up this meeting with Michele Fowler, didn’t I? That’s got to count for something.”

  “It does,” Tricia grudgingly agreed.

  “I think the bar is down on the left. Snag that parking space just ahead, and we’ll walk.”

  Tricia did as she was told, and the sisters got out of the car. Sure enough, the bar was only a couple of doors down. “How did you know?” Tricia asked.

  Angelica gave a knowing shrug. “I drove it on my computer earlier this afternoon using Google Street View. A great little program.”

  They paused in front of the bar. Nemo’s Deep Sea Dive sounded like it might be a dump, but instead it was a charming little tavern around the corner from the Foxleigh Gallery. Pseudo-portholes, lit from behind, suggested the life of the submariners depicted in Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. That is, if they ate a lot of fried seafood and guzzled beer and cocktails on a regular basis. The lighting was subdued, but the ambience was welcoming, as was the painfully thin hostess with the skintight sailor suit and jaunty cap.

  “We’re meeting a friend. I believe she reserved a table. The name’s Fowler,” Angelica said.

  “Oh, Mich. Yeah, she’s one of our regulars,” the young woman said, and grabbed three menus from the rack alongside the lectern that served as her post. “Right this way.” With a flip of her index finger, she indicated they should follow. She led Tricia and Angelica to a table near the side of the room, away from the bar and the swinging door to the kitchen.

  “Would you like to order something from the bar?” the hostess asked.

  “We’ll wait for our friend,” Angelica said.

  The hostess nodded and left them alone.

  They didn’t have long to wait. Michele arrived like a mini tornado. She stopped to say hello to every employee, who welcomed her like an old friend. Tricia suspected that everywhere she went, laughter soon followed.

  Michele caught sight of them, fingered a wave, and rushed across the room to join them. “Am I terribly late?”

  “Right on time,” Angelica said.

  The hostess lost no time in returning. “What can I get you ladies?”

  “A glass of chardonnay,” Trici
a said.

  “Chardonnay,” Angelica echoed.

  “Merlot,” Michele said, and set her clutch purse on the table.

  The hostess gave them a nod and headed toward the bar.

  “Well, I suppose you want to know all the dirt about David Black and me,” Michele said. Apparently she didn’t see the need to waste time with idle chitchat.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Tricia said.

  “We’ve had sex exactly six times over the last two or three weeks. Marvelous it was, too.”

  “So your relationship is a pretty recent thing?”

  “Definitely, although I’ve known David for almost a year now. He approached me about showing some of his horrible bird sculptures. Well, they’re strictly for the amateur art show circuit, aren’t they? I asked him if he was doing some serious work, and he showed me sketches for his beautiful gate—which was then a work in progress.”

  “How long have you had the finished piece in your gallery?” Angelica asked.

  “Three weeks.”

  So, they’d celebrated the grand unveiling with a roll in the hay. Not very original, but if David was getting no kudos from his wife for his artwork—or anything else, apparently—and an attractive woman was all too willing to show her appreciation in some fashion, why wouldn’t he succumb to temptation?

  “Did you know David was seeing someone else?” Tricia asked.

  Michele sighed. “Obviously, ours was never an exclusive relationship.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “Not a bit.”

  The hostess arrived with their drinks, setting them down on cocktail napkins. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, thank you,” Angelica said with a smile that said, Go away so we can talk!

  She did so.

  “I understand you had a conversation with David’s wife the day she died.”

  Michele sighed. “I called to invite her to see David’s work. I’m afraid she was rather rude to me.”