Murder Is Binding

by Lorna Barrett

  A curious Miss Marple had perched on the coffee table in front of the woman. The cat wasn’t spitting or acting odd, so Ginny’s fear of specters was no doubt unfounded.

  Tricia sat down on the chair opposite Deirdre and offered her hand. “Hello, my name is Tricia Miles. I own this store and—”

  “You found my sister’s body.” A statement, not an accusation.

  Tricia swallowed, pulling her hand back. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  The woman shrugged, her creased face ravaged by the effects of gravity and sorrow. “The coroner said poor Doris was sick with cancer and probably didn’t even know it. I would’ve lost her anyway. I’m just sorry I never got a chance to say good-bye.”

  Tears threatened and Tricia’s throat closed. Angelica was a gigantic pain in the butt, but she had always been in Tricia’s life. Sometimes lurking, sometimes in her face, but always her big sister. The thought of her suddenly gone…

  “I’m sorry there’s nothing I can tell you that will ease your pain. Someone killed your sister and I believe it had to do with a rare cookbook that was stolen the night she died.”

  “The sheriff told me all about it. I’m not sure she believes it.”

  Not good news, but not totally unexpected, either. “I didn’t know Doris had a sister, although I did know about her daughter.”

  Deirdre’s left eyebrow arched. “Doris wasn’t one to chat about her personal life.”

  Tricia quickly adopted a wide-eyed and, what she hoped was, innocent expression. No way was she going to say how she knew about Doris’s daughter. Deirdre’s penetrating gaze was as unforgiving as her late sister’s.

  “Why is the Cookery empty? What happened to all the stock? I spoke to Doris last Monday and she didn’t say anything about closing the shop. In fact, she said she was negotiating a new lease.”

  “That’s true. Uh…” Tricia stalled, trying to come up with a tactful reply. “The landlord apparently didn’t realize Doris had any heirs. I think he—”

  “Jumped the gun at emptying the store?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The woman sighed, shook her head, irritated.

  Tricia became aware that her palms, resting on her knees, had begun to perspire. She wiped them on the side of her slacks and sat back in the comfortable chair, feeling anything but comfortable. “He had all the books and display pieces moved to a storage unit. I’m afraid they may be smoke damaged.”

  “Would you happen to know where I can contact this…this landlord person?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I believe I have one of his business cards.”

  Ginny, who had been unabashedly eavesdropping, spoke up. “I’ll get it. It’s here in the register.” She opened the drawer, lifted the cash tray, and came up with the card. In seconds she’d handed it to Deirdre.

  “Thank you.” She stowed the card in the pocket of her jacket. “It was always my intention to move to Stoneham to help Doris with the shop. Her death has just hastened my entry into the world of bookselling.” She opened her purse, took out a tissue, and bowed her head, looking ready to cry. “I’ve been a very selfish woman. I should’ve been there for her in her time of need. I knew she was having cash-flow problems; I knew she wasn’t feeling well. And I knew she’d had employee problems—”

  At this, Ginny stepped back, looking guilty. She’d quit the Cookery to take the job with Tricia. Doris had never replaced her.

  Deirdre faced Tricia once again. “I was always too busy, wasting money on travel and clothes when I should’ve been here helping my sister.”

  Tricia wasn’t sure how or if she should reply. Deirdre made it easy on her and rose from her seat.

  “What will happen to Doris’s daughter?” Tricia asked, and also stood.

  “Susan is now my responsibility.” Deirdre pursed her lips, an effort that failed to stop them trembling. “It wasn’t Doris’s way to let on that she cared—about anything. But she loved that girl. It broke her heart when Susan had to go live in the group home. But apparently she’s happy there. Doris told me she has friends and a job. I don’t know how I’ll tell her she’ll never see her mother again.”

  The three women stood there, all of them fighting tears for several long moments. Finally Deirdre cleared her throat and straightened, her expression once again impassive. “Thank you for answering my questions. It was traumatic to hear of Doris’s death. Finding her had to be even more so.”

  Odd, Tricia thought, except for Frannie, Deirdre had been the only other person to acknowledge that she might’ve felt traumatized by the experience. This morning’s newspaper story had brought it all back in vivid detail, but it had also bolstered Tricia’s determination to clear her name. And yet, she had no clue how to go about it.

  “Yes, it was. If only I’d arrived a few minutes sooner.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself. If you had arrived sooner, Doris’s murderer might’ve killed you, too.”

  Deirdre’s words, spoken with such casualness, made Tricia go cold.

  NINE

  “Good night, Mr. Everett,” Tricia said, shut the door, turned the sign on it to CLOSED, and was about to shut and lock it when she saw the familiar rental car pull up in front of the shop.

  Ginny was still tidying up, but she, too, saw the car, turned off the vacuum, and began to wind up the cord. “You don’t mind if I leave, do you?” she said, already shoving the cleaner toward the utility closet. “Sorry to say, but your sister really hates me for all the times I screened your calls.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I never thought you two would ever face each other.” Tricia crossed to the register, opened it, lifted the money tray, and withdrew an envelope—Ginny’s paycheck. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you before, but I’ve given you a raise. Sorry it couldn’t be more.”

  Already shrugging into her jacket, Ginny paused, her surprise evident. “But you gave me a raise only last month.”

  “Well, you’ve been so supportive these past few days I figured you’d earned another.”

  Ginny accepted the envelope. “Thank you, Tricia. I’ve worked for three booksellers here in the village in the past four years, but you are by far the best.” She gave Tricia a quick hug.

  “Can somebody help me?” came a muffled, annoyed voice from behind the shop’s locked door.

  Tricia crossed the store to open the door, letting in Angelica, who scowled as Ginny went out, calling cheerfully behind her, “See you tomorrow.”

  Once again Angelica was weighed down with a grocery bag full of ingredients. “That girl,” she muttered and dumped the sack on the nook’s coffee table.

  “Ange, I hope you don’t think you have to come here every evening and cook for me,” Tricia said, although the thought of the leftovers now residing in her freezer was a comfort.

  “You work so hard, and it’s the only part of the day you have time for me.” She patted one of Tricia’s cheeks and simpered, “I do so miss my baby sister. We’ve still got years and years to catch up on.”

  Tricia didn’t reply. It was the memory of Deirdre Gleason’s sorrow at the loss of her sister that made her keep quiet. She would try to be a better sister to Angelica. She would.

  She turned for the door.

  “I’ve got it,” Angelica said, triumphantly.

  “Got what?”

  She pulled a piece of paper from her jacket pocket and waved it in the air. “Doris’s beneficiary.”

  With everything else going on, Tricia had completely forgotten her quest from earlier in the day. “Don’t tell me. Susan Gleason, but in some kind of trust with Deirdre Gleason in control.”

  Angelica’s face fell. “Who told you?”

  “I met Deirdre a couple of hours ago. She came into the shop, wanted to know why the Cookery was empty.”

  Surprise turned to pique. Angelica exhaled sharply. “If you only knew how much trouble I went through to get this.”

  “Sorry, Ange. I figured you’d come up against the
same brick walls I did.” Avoiding her sister’s gaze, Tricia reached for the door.

  “Don’t lock it—I’ve asked Bob Kelly to join us for dinner,” Angelica called, rummaging through the grocery bag. “Oh dear. I hope you’ve got an onion. I don’t think I picked one up at the store.”

  “I wish you’d asked me first.”

  “Doesn’t everyone keep onions?” Angelica asked, looking up from her supplies.

  “I mean about inviting Bob. I told you he isn’t my favorite person.”

  “Like you, that poor man is a virtual workaholic. Why I’ll bet he hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in ages.”

  “What are you making?”

  “Stroganoff.”

  Like Pavlov’s dog, already Tricia anticipated the aroma of one of her most favorite entrées. “Well, next time please let me know when you’re going to invite guests to my home.”

  “That’s why I invited him. If I’m going to be staying in Stoneham for the winter, I’ll need a place to live. I considered staying in one of the inn’s bungalows, but I really want more space and I’ve heard Bob is the best person to talk to about the local real estate market.” And with that, Angelica picked up the sack and headed for the door to the upstairs apartment, where she paused. “Why don’t you like Bob, anyway? What’s he ever done to you?”

  “Have you taken a close look at his face?”

  “Yes, and he’s a very good-looking man.”

  Tricia crossed her arms over her chest. “Exactly. And who does he remind you of?”

  Angelica thought about it for a moment. “Christopher?”

  “Duh! My ex-husband.”

  “Well, that’s certainly not Bob’s fault,” Angelica said with a shrug and turned. “I’ll go get dinner started. Don’t let me keep you from whatever you have to finish up.”

  From her perch on the shelf above the register, Miss Marple looked from Tricia to Angelica. The squeak of the door’s hinges promised food, and the little gray cat jumped down to follow.

  “Traitor,” Tricia hissed, but Miss Marple took no heed and scampered up the steps.

  It was another ten minutes before Tricia finished her evening chores, all the while stewing about Angelica’s threats to make Stoneham her new hometown. She’d emptied the wastebaskets, cleaned the coffee station, straightened books on the shelves, and aligned the mystery review magazines on the nook’s big, square coffee table, and still there was no sign of Bob. They’d never hear the bell from the third-floor apartment, so she was forced to wait until he showed up.

  Her irritation escalated to smoldering anger with every passing minute. She peered out the shop windows. Nothing. She wondered if she should give him a call, but then remembered Ginny had given her only copy of his business card to Deirdre. She went in search of the phone book and remembered she’d let the answering machine take at least one call this morning. She’d been too upset to answer it after reading the Stoneham Weekly News.

  Tricia played the message.

  “Tricia? Hi, it’s Mike Harris. In case you haven’t already seen it, the Stoneham Weekly News has a scathing report about the murder at the Cookery. I wanted to let you know that Russ Smith is a jerk, and the whole village knows it. He’ll sensationalize anything to sell copies of that rag. Don’t take it seriously. My day is pretty full, but I’ll try to get over to see you later this afternoon or early tomorrow. We’re still on for Sunday morning, right? Talk to you later.”

  Tricia’s finger hovered over the delete button. Well, at least one citizen in the village thought she was innocent.

  A knock on the door caused her to look up. It came again and Tricia went to the door. Shoulders hunched inside his jacket, Bob Kelly looked as peeved as Tricia felt.

  “Hello, Bob,” she greeted without enthusiasm.

  “Tricia,” he grunted and stepped inside the shop.

  “Angelica’s upstairs.”

  He grunted again, waited as she locked the door, then followed her across the shop. “This way,” she said and started up the stairs at a brisk pace.

  As she hit the top-floor landing, Miss Marple was there to admonish her. “Did you give the cat anything to eat?” Tricia asked.

  Angelica looked up from a pan on the stove. “I don’t know what to feed a cat.”

  Miss Marple rubbed against Tricia’s ankles, looked up at her with hope in her green eyes.

  “Where’s Bob?” Angelica asked.

  Tricia looked down the staircase. Bob was nowhere in sight. “I thought he was right behind me.” Annoyed, she started back down the stairs, with Miss Marple right at her heels. Bob rounded the second-floor landing.

  “Sorry. Had to tie my shoe,” he said. “What smells so delicious?”

  Tricia waited for him to catch up, then turned back for her apartment, with Miss Marple sticking to her like glue. Bob was breathing hard by the time they reached the apartment.

  “There you are,” Angelica called from her station at the counter. Already a heavenly aroma teased the senses. “Trish, take Bob’s coat,” she scolded.

  Tricia did as she was told, stowing Bob’s jacket on the coat tree.

  He took in the changes she’d made to the third-floor loft—he hadn’t been there since she’d signed the lease. “It’s beautiful, Trish. You’ve done a wonderful job converting the space into a home.”

  She had. But everything was modular—from the pickled maple cabinets to the granite-covered island that doubled as a breakfast bar. Should she ever decide to relocate she could remove everything, leaving the space as she’d found it—an empty shell.

  “Have a glass of wine and relax, Bob,” Angelica suggested. “Or would you like something a little stronger?”

  “Wine is fine,” he said, settling on a stool at the breakfast bar.

  Again Angelica proved she knew her way around Tricia’s kitchen. She took another couple of glasses from the cabinet and poured, setting the merlot before Tricia and Bob. Then she grabbed a pot holder, took a tray out of the oven, and settled the contents onto a waiting platter.

  “The seafood around here is pretty good. I hope you like crab puffs.” She offered the plate to Bob, who took one of the golden savory pastries. He popped it into his mouth and chewed.

  “These are delicious. Where did you buy them?” he asked, eyes wide with pleasure.

  Angelica laughed. “I made them, silly.”

  Tricia selected one as well. “From scratch?”

  “Of course. Have another, Bob,” Angelica said, taking one for herself.

  “You’re going to spoil me,” he said, but he took another puff anyway.

  Angelica set the platter down within reach of all them, pushed the napkin holder toward her guest, and leaned her elbows against the granite, resting her head on her balled fists. “You look tired, Bob. Tough day?”

  Bob snagged a napkin, wiped his fingers. “I’ve got problems. Who knew Doris Gleason would have a sister bent on keeping the Cookery open?”

  Angelica shook her head. “I heard all about it.”

  From where? Tricia wondered, annoyed. She turned to Bob. “I believe I suggested you wait to take action on the property. It fell on deaf ears.”

  Bob didn’t answer, only glowered at her.

  “Tricia, behave,” Angelica admonished. “Bob is our guest.”

  No, he was her guest in Tricia’s home.

  “The worst thing is, this woman—this sister—is making out like I might have had something to do with Doris’s death, just because I exercised my rights as the building’s owner to do some cleanup and maintenance. She as good as accused me of killing Doris so I could lease the Cookery to someone willing to pay a lot more in rent.”

  Good. At least one other person in Stoneham considered Bob a viable suspect.

  “Oh I’m sure she doesn’t believe that,” Angelica said. “It’s just grief. If I lost my only sister”—she looked fondly at Tricia—“I’m sure I’d be just as devastated.”

  Bob wasn’t listening. “She’s
already called in an attorney. Apparently Doris had sent her sister copies of the current and proposed leases. The sister threatened a lawsuit over my emptying the store. It may be easier for me to cut my losses and extend the current lease—as is—for another year and renegotiate at a later date. That way she would be up and running again in a couple of weeks. No matter what, it’s going to cost me.” He shook his head. “The damage that woman’s death has done to Stoneham’s economy will end up being in the millions.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Tricia said.

  “I’m not. The PR value of being the safest town in all New Hampshire was priceless. Losing it could affect future development here for decades.”

  Angelica clucked sympathetically, but it took all Tricia’s self-control to keep quiet on that account. Instead, she decided to move things along. “How’s that Stroganoff coming, Ange? It sure smells good.”

  Angelica was not about to be hurried and topped both her own and Bob’s wineglasses.

  Resigned, Tricia tried another topic. “What’s this about a big box store coming to Stoneham?”

  Bob choked on his wine. Angelica scurried around the island, thumped him on the back. “Are you okay?”

  “Who told you that?” Bob asked, anger causing his eyes to narrow.

  “I heard it. Around,” Tricia offered lamely.

  “I did, too, Bob,” Angelica said. “Is it true?”

  Bob cleared his throat, pounding on his chest before answering. “No. Maybe. I hope not.”

  “That’s not much of an answer,” Tricia said.

  “All I can tell you is that a nationally known company has put out feelers. That doesn’t mean they’re actually looking to establish a presence in Stoneham.”

  “But you are talking to their representatives,” Tricia pushed.

  “I’ve been approached, and so has the Board of Selectmen, on a number of proposed projects. That’s all I can say.”

  “Would candidates for selectman know about this interest, too?” Tricia asked. Maybe she could pump Mike Harris for information.