Murder Is Binding

by Lorna Barrett

  As Tricia read the list of ingredients on a box of Green Mountain chocolates, she began to feel closed in. Looking up, she saw editor Russ Smith was standing well within her personal space. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping aside.

  “I understand you weren’t happy with my article,” he said without preamble.

  “Who would be?”

  “I owe it to my readers to—”

  “Act like a tabloid journalist?”

  His eyes flashed. “That’s uncalled for.”

  “So was painting me as a murderer—and without even circumstantial evidence.” Heads turned at her words. She lowered her voice. “I don’t think this is the place to discuss this.”

  “Then how about dinner. Are you free tonight?”

  Tricia blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Smith’s gaze was level. “No, I’m not. We could discuss the story, and perhaps a follow-up—among other things.”

  Tricia replaced the box of chocolates on the shelf. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m not your enemy.”

  “And after what you wrote about me, you’re not my friend, either.”

  “Number forty-seven,” the salesclerk called out.

  Tricia glanced down at the crushed ticket in her hand. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Smith.” She elbowed her way through the other customers and placed her order, all the time feeling Russ Smith’s gaze on her back.

  Dodging the raindrops, Tricia clutched her bags of coffee and cookies and hurried down the sidewalk. The big, green Kelly Realty FOR RENT sign was gone from the front window of the Cookery. The door stood ajar and the lights blazed. Poking her head inside, Tricia called, “Deirdre?” A woman in a baggy red flannel shirt and dark slacks, with a blue bandana tied around her hair, turned from her perch on a ten-foot ladder. In her hand she clasped a soapy sponge. A six-foot-square patch of wall had already been scrubbed of soot, showing creamy yellow paint once again.

  “You shouldn’t be doing that,” Tricia admonished. A fall for a woman Deirdre’s age could send her to a nursing home—or worse.

  “It’s got to be done,” Deirdre said, in the same no-nonsense voice as her dead sister.

  “But surely Bob Kelly ought to be paying someone to do it.”

  Deirdre dropped the sponge into a bucket and carefully stepped down off the ladder. “We came to an agreement on other more important things.” The hint of a smile played at her lips. Perhaps she was a harder bargainer than Doris had been, which had been the reason for Bob’s sour mood the evening before.

  “How soon do you think you’ll reopen?”

  “Possibly a week. Then I think I’ll hold a grand reopening the first week in October. Doris had already lined up an author signing for that week. It should work out nicely.”

  “But what about the smoke-damaged stock? It’ll take weeks to restore them, and surely some of them won’t be salvageable.”

  “I’ve got an expert coming in on Monday. Meanwhile there’re hundreds of boxes in the storeroom upstairs, which thankfully Mr. Kelly neglected to clear out, and there’s a room of excess stock at Doris’s house. We’ll start with that and fill in with newer titles until we replenish our supply of rare and used books.”

  “We?” Tricia asked.

  Deirdre frowned, her gaze dipping. “Excuse me. I can’t help talking about Doris and myself as though we’ll always be together. She was my twin. When we were younger we were so very close she used to swear we could read each other’s minds.”

  Tricia felt a pang of envy laced with guilt. She’d never felt that way about Angelica. “It sounds like you’ve had experience running a shop before.”

  “I was an accountant until last winter, but I heard so much about the Cookery from Doris I always felt I could step into her shoes and run it at a moment’s notice. And now I have.” She pursed her lips and swallowed.

  Tricia considered carefully before voicing her next question. “Have you made any arrangements for Doris?”

  Deirdre’s expression hardened. “There will be no service, if that’s what you mean. She told me she had no friends here in Stoneham. If there’s one thing she hated, it was hypocrisy. I couldn’t bear to hear platitudes and regrets from people who had no time for Doris during her life.”

  Ouch—that stung, but Tricia couldn’t blame the woman. No doubt Deirdre would grieve for her sister in her own way and time.

  “Have you had a chance to visit with your niece?”

  Deirdre shook her head. “Her counselor doesn’t seem to think it’s a good idea. Doris and I looked so much alike it would only confuse her.”

  “I was very surprised to hear Doris even had a child.”

  “How was it you found out?” Deirdre asked.

  Again, Tricia adopted an innocent stare. “I can’t for the life of me remember. It must’ve been hard on her—being a single mother with a special child.”

  “You can call Susan retarded. It doesn’t offend me, and it didn’t offend Doris.”

  Tricia wasn’t sure what to say.

  Deirdre averted her gaze. “Being pregnant out of wedlock was one thing; keeping a Down syndrome child was another. Our family abandoned Doris. All except me,” she amended. “I was the only one who cared about poor Doris. The world in general”—she turned back to Tricia—“and Stoneham in particular—always treated Doris shabbily.”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “It’s what I observed. But yes, she did tell me that. We were very close.”

  “I can’t say as I recall seeing you here in Stoneham before this week.”

  “I was not a regular visitor. We kept in touch by phone.” Deirdre turned her back on Tricia, picked up her sponge, and began wiping the grimy wall once again. “Is it my imagination, or is this conversation turning into an interrogation?” She looked over her shoulder with a hard-eyed stare.

  “I’m sorry. I was merely curious.” Tricia changed the subject. “Tomorrow I’ll be looking at a private collection of books; the owner is eager to sell. I’d be glad to look out for any cookbooks.”

  Spine still rigid, Deirdre gave a curt nod. “Thank you, Ms.—?”

  “Call me Tricia. After all, we are neighbors.”

  Deirdre nodded and stepped closer to the ladder. “I must get back to work if I’m going to reopen next week. Thank you for stopping by.”

  Tricia knew a dismissal when she heard it. She gave a quick “Good-bye,” and headed out the door.

  Soft, mellow jazz issued from Haven’t Got a Clue’s speakers as Tricia reentered the store. Stationed at the sales counter, Ginny flipped the pages of a magazine, while sitting in the nook. Mr. Everett’s nose was buried in a book without a dust jacket. Tricia hung up her coat, stowed her umbrella and purse, and headed for the coffee station, where she made a fresh pot and set out a new plate of cookies before heading for the sales counter.

  Ginny looked up from her reading, quickly closing the big, fat magazine and turning it over. Tricia leaned close. “What would you think about me asking Mr. Everett to come work for us?”

  Ginny’s gaze slid to the closed magazine and then up again. “What a great idea. I’ve always felt bad about you being all by yourself here on Sundays. Business is good and he sure knows his mystery authors. Go for it.”

  Tricia caught sight of the magazine’s name on the spine: Bride’s World. Was there a wedding in Ginny’s future? She nodded and smiled at the thought, also happy Ginny approved of her decision.

  Tricia approached the elderly gent. “Mr. Everett?” He made to stand, but Tricia motioned him to stay put and took the seat opposite him. “Mr. Everett,” she began again. “You’ve become a bit of a fixture here at Haven’t Got a Clue.”

  Mr. Everett’s eyes widened, his mouth dropping open in alarm. “I don’t mean to be a pest, Ms. Miles. I won’t take any more of your coffee and cookies, I promise—”

  It was Tricia’s turn to be alarmed. “Oh no—you misunderstand me. I’m not trying to throw yo
u out. I’d like to offer you a job, Mr. Everett.”

  Alarm turned to shock. “A job? Me? But what can I do?”

  “Sell books. You’re very good at it. You know as much as I do—and probably a whole lot more—about our merchandise, and goodness knows you’re dependable about showing up every day.”

  Color flushed the old man’s cheeks. “A job?” he murmured in what sounded like disbelief.

  “I won’t ask you to lift heavy boxes, and your hours would be flexible, but you’ve already proved to be an asset to Ginny and me when the store is busy. I can’t offer you a lot of money, and unfortunately I’m not in a position to give benefits of any kind, but—”

  “A job—” he repeated, as though warming to the idea.

  “I’d be glad to give you a couple of days to think it over. You wouldn’t have to give me your answer until—”

  Mr. Everett suddenly stood, a fire lighting his bright eyes. “No need for that. When do you want me to start?”

  Tricia laughed. “How about an hour ago?”

  The old man’s lips quivered, his eyes growing moist. “Thank you. Thank you, Ms. Miles.” He shook himself, then his head swiveled back and forth. “What do you want me to do first? The back shelves are in a terrible state. Customers have no sense of order. They take books out and then put them back every which way. Or I could rearrange the biographies in chronological order, versus alphabetical, so that customers would have a better understanding of how the genre grew. Perhaps it should have been done long before this.”

  Tricia stifled a laugh. “I’m glad you have so many good ideas. But right now I have a different kind of request. Would you be willing to go next door and make sure Ms. Gleason doesn’t fall off a ladder? I don’t want you to do anything that puts you in a position of getting hurt yourself, but just make sure she doesn’t hurt herself in trying to get ready to reopen her sister’s store.”

  “I could do that,” he said, sounding less than enthused.

  “Great. And tomorrow we’ll figure out what your regular hours and duties will be.”

  Mr. Everett held out his hand. Tricia took it. “Thank you, Ms. Miles. Thank you for making an old man feel useful again. I’ll go next door right now and make sure Ms. Gleason stays safe.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mr. Everett started for the door, which opened, admitting Angelica, who paused in the entryway, barring Mr. Everett’s escape. They did a little dance with muttered “sorry’s” and “excuse me’s” while they tried to maneuver out of one another’s way. At last Angelica stepped over to where Tricia still stood in the nook.

  “I’ve never been here when the store was open,” she said, without even a hello. She took in the clusters of browsing shoppers and Ginny at the register waiting on a customer with a stack of books. Angelica nodded approvingly. “You’ve created a nice atmosphere here, Trish. And it doesn’t stink of old paper like some used bookstores do, either.”

  Trust Angelica to spoil a compliment. “Thank you. I think. What brings you here so early?”

  Angelica picked up one of the well-thumbed review magazines. “I wanted to let you know I can’t fix dinner tonight.”

  Tricia hated to admit it, but in only three days she’d come to enjoy and look forward to one of Angelica’s delicious entrées. “What’s up?”

  Angelica actually blushed. “I’ve got a date.”

  Tricia’s stomach tightened. “Not with Bob Kelly.”

  “But of course. I haven’t met any other eligible men in this burg.”

  “Where is he taking you?”

  “Some divine little bistro called Ed’s. I hear they’ve got the best seafood and that it’s charmingly intimate.”

  “Charming for sure,” Tricia admitted. Intimate as in small. But she didn’t want to spoil her sister’s anticipation.

  “You’ve been there?”

  She nodded. “The food is very good.” An idea came to her: Bob and Angelica, dinner, a relaxed social atmosphere…“Ange, when you’re with Bob tonight, see if you can get him to spill where he went after he left us at the Brookview on Tuesday night.”

  “I will not,” she said sharply.

  “Why? Don’t you want to help prove me innocent?”

  “Of course, but I also don’t believe Bob killed the woman.”

  “Ange, please?” Tricia found herself whining.

  Angelica turned away, refusing to meet her sister’s gaze, and glanced out the front window and at the street beyond. “I’ll think about it.”

  A couple of women walked past, clutching shopping bags, but they didn’t enter Haven’t Got a Clue.

  “I circled the block three times before I gave up and parked in the municipal lot,” Angelica said, annoyed. “Who owns that car out front with the Connecticut license plates? They’ve been hogging that spot all morning. Surely you have parking restrictions along the main drag during business hours.”

  Tricia hadn’t noticed the car. “The sheriff’s department is pretty busy these days; at least I hope they’re busy trying to solve Doris Gleason’s murder.”

  “Mmm,” Angelica muttered, her attention still on the offending vehicle. “That’s the third or fourth time I’ve seen it.”

  “Excuse me, miss, could you help me?” asked a middle-aged woman, clutching a handwritten list. “I’m looking for Malice with Murder, by Nicholas Blake. Do you have a copy?”

  Tricia gave the customer her full attention. Angelica mouthed, “Later,” and wandered off toward the back shelves.

  Ginny popped a more lively CD into the player, and between them she and Tricia waited on four more customers who paid for their purchases. The crowd had thinned by the time a puzzled-looking Angelica stepped up to the counter, slapping a booklet onto the glass top. “What are you doing with an old cooking pamphlet on one of your shelves?”

  Awestruck, Tricia gaped at the booklet’s title: American Cookery, by Amelia Simmons. “Good grief, it’s the book that was stolen when Doris was murdered.”

  ELEVEN

  Curious onlookers lurking under umbrellas peered through the plate-glass windows of Haven’t Got a Clue, the closed sign and locked door did nothing to deter them from rubbernecking. And despite the lack of customers, the shop seemed crowded with Sheriff Adams, a deputy, Angelica, Ginny, and Tricia, as well as Deirdre Gleason and Mr. Everett, who’d followed along after Ginny had called Deirdre over.

  Sheriff Adams’s piercing glare was fixed on Tricia. “I thought you said this thing was a book?”

  Tricia looked down at the little booklet. “Technically, it is. Its significance is undisputed in the evolution of American cookery books. It’s condition and rarity make it extremely valuable.”

  “This can’t be worth ten grand,” the sheriff said, poking the pamphlet with the eraser end of a pencil, unconvinced.

  “Oh yes, it can,” Ginny chirped up. “I looked it up online.”

  The sheriff shook her head, then took in the four women standing around the sales counter. “Who’s touched the book since it was found?”

  Tricia looked sidelong at her sister, but didn’t answer.

  The quiet lengthened. “Okay, it was me,” an exasperated Angelica said, crossing her arms across her chest. “And what’s the big deal anyway?”

  “You might’ve obliterated whatever incriminating fingerprints were on it,” the sheriff muttered.

  “Oh, don’t go all CSI on me. Whoever stole that little pamphlet probably wiped it clean before they dumped it here.”

  “Ange,” Tricia warned.

  The sheriff turned her scrutiny back to Tricia. “It’s very odd that the person who found Ms. Gleason’s body should now possess the stolen book.”

  “And not at all coincidental, if someone is trying to implicate my sister as Doris’s killer,” Angelica said, her voice rising. “And do we even know this is the same book?”

  The sheriff turned to Tricia for the answer. “Given its rarity, it’s unlikely there’d be two copies of it in a town
this size. And, Sheriff, I assure you I have no idea how it ended up in my store, but I’m not responsible.”

  “Any ideas on who might be?”

  If she had, she certainly would’ve volunteered that information before now. Tricia shook her head, fought to stay calm. “People wander in and out of here all day long, most of them strangers. Anyone could’ve planted that book here.”

  “But it’s not likely Ms. Gleason would’ve let a stranger into her shop after hours.”

  “She was expecting someone,” Tricia reminded the sheriff. “Bob Kelly.”

  “Trish.” It was Angelica’s turn to scold.

  Sheriff Adams threw back her head and straightened to her full height. “Mr. Kelly has accounted for his whereabouts at the time of Ms. Gleason’s death. I’m satisfied with his answers.”

  It was all Tricia could do not to blurt, “Yeah, but—” The way the sheriff kept glowering at her reinforced her fear that she remained the prime suspect.

  “Why wasn’t I told my sister expected Bob Kelly on the night of her death?” Deirdre demanded.

  “I saw no need to upset you. And as I’ve just told Ms. Miles here, I don’t suspect him.”

  “And why not? He was determined to force my sister out. The way he cleaned out the store less than forty-eight hours after her death is proof positive.”

  Sheriff Adams pointed a finger of warning at Deirdre. “This discussion is closed.” She looked over her shoulder at the young deputy standing behind them. “Placer, take this ‘book’ to the office and lock it up. We’ll send it to the state crime lab first thing Monday morning.”

  The uniformed officer stepped forward with what looked like a tackle box, which he opened, and took out a pair of latex gloves. He withdrew a paper evidence bag, shook it open, and picked up the booklet. A yellowed note card fell from it, hitting the carpeted floor.

  “What’s that?” Angelica asked, bending down.

  “Looks like a birthday card,” Tricia said.

  “Don’t touch it,” the sheriff warned. “Placer?”

  The deputy elbowed his way in and picked up the card, setting it and the booklet back on the counter before stepping aside. The five women crowded around, silently studying the front of the card, with its old-fashioned font and the image of a dozen red roses, the colors muted by the yellowing paper. “Happy Birthday, to my dear wife,” Angelica read.