Murder Is Binding (4 page)

But Tricia did worry about it—to the point of obsession; it only got worse after she'd given her statement to the young deputy who'd stopped by. She rang up sales incorrectly, punching in three cents instead of thirty dollars for a slightly water-stained dust cover on a first edition of Josephine Tey's
The Singing Sands
, and asked a customer to pay three hundred ninety-five dollars for a laminated bookmark. And still the telephone kept ringing.

“You ought to take a break,” Ginny advised, after soothing the latest irate customer. “Go for a drive in the country. Take your sister shopping in Manchester.”

“Being with Angelica is the last thing I need. No, here is where I belong.”

Ginny shrugged. “You're the boss.”

A gray-haired woman with big sunglasses presented a book for purchase. Ginny rang up the sale and Tricia picked it up to place in the store's plastic bag. A slip of paper fell out and hit the floor. Tricia bent to pick it up and silently cursed: another nudist tract. She shoved it into her slacks pocket and handed across the book and bag to her customer. “Thank you for shopping at Haven't Got a Clue,” she said cheerfully, hoping her irritation hadn't been apparent. The woman smiled and headed for the exit.

“Another one?” Ginny asked.

Tricia nodded, removing the paper from her pocket. Ginny pulled more leaflets from her apron pocket, handing them over. “You were right when you said we'd find more.”

Tricia read over the text extolling the benefits of a natural lifestyle free from restrictive clothing: “a healthy lifestyle that encouraged body acceptance and self-confidence.” Still, she wondered how many people caught cold or cut their toes while romping around in the altogether.

Tricia balled up the leaflets, tossing them in the trash. “Let's hope this is the end of it.”

The bell over the door jangled and a dark-haired, middle-aged man in faded jeans and a Patriots sweatshirt charged in. He was a couple of weeks late on a haircut, and his Nikes had seen much better days, although Tricia supposed he was good-looking, in a rustic sort of way.

“Looking for the owner, Tricia Miles,” he said.

Tricia raised a hand. “That would be me.”

The man offered his hand. “Russ Smith, editor of the
Stoneham Weekly News.
”

The name sounded familiar. “I believe we spoke on the phone just after my shop opened. You ran a paragraph or two back in the spring, telling the community about the store.”

“Oh, yeah.” He'd obviously forgotten. “You probably guessed that I'm here about the murder at the Cookery. It's the biggest news to hit Stoneham in—”

“Sixty years, apparently.” Tricia's muscles went rigid. She hadn't counted on the local fish wrapper to come calling. The top story in the last issue had been squirrels chewing through the village gazebo's roof. “Mr. Smith, finding Doris was pretty upsetting. I really don't want to talk about it.”

He cocked his head. “Why? Did you kill her?”

Tricia gasped and blinked. “Of course not.”

“Then why not take the opportunity to tell the whole village so?” He grasped her by the elbow, maneuvered her around the sales counter, and led her to the nook, where three of the four upholstered chairs were empty. He pushed her into a seat and took the adjacent chair. Tricia hadn't noticed that he'd carried a steno notebook in his left hand, which he now opened. He came up with a pen, too.

He looked at Tricia over the rims of his gold-toned glasses. “I've got the facts from Sheriff Adams. You want to give me your take on the murder?”

“I really don't think I should talk to the press. I mean, what if I say something that compromises the sheriff's investigation?”

Mr. Everett, the shop's most regular customer and seated in another of the nook's chairs, peeked over the top of the book he held unnaturally close to his face. At Tricia's pointed stare, his eyes disappeared again.

Smith read through his notes. “You found the body at approximately six forty-eight p.m. Put out the smoldering fire—”

“It was the other way around. I put out the fire first, then found poor Doris.”

“Were you two enemies?” he cut in, his eyes narrowed.

Tricia recoiled. “No.”

“Talk is the two of you argued last night.”

“We did not! She wanted to enlist me in her crusade to renegotiate the booksellers' leases. I told her I couldn't help her. My lease doesn't come due for more than two years.”

“Do you think Bob Kelly is responsible for her death? It's known she argued with him, too,” he said.

Tricia took a calming breath and straightened in her seat to perch on its edge. “I was not privy to their conversations. I only know she had an appointment to speak with him again last night. Apparently he was delayed.” Gosh, she sounded formal. Would that make her sound even more guilty to this Jimmy Olsen wannabe?

“Kelly was delayed by your sister, an—” He consulted his notes. “An Angelica Preston. Was their meeting something you engineered? Something to keep Bob Kelly from meeting Ms. Gleason?”

Tricia stood. “I don't appreciate your inference, Mr. Smith, and I wish you'd leave.”

Smith's calculating scowl tempted Tricia to slap him; only her clenched fists and sheer willpower kept her from doing it. He took his time closing his notebook, clipping the pen onto its cover. Finally, he stood. “I think you'll wish you were a bit more candid, Ms. Miles.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Smith?”

He shook his head. “I'm just stating facts.” With that, he turned and moved toward the door. It slammed shut behind him.

Tricia glanced down at Mr. Everett, whose eyes were once again peering over the top of his book. Seeing her, he quickly ducked down again.

Too upset to interact with customers, Tricia grabbed her duster and headed for the back shelves, hoping to work off her anger.

As she ran the fleece over the topmost shelf, she puzzled over the sudden void she felt from Doris's death. The woman hadn't been known as the friendliest person on the planet. Her quick-to-judge temperament and an acid tongue hadn't served her well in business and from what Tricia could tell her personal life, either.

What was so special about the cookbook that had been stolen? Yes, it was a rare first edition, but Doris's reluctance to discuss where she'd obtained the book now seemed more sinister than circumspect.

Or was it only paranoia that kept Tricia's thoughts on that circuit? Somebody had killed Doris, had stolen a rare book, and had committed arson to try to hide the crimes.

And just who among the denizens of Stoneham was capable of such wanton acts?

There was only one way to find out. Talk to them. And she knew just where and with whom to start.

Stoneham's chamber
of commerce resided in the former sales office of a company offering log homes. Tricia had passed it hundreds of times, and though she'd been a member since before the actual day she'd opened her store, she'd never had time to visit the office.

She stood out on the sidewalk admiring the charming little pseudohome with its stone chimney, folksy rockers on the front porch, and the double dormers poking through the green-painted metal roof. Someone had a green thumb, judging by the welcoming baskets of magenta fuchsias, pink begonias, and colorful pansies that hung suspended along the porch's roofline.

Tricia climbed the steps and entered through the glossy, red-painted door. Like every other business in Stoneham, a little bell tinkled as she entered. Inside, the cabin was just as charming, with its chinked walls and timbered rafters. The outside had hinted of a second floor, but the cathedral ceiling was a good twenty feet above her and sunlight streamed through the dormer windows. A sitting area, furnished in comfortable leather couches and chairs with a rustic flair, gave way to racks of local brochures, file cabinets, and other utilitarian office equipment.

“Howdy!” came a female voice with a thick Texas twang. “How can I help you?”

Tricia stepped up to a counter, where a thin woman with close-cropped, gray-streaked brown hair, with a face wrinkled by years of smiles, and wearing a baggy crimson-and-white Hawaiian shirt awaited. “I was hoping to find Bob Kelly here. His real estate office is closed and I thought—”

“I don't usually see much of Bob during the workday. He tends to catch up on chamber business on evenings and weekends. Today's an exception. He's been doing damage control; interviews with the media and such. We've got ourselves a little PR crisis here in Stoneham after last night's events.”

So now Doris's death was an event?

“Is there something I can help you with?” the woman asked again and went back to chomping on her gum cud.

“My name is Tricia Miles, and—”

“I know you! You're the lady runs that mystery store. Let's see, joined in late March this year. Haven't made one of our luncheons at the Brookview Inn, yet, have you? Best grub in town, that's for sure.”

“Uh, no,” Tricia said, wondering if this woman was for real or putting on an act.

The woman extended a calloused hand. “Hi. Frannie Mae Armstrong, but folks just call me Frannie. Named after my grandma on Daddy's side.”

Tricia blinked, but took her hand. “How nice.”

Frannie's handshake was as strong as any man's though not crushing. “How's the book business? Doin' real well, are ya? I read romances myself. Love that Nora Roberts—but not those J. D. Robb ones she writes.” Frannie leaned closer, lowered her voice confidentially. “They're set in the future, ya know, and that's just plain weird.”

“Can't say as I've ever read any of her work.”

“You're missing out on some real entertainment. Since that Have a Heart romance bookstore opened, my TV watching has dropped by half.”

“You'd seem to be one of the few locals who patronize us.”

Frannie nodded sagely. “Oh, there's a few of us out there. Maybe you should try starting a reader group—maybe team up with the library on that. They supply the warm bodies, you supply the books.”

“That's a good idea. Thanks.”

“But you're right about one thing: there does seem to be an us-verses-them sort of rivalry going on among the merchants. There's also no doubt that bringing in the booksellers has revitalized Stoneham. Some of the old-timers—that's what I call those businessmen who were around before the booksellers came—resent you newcomers. What for?” she asked, her hands flying into the air. “They didn't want to be located on Main Street anyway—it was falling apart. Most of 'em moved to the edge of town to be near the highway. And the bookstores bring in lots of money. Saved 'em all from bankruptcy if you ask me.” She shook her head.

“Have you lived in Stoneham long?” Tricia asked, genuinely interested.

“Must be going on twenty years, now.” She laughed and the windows rattled. “It's my accent, huh? I
am
a long way from home,” she admitted, “but I've come to love the changing seasons. That is until I retire, then I'll be off to Hawaii. They call it paradise, ya know.” She straightened, her face losing some of its animation, all business now. “Now just what was it you wanted to ask of old Bob?”

Tricia had almost forgotten why she'd stopped in. “I had some questions concerning Doris Gleason's murder.”

Frannie shook her head, her left hand rising to clasp the side of her face. “Lord, isn't that just awful. And I heard you found her, you poor little thing.”

“Yes, I did. Did you know Doris?”

“No. She wasn't a chamber member. I called her several times to ask if she wanted to join, but she was just the most ornery woman I ever did speak to. Told me to stop bothering her or she'd report me to the state's attorney general as a telemarketer.”

“But being a chamber member is great, even if you only use it to promote your store.”

“I know, and I tried to tell her that, but she hung up on me. I don't see how she stayed in business as long as she did. And now she's dead. Well, I guess she annoyed someone one time too many, don'tcha think?”

Tricia shrugged, afraid to agree—especially as it appeared she was the prime suspect. “Doris told me she had an appointment to meet with Bob last night, but apparently he didn't make it over to the Cookery to see her before she was killed.”

Frannie crossed her thin arms across her equally thin chest. “Well, that's Bob for you. He's always overbooking himself. Thinks he's Superman.” Frannie laughed again, and Tricia feared for the window's mullions. “I know he had a dinner meeting at the Brookview Inn. Must've fallen behind schedule.”

“I saw him there last night. When he left, he said he was late for an appointment. I assumed he meant with Doris, but he didn't show up for at least another hour after he left the inn.”

“Do tell,” Frannie said and cocked her head. She paused in her gum chewing, looking thoughtful. “I wonder…” But she didn't articulate exactly what it was she pondered. Long seconds went by before she shook herself and seemed to remember Tricia stood before her. “Do you want to leave Bob a message?”

Tricia shook her head. “I'll call him later.”

“You want his cell number? He doesn't mind taking calls when it comes to protecting the good name of Stoneham. Business is business, ya know.”

“I don't want to bother him.” That wasn't exactly true…

“Well, I'll tell him you stopped by. If there's anything the chamber can do for you, you just give us a holler, ya hear?”

Discussion over.

Tricia managed a wan smile. “Thank you, Frannie, you've been most helpful.” Not.

She headed for the door with Frannie calling a cheerful good-bye behind her. Once outside, Tricia stood on the porch for a few moments, wondering what it was concerning Bob that Frannie hadn't wanted to talk about.

Since she'd gone inside, a crew had arrived to take down the Safest Town banner from the north end of the street. Had they already removed the one from the south end?

A sheriff's cruiser rolled slowly past, its driver taking in both sides of the street. Was it just the cool breeze that made the hairs on the back of Tricia's neck prickle or was it the idea the deputy might be watching her?

 

Two hours
later, Tricia was positive she did not suffer from paranoia. Even Ginny remarked about the sheriff's cruiser making a regular circuit up and down Main Street, and that too often its occupant's attention seemed to be focused on Haven't Got a Clue.

When she ducked out to take the previous day's receipts to the bank, Tricia noticed a patrol car parked in the municipal lot. Inside it, a deputy's gaze was trained on Stoneham's main drag. It made Tricia want to look over her shoulder, keeping an eye out for the real murderer. Then again, Doris's killer could be just about anybody. Since there was no sign of forced entry and the door had been unlocked, it was likely Doris had opened it to let in her killer. Meaning, she'd probably known the person—and Tricia wasn't about to let anyone think that person might be her.

What would Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot, or any other self-respecting protagonist in a Christie novel do in this situation? Ask questions.

Tricia took a detour on the way back to her shop, stopping at the Happy Domestic, a boutique specializing in new and gently used products, consisting of how-to books, gifts, and home décor. She'd met the owner, Deborah Black, at an auction several months before where they'd shared coffee and local gossip, and they had continued to look out for each other at every other sale. Deborah loaded up on glassware and bric-a-brac while Tricia had scoured box lots for interesting titles.

Thirtysomething Deborah, her swollen belly straining against a maternity smock, wore a plastic smile that never waned until the customer she'd waited on had exited her store. “Oh God,” she exhaled and collapsed against her sales counter. “Sometimes I think I'll kill myself if I have to coo over another satin pillow with the words ‘Do Not Disturb' cross-stitched on it.”

Tricia laughed. “Only a few days more and you'll have a vacation from customers. You're due next week, aren't you?”

“And, boy, am I ready. Jim Roth over at History Repeats Itself has a parlay going. He says I won't make it until my due date on Monday.” She looked down at herself and laughed. “And he may be right.”

“Hey, nobody told me about the parlay.”

“I think there's a few squares left, if you want to get in.”

“I may just visit him when I leave here.”

Deborah studied Tricia's face. “Betting on my baby's birth is not why you came to visit today—not during work hours. You're here about Doris, right?”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Well, her murder
is
the talk about town.” She bent down to pick up a cardboard carton.

“Let me get that,” Tricia said and lifted the box onto the counter. “So, tell me what you know about Doris,” Tricia prompted.

Deborah untucked one of the box's flaps and withdrew a paper-wrapped package, talking as she worked. “She was a nasty piece of work. The rest of us avoided her at all costs. Never a positive word. Never contributed to the United Way. Never wanted to do anything positive for the village or the community at large. Her view in life seemed to be ‘What have you done for me lately?'”

“So the rest of the shop owners won't be mourning her.”

Deborah shook her head, tossing her long brown hair back across her shoulders. “You know what she was like.”

How pathetic, Tricia thought, not to be mourned at all. Surely Doris had had some redeeming qualities. She voiced that question.

Deborah shook her head, unwrapping the first of the bundles, a delicate pink, etched water goblet. “Not that I noticed. You might want to talk to some of the other booksellers. Most have been around here longer than me. But if you expect heartfelt tributes, you're wasting your time.” She held up one of the glasses to the light. “Aren't these just the prettiest crystal?”

Tricia nodded and counted the remaining bundles. “Only seven.”

“If nothing else, I can sell them as a set of six. I'll set up a whole new display around them. Lots of pink, girly items. It'll be gorgeous.”

“Did you pick these up at the last auction?”

She shook her head. “No. I got them from Winnie Wentworth.”

“Who?”

Deborah laughed. “The village eccentric. A combination bag lady/antiques picker. I'm surprised you haven't met her. She sells to all the shop owners.”

Tricia inspected one of the goblets. “Is the quality of her merchandise always this good?”

“Gosh, no. She sells mostly junk—but occasionally she comes up with a few prizes. I learned to inspect most items pretty thoroughly for chips, nicks, and repairs before I part with any money.”

Tricia set the glass back down on the counter. “I'm sure you've heard the gossip going around town. Doris had an appointment with Bob Kelly, but no one wants to look at him as a possible suspect. You've been here longer than me—what do you know about him?”

Deborah sobered. “Definitely a man who focuses on results. It's no wonder he's been single all these years. He lives and breathes the real estate business. But he has been good for the village.”

Another testimonial for Saint Bob.

“Doris complained about her new lease,” Deborah continued, “and it's made me look at my bottom line as well. I'm already trying to budget for a substantial increase when it comes time for me to renew.”

“Can you afford it?”

“It'll be a stretch, but the village—and Bob in particular—gambled on me and all the other booksellers when we first came aboard. Most of us have done okay. And it may be that Bob was tired of dealing with Doris's complaints. He may have simply demanded a higher price to get rid of her. I don't know, and anyway it's moot. Doris is history. Now he can rent the place to anyone he pleases.”

Tricia's thoughts exactly.

The door opened and a couple of women entered the store. “Can I help you?” Deborah asked cheerfully, abandoning the glassware.

“Thanks for the chat.” Tricia clasped her leather briefcase and Deborah gave her a quick wave as she headed for the door.

Tricia's next stop was the Coffee Bean, a heavenly shop that sold exotic blends and decadent chocolates, where she bought a five-pound bag of fresh-ground Colombian coffee. Too many customers clogged the shop for her to engage the owner in idle gossip, and she'd intended to head straight back for her own store, but a new enterprise on the block caught her attention. She made one more diversion.