“Open it up,” the sheriff said.
Ginny stepped back so the deputy, with his gloved hands, could do so. The text in black was the usual syrupy wishes for a happy day; it was the peacock-blue-inked script that drew them in. “To my dearest Letty, Happy Birthday, love Roddy.”
“What kind of a name is Letty?” Ginny asked.
“Letitia comes to mind. Or it could be short for something else,” Tricia suggested. She raised her gaze. “Anybody in town named Letitia or Letty?”
The sheriff shook her head. “Not that I know of. And I’ve lived here my whole life.”
They watched as the deputy carefully placed the book into a paper evidence bag, then put the card in another. With a curt nod to his boss, the officer headed out the door to his double-parked cruiser.
“That book is worth a lot of money. With my sister’s passing, it now belongs to me,” Deirdre asserted.
“It’s part of a criminal investigation,” the sheriff said.
“Will I ever get it back?”
“Possibly. But these things take time. Sometimes years.”
“Years?” Deirdre repeated, appalled.
“Just what are you going to do to the book?” Ginny asked.
The sheriff bristled. “Normal procedure.”
“Wait a minute,” Tricia said. “Subjecting that book to black magnetic powder or ninhydrin would ruin it. I suppose iodine fuming might work. It develops prints beautifully. They’d just have to be photographed, not lifted, but it should spare the book. Then again, all that humidity.” She shook her head. “CrimeScope. That’s the book’s best option, though on a porous surface like paper, it might not show a viable fingerprint, either.”
“How do you know so much?” Sheriff Adams asked, suspicious.
Tricia waved a hand, taking in the thousands of books on the shelves around them. “I deal in mystery fiction. Not only do I read the classics, I read contemporary authors like Patricia Cornwell, Kathy Reichs, and Elizabeth Becka. You can practically get a degree in forensics just by reading these top authors. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s likely only Angelica’s prints are on the book, anyway.”
“I want a receipt for it,” Deirdre said. The sheriff just about rolled her eyes, and Deirdre snorted in outrage. “If any harm comes to that book, I will not only sue the county sheriff’s department, but you personally.”
“Will you at least ask the state lab to take special care with it?” Tricia pressed.
“I’ll ask, but I can’t make any guarantees.”
“And I can’t guarantee I won’t immediately speak to my lawyer, either,” Deirdre said. “Now about that receipt—”
Tricia provided a pen and a piece of paper. The sheriff scribbled a few lines, handing the sheet to Deirdre, who gave Tricia a nod. “I appreciate you calling me over. Otherwise, I’m not even sure I’d have been told the book was found.” She turned on her heel and stalked out the door.
Sheriff Adams was the next to leave, following Deirdre without even a good-bye.
Angelica scowled. “I thought people from New Hampshire were supposed to be extra nice. Isn’t that the state motto? Be nice or die?”
“That’s ‘Live Free or Die,’ and don’t judge all of us by some people,” Ginny said, then, “What am I saying? Sheriff Adams is a good person. I’ve just never known her to be so cold. She must be getting pressure from somewhere else, like maybe the village board.”
“What should I do next, Ms. Miles?” asked Mr. Everett, who hadn’t said a word during the entire conversation.
“Why don’t you go back and help Deirdre? Ginny and I can manage here.” He didn’t look happy, but nodded anyway. She glanced up at the clock. Two hours until official closing. Although the onlookers had disappeared, there was no reason she had to stay closed. She followed Mr. Everett to the door, turning the sign back to OPEN, and shut the door behind him.
“I guess I should go, too. Have to get ready for my big date tonight,” Angelica said brightly. Shouldering her enormous handbag, she fingered a wave, called, “Ciao,” and she, too, was gone.
Tricia and Ginny exchanged glances. “I need a cup of coffee,” Tricia said.
“I’d go for something stronger,” Ginny muttered.
“Not during work hours—but I agree. Put something cheerful on the CD player and hope we get busy so we don’t have to think about what we’ve just been through.”
“You got it,” Ginny said.
Tricia poured them both a cup of coffee while Ginny sorted through a stack of jewel boxes, selecting a jazz piano CD.
Peace now reigned, but forgetting the significance of finding that wretched booklet in her store wasn’t going to be so easily accomplished.
The hands on the clock finally crawled around to closing time. Despite her hopes otherwise, very few customers had come in during the intervening hours and Tricia and Ginny had completed all their end-of-day tasks, save for counting the receipts. Mr. Everett had checked in, assuring Tricia that Deirdre had left the Cookery for the day, then he, too, departed. Miss Marple sat patiently at the door to the stairs, anticipating her evening routine.
Ginny grabbed her coat and purse from the back closet and headed for the exit. “Night, Trish.”
The door opened before she could grasp the handle. Russ Smith stood in the open doorway. “Are you closed?”
“Yes,” Ginny said emphatically.
“Not quite,” Tricia said. “How can I help you?” Her tone was civil, but cool.
“Want me to stay?” Ginny asked.
Tricia shook her head. “Go on. Have a nice day off. See you Monday.”
Ginny looked uncertain, but Tricia waved her off. “It’s okay. Now scoot.”
As the door closed behind her, Russ walked up to the counter. Shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, he gave the shop the once-over. “I seem to be your last customer.”
“Yes, and you’re keeping me from my dinner.”
“As I recall, I invited you out.”
“And as I recall, I turned you down. Come on, you’re only here because you heard the book stolen from Doris Gleason’s store was found here earlier today.”
“Actually, I didn’t know that, but thank you for sharing. The special over at the diner is meat loaf and real mashed potatoes.”
“How do you know they’re real?”
“I wasn’t always a small-time reporter. I worked the Boston crime beat for years. And besides, I’ve seen the peels in their garbage.”
Tricia’s stomach growled, betraying her.
“See, at least part of you wants to go with me. And what’s your alternative: a peanut butter sandwich?”
Had he been scoping out her cupboards and fridge? And although she’d neglected her paperwork for days and needed to catch up, the truth was she really didn’t want to be alone tonight and cursed Angelica for having a date.
“Okay,” she agreed, “but only if we go Dutch.”
Russ shrugged. “Saves me eight-ninety-nine plus tax and tip.”
Already Tricia regretted her decision, yet she locked the cash drawer, pocketing the keys. “I have to feed my cat before I can go.”
“Do what you gotta do,” he said and flopped down into one of the nook’s chairs. “I’ll wait.”
The walk to the Bookshelf Diner had been silent. At least the rain had stopped, but a voice in Tricia’s head kept up a litany of “big mistake, big mistake” with every step along the damp pavement.
Russ held the door open for her. A sign on the metal floor stand said SEAT YOURSELF. With only two other booths occupied, they had their pick of the place. Heads turned as the village jinx walked down the aisle, but Tricia aimed for the back of the restaurant with her head held high. She slid across the last booth’s red Naugahyde seat and shrugged out of her jacket, folding it and placing it next to her. Russ hung his on a peg and sat down.
A college-age waitress with a quick smile, a pierced brow, and a name tag that said “Eugenia” handed
them menus and took their drink orders before disappearing.
Tricia eyed her surroundings. The name over the door did not match the décor. The only books in the Bookshelf Diner were of the trompe l’oeil variety—and then on a commercial wall covering. The waitress returned, setting the stemmed glass down in front of Tricia and pouring coffee for Russ. After quickly consulting the menu she did order the meat loaf, then practically gulped the well-deserved glass of red wine.
“Tough day, huh?” Russ asked.
“I’ve had better. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why should you? The sheriff suspects you of murder. I’m sure it’s just lack of motive that’s keeping her from locking you up. She’ll have to turn up the heat after finding that book in your store.”
“She did not find it. My sister did.”
“Then she’s not doing you any favors, either.”
Tricia snatched up her glass, gulping down the rest of her wine, then let it smack back down on the table. “I barely knew Doris Gleason. She argued with Bob Kelly, had an appointment to see him on the night she was murdered. He wanted her out of that store, which is at least a credible motive for murder. He left the Brookview Inn before Ange and I did, but he didn’t show up at the Cookery until more than an hour after I found Doris dead. Where was he during that time?”
“You tell me.”
“He could have murdered Doris, then showed up later feigning no knowledge.”
Russ sat back, folded his arms across his chest. “If I was you, I’d quit harping on Bob Kelly as a possible suspect. For one thing, he would’ve never started the fire at the Cookery and put his property at risk just to get rid of a tenant. And even so, it wouldn’t matter if he were caught plunging the knife in the victim’s back. Most people around here consider him a savior for how he almost single-handedly brought Stoneham back to life.”
“So someone like me, who’s innocent, should take the blame?”
“I didn’t say that. But in the sheriff’s eyes, so far you are the only ‘person of note.’”
Tricia picked up her glass, signaling the waitress for a refill. “I did not kill Doris Gleason. I had no reason to kill Doris Gleason.”
Heads turned at the sound of her words.
“I’d start looking for reasons why others might’ve wanted her dead.”
“That isn’t my job. You said you were once a big-time reporter; isn’t there at least a shred of Clark Kent left inside you? Why don’t you take up the challenge, or at least direct one of your minions to do it?”
“Honey, I have a staff of two, one of which spends her time soliciting ads to keep us afloat. My chief reporter is a soccer mom who writes most of her copy after her kids go to bed. I do everything else. You own a small business—you know the drill.”
“Do I ever.”
The waitress returned with another glass of wine and their dinners.
Russ picked up his fork and stabbed at his mashed potatoes. “Besides, you run a mystery bookstore. You’ve probably read enough of them to get you started. In fact, you may already have bits and pieces of knowledge about the murder you haven’t yet put together. I’d be happy to brainstorm with you about it.”
“You’d be the last person I’d bare my soul to. I’d see whatever I tell you in next Friday’s edition. It’s just as likely whoever killed Doris was a transient. Someone who’d canvassed the Cookery, figured any book worth locking up would be of value, killed Doris, and stole it.” She took another sip from her glass.
“Is that you or the wine talking? Don’t kid yourself. The fact that book was found in your store means someone wants you to take the blame. You can either keep wandering around in denial or ask yourself some tough questions: like who wants you out of the picture and why?”
TWELVE
When the check arrived, Tricia and Russ ponied up their shares, donned their jackets, and headed for the exit. The wind had picked up and the clouds had departed, leaving the sky clear and star-strewn. “Walk you home?” Russ offered.
They stood outside the Bookshelf Diner. Tricia buttoned her jacket. “I’m not afraid of the dark. And besides, Stoneham is safe.”
“I believed that a week ago,” he said. “Now I’m not so sure.”
Tricia looked down the street and saw the flashing lights of a police cruiser. “Now what?” She started walking, heading south down the sidewalk at a brisk pace.
“Looks like it’s parked outside the Cookery,” Russ said, as he struggled to keep up with her.
It was, but a deputy stood outside Haven’t Got a Clue. Tricia broke into a run, crossed the street, and practically skidded to a halt in front of her shop. The large plate-glass window now sported a gaping hole in its center, with cracks radiating from it in a sunburst array. Inside the shop, what was left of her security system wailed.
“You wanna shut that thing off?” She didn’t recognize the deputy, whose name tag read “Placer.”
Heart pounding, Tricia fumbled for her key, unlocked the door, and flipped on the light switch. Seconds later, she’d disarmed the alarm and quiet descended. She joined the deputy on the sidewalk. “What happened?” she asked, breathless.
“Looks like a rock,” he said, peering into the hole.
Tricia frowned at his blasé attitude. Glass covered Tricia’s display of Ross Macdonald’s books. Several people had turned up, rubbernecking from behind the back of a parked car.
“So what’s the story, Jim?” Russ asked Placer.
“Just what it looks like, petty vandalism.”
“How can you be sure?” Tricia asked. “A woman was killed right next door just days ago. This could be tied in.”
The deputy shook his head, turned his attention to the clipboard he held and the report he’d already started to fill in. “Probably just kids.”
“Did anybody see anything?” Tricia called to the unfamiliar faces in the gathering crowd, but they all shook their heads, huddling in their coats and jackets.
Placer handed Tricia a business card. “These guys can board up the window until you can get it fixed. You want me to hang around until then?” He couldn’t have sounded more bored.
“Wait a minute. Aren’t you going to check out the shop?”
“The door was locked—you opened it yourself. Did you see any other damage or anything missing?”
“I’ve hardly had a chance to look.”
“So look,” he said and turned his attention back to his clipboard.
Tricia threw Russ a glance, as if to ask if this was the way all law enforcement acted in Stoneham. He shrugged.
Tricia reentered her store, doing a quick walk-through. Save for the gaping hole in her window, everything seemed just as she’d left it a little over an hour before. The door to the stairs was still closed. The alarm would’ve sounded in the apartment, too. Poor Miss Marple was probably hiding under the bed, terrified.
Russ stood inside the doorway. “Want me to go upstairs with you, make sure everything’s okay? I got Jim to promise he’d hang around at least another five minutes.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, thank you.”
Tricia opened the door, threw the switch to bathe the stairwell with light, and bounded up. The door to the second-floor storeroom was locked, just as she’d left it. Still, she took out the key, opened it, and groped for the light switch and entered. Nothing looked out of place in the cavernous room full of stacked boxes—all of them containing books. She closed and locked the door.
Russ was behind her as she started up the stairs once again. The door to her loft apartment was unlocked and she quickly decided to amend her own personal security measures in the future. She’d left a light on for Miss Marple, but the cat was nowhere in sight.
“Miss Marple. Miss Marple!” she called. Sure enough, a pair of frightened green eyes appeared when Tricia lifted the bed’s dust ruffle. She reached for the cat, scooping her into her arms. “Oh, you poor little thing,” she cooed, as she struggled to her feet.
>
She found Russ standing in the middle of her kitchen. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, thank goodness.” Miss Marple had already engaged her motor and nuzzled Tricia’s chin, purring loudly. “She was just frightened.”
Russ smiled. “I’ll go downstairs and keep watch. Why don’t you call the guys to cover the window?”
“Good idea. But first, I think someone deserves a treat.” At the sound of the magic word, Miss Marple wriggled to get down and Tricia placed her on the floor. She spilled half a packet of kitty cookies into Miss Marple’s bowl, knowing she’d only toss most of them later. But at that moment, she didn’t care.
The board-up service the deputy recommended was available twenty-four/seven and promised Tricia someone would be there within the hour. Next up, a call to her security company. They weren’t as helpful, saying a service rep might be by bright and early Monday morning. No more chances, Tricia decided. It was time to find another security company.
Miss Marple had had her fill of cookies and had settled on one of the breakfast bar’s chairs, ready for a nap by the time Tricia headed back downstairs to the store.
Russ had closed the shop’s door and the crowd had dispersed. He sat in the nook, reading an article in CrimeSpree magazine. He looked up as she approached. “Everything okay?”
She nodded.
Russ stood. “Seems like all I’ve asked you for the last hour is ‘everything okay?’”
For the first time since she’d seen the cruiser’s flashing lights, Tricia smiled. “The enclosure company will be here pretty soon. They said not to bother to sweep up the glass, they’d clean up everything. If the window’s a standard size, they can have it replaced first thing Monday morning. They’ll even take care of the insurance claim.”
“Can’t beat that for service.” He handed her a paper that had been sitting on the nook’s coffee table. “Here’s the police report. And what about your security system?”
“That’s another matter. I may have it back up on Monday, but I’m not going to bet on it.”
Murder Is Binding Page 13
