“The perfect time to seek out a nice cozy murder mystery, sit down with a cup of cocoa, and put your feet up. Sounds like heaven.”
“To me, too.”
“Speaking of heaven, how did Deborah’s service go? You’re back a lot earlier than I would’ve thought. I was going to try to make it, and then . . .” She let the sentence hang, and sighed. “I didn’t want it to look like I was too eager to take over her store. You know, gloat over the body and everything.”
“There was no body,” Tricia said, and picked a gray cat hair from her black sweater. Since the day was so gloomy, she hadn’t bothered to change out of her mourning attire. “There was no service. What is it with this town that people keep deciding there’s no need for the rituals surrounding death?” she asked. “First Jim Roth, now Deborah.”
“What?” Ginny asked, aghast, and struggled out of the sleeves of her still-dripping slicker.
Tricia crossed her arms. “David Black decided not to hold a ceremony. He thought a gathering would be enough. The cheapskate isn’t even going to spring for a paid death notice in the Stoneham Weekly News. And worse—worst of all—he showed up to the funeral home with another woman in tow.”
Ginny’s mouth dropped. “A date? You’re kidding!”
“No, I’m not. She was older than him, too. Angelica says she owns an art gallery in Portsmouth.”
“Angelica certainly gets around,” Ginny said, and headed toward the back of the store to hang up her jacket.
Tricia shrugged off the comment and then let out an exasperated breath. “What do you know about David Black’s sculptures?” she called.
Ginny returned to the front of the store. She tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her left ear. “I saw some of them on display last month on the Milford oval. It was some kind of local starving artists’ display. Antonio wanted to see if he could find some local paintings to decorate the Brookview Inn.”
“I heard David’s sculptures are rusty and ugly.”
Ginny crossed her arms, rubbing them for warmth. “Rusty and rustic. I guess it’s an acquired taste.”
“Did he sell much?”
“I have no idea. We came late to the sale. In fact, most of the artists were already packing up. Antonio got a couple of paintings for a reduced price simply because the artists didn’t want to drag them home.”
“Shrewd businessman,” Tricia said flatly.
Ginny nodded at the newspaper on the cash desk. “Did you read the article about the pilot who crashed the plane?”
Tricia looked up sharply. “No.” Ginny made a dive for the paper, but Tricia beat her to it. “Where is it?”
“Inside the front section.”
Tricia thumbed through the paper until she found an article at the bottom of page four. She scanned it, but it really didn’t say anything she didn’t already know—except for Monty Capshaw’s address. She pursed her lips, thinking . . .
Ginny struck a pose, plastering her splayed fingers to her forehead, threw her head back, and squinted at the ceiling. “I predict you’re going on a very short journey. To Milford. To Olive Road. Where you will visit Elaine Capshaw and talk about the death of her husband and your dear friend Deborah.”
Tricia leveled an icy stare at Ginny. “That’s not funny, Ginny.”
Ginny laughed. “You may call me Madam Zola.”
Tricia carefully refolded the newspaper. “As it happens, I have a lunch date. Would you mind watching the store?”
“Not at all,” Ginny said.
“Not only that,” Tricia said, “but Angelica and I have an appointment later this afternoon. Do you think you could close for me?”
Ginny’s eyes widened. “I’d be very happy to do so. I just need—”
Tricia turned for the cash desk, opened the register, and took out a key on an Edgar Allan Poe keychain. She was glad Stoneham Hardware opened early. She’d had the key made on her way back from the funeral home. “I should have given this to you ages ago.”
Ginny sobered and grasped the key, holding it tight in her palm. “I’ll have to give it back to you in just a couple of weeks.”
“If you’re good, I’ll let you keep the keychain,” Tricia said.
Ginny laughed. “I’ll treasure it always. You’d better get going. You don’t want to keep Mrs. Capshaw waiting.”
“I told you, I have a lunch date.”
“At ten o’clock in the morning?”
“Did I say lunch? I meant brunch.”
“Sure,” Ginny said, drawing the word out for at least ten seconds.
Head held high, Tricia collected her still-damp raincoat and umbrella from the back of the store. “I’ll see you in an hour or so.”
Ginny, who had taken her station behind the cash desk called out, “Bring me back a burger and fries, will you?”
Tricia stood before the front door that needed painting on 87 Olive Road, unsure of what she might say should anyone actually answer. The small Cape Cod home had seen happier days. An aura of neglect seemed to permeate the place.
Plucking up her courage, Tricia transferred her umbrella to her left hand and pressed the plastic doorbell with her right. From somewhere inside came the muffled sound of barking. After thirty seconds with nothing happening, she tried again. And waited. The barking continued.
Tricia glanced in the driveway. A green Honda was parked there. Perhaps Mrs. Capshaw had been bothered by the press and had simply given up answering her door.
Just as Tricia was about to walk away, the door jerked open. A tired looking woman in her late fifties stood before her, struggling to hold on to a small, wiggling white dog. Her red-brown hair looked straggly, with a white stripe down the middle where she hadn’t colored it in months.
“Mrs. Capshaw?” Tricia asked.
“I have nothing to say to the press,” the woman said, and began to shut the door, but Tricia jammed her purse between the door and the casing. The little dog growled.
Tricia stepped back but held her purse in place. “Please, I’m not a reporter, and I witnessed the crash.”
Mrs. Capshaw opened the door just enough to show her face. “What do you want?” she asked suspiciously.
“To talk to you about what happened.”
“My husband crashed his plane. He’s dead. There’s nothing more to talk about.”
She went to shut the door again, and Tricia blurted, “My best friend was killed.”
Mrs. Capshaw’s lower lip trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. She opened the door, stepped back, put the dog down, and ushered Tricia inside. “Come on in. Watch out for Sarge. He’s small, but he bites.”
The small fluffy dog sniffed Tricia’s ankles but didn’t seem about to attack, and Tricia gingerly followed the dog’s mistress into the living room.
“Sorry about the mess,” Mrs. Capshaw apologized. “Since Thursday, I haven’t felt much like cleaning.”
As she said, newspapers, with pictures of the crashed plane prominently displayed, lay across the coffee table in disarray, accompanied by dirty coffee mugs and several plates littered with crumbs. Mrs. Capshaw gestured for Tricia to take an empty seat, while she picked up and folded a colorful granny square afghan and tossed it onto the far side of the couch before taking a seat. She picked up a remote and muted the old black-and-white movie showing on her no-longer-new television. Sarge sat on his haunches between the two women, looking as fierce as a dog his size could manage.
“What do you want me to say—that I’m sorry your friend died? Well, I’m sorry my husband died. I’m not sure I have enough pity for anyone else. I’m pretty much wallowing in it.”
“I understand completely.” Tricia sighed. “How . . . how could this have happened? How could your husband’s plane have run out of gas?”
“Monty might have lost track of time. Maybe his credit card had been refused, but he thought he would squeeze a few more minutes in the air with what he had in the tank. He could have just forgotten to fill the tank—he’d been forgetting a lot of things lately.” She shrugged and shook her head, leaning farther back into the worn leather couch.