Murder Is Binding (22 page)

Grace turned moist eyes on Tricia. “You've been very kind to me, dear. Why?”

So she could clear her own name and get Sheriff Adams off her back?

Definitely.

Because Grace strongly reminded her of her own grandmother?

Maybe.

Because it was the right thing to do?

No contest.

Hand clutching
the office door handle, Tricia paused to wonder if what she was about to do was the right course of action. She'd debated with herself during the twenty-minute trip from St. Godelive's to the county sheriff's office, and the entire hour Sheriff Adams had let her sit in the reception area's uncomfortable plastic chairs waiting for an audience. It was now showtime.

Wendy Adams sat back in her worn gray office chair behind a scarred Formica desk, hand clamped to a phone attached to the side of her head. She waved Tricia to the same straight-backed wooden chair before her that Tricia had taken the day before. Comfort for visitors was definitely not a high priority for Sheriff Adams—and was no doubt a calculated decision.

With ankles and knees clamped together, hands folded primly on her purse, Tricia waited for another five or six minutes for the sheriff to complete her phone conversation, which consisted of a number of grunts and “uh-huhs” until Tricia was sure there was no one on the other end of the line and the sheriff was merely trying—and succeeding—to annoy her.

Tricia spent those final moments rehearsing her speech. She would not raise her voice. She would not lose her temper.

She hoped.

Finally Sheriff Adams hung up. She sat up, shuffled through some pages on the blotter before her, and without looking up spoke. “Now what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Grace Harris.”

The sheriff opened a drawer, rooted through the contents, and came up with a pen, which she tested on a scrap of paper before signing a document before her. “And who's Grace Harris? You going to accuse her of killing Doris Gleason, too?” She laughed mirthlessly.

“Grace Harris is Mike Harris's mother—you know, the guy running for selectman in Stoneham. Your lifelong friend? Grace is currently a resident at St. Godelive's Assisted Living Center in Benwell.”

The sheriff looked unimpressed. “What's that got to do with anything?”

“It's rather a complicated story. But it turns out Grace was the original owner of the Amelia Simmons cookbook that was stolen from the Cookery the night Doris Gleason was murdered.”

Contempt twisted Sheriff Adams's features. “And how did you come up with that?”

Don't get upset. Don't get angry
, Tricia chided herself.
No matter what, you will remain calm.

“The story begins with a spoiled son who decided not to wait until his remaining parent died before helping himself to what he felt was his inheritance.”

She recounted the whole chain of events in chronological order: how Winnie Wentworth had purchased the rare booklet in what was probably a box lot of paperbacks and other ephemera. That Winnie had sold the booklet to Doris Gleason, who was probably murdered in an attempt to recover the book. How days later Winnie sold Tricia the little gold scatter pin and died before she could recount where she'd obtained it and the booklet. How Tricia had examined Grace's book collection at Mike Harris's behest. How her own curiosity compelled her to visit Grace at St. Godelive's, where she found the woman recovering from what had at first appeared to be dementia, but was in all likelihood a drug interaction. If not for the home's new rules and regulations, how Grace would've been sentenced to live out her days in a foggy netherworld, while her son sold off her assets and treated himself to a lavish lifestyle, while bankrolling his campaign for Stoneham selectman.

During the entire recitation, the sheriff's expression remained impassive. When Tricia finally finished, Wendy Adams stood, hunched over, planted her balled fists, gorilla style, on her desktop, and drilled Tricia with her cold gaze.

“Since day one of this investigation, you have done your best to misdirect my efforts with wild accusations to divert attention from your own guilt,” she said, her voice low and menacing. “I will not stand for this any longer. Mike Harris is a longtime resident of this village. If you continue to slander his good name, I will see to it that you face a lawsuit that will strip you of every asset you possess before I arrest you and see you rot in jail for the murder of Doris Gleason.”

Stunned, Tricia could only stare at the woman in front of her. Mike's good name? Not according to Mr. Everett. And what possible reason could Sheriff Adams have for hating her so? Then in a flash it occurred to her: Mike Harris had shown interest in Tricia. Had asked her to lunch. Had invited her to his mother's home. Could Wendy Adams possibly have a crush on Mike? Or worse, could she be in bed with him—both literally and figuratively? Mike told Tricia he considered her his girlfriend. As a man skilled in manipulation, he could've said the same thing to Wendy Adams and she, being plain, overweight, and never married, chose to believe him. She wouldn't be the first intelligent woman to fall for flattery and the chance at romance with someone unworthy of her.

Struggling to remain calm, Tricia tried again, this time with Angelica's scenario. “There's also Deirdre Gleason's arriving in town prior to her sister's death. Why didn't she step forward? Why did she wait for you to contact her about Doris's murder before she—?”

For such a bulky woman, Sheriff Adams stepped around her desk with amazing speed, stopping only a foot in front of Tricia, towering over her. “I've had just about enough. If you're smart, you'll get out of here before I call in a deputy and have him arrest you on the spot.”

“And the charge?” Tricia asked.

“Obstructing justice.”

Tricia swallowed, somehow managing to hold on to her composure, and stood. “Thank you for your time, Sheriff Adams. I'm so glad you approach your job with such an open mind. I would hate to think you let personal feelings influence the way you serve the people of this county.”

Wendy Adams straightened, leveled her blistering stare at Tricia, but made no further comment.

All eyes were upon her as, head held high, Tricia exited the sheriff's office and walked through the reception room and out to the parking lot. At some level, she hadn't really believed the sheriff would follow through with her threat of arrest. She did now. Angelica was right. She needed a lawyer, and fast. What was Grace's attorney's name? Sounded like some old explorer. Stanley? No, Livingston—Harold Livingston.

The sky to the southwest was darkening as Tricia headed back to her car. Her hands were shaking as she withdrew her cell phone from her purse and found that once again she hadn't bothered to switch it on. It promptly announced that she'd missed two calls—both from Haven't Got a Clue. She dialed the number. It rang three times before a cheerful voice said, “Haven't Got a Clue, this is Angelica, how can I help you?”

It took a few moments for Tricia to find her voice. “Aren't you tired of playing store by now?”

“Trish, is that you? You sound funny.”

Funny was not the word. “Ginny is in charge. You are not to try to take over,” she said firmly.

“Oh, she made that abundantly clear,” Angelica said, woodenly. “And she's been working me like a slave—shelving books, vacuuming. My back may never be the same. How did things go with Grace?”

Tricia had to take a calming breath before she could answer. “She wants me to talk to her attorney. It's a firm in Milford. Can you look up the number for me? The guy's name is Harold Livingston.”

“Of Livingston, Baker, and Smith? Office on Route 101 A, right off ‘the Oval'?”

“Uh, I guess. Why?”

“Because that's the firm I called to help you out.” She paused. “What's an ‘Oval'?”

“It's a rotary.”

“A what?”

“A roundabout.” Silence. “A traffic circle?” she tried.

“Oh. Well, anyway, you have an appointment with Mr. Livingston at two p.m.”

“Looks like I need him. The sheriff just told me she definitely has plans to arrest me and hopes I rot in jail.”

“Well, of course she'd say that. She's facing reelection. Even if the charge doesn't stand, she's got to have someone to pin the crime on. Why should she care if it costs you thousands in legal fees, plus your reputation? I already told you who murdered Doris—it was Deirdre.”

“Try convincing the sheriff of that.”

“I will. Yikes, look at the time. You'd better get going if you hope to make that two o'clock appointment.”

Tricia glanced at her watch. “But I haven't even had lunch yet.”

“I'll make you a big dinner. Here's the number,” and she rattled it off.

Tricia jotted it down, then heard the tinkle of the bell over the shop door.

“A bus just unloaded another bunch from a cruise ship. I'm going to really push that stack of Dorothy L. Sayers books Ginny made me shelve. Gotta fly,” Angelica said and the connection was broken.

Tricia lowered the phone and frowned at it. Angelica seemed to be enjoying playing store clerk a little too much. She called the attorney's office, received the address and directions, and headed for Milford.

The law firm of Livingston, Baker, and Smith was located in a charming Victorian house, a painted lady done in shades of blue, and it was obvious the building had been lovingly restored and maintained. Raindrops were just starting to fall as Tricia parked between a Lexus and a Lincoln Navigator along the south side of the building. She grabbed her umbrella from the backseat but didn't bother to open it, and walked around to the front and up the wooden stairs for the main entrance, with its stained-glass double doors.

The foyer's marbled floor looked freshly waxed. The grand, curved oak stairway directly in front led to apartments on the upper level, disappearing somewhere above the twelve-foot ceiling. The law office was to her right and through another tall oak door. A Persian rug and comfortable tapestry-upholstered chairs ringed what was once a formal parlor, its gray marble fireplace sporting a bushy fern in its maw. A painting of a distinguished older gentleman in a navy suit graced the back wall. Before it stood a counter; behind it, a receptionist looked up from her workspace. “May I help you?”

Tricia approached the desk, noticed the brass nameplate below the portrait read “Harold Livingston.”

“My name is Tricia Miles. I have a two o'clock appointment with Mr. Livingston.”

The receptionist, a thin, fiftysomething woman in a gray suit, stood, reminding Tricia of a blue heron. “He's waiting for you. Please come this way.”

Tricia followed the woman down a brightly lit corridor. Evidently the rest of the first floor had been gutted to accommodate the partners' offices, however, they must have been rebuilt with architectural salvage, the result looking more like an old bank, with oak-and-frosted-glass doors, the occupants' names painted in gold leaf.

The receptionist knocked and opened the door at the far left. “Your two o'clock is here, Mr. Livingston.” She turned back to Tricia. “You can go right in.”

Tricia stopped at the room's threshold to stare at the man seated at the polished mahogany desk. Instead of a stately gray-haired gent, she found a dark-haired thirtysomething man, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up, looking like he should be on a Hollywood movie set, not in a New England law firm.

“There must be some mistake. I understood I was to see Mr. Harold Livingston.”

The younger man stood. “My late uncle. I'm Roger Livingston.” He offered her his hand and she stepped forward to take it. Firm, but not crushing. One point in his favor. “Please sit.” He indicated one of the client chairs before his desk.

“When did your uncle…pass?”

“Just over six months ago.” Which would explain why he had never gone looking for Grace. Had Mike known this? Had he been biding his time, waiting for Grace to be especially vulnerable before implementing his plan to pillage his mother's estate?

“I understand you have quite a problem. I've only handled a couple of criminal cases, but I interned at a firm in Boston that took on a lot of pro bono work, defending at-risk youths.”

“I'm afraid Sheriff Adams is determined to arrest me for murder, despite the fact there's no evidence or motive for me to have committed the crime. But I was also hoping to talk to your uncle about a client of his, Mrs. Grace Harris.”

“Attorney-client privilege would've prevented that,” he explained.

“Mrs. Harris is in desperate need of legal protection. If you've taken over your uncle's practice, I'd appreciate it if you could review her file. She told me your uncle had drawn up papers—including power of attorney—that specified who did and who did not have the right to take care of her affairs should she become incapacitated.”

“As I said, I'm not at liberty to talk about Mrs. Harris's affairs.”

“Would you at least speak to her? She was committed to an assisted living facility under suspicious circumstances. Her son seems to have been selling off her assets and she wants it stopped.”

Roger took out a pen, jotted down a few notes. “Where is she now?”

“At St. Godelive's Assisted Living Center in Benwell.”

He nodded. “I know the place.”

“Will you go see her, today if possible? I'd be glad to pay you up front for your time.”

“Are you a friend of Mrs. Harris's?”

“I met her yesterday, but I suspect her problems may be linked to my own legal troubles.”

Roger Livingston set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. “I think you'd better tell me everything.”

The drizzle
had escalated into a driving rain as Tricia drove back to Stoneham and Haven't Got a Clue. Although it had cost her five thousand in a retainer's fee just to cover her size-eight butt, she felt better about the entire situation. Unless she'd manufactured evidence, the sheriff had no probable cause for an arrest. And Tricia had firm instructions not to even speak to the sheriff again. “Talk to my lawyer, talk to my lawyer,” would now become her mantra. Thankfully, Roger Livingston remembered Grace Harris and promised he'd look into her situation as well.

Tricia parked in the village's municipal lot, grabbed her umbrella, and hurried down the empty sidewalk. The rain seemed to have chased away the tourists, and from the look of the weather, the gray skies had settled in for the rest of the day. She glanced at her watch and found it was already 3:40.

Passing by the Cookery, she saw Mr. Everett looking dour as he stood holding the ladder for Deirdre, who placed books on a shelf. From the look on the older woman's face, she wasn't giving him a compliment. Okay, that was enough. As of today, she would free Mr. Everett from his mission and allow him access to his beloved biographies and his rearranging.

She hurried past and backed into Haven't Got a Clue to close her umbrella before entering. At times like these she wished 221B Baker Street had had an awning over the front door so her shop could be likewise outfitted. Ginny looked up from her post at the sales counter; beside her, Miss Marple sat with paws tucked under her, haughty and dignified. “'Bout time, too,” Ginny said in greeting and immediately shifted her gaze toward the nook. Eyes closed, and resembling a sack of potatoes, Angelica had stretched out on one of the upholstered chairs, her feet resting on the big square coffee table.

“Ange, we don't sit while the store's open. It's not good for business,” Tricia admonished.

Angelica opened one eye, glared at her sister. “You people are slave drivers. You don't even give your help decent lunch breaks. I barely had time to whip up a grilled cheese sandwich, let alone eat it, before Simon Legree here was screaming for me to get back to work.”

“I needed help with the customers,” Ginny said, her attention dipping back down to the magazine on the counter.

Tricia set her wet umbrella down beside the radiator to dry, then marched straight over to Angelica, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to her feet.

“There're no customers, why can't I sit?” she wailed.

“It looks bad to potential customers who look through the windows.” As if to emphasize her words, the door opened, the bell over it tinkling, but it was only Mr. Everett.

“Ms. Miles, I quit!” he said resentfully, crossed his arms over his chest, and stood firm.

“Why?”

“I simply refuse to be bullied by that…that…horrible woman next door. I regret I must tender my resignation if I'm not permitted to do the work for which I was hired—”

“It's okay, Mr. Everett,” she placated, hands outstretched. “Twice today I saw your expression as she barked at you, and I agree you've gone above and beyond the call of duty.”

“That woman verbally abused me. I didn't tolerate that kind of disrespect when I owned my own business, and I can't abide seeing it in others.”

“You owned your own business?” Ginny asked.

The older man puffed out his chest. “Yes. At one time I owned and managed Stoneham's only grocery store. We were forced to close when the big chain stores came into Milford.”

Tricia stepped forward, touched the elderly man's arm. “Starting right now, you can help us here in the store again.”

“What about me?” Angelica demanded.

Tricia turned on her sister. “I can't afford three employees.”

Angelica's sour gaze swept across the room to land on Ginny, as though daring Tricia to fire her.

“We can barely squeeze the customers in now,” Ginny said, worry creeping into her voice.

“Was that a crack about my weight?” Angelica growled.

“Ladies, please!” Mr. Everett implored, hands held out before him in supplication. “I've heard enough harsh words for one day. Can't we all just get along?”

Tricia lost it, bursting into laughter.

“Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll just get busy with those biographies,” Mr. Everett said and turned for the back closet where he retrieved his Haven't Got a Clue apron, donned it, and set off to work.

A tinny, electronic version of Gloria Gaynor's “I Will Survive” broke the quiet. “Oh, my cell phone!” Angelica said and patted at her waist, finding the offending instrument. “Hello?”

The shop's old-fashioned telephone rang as well. Ginny picked it up. “Haven't Got a Clue, this is Ginny. How can I help you?”

“Really?” Angelica squealed and practically jumped. “Yee-ha!”

“You're kidding,” Ginny said, crestfallen.

“What's the rest of it?” Angelica asked, her eyes wide.

“Can't we counter?” Ginny asked, her words caught in a sob.

Tricia's head swiveled back and forth as she tried to follow the two conversations.

“And the tentative closing date?” Angelica asked with glee.

“Are you sure?” Ginny asked. Her shoulders had gone boneless.

“Thanks so much for calling, Bob,” Angelica said, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Thank you for letting me know,” Ginny said, her voice so low it threatened to hit the floor.

Both women hung up.

“I lost my house!” Ginny wailed, closing her eyes in angst.

“I got my house!” Angelica crowed, and pumped her right arm up and down in triumph.

Suddenly the air inside Haven't Got a Clue seemed to crackle as the two women's heads whipped around to face each other.

“You!” Ginny accused.

“Uh-oh,” Tricia said under her breath.

“Me?” Angelica asked.

Ginny's eyes had narrowed to mere slits. “What house were you bidding on?”

Angelica eyed her with suspicion. “A little white cottage on the highway.”

“Slate roof? Pink and red roses out front?”

Angelica nodded.

Ginny's face crumpled, her eyes filling with tears. She smacked her clenched fists against her forehead.

Tricia wasn't sure what to do. Congratulate her sister or commiserate with her employee?

“Well,” Angelica started. “Well…I bid low. I really did. You must've bid really, really low.”

“It was all Brian and I could afford,” Ginny cried, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Tricia stepped forward, captured Ginny in a motherly hug. “I'm so sorry, Ginny.”

Angelica's mouth dropped open, her eyes blazing.

“We're getting married next year,” Ginny managed between sobs. “We figured it would take us that long to fix the place up. We had it all planned out, right down to the nu—nu—nursery.”

“All's fair in love and real estate,” Angelica said, defiantly crossing her arms over her chest. “And how was I supposed to know you were even interested in that house?”

“You weren't,” Tricia said, looking over at her sister while gently patting Ginny's back. “Come on. Have a cookie. You'll feel better.” She led Ginny over to the coffee station, but the cookie plate was empty. Instead, she poured Ginny a cup of coffee.

“How was I to know she was interested in that house?” Angelica groused.

A customer entered the store, and Angelica sprang into action. “Welcome to Haven't Got a Clue. Can I help you find something?” She hurried over to the woman.

“
She
hasn't got a clue where anything is,” Ginny growled, then gulped her coffee, setting the cup down with a dull thunk. “I'd better help the customer before your sister helps us right out of business.” She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, straightened, and stepped forward, heading for the customer. “Did you say Ngaio Marsh? Right over here.”

Scowling, Angelica backed off and stepped up to the coffee station. “I really didn't know Ginny wanted that house,” she hissed.

“She'll get over it. Have a cup of coffee.” Tricia poured the last of the pot into one of the store's cups and gave it to Angelica.

Angelica swirled the dregs, then glanced over the assortment of creamers, choosing hazelnut. “How did it go at the lawyer's office?”

“Better than I thought. And he's going to try to help Grace, too.”

“That's great. I wonder if he does real estate closings.”

Ginny cleared her throat, glared at Angelica. “Have you finished unpacking that case of Dashiell Hammetts yet, Ange?”

“Don't call me Ange. And no, I haven't.”

Tricia wasn't about to get caught up in a Ginny/Angie catfight and headed to the back of the store where Mr. Everett was already happily rearranging the biographies. “Mr. Everett, you mentioned Deirdre was grumpy. Just what was bothering her today?”

The older man straightened, holding on to a biography of Anthony Boucher by Jeffrey Marks. “That woman is just as disagreeable as her sister ever was. In fact, if I didn't know she was dead, I would swear I'd spent time with Doris, not Deirdre Gleason.”

“Did you know Doris well?” Tricia asked.

“Not well, but I'd observed her enough times. I was a grocer. I knew how to cook a few basic dishes, and when my wife died I attended a number of the Cookery's demonstrations to learn more. Macaroni and cheese from a box palls after a few meals,” he confided.

“Would you say the sisters' personalities were interchangeable?” Angelica asked from behind Tricia, who hadn't heard her sister approach.

“Ms. Deirdre puts on airs when she thinks she's got an audience, but in private she's just as irascible as her late sibling.”

Angelica gave her sister a jab. “Didn't I tell you? I'd bet my Anolon cookware the woman next door is really Doris, not Deirdre.”

“Don't be absurd. We've been over this before.”

“And I'm still right. I'll bet when they were kids those identical twins switched personalities whenever it suited them. And if that's so, why wouldn't they do that later in life?”

“Nobody in their right mind agrees to change identities, especially if they're about to be killed.”

“Well, of course Deirdre wouldn't agree to the idea—not if she was the victim. But if Doris did take her identity, she'd have it all. The insurance payout would cover her debts and she'd also have access to whatever assets Deirdre, a successful businesswoman, had owned, which would save her failing shop and also help support her daughter. And why should she feel guilt? Her sister had a fatal illness, she would've died anyway. Doris may have justified the act believing she'd saved Deirdre from the horror of a painful death.”

The idea made sense, but Tricia didn't want to embrace it. Not only did it negate her own theory that Mike Harris killed Doris, but there was no way on Earth she wanted Angelica to be proven right—again.

“Maybe I should go next door and talk to Deirdre. I know a fair bit about cooking. If she does, too, it would only help prove my point.”

“Do what you want,” Tricia said and waved a hand in dismissal. “Talking about all this isn't getting the work around here done.”

Mr. Everett bent over his task once more as Angelica rolled her eyes theatrically. “Says she who's been away from the store all day.”

“There won't
be
a store if I can't get Sheriff Adams off my back,” Tricia countered.

“Well, even if you do go to jail,
I'm
still here to pick up the pieces. And isn't that what family is for?”

Tricia found her fingers involuntarily clenching—her body's way of saving her from another murder rap by preventing her from choking the life out of her only sibling. Meanwhile, Angelica stood before her, waiting for some kind of an answer.

Tricia turned away. “I'm starving, I haven't had a thing to eat since breakfast. Where's the bakery bag? There must be a few cookies left.”

“Sorry,” Angelica apologized. “I ate the last one just before you came back.”

Suddenly fratricide seemed like a wonderful solution to all life's problems.