A flush of exhilaration coursed through her, and Tricia found it hard to speak. “It’s . . . it’s—”
“Gorgeous,” Angelica supplied. “Who knew David had so much talent?”
“I did,” Michele said, sounding smug.
Tricia turned to face her. “It’s magnificent. Surely this belongs—”
“In a bigger, more impressive gallery than mine?” Michele challenged, turning her gaze back to the massive gate. She sniffed. “Yes, I suppose it does. I don’t imagine it’ll sell—not here in Portsmouth. But if someone from Boston sees it, it could lead to a commission. I’m sure I’m just the first stepping-stone to a very successful career for David Black.”
Angelica raised an eyebrow. “How do you feel about that?”
Michele sniffed again. Did she have allergies? “It never hurts to be the one who first discovers genius.”
Tricia found she couldn’t take her eyes off the piece. And some part of her yearned to own it. Thoughts flew through her mind. Could she get David to do a smaller scale steel gate for her own shop? Could he do something that would mesh with the store’s mystery theme? Perhaps a raven?
For a moment, she forgot how much she disliked the man and how angry he’d been when they’d last spoken.
A telephone rang from somewhere within the gallery. “If you’ll excuse me,” Michele said, and headed back toward the front of the building.
“Not bad,” Angelica said, circling the massive gate. “Not my taste of course, but it’s a pretty significant piece of art.”
Tricia frowned. “Deborah always spoke of David’s hobby as though it were a joke—a waste of time. Ginny and Frannie made fun of his yard sculptures, too.”
“Then the joke was on all of them,” Angelica said. “Do you think Deborah ever saw this piece?”
“She would’ve had to change her tune if she did.” Tricia studied the heavy black gate. Her English professor had loved to find symbolism in everything. Did this work of art represent oppression—or the shackles of marriage? But the gates were parted, with no sign of a lock. And why did the colorful ribbons seem to scream freedom?
Tricia remembered what Julia Overline had said the day Deborah died. She’d overhead a telephone call that had upset Deborah, and Julia distinctly remembered Deborah mention the word gate. Who had she been speaking to—David?—or perhaps Michele? Had she been angry or perhaps jealous of David’s friendship with the gallery owner?
The Blacks had not been a happily married couple. They fought about money. They fought about the time Deborah spent in her store, and the time David devoted to his art. Could they have fought about Michele, too?
Deborah was dead.
David was now free . . . to pursue his art . . . to quit his job . . . to do whatever he wanted.
For a terrible moment, the word murdered flittered in Tricia’s brain.
“What are you thinking?” Angelica asked, taking in Tricia’s vacant expression.
“A very nasty thought.”
“About David? I’m not surprised,” Angelica said.
“What if . . . he wanted Deborah dead? What if that plane crash wasn’t an accident?”
Angelica sighed and did a theatrical eye roll. “Oh, you do read way too many mysteries.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Darling Tricia, you were there. You saw what happened with your own eyes. The plane ran out of gas. It crashed. End of story.”
Footsteps heralded Michele’s return.
“We’ll talk after we’re out of here,” Tricia whispered.
“It had better be over a couple of glasses of wine and dinner,” Angelica hissed.
Michele halted in front of the sisters. “I don’t suppose you’re going to purchase anything this evening.” Not the best example of customer service Tricia had ever witnessed.
“Not tonight,” Angelica agreed, “although”—she looked beyond Michele—“I’d like to take a closer look at those bronze horse sculptures. They’re marvelous. Can you tell me about the artist?”
“He’s from Western New York and sells a lot in Chicago and Philadelphia. I can give you a brochure,” Michele said, her demeanor softening at the prospect of a potential future sale.
Tricia dutifully followed them, her mind whirling with possibilities. She could use the time during Michele’s sales pitch to think things through before she shared her thoughts with Angelica, who was likely to tear her newborn theory to pieces.
Angelica swirled the pinot noir around in her glass, took a sip, and leveled her gaze at Tricia. “You’re definitely certifiable.”
Tricia picked up her own wineglass. “I think I make a pretty compelling argument.”
“In what universe?” Angelica abandoned her glass and turned her attention back to her dinner. Pasta with sausage, artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes, mushrooms, garlic, and lightly drizzled with olive oil. It smelled heavenly and tasted delicious. Tricia knew because she’d ordered the same dish, although she’d been too busy talking to eat much of the meal. Thank goodness for doggy bags—even if one didn’t own a dog.
“It all fits,” she insisted.
“Only in your warped mind.” Angelica speared a piece of pasta, chewed, and swallowed. “You know, I think I could improve on this recipe.”
“I’m serious,” Tricia insisted. “I wonder if Elizabeth might agree with my conclusions.”
“You’re not seriously thinking of sharing them with the poor woman. She just lost her daughter. Leave her alone.”
“But if Deborah was to confide in anyone, it would’ve been her mother.”
“I don’t confide in our mother,” Angelica exclaimed.
“She’s not the most nurturing woman on the planet,” Tricia agreed. “But Elizabeth might know if Deborah’s life was insured.”
“So what if it was? She had a son. Most people with children make those kinds of arrangements.”
“With Deborah gone, David gets everything he wanted. He’s shed of the Happy Domestic, a headstrong wife, and he can quit his jobs and dedicate his life to his art.”
“If Deborah had died any other way, you might have a case.”
“That plane circled around and around the village square. What if the pilot was sizing up the best angle of approach? What if he deliberately let his tanks run dry and at the last moment—pow!—plowed right into the gazebo?”
“But no pilot is going to deliberately crash into a stone gazebo to take out the head of the Founders’ Day celebration, wreck his plane, and kill himself in the process,” Angelica said and speared a mushroom. “If you’re thinking murder, why not blame Alexa and Boris Kozlov?”
“Why?”
“You said Deb tossed her trash in their Dumpster. I imagine that would piss off anyone.”
“Enough to kill?” Tricia asked.
“Why not? What if Alexa and Boris were fugitives?” Angelica asked, warming to her blossoming theory. “Maybe. . . .” Her eyes widened, as though a lightbulb had gone on over her head. “Maybe they were members of the Russian mafia. I mean, where did they ever get the money to open their own business?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tricia said. “I’d never believe that of Alexa.”
“Ah,” Angelica said, raising her right index finger as though to prove a point. “But you would believe it of Boris.”
Tricia frowned and shook her head. “Your mind is full of tommyrot.”
“Admit it, you have to have noticed he can’t look anyone in the eye. A born sneak, if ever I saw one.”
“You think Boris arranged to have Deborah killed because she illegally dumped her garbage in the Coffee Bean’s Dumpster?”