Lorna Barrett - Sentenced to Death

Tricia turned for the cash desk, opened the register, and took out a key on an Edgar Allan Poe keychain. She was glad Stoneham Hardware opened early. She’d had the key made on her way back from the funeral home. “I should have given this to you ages ago.”

Ginny sobered and grasped the key, holding it tight in her palm. “I’ll have to give it back to you in just a couple of weeks.”

“If you’re good, I’ll let you keep the keychain,” Tricia said.

Ginny laughed. “I’ll treasure it always. You’d better get going. You don’t want to keep Mrs. Capshaw waiting.”

“I told you, I have a lunch date.”

“At ten o’clock in the morning?”

“Did I say lunch? I meant brunch.”

“Sure,” Ginny said, drawing the word out for at least ten seconds.

Head held high, Tricia collected her still-damp raincoat and umbrella from the back of the store. “I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

Ginny, who had taken her station behind the cash desk called out, “Bring me back a burger and fries, will you?”

Tricia stood before the front door that needed painting on 87 Olive Road, unsure of what she might say should anyone actually answer. The small Cape Cod home had seen happier days. An aura of neglect seemed to permeate the place.

Plucking up her courage, Tricia transferred her umbrella to her left hand and pressed the plastic doorbell with her right. From somewhere inside came the muffled sound of barking. After thirty seconds with nothing happening, she tried again. And waited. The barking continued.

Tricia glanced in the driveway. A green Honda was parked there. Perhaps Mrs. Capshaw had been bothered by the press and had simply given up answering her door.

Just as Tricia was about to walk away, the door jerked open. A tired looking woman in her late fifties stood before her, struggling to hold on to a small, wiggling white dog. Her red-brown hair looked straggly, with a white stripe down the middle where she hadn’t colored it in months.

“Mrs. Capshaw?” Tricia asked.

“I have nothing to say to the press,” the woman said, and began to shut the door, but Tricia jammed her purse between the door and the casing. The little dog growled.

Tricia stepped back but held her purse in place. “Please, I’m not a reporter, and I witnessed the crash.”

Mrs. Capshaw opened the door just enough to show her face. “What do you want?” she asked suspiciously.

“To talk to you about what happened.”

“My husband crashed his plane. He’s dead. There’s nothing more to talk about.”

She went to shut the door again, and Tricia blurted, “My best friend was killed.”

Mrs. Capshaw’s lower lip trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. She opened the door, stepped back, put the dog down, and ushered Tricia inside. “Come on in. Watch out for Sarge. He’s small, but he bites.”

The small fluffy dog sniffed Tricia’s ankles but didn’t seem about to attack, and Tricia gingerly followed the dog’s mistress into the living room.

“Sorry about the mess,” Mrs. Capshaw apologized. “Since Thursday, I haven’t felt much like cleaning.”

As she said, newspapers, with pictures of the crashed plane prominently displayed, lay across the coffee table in disarray, accompanied by dirty coffee mugs and several plates littered with crumbs. Mrs. Capshaw gestured for Tricia to take an empty seat, while she picked up and folded a colorful granny square afghan and tossed it onto the far side of the couch before taking a seat. She picked up a remote and muted the old black-and-white movie showing on her no-longer-new television. Sarge sat on his haunches between the two women, looking as fierce as a dog his size could manage.

“What do you want me to say—that I’m sorry your friend died? Well, I’m sorry my husband died. I’m not sure I have enough pity for anyone else. I’m pretty much wallowing in it.”

“I understand completely.” Tricia sighed. “How . . . how could this have happened? How could your husband’s plane have run out of gas?”

“Monty might have lost track of time. Maybe his credit card had been refused, but he thought he would squeeze a few more minutes in the air with what he had in the tank. He could have just forgotten to fill the tank—he’d been forgetting a lot of things lately.” She shrugged and shook her head, leaning farther back into the worn leather couch.

“What kind of things?” Tricia asked, trying not to sound too pushy.

Mrs. Capshaw sighed once again. “He’d go to the store and forget why he went. Stupid things like that. It was a side effect from his meds.”

Tricia’s eyes widened. “Meds?”

Mrs. Capshaw nodded. “Monty hadn’t been well. Sometimes I wondered if he should even be flying, but he said the doctor hadn’t told him to stop, and he figured if he could still make money at it . . .”

Did Mrs. Capshaw really believe that? Something in her voice seemed to belie that.

“How ill was your husband?”

“Cancer,” she admitted. “But he’s been in remission for a while now. What we originally thought was a death sentence has turned out to be more of a chronic disease.” She seemed to realize she’d spoken in the present tense and looked away. “We always thought the cancer would kill him, not flying. He really was a damned good pilot.”

Tricia leaned forward, causing a wary Sarge to stand his ground, but at least he didn’t growl. It was then she noticed several envelopes on the coffee table. The return address was New Hampshire Mutual. Was Mrs. Capshaw checking up on her husband’s insurance policy? There was no tactful way to ask. Instead, she said, “Tell me about your husband.”

Mrs. Capshaw sighed, her expression growing wistful. “He was a devil back when we were dating. He took me flying on our first date, complete with barrel rolls.” She stifled a laugh. “I threw up. That certainly made am impression on him. But he asked me out again the very next night, and this time we stayed firmly on the ground.”

Tricia smiled. “Go on,” she urged.

“He’d make me so angry I’d threaten to break up with him—and then he’d do something silly and sentimental and I’d fall for him all over again.”

“How long did you date?”

Mrs. Capshaw managed a weak smile. “Two months. We were married for thirty-eight years. In all that time, we never spent a night apart. Until now.”

Never?

“He was the sweetest man who ever lived. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She sighed, and her face went lax.

Tricia studied the woman’s face. For a couple so devoted, she didn’t seem as bereft as one might have expected after suffering such a devastating loss. Or was it the fact that the cancer had shadowed their lives for so long—like a noose loosely wrapped around Capshaw’s neck—that when the end came his wife was grateful for the extra years they’d managed to eek out—and to be rid of the stress of waiting for the end?

Mrs. Capshaw sighed again. “You seem awfully understanding for a woman whose friend was killed in this accident. I’ve received a couple of nasty calls, threatening you might say, from people professing to be friends of Deborah Black.”

“I can’t imagine any one of her friends being so . . . so . . .” Words failed her. The idea of someone like Nikki, Frannie, or Julia doing something so callous or disrespectful was unthinkable. “Male or female?”

“It was a woman.”

“Have you told the police?”

She nodded. “The calls were made from a pay phone.”

Not many—if any—of those left in Stoneham. Tricia would have to keep an eye out for one. “I’m so sorry.”

“To tell you the truth, I only let you in here so I could listen to your voice. But I’m sure it wasn’t you.”