“You’re the idiot who believes Deborah was murdered, not me. But that doesn’t mean Boris isn’t guilty of something.”
Tricia mulled that over. Angelica had a point. That gave her two very good suspects. She did a mental shake of the head. Did she sound like the protagonist in a bad mystery if she tried to twist the facts to mesh with her version of events? Who killed over garbage? David was still her main suspect. Still, maybe what she needed to do was find out more about that pilot. And she thought she knew who to tap for that information.
Eleven
Tricia parked her Lexus in front of Russ Smith’s house at almost ten o’clock that Saturday night. The rain had made a repeat appearance but was now diminishing to a fine mist. Tricia grabbed her umbrella after parking at the curb outside his home. She’d have to be careful how she phrased her request for help—otherwise he’d think he might have another shot at a relationship with her and that was the last thing she wanted.
Before Tricia could raise her hand to press the doorbell, the door opened and a delighted Russ stood before her. “Tricia, what brought you to my doorstep tonight?”
“Deborah Black’s death. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
For a moment Russ looked panicked. He glanced over his shoulder toward the living room. Tricia could hear the roar of a crowd. A Red Sox game? Russ turned back. “Uh, sure. Come on in.” He held the door for her and she stepped into the small, familiar entryway.
“Hang up your coat,” Russ said, and dashed into the living room. Seconds later, the room went silent, and she heard the rustle of newspapers as he did a slap-dash cleanup. She took her time hanging up her coat and standing her damp umbrella in the corner so it could dry. When she turned, she found Russ standing uncomfortably close by.
“This way,” he said, as though she hadn’t been in his home at least a hundred times, and ushered her into the living room. He gestured for her to sit on the couch, but she steered for the leather club chair instead. Russ perched on the edge of the couch, as though ready to leap up at any moment.
“I was surprised to see you at my door. I thought you didn’t like me anymore,” Russ said.
“I never said that.”
“You sure haven’t been friendly toward me for the last few months.”
“You seem to forget it was you who dumped me.”
“I’ve apologized at least a hundred times.”
“Yes, well, I’ve forgiven you for that. But we can’t have the kind of relationship we once had.” And I’d prefer that we had none at all, she refrained from saying. But she needed him right now. Did that make her a terrible person, using him like this?
Probably. But she thought she could live with herself. Maybe.
She didn’t want to think about that just now, and pressed on.
“How would you like to scoop the Nashua Telegraph?”
He looked at her skeptically. “Have you been snooping around in this plane crash business?”
“Not snooping. Just . . . asking some judicious questions. I’ve got the beginnings of a theory.”
Russ threw up his hands and turned away. “Theory? You can’t possibly think Deborah was murdered.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s ludicrous. You were there. You saw what happened.”
Tricia kept her cool, shrugged, and stood. “Okay, I’ll just call Portia McAllister.”
Russ scowled. She’d definitely hit a nerve. Portia was a reporter with Channel 10 in Boston and had covered the Zoë Carter murder some eighteen months before. Russ was jealous of any reporter in a larger city—especially since his plans to resume his career as a crime reporter in a larger city had fizzled out the previous year.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s your theory?” Russ asked.
Tricia sat once again. She leaned forward and looked him straight in the eye. “Monty Capshaw had cancer. His wife was surprised that he hadn’t had his license lifted for health reasons, especially since his medication left him forgetful.”
“Forgetful enough not to fill his gas tank?” Russ asked.
“That’s something for you to find out.”
“And what if he was flying with a suspended license?”
“The ramifications from that ought to be obvious.” Even to you, she felt like adding, but refrained.
Russ nodded. “If I were Bob Kelly, I’d be pretty damned worried. What else have you got?”
“How soon do you think you can find out about Capshaw’s license?”
“I might have something tomorrow. I’ll let you know. Maybe we could get together for lunch or dinner and discuss it.”
“Why don’t you just call me, and we’ll go from there.”
Russ sighed. “All right. Whatever I find out, I’ll share with you. Deal?” He held out his hand.
Reluctant as she was to shake on it, Tricia accepted his hand. As expected, he didn’t want to let go. She had to yank her hand free and glared at him.
“Rumor has it that David Black intends to sue anyone he thinks he can get a nickel out of,” Tricia said.
“Which sounds reasonable under the circumstances.”
“Frannie Armstrong lives a few houses from the Blacks. She says they fought almost every night.”
“About?”
“Money, for one. It seems that Deborah’s life was heavily insured and David is her only beneficiary,” she bluffed, since she hadn’t yet had time to ask Elizabeth about it.
“That’s not unusual.”
“But even more telling—David was seen on Friday evening at the Brookview Inn with the same woman he brought to the funeral parlor. They were drinking champagne, no doubt celebrating the sale of Deborah’s store.”
“Yeah, I heard Ginny’s going to manage it,” Russ said as he sorted through the magazines and papers on the coffee table, coming up with a steno pad and pen. “What’s the woman’s name?”
“Michele Fowler. She owns the Foxleigh Gallery in Portsmouth. David is exhibiting some of his metal sculptures there.”
“How does all this relate to the pilot who was killed?”
“Monty Capshaw had been sick for a long time. He was heavily in debt. What reasonable man would want to leave his wife in that situation? He flew that plane in circles around the village until he ran out of gas. Why didn’t he steer for the Half Moon Nudist Camp? It’s not far from the village and he could have landed safely instead of destroying a village landmark and killing himself and Deborah—as well as putting scores of other people at risk.”
“Are you saying he committed suicide for an insurance payout?”
“It may have been the only way he could be sure his wife was financially secure.”
Russ shook his head. “I still don’t get what this has to do with Deborah’s death.”
“Double jeopardy. Someone could also have paid him to crash the plane. Someone who knew Deborah would be at that place and that time.”
“Her husband?” Russ shook his head. “Sounds pretty farfetched to me. And even if it was true, how could you prove it?”
Tricia bit her lip and frowned. She didn’t have a clue.
The status of Monty Capshaw’s pilot’s license wasn’t the only thing on Tricia’s mind. The fact that the name Nigela Racita Associates kept popping up in Stoneham was beginning to grate on her. Why was this particular firm so focused on this one little village in New Hampshire? Did they have other holdings, and if so, where were they?
Tricia settled at the desk in her living room and powered up her laptop. Miss Marple jumped onto her lap and head butted her chin. “Now now, Miss Marple,” Tricia scolded, and gently set the cat down on the floor. Miss Marple circled the chair and jumped up from the opposite side, landing on Tricia’s lap with a very pleased “Brrrp!”
Tricia reached around the cat to type a URL into her browser. Seconds later, the Google home page appeared. She typed in the words Nigela Racita Associates and hit enter. The last time she’d Googled the firm, only one entry, for its Website, appeared. This time, however, the entire screen was filled with entries, most of them either press releases or links to articles in the Web version of the Nashua Telegraph.