Sentenced to Death (35 page)

“We could nail it shut for him.” She turned off the engine. “Now, what pretense can I use to get in to see her?”

“How about asking, Are you selling stolen goods for Cheryl Griffin?” Angelica suggested.

“That’s too obvious. I have to ease into the conversation.”

“David’s probably already told her to steer clear of you after your last altercation with him.”

Tricia pursed her lips and thought about it. Then it came to her. “I’ve got it! Remember at Deborah’s funeral gathering Elizabeth told us she suspected Brandy had Davey’s security blanket? Maybe I could go to Brandy and ask her about it, appeal to her better nature.”

“Anyone who’d deprive a baby of his security blanket is no candidate for a Mother Teresa award.”

“That’s the least of her personality faults, if she can stoop to selling stolen goods.”

“This is where you call your buddy the captain and let him do the digging,” Angelica ordered.

“What digging? All I have is theory—and all I want to do is just talk to her.”

“You shouldn’t go in alone.”

“You think she’s going to threaten me for asking about eBay?”

“You
are
about to accuse her of a crime,” Angelica pointed out.

“But if she didn’t
know
the goods were stolen, she’s a victim,
not
a perpetrator.”

“Whatever,” Angelica said, causing Tricia to wince yet again.

“Besides, it looks suspicious enough with me showing up this time of night.”

“Then I will wait in the car, and if you don’t come out in a timely manner—”

“I do
not
want you to come and get me. If I’m in danger, you’d be in trouble, too.”

“I have no intention of coming to save your skinny butt. I value my own hide too much. But I
can
dial 9-1-1 faster than anyone I know.”

“Good, then it’s settled.” She opened the car door. “Wish me luck!”

“Good luck.”

Tricia made her way up the walk to the house and paused to look into the night sky. She squinted, examining the twinkling lights in the sky. Could one of them be a mothership poised to swoop down on New Hampshire, capturing its entire population as slaves? She thought about the potential horror of such a situation—for all of five seconds—then said to herself, “Nahhhh.”

 

 

Tricia hammered
on the scratched oak door for a third time before he heard the muted sound of footsteps approach. The outside light snapped on, and she looked directly at the front door’s peephole and braved a smile. The door jerked open. “What are you doing here at this time of night?” Brandy asked, sounding more than a little annoyed.

“I’ve come to ask you a huge favor. It has to do with Davey Black. Can I come in?”

Brandy heaved a sigh and stepped back. “I guess.” She stepped aside and let Tricia enter before leading her into what must have once been a large parlor at a time when the house had been a stately home. All around the edges of the room were the bulky pink, green, and orange plastic toys that seemed like required equipment wherever a child was in residence, although the children in this house had been day boarders while their parents worked.

All the furniture had a scuffed, beat-up look to it—like it had survived college years and beyond. Perhaps if Brandy had invested everything she had in the now-defunct day care center, flea market and yard sale finds were all she could afford to furnish her home. Or was it that the children she’d taken care of were rough on everything?

Several self-built, flake-board cabinets lined the south end of the room, surrounding a flake-board computer desk. The computer was switched off. Nearby stood a table covered in white butcher paper. On it was a small red Pyrex bowl and a pocket digital camera—the tools of Brandy’s eBay trade.

“Now, tell me why you’re interested in Davey Black?” Brandy demanded, and leaned against one of the cabinets.

“His mother was my friend. Her mother, Elizabeth, is also my friend.”

“Yeah, and Deborah Black put me out of business, so why should I want to help any of her relatives?”

“Davey’s just a little boy. He misses his mother;
and
he misses his blanket. He cries himself to sleep every night.”

“Is that sob story supposed to melt my cold heart? Listen, I’ve seen every kind of spoiled rotten kid on the face of the planet, and in about fourteen years there’ll be a jail cell with that little hooligan’s name on it.”

Tricia was taken aback by the vehemence in Brandy’s tone.

“I think you’d better leave,” Brandy said.

“No, please. Do you have Davey Black’s security blanket? He’s heartbroken.”

Brandy crossed her arms. “Look, I told the kid’s grandmother I don’t have it.”

“But could you please look? I’d be willing to pay you for it,” Tricia said, adding a bit of a lilt to her voice.

Brandy’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”

“Fifty dollars,” Tricia said.

Brandy frowned and shook her head. “Surely something that valuable is worth a lot more money.”

Elizabeth had been right. Brandy Arkin was a bitch.

“One hundred?” Tricia suggested.

Again, Brandy shook her head.

“Two?” she tried. “Three?”

Tricia felt a flush rise up her neck to color her cheeks. “Five hundred.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Tricia sighed. “Unfortunately, I don’t carry that kind of cash around with me.”

Brandy raised her eyebrows and cocked her head. “That
is
too bad. I mean, something could happen to widdle oohed Davey’s bwankie,” she said, in a simpering tone.

“Such as?”

“It might end up in the rag bag. Or the trash.”

Tricia swallowed. “Would you take a check?”

“I will—but only as a retainer. You bring the cash tomorrow, I’ll give you the blanket.”

“I want something in return as well,” Tricia said.

“I’ll cut off a quarter of the blanket. You can have that as collateral.”

“But—”

“It can be sewn back together. Believe me, the kid won’t care.”

“Very well,” Tricia agreed.

“Fine. I’ll go get it. You wait here.”

She left the room with an awkward gait, like she had a sore foot, and Tricia heard her clomp through the house. How long would it take her to find scissors and chop out a chunk of the blanket? Probably no more than a minute or two. That didn’t give Tricia much time for a search for the Dolly Dolittle figurines.

She started by opening the cabinets—which housed much more bric-a-brac than toys. Each item was tagged with a handwritten identifier, probably corresponding to the items listed for sale online.

Tricia abandoned the cabinets and glanced at the bookshelves, which held more clutter and very little to read, besides children’s storybooks. What novels Brandy did own seemed to have been bought used from the Have a Heart romance bookstore—or yard sales. The spines looked like they’d seen some hard wear. The rest were cookbooks by Food Network chefs—and a copy of Angelica’s
Easy-Does-It Cooking
. Tricia frowned. She wouldn’t have thought Brandy would be a fan.

Tricia poked around the room, opening the armoire that hid the bulky old analog TV, with its dusty screen. Since it was hooked up to cable, it probably still functioned fine. A couple of pieces of stereo equipment also lived inside along with a stack of children’s CDs and DVDs, which had probably been used to entertain the day care’s clients. Tricia closed the doors once again, casting her gaze about the room.

A large unpainted toy chest was backed against the wall, next to stacks of colorful plastic chairs made for tiny bottoms. On a shelf above it sat several remotes, no doubt for the equipment in the armoire.

Tricia looked around. Still no sign of Brandy. She lifted the chest’s cover an inch or so and peeked inside. It was too dark to make out the jumble of objects inside. Throwing caution to the wind, she lifted the lid. Instead of toys, she found several framed photographs that had been tossed on top of a bunch of small pillows and yoga mats. On top was a darling photograph of a little white dog. A familiar little white dog.

Tricia felt the hairs on her neck bristle: Sarge.

Tricia stared
at the photograph, tracing her finger along the edge of the frame. There was no mistaking the woman who held Sarge in her arms: Elaine Capshaw.

Elaine had told Tricia that she and her husband weren’t close to any of their local relatives. If so, what was Brandy Arkin doing with such a photo?

Footsteps approached and Tricia almost let the chest’s lid slam. She tossed the photo back inside the chest, shut the lid and took several hurried steps away from it, trying not to look out of breath when Brandy reentered the room with a definite limp.

As promised, Brandy held a square of dirty, yellow polar fleece with little tractors driving across it. It had a crocheted yellow border, which now hung ragged on two ends. Was it possible the thing could be repaired to its former state? Maybe Davey wouldn’t care what it looked like as long as he was reunited with it. Perhaps Mary Fairchild at By Hook or By Book could replicate the thing if Brandy destroyed the original.

“Where’s that check?” Brandy demanded.

Tricia gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, sorry. I guess I should have written it out while you were gone.”

Brandy frowned.

Tricia pulled her checkbook and a pen from her purse and proceeded to write out the check. She’d put a stop on it the minute the bank opened in the morning. She tore out the check and handed it to Brandy. And caught sight of a gold band on her right hand.

Not a band—a Claddagh.

Sweat broke out on the back of Tricia’s neck, and she swallowed. It was Brandy who had given Bob Kelly Monty Capshaw’s business card and encouraged him to give the pilot a call. And that sore leg? Sarge had bitten whoever attacked Elaine Capshaw. But why would Brandy threaten Elaine?

Brandy’s frown increased as her gaze traveled around the room. “Something’s different. Have you been poking around in my things?”

“Of course not,” Tricia lied, as every muscle in her body tensed. She had to get out of there.

Brandy focused on the blanket chest and Tricia took a step to the left. The door was at least ten or twelve feet from where she stood. Had Brandy locked it behind her after she’d entered the house?

Brandy tossed the piece of blanket on the floor, stalked over to the blanket chest, grabbed the handle, and flipped open the lid. As she looked down at the contents, the color drained from her face.

Tricia bent down to retrieve the remnant of Davey’s blanket. “I’ll bring you the cash first thing tomorrow morning,” she said, already backing toward the door.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Brandy commanded.

“I don’t understand,” Tricia bluffed.

“You saw that picture.
You
know.”

“What picture?”

“You were at my aunt’s house the night she died,” Brandy accused.

“I was?” Tricia said, hoping her voice hadn’t already betrayed her.

“You took that miserable yappy dog to the vet.”

No use denying that. But how did Brandy fit in? Elaine Capshaw was her aunt?

And then she remembered Monty Capshaw’s obituary. It listed a couple of nieces: Brenda and Cara. Brandy was really Brenda?

“I’ve got to get going,” Tricia said. “I’ll see you in the morning, and then I think our business will be finished.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Brandy said, and reached for a slender wooden bat—the kind used for T-ball. Had Brandy bludgeoned Elaine Capshaw to death with something similar?

“There’s someone waiting for me outside. If I don’t turn up in the next couple of minutes, the Sheriff’s Department will be called.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Tricia insisted.

“Sure, like you told the truth when you walked in here saying you wanted Davey Black’s blanket. Now, what do you
really
want?”

“I
was
going to ask you to list some things on eBay for me. I understand that’s your new business.”

Brandy shook her head. “David said you were suspicious about Deborah’s death.”

“He did?” Oh boy. Why did she have to open her mouth and voice that opinion to so many people?

Brandy tapped the end of the bat against her open left palm. “Deborah Black’s death was an accident—plain and simple.”

“You’re right. I’m sure that’s what the National Transportation Safety Board will decide. I mean, why would someone deliberately let his gas tanks run dry and then crash his plane into a stone gazebo? It just doesn’t make sense. Unless . . .”

Brandy tapped the bat harder against her palm. That had to smart.

“Unless,” Brandy said, picking up the story, “he was well paid to do it.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” Tricia volunteered.