Sentenced to Death (30 page)

The nagging
alarm clock kept ringing, even though Tricia had batted the thing several times. It took her a few foggy moments to realize that it wasn’t the alarm that was ringing but the phone. She fumbled for the receiver and picked it up. “Hello?” she managed, still blinking.

“What are you doing?” Captain Baker demanded.

“I was trying to sleep.” She squinted at the clock, which said six fifty-two.

“I got a report that you found Elaine Capshaw dead last night. And then I check my voice mail and hear you telling me you’ve got a video of who robbed the Happy Domestic. Tricia, this is police business—you’re not supposed to be poking your nose into our cases. It’s dangerous.”

Tricia struggled to sit up, disturbing Miss Marple at the foot of the bed. “I wasn’t poking my nose into anything. Elaine Capshaw called me and asked me to come over to her house. When I got there, she was dead. And I didn’t invite Boris Kozlov into Haven’t Got a Clue—he came over of his own accord. He said he didn’t want to get involved with the Sheriff’s Department and asked me to pass on the video.”

She exhaled, feeling tired, grumpy, and put upon. Why was he being so grouchy, and what had happened to the happy fellow who had visited her just the day before?

“I’m sorry,” he said contritely, as though reading her mind. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Thank you.”

“When can I come and pick up the video?”

“As soon as you want.”

“How about now? I’m parked outside your store.”

“What? It’s not even seven o’clock. What time did you get up?”

“Five. I always get up early.”

“Give me five minutes to put the coffeepot on, and I’ll come down and unlock the door.”

“Five minutes,” he said, and the line went dead.

Tricia got out of bed, ran a comb through her hair, then grabbed her robe from the hook on the back of the door and staggered off for the kitchen.

Five minutes later, the coffee was brewing and she’d set out a couple of mugs, spoons, milk, and sugar, and headed down the stairs for the door to Haven’t Got a Clue. Miss Marple didn’t follow.

Captain Baker stood behind the door, holding Tricia’s copy of the
Nashua Telegraph
and looking extremely impatient.

Tricia unlocked the door, and with a sweeping hand ushered the captain inside. He walked up to the beverage station. “I thought you were going to make coffee.”

“I did. Upstairs. Come on.”

It had been a while since she’d invited him to her loft apartment. He set his wide-brimmed hat on the counter and followed her up the stairs.

As Tricia topped the stairs, she saw Miss Marple sitting next to her empty food bowl, looking surly.
“Yow!”
she demanded.

“Yes, I will feed you now,” she said to the cat. Turning to Baker, she said, “Help yourself. And pour me a cup, too, will you?”

Tricia picked up Miss Marple’s dish, swished it under the faucet, and wiped it with a piece of paper towel, then opened a fresh can of cat food. All the while, Miss Marple rubbed against her bare legs, urging her to hurry.

Baker set a steaming mug of coffee on the counter and took a seat at the breakfast bar. “I want to hear everything that happened last night. Spare no details.”

“Even the part where I went to Angelica’s and bummed leftovers for dinner?”

“You can skip that part. Now, tell me about the call that took you to Milford and Elaine Capshaw’s home.”

She did, leaving nothing out, and even told him how much she’d spent at the veterinarian’s office.

“Wow,” he said, reacting to the vet’s bill. “Is the little guy going to make it?”

“They said I could call after eight.” A glance at the clock told her she still had fifty-five minutes before that would happen. “You wouldn’t happen to want a dog, would you?”

“I’m barely home as it is.”

“But you’ll have more free time in your next job,” she said, expecting validation.

“If I were going to get a dog, I’d get something a little more manly than a bichon frise.”

“Dog bigot,” she accused, but her tone was mild, and he smiled.

“What about that video?”

“It’s on the coffee table in the living room. Why don’t you watch it while I take a shower?”

He rose from his seat, grabbed his coffee, and without a word headed for the living room and the DVD player.

Tricia headed for her bedroom. No four miles on the treadmill this morning. She’d have to try to work in double that tomorrow. Maybe.

By the time Tricia returned to the living room some fifteen minutes later, Baker sat on her couch, and the TV sported a blank screen. Tricia took the adjacent chair. “So, what do you think?”

“I couldn’t see the plates, but if it’s licensed here in New Hampshire, we should be able to narrow down the owner by the make of the car.”

“That’s what I figured, too. Angelica and I don’t know much about cars—other than they’re transportation to get you from point A to point B.”

“You showed this to Angelica?”

Tricia nodded. “Anything wrong with that?”

“I’d better call her and ask her not to talk about it—at least until we try to find the owner of that car. Don’t you say anything, either,” he warned, and rose.

She saluted. “Aye, Captain.”

“I’m going to have a talk to Mr. Kozlov at the Coffee Bean.”

Tricia followed him to the apartment door. He reached for the handle and paused. “I want you to promise me that this is the end of your sleuthing.”

“I wasn’t sleuthing. Boris gave me that DVD. He
wanted
me to give it to you. End of story.”

Baker looked skeptical.

“Hey, you’re being a little rough on me. What happened to the guy who wanted to be more than just my friend, and was that only yesterday?”

“It was, and I’m concerned because I care about you. So much that I want you to stay out of it. Can you do that?”

Tricia sighed. “I guess.”

As if to prove his point, he leaned over and kissed the top of her head, then stood back, pointing a finger of warning at her. “Be good.” He headed down the stairs.

Tricia wasn’t sure if she should feel flattered or insulted.

She chose the former.

Returning to the counter, she warmed up her coffee and sat down at the breakfast bar. Within seconds, Miss Marple appeared and levitated onto her lap. At least, that’s what it always seemed like. One second she wasn’t there—and the next she was, leaping up with no effort, and seemingly no weight, either.

“Yow,”
Miss Marple said, in what sounded like commiseration.

Tricia petted her cat and thought of the poor, battered little dog that had been so terribly abused while trying to defend his mistress. Sarge wasn’t much bigger than Miss Marple—how could someone be so cruel?

Miss Marple seemed to purr all the louder as Tricia continued to stroke her head.

“Even though the animal hospital isn’t officially open until eight o’clock, I think I’ll call to see how Sarge is doing.”

Miss Marple closed her eyes and seemed to nod her head in assent, which seemed charitable after her reaction to meeting Sarge two days earlier.

Tricia reached across to grab the slim phone book on the counter to look up the number. She grabbed her phone and dialed, and was pleased when someone picked up the call.

“Milford Animal Hospital. This is Georgia. How can I help you?”

“Hi, it’s Tricia Miles. My cat is one of your patients, but I’m calling about something else. I brought in a bichon frise last night. His name is Sarge. I was wondering how he was doing.”

“Hang on. I’ll find out,” Georgia said, and the line went silent as she put Tricia on hold.

Tricia continued to stroke the fur on Miss Marple’s head. She didn’t complain.

Eventually, Georgia came back on the line. “Ms. Miles, we have good news. Dr. Arnold said Sarge had a good night and she anticipates he’ll have a full recovery.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that.”

“Even better news. Someone called late last night and left a message saying she’d like to claim the little guy. I’ve already spoken to her. She said she was a friend of Sarge’s deceased owner and will take care of his medical expenses and adopt him when he’s ready to leave our care. We’ve canceled the charges against your credit card and thank you for bringing him in.”

Tricia frowned. The place wasn’t officially open for the day and already someone had made arrangements to pick up the dog? And while she hadn’t really considered adopting the dog—just looking at Miss Marple reinforced the reality that her cat would be forever offended if she brought a canine into their home—she’d kind of liked the idea of bringing Sarge home. No doubt about it, he was incredibly cute and had been unmistakably devoted to his now-departed mistress. Tricia didn’t doubt that the poor dog would mourn the loss of his human mama.

“That’s good . . . I guess.”

“It
is
good,” Georgia insisted. “This lady assures us she knows the dog and that she’ll give him a happy life. She cried when I described Sarge’s injuries, and she’s eager to bring him home.”

“When will that be?” Tricia asked, feeling an odd constriction in her throat.

“If he continues to improve, in a couple of days.”

It sounded like Sarge had a happy future to look forward to, with someone who would love him as much as Elaine Capshaw had. Then why did Tricia feel so sad?

“Thank you,” she said with false bravado. “I’m so glad everything will work out for him.” Albeit with someone else.

“Is there anything else we can do for you today?” Georgia asked.

Tricia forced a smiled—extending it to her voice. “No, thanks so much.”

“We’ll send you a reminder in April when it’s time for Miss Marple’s booster shots.”

“Thank you,” Tricia said again, trying hard to sound cheerful. “Good-bye.” She hung up the phone and stared at it.

How had one of Elaine Capshaw’s friends heard about the dog’s fate? Was Sarge’s benefactor one of Elaine’s neighbors?

No matter. The situation was no longer any of Tricia’s concern.

But somehow, she wished it was.

 

 

Tricia leaned
over the sales counter and perused the headlines in the
Nashua Telegraph
, then glanced over the feature stories and found nothing of interest. It wasn’t the newspaper’s fault—the fault was squarely on her shoulders. Depression was an emotion she seldom let dominate her, but today it tried mightily. She remembered in vivid detail how on weekends her ex-husband would wake her with a fresh-brewed cup of coffee. How she’d loved drinking that first cup of the day in bed while reading the
New York Times
.

Those days were long gone. And why did the memory have to surface right now?

Tricia glanced up and saw Ginny pause in front of the Happy Domestic. She pawed through her keys, and opened the door. Ah! Company. If only for a few moments. Although if Ginny was arriving an hour before opening, it stood to reason she had work to do. But still, Tricia grabbed her keys, locked up, and headed for the Coffee Bean. Thankfully, Boris was not around, and Alexa waited on her with her usual good cheer.

“I see Captain Baker has left,” Tricia said.

“Ja, ja,”
Alexa said. “I told Boris it was foolish to involve you . . . but . . . men!” she said, and laughed, as though that explained everything. “Are you going next door to visit Ginny?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Everett tells me she’s ordered a proper Dumpster.”

“Yes, I believe she has.”

Alexa nodded. “She will make a good neighbor.”

Tricia held out a ten-dollar bill to pay for the coffee, but Alexa shook her head. “You tell her it’s a very small welcome gift from me.”

“That’s very sweet of you. Thank you.”

She bid Alexa good-bye and took the coffees next door. Once again, she had to knock several times before Ginny appeared from the back room behind the counter. As Tricia hoped, Ginny was smiling. Good. She didn’t want her to think she was spying on her—or blatantly interrupting her.

“Coffee,” Ginny said after opening the door. “You’re a mind reader.”

“It’s from Alexa, actually. To welcome you to the neighborhood. And I just thought I’d come over to see how you’re doing.”

“How nice—on both accounts.” Ginny waved a hand around the shop. “At least I didn’t arrive to find chaos this morning.”

Tricia took an appreciative look around the store. The merchandise sparsely decorated the shelves, but the place was tidy and still inviting. “You’re in early.”

Ginny took a sip of coffee and blushed. “I feel like I’m playing house. Come on in the back and sit down awhile.”

Tricia dutifully followed Ginny into the back of the shop. Elizabeth must have made good her threat of having Davey’s things collected, for the playpen, changing table, toys, and diapers were gone. In their place was a desk, file cabinets, a table with a coffeemaker and microwave, and a small refrigerator. Everything Tricia had collected for the employee break room on the floor above her shop.