Lorna Barrett - Sentenced to Death

Thank goodness for small favors.

“But you could be in danger.”

Mrs. Capshaw managed a weak smile, cocking her head to gaze at her dog. “I have Sarge to protect me.”

Tricia eyed the compact dog, still staring intently at her.

“Don’t you have any family you can rely on?”

Mrs. Capshaw shook her head. “We never had children. Monty had a couple of nieces and nephews, but I was never close to them. Or, I should say, they never wanted to be close to me. We’d get Christmas cards from that side of the family, but didn’t have much other contact.”

“Do they live out of state?”

“No. Everyone lives within twenty or so miles of here. We just never found reasons to get together. Look, I don’t want to appear rude, but . . .”

Tricia took the hint and stood. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

“Just tell me you aren’t planning on suing Monty’s estate. His illness took a toll on our finances. This house is mortgaged to the hilt. I’ve got nothing left.”

The poor woman looked on the verge of tears. And hadn’t someone—Bob Kelly?—already said David Black had threatened to sue? She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already consulted a lawyer. After this morning, nothing he did would surprise her.

Tricia made her way to the front door, but turned to speak to Mrs. Capshaw. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m so sorry for your loss—and for all your troubles.”

Mrs. Capshaw scooped up Sarge. “I’ll probably lose my house,” she said, and sighed. She looked over her shoulder into the shabby interior of her home. “I’m sure some people would say it isn’t much of a loss, but . . . it’s all I’ve got left now.” She looked into the eyes of her adoring little dog. “Except for Sarge.”

Tricia figured she’d better leave before both of them burst into tears. “Good-bye, Mrs. Capshaw.”

Mrs. Capshaw closed the door. Tricia hesitated for a few moments, and soon she heard the muffled sound of the television.

As she drove back toward Stoneham, Tricia contemplated her next move. Who on earth would blame Monty Capshaw’s widow for him crashing his plane? And a woman making threats? That didn’t make sense. It couldn’t have been Elizabeth . . . could it? And how could one gracefully ask a woman in mourning if she’d been making threatening phone calls?

Tricia clenched the steering wheel. No, she refused to believe Elizabeth would be so crude. That said, Deborah did have two sisters. Could one of them have been upset enough to make a threatening call? Darn—why hadn’t she made a point to talk to them at the funeral? Tricia wasn’t even sure if they’d be staying in town another day or two. That was something she could ask Elizabeth.

In the meantime, she needed more information. Much as she didn’t even like to speak to Russ Smith these days, digging into Capshaw’s background might be something she’d have to get him to do for her. Being a former big-time reporter, he knew the kinds of people to ask, where to find the information she might need.

Need for what? To quench some insatiable nosiness within you? Why do you even care—let it go!

But she couldn’t let it go. It nagged at her. It wasn’t so much the manner of Deborah’s death that bothered her now but that she’d died at all.

The rain had stopped, but the day was still gloomy as Tricia prepared to leave for the day. The whole idea of letting Ginny close Haven’t Got a Clue made her feel like a new mother abandoning her newborn to a teenager’s care. She’d left a minimum of cash in the till, locking the rest of the day’s receipts in the safe. Miss Marple had a litter box in the shop’s washroom, and Ginny had agreed to feed the cat before she locked up for the night.

“Honest, Tricia, I can do this,” Ginny assured her, with more than a little irritation evident in her voice.

Tricia sighed. “I know you can. And I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t trust you to do a good job, it’s just . . .”

Ginny shook her head, a wry smile lighting her face. “Haven’t Got a Clue is your baby, and—”

“Exactly! You know, it won’t take long before you feel the same way about the Happy Domestic.”

“Except that it won’t really be mine.”

“It’s the first big step in the process. I’ll bet in a couple of years you’ll be presenting a business plan for your own shop to Billie Hanson at the Bank of Stoneham.”

“Oh, sure, I was just starting to feel okay about all this new responsibility, and now you have to ruin it by reminding me that one day it’ll be me in that financial hot seat.”

Tricia wasn’t fooled by Ginny’s words. “No pain, no gain.”

Ginny smiled. “Get out of here. Your cat and your shop will be fine when you get back later tonight.”

“I’m going,” Tricia declared, and grabbed her purse from behind the counter. She headed for the door. “See you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” Ginny called.

As Tricia went out, a customer came in.

“Hi. Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. I’m Ginny. Let me know if you need any help finding a book.”

The door closed and Tricia squared her shoulders and marched over to the Cookery, determined not to look back.

Frannie stood behind the register, helping a customer when Tricia entered. She hadn’t stepped more than four feet into the shop before she saw Angelica pass through the door marked PRIVATE that led to her loft apartment. Angelica checked her watch. “Right on time, Tricia. Let’s move.” She turned her attention to Frannie as she neared the front of the store. “See you tomorrow.”

Frannie nodded and finished ringing up the sale.

Angelica trounced through the door without a care while Tricia meekly followed in her wake. Once outside, Angelica stopped short. “Come on, let’s go,” she urged.

Tricia caught up to her. “You make it look so easy.”

“Make what look easy?” Angelica asked shortly.

“Leaving your store—your livelihood—in someone else’s hands.”

Angelica gave a bored sigh. “Until I hired Frannie, I was stuck with incompetent boobs. She and I just clicked. Except for Darcy, who I hired out of desperation, I’ve had pretty good success.”

That was an understatement. Angelica had hired and fired five or more assistants at the Cookery before she’d found success with Frannie. Since then, she’d seemed to have mastered the art of hiring competent employees. Meanwhile, though Tricia trusted both her own and Miss Marple’s lives to Ginny and Mr. Everett—she wasn’t sure she entirely trusted them to take care of her beloved store.

She tried to put it out of her mind.

The sisters approached Tricia’s car, parked in Stoneham’s municipal lot. “I met Mrs. Capshaw this morning—widow of the pilot who crashed the plane on Thursday,” Tricia said as casually as she could, and pressed the button on her key fob.

“Don’t tell me you went and bothered the poor woman,” Angelica said accusingly.

“I did, and . . . I’m afraid she literally is poor. She said they were in terrible debt. Monty Capshaw had been sick with cancer for some time, but he’d been in remission. Still, his illness nearly wiped them out. She’s afraid she’s going to lose her house.”

“The poor woman,” Angelica said, and opened the passenger side door. She climbed inside.

Tricia did likewise. “I felt so sorry for her and her little dog.”

“Dog?” Angelica asked.

Tricia nodded. “What are those dinky, cutie-pie white dogs that look like toys?”

“Bichon frise?” Angelica suggested.

“Yeah, that’s the kind. His name is Sarge.”

“Sarge? Isn’t that what you’d name a German shepherd?”