She took it. “I’d better be off. It’s sure to be a busy day.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, and tossed her cup into the trash. “I have a lot to accomplish before David yanks the store out from under me. I’d better get to it. I’m sure I’ll see you around, Tricia.”
Tricia forced a smile at the dismissal and headed for the door.
She had liked Elizabeth’s daughter much better than she liked Elizabeth.
No sooner had Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue than the phone rang. Tricia picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue. This is Tricia. How can I—?”
“Tricia, it’s Russ. Can you meet me for coffee—in Milford?”
“What’s wrong with your office?” she asked, suddenly annoyed.
“I’m already here. I’ve got an emergency appointment with my dentist in forty-five minutes.”
Tricia glanced at the clock on the wall. “Oh, all right, but I’ve got to wait until Ginny comes in. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Okay, but make it fast. I’ve got some news I think you’ll want to hear.” He gave her the directions and then hung up.
Tricia replaced the receiver and frowned. “Why couldn’t he have just told her over the phone whatever he’d found out? Why all the intrigue?
As she’d hoped, Ginny arrived early and Tricia flew out the door.
The little diner Russ chose for their informational rendezvous was in a strip mall on Nashua Street, not far from the Milford Oval. The small restaurant was rather nondescript with pale yellow or beige walls (Tricia wasn’t sure quite what the color was), and a few halfhearted attempts at decor, like the fake flowers in glass bud vases on every table. Russ was ensconced in one of the back booths. The diner’s menu boasted the best seafood chowder in the state. Since Tricia had had no breakfast that morning, she asked about it, and was assured that at eleven forty-five it was readily available. In the meantime, she sipped her coffee.
“Nice place,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You won’t be so smug once you taste that chowder,” Russ said.
“So what dental calamity has befallen you since last night?’ Tricia asked.
“I’ve got a bridge ready to collapse and I want it fixed before it drops out of my mouth while eating a marshmallow.”
“I didn’t realize your teeth were so fragile.”
“I’m joking about the marshmallow. But a friend of mine lost a bridge while eating a soft dinner roll. I don’t want that to happen to me, and I’m willing to pay Sunday rates to see that it doesn’t.”
Tricia wasted no more time on small talk. “So what have you found out about Monty Capshaw and how on earth did you do it so fast?”
Russ leaned back in the booth, “I’ve got friends in high and low places, and a lot of them owe me favors—like you will after we talk.” He really must have dental problems, she decided. Every time he said something with an s, his tongue seemed to slip so that he spoke with a slight lisp.
Tricia leveled her gaze at him. What he’d said was not the words of a man hoping for a reconciliation. “And when were you thinking of calling in this favor?”
“Some time in the future. And don’t worry, it won’t be something you can’t deliver.” He sounded so damned smug. But before she could reply, the waitress arrived with her soup and a package of oyster crackers. Tricia plunged her spoon into the creamy chowder and took her first mouthful. Her eyes widened as she let the soup lie on her tongue for a moment to savor the taste.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Russ asked, rubbing it in.
The menu hadn’t been bragging. This was the best seafood chowder she’d ever eaten—even topping Angelica’s, which was saying something.
Tricia swallowed. “I will be coming back here on a regular basis. Angelica has got to try this.”
Russ positively grinned. But Tricia hadn’t forgotten why the two of them were really there. “Monty Capshaw,” she reminded him.
Russ leaned forward and dropped his voice. “The man was broke. He was days away from having his plane repossessed.”
“What about the cancer? His wife said he was in remission.”
Russ shook his head. “Not according to some of his buddies at the airfield. He didn’t want his wife to know that the cancer had come back. He was told he had three months.”
“When was this?”
“A couple of weeks ago. And he was looking for a way out of his money situation. That’s why he took the job flying the banner for Founders’ Day.”
“Was he fit to fly?”
Russ shook his head. “Not in the opinion of his cronies. They predicted something like this would happen.”
Tricia shook her head. “I might think that if the plane hadn’t run out of fuel. You saw how he circled the village until his tanks were dry.”
“You’re still trying to tie this into Deborah’s death, aren’t you?”
“It just seems very convenient for David Black that his wife’s death suddenly opens so many doors for him.”
“Like what?”
“Out of a marriage that wasn’t working. Into the arms of a lover who can introduce him to the bigwigs in the art world. He’ll also get insurance money and the money from the sale of the store.”
“So, he got lucky,” Russ said with a shrug.
Tricia glowered at him before spooning up another mouthful of soup. “What about Capshaw—was he insured?”
“To the hilt. He told his buddies that he would never leave his wife high and dry. And it looks like he didn’t.”
“Too bad you couldn’t get a look at his bank accounts.”
“Don’t be too sure I can’t.”
“Russ!” she admonished.
“What I mean,” he clarified, “is that I might know someone who can.”
“That’s illegal,” she hissed, hoping no one nearby had heard his boast.
“What are you looking for? Some kind of large payment to his savings or checking account?”
Tricia frowned. “Something like that.”
“I think I can find out.”
“And what’s in it for you?” Tricia asked.
“I think you may be right. There’s more to David Black than meets the eye.”
“I know there is. I checked out his art at the Foxleigh Gallery in Portsmouth last night. He’s got a piece there that blows away everything he’s done before.”
“His lawn art really sucks—but he has made money at it,” Russ said.
“How would you know?” Tricia asked.
“I ran a piece on him last summer in the Stoneham Weekly News.”
“I must have missed it,” Tricia said, and scraped the last of her chowder from the bowl. The truth was, she rarely read the local weekly news rag. “Did David mention he was trying new things?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. But he wasn’t willing to talk about it at the time.”
“I’d like to read the piece. Have you still got copies?”
“Not hard copies. Call over to the office and ask one of the girls to e-mail it to you.”
“Thanks.”
“What else have you got on David Black?” Russ asked.
“He doesn’t seem very interested in his son. His motherin-law says he hasn’t been with the boy since Deborah died.”
Russ frowned. “He’s a rotten little kid. I can’t say I blame David.”
“Davey’s just a baby,” Tricia said, taken aback.
“Hitler started out as a child, too.”
Tricia shook her head, pushed her bowl away, and wondered if she could get an order of the chowder to go. “Are you going to keep pursuing the story?”
“I’ve got a business to run. You could do some of the legwork yourself.”
“Like what?” Tricia asked.
“Find out what else David Black has on his plate.”
“And how am I supposed to do that? Stake him out?”
“Why not? You’re also chums with the biggest gossips in the village. Frannie, for one.”
“Ah, but she’s been closemouthed about some things lately.”
“That’s something you could explore as well.” Russ looked at his watch and frowned. “There’s a dentist’s chair waiting with my name on it.” He reached for his wallet and peeled out a couple of ones. “You don’t mind paying for your soup yourself, do you?”