Sentenced to Death Read online

  Steve Marsden was still on site, only now he sat on one of the park benches that had been pushed to the side, balancing a laptop on his knees. In front of him stood Captain Baker. He saw Tricia, turned back to Marsden, and mouthed a few words before hurrying to intercept her.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  “How are you doing?” he asked, concern coloring his voice.

  She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” Her gaze drifted to the uneven ground and dry dirt where only yesterday had been healthy lawn.

  “I was wondering, do you have anything planned for this evening?” Captain Baker asked. She shook her head. “I was thinking … maybe you’d like to go out to dinner?”

  Tricia sighed. Baker was just as bad as Russ when it came to issuing last-minute invitations.

  “I’ve got something to tell you,” Baker continued, “and I’d rather do it in person than over the phone. Now isn’t a good time.” He looked back at Marsden for a few seconds.

  What could he possibly have to tell Tricia? That his estranged wife’s condition had worsened and he needed a shoulder to cry on. Or maybe he was retiring from the Sheriff’s Department and taking a job in Florida or Timbuktu.

  Or maybe he was just lonely and wanted a sympathetic ear.

  She could be that person. Heck, she’d been doing that for almost a year now.

  “Sure, I had nothing planned for this evening.” The whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  “Fine. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty. Why don’t you wear that peachy-colored dress.”

  It was the nicest dress Tricia owned. So, this dinner engagement—she couldn’t really call it a date; they hadn’t had one of those in a long, long time—was to feature more than just diner fare. “I’ll see you then,” Tricia said, and smiled as Baker tipped his hat before turning back to Marsden.

  Tricia started down the street again but decided that instead of crossing, she’d stop at the Coffee Bean. Haven’t Got a Clue’s coffee supply was getting low.

  She entered the Coffee Bean and inhaled deeply. She never tired of the rich, mingled aromas of coffee on offer. She’d picked a good time to stop in—the store was empty, which meant its owners would have time to talk.

  Alexa and Boris Kozlov had emigrated from Russia to the United States a decade before. Alexa reminded Tricia of the Soviet women weightlifters of old; tall, muscular, and a little bit more than androgynous, with a rather husky voice to go with the package. Tricia always envisioned someone with the name of Boris to be big, beefy, and jovial, but this Boris was none of those things. Alexa had worked hard to eradicate her accent; Boris had not. Alexa joked with her customers, making them feel at home. Boris brooded and seldom looked his patrons in the eye.

  Tricia preferred to deal with Alexa.

  “Good to see you, Tricia,” Alexa said. “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll take two pounds of the French roast ground coffee and a cup of it to go, please.”

  “Coming right up,” Alexa said, and stepped over to the big rack that housed at least twenty different flavored coffees. She poured the beans into a specialty bag with the Coffee Bean logo emblazoned on it and then transferred them to the coffee grinder to her left. “What’s new?”

  “I’m collecting money for an education fund for Deborah Black’s son, Davey. Would you like to donate something?”

  Alexa hesitated.

  “Nyet,” Boris growled, and let go of a case of their store’s paper cups. It banged against the side of the counter. “Why should we give a ting to that dura?”

  Tricia didn’t speak Russian, but she knew an epithet when she heard one.

  “Boris!” Alexa admonished, and looked embarrassed.

  “Something wrong?” Tricia asked in all innocence.

  Alexa’s face colored. “Our neighbor was not our favorite person.”

  That didn’t seem right. Everyone loved Deborah.

  “That vor dura,” Boris snarled, and for a moment Tricia thought he might accentuate that statement by spitting. Bewildered, she bounced her gaze between the husband and wife.

  Again, Alexa hesitated before speaking. “We had a problem… .” She paused, as though trying to think of a polite way to phrase something unpleasant. “Garbage.”

  Tricia blinked, startled. “Garbage?”

  “That dura always put her trash in our Dumpster,” Boris said, his voice rising. “Then she’d lie about it. She’d blame her help, she’d blame teenagers.”

  Alexa nodded in agreement. “We set up a camera to catch her. Even when we showed her the video, she still denied she did it,”

  “She was a thieving dura and a liar,” Boris growled.

  Deborah’s business did generate a lot of boxes and packing material, and Tricia seemed to remember seeing garbage totes behind the Happy Domestic—much smaller and cheaper than the Dumpsters behind Haven’t Got a Clue. Deborah had been struggling to cut costs for a long time. Was it possible she’d literally dumped the majority of her garbage in her neighbor’s backyard?

  “How long has this been going on?” Tricia asked.

  “Since the day that dura opened her store,” Boris said.

  That was at least three years, and in that time Tricia had never heard about it. She said so.

  “We keep our business to ourselves,” Alexa said.

  “If we’d said something, we might have shamed her into keeping her garbage to herself,” Boris added.

  That didn’t exactly make sense, but Tricia got the gist of his complaint.

  Alexa bagged Tricia’s purchase, handed her the cup of coffee, and rang up the sale.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that you and Deborah didn’t get along. I’m also a little confused.”

  “We’re hearing the store will be sold quickly,” Alexa said. News sure got around fast. “We hope our new neighbor will respect our Dumpster.”

  “If they don’t—” Boris swiped his index finger across his throat, like a knife slash.

  Tricia swallowed, glad she didn’t have the Kozlovs as her neighbors. As she left the store, she wondered if Deborah had ever felt the same way.

  SIX

  Ginny was with a customer when Tricia finally returned to Haven’t Got a Clue. Miss Marple greeted her as though she hadn’t seen her in years, and demanded to be made a fuss over. All that petting produced a lot of cat hair, and Tricia had to seek out the lint roller from under the cash desk to keep her pretty white blouse from looking like a gray angora sweater.

  Along with the day’s mail, Ginny had left several catalogs on the counter. During the last week, they’d talked about making lists of items they might like to feature during the upcoming Christmas season. Ginny had made out her wish list and clipped it to the top of the pile. Tricia ran a finger down items and smiled. They were all things she also had thought of ordering. It pleased her that Ginny was so in tune with the things she wanted for the store, which only made Ginny’s complaint earlier in the day so painful to recall. She’d have to get to Stoneham Hardware to have an extra key made for the store and give it to Ginny, and then she’d take Angelica up on her offer of an early dinner one night to show Ginny that she trusted her. That night was out of the question, as Baker wasn’t picking her up until after closing.

  Tricia sorted through the letters on top of the stack of mail. Bills and junk mail. On the bottom was a bubble-pack envelope. She glanced at the return address and sighed. It belonged to her ex-husband.

  She pulled at her collar to touch the chain around her neck. She still wore the locket he’d sent for her birthday two months before and suddenly realized what tomorrow’s date signified. It would have been their thirteenth wedding anniversary. They’d only lasted ten years, and she couldn’t even count that last year together as married bliss. Christopher’s midlife crisis had caused him to leave his stockbroker’s job—and Tricia, too—to go find himself in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. Since he left, they’d spoken only once on the telephone. Tricia had sent
a brief thank-you note for the locket. It held a picture of Miss Marple. Christopher’s note had said, “To remind you of the one you love best.” It still irked her. After all, she hadn’t left him for a cat.

  She reached for the pair of scissors she kept in a coffee mug on the counter, along with an assortment of pens and pencils. Cutting the package open, she wondered what he had sent this time. Another locket? A bracelet?

  She cut through the extra bubbled plastic wound around a small green velvet jewelry box but hesitated before opening it. Was there a card? She looked inside the padded envelope. Sure enough, a small card remained at the bottom. She used the scissors to slice open the top. The picture was a watercolor of a swan swimming on a peaceful pond. Water lilies broke the surface of the water, and all was serene. Inside, Christopher had written: Ahh, for what might have been. Christopher.

  What might have been!

  Christopher had been the one who didn’t want to go through marriage counseling.

  Christopher had been the one to propose divorce.

  Christopher had been the one to leave.

  Tricia fought the seething anger that coursed through her. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to toss the card and the gift straight into the trash. How could the man be so … so insensitive?

  Or maybe he was just stupid.

  Alone, in the mountains—with another long winter ahead of him—maybe Christopher had mellowed. Maybe he was expecting her to make some kind of grand gesture.

  Come home, darling, all is forgiven.

  Ha! Fat chance of that happening.

  Tricia wrenched open the velvet jewelry box. This time he’d sent stud earrings. They sparkled like diamonds—but had to be cubic zirconium. No one in their right mind would send diamonds in a plain padded envelope without benefit of insurance and a return receipt.

  Cubic zirconium. Yes, their marriage had been a pale imitation of the real thing, too. At least, that was how she looked at it in retrospect.

  And how had Deborah Black viewed her marriage? She’d complained about David on numerous occasions but had she loved him as much as Tricia had loved Christopher? And did any of that matter now that she was dead?

  Eventually, Ginny and her customer approached the register. Tricia forced a smile, moved the catalogs aside, and bagged the purchase after Ginny had rung up the sale.

  “I know you’re going to love that Josephine Tey. It’s one of my favorites,” she said, and the woman gave her a quick thank-you before heading out the door. As soon as the door closed, she slumped against the counter. “Was the store busy while I’ve been gone?”

  “Off and on,” Ginny said. “That was an awful long lunch.”

  “I’m sorry I left you on your own so long, especially as Mr. Everett is down at the Happy Domestic. But I ended up at the bank with Elizabeth. We opened a scholarship account for Davey.”

  “What a great idea. And don’t worry. Nothing came up that I couldn’t handle.” Ginny bent down to straighten the bags under the counter.

  “I’m so sorry about this morning, too,” Tricia said, feeling guilty all over again. “But—”

  “Let’s forget I ever mentioned it.” Ginny frowned. “In fact, there’s something I need to talk to you about.” She bit her lip, hesitating.

  “Is something wrong?” Tricia asked.

  “Not wrong, exactly. It’s just that since we talked this morning, I’ve … I’ve been offered another job,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper.

  “Oh?” Tricia asked, dreading what she was about to hear.

  “You see, Antonio—”

  She didn’t need to say more. Good old aggressive Nigela Racita Associates had struck again!

  “He offered you the job of managing the Happy Domestic,” Tricia said, some part of her noting how flat her voice sounded.

  Ginny nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “How did you know?”

  “Elizabeth told me that David had accepted an offer.” Tricia swallowed but had to ask. “What did you tell him?”

  “That I had to think it over.”

  “What’s to think over?” Tricia said, trying to muster some enthusiasm.

  “Leaving you. And Miss Marple. And Mr. Everett. And, of course, Haven’t Got a Clue. Tricia, I love working here.”

  “Ginny, don’t be so sentimental,” Tricia said, though it was hard to keep emotion out of her voice. “This is a wonderful opportunity for you. I’m assuming you’ll make more money—”

  Ginny nodded.

  “And it’s the kind of experience you need so you can learn every aspect of running a business—so that you’ll be ready to open your own business one day.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Tricia shook her head. “No buts.”

  A tear trailed down Ginny’s cheek.

  “It’s hard to leave what you know and take on a new challenge, but I don’t know anyone else who could do a better job taking over for Deborah than you.”

  “But I don’t know her stock,” Ginny protested.

  “It’ll take you a week—if that—to learn it,” Tricia amended.

  “I wouldn’t know what to order, or the quantities—”

  “You. Will. Learn.”

  Ginny’s lower lip quivered. “What will you do without me? I’ve been here almost since the day you opened.”

  “I’ll have to hire someone else,” Tricia said reasonably.

  “But not everybody knows about mysteries—especially vintage mysteries.”

  “You didn’t know a thing about them before you came to work here,” Tricia reminded her. She made sure to keep her voice steady as she asked her next question. “Now, when will you take over running the Happy Domestic?”

  “If I accept the job, as soon as the paperwork goes through. Antonio thinks it’ll be a couple of weeks—maybe a month.”

  “You will accept the job. And it gives me plenty of time to find someone to take your place.”

  “What about Mr. Everett? Couldn’t he work more hours—?”

  Tricia shook her head. “He isn’t interested in working a full-time job.”

  “That’s right,” Ginny said quietly. “I suppose you’ll have to call an employment agency.”

  “I suppose,” Tricia said. She knew putting up a HELP WANTED sign in the window wouldn’t work. At least it hadn’t worked for Angelica when she’d been looking for help at the Cookery. But times were different. With so many jobs being shipped overseas, the locals seemed a tad more interested in the shops along Main Street and the retail work they offered. Before she made one call, though, she’d ask Frannie. She was still the best source of information in the village, and she might know of someone who’d like to take the job. And it would give Tricia an excuse to talk to Frannie about Deborah.

  So there, Angelica!

  Tricia turned her mind back to the problem at hand. “What will happen to Elizabeth?”

  Ginny sighed. “Antonio says she can stay on as long as she likes—part-time, of course. I think that’ll suit her, as she intends to stay a part of Davey’s life. That is, if David will let her.”

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  Ginny shook her head. “Antonio was going to do that.”

  “When?”

  She glanced up at the clock. “Right about now. I don’t think she’ll be very happy about the situation. I have a feeling she hoped she’d be kept on to manage the store. But would she have the stamina to do that and take care of Davey, too?”

  “You’re probably right,” Tricia said, and felt even worse for Elizabeth. First losing her daughter, then her daughter’s store. And was there the chance David might take little Davey away from Stoneham?

  Tricia stood. “I think I’ll head over to the Cookery to see if Frannie knows anyone looking for a job. I’d like you to train whoever takes your place.”

  “Oh, sure,” Ginny said, and Tricia noticed the tears had dried. Well, did she expect Ginny to pine and wail over her decision to leave Haven’t G
ot a Clue? If she was honest, Ginny had put her career on hold to stay at this job for far too long.

  Tricia took three steps toward the door before Ginny’s voice stopped her. “Tricia?”

  She turned.

  “I just wanted to say how grateful I am for everything you taught me about running a business. It’s because of you I want to make this my life’s work. You’re my role model.”

  Tricia’s smile was halfhearted. She’d lost Deborah, and now she’d lose Ginny, too.

  Some days it didn’t pay to get out of bed.

  Frannie stood behind the Cookery’s cash desk, waiting on a customer. “Oh yes, Ms. Miles’s next cookbook will be out early next year. Here, would you like a bookmark?”

  The man accepted it and gave a parting smile before he turned to exit the store.

  “Tricia, what’s up?” Frannie said in greeting.

  “Sad news, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “After yesterday, I don’t think I can take much more bad news.”

  “Sad,” Tricia corrected her, “not bad. Ginny’s leaving Haven’t Got a Clue.”

  Frannie’s hand flew to cover her mouth. “Oh no! What happened?”

  “She’s been offered another, better job.”

  “What could be better than working for you?”

  Tricia smiled at that. “Managing the Happy Domestic.”

  Frannie frowned. “I thought Elizabeth was taking over for Deborah.”

  “Apparently Deborah’s husband has already made a deal to sell the store.”

  “But Deborah’s only been dead a day,” Frannie protested.

  “That was my reaction, too.”

  “I’m happy for Ginny, but …” She paused, studying Tricia’s face. “You don’t look happy.”

  “I’m happy for Ginny, too, but I’m not happy to be losing such a wonderful assistant.”

  “She knows her stuff,” Frannie admitted. “I’m sure she’ll do a terrific job for the new owner.”

  “Nigela Racita Associates bought the store.”

  “Who else?” Frannie said with chagrin. “Whoever owns that company has deep pockets. Mark my words, it’s out to buy the whole village.”