Murder Is Binding (25 page)

Tricia bowed
with theatrical aplomb, holding the polished silver tray in front of her guest. “Care for a smoked-salmon-and-caviar bite? They're absolutely delicious.”

Juggling a martini in one hand and a china plate already heaped with hot hors d'oeuvres in the other, Russ Smith shook his head and laughed. “I already feel like the fatted calf. I'll need to go on a diet after this feast.”

“Nothing is too good for the man who saved my life.” Ensconced in the plushest chair in Haven't Got a Clue's reading nook, her leg resting on the south edge of the nook's large square coffee table, Angelica toasted Russ with her own glass. Her ankle, encased in a pink fiberglass cast, had been broken in three places, but she'd been getting around in a wheelchair for the last few days. Despite her near-death experience, she looked fabulous in a little black cocktail dress, one black pump, a string of pearls around her neck, and nails polished to match her cast. In comparison, Tricia felt positively frumpy in her usual work clothes.

She handed the tray to Ginny, who took a crab puff and placed it on the table, which had been cleared of its usual stacks of books and magazines. “Excuse me,” Tricia said, “but I believe I'm the one who pulled you out of that car and kept you from drowning.”

“Yes, but I would've died of hypothermia if this darling man hadn't used his cell phone to call nine-one-one. Never complain about paying your taxes, Trish, darling—not when the county employs such cute paramedics.”

Tricia wasn't likely to complain at all. Her own cuts and bruises were nothing compared to Angelica's assorted injuries. Crutches weren't likely to be in her future until her two cracked ribs healed—an injury caused by Tricia's clumsy but successful attempt at resuscitation. Makeup had done a reasonable job of covering up Angelica's blackened eyes, but it was the defensive knife wounds on her arms she'd received fighting off Doris that had finally convinced the law that they'd been the kidnap victims—and not the perpetrators. By comparison, Tricia's aches and pains were of little consequence.

Miss Marple sashayed around the nook, her little gray nose twitching at the aroma of salmon and caviar. “Shoo, shoo!” Angelica admonished, and the cat reluctantly retreated to a spot several feet away, her gaze never leaving the food on the table.

“How did you show up in the nick of time?” Ginny asked Russ.

He tipped his glass toward Tricia. “I was on my way back from Milford when your boss aimed her car directly at me.”

“It wasn't my car—it's was Deirdre's—or Doris's. Well, it wasn't mine,” she defended.

“At the last second, it swerved. I saw the car go out of control and doubled back to see if I could help. The rest, as they say, is history.” He popped another canapé into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “These are the best finger foods I've ever eaten.”

“All my recipes,” Angelica bragged. “I had the executive chef at the Brookview Inn whip them up for us.” She picked up a canapé from her own plate. “They're almost as good as I make them.”

Tricia clenched her teeth. She'd been doing a lot of that lately, as well as biting her tongue. Angelica had been insufferable since she'd been fished, more dead than alive, from Stoneham Creek exactly one week before. Yet, grateful her sister still lived, Tricia had indulged Angelica's every whim, including this little party at Haven't Got a Clue.

“Could I please have a glass of wine?” she asked Mr. Everett, who stood behind the makeshift bar that had been set up on the newly repaired sales counter. He uncorked a bottle of chardonnay, poured, and handed her the glass. She took a deep gulp.

After Angelica had been released from the hospital, Tricia had temporarily moved into the Brookview Inn to take care of her sister. From her palatial bed piled high with lace-edged pillows, Angelica had taken care of all the party details, from ordering the food and liquor to coordinating the guest list, although so far only Russ had arrived. By the amount of appetizers heaped on platters and crowding the nook's table, Tricia expected an army.

Someone knocked on the shop door, the
CLOSED
sign apparently keeping them from entering. Tricia leapt up to find her new attorney standing outside. “Come in, Roger.”

“I've brought a friend,” he said and held out a hand to his companion.

Grace Harris had undergone a dramatic change since the last time Tricia had seen her. White hair trimmed and perfectly coiffed, the elderly woman looked slim and elegant in a long-sleeved pink silk shirtwaist dress, accompanied by a single strand of pearls. Several gold bracelets graced her wrists, and the little gold scatter pin Tricia had given her decorated the lace collar at her throat. One of her first stops after leaving St. Godelive's must've been a jewelry shop. Grace allowed Roger Livingston to hold the door for her as she entered the shop.

“Dear Tricia—my savior,” she said and rushed forward to pull Tricia into a warm embrace.

Tricia stepped back. “Come inside and meet everyone, won't you?”

Grace took in the others. “I believe I already know two of them. Hello, Russ.” The newsman nodded a greeting as she walked past him to join Mr. Everett, who took her hands in his.

“It's been far too long, Grace.”

“Oh, William, you don't know how good it is to see an old friend.”

Mr. Everett's eyes were shining. “I did visit you several times when you were in St. Godelive's. I'm sorry to say you didn't know me.”

Grace smiled. “I know you now. And I thank you.”

Tricia introduced Grace to Angelica and Ginny before ushering her into the chair next to her sister. Mr. Everett, an excellent bartender, soon placed a glass of sherry in Grace's freshly manicured hand.

Grace swept the shop with her gaze. “My, my. I'm so sorry I missed your grand opening, Tricia. You've done a wonderful job reinventing this old building.”

Tricia smiled, pleased at the compliment, and settled on the broad arm of Grace's upholstered chair. She took a more reasonable sip from her glass, realizing the inevitable couldn't be avoided.

“I'm so sorry about Mike,” Tricia said. She'd spent the last week wrestling with guilt over his death. She hadn't had the strength to enter the partially submerged car a third time to attempt his rescue.

Grace sipped her sherry, her expression thoughtful. “I'm sorry to say I lost Michael a long, long time ago, dear.”

“You're torturing yourself unnecessarily, Tricia,” Russ said, all business. “The medical examiner ruled Mike Harris's death an accident. He hit the windshield and died on impact. You weren't to blame.”

Was that really true? When push came to shove, Tricia hadn't been able to crash the car. More than anything she wanted to believe that fate—and Mike grabbing the steering wheel—had caused the car to careen out of control. She hadn't meant for him or Doris to die; she just wanted to save herself and Angelica.

“Did we miss the service?” Angelica asked, looking to Tricia for guidance.

“Under the circumstances, I thought it best not to have a public memorial,” Grace said, her voice subdued. “He was cremated and I scattered his ashes in my backyard yesterday morning. He loved to play there as a small boy. I prefer to remember him that way.”

Her admission cast a bit of a pall on the party. No one seemed to know where to look. It was Mr. Everett who broke the ice. “Does the district attorney feel he's got a good case against Ms. Gleason?” he asked Roger Livingston.

“Fingerprints proved that the woman killed at the Cookery was indeed Deirdre Gleason. Her doctors in Connecticut confirmed she suffered from pancreatic cancer and had only a few months—possibly weeks—to live.”

Russ picked up the story. “The cops theorized Doris saw her sister's illness as the answer to all her problems. With a successful financial background, Deirdre had invested wisely. Her portfolio was worth at least two million dollars. However, her will stated that the bulk of her estate was to go to a number of charitable organizations. She'd only designated a paltry ten thousand to be paid to her only surviving sibling. I can imagine that didn't sit well with Doris, whose business was on the rocks and she was faced with a new lease she couldn't afford. Killing Deirdre and taking her place had to seem like the answer to all Doris's problems.”

“And don't forget,” Angelica added, “Doris as Deirdre also stood to inherit at Doris's so-called death, too.”

Ginny shook her head. “This is all so convoluted it's making me dizzy.”

Russ hadn't brought up Mike Harris's part in Deirdre's death. Out of respect for Grace, Tricia didn't mention it, either. And his excusing her part in Mike's death sounded all well and good, yet the memory of seeing his limp body being pulled from the hulk of Deirdre Gleason's car would haunt Tricia for a long time to come.

Grace patted Tricia's hand. “It's all right, dear. Please don't dwell on what happened. Michael won't hurt anyone ever again, and now no one will ever hurt him, either.”

Tricia wondered if she could be so charitable if put in Grace's shoes.

“I'd still like to see Sheriff Adams apologize for hounding you, Tricia,” Roger said.

“That'll never happen. Mike was a charmer, and I'm afraid he charmed Wendy Adams. She saw me as a threat to whatever relationship she thought she had with him. And despite the coroner's report, she blames me for Mike's death.”

“I'm afraid my son used his charisma to get himself out of many scrapes over the years,” Grace said.

Tricia thought back to that awful night. Wendy Adams had stood on the little bridge over Stoneham Creek as the local firefighters had hauled Mike's body out of Deirdre's car. She'd inspected his cold, dead face and then walked up to Tricia, who stood on the roadside shoeless and shivering under a scratchy blanket. Fighting tears, the sheriff had stared at Tricia for long seconds, and Tricia had been sure the woman was going to slap her. Then, abruptly, Wendy Adams had turned away. Shoulders slumped, she'd gotten back in her police cruiser and driven off into that bleak, rainy night.

They hadn't spoken since. A deputy had been dispatched to Haven't Got a Clue to take Tricia's statement, but Tricia had no doubt that Wendy Adams now considered her an enemy—the person who had robbed her of a future of love and companionship.

Still, Tricia felt only pity that the sheriff had been so easily duped, so manipulated by a handsome man with a glib tongue.

The shop door opened, the little bell above it tinkling merrily, and a smiling Bob Kelly stepped inside. “Am I too late for the festivities?”

Angelica's face lit up and she held out her hands. Bob surged forward, clasped both of them, and bent down to draw them to his lips for a kiss.

“You look beautiful as ever,” he gushed.

“You're a liar, but after the week I've had, I can use the compliment,” Angelica said, a blush coloring her cheeks.

Tricia rose and turned away from the sight, ready to gag.

Angelica patted the arm of her chair and Bob dutifully perched beside her, still holding her hand. Mr. Everett offered him a drink and Bob accepted a Scotch and soda.

Russ set his plate aside and straightened in his chair. “You've been avoiding my calls for a week now, Bob. What's the story on the big box store coming to Stoneham?”

Bob took a sip of his drink. “I hadn't planned on announcing it until later this week, but since the
Stoneham Weekly News
won't be out for another five days, I suppose I can break my silence.”

The room seemed to crackle with electricity as everyone leaned forward to listen.

Bob sipped his Scotch, milking the anticipation.

“Come on, Bob, spill it,” Tricia said. “What big company is coming to town?”

“None.”

“None?” Russ repeated, incredulous.

“The rumors were just that—rumors. But come summer there will be a new business venture opening on a one-hundred-acre site just north of town.”

“Some kind of light industry?” Tricia guessed, remembering her lunch conversation with Mike.

He shook his head. “New Hampshire's newest spa and resort.”

“Ah, another venture like the Brookview Inn?” Angelica speculated. “Yes, Stoneham is in need of more fine dining.”

“No, lovely lady, not an inn.”

Spa and resort? “Don't tell me,” Tricia began, “a Free Spirit Full Moon Nudist Camp and Resort?”

“The very same,” Bob said and tipped his glass back.

“Nudists?” Grace said, appalled.

“It's only the second nudist resort in New Hampshire,” Bob explained. “They're very family oriented. Should bring in a lot of tourist dollars.”

“Didn't I tell you, Tricia,” Ginny piped up. “Nudists get bored and like to read, too.”

“How on Earth did you convince the Board of Selectmen to go for it?” Russ asked.

“Tax dollars,” he explained simply. “That land isn't worth much the way it is, but once they start developing it with their lodge, spa, snack bar, Olympic-sized pool, and other amenities, we'll see a nice surge in the tax base. It's also far enough out of town that none of our residents should be offended.”

“But nudists!” Grace protested.

“I hope this means we've seen the last of the nudist tracts in our stores,” Tricia added.

Bob cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. “Yes, well, Free Spirit wanted to get the word out to the last of our summer tourists. I've spoken to them to them about it and they've promised it won't happen again.”

“Hallelujah!” Tricia said.

“Can I quote you on this?” Russ asked.

Bob nodded. “I'll have a press release ready for you by Wednesday. And I have more news to share,” he said, hoisting his glass as though for a toast. “The Cookery's assets have been sold. You'll soon have a new neighbor, Tricia.”