Murder Is Binding (13 page)

“So someone like me, who's innocent, should take the blame?”

“I didn't say that. But in the sheriff's eyes, so far you are the only ‘person of note.'”

Tricia picked up her glass, signaling the waitress for a refill. “I did not kill Doris Gleason. I had no reason to kill Doris Gleason.”

Heads turned at the sound of her words.

“I'd start looking for reasons why others might've wanted her dead.”

“That isn't my job. You said you were once a big-time reporter; isn't there at least a shred of Clark Kent left inside you? Why don't you take up the challenge, or at least direct one of your minions to do it?”

“Honey, I have a staff of two, one of which spends her time soliciting ads to keep us afloat. My chief reporter is a soccer mom who writes most of her copy after her kids go to bed. I do everything else. You own a small business—you know the drill.”

“Do I ever.”

The waitress returned with another glass of wine and their dinners.

Russ picked up his fork and stabbed at his mashed potatoes. “Besides, you run a mystery bookstore. You've probably read enough of them to get you started. In fact, you may already have bits and pieces of knowledge about the murder you haven't yet put together. I'd be happy to brainstorm with you about it.”

“You'd be the last person I'd bare my soul to. I'd see whatever I tell you in next Friday's edition. It's just as likely whoever killed Doris was a transient. Someone who'd canvassed the Cookery, figured any book worth locking up would be of value, killed Doris, and stole it.” She took another sip from her glass.

“Is that you or the wine talking? Don't kid yourself. The fact that book was found in your store means someone wants you to take the blame. You can either keep wandering around in denial or ask yourself some tough questions: like who wants you out of the picture and why?”

When the
check arrived, Tricia and Russ ponied up their shares, donned their jackets, and headed for the exit. The wind had picked up and the clouds had departed, leaving the sky clear and star-strewn. “Walk you home?” Russ offered.

They stood outside the Bookshelf Diner. Tricia buttoned her jacket. “I'm not afraid of the dark. And besides, Stoneham is safe.”

“I believed that a week ago,” he said. “Now I'm not so sure.”

Tricia looked down the street and saw the flashing lights of a police cruiser. “Now what?” She started walking, heading south down the sidewalk at a brisk pace.

“Looks like it's parked outside the Cookery,” Russ said, as he struggled to keep up with her.

It was, but a deputy stood outside Haven't Got a Clue. Tricia broke into a run, crossed the street, and practically skidded to a halt in front of her shop. The large plate-glass window now sported a gaping hole in its center, with cracks radiating from it in a sunburst array. Inside the shop, what was left of her security system wailed.

“You wanna shut that thing off?” She didn't recognize the deputy, whose name tag read “Placer.”

Heart pounding, Tricia fumbled for her key, unlocked the door, and flipped on the light switch. Seconds later, she'd disarmed the alarm and quiet descended. She joined the deputy on the sidewalk. “What happened?” she asked, breathless.

“Looks like a rock,” he said, peering into the hole.

Tricia frowned at his blasé attitude. Glass covered Tricia's display of Ross Macdonald's books. Several people had turned up, rubbernecking from behind the back of a parked car.

“So what's the story, Jim?” Russ asked Placer.

“Just what it looks like, petty vandalism.”

“How can you be sure?” Tricia asked. “A woman was killed right next door just days ago. This could be tied in.”

The deputy shook his head, turned his attention to the clipboard he held and the report he'd already started to fill in. “Probably just kids.”

“Did anybody see anything?” Tricia called to the unfamiliar faces in the gathering crowd, but they all shook their heads, huddling in their coats and jackets.

Placer handed Tricia a business card. “These guys can board up the window until you can get it fixed. You want me to hang around until then?” He couldn't have sounded more bored.

“Wait a minute. Aren't you going to check out the shop?”

“The door was locked—you opened it yourself. Did you see any other damage or anything missing?”

“I've hardly had a chance to look.”

“So look,” he said and turned his attention back to his clipboard.

Tricia threw Russ a glance, as if to ask if this was the way all law enforcement acted in Stoneham. He shrugged.

Tricia reentered her store, doing a quick walk-through. Save for the gaping hole in her window, everything seemed just as she'd left it a little over an hour before. The door to the stairs was still closed. The alarm would've sounded in the apartment, too. Poor Miss Marple was probably hiding under the bed, terrified.

Russ stood inside the doorway. “Want me to go upstairs with you, make sure everything's okay? I got Jim to promise he'd hang around at least another five minutes.”

“If you wouldn't mind, thank you.”

Tricia opened the door, threw the switch to bathe the stairwell with light, and bounded up. The door to the second-floor storeroom was locked, just as she'd left it. Still, she took out the key, opened it, and groped for the light switch and entered. Nothing looked out of place in the cavernous room full of stacked boxes—all of them containing books. She closed and locked the door.

Russ was behind her as she started up the stairs once again. The door to her loft apartment was unlocked and she quickly decided to amend her own personal security measures in the future. She'd left a light on for Miss Marple, but the cat was nowhere in sight.

“Miss Marple. Miss Marple!” she called. Sure enough, a pair of frightened green eyes appeared when Tricia lifted the bed's dust ruffle. She reached for the cat, scooping her into her arms. “Oh, you poor little thing,” she cooed, as she struggled to her feet.

She found Russ standing in the middle of her kitchen. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, thank goodness.” Miss Marple had already engaged her motor and nuzzled Tricia's chin, purring loudly. “She was just frightened.”

Russ smiled. “I'll go downstairs and keep watch. Why don't you call the guys to cover the window?”

“Good idea. But first, I think someone deserves a treat.” At the sound of the magic word, Miss Marple wriggled to get down and Tricia placed her on the floor. She spilled half a packet of kitty cookies into Miss Marple's bowl, knowing she'd only toss most of them later. But at that moment, she didn't care.

The board-up service the deputy recommended was available twenty-four/seven and promised Tricia someone would be there within the hour. Next up, a call to her security company. They weren't as helpful, saying a service rep
might
be by bright and early Monday morning. No more chances, Tricia decided. It was time to find another security company.

Miss Marple had had her fill of cookies and had settled on one of the breakfast bar's chairs, ready for a nap by the time Tricia headed back downstairs to the store.

Russ had closed the shop's door and the crowd had dispersed. He sat in the nook, reading an article in
CrimeSpree
magazine. He looked up as she approached. “Everything okay?”

She nodded.

Russ stood. “Seems like all I've asked you for the last hour is ‘everything okay?'”

For the first time since she'd seen the cruiser's flashing lights, Tricia smiled. “The enclosure company will be here pretty soon. They said not to bother to sweep up the glass, they'd clean up everything. If the window's a standard size, they can have it replaced first thing Monday morning. They'll even take care of the insurance claim.”

“Can't beat that for service.” He handed her a paper that had been sitting on the nook's coffee table. “Here's the police report. And what about your security system?”

“That's another matter. I may have it back up on Monday, but I'm not going to bet on it.”

“Should you stay here without it working?”

“I'll be all right. Besides, I can always hide under the bed with my cat.”

“I'm serious, Tricia. Someone's trying to make you look responsible for Doris Gleason's death, and now this.”

“There's no proof the two events are connected.”

“That's not what you said to the deputy. Do you have a girlfriend or a relative you can stay with tonight?”

Tricia thought about Angelica, remembered she had a date with Bob, and immediately nixed that idea. “I'll be fine.”

“I've got a guest room,” Russ offered. “It's got a lock on the door.”

“That's very kind, but—” She shook her head, thinking of the logistics of moving Miss Marple. Food and water bowls, toys, litter box…

The conversation lagged. “You don't have to stay, Russ. I'll be all right until the repair guys get here.”

“No way,” he said. “I want to prove to you that chivalry isn't dead in Stoneham.”

Tricia almost laughed, considering the article he'd published on her only the day before. Still, she wasn't about to turn down an act of kindness. “At least let me offer you a cup of coffee while we wait.”

“I'll take you up on it.”

Russ retreated to the nook and his magazine while Tricia made coffee. Her gaze kept returning to the broken window, which a gale seemed to be blowing through. The rock, quite a hefty specimen, had crashed through
her
window—no one else's. Whoever had thrown it had had to have the strength to do it. Her chief suspect in Doris's murder was on a date with Angelica.

Who else wanted to frighten her?

 

Light from
the street lamps outside was all that lit Tricia's bedroom. Sleep had not come and she'd been staring at the glowing red numerals on her bedside clock for almost two hours while Miss Marple, curled beside her on the comforter, snored quietly.

Tricia's thoughts followed a circular track:
Doris dead: someone wants to blame me. Rock through window: someone out to get me.

She'd taken her security for granted in this quiet little village. Five years ago she'd led a much different life. Until her divorce, she'd never revealed her desire to open a mystery bookshop. She'd lived the life of a stockbroker's wife, had a gorgeous apartment overlooking Central Park West, spent many an evening at five-star restaurants and the theater, her days filled with…not much since the nonprofit agency she'd worked for since college had down-sized staff. But she'd loved Christopher and the life they'd shared, even if he worked much too hard.

And then everything changed.

Christopher changed. Wanted a simpler life. A life that didn't include responsibilities…or a wife.

And yet…somehow they'd remained friends. And right now she wanted to hear the sound of a friendly voice.

On impulse, Tricia picked up the receiver on her bedside phone, punched in the number she'd memorized but so far hadn't used.

The phone rang four times before a sleepy voice answered, “—llo?”

“Christopher?”

Long seconds of silence.

“Tricia?”

She sagged against her pillows. “It's me.”

“What time is it?”

“After one. Oh, wait—that's eleven your time. You go to bed early these days.”

“It's all that fresh air. There's nothing like it.” She could hear the unspoken
should've done this years ago.
“What's wrong?”

“Can't a friend call a friend without something being wrong?”

“Trish,” he admonished.

She sighed. “Someone threw a rock through my shop window tonight.”

“What?”

“And my neighbor was murdered on Tuesday.” She left out the part that she was the main suspect.

“You're not serious,” he said, no longer sounding sleepy.

“It's all true.”

“All those years in Manhattan without a problem, and you move to a small town in New England to find chaos.”

“Could only happen to me, right?” she said, but the laugh that accompanied it was forced.

“I can't just come over and make it right for you.”

“I know. I wouldn't expect you to. It's just…” She reached out, petted her cat, who began to purr. “Miss Marple misses you.”

“I miss her, too.”

She dared speak the words she'd been afraid to ask. “Are you with anybody?”

“Nobody could live up to you.”

“Then why…?” she asked, the hurt bubbling up once again. He didn't answer, hadn't had a real answer the day he'd announced his decision to leave. “I didn't want a divorce. We could've worked things out.”

“No. I wasn't going to drag you down with me. You're too special for that, my girl.”

But Tricia knew she would never be his girl again. “Are you happy?”

“Yeah. I am. It's a much different life. It's not something you'd enjoy. You need people. Stimulation. Tell me, were you happy before Tuesday, before all this crap happened?”

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. Admitting that did make her feel a bit better.

“When things calm down, you'll feel happy again.”

“Angelica's visiting. She says she wants to move to Stoneham.”

“Scratch that, then,” he said, which made her laugh. That's why she'd called. Some part of her had known he'd make her laugh.

“It'll be okay, Trish. You're strong and you'll get through whatever's going on. You'll be fine.”

“You promise?”

“Yes. Now close your eyes and dream about something wonderful. Like a cheese blintz.”

Tricia couldn't help but smile. “I take it they're hard to find in the wilds of Colorado.”

“You got it, sweetheart.”

She laughed again. “Thank you for picking up the phone. I'm sorry I woke you.”

“You know you can call me anytime.”

It was time to hang up and actually doing it was proving harder than she'd anticipated. Saying what she had to say would be even more difficult. “Good-bye, Christopher.”

“Good-bye, Trish.”

Tricia carefully replaced the phone in its cradle, knowing she would never call him again.