Sentenced to Death (15 page)

Tricia parked
her Lexus in front of Russ Smith’s house at almost ten o’clock that Saturday night. The rain had made a repeat appearance but was now diminishing to a fine mist. Tricia grabbed her umbrella after parking at the curb outside his home. She’d have to be careful how she phrased her request for help—otherwise he’d think he might have another shot at a relationship with her and that was the last thing she wanted.

Before Tricia could raise her hand to press the doorbell, the door opened and a delighted Russ stood before her. “Tricia, what brought you to my doorstep tonight?”

“Deborah Black’s death. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

For a moment Russ looked panicked. He glanced over his shoulder toward the living room. Tricia could hear the roar of a crowd. A Red Sox game? Russ turned back. “Uh, sure. Come on in.” He held the door for her and she stepped into the small, familiar entryway.

“Hang up your coat,” Russ said, and dashed into the living room. Seconds later, the room went silent, and she heard the rustle of newspapers as he did a slap-dash cleanup. She took her time hanging up her coat and standing her damp umbrella in the corner so it could dry. When she turned, she found Russ standing uncomfortably close by.

“This way,” he said, as though she hadn’t been in his home at least a hundred times, and ushered her into the living room. He gestured for her to sit on the couch, but she steered for the leather club chair instead. Russ perched on the edge of the couch, as though ready to leap up at any moment.

“I was surprised to see you at my door. I thought you didn’t like me anymore,” Russ said.

“I never said that.”

“You sure haven’t been friendly toward me for the last few months.”

“You seem to forget it was
you
who dumped
me
.”

“I’ve apologized at least a hundred times.”

“Yes, well, I’ve forgiven you for that. But we can’t have the kind of relationship we once had.”
And I’d prefer that we had none at all
, she refrained from saying. But she needed him right now. Did that make her a terrible person, using him like this?

Probably. But she thought she could live with herself. Maybe.

She didn’t want to think about that just now, and pressed on.

“How would you like to scoop the
Nashua Telegraph
?”

He looked at her skeptically. “Have you been snooping around in this plane crash business?”

“Not snooping. Just . . . asking some judicious questions. I’ve got the beginnings of a theory.”

Russ threw up his hands and turned away. “Theory? You can’t possibly think Deborah was murdered.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s ludicrous. You were there. You saw what happened.”

Tricia kept her cool, shrugged, and stood. “Okay, I’ll just call Portia McAllister.”

Russ scowled. She’d definitely hit a nerve. Portia was a reporter with Channel 10 in Boston and had covered the Zoë Carter murder some eighteen months before. Russ was jealous of any reporter in a larger city—especially since his plans to resume his career as a crime reporter in a larger city had fizzled out the previous year.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s your theory?” Russ asked.

Tricia sat once again. She leaned forward and looked him straight in the eye. “Monty Capshaw had cancer. His wife was surprised that he hadn’t had his license lifted for health reasons, especially since his medication left him forgetful.”

“Forgetful enough not to fill his gas tank?” Russ asked.

“That’s something for
you
to find out.”

“And what if he
was
flying with a suspended license?”

“The ramifications from that ought to be obvious.”
Even to you
, she felt like adding, but refrained.

Russ nodded. “If I were Bob Kelly, I’d be pretty damned worried. What else have you got?”

“How soon do you think you can find out about Capshaw’s license?”

“I might have something tomorrow. I’ll let you know. Maybe we could get together for lunch or dinner and discuss it.”

“Why don’t you just call me, and we’ll go from there.”

Russ sighed. “All right. Whatever I find out, I’ll share with you. Deal?” He held out his hand.

Reluctant as she was to shake on it, Tricia accepted his hand. As expected, he didn’t want to let go. She had to yank her hand free and glared at him.

“Rumor has it that David Black intends to sue anyone he thinks he can get a nickel out of,” Tricia said.

“Which sounds reasonable under the circumstances.”

“Frannie Armstrong lives a few houses from the Blacks. She says they fought almost every night.”

“About?”

“Money, for one. It seems that Deborah’s life was heavily insured and David is her only beneficiary,” she bluffed, since she hadn’t yet had time to ask Elizabeth about it.

“That’s not unusual.”

“But even more telling—David was seen on Friday evening at the Brookview Inn with the same woman he brought to the funeral parlor. They were drinking champagne, no doubt celebrating the sale of Deborah’s store.”

“Yeah, I heard Ginny’s going to manage it,” Russ said as he sorted through the magazines and papers on the coffee table, coming up with a steno pad and pen. “What’s the woman’s name?”

“Michele Fowler. She owns the Foxleigh Gallery in Portsmouth. David is exhibiting some of his metal sculptures there.”

“How does all this relate to the pilot who was killed?”

“Monty Capshaw had been sick for a long time. He was heavily in debt. What reasonable man would want to leave his wife in that situation? He flew that plane in circles around the village until he ran out of gas. Why didn’t he steer for the Half Moon Nudist Camp? It’s not far from the village and he could have landed safely instead of destroying a village landmark and killing himself and Deborah—as well as putting scores of other people at risk.”

“Are you saying he committed suicide for an insurance payout?”

“It may have been the only way he could be sure his wife was financially secure.”

Russ shook his head. “I still don’t get what this has to do with Deborah’s death.”

“Double jeopardy. Someone could also have paid him to crash the plane. Someone who knew Deborah would be at that place and that time.”

“Her husband?” Russ shook his head. “Sounds pretty farfetched to me. And even if it was true, how could you prove it?”

Tricia bit her lip and frowned. She didn’t have a clue.

 

 

The status
of Monty Capshaw’s pilot’s license wasn’t the only thing on Tricia’s mind. The fact that the name Nigela Racita Associates kept popping up in Stoneham was beginning to grate on her. Why was this particular firm so focused on this one little village in New Hampshire? Did they have other holdings, and if so, where were they?

Tricia settled at the desk in her living room and powered up her laptop. Miss Marple jumped onto her lap and head butted her chin. “Now now, Miss Marple,” Tricia scolded, and gently set the cat down on the floor. Miss Marple circled the chair and jumped up from the opposite side, landing on Tricia’s lap with a very pleased
“Brrrp!”

Tricia reached around the cat to type a URL into her browser. Seconds later, the Google home page appeared. She typed in the words
Nigela Racita Associates
and hit enter. The last time she’d Googled the firm, only one entry, for its Website, appeared. This time, however, the entire screen was filled with entries, most of them either press releases or links to articles in the Web version of the
Nashua Telegraph
.

Miss Marple butted Tricia’s hand, knocking it away from her wireless mouse. She disliked using the laptop’s built-in mouse pad, preferring something with a little more heft. Miss Marple saw it as a toy and more than once had batted it off the desk and onto the floor. “Don’t be naughty,” Tricia admonished, but Miss Marple continued to nudge her hand with her cool, damp nose.

Despite the cat’s persistence, Tricia clicked the top link and the NRA Website popped up on her screen. Like the acronym for the National Recovery Act, Nigela Racita Associates had cribbed a version of the winged motif as its logo. The site still boasted only a few pages and had no information on its owner or its local rep, Antonio Barbero, and clicking the contact us link only brought up a blank e-mail form addressed to [email protected].

Tricia clicked on the Current Projects page. It, too, had been updated, to include the Brookview Inn and its renovation, with a picture and a link to that dedicated Website. Of course, it was too early for the company to list the Happy Domestic among its assets, and nothing was posted except the address of the empty lot where History Repeats Itself had once stood.

She closed the page, frustrated. There must be other sources of information she could tap. But if the company was privately held, it had no obligation to the public to make any kind of disclosures.

Tricia clicked on each of the rest of the links and read through the news reports but found nothing new or of particular interest. Talking to Antonio had not been productive in the past. Could he have confided company chitchat to Ginny? If so, was there a possibility she might be willing to discuss it? Tricia vowed to ask Ginny the next morning.

It was getting late. Tricia shut down her computer, lifted the cat from her lap, and placed her on the floor. Miss Marple let out a disgruntled
“Yow!”
but Tricia rose from her chair before the cat could jump on her again.

“Time for bed,” Tricia said, and Miss Marple trotted off toward the bedroom. Five minutes later, an exhausted Tricia climbed between the cool sheets on her bed and turned off the light. She didn’t feel like reading and lay in the dark staring at the ceiling.

It bothered her that everyone dismissed her belief that Deborah had been murdered. The stars just didn’t align to bring one person—David Black—that kind of good fortune. Not unless they had help. He was taking a little too much pleasure from his so-called loss, and no one but Tricia seemed the least bit suspicious.

Tricia wasn’t
the only one up early the next morning. When she went down to the shop to retrieve her morning paper, she saw Elizabeth Crane, with little Davey straddling her hip, unlocking the door to the Happy Domestic.

The Coffee Bean was already open, so she grabbed a ten from the cash drawer, locked the store, and headed across the street. A couple of minutes later, she took the two cups of coffee she’d purchased and knocked on the door to the Happy Domestic. “We’re closed,” Elizabeth called out, her voice muffled.

“It’s Tricia. I brought you some coffee.” She had to yell three times before Elizabeth came out of the back of the store, saw her, and hurried to open the door. “Goodness, you’re up early,” she chided, and took the offered cup. “I think I have some cookies in the back. They might not be at their best—”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Tricia said. Once again, Tricia saw Davey behind the childproof gate, already playing with some wooden blocks—or rather, hurling them against the wall, each of them leaving a dent. Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice. She pulled a stool out from behind the counter and sat on it, leaving Tricia to stand.

“Have you heard anything from the investigators?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t expect to. But I don’t like the rumors going around town about David and that Fowler woman.”

“I went to her gallery last evening to see David’s sculpture.”

“Junk—all of it,” she said, bitterly.

“I haven’t seen his yard sculptures, but the piece I saw there was truly magnificent.”

Elizabeth scowled and took another sip of coffee. She looked around the tidy shop with its cheerful merchandise and the lovely displays. “David can’t wait to unload this place. I should have bought into the business when I had the chance—right when Deborah started it. Later, when she was in a tight financial spot, she couldn’t let me. She didn’t want to be responsible for me losing my nest egg should the business—fold. And now David’s selling it right out from under me,” she said bitterly. “It’s like he wants to erase all trace of Deborah.”