Tricia wasn’t fooled by Ginny’s words. “No pain, no gain.”
Ginny smiled. “Get out of here. Your cat and your shop will be fine when you get back later tonight.”
“I’m going,” Tricia declared, and grabbed her purse from behind the counter. She headed for the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Good night,” Ginny called.
As Tricia went out, a customer came in.
“Hi. Welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue. I’m Ginny. Let me know if you need any help finding a book.”
The door closed and Tricia squared her shoulders and marched over to the Cookery, determined not to look back.
Frannie stood behind the register, helping a customer when Tricia entered. She hadn’t stepped more than four feet into the shop before she saw Angelica pass through the door marked PRIVATE that led to her loft apartment. Angelica checked her watch. “Right on time, Tricia. Let’s move.” She turned her attention to Frannie as she neared the front of the store. “See you tomorrow.”
Frannie nodded and finished ringing up the sale.
Angelica trounced through the door without a care while Tricia meekly followed in her wake. Once outside, Angelica stopped short. “Come on, let’s go,” she urged.
Tricia caught up to her. “You make it look so easy.”
“Make what look easy?” Angelica asked shortly.
“Leaving your store—your livelihood—in someone else’s hands.”
Angelica gave a bored sigh. “Until I hired Frannie, I was stuck with incompetent boobs. She and I just clicked. Except for Darcy, who I hired out of desperation, I’ve had pretty good success.”
That was an understatement. Angelica had hired and fired five or more assistants at the Cookery before she’d found success with Frannie. Since then, she’d seemed to have mastered the art of hiring competent employees. Meanwhile, though Tricia trusted both her own and Miss Marple’s lives to Ginny and Mr. Everett—she wasn’t sure she entirely trusted them to take care of her beloved store.
She tried to put it out of her mind.
The sisters approached Tricia’s car, parked in Stoneham’s municipal lot. “I met Mrs. Capshaw this morning—widow of the pilot who crashed the plane on Thursday,” Tricia said as casually as she could, and pressed the button on her key fob.
“Don’t tell me you went and bothered the poor woman,” Angelica said accusingly.
“I did, and . . . I’m afraid she literally is poor. She said they were in terrible debt. Monty Capshaw had been sick with cancer for some time, but he’d been in remission. Still, his illness nearly wiped them out. She’s afraid she’s going to lose her house.”
“The poor woman,” Angelica said, and opened the passenger side door. She climbed inside.
Tricia did likewise. “I felt so sorry for her and her little dog.”
“Dog?” Angelica asked.
Tricia nodded. “What are those dinky, cutie-pie white dogs that look like toys?”
“Bichon frise?” Angelica suggested.
“Yeah, that’s the kind. His name is Sarge.”
“Sarge? Isn’t that what you’d name a German shepherd?”
“It seems to fit the little guy. He was very protective of Mrs. Capshaw,” she said, and turned the key in the ignition.
“Well, of course he was. She’s his mom. My little Pom-Pom was very protective of me, too. He would’ve given his life to save mine.” She sighed. “I still miss him every day.”
Tricia steered the car toward the lot’s exit. “She also said she’d received a couple of threatening phone calls. Who’d be so mean as to harass someone in her circumstances?”
“Let’s play devil’s advocate,” Angelica said. “David Black—or maybe Deborah’s mother. Those two had the most to gain.”
“Mrs. Capshaw said it was a woman’s voice on the phone, but I can’t believe Elizabeth could be so cruel.”
“Why not? Her daughter died. Most women will fight tooth and nail for their children.”
“So says the childless woman.”
“Hey, I may never have had kids, but I’ve got plenty of maternal instinct.”
“If you say so,” Tricia said, hoping her decision to agree with Angelica had been the right one. Sometimes Ange could be such a witch—arguing just for the sake of it.
Tricia approached Route 101 and slowed, tapping her right-hand turn signal. “I assume you know where we’re going.”
“Turn here and keep going. I’ll give you further instructions as we approach our destination.”
“Gosh, why would I ever need a GPS system when I have you in my front seat?”
“Just drive,” Angelica ordered.
This could be a very long evening, Tricia decided.
Angelica did know where she was headed, and very soon she’d directed Tricia to park on one of Portsmouth’s lesser-known streets. Or at least it hadn’t been known to Tricia until that moment.
The Foxleigh Gallery was housed in an old Victorian building in a not-quite-shabby neighborhood near the waterfront. The sandblasted brick and nineteenth-century architectural details lent old-world charm. The red crosswalks done in pavers were charming, but not good for three-inch heels and Angelica definitely wobbled as she walked. Tricia was glad she’d worn sensible flats, as they’d had to park a block away.
They stepped inside the brightly painted door and into the dim interior. A buzzer sounded, alerting someone that they’d entered. “Is there anything more obnoxious than that noise?” Angelica hissed.
“Shhh. Someone will hear you.”
“Do I care?”
The narrow building was completely devoid of potential customers. Its walls had been stripped back to the bare brick, with task lighting over each of the works of art that lined the walls at intervals. All but the load-bearing walls had been removed, making the space look a bit like a maze.
Tricia took a few more steps forward, cocked an ear, and stopped, with Angelica running into her back. She whirled. “Ouch!”
Angelica poked her in the ribs and nodded toward the back of the cavernous space. Footsteps forewarned that someone was approaching. As expected, it was the woman they’d seen at the funeral parlor that morning. She was still dressed in the tight-fitting black dress, but now she’d added costume jewelry to the ensemble, which made it seem more like cocktail attire than mourning wear.
“Hello. Can I help you?” the woman asked, with just the touch of an English accent.
“Yes,” Angelica said, stepping around Tricia. “We understand the gallery is featuring some of David Black’s sculptures.”
The woman studied Angelica’s face. “Didn’t I see you earlier today at—?”
“Yes, you did. I’m Angelica Miles, and this is my sister, Tricia. We were friends of Deborah’s.”
“Michele Fowler. I own Foxleigh Gallery,” she said and shook her head. “Such a tragedy. David’s handling it well, though, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Tricia said, her voice sounding colder than she’d meant.
Michele either missed it or chose to ignore it. “How tragic that she’ll never get to see her husband’s success as an internationally famous sculptor.”
Was the woman delusional? Did she know David’s last showing was an outdoor sale on the Milford oval?
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to David’s masterpiece.”
Angelica gave Tricia another dig in the ribs, stifling a laugh. “Masterpiece,” she whispered.
Michele led the way to the back of the gallery, where they passed various smaller bronze sculptures of horses with incredibly delicate legs, life-sized wooden carvings in the shape of various hats—top hats, tams, berets, and many more that Tricia didn’t quite catch, because at the back of the room stood a gigantic piece of metalwork that took her breath away.
“Triumph, by David Black,” Michele announced, waving her arm like Vanna White in front of a letter board.
Tricia gasped, her mouth falling open as she gazed up at David’s magnificent sculpture.
Several track lights from the ceiling pointed down on the formidable steel gate. It stood at least ten feet high and was at least twelve feet wide. The dull metal structure seemed to suck up the available light. From the vertical bars trailed colorful ribbons of metal, painted in playful pastels of pink, green, and blue, with just the hint of gold on the edges. Though static, the ribbons almost seemed to dance in some unseen breeze. Formidable yet . . . beautiful. What could have stood as a strong barrier was open and inviting.