Murder Is Binding bm-1

by Lorna Barrett

  The sheriff turned her attention to Angelica. "What time was that, and for how long?"

  "Surely you don't suspect the town's leading citizen?" Angelica said.

  "How do you know his status?" Tricia asked.

  Angelica shrugged. "Bob told me, of course."

  It took all Tricia's resolve not to roll her eyes.

  As if on cue, a worried Bob stuck his head around Haven't Got a Clue's unlocked door. "Wendy, what's going on?"

  "There's been a murder, I'm afraid."

  Stunned, Bob's mouth dropped open in horror. "Murder? Good grief! Ten years of Stoneham being named the safest town in all New Hampshire…down the drain." A parade of other emotions soon cascaded across his face: irritation and despair taking center stage. "What'll this do to my real estate business?"

  "That's nothing compared to what Doris Gleason lost-her life," Tricia said, disgusted.

  "Doris?" he repeated in disbelief.

  The sheriff rested a hand on Bob's shoulder, turning him around. "Let's take this outside," she said and led him out the door and onto the sidewalk for a private chat.

  Angelica inhaled deeply, bending lower until her nose was inches from Tricia's hair. "Oooh, you stink."

  Tricia sniffed at her sweater sleeve. "I was only in the Cookery for a minute at most."

  "Believe me. You stink."

  Tricia's heart sank. "If I smell this bad, think about all those poor books. I wonder if they can be salvaged."

  Angelica shook her head. "Only you would think about such a thing."

  "Me and every other book lover on the planet."

  The sheriff returned with Bob in tow. "Are you okay, Tricia?" Bob asked.

  Tricia nodded, suddenly feeling weary.

  The sheriff consulted her notebook once again, then spoke to Angelica. "Mrs. Prescott, you said you're staying at the Brookview Inn?"

  "Yes, and isn't it just lovely?"

  "For how long?"

  Angelica gazed down at Tricia. "I arrived just this afternoon and I'll be in town for as long as my sister needs me."

  Tricia rocketed from her chair, belatedly wondering if her clothes had already imparted their smoky scent to the upholstery. "I'm fine, Angie. You don't have to hang around on my account."

  "Nonsense. What's family for?"

  So far emotional support hadn't been a Miles family trait.

  "Ma'am," said a solemn voice from the doorway. A fire-fighter, his scarlet helmet emblazoned with the wordCHIEF stenciled in gold and white, motioned to the sheriff. "All the smoke detectors in the Cookery were disabled. Whoever did this didn't want the crime discovered too quickly. However, it appears there was no accelerant used."

  Did that mean whoever murdered Doris hadn't planned the killing? Yet they'd been clearheaded enough to try to cover their tracks-however inefficiently.

  "Let's keep this discussion private," Sheriff Adams said, and she and the fire chief moved to stand out of earshot on the sidewalk.

  Angelica rested a warm hand on Tricia's shoulder. "Trish, dear, you must come and stay with me at the inn. I won't sleep a wink tonight knowing you're here all alone in such a dangerous place. You could've died if that fire hadn't been discovered."

  "If you hadn't discovered it. Besides, I wouldn't have died. My smoke alarms work-and I have an excellent sprinkler system."

  "You discovered the fire?" Bob asked, zeroing in on Angelica.

  She waved a hand in dismissal. "It was nothing, really. I only wish we could've saved that poor woman."

  "It wasn't nothing," Bob said. "The whole block could've gone up, and then the village would've-" He let the sentence fade, his face blanching. No doubt he was already thinking about the upcoming zoning board meeting, and how he could force through new rules for fire safety. The costs would no doubt be passed on to the lease owners. Tricia knew that, like Doris, several other bookstore owners were already living on the precarious edge of profitability with the possibility of folding. And trust Bob Kelly to care more for the buildings than the potential loss of a human life.

  Bob's gimmicky idea of basing the village's economy on used bookstores luring in tourists had been inspired by the town of Hay-on-Wye. That little Welsh town had been in the same financial boat as Stoneham: picturesque but fallen on hard times. The original leases had been written in favor of the booksellers, but as Doris had found out, success came with a price. The signs were already evident that Doris's business was on the slide. Fewer food-prep demonstrations and the fact her best-selling product was at the low end of the profit spectrum.

  That will not happen to me, Tricia thought. For years she'd daydreamed about every aspect of her store, from the stock to the decor. She'd written and rewritten her business plan, had goals for expanding the business and a timetable to do it. Her divorce a year earlier had presented her with the money and all the time in the world to pursue her lifelong dream of entrepreneurship. After five months in business, Tricia was exactly where she expected to be: paying her rent, her employee, covering her overhead, and making a modest profit. Only time would tell if word of Doris's murder would have an impact on the whole village's revenue stream. The thought depressed her.

  As though anticipating her owner's solemn thoughts, Miss Marple appeared at Tricia's side. She gave a muffled "yow," and dropped her favorite, rather ratty-looking catnip sock at Tricia's feet.

  "Oh, thank you, Miss Marple," she said, patting the cat's furry gray head. "You are a very thoughtful kitty." Miss Marple purred loudly.

  "Darling Trish. You must come back with me to the inn. I'm sure they can move some kind of cot into my room. You're much too upset to drive, so give me your keys," Angelica insisted once again.

  "That won't be necessary. This is my home and I'm staying put. And I'm not upset," she lied. "As soon as the sheriff is finished, I'll drive you back to the inn."

  "Nonsense," Bob interrupted. "I'd be delighted to escort you back to the Brookview, Mrs. Prescott."

  Angelica turned slowly to face Bob. "Call me Angelica," she said, her voice softening, her blue eyes lowered coyly.

  Bob smiled, practically oozing with gentlemanly charm.

  What was this effect Angie had on men? And what was wrong with these two? A woman had been murdered mere feet from where they all stood. Then again, if Bob managed to get Angelica out of Tricia's hair, she might be inclined to ignore some of his other annoying attributes.

  Sheriff Adams returned, looking bad-tempered. "I guess that's all for tonight, folks. But I'll be needing official statements from all three of you. I'll send a deputy by sometime tomorrow to take them. In the meantime, please don't leave town without notifying the sheriff's department."

  As if, Tricia was tempted to sniff. Then it occurred to her what Sheriff Adams was really saying: that perhaps she didn't believe their accounts as they'd given them.

  Miss Marple hadn't appreciated an early wake-up call, but the image of Doris Gleason with a knife in her back kept Tricia from restful sleep; her dreams had been shadowed by dark menacing images she could only half remember. She'd showered, dressed, and fed herself and her cat before trundling down the stairs to her shop. Next on the list: vacuuming, tidying, and all the other chores she hadn't accomplished before leaving the night before. It was while resetting the security system she noticed the cord from the wall-mounted camera dangling loose, with the unmistakable indentations from feline teeth.

  "Miss Marple. Didn't I tell you not to mess with that camera?" she admonished.

  The cat jumped to the counter and rubbed her head against Tricia's arm.

  "Oh no, you don't. I am not your friend right now."

  Miss Marple swished her tail and jumped down, sashaying across the carpet without a backward glance.

  Before Tricia could call the security company, the phone rang and she let the answering machine kick in. "The Haven't Got a Clue mystery bookstore's hours are ten a.m. to seven p.m. on Mondays, Tuesdays ten to six; Wednesday through Saturday ten to seven, and Sunday noon t
o three. Please leave a message at the tone."

  Beep!

  "Bernie Weston, Nashua Telegraph. Looking to interview Tricia Miles about last night's Stoneham murder at the Cookery. Please call at-" He left a number.

  That was one phone call Tricia was determined not to return. True, talking to the press would get the shop's name in the newspaper, but a murder-even next door to a mystery bookstore-was negative publicity, and she preferred not to believe that even negative publicity was good publicity.

  She wiped the message from the machine and dialed another number.

  "We're swamped," said the harried male voice at Ace Security. "I might be able to get someone out to you by the end of the week, but I can't make any promises. If the rest of your system's intact, you shouldn't have too much of a problem."

  Let's see: murder, theft, and arson had occurred just feet from Tricia's doorstep. Why wouldn't she feel secure with a third of her system on the blink? As a small-business owner, she'd wanted to patronize other local businesses, but now wondered if she'd regret that decision.

  She hung up the phone, put a soothing Enya CD on low, and commandeered her sheepskin duster. Taking care of her beloved books always had a calming effect on her psyche. And she needed that calm, for in the next half hour the answering machine took four more calls from newspapers, radio stations, and/or television stations in Concord, Nashua, and Manchester. Screening calls was the order of the day. Stoneham's small-town gossip mill was bound to be in full force, and the best source of information showed up ten minutes after Haven't Got a Clue opened.

  A bleary-eyed Ginny scowled as she snagged a cup of coffee from the store's steaming pot before she'd even hung up her jacket. "Sheriff Adams was waiting for me when I got home last night. Let me tell you, being interrogated by a cop can really put a crimp in your love life. Brian hightailed it out of my place so fast I almost got windburn."

  "What does he have to hide?" Tricia asked.

  Ginny glowered. "I think his car's inspection sticker might be a little overdue."

  "A little?"

  "Okay, by two months."

  "What did the sheriff ask you about?"

  Ginny's answer was succinct. "You."

  Tricia started. "Me?"

  "Apparently, you were the last person to see Daww-ris"-she again dragged the name out-"alive."

  "Except for the killer, you mean."

  Ginny shrugged, warming her hands on the store's logo-emblazoned cardboard cup. "I suppose."

  Tricia hoped her only employee had been a little more aggressive in defending her when speaking with the sheriff.

  "I told her I was in Doris's shop for perhaps five minutes, just to return her glasses. We talked briefly about her expensive little cookbook, then I went to the inn, picked up my sister, and we were back here within thirty-maybe forty minutes."

  "I'm sure you have nothing to worry about," Ginny said, gulped her coffee, and got up to cash out the first of the day's customers.

  But Tricia did worry about it-to the point of obsession; it only got worse after she'd given her statement to the young deputy who'd stopped by. She rang up sales incorrectly, punching in three cents instead of thirty dollars for a slightly water-stained dust cover on a first edition of Josephine Tey's The Singing Sands, and asked a customer to pay three hundred ninety-five dollars for a laminated bookmark. And still the telephone kept ringing.

  "You ought to take a break," Ginny advised, after soothing the latest irate customer. "Go for a drive in the country. Take your sister shopping in Manchester."

  "Being with Angelica is the last thing I need. No, here is where I belong."

  Ginny shrugged. "You're the boss."

  A gray-haired woman with big sunglasses presented a book for purchase. Ginny rang up the sale and Tricia picked it up to place in the store's plastic bag. A slip of paper fell out and hit the floor. Tricia bent to pick it up and silently cursed: another nudist tract. She shoved it into her slacks pocket and handed across the book and bag to her customer. "Thank you for shopping at Haven't Got a Clue," she said cheerfully, hoping her irritation hadn't been apparent. The woman smiled and headed for the exit.

  "Another one?" Ginny asked.

  Tricia nodded, removing the paper from her pocket. Ginny pulled more leaflets from her apron pocket, handing them over. "You were right when you said we'd find more."

  Tricia read over the text extolling the benefits of a natural lifestyle free from restrictive clothing: "a healthy lifestyle that encouraged body acceptance and self-confidence." Still, she wondered how many people caught cold or cut their toes while romping around in the altogether.

  Tricia balled up the leaflets, tossing them in the trash. "Let's hope this is the end of it."

  The bell over the door jangled and a dark-haired, middle-aged man in faded jeans and a Patriots sweatshirt charged in. He was a couple of weeks late on a haircut, and his Nikes had seen much better days, although Tricia supposed he was good-looking, in a rustic sort of way.

  "Looking for the owner, Tricia Miles," he said.

  Tricia raised a hand. "That would be me."

  The man offered his hand. "Russ Smith, editor of the Stoneham Weekly News. "

  The name sounded familiar. "I believe we spoke on the phone just after my shop opened. You ran a paragraph or two back in the spring, telling the community about the store."

  "Oh, yeah." He'd obviously forgotten. "You probably guessed that I'm here about the murder at the Cookery. It's the biggest news to hit Stoneham in-"

  "Sixty years, apparently." Tricia's muscles went rigid. She hadn't counted on the local fish wrapper to come calling. The top story in the last issue had been squirrels chewing through the village gazebo's roof. "Mr. Smith, finding Doris was pretty upsetting. I really don't want to talk about it."

  He cocked his head. "Why? Did you kill her?"

  Tricia gasped and blinked. "Of course not."

  "Then why not take the opportunity to tell the whole village so?" He grasped her by the elbow, maneuvered her around the sales counter, and led her to the nook, where three of the four upholstered chairs were empty. He pushed her into a seat and took the adjacent chair. Tricia hadn't noticed that he'd carried a steno notebook in his left hand, which he now opened. He came up with a pen, too.

  He looked at Tricia over the rims of his gold-toned glasses. "I've got the facts from Sheriff Adams. You want to give me your take on the murder?"

  "I really don't think I should talk to the press. I mean, what if I say something that compromises the sheriff's investigation?"

  Mr. Everett, the shop's most regular customer and seated in another of the nook's chairs, peeked over the top of the book he held unnaturally close to his face. At Tricia's pointed stare, his eyes disappeared again.

  Smith read through his notes. "You found the body at approximately six forty-eight p.m. Put out the smoldering fire-"

  "It was the other way around. I put out the fire first, then found poor Doris."

  "Were you two enemies?" he cut in, his eyes narrowed.

  Tricia recoiled. "No."

  "Talk is the two of you argued last night."

  "We did not! She wanted to enlist me in her crusade to renegotiate the booksellers' leases. I told her I couldn't help her. My lease doesn't come due for more than two years."

  "Do you think Bob Kelly is responsible for her death? It's known she argued with him, too," he said.

  Tricia took a calming breath and straightened in her seat to perch on its edge. "I was not privy to their conversations. I only know she had an appointment to speak with him again last night. Apparently he was delayed." Gosh, she sounded formal. Would that make her sound even more guilty to this Jimmy Olsen wannabe?

  "Kelly was delayed by your sister, an-" He consulted his notes. "An Angelica Preston. Was their meeting something you engineered? Something to keep Bob Kelly from meeting Ms. Gleason?"

  Tricia stood. "I don't appreciate your inference, Mr. Smith, and I wish you'd leave."

>   Smith's calculating scowl tempted Tricia to slap him; only her clenched fists and sheer willpower kept her from doing it. He took his time closing his notebook, clipping the pen onto its cover. Finally, he stood. "I think you'll wish you were a bit more candid, Ms. Miles."

  "Is that a threat, Mr. Smith?"

  He shook his head. "I'm just stating facts." With that, he turned and moved toward the door. It slammed shut behind him.

  Tricia glanced down at Mr. Everett, whose eyes were once again peering over the top of his book. Seeing her, he quickly ducked down again.

  Too upset to interact with customers, Tricia grabbed her duster and headed for the back shelves, hoping to work off her anger.

  As she ran the fleece over the topmost shelf, she puzzled over the sudden void she felt from Doris's death. The woman hadn't been known as the friendliest person on the planet. Her quick-to-judge temperament and an acid tongue hadn't served her well in business and from what Tricia could tell her personal life, either.

  What was so special about the cookbook that had been stolen? Yes, it was a rare first edition, but Doris's reluctance to discuss where she'd obtained the book now seemed more sinister than circumspect.

  Or was it only paranoia that kept Tricia's thoughts on that circuit? Somebody had killed Doris, had stolen a rare book, and had committed arson to try to hide the crimes.

  And just who among the denizens of Stoneham was capable of such wanton acts?

  There was only one way to find out. Talk to them. And she knew just where and with whom to start.

  Three

  Stoneham's chamber of commerce resided in the former sales office of a company offering log homes. Tricia had passed it hundreds of times, and though she'd been a member since before the actual day she'd opened her store, she'd never had time to visit the office.

  She stood out on the sidewalk admiring the charming little pseudohome with its stone chimney, folksy rockers on the front porch, and the double dormers poking through the green-painted metal roof. Someone had a green thumb, judging by the welcoming baskets of magenta fuchsias, pink begonias, and colorful pansies that hung suspended along the porch's roofline.