Lorna Barrett - Sentenced to Death

Baker shrugged. “It’s crass but not illegal to be out in public a day after your wife’s death.”

“Deborah hasn’t even been buried yet. And toasting the sale of her business. It stinks! The whole village will be talking about it tomorrow.”

“That’s his lookout, not yours,” Baker said quietly.

Tricia pursed her lips and trained her gaze on her menu, although she couldn’t focus on the words in front of her, and she’d suddenly lost whatever appetite she’d had.

“The sea bass looks good,” Baker said, perusing his own menu.

Tricia set hers aside.

Baker looked up. “You’re not going to let seeing Black ruin your evening, are you?”

At least he didn’t say my evening.

“Deborah was my friend. I know she and David were having marital problems, but to be seen in public so soon after her death . . .”

“There’s nothing you can do about it,” Baker insisted.

She sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just . . . upset.” She remembered he had something to tell her. Would she be further upset?

“I was going to wait until later to mention this to you,” Baker said, leaving the sentence hanging.

Here it comes, the old dumperoo . And yet that was hardly applicable to their situation. They were friends. Not even good friends. Still, Tricia steeled herself to hear the worst.

Baker sighed. “My divorce will be final in two weeks.”

Tricia blinked. That wasn’t what she’d thought he’d say. “Oh? I take it Mandy went into remission.”

“Yes. And she’s planning to move to North Carolina to be closer to her sister.”

Tricia’s spirits rose a little. Did that mean . . . ?

“How does that make you feel?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager.

Baker sighed. “Relieved. We’d planned to divorce before she became ill. And then, I just couldn’t leave her to fight the cancer alone. If nothing else, at least we remained friends.”

Tricia was well aware of that fact. She nodded, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about my future,” Baker continued.

Tricia leaned closer, but just as Baker was about to say more, the hostess appeared with a tray and their drinks. She set down embossed cocktail napkins, then a glass and a bottle of beer for Baker and Tricia’s wine. “I’ll send your waitress right over to take your order.”

“Thank you,” Baker said, and gave her a small smile. He turned his attention back to Tricia. “I told you a few months ago that I was going to be retirement eligible in January.”

Here it came. The other shoe.

“And what have you decided?” Tricia asked.

“I’m going to take it.”

Tricia eyed him. He looked devastatingly handsome in his navy blazer with a pale blue opened-necked dress shirt beneath it. The gray at his temples made him look distinguished, and somehow, despite the years of police work, his face was remarkably unlined. Did that mean he hadn’t had much to smile about in all that time?

“Somehow I don’t think retirement will suit you,” she said.

“I don’t either, but I’m ready for a change. I’ve already talked to a headhunter. He’s put my name out there and has already had a few bites.”

“So you’ll be leaving Manchester?” Tricia asked, then picked up her glass and took a sip in an effort to hide her disappointment.

“I might even be leaving the state,” he said, his voice soft.

Tricia couldn’t bear to look at him and shifted her gaze to David Black. With champagne flute in hand, his attention was focused on his dinner companion, and he laughed at something she said.

Tricia swallowed hard, thinking of Deborah’s naked, lifeless body under a sheet in a morgue drawer. No, if the service was tomorrow, she might already be lying in a coffin—or worse, mere ashes. She struggled not to burst into tears.

Baker misinterpreted her damp eyes. “It’s not like we’ve been all that close, but I thought I should tell you in person.”

Tricia took a steadying gulp of wine, carefully set down the glass, and picked up her menu once again.

“I was thinking,” Baker continued. “Until I have to leave—which isn’t a given—that we could see each other. You know, on a regular basis.”

“You’re asking me to give you my heart so I can have it broken when you leave?” Tricia asked. Been there, done that.

“Not at all,” he said. “We could enjoy each other’s company for however long—”

“Not much of a bargain, is it?” she cut him off.

Baker picked up his menu. “This isn’t exactly how I thought the evening would go.”

“I’m sorry not to turn handsprings at your news. My best friend was killed yesterday, I’m losing my top employee, and now you’re probably going to be leaving the area. Excuse me, but I don’t have a lot to celebrate, do I?”

David Black laughed once again, and this time both his dinner companions joined in on the joke.

The waitress appeared, dressed in a black uniform with a pristine white apron tied around her waist. “Ready to order?” she asked, sounding incredibly perky.

Baker nodded for Tricia go first. “I’ll have the chef’s salad,” she said with defeat in her voice.

“You will not,” Baker said, and then spoke to the waitress. “The lady will have the saffron shellfish risotto. I’ll have the filet mignon with wild mushrooms. And we’ll both have poppy seed dressing on our salads.” He hesitated. “That is still your favorite, isn’t it, Tricia?”

Tricia nodded but refused to look at him or the waitress.

“Excellent choices,” the waitress agreed, gathered up their menus, and turned away.

Tricia let out a pent-up sigh and glared at Baker. “What if I don’t like shellfish?”

“I’ve seen you eat it before.”

Damn him!

“I thought you were going to have the sea bass,” she said.

“I changed my mind.”

Tricia sighed and her gaze strayed once again to the trio across the room.

“Will you stop looking at them?” Baker said, annoyed.

“Don’t you think it’s the least bit suspicious that David Black is out with another woman before his wife is even decently buried?”

Baker sipped his beer. “If this were my case, I might. But it’s not up to me to investigate Deborah Black’s death.”

“You could at least speak with the NTSB investigator, tell him about this?”

“What bearing would that have on his investigation?”

Tricia opened her mouth to answer and then realized she had no logical retort.

Baker leaned closer and rested his hand on Tricia’s arm. “I know you lost your friend, and you want someone to pay for it. But the person responsible—the pilot—has already paid the ultimate price—his life. There’s not much left to do but bury the dead and move on.”

“Do you know how cold that sounds?” she asked accusingly.

“Tricia, I’ve seen a lot of death in the past twenty years. Nobody in my line of work can afford to take each and every victim to heart. We’d lose our objectivity, and our sanity. You’ve read a lot of police procedurals—you, better than most, should understand that.”

She didn’t want to understand it. She wanted to hold on to her anger. And he was right, she wanted someone to pay.

And right now, that someone was David Black.

Tricia awoke the next morning to gray skies and thundering rain. Somehow that made the idea of a funeral service more palatable. She hated to think of Deborah missing a glorious, sunny summer day.

After her usual run on the treadmill and a shower, Tricia retired to her kitchen for coffee and the morning paper. She thumbed through to the obituaries and found a listing for Montgomery (Monty) Capshaw. It hadn’t been in the previous day’s paper; had Mrs. Capshaw waited until the weekend to list it, a time when more people bought the newspaper?