Lorna Barrett - Sentenced to Death

“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.

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:

“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 exquisite 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.”