“Ms. Miles, I’ve known Mike Harris nearly all his life—and mine. He’s no more a killer than I am. Perhaps he had a few run-ins with the law as a teenager—speeding, I believe—but he hasn’t had so much as a traffic ticket in recent memory.” She picked up her phone, right index finger poised to push buttons on the keypad. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have real police work to attend to.”
And what would that be? Tricia wondered. Issuing parking tickets? Even that seemed beyond the sheriff’s capabilities, as she hadn’t issued one ticket to Deirdre for monopolizing the parking space in front of Tricia’s store. “Do you have any idea who broke my window, or is it considered too petty a crime to be worth the sheriff’s department’s time?”
Wendy Adams stabbed the air with her index finger, pointed to the door, her expression menacing.
Tricia turned and left the office, heading for her car. With Ginny and Mr. Everett taking care of Haven’t Got a Clue, she had time to pursue her own investigation. Her next stop: a visit with Grace Harris. But first, she dropped in at her store to select a certain book off the shelf.
St. Godelive’s Assisted Living Center squatted on a small rise, an older, bland brick building without the flash that seemed to come standard with newer homes for the infirmed. No retaining pond filled with cute ducks and geese, no water spout, and virtually nothing in the way of landscaping. In fact, all the place needed was a chain-link fence and razor wire to win a prison look-alike contest. The over-cast sky only reinforced that notion.
Tricia parked her car and walked along the cracked sidewalk to the main entrance. Pulling open the plate-glass door, she stepped inside and sighed at the sea of institutional gray paint that greeted her. Everything seemed drained of color, from the tile floor to the glossy walls devoid of ornamentation, to the woman dressed in a gray tunic who manned the reception desk. Already feeling depressed, Tricia checked in and signed the guest book, was given a visitor’s badge, and was directed to the third floor.
Stepping out of the elevator, Tricia was struck by the starkness around her—that and the nose-wrinkling scent of urine that all the air fresheners in the world wouldn’t quite erase. The bland white corridor—wide enough to accommodate wheelchairs and gurneys—had no carpet, no doubt left bare for easy cleaning, with sturdy handrails fixed along the walls to aid those who no longer walked on steady legs.
A hefty woman in blue scrubs, whose name tag read “Martha,” manned the nurses’ station to her left. She greeted Tricia with a genuine smile. “Can I help you?”
“I’d like to visit Grace Harris.”
“Are you a friend? She gets so few visitors. In fact, I think you’re only the second or third person to visit her the whole time she’s been with us.”
Tricia frowned. “And how long is that?”
“Almost six months, which is a shame as she’s improved so much in the past few weeks.”
“Doesn’t her son visit?” Tricia asked, surprised.
The nurse shrugged. “Occasionally. You’d be surprised how many people dump their relatives in places like this and never think to visit them again.”
That wasn’t the impression Mike had given her. “So you don’t think he’s a good son?”
The nurse shrugged. “It’s not my place to judge.” But it was clear she had. Martha rounded the counter. “This time of day Grace will probably be in the community room. Follow me, please.”
Tricia noted that most of the patient room doors were open, with too many white-haired, slack-jawed elderly people staring vacant-eyed at TVs mounted high on the walls. They passed a few ambulatory residents shuffling through the hall, or slowly maneuvering themselves aimlessly back and forth in their wheelchairs, barely noticing the stranger in their midst.
Martha paused in the community room’s doorway, pointing across the way. “There she is, over by the window. Let me know if you need anything else.” Her smile was genuine.
“Thank you,” Tricia said and turned to watch Grace as the nurse’s footfalls faded.
She hesitated before entering the nearly empty room. Three old gents played cards at a square table off to the right, and a couple of older women sat together on a couch knitting or crocheting colorful afghans that cascaded across their laps. Except for the TV in the corner droning on and on, it was the only color in the otherwise drab room.
These residents seemed to be functioning on a higher level than those she’d already passed. However, Grace, a mere wisp of a woman dressed in a pink cotton housedress with slippered feet and looking like everybody’s great-grandma, stared vacantly out the window at the cloudy sky. Her white hair had once been permed, judging by the flat two inches broken by a part in the middle. Pale pink little-girl bunny barrettes on either side of her face kept the hair from falling into her eyes.
Tricia padded closer to the woman and waited, hoping she wouldn’t startle her. “Grace,” she called softly.
Slowly the woman turned red-rimmed eyes on Tricia.
“Hello, my name is Tricia Miles. I live in Stoneham and own a bookstore there. I understand you like to read mysteries. I brought you one.” She held out a copy of Lawrence Block’s Deadly Honeymoon. “I understand you used to have a copy of this book.”
Grace held out a wrinkled hand, took the book, which no longer had its dust cover, and studied the spine. “Used to have a copy?” she said, her voice sounding small, and looked up at Tricia, confused. “What happened to the one in my living room?”
She remembered! But then wasn’t it true that with Alzheimer’s disease old memories stayed intact while short-term memory faded? “Yes, that’s right,” Tricia agreed. “I thought you might like to read it again.”
Grace turned her attention back to the book, flipping through its pages. “That was very thoughtful of you…” She looked up in confusion. “Who did you say you were?”
“Tricia Miles. I own one of the bookstores in Stoneham. It’s called Haven’t Got a Clue.”
“Oh yes, the new mystery bookstore. I’ve been meaning to visit it. When did you open? Last week?”
“Five months ago.”
Grace frowned. “That can’t be right. I remember reading about it in the Stoneham Weekly News. The article distinctly said the store would open on April fourth.”
Tricia swallowed down her surprise. “Yes, we did. But that was five months ago.”
Grace’s brows drew closer together, her face creasing in confusion once again. “Where did the time go?” She looked up at Tricia and her eyes opened wide in recognition, her mouth drooping. “Where did you get that pin? It’s mine.”
Tricia’s hand flew to the gold scatter pin at her throat. “I bought it.”
Grace shook her head. “Oh no. I would never have sold it. It belonged to my grandmother.”
“Are you sure?” Tricia asked.
“Would you let me look at it?” Grace held out her veiny hand.
Tricia unfastened the pin and handed it to Grace, who held it close to her face, squinted at the curlicues and scrollwork, her right index finger tracing the pattern. “See here, it says Loretta. That was my grandmother’s name.”
She handed the pin back to Tricia, who also had to squint. She turned the pin around and around again, and finally did see that it wasn’t just ornamentation, but a name: Loretta. She gave the pin back to Grace, who immediately fastened it to her housedress.
“Mrs. Harris, did you ever own a cookbook called American Cookery, by Amelia Simmons?”
“A book? I’m not sure.”
Another sign of Alzheimer’s?
“I did have a darling little pamphlet written by someone named Amelia that belonged to my mother. It may have even belonged to my grandmother—it was very old—but I don’t think I ever made anything out of it. All that colonial food was so stodgy. Jason, my late husband, he was partial to ethnic food. He loved watching Julia Child on TV and often had me make her recipes.”
Julia Child and ethnic food didn’t seem to belong in the same sentence.
&
nbsp; “Did friends call your grandmother Loretta, or did they have a pet name for her?”
Grace frowned. “Hmm. Seems to me they called her Letty.”
“Was your grandfather Roddy?”
“Rodney,” Grace corrected. “Why do you ask? Are you a long-lost relative?”
Tricia saw an unoccupied chair across the way and pulled it across the floor so that she could face Grace instead of towering over her. She sat. “I have some unhappy news for you. I believe the cookbook and that pin you’re now wearing were sold. Probably many more items from your home have been sold, too.”
“That can’t be. My son Michael—” But her eyes widened and her words trailed off. Slowly, her face began to crumple as tears filled her eyes. “Not again,” she crooned, nearly folded in half, and began to rock. “Not again.”
Tricia placed a hand on the old woman’s arm. “I’m so sorry I had to tell you.”
“If what you say is true, it isn’t the first time he’s stolen from me. I was a good mother. We gave him everything. Why would he keep doing this to me?”
“He said he needed the money so that you could stay here and be taken care of.”
Grace turned sad eyes on Tricia. “But I have insurance. There should’ve been no need to sell my things—and especially without telling me.”
“Does Mike have power of attorney?”
Grace shook her head. “No. There’s no way I would ever give him that. My lawyer has instructions for my care when I can no longer make decisions; they specifically say that Michael is never to be permitted to represent my affairs.”
“Are you aware that your son placed you here? He’s been telling everyone you have Alzheimer’s disease.”
“I admit my memory hasn’t been as good as it was, but lately I’ve felt so much more like my old self. I’ve been wondering how I ended up here and why no one comes to see me. I have many good friends…” Her voice trailed off again as her hand grasped the pin on her housedress, and her gaze slipped out through the window.
Tricia waited for a minute or two for the old woman to continue, but Grace seemed to have lost interest in the conversation.
“Mrs. Harris? Mrs. Harris?”
“How is it you came to buy this pin?” Grace said at last.
“I bought it from a woman named Winnie Wentworth. I believe she got it at a tag sale at your home. She sold it to me last week. She was killed in a car accident the very same day.”
“Killed? Oh my. An accident?”
“I’m not sure.”
A tear rolled down Grace’s cheek, and her gnarled hand still clasped the pin on her chest. “I love this pin. It meant so much to my grandmother. She gave it to me when I was a bride. I have her wedding band hidden with some of my other jewelry. It would break my heart to know it, too, was gone.”
Feeling the need to ease the old woman’s pain, Tricia found herself patting Grace’s back. “Do you remember the last time you saw your son?”
Grace stared straight ahead again, her gaze unfocusing. “At my home. We argued over…” She shook her head. “We argued.”
Probably over money, or Mike’s pilfering. And shortly afterward, Grace had ended up in St. Godelive’s.
“I’ve asked about leaving here,” Grace said, “but they won’t give me a straight answer, and I must get to my home to stop Michael from stealing from me. I don’t know you, but—” She glanced up at Tricia with worried bloodshot eyes. “Would you help me?”
Despite the need to clear her own name, Tricia had no hesitation in answering. “Of course. What do you want me to do?”
“Please make sure the rest of my jewelry is safe. I had two beautiful jewelry boxes in my bedroom, but I’ve also hidden some of my most valuable items just to keep them out of Michael’s reach. Gifts from my husband, and some that belonged to my mother and grandmother. Then there’s Jason’s coin collection. It’s worth tens of thousands. Michael helped himself to some of it after his father died.”
“Where should I look?”
“There’s a small trapdoor on the floor at the head of the bed in the master bedroom. I don’t think Michael knows about it.”
“How will I get into the house?”
“You’ll find a spare key inside the garage. It hangs on the back wall on a nail under a little framed picture of flowers…if he hasn’t sold that, too,” she added bitterly.
“I’ll try to get there either tonight or tomorrow, and I’ll come back and tell you what I’ve found.”
Grace clasped Tricia’s hand. “I’m trusting you—a stranger. Please help me.”
Tricia swallowed down a lump in her throat and nodded. “I will.”
SEVENTEEN
Tricia stood at St. Godelive’s third-floor nurses’ station, trying to make sense of what she’d just learned. “And you say Grace’s memory just seems to have returned—like magic?”
“More like a miracle,” Martha said, and grinned. “I’ve worked with the elderly for over twenty years, and you don’t see it happen often, but when it does, it truly is a gift from God.”
Miracle my foot, Tricia thought cynically. Something had to have changed for Grace, but Tricia wasn’t about to speculate in front of someone working for St. Godelive. Could she trust any of them? Mike would had to have had help in keeping Grace senseless. But who? A staff member? Maybe her own physician? No one else came to visit Grace, so that seemed most likely.
“I’d like to come visit Grace again. You don’t see any problem with that, do you?”
“Not at all. In fact, stimulation is the best thing for her at this point in her recovery.”
Tricia gave the nurse a smile. “Thank you.”
Dressed in a neon pink Hawaiian shirt, Frannie Mae Armstrong stood on the porch outside the chamber of commerce’s offices, watering the fuchsias as Tricia drove past. She slowed and honked the horn. Frannie bent down, squinted, recognized her, and waved.
Tricia parked her car in the village’s municipal lot and hiked the half a block to the C of C office. With no sign of Frannie outside, she entered the log cabin to find the secretary-receptionist attending to her indoor plants. “Hi, Frannie,” she called.
“Well, how-do, Tricia. What brings you back to the chamber?”
“I’ve been admiring your flowers on the porch,” she lied. “They’re beautiful.”
“I feed ’em liquid plant food. Works like a charm. But they won’t last much longer. First frost and—” She made a slashing motion against her throat. “Then again, the porch roof might protect them for another week or two, unless the remnants of Hurricane Sheila washes them away in the next twenty-four hours. It’s always a crapshoot with those babies.” She retreated to the counter and set down her watering can. “I saw your window had been broken when I drove by yesterday. Did the sheriff figure out who did it?”
“Not yet.”
Frannie clicked her tongue. “It’s just terrible what’s been going on here in Stoneham this past week. I would’ve never believed it. Maybe in Honolulu, but not here.”
“Honolulu?” Tricia asked. Talk about a non sequitur.
Frannie smiled broadly. “Where I plan to retire. It’s a big city compared to Stoneham. Mighty expensive, too. But my heart’s set on it.” She pulled at the lapel on her shirt and winked. “I’ve already got my wardrobe.”
Tricia could do little more than gape at the woman.
“Now,” Frannie said, all business. “What can I do for you today?”
Tricia struggled to change mental gears. “I’m still trying to figure out where Bob Kelly could have been last Tuesday night after he left the Brookview Inn. Any chance you can tell me?” she asked brightly.
Frannie’s lips tightened. “He had a business meeting.”
“With a representative from a big box company?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Frannie said. “I can’t tell you any more.”
“Oh, come on,” Tricia chided. “It’s no secret. Everyone in the village is talking ab
out it.”
“Who?”
Tricia shrugged. “Everybody.”
“Now, Miss Tricia, you wouldn’t want me to blab my boss’s business, risk my job, just to satisfy your curiosity, now would you? Surely you’d expect that kind of loyalty from your own employees.”
Tricia blinked. “Well, yes, of course. It’s just that—” She realized that no matter what she said, she already looked a fool. “I’m sorry, Frannie. I didn’t mean to put you in a compromising position.”
“Well, of course you didn’t,” Frannie said in all sincerity. “I can understand where y’all are coming from. Things don’t look good for you right now.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “We all read the story in Friday’s Stoneham Weekly News.”
Tricia’s cheeks burned, but she kept her lips clamped shut.
“It’s been said you think Bob might have killed Doris Gleason. Now, I don’t know about you, but I prefer to believe in the good in people. My daddy always said hearsay and gossip is just not nice. And I know in your heart of hearts that you don’t believe Bob would hurt anybody. He’s a good man, and I know you’re a good woman. I just know these things.”
“Thank you,” Tricia managed, feeling even smaller.
An awkward silence fell between them.
The phone rang and Frannie picked it up. “Stoneham Chamber of Commerce. Frannie speaking. How can I help you?”
Tricia inched away from the counter, reaching behind her to find the door handle.
“Hold on just a sec,” Frannie told the caller. “Now you have a good afternoon, Miss Tricia.”
Tricia forced a smile. “Thank you,” she said and hurriedly left the office.
An impatient Ginny stood at the door when Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue. “Thank goodness you’re here. I’ve nearly been jumping out of my skin for the last hour waiting for you.”
“What’s happened?” Tricia asked, concerned. “Why didn’t you call me on my cell phone?”
“You’ve got it turned off,” she said with disdain. “Again!”
Tricia waved her off and headed for the sales counter to stow her purse. “So what’s the big news?”
“We caught her!” Ginny said with triumph.
Murder Is Binding Page 18
