“What kind of things?” Tricia asked, trying not to sound too pushy.
Mrs. Capshaw sighed once again. “He’d go to the store and forget why he went. Stupid things like that. It was a side effect from his meds.”
Tricia’s eyes widened. “Meds?”
Mrs. Capshaw nodded. “Monty hadn’t been well. Sometimes I wondered if he should even be flying, but he said the doctor hadn’t told him to stop, and he figured if he could still make money at it . . .”
Did Mrs. Capshaw really believe that? Something in her voice seemed to belie that.
“How ill was your husband?”
“Cancer,” she admitted. “But he’s been in remission for a while now. What we originally thought was a death sentence has turned out to be more of a chronic disease.” She seemed to realize she’d spoken in the present tense and looked away. “We always thought the cancer would kill him, not flying. He really was a damned good pilot.”
Tricia leaned forward, causing a wary Sarge to stand his ground, but at least he didn’t growl. It was then she noticed several envelopes on the coffee table. The return address was New Hampshire Mutual. Was Mrs. Capshaw checking up on her husband’s insurance policy? There was no tactful way to ask. Instead, she said, “Tell me about your husband.”
Mrs. Capshaw sighed, her expression growing wistful. “He was a devil back when we were dating. He took me flying on our first date, complete with barrel rolls.” She stifled a laugh. “I threw up. That certainly made am impression on him. But he asked me out again the very next night, and this time we stayed firmly on the ground.”
Tricia smiled. “Go on,” she urged.
“He’d make me so angry I’d threaten to break up with him—and then he’d do something silly and sentimental and I’d fall for him all over again.”
“How long did you date?”
Mrs. Capshaw managed a weak smile. “Two months. We were married for thirty-eight years. In all that time, we never spent a night apart. Until now.”
Never?
“He was the sweetest man who ever lived. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She sighed, and her face went lax.
Tricia studied the woman’s face. For a couple so devoted, she didn’t seem as bereft as one might have expected after suffering such a devastating loss. Or was it the fact that the cancer had shadowed their lives for so long—like a noose loosely wrapped around Capshaw’s neck—that when the end came his wife was grateful for the extra years they’d managed to eek out—and to be rid of the stress of waiting for the end?
Mrs. Capshaw sighed again. “You seem awfully understanding for a woman whose friend was killed in this accident. I’ve received a couple of nasty calls, threatening you might say, from people professing to be friends of Deborah Black.”
“I can’t imagine any one of her friends being so . . . so . . .” Words failed her. The idea of someone like Nikki, Frannie, or Julia doing something so callous or disrespectful was unthinkable. “Male or female?”
“It was a woman.”
“Have you told the police?”
She nodded. “The calls were made from a pay phone.”
Not many—if any—of those left in Stoneham. Tricia would have to keep an eye out for one. “I’m so sorry.”
“To tell you the truth, I only let you in here so I could listen to your voice. But I’m sure it wasn’t you.”
Thank goodness for small favors.
“But you could be in danger.”
Mrs. Capshaw managed a weak smile, cocking her head to gaze at her dog. “I have Sarge to protect me.”
Tricia eyed the compact dog, still staring intently at her.
“Don’t you have any family you can rely on?”
Mrs. Capshaw shook her head. “We never had children. Monty had a couple of nieces and nephews, but I was never close to them. Or, I should say, they never wanted to be close to me. We’d get Christmas cards from that side of the family, but didn’t have much other contact.”
“Do they live out of state?”
“No. Everyone lives within twenty or so miles of here. We just never found reasons to get together. Look, I don’t want to appear rude, but . . .”
Tricia took the hint and stood. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“Just tell me you aren’t planning on suing Monty’s estate. His illness took a toll on our finances. This house is mortgaged to the hilt. I’ve got nothing left.”
The poor woman looked on the verge of tears. And hadn’t someone—Bob Kelly?—already said David Black had threatened to sue? She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already consulted a lawyer. After this morning, nothing he did would surprise her.
Tricia made her way to the front door, but turned to speak to Mrs. Capshaw. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m so sorry for your loss—and for all your troubles.”
Mrs. Capshaw scooped up Sarge. “I’ll probably lose my house,” she said, and sighed. She looked over her shoulder into the shabby interior of her home. “I’m sure some people would say it isn’t much of a loss, but . . . it’s all I’ve got left now.” She looked into the eyes of her adoring little dog. “Except for Sarge.”
Tricia figured she’d better leave before both of them burst into tears. “Good-bye, Mrs. Capshaw.”
Mrs. Capshaw closed the door. Tricia hesitated for a few moments, and soon she heard the muffled sound of the television.
As she drove back toward Stoneham, Tricia contemplated her next move. Who on earth would blame Monty Capshaw’s widow for him crashing his plane? And a woman making threats? That didn’t make sense. It couldn’t have been Elizabeth . . . could it? And how could one gracefully ask a woman in mourning if she’d been making threatening phone calls?
Tricia clenched the steering wheel. No, she refused to believe Elizabeth would be so crude. That said, Deborah did have two sisters. Could one of them have been upset enough to make a threatening call? Darn—why hadn’t she made a point to talk to them at the funeral? Tricia wasn’t even sure if they’d be staying in town another day or two. That was something she could ask Elizabeth.
In the meantime, she needed more information. Much as she didn’t even like to speak to Russ Smith these days, digging into Capshaw’s background might be something she’d have to get him to do for her. Being a former big-time reporter, he knew the kinds of people to ask, where to find the information she might need.
Need for what? To quench some insatiable nosiness within you? Why do you even care—let it go!
But she couldn’t let it go. It nagged at her. It wasn’t so much the manner of Deborah’s death that bothered her now but that she’d died at all.
Ten
The rain had stopped, but the day was still gloomy as Tricia prepared to leave for the day. The whole idea of letting Ginny close Haven’t Got a Clue made her feel like a new mother abandoning her newborn to a teenager’s care. She’d left a minimum of cash in the till, locking the rest of the day’s receipts in the safe. Miss Marple had a litter box in the shop’s washroom, and Ginny had agreed to feed the cat before she locked up for the night.
“Honest, Tricia, I can do this,” Ginny assured her, with more than a little irritation evident in her voice.
Tricia sighed. “I know you can. And I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t trust you to do a good job, it’s just . . .”
Ginny shook her head, a wry smile lighting her face. “Haven’t Got a Clue is your baby, and—”
“Exactly! You know, it won’t take long before you feel the same way about the Happy Domestic.”
“Except that it won’t really be mine.”
“It’s the first big step in the process. I’ll bet in a couple of years you’ll be presenting a business plan for your own shop to Billie Hanson at the Bank of Stoneham.”
“Oh, sure, I was just starting to feel okay about all this new responsibility, and now you have to ruin it by reminding me that one day it’ll be me in that financial hot seat.”