Contents

  Cover

  Also by Betty Hechtman

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Betty Hechtman

  Writer for Hire mysteries

  MURDER INK *

  WRITING A WRONG *

  MAKING IT WRITE *

  Crochet mysteries

  HOOKED ON MURDER

  DEAD MEN DON’T CROCHET

  BY HOOK OR BY CROOK

  A STITCH IN CRIME

  YOU BETTER KNOT DIE

  BEHIND THE SEAMS

  IF HOOKS COULD KILL

  FOR BETTER OR WORSTED

  KNOT GUILTY

  SEAMS LIKE MURDER

  HOOKING FOR TROUBLE

  ON THE HOOK

  HOOKS CAN BE DECEIVING

  ONE FOR THE HOOKS

  Yarn Retreat mysteries

  YARN TO GO

  SILENCE OF THE LAMB’S WOOL

  WOUND UP IN MURDER

  GONE WITH THE WOOL

  A TANGLED YARN

  INHERIT THE WOOL

  KNOT ON YOUR LIFE

  BUT KNOT FOR ME

  * available from Severn House

  SENTENCED TO DEATH

  Betty Hechtman

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.

  Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  This eBook edition first published in 2023 by Severn House,

  an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  severnhouse.com

  Copyright © Betty Hechtman, 2023

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Betty Hechtman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-2300-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0823-1 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0822-4 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  Thinking back, I’d expected to hear about petunias and peonies when Tizzy asked me to go with her to a meeting about a garden tour. Certainly not that it would lead to a gig that would once again put me in the middle of a death investigation. Now I wondered, if I’d known what would happen, would I have done anything differently? After just a momentary pause, I knew the answer was no.

  It was a Monday evening, and I’d joined Tizzy Baxter for her evening ritual of a glass of sherry at the end of her work day. Even a few drops of anything alcoholic gave me an unpleasant feeling, so I stuck to sparkling water with a twist of lemon. We toasted the end of another day, and she mentioned having to go to a meeting.

  ‘Come with me,’ Tizzy said. ‘They’re a friendly group, and it’s better than going home and hovering over your computer.’

  I had to agree with her about that. I’d managed to fix a glaring hole in the plot of the second Derek Streeter book, and I was close to the end … again. But it seemed my fingers still froze when I sat down at the keyboard. The first book had been a nice success, and I worried the second one would fall flat. If I never finished it, I would never have to know. It was always a trauma when I worked on my own writing. Luckily, my fingers were a lot more active when it came to the writing I did for others. As a writer for hire, I could find the right words for any situation. I wrote whatever anybody needed, from copy for websites to celebrations of life for funerals. Even with all the emails and texts, there was still a need for love letters, which it seemed people couldn’t write for themselves. I always said I would write anything, as long as it was legal.

  Tizzy had started out as just a member of the writing group that met once a week in my dining room. Then we’d become friends and more. Not only had she helped me with some investigations I’d become involved with, but she was always looking for ways to help me get work as a writer for hire. Unlike me, she was a social butterfly and had lots of contacts in the neighborhood. Did I really say that? Clearly a cliché, and it had come to mind so easily. But wasn’t that the point of clichés?

  ‘Which organization is this?’ I asked. Tizzy seemed to be part of every committee and group in our neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago.

  ‘This one is called Friends of Hyde Park, and I’m just a fringe member, but I think there might be something that interests you.’

  When she put it like that, how could I refuse? We finished our drinks and got ready to go. ‘I’ll tell Theo we’re leaving,’ she said.

  Her husband, Theo, usually joined her for the evening sherry, though he had moved on to something a little stronger and had a martini. He’d recently joined the writing group, which I’d decided to call a workshop instead of a class, and he was in his study, working on his pages for the following night.

  The sky still had some hints of pink from the sunset as we walked the few blocks. It was May, and the weather was still arguing with itself about the season. One day would have sultry heat, then the wind would change and the temperature would drop twenty degrees with an icy feel to the breeze. The barometric pressure went up and down abruptly. All those changes played havoc with people who had health issues. For the moment, though, the weather seemed to be taking a break from all the changes, and it was calm with a touch of cool.

  Being so close to the campus of the University of Chicago meant there was always foot traffic and usually some student joggers. ‘The meeting is in the ladies’ parlor of the Unitarian Church,’ Tizzy said and then chuckled. ‘That’s what I’ve always known it as, though I think the actual name is something else now. It would probably be considered sexist to call it a ladies’ something.’

  The church took up a whole corner with its imposing structure. The Perpendicular Gothic style of it fitted right into the Victorian Gothic of the university structures. It made for a lot of gray stone buildings heavy with decorative touches. Even though Unitarians were accepting of all beliefs, it looked very much like a traditional Christian church.

  We followed the sound of voices and went into a meeting room that seemed steeped in a long-gone time. There were leaded glass windows, and the walls were paneled in dark wood. I was eyeing the moss-green carpet; being a writer made me notice details like that. I was always thinking about how I would describe something. It made life a lot more interesting.

  A dozen seats were set up facing away from the window, and about the same number of people were wandering through them, finding a place to sit. I recognized some of the people, at least by appearance. Because of the university, a lot of people thought Hyde Park was like a small town within the city where people knew each other and sometimes too much of other people’s business. Tizzy was busy introducing me to everyone as she led me to a pair of chairs.

  I was eyeing the refreshment table off to the side. There were usually snacks with the sherry, but it turned out that those were all Theo’s doing. Since he hadn’t joined us, it had just been sherry for her and the lemon-flavored sparkling water for me. I’d been expecting to go home to dinner, and there was a definite gnawing in my stomach. I was considering checking out the table, hoping to nab something t
o quiet my hunger. But a woman went to the front and urged everyone to sit down. Some of them had little plates with piles of something covered in corn meal that smelled of cumin.

  ‘That’s Serena Lawrence,’ Tizzy whispered. ‘She’s the president.’

  I nodded with recognition as I had seen her around the neighborhood. I only hoped I would age as gracefully as the tall, slender woman. She had the advantage of a certain presence about her that captured my attention, and I forgot about the refreshment table.

  ‘For any of you who missed it, we have decided to have a house and garden tour this year. It’s all thanks to the efforts of our new member, Nicole Wentworth, who single-handedly has put together the plan.’ She started to say something else, but instead introduced Nicole and said she would explain it all.

  Nicole stood up and went to the front. She was much younger than Serena – I guessed she wasn’t even thirty – but she seemed confident and in charge as she took over. Her walnut-brown hair and clothes were all in perfect order, and she didn’t have the end-of-the-day rumpled look the rest of us seemed to have.

  ‘I am so excited that you’ve agreed to add some houses to the garden tour,’ she said. ‘I have a fondness for this neighborhood, having lived here for a while when I was a kid. I really longed to see the inside of houses I knew.’ She seemed very comfortable talking in front of a group and being in charge. ‘I wanted to let you all know where we’re at. I have the houses lined up. We’ll include the Malins’ townhouse, the Fellowses’ house, R.L. Lincoln’s place, the distinctive structure that belongs to our sponsors, Roman and Ruth Scrivner, and the house of our local literary lion, Landon Donte. I talked it over with the other members, and we decided to put together a booklet with information about each house and something about the inhabitants. There will be photographs of the interior as well.’

  Tizzy raised her hand and then stood up, sending a ripple through her yellow-and-blue kimono top. ‘If you need someone to craft the copy, I have someone for you.’ She pointed at me, and I felt an embarrassed flush as everyone turned to stare. ‘Stand up,’ my friend said, waving her hands.

  I followed her orders, trying to will myself to stay calm and talk slowly. The two parts of my work I found hard to deal with were moments like this when I had to pitch my talents and when it came to discussing money. This was even more uncomfortable because I was interrupting. The only choice seemed to be to seize the moment. ‘Of course, I’d be glad to be considered,’ I said, before bringing up that I was local and reeling off some of my experience. I hesitated to mention the love letters since I had no intention of being specific about the content or who they’d been written for. I saw people nod and make acknowledging sounds when I listed several menu items at LaPorte’s that I’d written descriptions of and an artist memoir I was quite proud of.

  ‘We’ll have to talk,’ Nicole said, taking back control of the floor. Tizzy and I sat down, and I felt another flush of embarrassment. Nicole returned to talking about the project as a whole. ‘We wouldn’t be able to do this without Roman and Ruth Scrivner. Not only have they offered up their house as part of the tour, but they have donated the money to put it all together. In gratitude, we’ve decided to say the tour is being presented by Roman and Ruth Scrivner.’

  Serena was standing on the sidelines, and I noticed her flinch when Nicole said the part about the benefactors. ‘We’ve always listed our group as the presenter of the tour,’ the president said. Before she could add anything else, Nicole took over.

  ‘Considering how much they are doing for the tour, I decided they should have the sole listing as sponsors.’ She waved for them to stand up. Roman was out of his chair and on the way to the front of the small group before Nicole had finished her gesture. He seemed to be almost dragging his wife with him.

  He was a compact man with thick dark hair that showed a few strands of gray. It was hard to see his features behind the dark-rimmed glasses, other than that he had a very prominent nose. He was clearly the personality of the pair. He smiled at the group and went on about how proud he was to be part of this historic tour. ‘It is an honor to be able to share our unique house, the only residence designed by Helmut Peterman. I’m sure you all recognize the name as the designer of the Riverfront Tower, among other buildings.’ His gaze moved over the whole group. ‘We are committed to being regarded as an important part of this community.’

  I was listening and at the same time trying to work out why he looked so familiar. His wife stood next to him with a blank expression that was hard to read. Her glance kept going to the refreshment table, and I wondered if she’d missed dinner, too. They seemed to be an example of how opposites attract, in appearance at least. She was the absolute reverse of him. There was a sturdiness about his build, and there was something a little fragile about her slender frame. He had dark hair, and hers was a flaxen blond that I was sure was natural.

  There was a smattering of applause as he finished and they went back to their seats.

  ‘Thank you, again,’ Nicole said to the couple. She turned her attention back to the group. ‘Once we have all the material for the booklet, we’re going to bring everybody together for a progressive dinner.’ In case anyone didn’t know what that was, she explained they would go from house to house having a different course at each one. The Scrivners were arranging for the catering. There was another smattering of applause that felt automatic.

  Serena took over the meeting after that and started talking about some other business the group had to discuss. I tuned it out as I thought of the event Nicole had talked about. Tizzy was right to have brought me, and even though it was embarrassing, I was glad she’d offered up my services. I was fascinated by the different styles of the neighborhood houses, and the idea of seeing the interiors and writing about them sounded like just the kind of project I would enjoy. And I was curious about the people who lived in them. Almost all the houses in the area were old, some older than others. I thought I was perfect for the job, but I worried that my outburst might have soured Nicole on hiring me.

  I was still lost in thought when Tizzy nudged me, and I realized the meeting had ended and everyone was heading for the refreshment table.

  Tizzy went to work the room, and I was headed back to the refreshment table. It seemed everyone else had the same idea, and I hung back waiting for a clear space. A man and woman stopped next to me, and not that I meant to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

  ‘So, Landon Donte’s house is on the tour. Literary lion,’ the man said, letting out a dismissive grunt. ‘Everybody knows that he bases his characters on neighborhood people. He thinks people should be honored if they recognize themselves in his books. I heard that some people haven’t been so pleased to have dark things about them revealed, even if he supposedly disguises their identity. Someone confronted him about it. I heard that he keeps a gun in his desk drawer just in case he has to defend himself. Rumor has it that the book he’s working on now is going to ruffle feathers even more. He’s even talking it up, saying this time there are no holds barred.’

  I wondered if the man realized that he had just used two clichés. It was none of my business really, and I suppose that speaking in clichés was different from writing them anyway. He certainly didn’t make Landon Donte sound like a nice guy. I knew about him, but his style of writing wasn’t my choice for reading. Everything was about neurotic, unhappy people. There was enough of that in real life, and when it came to reading, I preferred something happier. It looked as if there was never going to be an opening at the refreshment table, so I decided to be like Tizzy and work the room. I introduced myself to Serena Lawrence and tried to make small talk about the house tour. She seemed most interested in talking about Landon Donte’s place. ‘We go way back,’ she said. She had a dreamy look as she said it, and I gathered she felt differently about the writer from the man I’d overheard. As soon as I started to express my interest in working on the project, she suggested I talk to Nicole.

  I excused myself and found Nicole as she was pouring herself a cup of coffee. ‘I’m sorry for bursting in,’ I said, ‘but I’d really like to be considered for the project. I’d be happy to show you samples of my work, and you can check out my website.’