Murder Is Binding (3 page)

“Nonsense. I'm here and I'm dying to see the little place.” Angelica raised a hand in the air and within seconds a waiter appeared. “Please add the dinner to my account.”

“With pleasure, ma'am.” The black-suited man bowed and made a discreet exit.

Angelica rose. “Come, come,” she ordered and, like a well-trained dog, Tricia jumped to her feet to follow.

Already the evening was not going as Tricia had planned.

Minutes later, Tricia steered her Lexus onto Main Street and under the banner strung across the road that proudly proclaimed Stoneham the Safest Town in New Hampshire. She pulled into the empty parking space in front of Haven't Got a Clue, cut the engine, and waited to hear the inevitable insult disguised as a compliment.

“Oh, Tricia, it's lovely,” Angelica breathed, and she truly sounded awed.

All the brick-faced buildings along Main Street sported a different pastel hue, except for number 221. The bottom floor's white stone facade resembled a certain Victorian address in London, while Tricia had had the brick of the top two floors sandblasted to reveal its natural state. The door, beveled glass on the top and painted a glossy black on the bottom, looked impressive with glowing period brass lanterns on either side. The gold-leafed address numbers 221 shone brightly on the Palladian transom above. The plate-glass display window to the right did sort of spoil the effect, but the effort Tricia had made to approximate the beloved detective's home hadn't been lost on the majority of her customers.

“Surely the address is wrong,” Angelica said. “Shouldn't it be 221B?”

“I didn't know you'd read Dr. Watson's stories.”

“Please! Grandmother bored me to tears with them before you were born.”

Tricia had never been bored when Grandmother had read her Sir Arthur's stories. As a child, she hadn't always understood them—but she'd loved the sound of all those wonderful words and her grandmother's voice.

“Come on in and I'll give you the fifty-cent tour.”

Tricia opened her car door and stepped out onto the pavement. She held up her keys, selecting the proper one as Angelica got out of the car.

“Do you smell something burning?” Angelica asked.

“No.” The truth was, after being sealed in the car with Angie's perfume, Tricia wondered if she'd ever be able to smell anything again.

“Something's definitely burning…or maybe smoldering,” Angelica insisted. Shading her eyes, she peered into the mystery bookshop's large plate-glass window, then turned her head from right to left and sniffed loudly, her nose wrinkling.

Tricia watched as her sister moved a few steps toward the Cookery. “Trish, I think it's coming from the mail slot next door.”

Sure enough, a thin veil of smoke drifted from the painted flap in the door.

Tricia jammed her keys back in her purse, scooping up her cell phone, and hurried to Angelica's side. “Dial nine-one-one,” she ordered, shoving everything into her sister's hands. She grasped the Cookery's door handle, shocked when it yielded to her touch.

The smoke was thick, but with no sign of flames, Tricia took a deep breath and plunged inside. Grabbing the heavy rubber doormat, she searched in the dim light for the source of the smoke and found a section of carpet glowing red.

Swinging the mat, she beat at the embers until they were extinguished, then rushed outside for a much-needed breath of air.

The Stoneham Fire Department was only a block or so away and already Tricia could hear their sirens.

“Think there's anybody in there?” Angelica asked.

“I didn't see anyone, but I'd better look, just in case.”

Back she dipped into the stinking building. The smoke seemed to hover, but already it wasn't as thick as it had been only a minute or so before. “Doris?” she called and coughed. “Doris, are you in here?”

Grateful for the security lighting that hadn't winked out, Tricia searched behind the sales counter. No sign of Doris. But a glance to her right showed that the little Lucite case that less than an hour before had housed Doris's treasured cookbook was no longer perched on the top of the shelf. Had someone tried to burn the place down to hide the theft of the book?

“Doris?” she called again, trying to remember if Doris inhabited an apartment over the shop or if she lived elsewhere.

Tricia stumbled over something and fell to her knees. The air was definitely better down here. Righting herself, Tricia pivoted to see what had tripped her. She gasped as she focused on the still form half protruding from behind the horseshoe-shaped kitchen island, noting the carving knife that jutted from its sweatered back.

Miss Marple
wrinkled her little gray nose, sniffing the cuff of Tricia's slacks before giving a hiss of fear and backing away.

“I couldn't agree more,” Angelica said and aimed a squirt of perfume in Tricia's general direction.

“Please, don't—I'd rather smell like smoke,” Tricia complained, waving her sister off.

Chagrined, Angelica returned the atomizer to her handbag.

Outside the bubble-gum lights of a patrol car flashed upon the walls and shelves of stock, reminding Tricia of a carnival ride—one that, as a child, had made her violently ill.

“Let's go through it once again,” Sheriff Wendy Adams said.

Until that night, Tricia hadn't had an occasion to meet any of the county's law enforcement community. The sheriff's uniform shirt buttons strained against her ample cleavage, her large hips accentuated by the cut of her standard-issue slacks. But it was mostly Sheriff Adams's no-nonsense countenance that made Tricia feel so uncomfortable. It probably worked well in police work. Good thing the woman's livelihood didn't rely on retail, where a no-nonsense attitude was the kiss of death.

Tricia sighed and repeated for the third time the events leading up to her discovery of Doris Gleason's body.

Sheriff Adams scowled. “Wouldn't you know, I'm up for reelection in two months and now I've got a murder on my hands. Did you know we haven't had a killing in Stoneham in at least sixty years?”

“No.”

The sheriff continued to scowl. “How much was that missing book worth?”

Tricia sighed. “My expertise is in mystery novels—not cookbooks. But Doris told me a copy recently sold at auction for ten thousand dollars. It's all subjective: an antique, book or otherwise, will only sell for what a buyer is willing to pay.”

“Whatever,” Sheriff Adams muttered. “Did Mrs.—or was it Miss—or Ms.—Gleason have any enemies?”

Tricia's eyebrows rose, her lips pursing as she gazed at the floor.

“Is that a yes?” the sheriff asked impatiently.

“Doris was negotiating a new lease for her store,” Tricia explained. “She felt the new terms were…perhaps a little steep.”

“And who was she negotiating with?”

“Bob Kelly.”

“Oh,” Angelica squealed. “I just had dessert with him at the Brookview Inn. Very nice man, and oh, those lovely green eyes of his are heavenly.”

The sheriff turned her attention to Angelica. “What time was that, and for how long?”

“Surely you don't suspect the town's leading citizen?” Angelica said.

“How do you know his status?” Tricia asked.

Angelica shrugged. “Bob told me, of course.”

It took all Tricia's resolve not to roll her eyes.

As if on cue, a worried Bob stuck his head around Haven't Got a Clue's unlocked door. “Wendy, what's going on?”

“There's been a murder, I'm afraid.”

Stunned, Bob's mouth dropped open in horror. “Murder? Good grief! Ten years of Stoneham being named the safest town in all New Hampshire…down the drain.” A parade of other emotions soon cascaded across his face: irritation and despair taking center stage. “What'll this do to my real estate business?”

“That's nothing compared to what Doris Gleason lost—her life,” Tricia said, disgusted.

“Doris?” he repeated in disbelief.

The sheriff rested a hand on Bob's shoulder, turning him around. “Let's take this outside,” she said and led him out the door and onto the sidewalk for a private chat.

Angelica inhaled deeply, bending lower until her nose was inches from Tricia's hair. “Oooh, you stink.”

Tricia sniffed at her sweater sleeve. “I was only in the Cookery for a minute at most.”

“Believe me. You stink.”

Tricia's heart sank. “If I smell this bad, think about all those poor books. I wonder if they can be salvaged.”

Angelica shook her head. “Only you would think about such a thing.”

“Me and every other book lover on the planet.”

The sheriff returned with Bob in tow. “Are you okay, Tricia?” Bob asked.

Tricia nodded, suddenly feeling weary.

The sheriff consulted her notebook once again, then spoke to Angelica. “Mrs. Prescott, you said you're staying at the Brookview Inn?”

“Yes, and isn't it just lovely?”

“For how long?”

Angelica gazed down at Tricia. “I arrived just this afternoon and I'll be in town for as long as my sister needs me.”

Tricia rocketed from her chair, belatedly wondering if her clothes had already imparted their smoky scent to the upholstery. “I'm fine, Angie. You don't have to hang around on my account.”

“Nonsense. What's family for?”

So far emotional support hadn't been a Miles family trait.

“Ma'am,” said a solemn voice from the doorway. A fire-fighter, his scarlet helmet emblazoned with the word
CHIEF
stenciled in gold and white, motioned to the sheriff. “All the smoke detectors in the Cookery were disabled. Whoever did this didn't want the crime discovered too quickly. However, it appears there was no accelerant used.”

Did that mean whoever murdered Doris hadn't planned the killing? Yet they'd been clearheaded enough to try to cover their tracks—however inefficiently.

“Let's keep this discussion private,” Sheriff Adams said, and she and the fire chief moved to stand out of earshot on the sidewalk.

Angelica rested a warm hand on Tricia's shoulder. “Trish, dear, you must come and stay with me at the inn. I won't sleep a wink tonight knowing you're here all alone in such a dangerous place. You could've died if that fire hadn't been discovered.”

“If
you
hadn't discovered it. Besides, I wouldn't have died. My smoke alarms work—and I have an excellent sprinkler system.”

“You discovered the fire?” Bob asked, zeroing in on Angelica.

She waved a hand in dismissal. “It was nothing, really. I only wish we could've saved that poor woman.”

“It wasn't
nothing
,” Bob said. “The whole block could've gone up, and then the village would've—” He let the sentence fade, his face blanching. No doubt he was already thinking about the upcoming zoning board meeting, and how he could force through new rules for fire safety. The costs would no doubt be passed on to the lease owners. Tricia knew that, like Doris, several other bookstore owners were already living on the precarious edge of profitability with the possibility of folding. And trust Bob Kelly to care more for the buildings than the potential loss of a human life.

Bob's gimmicky idea of basing the village's economy on used bookstores luring in tourists had been inspired by the town of Hay-on-Wye. That little Welsh town had been in the same financial boat as Stoneham: picturesque but fallen on hard times. The original leases had been written in favor of the booksellers, but as Doris had found out, success came with a price. The signs were already evident that Doris's business was on the slide. Fewer food-prep demonstrations and the fact her best-selling product was at the low end of the profit spectrum.

That will not happen to me
, Tricia thought. For years she'd daydreamed about every aspect of her store, from the stock to the décor. She'd written and rewritten her business plan, had goals for expanding the business and a timetable to do it. Her divorce a year earlier had presented her with the money and all the time in the world to pursue her lifelong dream of entrepreneurship. After five months in business, Tricia was exactly where she expected to be: paying her rent, her employee, covering her overhead, and making a modest profit. Only time would tell if word of Doris's murder would have an impact on the whole village's revenue stream. The thought depressed her.

As though anticipating her owner's solemn thoughts, Miss Marple appeared at Tricia's side. She gave a muffled “yow,” and dropped her favorite, rather ratty-looking catnip sock at Tricia's feet.

“Oh, thank you, Miss Marple,” she said, patting the cat's furry gray head. “You are a very thoughtful kitty.” Miss Marple purred loudly.

“Darling Trish. You must come back with me to the inn. I'm sure they can move some kind of cot into my room. You're much too upset to drive, so give me your keys,” Angelica insisted once again.

“That won't be necessary. This is my home and I'm staying put. And I'm not upset,” she lied. “As soon as the sheriff is finished, I'll drive you back to the inn.”

“Nonsense,” Bob interrupted. “I'd be delighted to escort you back to the Brookview, Mrs. Prescott.”

Angelica turned slowly to face Bob. “Call me Angelica,” she said, her voice softening, her blue eyes lowered coyly.

Bob smiled, practically oozing with gentlemanly charm.

What was this effect Angie had on men? And what was wrong with these two? A woman had been murdered mere feet from where they all stood. Then again, if Bob managed to get Angelica out of Tricia's hair, she might be inclined to ignore some of his other annoying attributes.

Sheriff Adams returned, looking bad-tempered. “I guess that's all for tonight, folks. But I'll be needing official statements from all three of you. I'll send a deputy by sometime tomorrow to take them. In the meantime, please don't leave town without notifying the sheriff's department.”

As if, Tricia was tempted to sniff. Then it occurred to her what Sheriff Adams was really saying: that perhaps she didn't believe their accounts as they'd given them.

 

Miss Marple
hadn't appreciated an early wake-up call, but the image of Doris Gleason with a knife in her back kept Tricia from restful sleep; her dreams had been shadowed by dark menacing images she could only half remember. She'd showered, dressed, and fed herself and her cat before trundling down the stairs to her shop. Next on the list: vacuuming, tidying, and all the other chores she hadn't accomplished before leaving the night before. It was while resetting the security system she noticed the cord from the wall-mounted camera dangling loose, with the unmistakable indentations from feline teeth.

“Miss Marple. Didn't I tell you not to mess with that camera?” she admonished.

The cat jumped to the counter and rubbed her head against Tricia's arm.

“Oh no, you don't. I am not your friend right now.”

Miss Marple swished her tail and jumped down, sashaying across the carpet without a backward glance.

Before Tricia could call the security company, the phone rang and she let the answering machine kick in. “The Haven't Got a Clue mystery bookstore's hours are ten a.m. to seven p.m. on Mondays, Tuesdays ten to six; Wednesday through Saturday ten to seven, and Sunday noon to three. Please leave a message at the tone.”

Beep!

“Bernie Weston,
Nashua Telegraph.
Looking to interview Tricia Miles about last night's Stoneham murder at the Cookery. Please call at—” He left a number.

That was one phone call Tricia was determined not to return. True, talking to the press would get the shop's name in the newspaper, but a murder—even next door to a mystery bookstore—was negative publicity, and she preferred not to believe that even negative publicity was good publicity.

She wiped the message from the machine and dialed another number.

“We're swamped,” said the harried male voice at Ace Security. “I might be able to get someone out to you by the end of the week, but I can't make any promises. If the rest of your system's intact, you shouldn't have too much of a problem.”

Let's see: murder, theft, and arson had occurred just feet from Tricia's doorstep. Why wouldn't she feel secure with a third of her system on the blink? As a small-business owner, she'd wanted to patronize other local businesses, but now wondered if she'd regret that decision.

She hung up the phone, put a soothing Enya CD on low, and commandeered her sheepskin duster. Taking care of her beloved books always had a calming effect on her psyche. And she needed that calm, for in the next half hour the answering machine took four more calls from newspapers, radio stations, and/or television stations in Concord, Nashua, and Manchester. Screening calls was the order of the day. Stoneham's small-town gossip mill was bound to be in full force, and the best source of information showed up ten minutes after Haven't Got a Clue opened.

A bleary-eyed Ginny scowled as she snagged a cup of coffee from the store's steaming pot before she'd even hung up her jacket. “Sheriff Adams was waiting for me when I got home last night. Let me tell you, being interrogated by a cop can really put a crimp in your love life. Brian hightailed it out of my place so fast I almost got windburn.”

“What does
he
have to hide?” Tricia asked.

Ginny glowered. “I think his car's inspection sticker might be a little overdue.”

“A little?”

“Okay, by two months.”

“What did the sheriff ask you about?”

Ginny's answer was succinct. “You.”

Tricia started. “Me?”

“Apparently, you were the last person to see Daww-ris”—she again dragged the name out—“alive.”

“Except for the killer, you mean.”

Ginny shrugged, warming her hands on the store's logo-emblazoned cardboard cup. “I suppose.”

Tricia hoped her only employee had been a little more aggressive in defending her when speaking with the sheriff.

“I told her I was in Doris's shop for perhaps five minutes, just to return her glasses. We talked briefly about her expensive little cookbook, then I went to the inn, picked up my sister, and we were back here within thirty—maybe forty minutes.”

“I'm sure you have nothing to worry about,” Ginny said, gulped her coffee, and got up to cash out the first of the day's customers.