“I might even be leaving the state,” he said, his voice soft.
Tricia couldn’t bear to look at him and shifted her gaze to David Black. With champagne flute in hand, his attention was focused on his dinner companion, and he laughed at something she said.
Tricia swallowed hard, thinking of Deborah’s naked, lifeless body under a sheet in a morgue drawer. No, if the service was tomorrow, she might already be lying in a coffin—or worse, mere ashes. She struggled not to burst into tears.
Baker misinterpreted her damp eyes. “It’s not like we’ve been all that close, but I thought I should tell you in person.”
Tricia took a steadying gulp of wine, carefully set down the glass, and picked up her menu once again.
“I was thinking,” Baker continued. “Until I have to leave—which isn’t a given—that we could see each other. You know, on a regular basis.”
“You’re asking me to give you my heart so I can have it broken when you leave?” Tricia asked. Been there, done that.
“Not at all,” he said. “We could enjoy each other’s company for however long—”
“Not much of a bargain, is it?” she cut him off.
Baker picked up his menu. “This isn’t exactly how I thought the evening would go.”
“I’m sorry not to turn handsprings at your news. My best friend was killed yesterday, I’m losing my top employee, and now you’re probably going to be leaving the area. Excuse me, but I don’t have a lot to celebrate, do I?”
David Black laughed once again, and this time both his dinner companions joined in on the joke.
The waitress appeared, dressed in a black uniform with a pristine white apron tied around her waist. “Ready to order?” she asked, sounding incredibly perky.
Baker nodded for Tricia go first. “I’ll have the chef’s salad,” she said with defeat in her voice.
“You will not,” Baker said, and then spoke to the waitress. “The lady will have the saffron shellfish risotto. I’ll have the filet mignon with wild mushrooms. And we’ll both have poppy seed dressing on our salads.” He hesitated. “That is still your favorite, isn’t it, Tricia?”
Tricia nodded but refused to look at him or the waitress.
“Excellent choices,” the waitress agreed, gathered up their menus, and turned away.
Tricia let out a pent-up sigh and glared at Baker. “What if I don’t like shellfish?”
“I’ve seen you eat it before.”
Damn him!
“I thought you were going to have the sea bass,” she said.
“I changed my mind.”
Tricia sighed and her gaze strayed once again to the trio across the room.
“Will you stop looking at them?” Baker said, annoyed.
“Don’t you think it’s the least bit suspicious that David Black is out with another woman before his wife is even decently buried?”
Baker sipped his beer. “If this were my case, I might. But it’s not up to me to investigate Deborah Black’s death.”
“You could at least speak with the NTSB investigator, tell him about this?”
“What bearing would that have on his investigation?”
Tricia opened her mouth to answer and then realized she had no logical retort.
Baker leaned closer and rested his hand on Tricia’s arm. “I know you lost your friend, and you want someone to pay for it. But the person responsible—the pilot—has already paid the ultimate price—his life. There’s not much left to do but bury the dead and move on.”
“Do you know how cold that sounds?” she asked accusingly.
“Tricia, I’ve seen a lot of death in the past twenty years. Nobody in my line of work can afford to take each and every victim to heart. We’d lose our objectivity, and our sanity. You’ve read a lot of police procedurals—you, better than most, should understand that.”
She didn’t want to understand it. She wanted to hold on to her anger. And he was right, she wanted someone to pay.
And right now, that someone was David Black.
Eight
Tricia awoke the next morning to gray skies and thundering rain. Somehow that made the idea of a funeral service more palatable. She hated to think of Deborah missing a glorious, sunny summer day.
After her usual run on the treadmill and a shower, Tricia retired to her kitchen for coffee and the morning paper. She thumbed through to the obituaries and found a listing for Montgomery (Monty) Capshaw. It hadn’t been in the previous day’s paper; had Mrs. Capshaw waited until the weekend to list it, a time when more people bought the newspaper?
Tricia read the entry. Suddenly—that was true enough—August 8. Predeceased by his parents, Richard and Margaret Capshaw, and brother, Lawrence. Survived by his loving wife of twenty-eight years, Elaine; and nieces Brenda and Cara. Private interment at the family’s convenience.
As prearranged, Angelica showed up at precisely eight forty-five, suitably dressed in black. Fleeing under the cover of their umbrellas, they hurried to the municipal parking lot. Tricia drove while Angelica rode shotgun to the Baker Funeral Home. Grant Baker’s cousin Glenn was the owner. He stood near the door, directing the mourners to leave their wet umbrellas in stands in the foyer before ushering them into the large open room to the right.
Tricia led the way with Angelica following. The long line of mourners stood in a bottleneck at the lectern with the guest book just inside the door. It seemed like nearly all the Chamber of Commerce members had turned out for the early-morning service. At least David had done one thing right, she thought again, by scheduling the service early enough so that most of the booksellers didn’t have to close their stores to attend.
Finally Tricia stepped up to the lectern, reached for the provided pen, and scribbled in both hers and Angelica’s names while her sister scoped out the crowd. She put the pen down and nodded for Angelica to follow. They stepped inside the viewing room.
“This is going to take forever,” Angelica groused with a sigh. She squinted and leaned in to look at Tricia. “New earrings?” she asked.
Tricia reached up to touch her left earlobe and Christopher’s latest gift. “Just something I picked up. They’re only cubic zirconium.”
“Yes, it’s best not to wear the good stuff when you’re on the job. Although, I must say, they look really nice. They sparkle like the real thing. Where’d you get them? Maybe I should get a pair.”
Tricia bit her lip. Should she tell Angelica about the package in the mail? That could open the floodgates of teasing. Either that or Angelica would annoy her to contact Christopher—maybe in hopes of a reconciliation—as if that would ever happen.
“I don’t remember where I got them,” she lied. “I must’ve had them for ages.”
Lies, lies, lies!
Angelica nodded, accepting that explanation. “Who do you want to hang with?” she asked under her breath.
“There’s Grace and Mr. Everett,” Tricia said, and waved to them. She nodded for Angelica to follow.
“Good morning, Grace.” Tricia leaned forward and kissed the elderly woman’s cheek.
“Lovely to see you, Tricia, but terrible under these circumstances.” Grace sighed. “Deborah was such a lovely person.”
Tricia nodded.
“At least she got a good turnout,” Mr. Everett said, taking in the crowd.
“Too bad she can’t appreciate it,” Angelica commented.
Tricia felt like jabbing her sister with an elbow, but Angelica conveniently stood out of reach.
“How sad,” Mr. Everett said, shaking his head. “This is the second bookseller whose memorial service we’ve attended in as many months.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have any nasty surprises like we did then,” Angelica said. Tricia gave her a sour look. Angelica hadn’t even attended Jim Roth’s memorial service.
“Where’s the receiving line?” Angelica asked, gazing around the room.
Until she’d mentioned it, Tricia hadn’t noticed that lack of propriety. David stood to one side of the room, and Elizabeth was on the other—as far apart as they could possibly be.