“Did you ask her about it?” Tricia asked.
“Yes. She denies she’s got it—the bitch. But that’s the only place it can be. Without his mother and his blankie, the poor baby is inconsolable.”
Davey was nowhere to be seen. Had Elizabeth found a babysitter for the morning?
A woman Tricia didn’t know waved to Elizabeth, who turned and said, “Excuse me,” before she left them.
The large viewing room was filled to capacity, and Mr. Baker had turned the air-conditioning up high to accommodate the crowd, but instead of comfortable, Tricia felt chilled. She shivered, wishing she’d worn a sweater, and noticed Cheryl still standing at the side of the room all alone, looking decidedly out of place. She didn’t seem to be mingling with the rest of the mourners, just holding up a wall.
Angelica scanned the crowd. “Where’s Ginny?”
“I don’t know. I thought she’d be here.”
“I don’t see Alexa and Boris Kozlov, either,” Angelica said.
“And you probably won’t. They had a beef with Deborah over garbage.”
“Garbage?” Angelica asked skeptically.
“It seems Deb needed to cut some corners to stay afloat and sometimes”—here she was stretching the truth—“put some of the Happy Domestic’s trash in the Coffee Bean’s Dumpster.”
“That’s as good as stealing,” Angelica said, aghast.
“That’s the way Alexa and Boris feel, too.” Tricia frowned. “I didn’t realize Deb had so many . . .” She paused, struggling to come up with a descriptor.
“Enemies?” Angelica supplied. “If we hadn’t all witnessed the accident, one might think someone had bumped her off.”
Tricia pondered that statement. Of course the plane crash had been an accident. It had simply run out of fuel. Besides, nobody in their right might would deliberately crash a plane into a crowd just to kill off one person.
And what if Monty Capshaw hadn’t been of sound mind?
“Who is that woman in the tight black dress? I’d never seen her before last night,” Tricia whispered. “In fact, she had dinner at the Brookview Inn with David Black and Antonio Barbero.”
Angelica craned her neck, looked the woman up and down, and raised an eyebrow. “Her name’s Michele something. I met her at some cocktail party Bob dragged me to in Nashua. If I’m not mistaken, she owns a gallery in Portsmouth. Didn’t you say David welded god-awful metal sculptures?”
“Yes. I heard he wanted to quit his regular job and do it for a living.”
“Ha! Retail is precarious enough. Trying to make a living in the arts is just about impossible.”
“Which is why he’s still got a day job. Well, two actually.”
“When does he find time to do sculptures?” Angelica asked.
Tricia shrugged. “According to Frannie, making his art is his second job.” She thought about it. The Blacks had always been in financial distress. Had David just told Deborah he held a second job while he did his sculptures for the gallery? And if that was true, where had he done the work? Deborah had said he kept none of his welding equipment in their garage. She was afraid he’d set the place on fire. Had he fabricated them at his day job? That didn’t seem likely. Could he have rented a studio somewhere?
“We ought to go check out David’s work—to see if it was any good,” Angelica suggested.
“When?”
“How about tonight? Michele may take time out to go to a funeral, but I’m sure she isn’t going to close the gallery because one of her artists’ wives died. I mean, it’s just not good business.”
Did Angelica realize how cold she came off at times?
“Well?” she demanded.
“I guess,” Tricia said.
“Ginny’s been moaning for you to give her more responsibility. Let her close Haven’t Got a Clue and we’ll go to the gallery and then have a lovely dinner. I heard about this amazing Italian restaurant I’ve been dying to try.”
“What about the Cookery?” Tricia asked.
“I have no problem with Frannie closing for me. And besides, you’ve been awfully depressed about Deborah’s death. It might cheer you up to get out of Stoneham for an evening. I know I could sure use it.”
It had been two years since Angelica had relocated to New Hampshire, and Tricia still couldn’t get over the fact her sister felt comfortable with Stoneham’s small-town charm. And of late, she’d spent nearly all her off time working on the new cookbook. Too much time. Despite the friction the night before, Tricia had missed their regular gab fests.
Angelica glanced at her watch. “What’s taking so long? Shouldn’t they have started the service by now?”
An impassive Mr. Baker still stood on the sidelines. Tricia crossed the room to join him. “Mr. Baker, when is the service supposed to start?”
Baker frowned and looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid there is no formal service scheduled. Mr. Black decided against it. He thought a gathering of friends would be adequate.”
Tricia gaped at the man, whose disapproving gaze seemed to be riveted on David Black and the gallery owner. Tricia shook herself, and managed a shaky “Thank you” before turning to rejoin Angelica. “There’s no service. This is it.”
“This is what?”
“A gathering,” Tricia explained.
“What idiot came up with that bright idea?” Angelica asked.
“David.”
Angelica glanced at her watch again. “I need to go.”
“But I’m not ready.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got my umbrella. I won’t melt. I’ll call you later about tonight.”
“But, Ange—”
There was no stopping Angelica once she’d made up her mind about something. Tricia watched as her sister said good-bye to Elizabeth and then headed toward the exit.
David had finally extricated himself from the gallery owner and was speaking with Russ Smith, who bore an expression of surprise. No doubt David had just told him there’d be no ceremony.
Tricia marched across the room to stand before David. He didn’t even acknowledge her. “I’m not paying for anything formal. If you want to run an obituary, that’s up to you,” he told Russ.
Tricia tapped David’s shoulder. He finally turned. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe how little regard you seem to feel for your poor dead wife. This”—she waved her hand at the room at large—“is not what Deborah would have wanted.”
“And how would you know?” David challenged. “You were friends with her for what—two years?”
“Almost three,” Tricia said, bending the truth just a little. It was more like two and a half years.
“Well, I was married to her for six years—and knew her for two years before that. I think I knew my wife much better than you did.”
“Not the way she spoke.”
David’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “The subject is closed.” He gestured toward the door. “Now, if you don’t mind.”
Several other mourners were obviously eavesdropping, but Tricia was so angry that she didn’t care. She leaned closer and kept her voice low. “But I do mind. If I didn’t know better, David, I’d say everything you’ve done for the past few days screams involvement in Deborah’s death.”
David’s eyes grew even wider. “Get out.”
Tricia met his gaze. “Gladly.”
Nine
From her perch behind the cash desk, Miss Marple glared at the rain that continued to beat against Haven’t Got a Clue’s front display window. “Yow,” she said in what sounded like annoyance.
Tricia, sitting on a stool below the cat, looked up from the book she’d been trying to read. “You said it,” she agreed. Movement to her right caught her attention. Someone at the door was closing an umbrella. The door opened and a figure stepped inside and pulled off the hood of a yellow slicker. “Feels more like November than August,” Ginny said, and wiped her feet on the bristle welcome mat.
“Good morning,” Tricia said, grabbed a bookmark, and closed the copy of Ellery Queens’s Double, Double, setting it beside the newspaper she hadn’t yet had time to finish reading. “Although by the looks of the weather, we might not have many customers today.”