Murder Is Binding (12 page)

Tricia blinked. “You've got to be kidding.”

Smith's gaze was level. “No, I'm not. We could discuss the story, and perhaps a follow-up—among other things.”

Tricia replaced the box of chocolates on the shelf. “I don't think so.”

“I'm not your enemy.”

“And after what you wrote about me, you're not my friend, either.”

“Number forty-seven,” the salesclerk called out.

Tricia glanced down at the crushed ticket in her hand. “If you'll excuse me, Mr. Smith.” She elbowed her way through the other customers and placed her order, all the time feeling Russ Smith's gaze on her back.

 

Dodging the
raindrops, Tricia clutched her bags of coffee and cookies and hurried down the sidewalk. The big, green Kelly Realty
FOR RENT
sign was gone from the front window of the Cookery. The door stood ajar and the lights blazed. Poking her head inside, Tricia called, “Deirdre?” A woman in a baggy red flannel shirt and dark slacks, with a blue bandana tied around her hair, turned from her perch on a ten-foot ladder. In her hand she clasped a soapy sponge. A six-foot-square patch of wall had already been scrubbed of soot, showing creamy yellow paint once again.

“You shouldn't be doing that,” Tricia admonished. A fall for a woman Deirdre's age could send her to a nursing home—or worse.

“It's got to be done,” Deirdre said, in the same no-nonsense voice as her dead sister.

“But surely Bob Kelly ought to be paying someone to do it.”

Deirdre dropped the sponge into a bucket and carefully stepped down off the ladder. “We came to an agreement on other more important things.” The hint of a smile played at her lips. Perhaps she was a harder bargainer than Doris had been, which had been the reason for Bob's sour mood the evening before.

“How soon do you think you'll reopen?”

“Possibly a week. Then I think I'll hold a grand reopening the first week in October. Doris had already lined up an author signing for that week. It should work out nicely.”

“But what about the smoke-damaged stock? It'll take weeks to restore them, and surely some of them won't be salvageable.”

“I've got an expert coming in on Monday. Meanwhile there're hundreds of boxes in the storeroom upstairs, which thankfully Mr. Kelly neglected to clear out, and there's a room of excess stock at Doris's house. We'll start with that and fill in with newer titles until we replenish our supply of rare and used books.”

“We?” Tricia asked.

Deirdre frowned, her gaze dipping. “Excuse me. I can't help talking about Doris and myself as though we'll always be together. She was my twin. When we were younger we were so very close she used to swear we could read each other's minds.”

Tricia felt a pang of envy laced with guilt. She'd never felt that way about Angelica. “It sounds like you've had experience running a shop before.”

“I was an accountant until last winter, but I heard so much about the Cookery from Doris I always felt I could step into her shoes and run it at a moment's notice. And now I have.” She pursed her lips and swallowed.

Tricia considered carefully before voicing her next question. “Have you made any arrangements for Doris?”

Deirdre's expression hardened. “There will be no service, if that's what you mean. She told me she had no friends here in Stoneham. If there's one thing she hated, it was hypocrisy. I couldn't bear to hear platitudes and regrets from people who had no time for Doris during her life.”

Ouch—that stung, but Tricia couldn't blame the woman. No doubt Deirdre would grieve for her sister in her own way and time.

“Have you had a chance to visit with your niece?”

Deirdre shook her head. “Her counselor doesn't seem to think it's a good idea. Doris and I looked so much alike it would only confuse her.”

“I was very surprised to hear Doris even had a child.”

“How was it you found out?” Deirdre asked.

Again, Tricia adopted an innocent stare. “I can't for the life of me remember. It must've been hard on her—being a single mother with a special child.”

“You can call Susan retarded. It doesn't offend me, and it didn't offend Doris.”

Tricia wasn't sure what to say.

Deirdre averted her gaze. “Being pregnant out of wedlock was one thing; keeping a Down syndrome child was another. Our family abandoned Doris. All except me,” she amended. “I was the only one who cared about poor Doris. The world in general”—she turned back to Tricia—“and Stoneham in particular—always treated Doris shabbily.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“It's what I observed. But yes, she did tell me that. We were very close.”

“I can't say as I recall seeing you here in Stoneham before this week.”

“I was not a regular visitor. We kept in touch by phone.” Deirdre turned her back on Tricia, picked up her sponge, and began wiping the grimy wall once again. “Is it my imagination, or is this conversation turning into an interrogation?” She looked over her shoulder with a hard-eyed stare.

“I'm sorry. I was merely curious.” Tricia changed the subject. “Tomorrow I'll be looking at a private collection of books; the owner is eager to sell. I'd be glad to look out for any cookbooks.”

Spine still rigid, Deirdre gave a curt nod. “Thank you, Ms.—?”

“Call me Tricia. After all, we are neighbors.”

Deirdre nodded and stepped closer to the ladder. “I must get back to work if I'm going to reopen next week. Thank you for stopping by.”

Tricia knew a dismissal when she heard it. She gave a quick “Good-bye,” and headed out the door.

Soft, mellow jazz issued from Haven't Got a Clue's speakers as Tricia reentered the store. Stationed at the sales counter, Ginny flipped the pages of a magazine, while sitting in the nook. Mr. Everett's nose was buried in a book without a dust jacket. Tricia hung up her coat, stowed her umbrella and purse, and headed for the coffee station, where she made a fresh pot and set out a new plate of cookies before heading for the sales counter.

Ginny looked up from her reading, quickly closing the big, fat magazine and turning it over. Tricia leaned close. “What would you think about me asking Mr. Everett to come work for us?”

Ginny's gaze slid to the closed magazine and then up again. “What a great idea. I've always felt bad about you being all by yourself here on Sundays. Business is good and he sure knows his mystery authors. Go for it.”

Tricia caught sight of the magazine's name on the spine:
Bride's World.
Was there a wedding in Ginny's future? She nodded and smiled at the thought, also happy Ginny approved of her decision.

Tricia approached the elderly gent. “Mr. Everett?” He made to stand, but Tricia motioned him to stay put and took the seat opposite him. “Mr. Everett,” she began again. “You've become a bit of a fixture here at Haven't Got a Clue.”

Mr. Everett's eyes widened, his mouth dropping open in alarm. “I don't mean to be a pest, Ms. Miles. I won't take any more of your coffee and cookies, I promise—”

It was Tricia's turn to be alarmed. “Oh no—you misunderstand me. I'm not trying to throw you out. I'd like to offer you a job, Mr. Everett.”

Alarm turned to shock. “A job? Me? But what can I do?”

“Sell books. You're very good at it. You know as much as I do—and probably a whole lot more—about our merchandise, and goodness knows you're dependable about showing up every day.”

Color flushed the old man's cheeks. “A job?” he murmured in what sounded like disbelief.

“I won't ask you to lift heavy boxes, and your hours would be flexible, but you've already proved to be an asset to Ginny and me when the store is busy. I can't offer you a lot of money, and unfortunately I'm not in a position to give benefits of any kind, but—”

“A job—” he repeated, as though warming to the idea.

“I'd be glad to give you a couple of days to think it over. You wouldn't have to give me your answer until—”

Mr. Everett suddenly stood, a fire lighting his bright eyes. “No need for that. When do you want me to start?”

Tricia laughed. “How about an hour ago?”

The old man's lips quivered, his eyes growing moist. “Thank you. Thank you, Ms. Miles.” He shook himself, then his head swiveled back and forth. “What do you want me to do first? The back shelves are in a terrible state. Customers have no sense of order. They take books out and then put them back every which way. Or I could rearrange the biographies in chronological order, versus alphabetical, so that customers would have a better understanding of how the genre grew. Perhaps it should have been done long before this.”

Tricia stifled a laugh. “I'm glad you have so many good ideas. But right now I have a different kind of request. Would you be willing to go next door and make sure Ms. Gleason doesn't fall off a ladder? I don't want you to do anything that puts you in a position of getting hurt yourself, but just make sure she doesn't hurt herself in trying to get ready to reopen her sister's store.”

“I could do that,” he said, sounding less than enthused.

“Great. And tomorrow we'll figure out what your regular hours and duties will be.”

Mr. Everett held out his hand. Tricia took it. “Thank you, Ms. Miles. Thank you for making an old man feel useful again. I'll go next door right now and make sure Ms. Gleason stays safe.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Everett started for the door, which opened, admitting Angelica, who paused in the entryway, barring Mr. Everett's escape. They did a little dance with muttered “sorry's” and “excuse me's” while they tried to maneuver out of one another's way. At last Angelica stepped over to where Tricia still stood in the nook.

“I've never been here when the store was open,” she said, without even a hello. She took in the clusters of browsing shoppers and Ginny at the register waiting on a customer with a stack of books. Angelica nodded approvingly. “You've created a nice atmosphere here, Trish. And it doesn't stink of old paper like some used bookstores do, either.”

Trust Angelica to spoil a compliment. “Thank you. I think. What brings you here so early?”

Angelica picked up one of the well-thumbed review magazines. “I wanted to let you know I can't fix dinner tonight.”

Tricia hated to admit it, but in only three days she'd come to enjoy and look forward to one of Angelica's delicious entrées. “What's up?”

Angelica actually blushed. “I've got a date.”

Tricia's stomach tightened. “Not with Bob Kelly.”

“But of course. I haven't met any other eligible men in this burg.”

“Where is he taking you?”

“Some divine little bistro called Ed's. I hear they've got the best seafood and that it's charmingly intimate.”

“Charming for sure,” Tricia admitted. Intimate as in small. But she didn't want to spoil her sister's anticipation.

“You've been there?”

She nodded. “The food is very good.” An idea came to her: Bob and Angelica, dinner, a relaxed social atmosphere…“Ange, when you're with Bob tonight, see if you can get him to spill where he went after he left us at the Brookview on Tuesday night.”

“I will not,” she said sharply.

“Why? Don't you want to help prove me innocent?”

“Of course, but I also don't believe Bob killed the woman.”

“Ange, please?” Tricia found herself whining.

Angelica turned away, refusing to meet her sister's gaze, and glanced out the front window and at the street beyond. “I'll think about it.”

A couple of women walked past, clutching shopping bags, but they didn't enter Haven't Got a Clue.

“I circled the block three times before I gave up and parked in the municipal lot,” Angelica said, annoyed. “Who owns that car out front with the Connecticut license plates? They've been hogging that spot all morning. Surely you have parking restrictions along the main drag during business hours.”

Tricia hadn't noticed the car. “The sheriff's department is pretty busy these days; at least I hope they're busy trying to solve Doris Gleason's murder.”

“Mmm,” Angelica muttered, her attention still on the offending vehicle. “That's the third or fourth time I've seen it.”

“Excuse me, miss, could you help me?” asked a middle-aged woman, clutching a handwritten list. “I'm looking for
Malice with Murder
, by Nicholas Blake. Do you have a copy?”

Tricia gave the customer her full attention. Angelica mouthed, “Later,” and wandered off toward the back shelves.

Ginny popped a more lively CD into the player, and between them she and Tricia waited on four more customers who paid for their purchases. The crowd had thinned by the time a puzzled-looking Angelica stepped up to the counter, slapping a booklet onto the glass top. “What are you doing with an old cooking pamphlet on one of your shelves?”

Awestruck, Tricia gaped at the booklet's title:
American Cookery
, by Amelia Simmons. “Good grief, it's the book that was stolen when Doris was murdered.”

Curious onlookers
lurking under umbrellas peered through the plate-glass windows of Haven't Got a Clue, the closed sign and locked door did nothing to deter them from rubbernecking. And despite the lack of customers, the shop seemed crowded with Sheriff Adams, a deputy, Angelica, Ginny, and Tricia, as well as Deirdre Gleason and Mr. Everett, who'd followed along after Ginny had called Deirdre over.

Sheriff Adams's piercing glare was fixed on Tricia. “I thought you said this thing was a book?”

Tricia looked down at the little booklet. “Technically, it is. Its significance is undisputed in the evolution of American cookery books. It's condition and rarity make it extremely valuable.”

“This can't be worth ten grand,” the sheriff said, poking the pamphlet with the eraser end of a pencil, unconvinced.

“Oh yes, it can,” Ginny chirped up. “I looked it up online.”

The sheriff shook her head, then took in the four women standing around the sales counter. “Who's touched the
book
since it was found?”

Tricia looked sidelong at her sister, but didn't answer.

The quiet lengthened. “Okay, it was me,” an exasperated Angelica said, crossing her arms across her chest. “And what's the big deal anyway?”

“You might've obliterated whatever incriminating fingerprints were on it,” the sheriff muttered.

“Oh, don't go all
CSI
on me. Whoever stole that little pamphlet probably wiped it clean before they dumped it here.”

“Ange,” Tricia warned.

The sheriff turned her scrutiny back to Tricia. “It's very odd that the person who found Ms. Gleason's body should now possess the stolen book.”

“And not at all coincidental, if someone is trying to implicate my sister as Doris's killer,” Angelica said, her voice rising. “And do we even know this is the same book?”

The sheriff turned to Tricia for the answer. “Given its rarity, it's unlikely there'd be two copies of it in a town this size. And, Sheriff, I assure you I have no idea how it ended up in my store, but I'm not responsible.”

“Any ideas on who might be?”

If she had, she certainly would've volunteered that information before now. Tricia shook her head, fought to stay calm. “People wander in and out of here all day long, most of them strangers. Anyone could've planted that book here.”

“But it's not likely Ms. Gleason would've let a stranger into her shop after hours.”

“She was expecting someone,” Tricia reminded the sheriff. “Bob Kelly.”

“Trish.” It was Angelica's turn to scold.

Sheriff Adams threw back her head and straightened to her full height. “Mr. Kelly has accounted for his whereabouts at the time of Ms. Gleason's death. I'm satisfied with his answers.”

It was all Tricia could do not to blurt, “Yeah, but—” The way the sheriff kept glowering at her reinforced her fear that she remained the prime suspect.

“Why wasn't I told my sister expected Bob Kelly on the night of her death?” Deirdre demanded.

“I saw no need to upset you. And as I've just told Ms. Miles here, I don't suspect him.”

“And why not? He was determined to force my sister out. The way he cleaned out the store less than forty-eight hours after her death is proof positive.”

Sheriff Adams pointed a finger of warning at Deirdre. “This discussion is closed.” She looked over her shoulder at the young deputy standing behind them. “Placer, take this ‘book' to the office and lock it up. We'll send it to the state crime lab first thing Monday morning.”

The uniformed officer stepped forward with what looked like a tackle box, which he opened, and took out a pair of latex gloves. He withdrew a paper evidence bag, shook it open, and picked up the booklet. A yellowed note card fell from it, hitting the carpeted floor.

“What's that?” Angelica asked, bending down.

“Looks like a birthday card,” Tricia said.

“Don't touch it,” the sheriff warned. “Placer?”

The deputy elbowed his way in and picked up the card, setting it and the booklet back on the counter before stepping aside. The five women crowded around, silently studying the front of the card, with its old-fashioned font and the image of a dozen red roses, the colors muted by the yellowing paper. “Happy Birthday, to my dear wife,” Angelica read.

“Open it up,” the sheriff said.

Ginny stepped back so the deputy, with his gloved hands, could do so. The text in black was the usual syrupy wishes for a happy day; it was the peacock-blue-inked script that drew them in. “To my dearest Letty, Happy Birthday, love Roddy.”

“What kind of a name is Letty?” Ginny asked.

“Letitia comes to mind. Or it could be short for something else,” Tricia suggested. She raised her gaze. “Anybody in town named Letitia or Letty?”

The sheriff shook her head. “Not that I know of. And I've lived here my whole life.”

They watched as the deputy carefully placed the book into a paper evidence bag, then put the card in another. With a curt nod to his boss, the officer headed out the door to his double-parked cruiser.

“That book is worth a lot of money. With my sister's passing, it now belongs to me,” Deirdre asserted.

“It's part of a criminal investigation,” the sheriff said.

“Will I ever get it back?”

“Possibly. But these things take time. Sometimes years.”

“Years?” Deirdre repeated, appalled.

“Just what are you going to do to the book?” Ginny asked.

The sheriff bristled. “Normal procedure.”

“Wait a minute,” Tricia said. “Subjecting that book to black magnetic powder or ninhydrin would ruin it. I suppose iodine fuming might work. It develops prints beautifully. They'd just have to be photographed, not lifted, but it should spare the book. Then again, all that humidity.” She shook her head. “CrimeScope. That's the book's best option, though on a porous surface like paper, it might not show a viable fingerprint, either.”

“How do you know so much?” Sheriff Adams asked, suspicious.

Tricia waved a hand, taking in the thousands of books on the shelves around them. “I deal in mystery fiction. Not only do I read the classics, I read contemporary authors like Patricia Cornwell, Kathy Reichs, and Elizabeth Becka. You can practically get a degree in forensics just by reading these top authors. But that doesn't change the fact that it's likely only Angelica's prints are on the book, anyway.”

“I want a receipt for it,” Deirdre said. The sheriff just about rolled her eyes, and Deirdre snorted in outrage. “If any harm comes to that book, I will not only sue the county sheriff's department, but you personally.”

“Will you at least ask the state lab to take special care with it?” Tricia pressed.

“I'll ask, but I can't make any guarantees.”

“And I can't guarantee I won't immediately speak to my lawyer, either,” Deirdre said. “Now about that receipt—”

Tricia provided a pen and a piece of paper. The sheriff scribbled a few lines, handing the sheet to Deirdre, who gave Tricia a nod. “I appreciate you calling me over. Otherwise, I'm not even sure I'd have been told the book was found.” She turned on her heel and stalked out the door.

Sheriff Adams was the next to leave, following Deirdre without even a good-bye.

Angelica scowled. “I thought people from New Hampshire were supposed to be extra nice. Isn't that the state motto? Be nice or die?”

“That's ‘Live Free or Die,' and don't judge all of us by some people,” Ginny said, then, “What am I saying? Sheriff Adams is a good person. I've just never known her to be so cold. She must be getting pressure from somewhere else, like maybe the village board.”

“What should I do next, Ms. Miles?” asked Mr. Everett, who hadn't said a word during the entire conversation.

“Why don't you go back and help Deirdre? Ginny and I can manage here.” He didn't look happy, but nodded anyway. She glanced up at the clock. Two hours until official closing. Although the onlookers had disappeared, there was no reason she had to stay closed. She followed Mr. Everett to the door, turning the sign back to
OPEN
, and shut the door behind him.

“I guess I should go, too. Have to get ready for my big date tonight,” Angelica said brightly. Shouldering her enormous handbag, she fingered a wave, called, “Ciao,” and she, too, was gone.

Tricia and Ginny exchanged glances. “I need a cup of coffee,” Tricia said.

“I'd go for something stronger,” Ginny muttered.

“Not during work hours—but I agree. Put something cheerful on the CD player and hope we get busy so we don't have to think about what we've just been through.”

“You got it,” Ginny said.

Tricia poured them both a cup of coffee while Ginny sorted through a stack of jewel boxes, selecting a jazz piano CD.

Peace now reigned, but forgetting the significance of finding that wretched booklet in her store wasn't going to be so easily accomplished.

 

The hands
on the clock finally crawled around to closing time. Despite her hopes otherwise, very few customers had come in during the intervening hours and Tricia and Ginny had completed all their end-of-day tasks, save for counting the receipts. Mr. Everett had checked in, assuring Tricia that Deirdre had left the Cookery for the day, then he, too, departed. Miss Marple sat patiently at the door to the stairs, anticipating her evening routine.

Ginny grabbed her coat and purse from the back closet and headed for the exit. “Night, Trish.”

The door opened before she could grasp the handle. Russ Smith stood in the open doorway. “Are you closed?”

“Yes,” Ginny said emphatically.

“Not quite,” Tricia said. “How can I help you?” Her tone was civil, but cool.

“Want me to stay?” Ginny asked.

Tricia shook her head. “Go on. Have a nice day off. See you Monday.”

Ginny looked uncertain, but Tricia waved her off. “It's okay. Now scoot.”

As the door closed behind her, Russ walked up to the counter. Shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, he gave the shop the once-over. “I seem to be your last customer.”

“Yes, and you're keeping me from my dinner.”

“As I recall, I invited you out.”

“And as I recall, I turned you down. Come on, you're only here because you heard the book stolen from Doris Gleason's store was found here earlier today.”

“Actually, I
didn't
know that, but thank you for sharing. The special over at the diner is meat loaf and real mashed potatoes.”

“How do you know they're real?”

“I wasn't always a small-time reporter. I worked the Boston crime beat for years. And besides, I've seen the peels in their garbage.”

Tricia's stomach growled, betraying her.

“See, at least part of you wants to go with me. And what's your alternative: a peanut butter sandwich?”

Had he been scoping out her cupboards and fridge? And although she'd neglected her paperwork for days and needed to catch up, the truth was she really didn't want to be alone tonight and cursed Angelica for having a date.

“Okay,” she agreed, “but only if we go Dutch.”

Russ shrugged. “Saves me eight-ninety-nine plus tax and tip.”

Already Tricia regretted her decision, yet she locked the cash drawer, pocketing the keys. “I have to feed my cat before I can go.”

“Do what you gotta do,” he said and flopped down into one of the nook's chairs. “I'll wait.”

 

The walk
to the Bookshelf Diner had been silent. At least the rain had stopped, but a voice in Tricia's head kept up a litany of “big mistake, big mistake” with every step along the damp pavement.

Russ held the door open for her. A sign on the metal floor stand said
SEAT YOURSELF.
With only two other booths occupied, they had their pick of the place. Heads turned as the village jinx walked down the aisle, but Tricia aimed for the back of the restaurant with her head held high. She slid across the last booth's red Naugahyde seat and shrugged out of her jacket, folding it and placing it next to her. Russ hung his on a peg and sat down.

A college-age waitress with a quick smile, a pierced brow, and a name tag that said “Eugenia” handed them menus and took their drink orders before disappearing.

Tricia eyed her surroundings. The name over the door did not match the décor. The only books in the Bookshelf Diner were of the trompe l'oeil variety—and then on a commercial wall covering. The waitress returned, setting the stemmed glass down in front of Tricia and pouring coffee for Russ. After quickly consulting the menu she did order the meat loaf, then practically gulped the well-deserved glass of red wine.

“Tough day, huh?” Russ asked.

“I've had better. And I don't want to talk about it.”

“Why should you? The sheriff suspects you of murder. I'm sure it's just lack of motive that's keeping her from locking you up. She'll have to turn up the heat after finding that book in your store.”

“She did not find it. My sister did.”

“Then she's not doing you any favors, either.”

Tricia snatched up her glass, gulping down the rest of her wine, then let it smack back down on the table. “I barely knew Doris Gleason. She argued with Bob Kelly, had an appointment to see him on the night she was murdered. He wanted her out of that store, which is at least a credible motive for murder. He left the Brookview Inn before Ange and I did, but he didn't show up at the Cookery until more than an hour after I found Doris dead. Where was he during that time?”

“You tell me.”

“He could have murdered Doris, then showed up later feigning no knowledge.”

Russ sat back, folded his arms across his chest. “If I was you, I'd quit harping on Bob Kelly as a possible suspect. For one thing, he would've never started the fire at the Cookery and put his property at risk just to get rid of a tenant. And even so, it wouldn't matter if he were caught plunging the knife in the victim's back. Most people around here consider him a savior for how he almost single-handedly brought Stoneham back to life.”