Sentenced to Death bm-5 Page 4

  “Good morning, Betsy. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  Betsy’s mouth drooped, her eyes narrowing. “How can I help you, Ms. Miles?”

  She was as cold as a day in January.

  “I’d like to talk to Bob.”

  Betsy lifted the receiver. “I’ll see if he’s in.”

  Of course he was in. Tricia could see him behind the glass divide, hunched over his desk, intently staring at the papers scattered across it. The phone buzzed, and Bob picked it up.

  “Ms. Tricia Miles is here to see you, Mr. Kelly.”

  Tricia watched as Bob’s shoulders sagged. He looked up, saw her, and without enthusiasm motioned her to come in. He mouthed something to Betsy, but Tricia didn’t wait for the reception’s permission to move. She walked past Betsy’s desk to Bob’s office door and entered.

  “Am I disturbing you, Bob?” she asked, and closed the door behind her.

  He gestured to one of his guest chairs. “No.” His tone was more weary than welcoming.

  Tricia decided to drop the pretense and get straight down to business. “I just spoke with the investigator from the NTSB.”

  Bob nodded. “I talked to him earlier.” He didn’t offer anything else on the subject.

  Tricia looked over the sheaf of stapled papers spread across Bob’s desk. Contracts? He’d said he was worried about liability; no doubt he was checking the exact wording. Had he already spoken to the Chamber’s legal counsel?

  “I can’t tell you how upset this whole situation has made me. I know you must feel the same.” But for entirely different reasons, she knew. “Did you personally know the pilot, Monty Capshaw?”

  Bob’s gaze dipped to the papers on his desk.

  “It’s going to come out eventually, anyway,” Tricia said.

  Bob sighed. “Monty and I were old school pals. I hadn’t spoken to him in at least five years when we talked about the Founders’ Day celebration.”

  “And what did the conversation entail?” Tricia asked.

  “We talked about him flying the banner over the village. He wanted to supply it, too, but I nixed that. The Chamber gave the job to one of our members, Stan Berry, the guy with the sign shop in his garage over on Pine Avenue.”

  “I met him at one of the Chamber breakfasts,” Tricia said, mentally putting a face to the name.

  “He did a real good job on it. Too bad it got torn all to shreds. We could’ve used it at other functions.”

  Tricia had to bite her tongue not to chastise Bob for being so cheap. Losing the banner was the least of the losses from that plane crash. She let it go. “Tell me about Monty,” she said, her voice soft.

  Bob shrugged. “He had a little puddle jumper outside of Milford. He told me he needed the work. I guess things hadn’t been going well in the air transport business of late.”

  “What kind of services did he offer?”

  “Mainly picking up parts or contracts and ferrying them to nearby cities. Back in the day, he flew to Boston on a regular basis, taking off from all the little strips around here. He was based outside of Milford but flew to Rochester and Concord all the time. Then the market tanked and . . . well, you know how it goes.”

  She sure did. Too many people lost their livelihoods when the economy took a nosedive. Tricia had been among the few who had not only hung on but somehow made a profit. Angelica had done the same. Sadly, not all their fellow Chamber members had been so lucky.

  “Did you know much about Mr. Capshaw’s experience? I mean, you did check his references and the like, right?”

  Bob’s gaze dipped once again. “He was an old school pal. I hadn’t heard anything bad about him—and believe me, I hear all the dirt. As far as I knew, everything was on the up-and-up. This was just a tragic accident, Tricia. And I’m sure the NTSB is going to rule it as such.”

  Then why had he been intently going over contracts and insurance forms?

  Tricia saw the letterhead for CAPSHAW AERONAUTICS on the top pile of papers. Oh, how she longed to just snatch up the papers and run with them, but even she wasn’t that eager to suffer Bob’s ire. She tried another tack.

  “I’m sorry, Bob. I didn’t know Mr. Capshaw was your friend. You’re probably suffering just as much as the rest of us who are mourning Deborah’s death.”

  “She was my friend, too, you know.” Bob actually sounded hurt, as though no one had considered his feelings. The fact that he seldom showed any emotion might have had something to do with that, but Tricia decided to be charitable. “The funeral is tomorrow morning at nine.”

  He nodded. “I’ll make a point to be there.”

  There didn’t seem to be much more to add to the decidedly one-sided conversation. Bob could be tight-lipped when he wanted—and now seemed like one of those times.

  Tricia stood. “I’d better get back to my store. Elizabeth needs help over at the Happy Domestic, and I promised to loan her Mr. Everett.”

  “That’s very generous of you Tricia. You’ve always been a kind person.”

  Tricia swallowed. It wasn’t like Bob to hand out compliments. Part of her was willing to take his words at face value. The other part . . . wasn’t so sure.

  Mr. Everett had arrived by the time Tricia made it back to Haven’t Got a Clue. Ginny was busy helping a customer, and Tricia made her way to the back of the store and the biographical shelves, where Mr. Everett was busy with what seemed like his favorite pursuit: dusting.

  “Good morning, Ms. Miles. And how are you this lovely day?”

  “Still sad, I’m afraid.”

  Mr. Everett nodded. “Yes, as am I and Grace. Mrs. Black was a lovely woman.”

  “Yes, she was.” Tricia waited a moment before continuing. “Mr. Everett, back in June we talked about you helping out at the Happy Domestic. Would you still be willing to do so? Mrs. Crane, Deborah’s mother, could really use your help.”

  “I’d be very happy to help out.”

  He looked like he was about to say something more, when the woman Ginny had been speaking with raised her purse and waved it at Tricia and Mr. Everett. “Yoo-hoo! William Everett! May I speak to you for a moment? It’s about my son.” She hurried forward, her face flushed, her eyes gleaming like those of a rabid raccoon. “He’s a brilliant boy—and his scholarship money was canceled. Those idiots at Avery Metal Fabricators decided to yank the financial rug right out from under him, and—”

  Mr. Everett sighed. He listened for a moment more and then interrupted the woman, handing her a business card. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ll have to make your request in writing. There are forms on our Website.”

  “But I want to tell you in person just how deserving my boy is—”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t make the determination of who gets how much. The chairman of our gift-giving committee makes the decision based on need. Now, please, unless you wish to make a purchase here at Haven’t Got a Clue, I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

  The woman took the card with bad grace, shoving it into her purse. “Well, of all the selfish, hard-hearted bastards,” she growled, turned on her heel, and stalked toward the exit.

  A dejected Mr. Everett sighed. “Ms. Miles, I’m sorry that all these . . . these money grubbers keep showing up here at Haven’t Got a Clue. Since the newspapers and TV stations reported where I live and work, I can’t get away from them. Winning that lottery money was the worst thing that could have happened to us.”

  People looking for a handout had become more than a slight inconvenience, and Tricia felt sorry for Mr. Everett and his wife, Grace. They’d been the victims of boorish behavior far more than she had. It was Grace who’d set up the Everett Charitable Foundation, took care of the Website, and gave out the grants, while Mr. Everett did his best to keep a low profile.

  “Don’t worry about it. Now, getting back to the subject of the Happy Domestic, would you mind going over there right now?”

  “Not at all.” He surrendered his Haven’t Got a Clue apron, put away h
is lambs’-wool duster, and grabbed the Red Sox baseball cap he’d recently taken to wearing. “If anyone asks for me, please don’t tell them where I’ve gone—unless it’s Grace, of course.”

  “You have my word,” Tricia promised, and smiled. “But I can’t guarantee people won’t go looking for you. It’s happened before.”

  Mr. Everett sighed. “That’s true. I do wish I could don a disguise. I wonder, should I grow a moustache?”

  “How about one like Hercule Poirot’s,” Tricia suggested as she walked him toward the exit.

  Mr. Everett scowled. “I was thinking more like Tom Selleck.”

  “That would look good, too,” Tricia agreed, and tried not to laugh.

  “I think I should have started back in June.” He paused at the doorway. “Would you like me to report in here at Haven’t Got a Clue this evening after I leave the Happy Domestic?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Then I shall have Mrs. Crane verify my work time.”

  “Very good,” Tricia agreed.

  “I’d be happy to work there tomorrow, too,” he said.

  “Deborah’s funeral is planned for tomorrow. I don’t think they’ll be opening.”

  “So soon?” Mr. Everett asked. Tricia nodded. “What about Sunday?” he asked.

  “If Elizabeth decides to open, I can always ask Ginny to work here, and if she can’t, I’m sure I can manage on my own for a day. I’ll call you later should anything change.”

  Mr. Everett nodded and then pulled his ball cap down low on his brow and opened the door. He poked his head outside, took a furtive glance around, gave her a quick good-bye, and then exited the store, pulling the door shut behind him.

  “Sorry about that,” Ginny apologized. “I tried to steer that woman toward Grace’s Website, but when she saw Mr. Everett standing there . . .”

  “I’m sure it’s not the last time it’ll happen. I feel so sorry for both of them. All Mr. Everett wanted to do was pay off his debts. And now he’s being hounded night and day by a bunch of deadbeats.”

  “Alleged deadbeats,” Ginny clarified. Tricia wasn’t sure if she was being funny or serious. “Did I hear you say something to Mr. Everett about me working Sunday?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’d be glad to. Antonio is going to be busy all day, so it’ll give me something to fill the hours.”

  Busy how? Tricia wondered. Any time Antonio was too busy to spend a weekend with Ginny, that meant things were heating up at Nigela Racita Associates.

  And why did the thought worry her so?

  The lunch crowd at Booked for Lunch was long gone by the time Tricia showed up for her customary late lunch. This day, she was very late.

  “I didn’t think you were going to make it today.” Angelica said, and got up from her stool, scooting around the counter. She hadn’t waited for Tricia, as evidenced by the plate covered with whole wheat crumbs that sat on the counter. She’d spread out the manuscript pages of her next cookbook and had been going over them with a red pen.

  Angelica stooped to retrieve something from the little under-the-counter fridge and set the plastic-wrapped plate in front of Tricia.

  “Thanks. Got any soup left?”

  “Sorry, Tommy already cleaned the kitchen. There wasn’t much chicken noodle left, so I think he dumped it.”

  Tricia frowned.

  “Believe me, much as I loved Jake, he thought of himself as a chef, not a short-order cook, and he didn’t do a lot of cleanup. I’m thrilled that Tommy doesn’t mind washing dishes and scrubbing pots.”

  “So you’ve gotten over the Brookville Inn stealing Jake?”

  Angelica scowled. “It wasn’t the Brookville Inn that stole him from me. It was Nigela Racita Associates.”

  “Ah, yes,” Tricia said, and uncovered her lunch, balling up the wrap and setting it aside. “But you said it was a good career move for him.”

  “Of course it was. And I was the first to be served dinner the night he started there. I like to think it was me who set him up for greatness.”

  “Jake? Greatness?”

  Angelica frowned. “Obviously you haven’t eaten at the inn since he took over the kitchen. Their last chef was pretty damn good. Jake is better.”

  “You know I haven’t eaten there lately.”

  “Then I will take you there and treat you. What are you doing tonight?”

  “I don’t know that I want to go out. I think I’d rather stay home and read.”

  “You’ve been doing a little too much of that lately. Pining over Captain Baker maybe?”

  “No! It’s just . . . Deborah’s death has really depressed me. I don’t feel like going out and celebrating—anything. By the way, I loaned out Mr. Everett to Elizabeth for a few days. And Ginny’s upset with me.”

  Angelica blinked. “Because you loaned out Mr. Everett?”

  “No. She thinks I don’t trust her.”

  “Okay, I’m confused.”

  Tricia stabbed a forkful of tuna and related the conversation she’d had with Ginny that morning.

  “You’ve always said she was the best assistant in Stoneham. And if that’s true, doesn’t it seem rather suspicious you haven’t given her more responsibility?” Angelica asked.

  “It isn’t a question of trust—or even responsibility. I’m on the premises most of the day. I don’t stray very far from the store—which is also where I live, I might add. There’s simply been no reason for her to open or close for me.”

  Angelica leveled a narrow gaze at her sister. “You’re a workaholic.”

  “I am not!”

  “You’re worse than Daddy ever was.”

  “That’s not true,” Tricia said, but it did seem to be the one trait she’d inherited from their father.

  “Admit it, you can’t stand to sit still—unless you’ve got a mystery in your hands, and then the world stops. If you ask me, you’ve dug yourself into a rut. If you want to go out with Captain Baker—ask him to take you out, or you invite him to dinner.”

  “You know I can’t cook much of anything.”

  “That’s why the Brookview Inn has a catering menu, dear.”

  “They do? How do you know?”

  “I make it my business to know what every other eatery in the area is serving and what other ventures they’re involved in.”

  That made sense. Tricia took another bite of tuna. Tommy made it differently than Jake. She couldn’t put her finger on just what it was—not so much the taste . . . maybe the texture. There weren’t as many crunchy bits. Yes, Jake had added more diced celery. Tricia had gotten used to it that way and now found she missed it. Not that she’d ever let Tommy—or Angelica—know it.

  Angelica slipped on her reading glasses that had been hanging from a cord on her neck, and turned her attention back to her manuscript. “Have you heard anything else about the crash investigation?”

  “Only that it’ll take months before they make a determination.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Bob said the plane ran out of gas. End of inquiry.”

  “If only it was that easy.” Tricia sighed and set her fork aside. “I feel like I should be doing more,” she said.

  “What? Helping the cops figure this out?”

  “Don’t be silly. And, anyway, it’s not the Sheriff’s Department that’ll be investigating. It’s the National Transportation Safety Board.”

  Angelica waved a hand in the air. “Whatever.”

  “I thought David might have called me—maybe asked me to help plan Deborah’s service. But, then, he hasn’t even asked any of Deborah’s family for input.”

  Angelica sighed in exasperation. Looking over her glasses and down her nose at Tricia, she leveled her index finger at her. “See, I told you you’re a workaholic. So what if David hasn’t asked for your help. You’ve given Mr. Everett to Elizabeth to work in the store. That will bring in income until David decides what to do with it—and knowing you, you’ll be paying Mr.
Everett’s wages. Short of adopting little Davey, what else can you do?”

  Tricia thought about it for a few moments. “I could collect money for Davey—maybe set up a scholarship fund for him.”

  “Unless he’s a boy genius, the kid won’t be going to college for at least sixteen years,” Angelica pointed out.

  “That’ll give the money time to accrue interest.”

  “Not at the ridiculous rates banks are offering these days.” Angelica stared at her sister for a long moment and then shrugged. “Whatever,” she said again. It was beginning to annoy Tricia.

  “Will you donate something?” she asked.

  “Sure, I can spare fifty bucks.”

  Tricia gave her sister the evil eye.

  “Okay, a hundred. Are you going to go door to door like you did when Jim Roth died?”

  “Probably. And I’m going to hit up Antonio Barbero for a very big contribution. If Nigela Racita Associates is plotting to take over Deborah’s store, the least they can do is contribute to her son’s education.”

  “Isn’t that kind of a double whammy? I mean, won’t Davey be on the receiving end of whatever his father gets for the business?” Angelica asked.

  “Not necessarily. The louse could remarry or blow the money on fast cars and fancy women.”

  Angelica scowled. “You really don’t like David, do you?”

  “Not especially.” Tricia lifted her hand and rubbed her fingers together several times. “Come on, write out a check?”

  Angelica got up and stomped around the counter once again. She pulled out her purse from underneath and reached for her checkbook, then paused. “Who am I supposed to make it out to? You? The Davey Black Education Fund?” She placed the checkbook back into her purse and stowed it under the counter again. “Maybe you need to think this through before you rush into it. It might be that you should hit the bank first and set up an account for the kid.”