Sentenced to Death (20 page)

“She should be told about the trash situation. Perhaps she can convince the new owners to pay for a proper-sized Dumpster.”

“I’m sure she will.”

Mr. Everett stared at Tricia for a few long moments. “This was Ginny’s last day?” he asked, his mouth drooping. He rubbed at the bristles of the growing mustache under his nose.

“The purchase went through on the Happy Domestic much faster than anyone could’ve anticipated.”

“So that’s why Mr. Barbero came to the Happy Domestic.”

Tricia nodded. “He’s breaking the bad news to Elizabeth.”

“When he arrived, she dismissed me for the day. I daresay that was a stroke of luck for me. I wouldn’t want her to take out any more of her anger on me.”

“I’m so sorry I put you into that position, Mr. Everett. It won’t happen again. And I’ll speak to Elizabeth about the way she treated you.”

He shook his head and raised a hand to stop her. “That won’t be necessary. She’s no longer in charge of the store. And I have confidence Ginny would never treat her employees as Mrs. Crane treated me.” Mr. Everett smiled once again. “I’ll look forward to coming to work tomorrow, Ms. Miles. Now, I’d best get home to Grace. She’s making meat loaf for dinner.”

“Sounds wonderful.” And what was Tricia going to have for dinner? It was grocery night—the task she hated most. Maybe Angelica had some leftovers in her fridge she’d be willing to share. As long as the cabinet was well stocked with cat food, Tricia saw no need to hit the grocery store for at least another week.

Mr. Everett waved from the door and closed it behind him.

Tricia glanced at her watch. The store was officially open for another fifteen minutes, but a glance out the front window informed her the sidewalks of Stoneham were about ready to roll up for the night, and she flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

As Tricia went through the rest of her list of end-of-theday chores, her mind kept wandering back to the scene that might still be going on at the Happy Domestic. Poor Elizabeth. Poor Antonio.

Her fury rose. David Black was a bully, a coward, and a cad. Angelica had said Deborah was afraid of him. Tricia couldn’t quite picture that. But from what she’d seen during the past few days, the man certainly fit her picture of a prime suspect in Deborah’s death. He’d known she was going to be at the Founders’ Day opening ceremonies. He had to have known the timing of her speech. Could he and Monty Capshaw have been in cahoots?

Monty was dying. Would his insurance have paid if he’d died from the cancer, or would it have paid a lot more if he’d died while flying his plane?

The cliché “hitting two birds with one stone” seemed like it was meant for this scenario.

“I’m going to confront him,” she said aloud.

“Yow!”
Miss Marple protested.

“Deborah might have been afraid of David, but I’m not,” Tricia asserted, and grabbed her purse.

“Yow!”
Miss Marple warned more strenuously, but Tricia’s mind was made up. “I’ll be back in a while. You’re in charge!” And she closed and locked the door behind her.

 

 

David Black’s
car sat in the driveway of the neat, white-painted home he and Deborah had shared on Oak Street. At least, she assumed it was his car. She hadn’t seen Deborah’s minivan since the day she’d died. It had been parked in the municipal parking lot. Had David already sold it, too?

Tricia parked behind the late-model Acura. She supposed he couldn’t have afforded a Hummer. That would better fit the macho image he seemed to have of himself. Of course, now that they no longer made them, maybe his next vehicle would be a Mercedes.

Tricia marched up to the door. What was she going to say to him? They hadn’t parted on good terms the day before. Would he even open the door?

She ascended the stairs and pressed the door bell. From inside, she could hear an electronic version of the Westminster chimes. It hardly seemed to go with the humble abode, but then maybe it had been Deborah’s idea of a joke.

The door opened and David stood before her, dressed in a holey gray sweatshirt and grubby jeans. Could the holes have come from sparks from welding? If so, shouldn’t he have worn some kind of protection over his clothes?

“What do you want?” David asked, sounding weary. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Was it guilt that kept him from peaceful slumber?

“We need to talk. About Deborah,” Tricia said.

“There’s nothing to say.”

“David, please.”

He sighed. “What the hell,” he said, and walked away from the door.

Tricia entered the home. She’d never actually been inside the house before, although she’d often dropped Deborah off after one of their Wednesday night girls-only dinners. The descriptor that came to mind was . . . cutseypoo. The living room sported all-white slip-covered furniture, with not a sign that a small child lived in the home. The accent colors were pastel, and the walls were filled with shabby-chic accessories. Not the real thing but the kinds of pictures and knickknacks Deborah sold at the Happy Domestic. And while Deborah was herself a bookseller, there were no signs of any books or magazines cluttering up the room.

Was the rest of the house so precious? Or had Deborah given David—and little Davey—rooms for themselves?

“Sit if you want,” David said.

“Are you going to stand?”

“Deborah doesn’t like me sitting on the furniture in my work clothes.”

“Deborah isn’t here,” Tricia pointed out.

David looked at her in what looked like disbelief and then laughed. “That’s right. I can do what I damn well please now.”

“It seems that’s all you’ve done since she died,” Tricia pointed out.

His expression hardened. “Don’t start on me.”

“Someone needs to. You’ve sold your wife’s store, her car—” She paused, waiting for David to deny it, but he didn’t. “You didn’t hold a ceremony to mark her death. And you’ve totally neglected your own son.”

“That you’ve got wrong,” he said with a sneer. “Davey isn’t my child.”

Tricia blinked, taken aback.

“You mean you hadn’t noticed he doesn’t look a thing like me?” David accused.

“He takes after Deborah’s family,” Tricia said, but suddenly realized that wasn’t true, either.

“It’s pretty easy to determine these things nowadays. All I had to do was wipe a swab on the inside of Davey’s cheek and do the same to myself. I sent them to a lab. Do you want to read the report yourself, or will you take my word on it?”

Tricia opened her mouth to speak but could think of nothing to say. Finally she blurted, “How long have you known?”

“A little over a year.”

Tricia’s knees felt wobbly and she sank onto one of the slip-covered chairs. David towered over her.

“But Deborah said you wanted more children.”

“Stupid of me, wasn’t it? I thought if we had our own child, maybe we could save our marriage.”

“Then who . . . ?”

“Who’s Davey’s father? Some jerk she met at one of those gift shows she went to in New York. Believe me, when she told him, he disappeared fast. He was smarter than me.”

Tricia had known Deborah during most of her pregnancy. She hadn’t let on at that time that she and David were having marital problems. That had come later—after Davey’s birth. About the same time David found out he wasn’t the boy’s father?

“You’re not totally innocent yourself,” Tricia bluffed. “You and Michele Fowler . . .”

“We’re friends,” he said, and then a sly smile crept onto his lips. “And maybe just a little more. Deborah cheated first—and Davey’s the living proof.”

But it had been only a couple of months since Deborah had said David wanted more children. Had their marriage soured that much in just mere weeks? Could that be a reason for him wanting to rid his life of her?

“You’ve made out well since her death. I heard the shop sold for more than it was worth. What will you do now? Open a studio?”

“It’s really none of your business—any of this—but yeah, I intend to buy a place up on the highway that I’ve had my eye on. Now I have the means to do it. I’m putting in my two weeks’ notice at work tomorrow.”

“How generous of you,” Tricia said with contempt. Then again, Ginny had reluctantly given less than a day’s notice.

“Look, I’ve got things to do. It’s time you left.”

“But—”

David grabbed her arm and pulled her up from the chair, pushing her toward the door. “It’s been a nice visit. Don’t hurry back. In fact, if we never speak again, it’ll be fine with me.”

“But Deborah—”

“Is dead, and it’s time we both moved on.”

Did he realize how guilty his attitude made him look? Here he was the classic cuckold husband wanting revenge. What better excuse was there for murder?

“Good night,” David said, pushed Tricia over the threshold, and closed the door behind her.

Tricia stalked back to her car, got inside, and pulled her cell phone from her purse. She punched in Elizabeth’s number and waited. After four rings, it rolled over to voice mail, so she left a message asking Elizabeth to call her. Elizabeth may have been too upset by Antonio’s visit to be taking calls. Tricia couldn’t blame her. But she needed to do something and she had an idea of what that might be.

She hit the speed dial for Angelica, who answered on the second ring. “What have you got planned for the evening?”

“I’m working on the manuscript,” Angelica answered.

“Can you spare a couple of hours?”

“Why? What did you have in mind?”

“It’s time to play stakeout again.”

“Oh goody,” Angelica squealed. “I’ll bring the snacks.” She paused. “Just who are we going to be watching?”

“David Black.”

“Delicious. When can you get here?”

“Give me five minutes.”

“I’m packing the Cheez Doodles right now.”

Angelica stared
out at the darkened street and sighed. Tricia had counted at least ten bored sighs since they’d followed David Black from his house more than an hour before, right after Tricia had returned to the municipal parking lot, parked her car, and got in the passenger’s side of Angelica’s car. Then they’d returned to Oak Street, parked in Frannie’s driveway—cleared in advance, of course—and waited to see what David would do.

Sure enough, just after dark he’d left the home he’d shared with Deborah. Tricia had expected to follow him to Portsmouth, where she presumed he’d meet up with Michele Fowler, but instead, he’d driven three blocks to a large home on Fifth Street. The sign out front said TINY TOTS DAY CARE. Across the front, the wording had been partially obliterated by hand-painted lettering that said CLOSED.

“What kind of person names their child Brandy?” Tricia asked, still puzzled by David coming here.

“An alcoholic?” Angelica suggested, and tipped the Doodles bag upside down. Not a crumb remained. “For all we know, she’s a fine girl, and a good wife she might be.”

Tricia glared at her sister, who shrugged and sat back in her seat. “I
don’t
think she’s married.”

Angelica checked the bottle of ice tea that sat in the beverage restraint device just under her car stereo. It, too, was empty. “I’m bored. We’ve been sitting here for over an hour and nothing has happened.”

“Nothing that we can see, at least.” Tricia corrected.

“Tell me this blankie story again,” Angelica asked.

“It could be a reason for David being here. Elizabeth thinks little Davey left his beloved blankie at the day care center the day he broke his arm. He’s been howling for it ever since.”

“It doesn’t take an hour and a half to negotiate the return of a hostage blankie,” Angelica muttered.

No, it didn’t. And since David had had little to no contact with Davey, the theory seemed implausible. Tricia stared at the former day care center, not liking what she’d been speculating for the past ninety minutes.

“Do you believe in flying saucers?” Angelica asked, breaking the quiet.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been talking to Cheryl Griffin or the Dexter twins again,” Tricia said.

“No, Frannie.”

“I hope they haven’t suckered
her
into believing that garbage.”

“Of course not. She’s not
that
gullible. She did tell me the Dexters were still worried, though.”

“Are they still thinking about buying a tenement?” Tricia asked.

Angelica stifled a chuckle. “Those ladies are pretty single-minded. I wouldn’t be surprised if they manage to get Stoneham the police force they’ve been campaigning for.”

The sisters were known for carrying clipboards and getting the villagers to sign petitions every six months or so for just that reason. Every year they got closer to convincing the Board of Selectmen that it would be a good idea. Was this the year it would go through?