Sentenced to Death Page 4

  Cheryl looked up. “Tricia?”

  Tricia sat down next to her. “Can I help?”

  “Not unless you’ve got a job opening.”

  The question caused a chill to run down Tricia’s neck. “Sorry, not right now.”

  Cheryl nodded and blew her nose. “I talked to every bookseller on Main Street before Deborah hired me. I doubt they have openings, either. Deborah could only afford to pay me minimum wage, but at least it was money coming in, you know?”

  Tricia nodded, feeling sorry for the thin, pitiable woman—and a little guilty. She had to be about the same age as Tricia. Deborah had commented that she had little in the way of marketable job skills, but that she was better than having no one working with her at the Happy Domestic.

  Maybe it was the ill-fitting clothes Cheryl wore or her slouching posture and too-large glasses that screamed “GEEK!” But then Tricia could identify with that. She’d worn glasses for years before undergoing Lasik eye surgery, and she’d been branded a nerd by the more popular girls in high school, who wouldn’t have been caught dead reading for pleasure, let alone reading vintage mysteries. Thankfully, she’d blossomed in college, where nobody seemed to care much about what she read or did. She doubted Cheryl had ever visited the halls of higher education.

  “Is there a reason you don’t look for a job in Nashua or even in Milford?” Tricia asked.

  “Oh, yeah—a big reason. I don’t have a car. The Bank of Stoneham repossessed it in April after I lost my job at Shaw’s in Nashua and couldn’t make the payments.”

  Tricia refrained from asking why Cheryl had been let go. Probably just the slowdown in the economy. Lots of establishments had had to trim staff. She was glad she hadn’t had to do that.

  “I’ve got three weeks to find something before my rent is due,” Cheryl continued. “It’s too bad they don’t pay you for blood anymore. That, I have plenty of. And I haven’t got anything left that I can sell after all I’ve been through this past year.”

  Tricia swallowed and felt guilty because she was so well off, without a financial care in the world. And yet, bailing out Cheryl would only be a temporary solution. Should she offer her help, or would Cheryl take it as an insult?

  “You know why there’s a problem finding jobs?” Cheryl said with a knowing nod of the head. “Illegal aliens took them all. I heard on TV that there are millions of them living among us right here in the US of A. All I can say is, they’ve got really good disguises, ’cuz I haven’t seen any that look like ET or Vulcans or Klingons or nothin’.”

  Tricia covered her mouth with her hand, trying to keep a straight face, because it was evident Cheryl was dead serious. “I don’t think the news media was talking about extraterrestrials.”

  “I don’t care what they’ve got extra—I just don’t want them to capture me and encase me in carbonite or make me a slave, mining borate on some distant planet.”

  “Ohhh-kay,” Tricia said, and realized how Deborah had gotten away with paying Cheryl only minimum wage. The poor woman was clueless, if not delusional. She’d never be able to appreciate the clever puzzles laid in most mysteries. Heck, had she even read a Nancy Drew novel?

  Tricia let her gaze wander back to the investigator stomping through the square’s grassy expanse. Finally, Marsden folded his phone and looked back down at the clipboard in his hand.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to the NTSB investigator,” Tricia said, grateful for a chance to escape.

  “The who?” Cheryl asked.

  Tricia pointed at the man across the way. “Him.”

  Cheryl stood. “Thanks for talking to me, Tricia. I feel better now. Maybe I’ll call the unemployment office to see if anyone in Stoneham has posted a job.”

  Tricia patted Cheryl’s arm. “Good luck.” She watched as Cheryl headed down the sidewalk and turned left, heading out of town on foot, and then Tricia marched across the lawn to catch up with Marsden once again.

  “Mr. Marsden!” she called. He looked at her as if he’d forgotten they’d met only minutes before. Again, she introduced herself and repeated her question. “Have you determined what happened?”

  Marsden stared at her. “Ma’am, it’s been less than twenty-four hours since the crash. It’ll be months before I make my final report.”

  “I realize that,” Tricia said. “I mean, does it look like it was strictly pilot error?”

  “I’ve hardly had a chance to gather many facts, let alone make that kind of determination.”

  Tricia pursed her lips. She should have known better than to expect any answers from a federal bureaucrat.

  “Months, you say?” she tried again.

  He nodded, looking a little bored.

  Tricia sighed. It was no use even trying to engage the man in conversation. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”

  “Thank you.” He turned without acknowledging her further and again consulted his clipboard.

  Tricia turned and headed back for Haven’t Got a Clue.

  Months. It could take months before a determination was made about the accident.

  Tricia felt heat rise from her neck to color her cheeks. Maybe she was impatient, but she didn’t want to wait that long to hear whatever it was Steve Marsden and the NTSB had to say about the crash. What kind of idiot of a pilot lets his plane run out of gas? And just because Russ said it happened all the time didn’t mean it happened to Monty Capshaw. He wasn’t a kid, and presumably he’d been flying for years without incident.

  Bob Kelly had to know something about the man. After all, he’d hired him. Tricia reversed course and started north once again, heading for Kelly Realty. Bob had to know a lot more than he’d admitted the afternoon before. Somehow Tricia was going to have to get him to talk.

  Or else.

  FOUR

  Bob Kelly’s car was parked in front of his real estate office, but the locked door and CLOSED sign hanging in the window indicated he wasn’t in. Tricia backtracked two doors down to the log cabin that housed the Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. Bob had been its president for at least a decade and often held court there. As owner of most of the real estate on Main Street, he controlled the rents and was the recipient of most of the prosperity that had come to Stoneham.

  Prim, proper, and middleaged Betsy Dittmeyer, the Chamber’s secretary for almost eighteen months, was not as friendly as her predecessor, Frannie May Armstrong. Nor was she a fount of useful information. A stickler for rules and regulations, she seemed to have memorized the Chamber’s bylaws, as well as some receptionist’s handbook, and played more of a gatekeeper’s role—shielding Bob from those he didn’t want to see. Tricia might well be on that list, so she decided it would be best to act as sweetly as possible when dealing with Betsy.

  “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.r />
  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 his 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. E
verett 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.”