“Yes, he does seem to, doesn’t he?”
“We could use a couple more Bob Kellys in Stoneham. I intend to follow his lead in a number of areas. We need to boost the tourist trade by offering more than just the lure of used books. We need more restaurants; maybe attract some kind of light industry.”
“And do you insure buildings suited for light industry?”
Mike flashed his pearly whites. “How did you guess?”
“Is there anything in the works?” she asked, thinking about the rumors of a big box store coming to town.
He kept his eyes on the road. “There might be, and that’s all I’m at liberty to say about it.”
“You’re a tease.”
“And you’re beautiful.”
That wasn’t true…but she liked hearing it anyway.
She cast around for something else to talk about. “I’ve noticed the locals don’t seem too interested in supporting the booksellers. Why do you think that is?”
He shrugged, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “You don’t sell what they need.”
“Which is?”
“That’s something I need to learn,” he admitted. “Rare and antiquarian books and expensive baubles—those are for collectors and people who don’t know what to do with their money.”
Hurt and irritation suddenly welled within Tricia. “Is that how you feel about us?”
Mike momentarily tore his gaze from the road. “Of course not. But that’s what a lot of the villagers think. Surely you’ve at least considered that.”
“Yes,” she grudgingly admitted.
The Jaguar slowed and Mike pulled into the parking lot of a little ramshackle building, its white paint peeling, the bands of color on the lobster buoys decorating it bleached to pastel hues. A hand-painted sign with red lettering proclaimed ED’S.
“Oh,” Tricia said, trying—and failing—to hold her disappointment in check. “It’s a clam shack.”
“Don’t let the outside fool you. They serve the best chowders and bisques on the eastern seaboard.”
Except that they were at least fifty miles from the ocean. Tricia painted on a brave smile. “And I can’t wait to try it.”
The décor inside Ed’s consisted of nets studded with lobster buoys, lobster traps—complete with plastic lobsters—starfish, and shells. Picnic tables were covered in plastic tablecloths with lighthouse motifs, and each had bottles of ketchup, vinegar, salt and pepper shakers, as well as bolts of paper towels on upright wooden holders.
“Nothing too fancy,” Mike conceded. “But you won’t be disappointed. Sit down while I go order.”
Tricia nodded, her smile still fixed.
She chose a table near the rear of the tented patio. Attached to the wall was a large gray hood with a heater inside, presumably used to keep the makeshift dining room habitable during the colder months. Several other couples munched on fried clams and fries served on baker’s tissue set in red plastic baskets, washing it down with cans of soft drinks or bottles of beer.
Settling at the table, Tricia ran her fingers across the tablecloth, thankful to find it wasn’t sticky. Still, she tore off four sheets of paper toweling, fashioning two crude place mats.
Mike returned with napkins and plastic cutlery. “It’ll only be a few minutes.” He settled on the bench across from her and tied a lobster bib around his neck, settling it over his suit coat. “Don’t want to spill soup on my tie. Have to look presentable for my speech this afternoon.”
“What are you talking about? Who are you speaking to?”
“A group of seniors at the center on Maple Street. Thanks to my mother’s difficulties, I have a unique perspective on the kinds of problems they have, what with the cost of medicine, health care, and the realities of living on a fixed income.”
“You mentioned your mother’s difficulties,” she began, interested, but not wanting to appear too nosy.
“I probably wouldn’t have returned to Stoneham last year if it weren’t for Mother. Alzheimer’s,” he explained succinctly.
Something inside Tricia’s chest constricted.
“At first she seemed safe enough to leave on her own, but her mind has really deteriorated in the past year,” Mike continued. “I had her moved into an assisted living facility almost six months ago. The next step is probably to a locked ward in a nursing home.”
“I’m so sorry.” Head bent, Tricia looked unseeing at the table in front of her. Mike’s words had triggered a plethora of unhappy memories for her. She’d watched her former father-in-law go from a funny, loving man to a sometimes violent, empty-eyed soul. It had torn Christopher’s immediate family apart, putting a strain on her own marriage. A strain that contributed to shattering it.
“Let’s talk about something more pleasant,” Mike suggested. “Like books. They’re your specialty. I’ve slowly been cleaning out mother’s house, and I don’t have a clue about what to do with her lifelong collection of books.”
Though not a true change of subject, it was something Tricia was much more interested in discussing. “What kinds of books did she have?”
“A little bit of everything. Strike that: a lot of everything. Mother was on the village board when Bob Kelly came up with the idea of bringing in all the used booksellers. I’m sure she was one of the booksellers’ best customers.”
“Can she still read?”
Mike shook his head, grabbed the pepper shaker, and set it in front of his place.
How sad to lose the thing that means the most to you, Tricia thought. Of course her scattered family was important to her—she even grudgingly loved Angelica, and couldn’t forget dainty little Miss Marple—but to be deprived of her favorite pastime would be akin to stealing a portion of her soul.
“Would you like me to have a look at the collection?”
Mike tore his gaze from the paper towel place mat he’d been playing with. “Would you? I’d like to see every one of them go to a good home, but that just isn’t practical. I’ve already called libraries within a hundred-mile radius; they aren’t interested. Booksellers are my last hope before I resort to a Dumpster.”
“Never say that word to a bookaholic,” Tricia warned. “And yes, I’d love to have a look. But it’ll have to be on a Sunday. That’s the only day my shop has limited hours. What’s best for you, morning or evening?”
“Morning. Campaigning has eaten a lot more of my time than I’d planned. I’m afraid I’m falling behind in my work with deadlines looming.”
“How does nine o’clock this Sunday sound?”
“Perfect. I’ll give you the address later.”
A portly, fiftysomething man with a white plastic apron over a stained white T-shirt and a paper butcher’s cap covering his balding head approached the table and plopped down a couple of bottles: a Squamscot black cherry soda and a straw for her, and a bottle of Geary’s pale ale for Mike. Retrieving a church key from a chain on his belt, he opened Mike’s beer. “Be right back with your soup,” he grunted.
“Ed?” Tricia guessed.
Mike laughed. “You got it. He’s a client of mine. Saved him a lot of money when I took over his insurance accounts. Let me know if you’d like me to take a look at your contracts. I’ll bet I could offer you lower rates, too.”
Always the salesman, she thought. “I’ll consider it.”
Mike took a swig of his beer and smacked his lips. “Great stuff.”
Tricia wrestled with the cap on her bottle, before giving it up for Mike to open. Uncovering the straw, she popped it into the bottle and took a sip. “Oh, this is nice.” She examined the label. “Ah, a local product.”
Mike held up his beer in salute. “I think I’ve patronized every microbrewery in New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Maine.”
“A real pub crawler, eh?”
Mike dazzled her with another of his smiles. “In my youth. Those wild and carefree days are behind me now.”
“But you never settled down.”
“With a
family? Not yet, but there’s still time,” he said and winked.
Tricia sipped her soda. A couple rose from a nearby table and walked in front of them to deposit their trash in a bin. The man’s pants were slung low around his hips, exposing the top of his rear end and reminding her of the nudist tract in her purse. She’d meant to call other shop owners this morning but hadn’t had time. She opened her purse and removed the leaflet. “Have you seen any of these around town?”
Mike took the paper and squinted at the text. Then he laughed. “This is a joke, right?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve been pulling them out of books for the last couple of days.”
He turned it over and frowned. “My guess is this is the first in a series.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just a basic message to get an idea across. The next in the series will give more information. It’s been done hundreds of times. The U.S. and British troops dropped thousands of pounds—probably tons—of leaflets on the enemy back in World War Two. It’s still done today in war-torn countries.”
“How do you know so much?” she asked, then remembered their conversation the first day they met. “Didn’t you say you were a World War Two buff?”
“Yeah. I’ve even got a few examples of propaganda leaflets that I bought off the Internet. It’s a fascinating subject. They tried dropping them by hand—only to be sucked into the plane’s air intake—and in bombs that exploded at a predetermined height above the ground. The Brits were famous—and very successful at reaching their targets—by sending them up in balloons.”
“You sound like an expert.”
He shrugged. “It’s just a hobby.”
Ed returned with a tray laden with steaming bowls and a basket of chunky bread, which he placed before them. “Eat hearty.”
Tricia picked up her plastic spoon and stirred the thick soup, turning up large pieces of lobster, potatoes, and onions. “Smells wonderful.”
Mike grinned. “Dig in. I guarantee you’ll feel like you’ve died and gone to heaven.”
SIX
The Jag pulled smoothly to the curb on the west side of Main Street, and Tricia got out. “See you soon,” Mike called and pulled away, heading south. Tricia didn’t even have a chance to look for oncoming traffic before her gaze was drawn to the front of the Cookery. The yellow crime scene tape that had been there less than two hours ago was gone. A huge kelly green poster, decorated with shamrocks and screaming FOR LEASE—KELLY REALTY and a phone number, took up several square feet of the front window. The door was wedged open, and the scene of Doris Gleason’s death less than forty-eight hours before was now a hive of activity. Double-parked nearby was a Becker’s Moving van. Two guys in buff-colored coveralls emerged from the store, carrying boxes and loading them into the van.
Tricia hurried across the street. “What are you doing?” she asked. “You can’t take those books. Who said you could—?”
“Don’t talk to me, lady. Talk to him.” The mover jerked a thumb over this shoulder just as Bob Kelly emerged from the inside of the store. His nose and mouth were covered with a dust mask, and he held a clipboard in his left hand, making notes with his right.
Tricia marched up to him. “What’s going on?”
Bob looked up, pulling his mask down below his chin. “I’m clearing out my property. I need to get it professionally cleaned and painted if I’m going to rent it out in the next couple of weeks.”
“Doris hasn’t even been buried yet and already you’re emptying her store? What kind of an unfeeling monster are you?”
Bob’s glare was arctic cold. “I am a businessman. This is my property. The terms of the lease were immediately negated at the time of Doris Gleason’s death.”
“What are you going to do with all her stock?”
“Put it in storage. I’ve rented a garage over at the self-storage center on Bailey Avenue. I’ll bill the cost to her estate.”
“But it’s not right!” she cried. “If the rent was paid till the end of the month—”
Bob’s gaze, and his voice, softened. “You’re getting all emotional over nothing, Trish. Doris is gone. What she left behind has no meaning for her now. The sheriff gave me the okay to enter the premises and I’m well within my rights to take care of my property in any way I see fit.”
She had no doubt of that. It was just such a cold-blooded move—and typical of the man. “Those books are smoke damaged, but they’re still salvageable if they’re taken care of properly.”
“That’s not my concern.”
“Well, it ought to be. You’re cheating Doris’s heirs out of what’s rightfully theirs.”
“The sheriff has been unable to locate any heirs. And besides, I’m not taking anything away from the heirs. Just relocating it. According to the terms of the lease—”
“Oh, give it a rest, Bob.” Fists clenched, Tricia turned on her heel and stalked into her own shop. Ginny was in the midst of making a fresh pot of complimentary coffee for their patrons, while Miss Marple dozed on the sales counter. The sight of such normalcy instantly lowered Tricia’s anxiety quotient by half. That still left the other half to bubble over.
Tricia stowed her purse under the counter. “Did you see what’s going on next door?”
“How could I miss it?” Ginny said. “The truck pulled up only a minute after you left for lunch. I guess that means the police have finished their investigation, otherwise Bob Kelly wouldn’t be allowed inside.”
“I’ve read a lot of true crime and police procedurals and I’ve never heard of a law enforcement agency abandoning a crime scene so quickly,” Tricia said.
“Wendy Adams will figure it out. She’s supposed to be good at her job,” Ginny offered.
“Maybe, but she’s never had to solve a murder before.”
“But as she also pointed out, it’s an election year. That’ll give her plenty of incentive.”
Tricia nodded thoughtfully.
The phone rang. Tricia grabbed it. “Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia speaking. How can I help you?”
“Trish? It’s Deb Black. I wanted to let you know a deputy’s been canvassing Main Street, asking questions of all the shop owners.”
“Let me guess: asking questions about me.”
“More like planting suspicions.” She sounded worried.
Tricia swallowed. “Thanks for the heads-up.” She remembered the nudist tracts. “Deb, have you had a problem with leaflets about—”
“Nudists!” she cried. “Yes, and it’s really, really tacky. I offer quality merchandise and these horrid little pieces of paper are just plain vulgar. I called the sheriff, but she told me she’s too busy with a murder investigation to bother with something so trivial. And besides, they’re not illegal, just a nuisance.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“I’ve got customers. See you Tuesday night at the auction—that is if I don’t have the baby before then.”
“You got it. See you then.” Tricia hung up.
“More bad news?” Ginny had obviously been eavesdropping.
Tricia shrugged. Movement outside caught her eye. One of the movers placed another carton in the back of the truck and closed the hinged doors, throwing a bolt. “There goes the first load.” Tricia’s thoughts returned to the Cookery. “Bob said Sheriff Adams hadn’t located any of Doris’s heirs. That doesn’t mean there aren’t any. I’m sure the sheriff has already searched Doris’s home for that kind of information…insurance policies…whatever.”
Ginny nodded. “It’s not much of a home, really. More like a cottage.”
Tricia looked up. “You’ve been there?”
“A couple of times. Once when we had a celebrity author come in, Doris forgot some paperwork she needed and sent me over to her house.” She lowered her voice. “I know where she hid an extra key to the back door.”
“And?” Tricia whispered.
“Maybe it wouldn’t hurt for an interested party—someone the sh
eriff seems to want to pin this murder on—to go over there and have a look.”
The thought repelled yet fascinated Tricia. “But that would be breaking and entering.”
“Not if you’ve got the key,” Ginny said. “You could go tonight.”
“You’d have to come with me.”
“Can’t. Brian’s taking me to Manchester for a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert—we’ve planned it for months. Which reminds me, I’m going to need to leave a little early tonight. Is that a problem?”
Tricia shook her head.
“You could go on your own to Doris’s. You can park in the back. No one will see your car from the road. No one will ever know you were even there.”
“Maybe,” Tricia said.
“Think about it. In the meantime, why don’t you have a nice cup of coffee and tell me all about your lunch date.” Ginny handed Tricia a cup, just the way she liked it.
“He took me to some little clam shack that served the best lobster bisque in the entire world.”
Ginny smiled. “That would be Ed’s.”
Tricia laughed. “Does everyone know about this place but me?”
“You’re still relatively new here.”
Tricia sipped her coffee, her thoughts returning to the conversation she’d had with Mike. “You’re a lifelong resident of Stoneham; do you know Mike Harris’s mother?”
Ginny shook her head. “Not my generation. I suppose my mom or grandmother might. If I think of it, I’ll ask.” She considered Tricia’s question for a moment. “Why do you want to know?”
“Mike wants me to have a look at her book collection. Give him some ideas on disposing of it.”
Ginny frowned. “Makes it sound like the books are nothing but garbage.”
“I know. The idea seemed to bother him, too.”
“What do you expect to find?”
Tricia sighed. “Nothing of particular value. Cookbooks, book club editions of bygone best sellers…”
“And no doubt the dreaded Reader’s Digest condensed books.”
Tricia shuddered. “Please—don’t blaspheme in the shop.”
Ginny laughed.
A gleaming white motor coach passed by the shop on its way to the municipal lot to disgorge the latest crowd of book-buying tourists.
Murder Is Binding Page 7
