Tricia sipped her wine. “Whatever,” she said, and cringed at herself for using that hated expression.
Angelica took celery from the fridge’s crisper drawer and began to chop up a rib.
“How long is this likely to take?” Tricia asked. “I’m going to go over to Bob’s house after I leave here.”
Angelica sighed. “You’re like a terrier, you know that? You just don’t let go of things.”
“You could come with me, you know. Maybe it would help you and Bob smooth things over.”
“More likely, he’d get angry with me. He doesn’t like to be pushed. And you’re a pusher!”
“I don’t deal drugs,” Tricia said wryly.
“And I don’t go crawling back to people who’ve done me wrong,” Angelica said bitterly.
“You could stay in the car.”
“And do what? Listen to the radio? Watch out for aliens?”
“The Dexter sisters still think we’re ripe for an invasion,” Tricia reminded her.
“Ha!”
“Well, are you game?”
Angelica sniffed and gave the last piece of celery a vicious chop. “I suppose I could go along . . . just to keep you company.’
“Fine,” Tricia said and nodded. More likely Angelica wanted to make sure Bob wasn’t canoodling with someone else on the sly. “How’s that sandwich coming?”
“Get the baguette out of the freezer and nuke it for about thirty seconds. I’ll have this turkey salad finished by the time you do that and get some plates out.”
Tricia glanced at the clock. It was already well past nine o’clock. Would Bob still be up by the time they ate their makeshift dinner and drove to his house?
She sure hoped so, because at this point, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t pound on his front door and wake him up if he had gone to bed.
This time, she would get some answers.
Twenty-Five
Angelica hadn’t finished her sandwich and had barely touched her wine before Tricia led her to the municipal parking lot to pick up her car. Was Angelica that worried Bob might be shacked up with someone else?
The drive to Bob’s house was silent, and Tricia was glad she only had to endure it for two blocks. She pulled the car to a stop outside of Bob’s home, put it in gear, and shut down the engine before killing the lights. “Do you want to come in with me?”
Angelica refused to look at her. “No. I told you, I only came along for the ride.” But Tricia did notice that her sister’s gaze was focused on Bob’s driveway, where only his own car was parked.
“I won’t be long.”
“Take as much time as you want. I’m not going anywhere.” It sounded like a threat.
Tricia got out of the car and walked up the concrete path that led to the porch and Bob’s front door. The lights were still on in the living room, and Tricia snuck a peak through one of the windows. Bob sat on the couch, staring at the flickering television screen.
Tricia stepped back to the door and rapped on it hard enough to bruise her knuckles. For a long moment nothing happened, and she was about to dart back to the window to take another peek, when the porch light came on, the handle rattled, and the door opened.
“Tricia. What are you doing here at this time of night?” Bob asked, sounding genuinely surprised.
“I tried contacting you at least four times earlier today. Why didn’t you return my calls?”
Bob frowned, sudden anger hardening his expression. “I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to mess around with someone who thinks she’s the reincarnation of Agatha Christie.”
“I don’t write mystery novels. I read and sell them. Now, why have you been avoiding me?” Tricia demanded.
“Because, you’re a terrible nag—just like your sister,” he blurted.
Tricia’s eyes blazed, and Bob seemed to realize the big mistake he’d just made.
“Ohmigod, please don’t tell Angelica I said that. She’s been giving me the cold shoulder for months. I’d do anything to get back in her good graces.”
“Anything?” Tricia asked.
Bob’s eyes narrowed. “To a point.” He sighed. “You’d better come in.” He stood back, letting Tricia enter his tidy living room. She noticed a framed portrait of Angelica—her author photo—sitting on the fireplace mantel, but there was little else to personalize the room.
Bob directed Tricia to sit, but he chose to stand before the fireplace. Maybe he thought he’d be more intimidating if he stood, but Tricia wasn’t afraid of him.
“What is it you want to know now?” he asked, with a bit of a whine.
“Bob, you’ve got to remember who recommended Monty Capshaw to fly over the Founders’ Day opening ceremonies.”
“How am I supposed to remember? It was weeks ago—maybe even a couple of months.”
“Was it at a Chamber breakfast?” Tricia suggested.
“I don’t know,” he complained, and turned away.
Tricia grabbed him by the shoulder, forcing him to face her once again. “This is important, Bob. Whoever suggested you hire Capshaw wanted Deborah Black dead. I should think you’d want her death off your conscience.”
Bob sighed, collapsed onto the couch, and hunched over, covering his face with his hands. “I just don’t remember.”
“What meeting did it happen in? Was it the first time the idea of hosting Founders’ Day came up?”
He shook his head. “No—long after that.”
“Did someone hand you a business card?”
Bob pulled his hands away from his face. “Yes. It was Monty’s card for Capshaw Aeronautics.” He leaned over, withdrew his wallet from his back trouser pocket, and opened it, shuffling through the contents until he came up with a battered business card. He handed it to Tricia. She studied it for a moment before giving it back to him.
Tricia considered how to approach her next question. “Think about the hand that gave you the card. Was it a man’s or a woman’s hand?”
Bob stared at the card, and then closed his eyes tight in concentration. “A woman’s. Now that I think of it, she was wearing a funny ring.”
“Funny?” Tricia pressed.
“It was gold . . . with a heart and two hands.”
“Sounds like a Claddagh.”
“A what?”
Tricia indicated the computer that sat on the desk on the opposite side of the room. “Is your computer on?”
Bob nodded, and Tricia crossed the room, taking a seat at the desk. Bob followed her. Tricia tapped on the keyboard, brought up a Google search screen and typed in “Claddagh.” The screen filled with links, and she chose one to Wikipedia, hitting enter. The screen flashed and brought up a page with a large picture. “Is this the ring you saw?”
Bob took a few moments to study the screen before nodding. “Yes, that’s it.”
“It’s an Irish wedding band.” She read through the entry. “It says here it can also be worn on the right hand if you’re on the lookout for love. Which hand was the ring on?”
Bob frowned again. “It would’ve been the right.”
“So, an unmarried woman looking for a relationship. Who in the Chamber is looking for love?” Tricia asked.
Bob shrugged, and looked embarrassed. “Most of the women members aren’t married. You would probably have to contact every one and ask if they have the ring.”
“Who’s going to admit it?” Tricia shook her head. “Asking someone directly is too dangerous. If they were willing to get rid of Deborah, they might be willing to come after me—or you, if you step up to the plate.”
“You’re crazy. Monty ran out of gas. It was an accident. And don’t look at me to help you find the woman who owns that ring,” Bob declared. “I’ve run into enough danger this year.”
Of course, he was referring to his part in saving Tricia’s life at the hands of a killer just two months before. But the fact that he thought he might be in danger bolstered her beliefs.
Tricia stood. “I’ll handle this, Bob.”
“No, you won’t. You’ve got to call Steve Marsden. He’s in charge of the investigation.”
“He only cares about why the plane crashed, not who put Monty up to crashing it,” Tricia pointed out.