Sentenced to Death bm-5 Page 7

Angelica waved an impatient hand in the air. “Just a few speed bumps on my way to success. Look at me—less than two years after coming to Stoneham and already I’m a successful businesswoman and a bestselling cookbook author. And look at you.”

  “I am not a failure. I’ve just chosen different goals than yours.”

  “The bar doesn’t get much lower.”

  “Hey! I’m a successful businesswoman, too. I don’t choose to live a life as manic as yours.”

  “No, you get your ya-yas finding bodies every couple of months. Maybe there’s a reason they call you the village jinx.”

  Not that again. And it hurt that Angelica would be the one to bring it up. Talk about bullying!

  Suddenly Tricia was once again the unwanted second child. No matter what she’d accomplished, there was always something in the back of her mind that reminded her that she’d been an inconvenience to her parents—and Angelica—and how they’d probably wished they’d used more effective forms of birth control. How it still haunted her that during some stupid argument about a boy, her mother had blurted out, “We never expected to have another child.” From that day forward, Tricia had viewed all slights and reprimands with a different perspective. Was it a surprise she’d clung to her loving, all-forgiving grandmother rather than her parents?

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Angelica said.

  “I don’t think you find them worth it,” Tricia muttered, and got up from the stool. “I need to get back to my store. I have a ton of work to do before my date tonight.”

  “Oooh! Who’s the lucky man?”

  “Captain Baker is taking me to dinner.”

  “It’s about time,” Angelica said.

  “He said he has something to tell me.”

  Angelica frowned. “Good or bad?”

  Tricia shrugged. “He asked me to wear my peach dress.”

  “That sounds promising. Of course, this is you we’re talking about. Call me if the whole thing’s a fiasco and we’ll commiserate.”

  Not on your life, Tricia refrained from saying aloud.

  “But don’t stay out too late, either,” Angelica warned as Tricia headed for the door to the stairs. “We’ve got Deborah’s funeral in the morning. Do you want to drive, or shall I?”

  “I’ll do it. Elizabeth said to be at the funeral home by nine. Why don’t you meet me at my shop at eight forty-five and we’ll go on from there.”

  “Got it,” Angelica said.

  As Tricia reached for the door handle, Angelica touched her shoulder. Tricia hesitated.

  “I know you’re unhappy to lose Ginny, but you did a wonderful job training her, and now she’ll go on to have a successful career. You would’ve made a great teacher, Trish. You’re so patient and kind and giving. I really think you missed your calling. And I wouldn’t be where I am today, as a businesswoman, if I hadn’t learned from your example. I know it didn’t sound like it earlier, but I’m so proud of you, little sister.” She threw her arms around Tricia, who didn’t know what to say. Instead, she wrapped her arms around Angelica and allowed herself a smile.

  Seven

  It had been several weeks since Tricia had even driven by the Brookview Inn, and the changes since Nigela Racita Associates had taken over were readily apparent—and decidedly for the better. Captain Baker parked his car in the nearly full lot out back, then got out to open the door for Tricia. It had been a long time since a man had done that for her. Christopher, her ex-husband, as a matter of fact. She couldn’t remember Russ ever opening the door of his pickup for her.

  They walked around the inn to the front entrance. Back in June, there’d been no flowers bordering the walkway. The building had also needed a fresh coat of paint, which it had received in the not-too-distant past. Now several shades of pink begonias flanked the concrete. Colorful geraniums in shades of pink filled the window boxes on the front porch, and the dozen or so quant rockers also sported fresh paint. Baker held the door for her, and they entered the inn’s lobby. New carpeting had replaced the shabby rug that had been there back in June, and the walls sparkled with more fresh paint and bright sconces.

  “Wow,” Baker said, taking in all the changes.

  “Wow is right,” Tricia agreed.

  A muffled ring tone sounded, and Baker reached for the leather holder attached to his belt. He retrieved his cell phone, glanced at the number, and frowned. “I’m sorry, Tricia, but I’d better take this. I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll be here,” she said, resigned to a long wait, and watched him retreat to the porch. Then she turned back to the lobby and studied it more closely. Even the artwork had been spruced up. Had the original oil paintings been cleaned? That took money. Nigela Racita Associates had done a wonderful job of restoring and refurbishing, without putting too bold a stamp on the place. It pleased her, and that was about as effusive as she was likely to get about the company that seemed poised to take over Stoneham.

  Eleanor, the inn’s receptionist, waved at Tricia, motioning her to join her at the main desk. “Well,” she asked, her voice filled with pride, “what do you think?”

  “The whole place looks lovely. Has business picked up yet?”

  “For the weekend trade. Until they finish building the dialysis center across the street, I’m afraid our weekday trade will suffer. But it’s only supposed to be another couple of weeks until they begin finishing the inside of the building. It’ll be a lot quieter when they do. But we’re already booked solid for the Milford Pumpkin Festival in October.”

  “That’s great.”

  “I’m so grateful to the new management,” Eleanor said. “Without them, we might have had to close our doors before the end of the summer.”

  “Have you met the top dog yet?”

  “Ms. Racita? No, she’s never been to the inn. But Mr. Barbero has been wonderful to work with.” She pointed to the office door to the right of the reception desk. On it hung a polished wooden sign with gold leaf lettering:

  MANAGER

  ANTONIO BARBERO

  NIGELLA RACITA ASSOCIATES, INC.

  “He’s on site every day, even weekends,” Eleanor gushed. “The staff all love him. He’s so easy to work with. And even though he’s just a young man, somehow he always has the answer to every problem.”

  Ginny could have done worse picking a mentor—and boyfriend.

  “What brings you to the inn?” Eleanor asked.

  “I’m having dinner with a friend.”

  “I hope you made a reservation. Since Mr. Barbero hired the new chef, we’ve had to turn people away—even on weeknights.”

  “I don’t know if he made reservations,” Tricia said thoughtfully. Did this mean yet another meal at the Bookshelf Diner? She’d resigned herself to just that when Baker reentered the lobby and made his way across to her.

  “Sorry about that,” he apologized. “I asked the office not to call me again unless it’s a real emergency.”

  Tricia gave him a weak smile.

  Baker nodded his head toward the dining room. “Shall we?”

  “See you later, Tricia,” Eleanor said, her eyes twinkling. Tricia gave her a quick wave and let Baker steer her toward the restaurant. The hostess checked the reservations log and quickly showed them to their table. Baker pulled out Tricia’s chair, and she sat down.

  “Can I take your drink order?” the hostess asked, and passed them each a leather-clad menu.

  “I’ll have a Geary’s,” Baker said.

  “Chardonnay,” Tricia said, and opened her menu. It had undergone quite a transformation since the last time she’d dined at the inn. Before she could peruse it much further, she looked up and saw Antonio Barbero seated at a table across the room from them. With him were David Black and a woman she didn’t know. David was dressed as she’d never seen him before, in a suit and tie. The woman looked older than him but was still a striking beauty. The sleeveless mauve linen dress clung to her lithe figure, and her prematurely white hair was pinned with an exquisit
e gem-encrusted butterfly hair clip that dripped diamonds. Beside Antonio was a champagne bucket. He held the bottle and poured the wine into flutes his guests held.

  “My God,” Tricia breathed, feeling the blood drain from her face.

  Baker leaned forward and touched her hand. “Are you okay, Tricia? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  “I wish I had.” She shook herself. “Grant, that’s David Black and some strange woman sitting over there drinking champagne with the inn’s manager.”

  “Black? Husband of the woman who was killed yesterday?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Baker half turned, looking in the same direction as Tricia. He faced her again. “What do you think that’s about?”

  “Deborah’s mother said David was selling her shop to the development company that bought the empty lot where History Repeats Itself used to be. They’ve also invested heavily in this inn.”

  Baker shrugged. “It’s crass but not illegal to be out in public a day after your wife’s death.”

  “Deborah hasn’t even been buried yet. And toasting the sale of her business. It stinks! The whole village will be talking about it tomorrow.”

  “That’s his lookout, not yours,” Baker said quietly.

  Tricia pursed her lips and trained her gaze on her menu, although she couldn’t focus on the words in front of her, and she’d suddenly lost whatever appetite she’d had.

  “The sea bass looks good,” Baker said, perusing his own menu.

  Tricia set hers aside.

  Baker looked up. “You’re not going to let seeing Black ruin your evening, are you?”

  At least he didn’t say my evening.

  “Deborah was my friend. I know she and David were having marital problems, but to be seen in public so soon after her death . . .”

  “There’s nothing you can do about it,” Baker insisted.

  She sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just . . . upset.” She remembered he had something to tell her. Would she be further upset?

  “I was going to wait until later to mention this to you,” Baker said, leaving the sentence hanging.

  Here it comes, the old dumperoo. And yet that was hardly applicable to their situation. They were friends. Not even good friends. Still, Tricia steeled herself to hear the worst.

  Baker sighed. “My divorce will be final in two weeks.”

  Tricia blinked. That wasn’t what she’d thought he’d say. “Oh? I take it Mandy went into remission.”

  “Yes. And she’s planning to move to North Carolina to be closer to her sister.”

  Tricia’s spirits rose a little. Did that mean . . . ?

  “How does that make you feel?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager.

  Baker sighed. “Relieved. We’d planned to divorce before she became ill. And then, I just couldn’t leave her to fight the cancer alone. If nothing else, at least we remained friends.”

  Tricia was well aware of that fact. She nodded, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about my future,” Baker continued.

  Tricia leaned closer, but just as Baker was about to say more, the hostess appeared with a tray and their drinks. She set down embossed cocktail napkins, then a glass and a bottle of beer for Baker and Tricia’s wine. “I’ll send your waitress right over to take your order.”

  “Thank you,” Baker said, and gave her a small smile. He turned his attention back to Tricia. “I told you a few months ago that I was going to be retirement eligible in January.”

  Here it came. The other shoe.

  “And what have you decided?” Tricia asked.

  “I’m going to take it.”

  Tricia eyed him. He looked devastatingly handsome in his navy blazer with a pale blue opened-necked dress shirt beneath it. The gray at his temples made him look distinguished, and somehow, despite the years of police work, his face was remarkably unlined. Did that mean he hadn’t had much to smile about in all that time?

  “Somehow I don’t think retirement will suit you,” she said.

  “I don’t either, but I’m ready for a change. I’ve already talked to a headhunter. He’s put my name out there and has already had a few bites.”

  “So you’ll be leaving Manchester?” Tricia asked, then picked up her glass and took a sip in an effort to hide her disappointment.

  “I might even be leaving the state,” he said, his voice soft.

  Tricia couldn’t bear to look at him and shifted her gaze to David Black. With champagne flute in hand, his attention was focused on his dinner companion, and he laughed at something she said.

  Tricia swallowed hard, thinking of Deborah’s naked, lifeless body under a sheet in a morgue drawer. No, if the service was tomorrow, she might already be lying in a coffin—or worse, mere ashes. She struggled not to burst into tears.

  Baker misinterpreted her damp eyes. “It’s not like we’ve been all that close, but I thought I should tell you in person.”

  Tricia took a steadying gulp of wine, carefully set down the glass, and picked up her menu once again.

  “I was thinking,” Baker continued. “Until I have to leave—which isn’t a given—that we could see each other. You know, on a regular basis.”

  “You’re asking me to give you my heart so I can have it broken when you leave?” Tricia asked. Been there, done that.

  “Not at all,” he said. “We could enjoy each other’s company for however long—”

  “Not much of a bargain, is it?” she cut him off.

  Baker picked up his menu. “This isn’t exactly how I thought the evening would go.”

  “I’m sorry not to turn handsprings at your news. My best friend was killed yesterday, I’m losing my top employee, and now you’re probably going to be leaving the area. Excuse me, but I don’t have a lot to celebrate, do I?”

  David Black laughed once again, and this time both his dinner companions joined in on the joke.

  The waitress appeared, dressed in a black uniform with a pristine white apron tied around her waist. “Ready to order?” she asked, sounding incredibly perky.

  Baker nodded for Tricia go first. “I’ll have the chef’s salad,” she said with defeat in her voice.

  “You will not,” Baker said, and then spoke to the waitress. “The lady will have the saffron shellfish risotto. I’ll have the filet mignon with wild mushrooms. And we’ll both have poppy seed dressing on our salads.” He hesitated. “That is still your favorite, isn’t it, Tricia?”

  Tricia nodded but refused to look at him or the waitress.

  “Excellent choices,” the waitress agreed, gathered up their menus, and turned away.

  Tricia let out a pent-up sigh and glared at Baker. “What if I don’t like shellfish?”

  “I’ve seen you eat it before.”

  Damn him!

  “I thought you were going to have the sea bass,” she said.

  “I changed my mind.”

  Tricia sighed and her gaze strayed once again to the trio across the room.

  “Will you stop looking at them?” Baker said, annoyed.

  “Don’t you think it’s the least bit suspicious that David Black is out with another woman before his wife is even decently buried?”

  Baker sipped his beer. “If this were my case, I might. But it’s not up to me to investigate Deborah Black’s death.”

  “You could at least speak with the NTSB investigator, tell him about this?”

  “What bearing would that have on his investigation?”

  Tricia opened her mouth to answer and then realized she had no logical retort.

  Baker leaned closer and rested his hand on Tricia’s arm. “I know you lost your friend, and you want someone to pay for it. But the person responsible—the pilot—has already paid the ultimate price—his life. There’s not much left to do but bury the dead and move on.”

  “Do you know how cold that sounds?” she asked accusingly.

  “Tricia,
I’ve seen a lot of death in the past twenty years. Nobody in my line of work can afford to take each and every victim to heart. We’d lose our objectivity, and our sanity. You’ve read a lot of police procedurals—you, better than most, should understand that.”

  She didn’t want to understand it. She wanted to hold on to her anger. And he was right, she wanted someone to pay.

  And right now, that someone was David Black.

  Eight

  Tricia awoke the next morning to gray skies and thundering rain. Somehow that made the idea of a funeral service more palatable. She hated to think of Deborah missing a glorious, sunny summer day.

  After her usual run on the treadmill and a shower, Tricia retired to her kitchen for coffee and the morning paper. She thumbed through to the obituaries and found a listing for Montgomery (Monty) Capshaw. It hadn’t been in the previous day’s paper; had Mrs. Capshaw waited until the weekend to list it, a time when more people bought the newspaper?

  Tricia read the entry. Suddenly—that was true enough—August 8. Predeceased by his parents, Richard and Margaret Capshaw, and brother, Lawrence. Survived by his loving wife of twenty-eight years, Elaine; and nieces Brenda and Cara. Private interment at the family’s convenience.

  As prearranged, Angelica showed up at precisely eight forty-five, suitably dressed in black. Fleeing under the cover of their umbrellas, they hurried to the municipal parking lot. Tricia drove while Angelica rode shotgun to the Baker Funeral Home. Grant Baker’s cousin Glenn was the owner. He stood near the door, directing the mourners to leave their wet umbrellas in stands in the foyer before ushering them into the large open room to the right.

  Tricia led the way with Angelica following. The long line of mourners stood in a bottleneck at the lectern with the guest book just inside the door. It seemed like nearly all the Chamber of Commerce members had turned out for the early-morning service. At least David had done one thing right, she thought again, by scheduling the service early enough so that most of the booksellers didn’t have to close their stores to attend.

  Finally Tricia stepped up to the lectern, reached for the provided pen, and scribbled in both hers and Angelica’s names while her sister scoped out the crowd. She put the pen down and nodded for Angelica to follow. They stepped inside the viewing room.