Sentenced to Death (16 page)

Tricia had to bite her tongue not to spill her suspicions about David.
Now isn’t the time
, she reminded herself.

“And worst of all—I’ve heard the new owners have hired your Ginny to be the manager.
She’s
younger than Deborah was. How can I take orders from her when I know the shop and its stock better than she ever will?”

“Please don’t blame Ginny for any of this. She was offered the job and it was in her best interests to take it. I’ve worked with her for two and a half years. She’s good. And she’ll do right by Deborah’s store.”

“I know. It’s just”—Elizabeth grabbed a tissue from a box under the counter and pressed it to her leaking eyes—“it’s all happened so fast. Four days ago, Deborah and I were making lists for our holiday orders. Now she’s dead, and the store has been sold, and I’ll be relegated to part-time assistant. That is until the new owners decide I’m excess baggage and get rid of me altogether.”

Tricia didn’t know what to say, how to comfort the woman. She looked away, taking in the tall spindle card rack. It was turned so that the sympathy cards faced her. She’d been so busy she hadn’t thought to send Elizabeth—or David—a sympathy card. And would it be in bad taste to buy one from Deborah’s own store?

Elizabeth took a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry to dump all this on you, Tricia. I simply don’t have anyone else to talk to about it.”

“What about your other children?”

“They say I should walk away from the store—let David do what he wants to do and not make a fuss. They’re afraid if I make waves he’ll keep me from seeing Davey—and none of us want that.”

“Do you think David would actually be that cruel?” Tricia asked.

Elizabeth sighed. “I don’t know what to think. I’ve already lost Deborah. I don’t want to end up without Davey in my life, too.”

“But you’ve had Davey since—” She bit her tongue to keep from reminding Elizabeth about Deborah’s death. “Since Thursday, right? Hasn’t he spent any time with his father?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “But that doesn’t mean David might change his mind in an instant and take him away from me.”

“Shouldn’t he be with his father?” Tricia asked.

“David
never
wanted children,” Elizabeth spat.

That wasn’t what Deborah had said. Earlier in the summer, she’d told Tricia that David wanted more children and that she was the one who wasn’t prepared to have another child. Had she shared that information with her own mother?

“Please don’t tell Ginny my real feelings about her taking over the store,” Elizabeth said.

“I won’t,” Tricia promised, but Ginny was perceptive. She’d know exactly how Elizabeth felt. Still, managing a staff—or in this case one part-time person—was what Ginny needed to learn if she was either going to climb the Nigela Racita Associates corporate ladder—or own her own store one day.

Elizabeth drained her cup and stood, which seemed like a not-so-subtle hint that it was time for Tricia to leave.

She took it. “I’d better be off. It’s sure to be a busy day.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, and tossed her cup into the trash. “I have a lot to accomplish before David yanks the store out from under me. I’d better get to it. I’m sure I’ll see you around, Tricia.”

Tricia forced a smile at the dismissal and headed for the door.

She had liked Elizabeth’s daughter much better than she liked Elizabeth.

 

 

No sooner
had Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue than the phone rang. Tricia picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue. This is Tricia. How can I—?”

“Tricia, it’s Russ. Can you meet me for coffee—in Milford?”

“What’s wrong with your office?” she asked, suddenly annoyed.

“I’m already here. I’ve got an emergency appointment with my dentist in forty-five minutes.”

Tricia glanced at the clock on the wall. “Oh, all right, but I’ve got to wait until Ginny comes in. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Okay, but make it fast. I’ve got some news I think you’ll want to hear.” He gave her the directions and then hung up.

Tricia replaced the receiver and frowned. “Why couldn’t he have just told her over the phone whatever he’d found out? Why all the intrigue?

As she’d hoped, Ginny arrived early and Tricia flew out the door.

The little diner Russ chose for their informational rendezvous was in a strip mall on Nashua Street, not far from the Milford Oval. The small restaurant was rather nondescript with pale yellow or beige walls (Tricia wasn’t sure quite what the color was), and a few halfhearted attempts at decor, like the fake flowers in glass bud vases on every table. Russ was ensconced in one of the back booths. The diner’s menu boasted the best seafood chowder in the state. Since Tricia had had no breakfast that morning, she asked about it, and was assured that at eleven forty-five it was readily available. In the meantime, she sipped her coffee.

“Nice place,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You won’t be so smug once you taste that chowder,” Russ said.

“So what dental calamity has befallen you since last night?’ Tricia asked.

“I’ve got a bridge ready to collapse and I want it fixed before it drops out of my mouth while eating a marshmallow.”

“I didn’t realize your teeth were so fragile.”

“I’m joking about the marshmallow. But a friend of mine lost a bridge while eating a soft dinner roll. I don’t want that to happen to me, and I’m willing to pay Sunday rates to see that it doesn’t.”

Tricia wasted no more time on small talk. “So what have you found out about Monty Capshaw and how on earth did you do it so fast?”

Russ leaned back in the booth, “I’ve got friends in high
and
low places, and a lot of them owe me favors—like you will after we talk.” He really must have dental problems, she decided. Every time he said something with an
s
, his tongue seemed to slip so that he spoke with a slight lisp.

Tricia leveled her gaze at him. What he’d said was not the words of a man hoping for a reconciliation. “And when were you thinking of calling in this favor?”

“Some time in the future. And don’t worry, it won’t be something you can’t deliver.” He sounded so damned smug. But before she could reply, the waitress arrived with her soup and a package of oyster crackers. Tricia plunged her spoon into the creamy chowder and took her first mouthful. Her eyes widened as she let the soup lie on her tongue for a moment to savor the taste.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Russ asked, rubbing it in.

The menu hadn’t been bragging. This
was
the best seafood chowder she’d ever eaten—even topping Angelica’s, which was saying something.

Tricia swallowed. “I
will
be coming back here on a regular basis. Angelica has got to try this.”

Russ positively grinned. But Tricia hadn’t forgotten why the two of them were really there. “Monty Capshaw,” she reminded him.

Russ leaned forward and dropped his voice. “The man was broke. He was days away from having his plane repossessed.”

“What about the cancer? His wife said he was in remission.”

Russ shook his head. “Not according to some of his buddies at the airfield. He didn’t want his wife to know that the cancer had come back. He was told he had three months.”

“When was this?”

“A couple of weeks ago. And he was looking for a way out of his money situation. That’s why he took the job flying the banner for Founders’ Day.”

“Was he fit to fly?”

Russ shook his head. “Not in the opinion of his cronies. They predicted something like this would happen.”

Tricia shook her head. “I might think that if the plane hadn’t run out of fuel. You saw how he circled the village until his tanks were dry.”

“You’re still trying to tie this into Deborah’s death, aren’t you?”

“It just seems very convenient for David Black that his wife’s death suddenly opens so many doors for him.”

“Like what?”

“Out of a marriage that wasn’t working. Into the arms of a lover who can introduce him to the bigwigs in the art world. He’ll also get insurance money and the money from the sale of the store.”

“So, he got lucky,” Russ said with a shrug.

Tricia glowered at him before spooning up another mouthful of soup. “What about Capshaw—was he insured?”

“To the hilt. He told his buddies that he would never leave his wife high and dry. And it looks like he didn’t.”

“Too bad you couldn’t get a look at his bank accounts.”

“Don’t be too sure I can’t.”

“Russ!” she admonished.

“What I mean,” he clarified, “is that I might know someone who can.”

“That’s illegal,” she hissed, hoping no one nearby had heard his boast.

“What are you looking for? Some kind of large payment to his savings or checking account?”

Tricia frowned. “Something like that.”

“I think I can find out.”

“And what’s in it for you?” Tricia asked.

“I think you may be right. There’s more to David Black than meets the eye.”

“I know there is. I checked out his art at the Foxleigh Gallery in Portsmouth last night. He’s got a piece there that blows away everything he’s done before.”

“His lawn art really sucks—but he
has
made money at it,” Russ said.

“How would you know?” Tricia asked.

“I ran a piece on him last summer in the
Stoneham Weekly News
.”

“I must have missed it,” Tricia said, and scraped the last of her chowder from the bowl. The truth was, she rarely read the local weekly news rag. “Did David mention he was trying new things?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. But he wasn’t willing to talk about it at the time.”

“I’d like to read the piece. Have you still got copies?”

“Not hard copies. Call over to the office and ask one of the girls to e-mail it to you.”

“Thanks.”

“What else have
you
got on David Black?” Russ asked.

“He doesn’t seem very interested in his son. His motherin-law says he hasn’t been with the boy since Deborah died.”

Russ frowned. “He’s a rotten little kid. I can’t say I blame David.”

“Davey’s just a baby,” Tricia said, taken aback.

“Hitler started out as a child, too.”

Tricia shook her head, pushed her bowl away, and wondered if she could get an order of the chowder to go. “Are you going to keep pursuing the story?”

“I’ve got a business to run. You could do some of the legwork yourself.”

“Like what?” Tricia asked.

“Find out what else David Black has on his plate.”

“And how am I supposed to do that? Stake him out?”

“Why not? You’re also chums with the biggest gossips in the village. Frannie, for one.”

“Ah, but she’s been closemouthed about some things lately.”

“That’s something you could explore as well.” Russ looked at his watch and frowned. “There’s a dentist’s chair waiting with my name on it.” He reached for his wallet and peeled out a couple of ones. “You don’t mind paying for your soup yourself, do you?”

Tricia shook her head. As a matter of fact, she didn’t. This meant she owed him nothing—except some favor in the vague future. She didn’t like that—not one bit.

“Call me tomorrow,” Russ said, got up from the booth, and left the diner.

Tricia signaled the waitress, ordered soup to go, vacated the table, and paid the check. It took only a minute or two for her to-go order to arrive before she, too, left the diner. She was halfway to her car when she spied a jewelry store on the other side of the strip mall. A neon sign winked OPEN.
Tacky
, she thought, and instinctively reached for the post in her left ear. On the spur of the moment, she decided she could use some exercise. She and her little take-out bag headed for Maxwell & Sons.

A small bell tinkled in greeting as she opened the door. No other customers loitered around the small, sedately decorated showroom, and in seconds a salesman stepped through a dark velvet curtain at the back of the shop. “May I help you?”

Tricia stepped up to the glass showcase. “I hope so. I was wondering, can you tell cubic zirconium from a genuine diamond?”

“That’s quite easy to determine. Do you have something you’d like checked?”

Tricia touched her left earlobe, twisting the stud earring a quarter turn. “I got these earrings from a friend, and . . .”

“Ah,” the gentleman said, and nodded in understanding. “Customers come in here all the time wanting to know the value of gifts they receive.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Tricia said. “I just wanted to make sure for . . . for . . .” Her mind whirled. “For insurance purposes.”

The salesman’s placid expression never wavered. “Very good.”

Tricia set her purse and the soup on the counter. She carefully removed her earring and handed it to the jeweler, who collected it in a soft gray shammy. He rubbed the stone for several seconds before he popped a loupe onto his eye and examined the earring. “Hmm.”

Tricia felt her stomach muscles tense. Was that a good or bad “hmmm”?

“May I take a look at the other?”

Tricia removed and then handed him the second earring. He examined it with the same poker face, before removing the loupe. He pulled out a small scale and weighed each. “A full carat each.”

“Cubic zirconium,” she stated.

“Diamonds, ma’am. They’re both exquisite—and beautifully cut.”

“
Real
diamonds?” Tricia asked, her throat tightening.

“Did you want to sell them?”

“No!” But did she want to keep such an expensive gift?

Yes! Too bad they’d come from a man who’d unceremoniously dumped and then divorced her.

And yet . . . why had Christopher now sent her two gifts of jewelry? She fingered the chain on her neck. On impulse, she unfastened the catch and handed the chain to the jeweler. “Is this chain real gold?”