Murder Is Binding (14 page)

Tricia inspected
her makeup in the mirror over the bathroom sink. After three attempts to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes with concealer, she admitted defeat and set the little tube aside. Talking to Christopher hadn't settled her nerves, and Russ Smith's words of warning the evening before had stayed with her, keeping her from yet another decent night's sleep.

She'd come to no conclusions during her tossing and turning, grateful she could spare no time this morning to ponder the situation. Still, she took another moment to assess herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door, wanting to look nice for Mike. She'd chosen the peach sweater set over beige slacks. With the days growing shorter, she'd soon put it away for darker fall colors. The idea of winter setting in and the possibility of spending it in the New Hampshire State Prison for Women did more than depress her.

I will not think about it, I will not think about it.
And despite his chivalry after the rock incident, she cursed Russ for even hinting at the possibility she could end up in jail.

Out in the kitchen, Miss Marple rubbed her little gray body against the door leading to the stairs and the store below. “It's Sunday,” Tricia told her, and took one last sip of her tepid coffee before dumping it in the sink. “You don't need to go to work until noon.” But the cat would not be dissuaded.

Tricia grabbed her coat from the tree and snagged her purse and keys.

The phone rang. Who on Earth would be calling so early on a Sunday morning?

Miss Marple stood up, scratched the door, and cried piteously. Tricia unlocked and opened it for her. The phone rang again as the cat scampered down the stairs. Tricia snatched it on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Tricia, it's Angelica. What took you so long to answer?”

“I was almost out the door,” she said, balancing the phone on her shoulder as she struggled into her jacket sleeves.

“I thought the store opened late today.”

“It does. I'm going out to evaluate a private collection. Can this wait until later? I'm going to be late.”

“Wait! I just heard about your store being vandalized. Are you okay?”

“Of course,” she lied. “I'm perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be?”

“There's a murderer running around Stoneham, and now someone's targeted you—maybe the same person.”

“Don't be so melodramatic. It was only a window; it'll be replaced tomorrow. Besides, I wasn't even in the building at the time.”

“Are you opening the store today?”

“Definitely. But as I said, I've got to head out right now or I'll be late.”

“I think you should close the store and come house hunting with me today.”

“You know I can't. There are at least two buses coming through this afternoon.”

“Well, at least you close early, don't you?”

“At three.”

“Fine. By then I'll have looked at two or three properties. If I find one I like, I'll want your opinion.”

That was a first. Tricia couldn't remember her sister ever consulting her on anything, be it a brand of designer shoes or the ripeness of a banana. For some reason, it pleased her. “Okay. Who's driving, you or me?”

“Me.”

“All right. See you at three.”

“Be careful,” Angelica warned.

Tricia hung up the phone to find an annoyed Miss Marple sitting at her heels. “You know perfectly well there's a door at the bottom of the stairs and that it's closed until I open it.”

Miss Marple stood and swaggered back to the open doorway. Tricia grabbed her purse once again and followed.

 

The Harris
homestead was a lovely pseudo-Tudor nestled in a quaint, upscale neighborhood with mature trees and professional landscaping.

Tricia parked her car at the curb, noting Mike's sleek black Jag sat under a massive maple, its highest leaves just beginning to turn gold. The remnants of a now-untended garden rimmed the front of the buff-colored, stucco-faced house. A sense of recent abandonment clung to the property. Mike probably had his own home to take care of, and the house was huge, much too big for one person—especially someone with the beginnings of Alzheimer's disease. Poor Mrs. Harris.

Tricia pressed the doorbell and heard a resounding
bing-bong
from within. Moments later the heavy oak door swung open. “Welcome,” Mike greeted, ushering her into an elegant foyer with its polished tile floor and matching floral wing chairs flanking a marble-topped mahogany table. To the left was a magnificent staircase, with ornately carved banisters, that swept up to the second floor. Light streamed in through stained-glass panes of green and yellow diamonds, casting a warm glow on the carpeted steps.

“What a beautiful home,” she said, wondering what other delights it might contain.

“Thanks. It was a nice place to grow up in. And as you can see, my parents took good care of it.” He held out his hands. “Let me take your jacket. I've got a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen. Can I get you a cup?”

“Yes, thanks,” she said and shed her coat.

Mike took it from her and hung it in a closet off to the left at the base of the stairs. “How do you take it?”

“Milk or creamer only—no sugar.”

“Coming right up. Most of the books are in the living room,” he said, gesturing to his right. Go have a look—make yourself at home.” He gave her an encouraging smile and took off down a dark hallway.

“Thanks,” she called after him.

With Mike gone, an unnerving silence enveloped her. She took in a deep breath of stale air and wondered how long the house had been closed up.

Since she was there to see the books, Tricia figured she might as well get started and entered the living room through the opened French doors, where both chaos and order reigned. A stack of mismatched, taped cartons sat beside an empty curio cabinet just inside the doors, bald patches in the dust suggesting the shapes of the delicate objects that had once occupied it. Several seating arrangements compartmentalized the large room. Most of the furniture lay hidden beneath drop cloths, while other pieces, richly brocaded in shades of beige, were not. The carpet hadn't seen a vacuum cleaner in months. Rectangular patches on the walls hinted at where paintings, prints, or photographs had once hung.

Tricia picked her way across the room to the reading nook with its matching wide and inviting pillowed chairs and floor lamps, not unlike what she'd created for Haven't Got a Clue. The adjacent bookshelves stood on either side of a white painted mantel and drew her to them. It didn't take much imagination to conjure up an image of a sedate Mrs. Harris in her declining years, seated in one of the chairs before a roaring fire, book in hand, lost in its pages.

Now the room felt cold, empty. Without its mistress, the room—if not the home—had lost its soul.

Tricia shook away the image and retrieved her reading glasses from her purse, slipping them on to assess the titles. Mrs. Harris had eclectic taste in reading material, from mystery fiction to romances, biographies to travel books, as well as mainstream fiction and the classics, and she'd grouped them as such. Noticeable gaps on the shelves proved that the collection was not entirely intact.

She grabbed a mystery at random,
Deadly Honeymoon
, by Lawrence Block. It turned out to be a first edition with a mint condition dust cover. She'd sold a used, discarded library copy for eight dollars only a week before. This would bring much more. Checking the copyright dates on several other books was just as encouraging. Other titles by authors such as James Michener and Ann Morrow Lindbergh were also first editions. They'd be worth more signed, but were still valuable to die-hard collectors.

Mike reappeared with a tray containing two steaming mugs and a plate of Oreos, which he set on the dusty table in the nook. He handed her a mug. “So what do you think?”

“I'm no expert on most of what's here, but a lot appear to be first editions. That's always a plus.”

“Could you give me a ballpark estimate on the whole lot?”

Tricia shook her head. “I shouldn't tell you this, but if you offer them to a dealer, you'll get substantially less than they're worth. Your best bet is to sell them on one of the online auction sites.”

Mike frowned. “I figured as much.”

“I see some of the books are already missing.”

Mike's grip on his coffee mug tightened. “I gave them to friends of Mother's. At first I didn't realize they might be worth anything. I even considered boxing up the lot and taking them to Goodwill just for the tax write-off. Even then, I'd need an estimate on their worth—something I couldn't do.”

“A lot of them may end up there anyway; for instance, the travel books and most of the paperbacks she has squirreled away. Unless of course she had some of the old pulp paperbacks from the forties and fifties. They're quite collectible if only for their lurid covers.”

“Doesn't sound like Mother's cup of tea.”

Tricia remembered her promise to Deirdre. “Did your mother have any cookbooks?”

“In the kitchen. Come on, I'll show you.”

Tricia followed Mike down the dark hallway, past a formal dining room, and into a large airy kitchen, which hadn't seen a remodel since the 1970s. The harvest gold appliances and bicentennial patterned vinyl flooring, with 1776 stamped every few squares, seemed stuck in time. Then again, the oak table with stenciled Hitchcock chairs and the dark-stained woodwork were classic. Except for a layer of dust on just about everything, the room was tidy, the counters clutter free.

The hundred or more cookbooks resided in a glass-fronted double-doored cabinet above and between the sink and stove, no doubt to keep them grease free. Like in the living room, gaps on these shelves proved they had also stored more than were currently there. Would all the other cupboards be empty as well? And what did it matter? Mike had said he was liquidating the estate to pay for his mother's health care. A pity that was necessary.

Tricia opened one of the doors, selecting a book at random and thumbing through to the copyright page. “The Cookery is in need of new stock because of smoke damage after the fire.”

“The Cookery? I thought it was closed. I saw it had been emptied out and someone was cleaning the place yesterday. I assumed it was the new tenant.”

“Doris Gleason had a sister. She's taking over the business and is looking for new stock. If you're going to dump these books anyway, you might consider offering them to Deirdre. Who knows, she might even vote for you in the election.”

He laughed. “Thanks.”

Tricia replaced the book, closing the cabinet. She turned to find Mike staring at her, or rather her bust. She pulled her long-sleeved sweater tighter about her, crossing her arms across her chest. “Goodness, our coffee's getting cold.”

Mike seemed to shake himself. “Come on.” He led the way back to the living room, and they resumed their places before the cold fireplace. Tricia picked up her mug, took a sip, and resigned herself to yet another cup of tepid coffee.

Mike grabbed a book at random from the closest shelf. A yellowed piece of paper jutted out of it, marking a place. He took out the paper and showed it to her: a recipe for Yankee bean soup torn from a magazine. “Still having problems with the propaganda leaflets?”

Tricia nodded, grateful for something else to talk about. “Yes. And you were right. The one I showed you was just the first in a series. They've stepped up to a direct advertising campaign. Ever hear of Full Moon Camp and Resort?”

“Can't say as I have,” he said, crumpled the paper, and tossed it into the fireplace's maw. He replaced the book on the shelf.

“It gave a web address that said they were opening a new location next summer in southern New Hampshire, but it didn't specify where. I meant to call Bob Kelly about it, but with everything else that's been going on…”

Mike looked concerned. “Such as?”

“Didn't you hear about the rock through my window?”

“No. When did that happen?”

“About eight thirty last night.”

“Huh. I was in my new office last night, unpacking. It must've happened after I left.”

“What time was that?”

“Quarter after eight, maybe eight twenty.”

Interesting.

Mike picked up his cup, swallowed a sip of cold coffee, and grimaced.

The conversation lagged.

“This really is a beautiful house,” Tricia said finally.

“If you think this looks nice, you ought to see the bedrooms,” he said à la Groucho Marx, and waggled his eyebrows for further effect. “I'd be glad to give you a personal tour.”

Tricia's entire body tensed, but somehow she managed a weak smile. “Sorry, I can't stay too much longer.”

“Your shop doesn't open for at least another two hours. That's plenty of time for us to get better acquainted,” he said and moved a step closer

Tricia's already tense muscles went rigid. “I have a new employee I'm training today.”

“Oh?”

“Mr. Everett.”

“Oh, the old coot who's taken root in your store.”

“He's a treasure,” she said, feeling protective of the old gentleman. “He'll be a great asset at Haven't Got a Clue.”

Mike turned away and set his mug back down on the tray. “You seem to be collecting men these days.”

Tricia blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Last night when I walked to the municipal lot to get in my car, I saw you at the diner with Russ Smith,” Mike said, a slight edge entering his voice. “That surprised me, especially after what he wrote about you. And what will people say about my girl being seen with another man?”

My girl?
That's what Christopher always called her, and she'd liked the sound of the words—the emotions behind it. But coming from Mike, the words gave her a chill.