Sentenced to Death (33 page)

Angelica smirked, but Tricia only felt bewildered. She’d been cast in the good-girl role for so long, she wasn’t sure she could break the mold—or even if she wanted to. And yet, on some level, she
was
extremely unhappy with her life. She missed loving somebody—and being loved in return.

“You girls are such fun. Something that’s been distinctly lacking in my life of late.” Michele took a swig of her drink and exhaled loudly. “There hasn’t been much of an economic recovery when it comes to the arts.” She stared at the lipstick staining the rim of her glass. “I’ll probably have to shut the gallery and declare bankruptcy before the end of the year.”

“Oh dear. What will you do?” Angelica asked.

“I’ll probably go back to managing a restaurant. I’ve done it before. Right here, as a matter of fact.” So that’s why she’d greeted the staff with such enthusiasm. “The hours are hell and the pay stinks, but it’s a living. That is, if I can find a job. A lot of restaurants and bars have gone under.”

“A woman like you? You’ll find something,” Angelica said confidently.

“Keep your ears open. If you hear something, give me a call.” She stood. “Sorry, girls, but I’ve got a business appointment with one of my artists.” She waggled her eyebrows and grinned. “Thanks for the drink, and please do call me again, will you?”

“You bet,” Angelica said.

Tricia gave a self-conscious wave and turned her attention back to her dwindling glass of wine.

Angelica leaned back in her chair and sighed. “When I grow up, I want to be Michele Fowler.”

“Oh, please. She can’t be more than five years older than you.”

“And she’s having a lot more fun, too.”

Tricia frowned. “I’m surprised at you, Ange. You’ve been the wronged woman four times now, and yet you’ve taken to Michele, who thinks nothing of sleeping with other women’s husbands.”

“At least she’s honest about it. To her it’s just sex. She’s not interested in a relationship.”

“That makes a difference?”

“It shouldn’t . . . but I guess it does.” Angelica polished off the last of her wine.

Tricia did likewise. “It’s too bad she’s losing her job,” Tricia said, and examined her empty glass, wishing there was just one more sip.

“She’ll land on her feet. People like her usually do.” Angelica rummaged through her purse, and then threw a few dollar bills on the table. “We’d better go.”

The outside air was damp and brisk, with a hint of autumn yet to come. Tricia led the way to the car. “That was a waste of time.”

“Oh, I don’t know. We did find out a few things we didn’t know before.”

“The fact David wants a little wife at home and a family? I’m still angry at him for throwing it all away.”

“It sounds like Deborah cheated first.”

“And that sounds like you’re blaming the victim,” Tricia said.

“Deborah was a victim of the plane crash,
not
of a failed marriage. It seems as if she was just as much—if not more—to blame than David. And why are you so upset? Because Deborah wasn’t the paragon of virtue you thought she was?”

Tricia sighed. “I’m afraid you’re right, there. The woman I’ve been hearing about for the past seven days bears no resemblance to the woman I thought I knew—from stealing Dumpster space, to having a child that wasn’t her husband’s. I can’t help but feel there might be other secrets Deborah was hiding, and that we’ll never know who she really was.”

“Deborah’s gone. It’s time you let go of her.”

“To move on like she was never here?” Tricia asked.

“The
real
Deborah never revealed herself to you.”

“Which makes me question every friendship I’ve ever had.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. But you do seem to trust people too easily.”

Tricia frowned. “So far, I haven’t done too bad.”

They reached the car, Tricia pressed the button on her key fob, and the doors unlocked. How come these conversations with Angelica always left her feeling depressed and dissatisfied with her life? It wasn’t as though Angelica had a completely blissful life, either. With four failed marriages behind her, she was no authority on happiness. And yet, despite all the grief that had come her way, Angelica seemed to rise above the discontent and sail through it, whereas Tricia seemed to dwell on the misfortunes that hit her. Angelica wanted to be more like Michele, but Tricia wished she could be more like Angelica. And maybe . . . just maybe . . . she always had.

 

 

All the
way back to Stoneham, Angelica gabbed about her favorite subject: herself. This time, she went on and on about her plans for her next cookbook launch and the self-promotion book tour she would undertake. That would mean that Tricia would have to keep an eye out for the Cookery and Booked for Lunch once again—which was
not
something she wanted to do. She didn’t voice that opinion. Angelica wouldn’t listen to her protests, anyway.

As she approached the municipal parking lot, Tricia saw flashing lights and noticed a Sheriff’s Department patrol car parked at the north end of the alley that ran behind the Main Street stores on the west side. “Uh-oh. You don’t suppose there’s more trouble at the Happy Domestic, do you?” she asked, and pulled into the lot.

“There can’t be,” Angelica said. But the women hurriedly left the car and jogged across the street, circling behind the
Stoneham Weekly News
to end up in the mouth of the alley. The patrol car was empty and they bypassed it, heading down the eerily lit alley, their shadows bouncing against the brick walls, thanks to the patrol car’s flashing blue lights.

“What do you think is going on?” Angelica asked.

“Hey, you ladies shouldn’t be here,” one of the deputies said. Henderson, if Tricia remembered right. Sure enough, a hooded figure was bent over the trunk of a car that looked a lot like the one in Boris Kozlov’s surveillance video. Tricia watched as Captain Baker himself slapped handcuffs around the suspect’s right wrist and then grabbed the suspect’s left hand and cuffed it, too. He grabbed the person by the arm and hauled her (him?) forward. It was then Tricia recognized the suspect.

“Good grief, it’s Cheryl Griffin!” Tricia cried, trying to keep up as Baker hustled Cheryl down the alley. “I thought you didn’t have a car!”

“I borrowed it from my cousin,” Cheryl called over her shoulder.

“There must be some mistake,” Angelica said, following in Tricia’s wake. “Why would Cheryl want to rob the Happy Domestic?”

“We caught her red-handed,” Baker said. “And what are you doing here?”

Tricia hurried around them, causing Baker to halt. “We saw the lights on the patrol car.” Tricia turned her attention back to Cheryl. “What happened? Why on earth would you want to rob the Happy Domestic?”

“Elizabeth Crane fired me and refused to pay me my last week’s pay. I figured I’d take what she owed me in merchandise.”

“But Elizabeth doesn’t own the Happy Domestic. It’s under new management,” Tricia insisted.

“Like I care.”

“You had a clean record. Why would you ruin your reputation, risk going to jail, for such a paltry sum?” Tricia asked.

“Maybe a week’s pay means nothing to you, but I’m facing eviction. I have nowhere to go—no one to bail me out of my financial jam.”

“But, Cheryl,” Tricia protested.

“Don’t you get it? I
want
them to send me to jail. I hope I get two, maybe three years. Let the state take care of me. At least I’d have a roof over my head and three square meals a day. Maybe I could even learn a trade so that when I got out I could find a good job.”

And no one willing to hire you
, Tricia thought. Well, perhaps Angelica. She had hired an ex-con, and that job had led to bigger and better things for Jake Masters. But it was more likely that Cheryl would get community service and an order to make restitution. That might drive her to commit even more—and more serious—crimes.

Baker shook his head and shoved Cheryl toward the waiting Sheriff’s Department cruiser and placed a hand on her head as he guided her into the backseat of the car.

“Do you think you can recover the stolen items?” Angelica asked.

“If we can get her to tell us where they are. My guess is, she’s already sold them.”

“What if she put the items on eBay?” Tricia asked.

“I can ask one of the guys to check it out.”

Tricia was about to tell him she’d bought a suspect figurine but decided not to. At this point, she had no clue who the seller was. She’d have to wait a couple of days until the figurine her friend Nancy had bought arrived in the mail. Then she’d know for sure if it was evidence the Sheriff’s Department could use. It could wait.

“How did you come to arrest Cheryl?” Angelica asked.

Baker looked at his prisoner in the car. “We got a tip that someone was trying to break into the Happy Domestic. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find that Ms. Griffin made the call herself.”

“She’s not likely to go to jail for a first offense, is she?” Tricia asked.

“It’s possible—if she has a really crummy lawyer and if she gets a vindictive judge. More likely she’ll be asked to do community service and make restitution.” Just as Tricia had thought. He opened the driver’s door. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said to Tricia, removed his hat, and climbed inside the cruiser.

Tricia bent down to speak to Cheryl through Baker’s open window. “Cheryl, Grace Harris-Everett of the Everett Charitable Foundation has been looking for you.”

“I don’t
want
charity!” Cheryl declared.

“She may have a job for you at the Stoneham Clothes Closet.”

Cheryl looked ready to cry. “
Now
you tell me!”

“Have Mrs. Everett call the county lockup. Maybe there’s something she can do for Miss Griffin,” Baker said, and put the cruiser in gear.

Tricia stepped back, and she and Angelica watched as Baker backed the patrol car into the street.

“So much for the great Stoneham robbery,” Angelica said with a shrug.

Tricia shook her head. “Poor Cheryl just hasn’t got a clue.”

“Great name for a mystery bookstore,” Angelica quipped.

“Very funny.”

“It looks like this puts your little investigation right back at square one,” Angelica said, and started walking again.

“I wasn’t investigating anything. I’m just curious about the goings-on here in Stoneham.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Angelica reminded her. “Come on back to my place and I’ll fix you something to eat. Preferably made of leftover turkey.”

That wasn’t exactly what Tricia was in the mood for, but the pickings were even slimmer in her own refrigerator.

She followed Angelica to her loft apartment and settled down at the big kitchen table. She wondered if Miss Marple was sleeping or missing her. If the latter, she knew she would get a stern scolding when she returned home. Angelica’s home seemed so . . . empty without a cat. But it was useless to even bring up the subject of adding a feline friend to the mix. And honestly, Angelica was far too busy to take care of a pet.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Angelica said, taking two wineglasses from the kitchen cupboard.

Penny. That was the name of Frannie’s cat.

“You wouldn’t want to know,” Tricia said as Angelica poured. “It’s too bad I know next to nothing about eBay.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because, I want to find out who’s selling those Dolly Dolittle figurines that were stolen from the Happy Domestic. I’m almost sure they’ve shown up on eBay.” She explained about her research and that she expected to receive one of the figurines in the mail.

“Frannie knows everything about anything,” Angelica said. “Why don’t you give her a call?”

“Do you have her home number?”

“On speed-dial,” Angelica said, and handed Tricia the phone. Angelica turned back to the fridge to rummage, and Frannie answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Frannie. It’s Tricia. I’m sorry to call so late, but do you have a couple of minutes?”

“Penny and I were just watching an old movie, anyway. What do you need?”

“If I wanted to sell something on eBay, and I didn’t have a computer, where could I go to do that?”

“But you
do
have a computer. I’ve seen you use it.”

“I’m speaking hypothetically,” Tricia said, hoping she’d kept her impatience from her voice.

“There’s a place in Milford that does it. They even pack and ship the items—for a fee, of course. But if you wanted to stay local, I’d send you to Brandy Arkin.”

“Brandy?” Tricia repeated, surprised. An eavesdropping Angelica raised an eyebrow as well.

“She’s a power seller. And since the day care center closed, she’s stepped up her online business. She’s got to keep a roof over her head, you know.”

“I take it you don’t have to upload pictures of the items you’re selling,” Tricia said.

“There’s a cost for everything. But who wants to buy something if you can’t see a picture of it?”

Who, indeed. Cheryl wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the box, and she was broke. What if she’d asked Brandy to list the Dolly Dolittle figurines but tried to save money by not posting pictures? It would be just like her.

But even if Brandy
did
post the items for sale, that didn’t mean she knew they were stolen. And even if she suspected it, she probably wouldn’t admit it.

And what good did any of this do, except to help prove Cheryl was guilty of breaking and entering the Happy Domestic and selling stolen items. It sure would help the prosecutor convict Cheryl, which was exactly what she wanted. She’d made a sloppy entry into a life of crime—just as she’d intended. Maybe she wasn’t quite as vapid as everyone gave her credit for.

“You still there?” Frannie asked.

“Oh, sorry. I was thinking. I’ll let you get back to your movie.”