Lorna Barrett - Sentenced to Death

Tricia read the entry. Suddenly —that was true enough— August 8. Predeceased by his parents, Richard and Margaret Capshaw, and brother, Lawrence. Survived by his loving wife of twenty-eight years, Elaine; and nieces Brenda and Cara . Private interment at the family’s convenience.

As prearranged, Angelica showed up at precisely eight forty-five, suitably dressed in black. Fleeing under the cover of their umbrellas, they hurried to the municipal parking lot. Tricia drove while Angelica rode shotgun to the Baker Funeral Home. Grant Baker’s cousin Glenn was the owner. He stood near the door, directing the mourners to leave their wet umbrellas in stands in the foyer before ushering them into the large open room to the right.

Tricia led the way with Angelica following. The long line of mourners stood in a bottleneck at the lectern with the guest book just inside the door. It seemed like nearly all the Chamber of Commerce members had turned out for the early-morning service. At least David had done one thing right, she thought again, by scheduling the service early enough so that most of the booksellers didn’t have to close their stores to attend.

Finally Tricia stepped up to the lectern, reached for the provided pen, and scribbled in both hers and Angelica’s names while her sister scoped out the crowd. She put the pen down and nodded for Angelica to follow. They stepped inside the viewing room.

“This is going to take forever,” Angelica groused with a sigh. She squinted and leaned in to look at Tricia. “New earrings?” she asked.

Tricia reached up to touch her left earlobe and Christopher’s latest gift. “Just something I picked up. They’re only cubic zirconium.”

“Yes, it’s best not to wear the good stuff when you’re on the job. Although, I must say, they look really nice. They sparkle like the real thing. Where’d you get them? Maybe I should get a pair.”

Tricia bit her lip. Should she tell Angelica about the package in the mail? That could open the floodgates of teasing. Either that or Angelica would annoy her to contact Christopher—maybe in hopes of a reconciliation—as if that would ever happen.

“I don’t remember where I got them,” she lied. “I must’ve had them for ages.”

Lies, lies, lies!

Angelica nodded, accepting that explanation. “Who do you want to hang with?” she asked under her breath.

“There’s Grace and Mr. Everett,” Tricia said, and waved to them. She nodded for Angelica to follow.

“Good morning, Grace.” Tricia leaned forward and kissed the elderly woman’s cheek.

“Lovely to see you, Tricia, but terrible under these circumstances.” Grace sighed. “Deborah was such a lovely person.”

Tricia nodded.

“At least she got a good turnout,” Mr. Everett said, taking in the crowd.

“Too bad she can’t appreciate it,” Angelica commented.

Tricia felt like jabbing her sister with an elbow, but Angelica conveniently stood out of reach.

“How sad,” Mr. Everett said, shaking his head. “This is the second bookseller whose memorial service we’ve attended in as many months.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have any nasty surprises like we did then,” Angelica said. Tricia gave her a sour look. Angelica hadn’t even attended Jim Roth’s memorial service.

“Where’s the receiving line?” Angelica asked, gazing around the room.

Until she’d mentioned it, Tricia hadn’t noticed that lack of propriety. David stood to one side of the room, and Elizabeth was on the other—as far apart as they could possibly be.

“There doesn’t seem to be one,” Grace said. “Oh look, there’s Deborah’s mother. We should pay our respects,” Grace told Mr. Everett, who nodded. “We’ll talk to you later, dear.” Mr. Everett reached for Grace’s hand and led her toward the head of the room and an easel with a poster board filled with pictures. Most of them were of Deborah as a child and teenager. No wedding picture. None with David in them, and only a few of Deborah with Davey. Perhaps Elizabeth, instead of David, had contributed them for the gathering.

Angelica grabbed Tricia’s arm and spoke low in her ear. “What’s wrong with Mr. Everett’s lip?”

“Wrong?” Tricia asked.

“I think he missed a big patch while shaving this morning.”

Tricia stifled a giggle. “He’s trying to grow a moustache.”

“What for?”

“So he can walk around the village incognito. He’s aiming for one like Tom Selleck’s.”

“That’s a tall order for such a little guy. Maybe he should set his sights a bit lower. Like maybe Charlie Chaplin?”

“Shhh! He’ll hear you.”

“He will not. He’s halfway across the room.”

Muriel Dexter sidled her way through the crowd, followed by her twin sister, Midge. As usual, the elderly sisters were dressed alike, in matching black dresses, hose, shoes, and pillbox hats with tiny veils that almost covered their foreheads, and had probably come from a nice department store some forty or fifty years before.

Muriel waved to Tricia, who sighed. Talking to the sisters could be an ordeal.

“Tricia, good to see you, although under sad circumstances,” Muriel said. She waited for her sister to catch up before she began conversing in earnest.

“How have you ladies been?” Tricia asked politely.

“Worried,” Midge admitted, and looked around the room as if expecting to find a Russian spy behind a pillar. She lowered her voice. “There’s talk about the village that we’re ripe for the picking by alien invaders,” Midge said earnestly.

“Do you ladies honestly believe that?” Angelica asked, startled.

Both heads bobbed solemnly, and Tricia’s gaze traveled to the wall where Cheryl Griffin stood, her furtive glances taking in all in attendance. Probably looking for a Romulan centurion. “If you think about it, it makes perfect sense,” Midge continued. “Here we are in the wilds of New Hampshire—and everybody knows aliens only show up in rural areas—”

“Never in highly populated areas like New York City or Chicago or Los Angeles,” Muriel chimed in.

“We are doomed ,” Midge said, and exhaled a weary sigh of defeat.

Tricia cleared her throat and avoided looking at Angelica for fear she’d burst out laughing.

“We were thinking we should sell off everything we own and move to a tenement in New York City. It might be a lot safer,” Muriel said, and shook her head, heaving yet another sigh.

A tenement?

It was Tricia’s turn to exhale wearily. “Ladies, ladies—please, think about it.” She paused. It wasn’t likely they would honor Star Trek ’s Mr. Spock and think the situation through logically. It would be up to her to provide the voice of sanity. And yet there was no way she could convince them that their beliefs were . . . crazy-nutso-bananas!

“Ladies,” Tricia began again, “I want to assure you that you will not be targeted by extraterrestrial slavers.”

“Oh?” Angelica asked, with great interest.

“No?” Muriel asked, hopeful.

“I don’t mean to sound morbid, but if you think about it from a purely business perspective, any alien slave master is going to go straight for the young and the brawny. That means teenagers and young men and women of childbearing age. They’ll not only want individuals who can put in a sixteen- or eighteen-hour workday but who will make ideal breeding stock, too. This is one instance when I think you can count your lucky stars that you’re not only collecting Social Security but safely past menopause.”

Muriel’s smile was positively beatific. “Well, if you put it that way.”

Midge gave a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, sister—finally there’s a reason to rejoice in being old! I think we should go to the Brookview Inn tonight and celebrate with a great big steak dinner!”