Lorna Barrett - Sentenced to Death

She started by opening the cabinets—which housed much more bric-a-brac than toys. Each item was tagged with a handwritten identifier, probably corresponding to the items listed for sale online.

Tricia abandoned the cabinets and glanced at the bookshelves, which held more clutter and very little to read, besides children’s storybooks. What novels Brandy did own seemed to have been bought used from the Have a Heart romance bookstore—or yard sales. The spines looked like they’d seen some hard wear. The rest were cookbooks by Food Network chefs—and a copy of Angelica’s Easy-Does-It Cooking . Tricia frowned. She wouldn’t have thought Brandy would be a fan.

Tricia poked around the room, opening the armoire that hid the bulky old analog TV, with its dusty screen. Since it was hooked up to cable, it probably still functioned fine. A couple of pieces of stereo equipment also lived inside along with a stack of children’s CDs and DVDs, which had probably been used to entertain the day care’s clients. Tricia closed the doors once again, casting her gaze about the room.

A large unpainted toy chest was backed against the wall, next to stacks of colorful plastic chairs made for tiny bottoms. On a shelf above it sat several remotes, no doubt for the equipment in the armoire.

Tricia looked around. Still no sign of Brandy. She lifted the chest’s cover an inch or so and peeked inside. It was too dark to make out the jumble of objects inside. Throwing caution to the wind, she lifted the lid. Instead of toys, she found several framed photographs that had been tossed on top of a bunch of small pillows and yoga mats. On top was a darling photograph of a little white dog. A familiar little white dog.

Tricia felt the hairs on her neck bristle: Sarge.

Tricia stared at the photograph, tracing her finger along the edge of the frame. There was no mistaking the woman who held Sarge in her arms: Elaine Capshaw.

Elaine had told Tricia that she and her husband weren’t close to any of their local relatives. If so, what was Brandy Arkin doing with such a photo?

Footsteps approached and Tricia almost let the chest’s lid slam. She tossed the photo back inside the chest, shut the lid and took several hurried steps away from it, trying not to look out of breath when Brandy reentered the room with a definite limp.

As promised, Brandy held a square of dirty, yellow polar fleece with little tractors driving across it. It had a crocheted yellow border, which now hung ragged on two ends. Was it possible the thing could be repaired to its former state? Maybe Davey wouldn’t care what it looked like as long as he was reunited with it. Perhaps Mary Fairchild at By Hook or By Book could replicate the thing if Brandy destroyed the original.

“Where’s that check?” Brandy demanded.

Tricia gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, sorry. I guess I should have written it out while you were gone.”

Brandy frowned.

Tricia pulled her checkbook and a pen from her purse and proceeded to write out the check. She’d put a stop on it the minute the bank opened in the morning. She tore out the check and handed it to Brandy. And caught sight of a gold band on her right hand.

Not a band—a Claddagh.

Sweat broke out on the back of Tricia’s neck, and she swallowed. It was Brandy who had given Bob Kelly Monty Capshaw’s business card and encouraged him to give the pilot a call. And that sore leg? Sarge had bitten whoever attacked Elaine Capshaw. But why would Brandy threaten Elaine?

Brandy’s frown increased as her gaze traveled around the room. “Something’s different. Have you been poking around in my things?”

“Of course not,” Tricia lied, as every muscle in her body tensed. She had to get out of there.

Brandy focused on the blanket chest and Tricia took a step to the left. The door was at least ten or twelve feet from where she stood. Had Brandy locked it behind her after she’d entered the house?

Brandy tossed the piece of blanket on the floor, stalked over to the blanket chest, grabbed the handle, and flipped open the lid. As she looked down at the contents, the color drained from her face.

Tricia bent down to retrieve the remnant of Davey’s blanket. “I’ll bring you the cash first thing tomorrow morning,” she said, already backing toward the door.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Brandy commanded.

“I don’t understand,” Tricia bluffed.

“You saw that picture. You know.”

“What picture?”

“You were at my aunt’s house the night she died,” Brandy accused.

“I was?” Tricia said, hoping her voice hadn’t already betrayed her.

“You took that miserable yappy dog to the vet.”

No use denying that. But how did Brandy fit in? Elaine Capshaw was her aunt?

And then she remembered Monty Capshaw’s obituary. It listed a couple of nieces: Brenda and Cara. Brandy was really Brenda?

“I’ve got to get going,” Tricia said. “I’ll see you in the morning, and then I think our business will be finished.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Brandy said, and reached for a slender wooden bat—the kind used for T-ball. Had Brandy bludgeoned Elaine Capshaw to death with something similar?

“There’s someone waiting for me outside. If I don’t turn up in the next couple of minutes, the Sheriff’s Department will be called.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Tricia insisted.

“Sure, like you told the truth when you walked in here saying you wanted Davey Black’s blanket. Now, what do you really want?”

“I was going to ask you to list some things on eBay for me. I understand that’s your new business.”

Brandy shook her head. “David said you were suspicious about Deborah’s death.”

“He did?” Oh boy. Why did she have to open her mouth and voice that opinion to so many people?

Brandy tapped the end of the bat against her open left palm. “Deborah Black’s death was an accident—plain and simple.”

“You’re right. I’m sure that’s what the National Transportation Safety Board will decide. I mean, why would someone deliberately let his gas tanks run dry and then crash his plane into a stone gazebo? It just doesn’t make sense. Unless . . .”

Brandy tapped the bat harder against her palm. That had to smart.

“Unless,” Brandy said, picking up the story, “he was well paid to do it.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” Tricia volunteered.

“Money that was supposed to come back to me when the will was read. That was the deal. But Elaine showed me the will—it had never been amended. I drove that miserable old fart to the attorney’s office myself. But the lawyer made me leave the room when Uncle Monty supposedly signed it. He said it would prove I wasn’t coercing the old man to make the changes.”

“And did you coerce him?”

Brandy snorted. “My uncle was already living under a death sentence. All I did was suggest a way to make it easier on his darling Elaine.”

“And now she’s dead. I suppose under the terms of the original will, you and your sister would only inherit if Elaine were out of the picture.”

“Yeah, and now I have to split my own ten grand with my sister,” she grated.

“But now you get David. And isn’t that what you really wanted all along?”

“I don’t even get him. He’s decided I’d be a liability in the hoity-toity art world. I’m not pretty enough, or thin enough, or educated enough for him. He’s looking to step up—to that old hag Michele Fowler.”

“She’s far from a hag,” Tricia said.

“She’s twenty years older than me! And yet he’d rather be with her than me! After all I did to—”