Sentenced to Death bm-5

by Lorna Barrett

  Angelica took celery from the fridge’s crisper drawer and began to chop up a rib.

  “How long is this likely to take?” Tricia asked. “I’m going to go over to Bob’s house after I leave here.”

  Angelica sighed. “You’re like a terrier, you know that? You just don’t let go of things.”

  “You could come with me, you know. Maybe it would help you and Bob smooth things over.”

  “More likely, he’d get angry with me. He doesn’t like to be pushed. And you’re a pusher!”

  “I don’t deal drugs,” Tricia said wryly.

  “And I don’t go crawling back to people who’ve done me wrong,” Angelica said bitterly.

  “You could stay in the car.”

  “And do what? Listen to the radio? Watch out for aliens?”

  “The Dexter sisters still think we’re ripe for an invasion,” Tricia reminded her.

  “Ha!”

  “Well, are you game?”

  Angelica sniffed and gave the last piece of celery a vicious chop. “I suppose I could go along . . . just to keep you company.’

  “Fine,” Tricia said and nodded. More likely Angelica wanted to make sure Bob wasn’t canoodling with someone else on the sly. “How’s that sandwich coming?”

  “Get the baguette out of the freezer and nuke it for about thirty seconds. I’ll have this turkey salad finished by the time you do that and get some plates out.”

  Tricia glanced at the clock. It was already well past nine o’clock. Would Bob still be up by the time they ate their makeshift dinner and drove to his house?

  She sure hoped so, because at this point, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t pound on his front door and wake him up if he had gone to bed.

  This time, she would get some answers.

  Twenty-Five

  Angelica hadn’t finished her sandwich and had barely touched her wine before Tricia led her to the municipal parking lot to pick up her car. Was Angelica that worried Bob might be shacked up with someone else?

  The drive to Bob’s house was silent, and Tricia was glad she only had to endure it for two blocks. She pulled the car to a stop outside of Bob’s home, put it in gear, and shut down the engine before killing the lights. “Do you want to come in with me?”

  Angelica refused to look at her. “No. I told you, I only came along for the ride.” But Tricia did notice that her sister’s gaze was focused on Bob’s driveway, where only his own car was parked.

  “I won’t be long.”

  “Take as much time as you want. I’m not going anywhere.” It sounded like a threat.

  Tricia got out of the car and walked up the concrete path that led to the porch and Bob’s front door. The lights were still on in the living room, and Tricia snuck a peak through one of the windows. Bob sat on the couch, staring at the flickering television screen.

  Tricia stepped back to the door and rapped on it hard enough to bruise her knuckles. For a long moment nothing happened, and she was about to dart back to the window to take another peek, when the porch light came on, the handle rattled, and the door opened.

  “Tricia. What are you doing here at this time of night?” Bob asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

  “I tried contacting you at least four times earlier today. Why didn’t you return my calls?”

  Bob frowned, sudden anger hardening his expression. “I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to mess around with someone who thinks she’s the reincarnation of Agatha Christie.”

  “I don’t write mystery novels. I read and sell them. Now, why have you been avoiding me?” Tricia demanded.

  “Because, you’re a terrible nag—just like your sister,” he blurted.

  Tricia’s eyes blazed, and Bob seemed to realize the big mistake he’d just made.

  “Ohmigod, please don’t tell Angelica I said that. She’s been giving me the cold shoulder for months. I’d do anything to get back in her good graces.”

  “Anything?” Tricia asked.

  Bob’s eyes narrowed. “To a point.” He sighed. “You’d better come in.” He stood back, letting Tricia enter his tidy living room. She noticed a framed portrait of Angelica—her author photo—sitting on the fireplace mantel, but there was little else to personalize the room.

  Bob directed Tricia to sit, but he chose to stand before the fireplace. Maybe he thought he’d be more intimidating if he stood, but Tricia wasn’t afraid of him.

  “What is it you want to know now?” he asked, with a bit of a whine.

  “Bob, you’ve got to remember who recommended Monty Capshaw to fly over the Founders’ Day opening ceremonies.”

  “How am I supposed to remember? It was weeks ago—maybe even a couple of months.”

  “Was it at a Chamber breakfast?” Tricia suggested.

  “I don’t know,” he complained, and turned away.

  Tricia grabbed him by the shoulder, forcing him to face her once again. “This is important, Bob. Whoever suggested you hire Capshaw wanted Deborah Black dead. I should think you’d want her death off your conscience.”

  Bob sighed, collapsed onto the couch, and hunched over, covering his face with his hands. “I just don’t remember.”

  “What meeting did it happen in? Was it the first time the idea of hosting Founders’ Day came up?”

  He shook his head. “No—long after that.”

  “Did someone hand you a business card?”

  Bob pulled his hands away from his face. “Yes. It was Monty’s card for Capshaw Aeronautics.” He leaned over, withdrew his wallet from his back trouser pocket, and opened it, shuffling through the contents until he came up with a battered business card. He handed it to Tricia. She studied it for a moment before giving it back to him.

  Tricia considered how to approach her next question. “Think about the hand that gave you the card. Was it a man’s or a woman’s hand?”

  Bob stared at the card, and then closed his eyes tight in concentration. “A woman’s. Now that I think of it, she was wearing a funny ring.”

  “Funny?” Tricia pressed.

  “It was gold . . . with a heart and two hands.”

  “Sounds like a Claddagh.”

  “A what?”

  Tricia indicated the computer that sat on the desk on the opposite side of the room. “Is your computer on?”

  Bob nodded, and Tricia crossed the room, taking a seat at the desk. Bob followed her. Tricia tapped on the keyboard, brought up a Google search screen and typed in “Claddagh.” The screen filled with links, and she chose one to Wikipedia, hitting enter. The screen flashed and brought up a page with a large picture. “Is this the ring you saw?”

  Bob took a few moments to study the screen before nodding. “Yes, that’s it.”

  “It’s an Irish wedding band.” She read through the entry. “It says here it can also be worn on the right hand if you’re on the lookout for love. Which hand was the ring on?”

  Bob frowned again. “It would’ve been the right.”

  “So, an unmarried woman looking for a relationship. Who in the Chamber is looking for love?” Tricia asked.

  Bob shrugged, and looked embarrassed. “Most of the women members aren’t married. You would probably have to contact every one and ask if they have the ring.”

  “Who’s going to admit it?” Tricia shook her head. “Asking someone directly is too dangerous. If they were willing to get rid of Deborah, they might be willing to come after me—or you, if you step up to the plate.”

  “You’re crazy. Monty ran out of gas. It was an accident. And don’t look at me to help you find the woman who owns that ring,” Bob declared. “I’ve run into enough danger this year.”

  Of course, he was referring to his part in saving Tricia’s life at the hands of a killer just two months before. But the fact that he thought he might be in danger bolstered her beliefs.

  Tricia stood. “I’ll handle this, Bob.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ve got to call Steve Marsden. He’s in charge of the inves
tigation.”

  “He only cares about why the plane crashed, not who put Monty up to crashing it,” Tricia pointed out.

  “Then tell your friend Captain Baker.”

  Tricia pursed her lips. He wouldn’t be her first choice of confidant. “When’s the next Chamber meeting?” she asked.

  “Friday.”

  “That’s too long to wait.”

  “What else can you do?” Bob asked.

  “I assume Betsy can give me a list of all the current Chamber members.”

  “I was kidding when I said you should visit them all.”

  Tricia nodded. “I’ve got the perfect excuse; I’m still collecting for Davey Black’s education fund.”

  Bob shrugged and moved toward the door—a hint that it was time to leave. “Better you than me. But if you find the woman wearing that ring, you’d better call Steve Marsden.”

  “Of course I will,” Tricia said, not entirely sure it was a true statement. She looked back at the image of the Claddagh on the computer screen and suddenly felt quite charitable toward Bob for all his help. Of course, he had to go and spoil it.

  “If something happened to you because of this conversation, Angelica would never forgive me, and I’ve been in the doghouse far too long,” he said.

  Tricia straightened and frowned. “I’m relatively sure you’re on safe ground, Bob. I have no plans to do anything stupid.”

  “Well, see that you don’t.”

  “Thank you for your help,” Tricia said.

  “I hope you’re going to tell Angelica how I helped you. I need a good word from someone about now.”

  “You’ll get it,” she said as he opened the door for her. “Good night, Bob.”

  “Good night.”

  He didn’t wait to see if she got back to her car all right, just closed the door with a bit of a bang. Tricia didn’t look back.

  “Well, what did he say?” Angelica said, once Tricia was back in the car.

  “Bob remembers getting a business card for Monty’s flying service and that it was a woman wearing a Claddagh ring who gave it to him.”

  “He remembered it was a woman, eh?” Angelica said sharply.

  “Only that it was a woman’s hand. He doesn’t remember who actually gave it to him.” Tricia frowned. “And do we know anyone who wears a Claddagh?”

  “Maybe,” Angelica said, sounding thoughtful.

  Tricia blinked. “You remember seeing one lately?”

  “Yes, but . . . I’m not sure when. It had to be within the past week or so, though. I thought maybe I should get one to wear on my right hand.”

  “Good. Bob’s not good enough for you, anyway.”

  Angelica sighed theatrically. “Oh, I don’t know. I still have some residual feelings for him—albeit buried deep.”

  Tricia started the car and eased away from the curb. She turned the corner onto Fifth Street and noticed that Brandy Arkin’s house was lit up. She slowed the car.

  “Why are you stopping?” Angelica asked.

  “Do you think it’s too late to talk to Brandy about the whole eBay scheme?”

  “Definitely.”

  “But this might break the case.”

  “The case is broken,” Angelica reminded her. “Your Captain Baker captured the thief red-handed.”

  “We could nail it shut for him.” She turned off the engine. “Now, what pretense can I use to get in to see her?”

  “How about asking, Are you selling stolen goods for Cheryl Griffin?” Angelica suggested.

  “That’s too obvious. I have to ease into the conversation.”

  “David’s probably already told her to steer clear of you after your last altercation with him.”

  Tricia pursed her lips and thought about it. Then it came to her. “I’ve got it! Remember at Deborah’s funeral gathering Elizabeth told us she suspected Brandy had Davey’s security blanket? Maybe I could go to Brandy and ask her about it, appeal to her better nature.”

  “Anyone who’d deprive a baby of his security blanket is no candidate for a Mother Teresa award.”

  “That’s the least of her personality faults, if she can stoop to selling stolen goods.”

  “This is where you call your buddy the captain and let him do the digging,” Angelica ordered.

  “What digging? All I have is theory—and all I want to do is just talk to her.”

  “You shouldn’t go in alone.”

  “You think she’s going to threaten me for asking about eBay?”

  “You are about to accuse her of a crime,” Angelica pointed out.

  “But if she didn’t know the goods were stolen, she’s a victim, not a perpetrator.”

  “Whatever,” Angelica said, causing Tricia to wince yet again.

  “Besides, it looks suspicious enough with me showing up this time of night.”

  “Then I will wait in the car, and if you don’t come out in a timely manner—”

  “I do not want you to come and get me. If I’m in danger, you’d be in trouble, too.”

  “I have no intention of coming to save your skinny butt. I value my own hide too much. But I can dial 9-1-1 faster than anyone I know.”

  “Good, then it’s settled.” She opened the car door. “Wish me luck!”

  “Good luck.”

  Tricia made her way up the walk to the house and paused to look into the night sky. She squinted, examining the twinkling lights in the sky. Could one of them be a mothership poised to swoop down on New Hampshire, capturing its entire population as slaves? She thought about the potential horror of such a situation—for all of five seconds—then said to herself, “Nahhhh.”

  Tricia hammered on the scratched oak door for a third time before he heard the muted sound of footsteps approach. The outside light snapped on, and she looked directly at the front door’s peephole and braved a smile. The door jerked open. “What are you doing here at this time of night?” Brandy asked, sounding more than a little annoyed.

  “I’ve come to ask you a huge favor. It has to do with Davey Black. Can I come in?”

  Brandy heaved a sigh and stepped back. “I guess.” She stepped aside and let Tricia enter before leading her into what must have once been a large parlor at a time when the house had been a stately home. All around the edges of the room were the bulky pink, green, and orange plastic toys that seemed like required equipment wherever a child was in residence, although the children in this house had been day boarders while their parents worked.

  All the furniture had a scuffed, beat-up look to it—like it had survived college years and beyond. Perhaps if Brandy had invested everything she had in the now-defunct day care center, flea market and yard sale finds were all she could afford to furnish her home. Or was it that the children she’d taken care of were rough on everything?

  Several self-built, flake-board cabinets lined the south end of the room, surrounding a flake-board computer desk. The computer was switched off. Nearby stood a table covered in white butcher paper. On it was a small red Pyrex bowl and a pocket digital camera—the tools of Brandy’s eBay trade.

  “Now, tell me why you’re interested in Davey Black?” Brandy demanded, and leaned against one of the cabinets.

  “His mother was my friend. Her mother, Elizabeth, is also my friend.”

  “Yeah, and Deborah Black put me out of business, so why should I want to help any of her relatives?”

  “Davey’s just a little boy. He misses his mother; and he misses his blanket. He cries himself to sleep every night.”

  “Is that sob story supposed to melt my cold heart? Listen, I’ve seen every kind of spoiled rotten kid on the face of the planet, and in about fourteen years there’ll be a jail cell with that little hooligan’s name on it.”

  Tricia was taken aback by the vehemence in Brandy’s tone.

  “I think you’d better leave,” Brandy said.

  “No, please. Do you have Davey Black’s security blanket? He’s heartbroken.”

  Brandy cross
ed her arms. “Look, I told the kid’s grandmother I don’t have it.”

  “But could you please look? I’d be willing to pay you for it,” Tricia said, adding a bit of a lilt to her voice.

  Brandy’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”

  “Fifty dollars,” Tricia said.

  Brandy frowned and shook her head. “Surely something that valuable is worth a lot more money.”

  Elizabeth had been right. Brandy Arkin was a bitch.

  “One hundred?” Tricia suggested.

  Again, Brandy shook her head.

  “Two?” she tried. “Three?”

  Tricia felt a flush rise up her neck to color her cheeks. “Five hundred.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  Tricia sighed. “Unfortunately, I don’t carry that kind of cash around with me.”

  Brandy raised her eyebrows and cocked her head. “That is too bad. I mean, something could happen to widdle oohed Davey’s bwankie,” she said, in a simpering tone.

  “Such as?”

  “It might end up in the rag bag. Or the trash.”

  Tricia swallowed. “Would you take a check?”

  “I will—but only as a retainer. You bring the cash tomorrow, I’ll give you the blanket.”

  “I want something in return as well,” Tricia said.

  “I’ll cut off a quarter of the blanket. You can have that as collateral.”

  “But—”

  “It can be sewn back together. Believe me, the kid won’t care.”

  “Very well,” Tricia agreed.

  “Fine. I’ll go get it. You wait here.”

  She left the room with an awkward gait, like she had a sore foot, and Tricia heard her clomp through the house. How long would it take her to find scissors and chop out a chunk of the blanket? Probably no more than a minute or two. That didn’t give Tricia much time for a search for the Dolly Dolittle figurines.

  She started by opening the cabinets—which housed much more bric-a-brac than toys. Each item was tagged with a handwritten identifier, probably corresponding to the items listed for sale online.

  Tricia abandoned the cabinets and glanced at the bookshelves, which held more clutter and very little to read, besides children’s storybooks. What novels Brandy did own seemed to have been bought used from the Have a Heart romance bookstore—or yard sales. The spines looked like they’d seen some hard wear. The rest were cookbooks by Food Network chefs—and a copy of Angelica’s Easy-Does-It Cooking. Tricia frowned. She wouldn’t have thought Brandy would be a fan.