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  Sentenced to Death

  ( Booktown Mystery - 5 )

  Lorna Barrett

  As the owner of Stoneham, New Hampshire's mystery bookstore Haven't Got a Clue, Tricia Miles can figure out whodunit in the latest bestseller long before she gets to the last page. But when her friend is killed in a freak accident, Tricia must use her sleuthing skills to solve a murder mystery that promises to be much more sinister than the books on her shelves.

  Lorna Barrett

  Sentenced to Death

  For Jeannie Rigod,

  who refused to accept a death sentence.

  Long may she live!

  Acknowledgments

  Every book is an adventure—for the author and her readers. I couldn’t have survived this adventure without a little help from my friends. My thanks go to Krista Davis, Sandra Parshall, Kelly Raftery, Tyra Blackshear-Dedam, and Pat Remick for assistance with legal, language, police procedures, and local color issues, not to forget my eBay buddy, Nancy Ziefel, and Doranna Durgin, who was very helpful with doggy info.

  Michelle Sampson, director of the Wadleigh Memorial Library in Milford, New Hampshire, continues to provide a wealth of useful information and local color.

  Leann Sweeney served as my manuscript buddy. Both on tight deadlines, we encouraged each other (and compared notes on a daily basis to see who would finish her manuscript first). Colleen Kuehne kept me on my toes as my first reader.

  My pals on the Cozy Chicks blog, www.CozyChicksBlog.com, and all the Berkley and Signet Girls at Cozy Promo have been there cheering me on, too.

  My thanks go to my editor, Tom Colgan, his terrific assistant, Niti Bagchi, and the whole group at Berkley Prime Crime. My wonderful agent, Jessica Faust, gives me great advice and keeps me on track.

  I hope you’ll visit my Website, www.LornaBarrett.com, and sign up for my periodic newsletter.

  One

  Founders’ Day weekend. What else could Bob Kelly, the head of the Chamber of Commerce, come up with to try to draw a crowd to the little village of Stoneham, New Hampshire? Tricia Miles shook her head at the notion and resettled the weight of the warm, sleepy—and sweaty—toddler against her shoulder. “Booktown, NH,” as Stoneham was often referred to, had risen from the ashes of near extinction thanks to Bob’s efforts when he’d enticed some ten or so booksellers to locate to the village. It had put Stoneham back on the map and had made Bob quite a handsome profit, too. Tricia hadn’t done too badly either, with her own mystery bookstore, Haven’t Got a Clue.

  A small single-engine aircraft buzzed the town with a long banner trailing behind it announcing STONEHAM FOUNDERS’ DAY—WWW.STONEHAMNH.COM behind it. Trust Bob to think of that, too. However, Tricia wished it wouldn’t buzz quite so close, as it made conversation nearly impossible, and in only minutes her friend, Deborah Black, the architect of the celebration, would be on deck to give her welcoming speech and to open the festivities.

  It was Deborah’s child that Tricia held, since Deborah was otherwise occupied. Little Davey wasn’t impressed by all the hoopla, and the warm August morning had sent him straight to dreamland, which was okay with Tricia. A fall had given the toddler a broken right arm, now encased in a purple cast that he sometimes not so playfully used as a club.

  Tricia looked around the crowd, hoping Deborah’s mother would soon make an appearance so she could give up the boy, who hadn’t wanted to sit in his stroller—voicing that opinion with tears and screams. He’d found her to be a much more comfortable place to nap.

  Tricia stood across the street from Stoneham’s square, home to a Victorian-era stone gazebo with a lovely copper roof that had aged beautifully. The small park was crammed with carnival rides and colorfully tacky trailers with vendors ready to sell greasy, fattening foods. Loitering among them were the local merchants, townspeople, and tourists—exactly the crowd Bob had hoped to attract. Tricia could just picture Bob standing along the sidelines, rubbing his hands together in miserly fashion. That he’d suckered Deborah to do most of the work was yet another accomplishment. He’d share some of the glory with her but would no doubt take the bulk of the credit for coming up with the idea in the first place.

  “Quite the turnout,” Russ Smith said, almost in Tricia’s left ear. Where had he appeared from? She stepped to her right and frowned at him. She and the editor of the Stoneham Weekly News had once been lovers, but that had been more than a year ago. Despite the fact he’d originally dumped her, he now wanted what he couldn’t have.

  Too bad.

  “Shouldn’t you be stationed closer to the action?” Tricia asked. After all, he did have his Nikon camera hanging from his neck. He’d need pictures of Deborah giving her speech for the next issue of the paper. Russ had contemplated selling the Stoneham Weekly News when he thought he could get back into reporting for a big metropolitan newspaper, but that hadn’t happened, either. Still, Tricia found it hard to feel sorry for him—not after he’d stalked her for a time. Thankfully he’d gotten the message, and although he hadn’t completely accepted the fact, his advances had backed off. He was trying for friendship; at least, that’s what he’d said.

  “Tricia!”

  Tricia turned to see Deborah’s mother, Elizabeth Crane, hurrying toward her. At last, she could surrender little Davey to another shoulder. He was getting heavy.

  “Did that boy sucker you into holding him?” Elizabeth said, and held out her arms for the boy.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “He’s an operator,” Elizabeth said, and shouldered the child, patting him on the back. Davey didn’t even stir. “Deborah has spoiled this kid. But then, she works so hard, when she’s not at the shop, she likes to spend every minute she can with him.”

  Deborah and her husband both worked hard. David Black had two jobs and not quite so jokingly claimed he held the second one to keep his wife’s shop afloat. That wasn’t exactly true. Sales at Deborah’s business, the Happy Domestic, had picked up since she’d added a line of greeting cards and stationery to the retail mix. She was in the black—not very far, mind you—but any shade of that color was better than seeing red on a balance sheet. Deborah did, however, admit that David got a bit irritated at having to watch the baby on weekends, but they’d both agreed upon it when they decided to start a family. That said, he was nowhere to be found this day.

  “Hello, Russ,” Elizabeth said. “Are you going to take pictures of Deborah giving her speech?”

  “I sure am.”

  “Get her from the right, it’s her best side,” Elizabeth said, and laughed.

  The aircraft did another low circuit around Main Street. Russ grabbed his camera and snapped off a couple of shots. It was impossible to hear anything else until it had moved out of earshot.

  “Nice banner,” Russ commented. “I hope I got a good enough shot of it to print in the paper.”

  “If you didn’t, it’ll be around again in another couple of minutes,” Tricia said, and pulled at the shoulder of her blouse where little Davey had drooled in his sleep.

  Russ glanced at his watch. “The show’s going to start in a few minutes. I’d better go up by the podium. See you later, Tricia?”

  The man just didn’t give up. “Good-bye, Russ.”

  Elizabeth turned her attention back to the gazebo. “I’m so glad Deborah was able to hire Cheryl Griffin part-time in the shop. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this.”

  “I admire Deb’s stamina. She’s really worked hard on the whole Founders’ Day event.” Of course, Bob had tried to foist the job off on Tricia—and several other members of the Chamber of Commerce—first, but she’d been more adept at dodging his constant nagging. After much badgering, Deborah had given in just to shut him up.

  Th
e aroma of freshly made popcorn wafted on the slight breeze. Tricia noticed Ray Dempsey standing beside his lunch truck, all decorated in red, white, and blue bunting. Despite protests by the owners of Stoneham’s two lunchtime eateries, the Board of Selectmen had approved Dempsey’s permit request to set up shop with what he called his mobile kitchen. That Tricia’s sister, Angelica, was the owner of one of those establishments—Booked for Lunch—brought the dispute a little closer to home.

  As if she could smell the popcorn from afar, Angelica, dressed in her white waitress togs, crossed the street and approached Tricia and Elizabeth. Despite being a nationally bestselling cookbook author, Angelica still enjoyed waiting on customers at her café a couple of times a week. And it was even more imperative that she do so of late, since she’d recently lost her short-order cook to the Brookview Inn’s reopened kitchen and needed to supervise her new hires.

  “Good morning, ladies,” Angelica said, but her attention was focused on Dempsey. “So, he’s added popcorn to the mix. What’s next? Cotton candy and funnel cakes?”

  “Someone’s already selling those in the park. I love funnel cakes,” Elizabeth said wistfully, but her sappy expression soon turned to chagrin at Angelica’s baleful glare. “How’s business at your café?” she offered as a form of appeasement.

  “Not as good as it used to be,” Angelica said, and turned her attention back to Dempsey’s truck. “There’s a reason they called those things roach coaches.”

  “Angelica!” Tricia admonished, although she had to admit the only food she’d ever partaken of from a street vendor was roasted chestnuts at Christmastime in Manhattan. Nothing else compared.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your lunch crowd?” Tricia asked.

  “Bev can handle today’s setup,” Angelica said, volunteering her new waitress. “I thought I should come out to support Deborah.” And keep an eye on Dempsey, Tricia thought.

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth said. She’d started swaying back and forth, rocking little Davey. “I’m so proud of Deborah. I always wanted to do something with my life, like she has, but I never had the opportunity. I got married right out of high school and had three kids,” she said with a sigh. “We never had any money—Deborah put herself through college. She’s my pride and joy.” Deborah was the youngest of Elizabeth’s children and, from what Tricia had deduced, Elizabeth’s favorite.

  A smiling Deborah stepped up to the podium, tapped on the microphone to make sure it was live, and leaned down to speak. “Good morning, everyone, and welcome to Stoneham’s first annual Founders’ Day celebration.”

  The crowd broke into applause, accompanied by whistles and cheers.

  Again, the plane buzzed overhead, and Deborah had to wait until it was out of range to speak again. “It was back in 1822 that Hiram Stone first opened one of New Hampshire’s biggest granite quarries and established the village where we are gathered today. It’s with great pride that we—”

  The plane buzzed even lower this time, and Tricia, Angelica, and Elizabeth involuntarily ducked as it drowned out Deborah before it zoomed into a steep climb.

  “What kind of an idiot did Bob hire?” Tricia demanded of Angelica, who could only shrug in answer. Angelica and Bob had been seeing each other for almost two years, although of late their relationship had cooled somewhat.

  Deborah cleared her throat and continued with her speech. “Hiram Stone was a visionary, and his gifts to the village named after him in life, live on in—” But no one was listening to her. Their eyes were riveted on the sky.

  A sudden, horrible sound erupted from the crowd, and people began pushing, shoving—running away from the gazebo.

  Elizabeth had turned her back to the village square. “What’s wrong?” she cried, over the noise of the crowd.

  And then Tricia saw it—the small aircraft plummeting to Earth, heading straight for the Stoneham Square and the gazebo. Tricia grabbed her sister’s arm, pulling her as she began to run, with Angelica struggling to keep up. There was no sound of an engine as the plane dove at the ground. It hit the gazebo as if it had a red target painted on it. The squeal of ripped metal and shattered plastic tore through the air.

  The plane exploded through the other side of the gazebo, ripping out the support pillars that held up the roof. It collapsed in a heap, and a plume of dust shot into the air. The plane skittered across the lawn and finally came to rest where at least one hundred people had been standing only a few seconds before.

  Two

  Elizabeth screamed, waking little Davey, whose mouth opened wide as he mimicked his grandmother’s shrieks. Tricia hurried to Elizabeth, who tossed the child at her and ran toward the gazebo.

  “Elizabeth, no! The plane might explode!” Tricia warned, but there was no stopping her.

  The plane looked like a broken toy with is wings ripped off. Its crumpled fuselage lay on the ground, steam escaping from where the propeller had been, but there was no sign of fire.

  Angelica was on her phone, screaming at a 9-1-1 dispatcher, demanding they send a couple of ambulances, but surely there could be no survivors.

  Davey’s wails had already quieted, but he tried to pull away, struggling to get down to the ground to follow his grandmother.

  Elizabeth had already reached the wreck of what had been the village’s once-beautiful gazebo. She fell to her knees in the grass, her face drawn, her mouth agape with heart-wrenching wails.

  Tricia struggled to hold on to Davey’s hand. “Nana, Nana!” he cried, and Tricia cried, too. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and suddenly Angelica was beside her, rubbing her back.

  “There’s no chance Deborah could’ve—” Whatever else Angelica meant to say was lost in a sob.

  Swallowing hard, Tricia picked up little Davey and turned away.

  “I just can’t believe it,” Ginny Wilson said for at least the hundredth time. Her eyes were red from crying, the skin around them puffy. Most of the bookshops on Main Street had closed—there was little point in staying open when the north end of the road was closed to vehicular and pedestrian traffic and access to the municipal parking lot was blocked. But Tricia’s employees, twenty-something Ginny and elderly Mr. Everett, had been reluctant to leave the store. Mr. Everett looked shell-shocked. Tricia’s little gray cat, Miss Marple, sat on his lap in the reader’s nook, quietly purring, offering the only kind of comfort she could give.

  A dry-eyed Tricia stood at the far end of her big display window, her gaze fixed on the roadblock, as though staring at it would give her some kind of reassurance that her world hadn’t gone completely off kilter. That her friend wasn’t dead. That the small village park did not now resemble a war zone. She’d already cried a river of tears and knew there’d be more later, when she was alone.

  A figure passed the window and paused at the door, where a CLOSED sign hung from it. The man tried the handle, found it was open, and entered. “Ginny?” Antonio Barbero called, ignoring the others in the store.

  Ginny flew across the room and into the arms of her handsome new boyfriend.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” Antonio said, his voice soft but the lilt of his Italian accent strong. He held her close and patted her back.

  “She’s dead—poor Deborah’s dead,” Ginny sobbed.

  “What will happen to her store?” Antonio asked.

  Ginny pulled back, her face stricken. Tricia was just as appalled by the question.

  Antonio shrugged. “It’s a legitimate question.”

  “Only if you’re a vulture waiting to pick the bones of some poor dead animal,” Ginny said, and pushed him away. “I suppose you already told your boss about it and she wants you to put in a bid for the Happy Domestic.”

  “Of course I told her. But she did not ask me to put in a bid on the business. Only to keep my ears open in case it should come on the market. She sent her condolences,” he offered lamely.

  Nigela Racita Associates was the new game in town. The developer had not only bought the empt
y lot that once housed the history bookstore that had been blown to smithereens several months before, but it had bought a half interest in the Brookview Inn, which was currently under renovation. After the inn had lost its decorated chef, the new management had recruited—of all people—Angelica’s short-order cook, Jake Masters, to head up their formerly award-winning kitchen. Of course, Jake was a trained souschef—but it seemed incredible that they’d given such a position to someone with such limited experience. The fact that Jake was also an ex-con made the appointment even harder to believe.

  Angelica had taken the news as well as could be expected, and Jake had at least helped her interview candidates to take over the grill at Booked for Lunch. But even the mention of Nigela Racita Associates could send Angelica into a ranting rage.

  “Look, everyone, why don’t you all go home. Or, in your case, Antonio, back to your office. It’s not likely we’ll hear any more about this tragedy until the Sheriff’s Department can piece together what happened.”

  “More likely the National Transportation Safety Board,” Mr. Everett suggested, gently set Miss Marple down on the floor, and stood.

  Tricia nodded. “Come on, Ginny, go home. Read a good book, and go to bed early.”

  “Yes, I will make sure she goes to bed very early,” Antonio said, his expression and tone solicitous. Ginny glared at him.

  Tricia stepped behind the counter, found Ginny’s purse, and handed it to her. “Go home,” she said gently.

  Ginny gave her a hug and turned for the door, which Antonio held open for her.

  “I’ll be leaving, too, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said. He did not offer Tricia a hug but gave her a solemn nod.

  The phone rang before Tricia had a chance to lock the door behind him. She picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue. I’m sorry, but we’re closed—”