Murder Is Binding

by Lorna Barrett

  Nor Tricia’s. Still, it was a choice she could understand. “I’ll take the desk. You want to investigate the rest of the house?”

  “Sure.”

  Tricia was glad to note the drapes were heavy, effectively blocking the light so it wouldn’t be visible from the street. Knowing that gave her more confidence to inspect the cherry secretary that stood defiantly against the west wall. It was tall, topped with a glass cabinet that held an antique glass compote, several more old books, and a silver mercury glass vase with hand-painted roses. Tricia grasped the pulls and opened it. The cubbies inside were stuffed with envelopes, a checkbook, and other assorted papers—not Doris’s doing, as evidenced by the tidiness of the rest of the house. Had the sheriff been in a hurry when going over the house’s contents? Maybe she’d found what she was looking for and had shoved everything back in the pigeonholes with more speed than efficiency.

  Utility bills, bank statements, magazine subscription notices, but no last will and testament. Abandoning the top section, Tricia opened the first drawer. Extra checks, a phone book, pens and pencils, paper clips, scissors—typical desk fare.

  The next drawer held more receipts and the minutiae of a busy life. She sorted through the papers and found a stack of five or six paper-clipped statements from New England Life Insurance Company. Tricia glanced over the information. Policy Number 951493. Insured’s Name: Doris E. Gleason. Plan of Insurance: Whole Life, issued six months previous. Nowhere on the statement did it list who the beneficiary was, probably for security reasons. Tricia took the oldest one, folded it, and slipped it into her pocket, then replaced the others.

  She opened the last drawer without enthusiasm. In it were a little pink photo album and a bulging string envelope. The album drew her attention. She picked it up and opened to the first page to find a fuzzy black-and-white photograph of a baby. In fact, the book was dedicated to the child, whose features quickly changed from nondescript to the all-too-familiar features of Down syndrome.

  The string envelope contained receipts and canceled checks, each of them referencing the Anderson Developmental Clinic Group Homes, located in Hartford, Connecticut. The letters referred to a Susan Gleason as “your daughter.”

  “Oh boy.” If Doris had no other living relatives, who would take on the responsibility for her mentally disabled child? Would the young woman—oh, no longer young, she realized—lose her spot in a group home? End up on the streets, homeless?

  “Trish! Come and see all these wonderful old cookbooks,” Angelica called.

  Tricia replaced the album and envelope, closed the drawer, and wandered toward the back of the little house. She found Angelica, book in hand, in another small room crammed with boxes and shelves.

  “Look, it’s the Household Bookshelf, an all-in-one cookbook from 1936. Grandmother had a copy of this in her kitchen. I remember how I loved to read the recipes in it. See this, they used to call bread stuffing bread force-meat. There must be a dozen variations.” Angelica looked up at Tricia, her eyes aglow with the same kind of pleasure Tricia had felt in Doris’s other book storage room. “Wouldn’t it be a kick to try them all?”

  Tricia had thought Angelica’s infatuation with meal prep had been a recent development. Why hadn’t she known her older sister had been interested in cooking even as a little girl?

  Angelica closed the book, replacing it on the shelf before her. “Wow, there’s—” She ran her fingers along the row of books. “Twelve copies of it. Where did she get them all?”

  “Estate sales, tag sales—pickers. Doris might’ve been collecting them for years.”

  “It’s too bad she’s dead,” Angelica said wistfully, “I’d love to buy a copy of it from her. And look at all these others. The Boston Cooking-School, The Settlement House. I’ve always wanted an old copy of the Fannie Farmer cookbook. I’ve only got a softcover edition.” She sighed and looked away, embarrassed. “Did you find any sign of heirs? Maybe they’ll have an estate sale and I can get copies of some of these old books.”

  “Looks like her only living relative is a retarded daughter living in a group home. I couldn’t find anything to the contrary.”

  “Oh no. That poor woman.”

  Did she mean the daughter, Susan, or Doris?

  “Find anything else of interest?”

  Tricia shook her head. “You didn’t happen to see a copy of American Cookery, by Amelia Simmons, did you?”

  “That was the book stolen from the Cookery. Why would it be—? Oh, you think the killer might have brought it back here, hidden it amongst all her other stock?”

  “He or she can’t very well sell it. Not without drawing attention to themselves. Let’s take a minute and look. Then we’d better get out of here before our luck runs out.”

  It took longer than a minute, more like fifteen, but it wasn’t until she’d scanned nearly every title in the room that Tricia was satisfied Doris’s precious treasure was not buried among her less valuable stock.

  Ready to go, she found Angelica’s attention had returned to one of the copies of the Household Bookshelf. “You okay, Ange?”

  She nodded. “It just seems so sad to leave all these old books here alone, knowing their owner will never come back. They might never be loved again.”

  Touched, Tricia leaned in closer to her sister. “I’ve never heard you talk about books that way before.”

  Angelica’s expression hardened. She sniffed and threw back her head. “Ha!” She pushed past Tricia, heading back for the kitchen. “Probably something I picked up from you these last few days. I’m sure it’ll wear off.”

  With one last look around the crowded room, a frowning Tricia turned off the light and pulled the door closed, just the way it had been when they’d arrived.

  EIGHT

  Deception wasn’t Tricia’s strongpoint. Not when she’d been seven and blamed Angelica for a vase she’d broken, nor when coming up with excuses to avoid dating high school jocks who couldn’t spell, let alone comprehend, Sherlock Holmes.

  She paced her kitchen, cell phone in hand, until the clock on her microwave read 9:01. Did a cell phone number come up on caller ID and would it also reveal her name as well? She didn’t think so, which was why she’d decided not to use her regular phone. She punched in the number, listened as it rang three times.

  “Good morning. New England Life, this is Margaret. How can I help you?”

  No long wait on hold? An actual American, not a native of some foreign land earning pennies an hour?

  “I…I—” Tricia hadn’t come up with a plausible story, so she told the truth. “I need to find out a beneficiary on one of your policies.”

  “Do you have the policy number?”

  “Yes.” She read it off, heard the tap of a keyboard in the background. “Doris E. Gleason. Did you wish to report her death?”

  “Uh, yes. She died three days ago.”

  “Are you authorized to act on her behalf?”

  “Um…yes.”

  “You’ll need to provide us with a copy of the death certificate and copies of letters of administration. Are you Ms. Gleason’s executor?”

  “Not exactly. I’m a friend. I need to track down her next of kin and I thought—”

  “I’m sorry. Privacy laws prohibit our giving out sensitive information of this nature. Please have Ms. Gleason’s attorney or executor contact us with the necessary paperwork and we will inform the beneficiary the death has occurred.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Thank you for calling New England Life.”

  Click.

  Rats!

  No sooner had she turned off the cell when her apartment phone rang. “Hello.”

  “Trish, it’s me, Angelica.”

  “How did you get this number?” Was it too early to already feel so annoyed?

  “I figured you’d never give it to me so I read it off the phone and wrote it down last night.” Very smart, and she sounded oh so smug.

  Tricia examined her empty cof
fee cup and poured herself some more. “Isn’t this awfully early for you to be up, Ange?”

  “I’ve mended all my evil ways. Age does that to you.”

  Hadn’t Mike said something similar? Always a bookworm, Tricia had never had any evil ways to mend.

  “Besides,” Angelica continued, “I know you’re only free during the hours the store isn’t open. This is my only window of opportunity to talk to you until tonight.”

  “So what do you want to talk about?”

  “Nothing really. I just wanted to tell you I had a great time last night. I felt like one of the Snoop Sisters.”

  “You remember that old TV show? It couldn’t have lasted more than one season, and we are both far younger than any of its characters.”

  “I do admit I was a mere infant, but it was one of Grandmother’s favorite shows. And anyway, you know what I mean.” She actually giggled.

  Tricia glanced at her watch and sighed. “What else do you need, Ange?”

  “When are you going to call Doris’s insurance company?”

  “I already did. It was a bust.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Silence for a few moments. “Give me all the info,” Angelica demanded.

  “What for? They told me I needed a death certificate and all kinds of other documentation before they’d give me any information. And they only want to talk to Doris’s attorney or executor.”

  “Just let me try.”

  “Fine. If you’ve got time to waste, be my guest.” She pulled out the old insurance statement and read off the pertinent information.

  “Hmm. This could take some time,” Angelica admitted, ruefully. “I may have to call in a few favors. I’ll get back to you.” She hung up.

  Tricia drained her cup and replaced the handset. “Good luck.”

  As usual, Mr. Everett was waiting outside the door of Haven’t Got a Clue at 9:55 a.m. on that gray Friday morning. He liked to be the first customer inside the door every day, although “customer” was a misnomer since so far in the five months the shop had been open he hadn’t bought a thing. But he usually only drank one cup of Tricia’s free coffee and, despite hanging around for most of the day, he ate only one or two of the complimentary cookies that she laid out for the paying clientele. And if she and Ginny were busy with customers, Mr. Everett had been known to make a recommendation or two and could knowledgeably talk about any book they had in stock.

  Tricia unlocked the shop’s door. “Good morning, Mr. Everett.”

  “Morning, Ms. Miles. Looks like rain today.”

  A glance at the sky proved the clouds hung low. “Ah, but rain is good for retail. It brings in customers who spend. And there’s no better weather to settle down with a good book.”

  “Obviously you haven’t yet seen one of our winters.”

  She laughed. “You’ve got me there.”

  Mr. Everett didn’t share in her mirth, nor did he move to his customary seat in the nook; instead he looked down at the folded newspaper in his hands. “I brought you a present, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.” He handed her an obviously read copy of the Stoneham Weekly News. The 72-point headline screamed “A Murderer Among Us?”

  “Oh dear,” Tricia breathed.

  Mr. Everett patted her arm. “Why don’t I make the coffee this morning?”

  Tricia nodded dumbly and headed for the sales counter. She laid the paper flat and immediately Miss Marple jumped up to investigate. The swishing of her tail and rubbing of her head against Tricia’s chin made it difficult to follow the text. By the time she’d reached the end of the first column, Tricia had removed a miffed Miss Marple and set her on the floor. She looked over at Mr. Everett, who’d taken shelter behind the side counter and the coffeemaker. He averted his gaze.

  For a moment Tricia wasn’t sure if she’d been libeled or slandered. She finished the article, then read it again. And again. Russ Smith was a careful writer, so suing him was definitely out. It wasn’t so much what he said, but what he didn’t say that inferred her probable guilt. Her lack of answers to his questions and the fact that Sheriff Adams had no other suspects in Doris Gleason’s murder painted an un-flattering picture.

  Bob Kelly hadn’t been mentioned at all. The editor knew Bob had an appointment with Doris the night she was killed, knew the two of them had argued about the leases, but instead he’d intimated that Tricia was suspected of murder—no one else.

  Ginny arrived just as the phone rang. Tricia had no intention of answering it. She let the answering machine take it as Ginny hung up her coat. Then she folded the newspaper and put it under the counter.

  The door opened and a couple of women entered. “Good morning, ladies, and welcome to Haven’t Got a Clue.”

  Dressed in jogging attire, they didn’t look like tourists, and they didn’t have that we’re here to spend look in their eyes. One of the women giggled. “This is a mystery bookstore, isn’t it? You sell murder mysteries, don’t you?”

  Tricia swallowed, forced a smile. “Yes.”

  “I hope you don’t murder your customers,” the other woman said and snickered.

  Ginny returned in her shop apron with the look of a mother tiger out to save her cub and insinuated herself between Tricia and the women. “Mrs. Barton, Mrs. Grant, thanks for stopping by. This must be your first visit to Haven’t Got a Clue. Can I help you find a book?”

  “No, thanks, we just came by to look the place over,” one of them said, bending to look around Ginny and catch a glimpse of Tricia.

  Tricia turned her back on the women and found some busywork at the counter. She tried not to listen to the rest of the conversation, but noted Ginny’s words were not delivered in her usual, friendly tone.

  Eventually the door opened, the bell tinkled, and the door closed. Footsteps approached. “You okay?” Ginny asked.

  Tricia turned, braved a smile. “Sure.”

  “Everybody’s talking about Russ Smith’s front-page article. I wouldn’t be surprised if more of the villagers dropped by just to have a look at—” She stopped, looked embarrassed.

  “Look at what?” Mr. Everett asked, still standing at the coffee station.

  “The, uh, jinx,” Ginny said in a tiny voice.

  The muscles in Tricia’s calves ached from being so tense. “We’ll just have to welcome them, if they do. Maybe I should get another couple of pounds of coffee.” She almost managed to keep her voice steady.

  “You’re being a lot more generous than I could be,” Ginny said.

  “I won’t let idle gossip run me out of town. I’m here for the long haul.”

  Ginny’s smile was tentative. “You go, girl.”

  With a small tray in hand, Mr. Everett appeared behind Ginny. “Coffee, ladies?”

  Tricia and Ginny each took a cup, and Mr. Everett took one, too. “I propose a toast. To Haven’t Got a Clue, the best bookshop in all of Stoneham. Long may we read!”

  Tricia swallowed down the lump in her throat.

  “Here, here!” Ginny agreed, and the three of them raised their cardboard coffee cups in salute.

  Like most Friday afternoons, this one was busy, and the forecasted rain did bring out paying customers. Stoneham was a favorite day trip for senior groups from Vermont, Massachusetts, and from within New Hampshire itself, a happy happenstance for every business owner in the village. And while most seniors took the trips to alleviate boredom, a lot of them actually were avid readers. However, when four or five buses converged at once, the result was chaos.

  Ten or twelve customers hovered like angry bees around the sales counter in Haven’t Got a Clue. “Our bus leaves in less than ten minutes,” someone from the back of the crowd growled.

  “It won’t leave without you,” Ginny said reasonably, as she stacked wrapped books into a plastic carrier bag.

  “Well if it does, you’ll be paying my hotel bill for the night,” snapped a thin, bleached blonde in a beige cashmere sweater
set and pearls. An idle threat. There were no hotels or motels in or around Stoneham. Just the Brookview Inn.

  Tricia’s fingers flew over the cash register’s keys, and not for the first time she wished the store had a laser checkout system. Though tagging the books would be great for inventory purposes, the resale value on the older, most expensive books would plummet.

  “As soon as the last bus rolls down the road and out of town, we’ll break open that pound of Godiva I’ve been saving,” she muttered to Ginny, who smiled gratefully. Lunchtime had come and gone several hours earlier, but they’d been too busy to even stop and grab a bite.

  The shop door opened and the little bell rang as Tricia accepted a copy of Dorothy L. Sayers’s Gaudy Night from a pair of outstretched hands. She turned to ring it up when from beside her Ginny let out a stifled scream. Mouth covered with one hand, with the other she pointed at the apparition standing just inside the door.

  Tricia, too, gulped at the sight of the seventysomething plump, but smartly dressed woman who stood in the doorway. She took in the tailored red pantsuit, white turtleneck shirt, and large red leather purse, designer glasses, and severely short, dyed jet-black hair. Unable to find her voice, Tricia mouthed the name: “Doris?”

  The woman charged forward with an energy the living Doris Gleason had never possessed. “Hello, I’m Deirdre Gleason. Doris was my sister.” The voice was a shade deeper, her words spoken more slowly. “What on Earth happened to Doris’s shop? Why is it empty? Where is all her stock?”

  “Excuse me, but I was here first,” said the woman in a damp trench coat, elbowing her way forward.

  Tricia looked from her customers to the doppelganger in front of her. “Can you give us a couple of minutes? We’re a little overwhelmed right now, but I’d be glad to tell you everything I know as soon as things calm down.” She gestured toward the coffee station. “Help yourself and then we’ll talk.”

  The woman’s lips pursed, but she nodded and skirted the crowd at the sales counter.

  Once the initial shock had passed, Tricia had little time to think about Deirdre Gleason, who wandered the store during the rush. Nine customers and three hundred dollars later, the shop was nearly empty and Ginny gave Tricia a nudge in the direction of the mystery woman who had finally settled in the sitting nook. “I believe in ghosts,” she whispered. “Make sure she isn’t one of them, will you?”