Murder Is Binding bm-1

by Lorna Barrett

  Tricia picked her way across the room to the reading nook with its matching wide and inviting pillowed chairs and floor lamps, not unlike what she'd created for Haven't Got a Clue. The adjacent bookshelves stood on either side of a white painted mantel and drew her to them. It didn't take much imagination to conjure up an image of a sedate Mrs. Harris in her declining years, seated in one of the chairs before a roaring fire, book in hand, lost in its pages.

  Now the room felt cold, empty. Without its mistress, the room-if not the home-had lost its soul.

  Tricia shook away the image and retrieved her reading glasses from her purse, slipping them on to assess the titles. Mrs. Harris had eclectic taste in reading material, from mystery fiction to romances, biographies to travel books, as well as mainstream fiction and the classics, and she'd grouped them as such. Noticeable gaps on the shelves proved that the collection was not entirely intact.

  She grabbed a mystery at random, Deadly Honeymoon, by Lawrence Block. It turned out to be a first edition with a mint condition dust cover. She'd sold a used, discarded library copy for eight dollars only a week before. This would bring much more. Checking the copyright dates on several other books was just as encouraging. Other titles by authors such as James Michener and Ann Morrow Lindbergh were also first editions. They'd be worth more signed, but were still valuable to die-hard collectors.

  Mike reappeared with a tray containing two steaming mugs and a plate of Oreos, which he set on the dusty table in the nook. He handed her a mug. "So what do you think?"

  "I'm no expert on most of what's here, but a lot appear to be first editions. That's always a plus."

  "Could you give me a ballpark estimate on the whole lot?"

  Tricia shook her head. "I shouldn't tell you this, but if you offer them to a dealer, you'll get substantially less than they're worth. Your best bet is to sell them on one of the online auction sites."

  Mike frowned. "I figured as much."

  "I see some of the books are already missing."

  Mike's grip on his coffee mug tightened. "I gave them to friends of Mother's. At first I didn't realize they might be worth anything. I even considered boxing up the lot and taking them to Goodwill just for the tax write-off. Even then, I'd need an estimate on their worth-something I couldn't do."

  "A lot of them may end up there anyway; for instance, the travel books and most of the paperbacks she has squirreled away. Unless of course she had some of the old pulp paperbacks from the forties and fifties. They're quite collectible if only for their lurid covers."

  "Doesn't sound like Mother's cup of tea."

  Tricia remembered her promise to Deirdre. "Did your mother have any cookbooks?"

  "In the kitchen. Come on, I'll show you."

  Tricia followed Mike down the dark hallway, past a formal dining room, and into a large airy kitchen, which hadn't seen a remodel since the 1970s. The harvest gold appliances and bicentennial patterned vinyl flooring, with 1776 stamped every few squares, seemed stuck in time. Then again, the oak table with stenciled Hitchcock chairs and the dark-stained woodwork were classic. Except for a layer of dust on just about everything, the room was tidy, the counters clutter free.

  The hundred or more cookbooks resided in a glass-fronted double-doored cabinet above and between the sink and stove, no doubt to keep them grease free. Like in the living room, gaps on these shelves proved they had also stored more than were currently there. Would all the other cupboards be empty as well? And what did it matter? Mike had said he was liquidating the estate to pay for his mother's health care. A pity that was necessary.

  Tricia opened one of the doors, selecting a book at random and thumbing through to the copyright page. "The Cookery is in need of new stock because of smoke damage after the fire."

  "The Cookery? I thought it was closed. I saw it had been emptied out and someone was cleaning the place yesterday. I assumed it was the new tenant."

  "Doris Gleason had a sister. She's taking over the business and is looking for new stock. If you're going to dump these books anyway, you might consider offering them to Deirdre. Who knows, she might even vote for you in the election."

  He laughed. "Thanks."

  Tricia replaced the book, closing the cabinet. She turned to find Mike staring at her, or rather her bust. She pulled her long-sleeved sweater tighter about her, crossing her arms across her chest. "Goodness, our coffee's getting cold."

  Mike seemed to shake himself. "Come on." He led the way back to the living room, and they resumed their places before the cold fireplace. Tricia picked up her mug, took a sip, and resigned herself to yet another cup of tepid coffee.

  Mike grabbed a book at random from the closest shelf. A yellowed piece of paper jutted out of it, marking a place. He took out the paper and showed it to her: a recipe for Yankee bean soup torn from a magazine. "Still having problems with the propaganda leaflets?"

  Tricia nodded, grateful for something else to talk about. "Yes. And you were right. The one I showed you was just the first in a series. They've stepped up to a direct advertising campaign. Ever hear of Full Moon Camp and Resort?"

  "Can't say as I have," he said, crumpled the paper, and tossed it into the fireplace's maw. He replaced the book on the shelf.

  "It gave a web address that said they were opening a new location next summer in southern New Hampshire, but it didn't specify where. I meant to call Bob Kelly about it, but with everything else that's been going on…"

  Mike looked concerned. "Such as?"

  "Didn't you hear about the rock through my window?"

  "No. When did that happen?"

  "About eight thirty last night."

  "Huh. I was in my new office last night, unpacking. It must've happened after I left."

  "What time was that?"

  "Quarter after eight, maybe eight twenty."

  Interesting.

  Mike picked up his cup, swallowed a sip of cold coffee, and grimaced.

  The conversation lagged.

  "This really is a beautiful house," Tricia said finally.

  "If you think this looks nice, you ought to see the bedrooms," he said a la Groucho Marx, and waggled his eyebrows for further effect. "I'd be glad to give you a personal tour."

  Tricia's entire body tensed, but somehow she managed a weak smile. "Sorry, I can't stay too much longer."

  "Your shop doesn't open for at least another two hours. That's plenty of time for us to get better acquainted," he said and moved a step closer

  Tricia's already tense muscles went rigid. "I have a new employee I'm training today."

  "Oh?"

  "Mr. Everett."

  "Oh, the old coot who's taken root in your store."

  "He's a treasure," she said, feeling protective of the old gentleman. "He'll be a great asset at Haven't Got a Clue."

  Mike turned away and set his mug back down on the tray. "You seem to be collecting men these days."

  Tricia blinked. "Excuse me?"

  "Last night when I walked to the municipal lot to get in my car, I saw you at the diner with Russ Smith," Mike said, a slight edge entering his voice. "That surprised me, especially after what he wrote about you. And what will people say about my girl being seen with another man?"

  My girl? That's what Christopher always called her, and she'd liked the sound of the words-the emotions behind it. But coming from Mike, the words gave her a chill.

  Tricia thought about the gaping hole in her shop window, the strength it had taken to heave the miniature boulder that had shattered it. Unease wormed through her as she realized how isolated the two of them were in the big vacant house. She swallowed down the lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. "We've been out to lunch exactly one time, that hardly makes me 'your girl.'" She even managed a little laugh.

  "Maybe I'd like to change that." Mike stepped closer, putting his hands around her and pulling her against him.

  "Mike," she said, squirming in his embrace.

  He didn't let go, his face hovering
close to her own, his breath warm on her cheek.

  "Mike," she said with more urgency.

  He leaned in closer, brushing his lips across her neck.

  Panicking, Tricia pulled her arms free and pushed against his chest. "Mike, please!"

  He stumbled back, puzzled. "I'm sorry, Trish. I thought you were as attracted to me as I am to you."

  "That's very flattering. It's just-" How do you tell someone he's just creeped you out?

  "Ah," he said, a sympathetic lilt entering his voice. "Too soon after your divorce?"

  "That's exactly it. And anyway, it's not like Russ and I are even friends. We only discussed Doris's murder, which quickly became tedious, believe me. And it wasn't a date. We each paid for our own dinners." She didn't mention Russ staying with her until the enclosure guys could show up. And why did she feel she owed him an explanation, anyway?

  "Any new developments in the murder case?" Mike asked, with no real interest.

  "Just that the stolen book's been found."

  He raised an eyebrow. "That is news. Where was it?"

  "In my store."

  "That's not good."

  "No, it isn't." Tricia picked up her purse. "Look, I really have to get back to the shop." She took a step back, but he reached out, capturing her arm in a strong grip.

  "Are you sure you can't stay for another cup of coffee?"

  Tricia forced a smile as she pried his fingers from her forearm. "Sorry. I really have to get going." She turned and practically ran from the room, then realized it would be bad manners to snatch her jacket from the closet and flee. Yet she stood for long seconds in the empty foyer and Mike didn't appear.

  As time ticked on and still he didn't appear, she figured the heck with manners and wrenched open the closet door. She'd expected to find it stuffed with coats, scarves, hats, and boots, but hers was the only jacket amongst the row of dark wooden hangers. She grabbed her jacket, slammed shut the door, and turned to find Mike, hands in his pants pockets, slouched against the wall, watching her.

  "Um, thank you," she stammered, "for the coffee."

  "I wish you didn't have to leave."

  "Me, too," she said too cheerfully, the lie obvious. She inched closer to the front door.

  "Thanks for the advice about the books," Mike said, his voice sounding oddly composed.

  "You're more than welcome. Glad I could be of help." She had her hand on the door handle, turned it, and found it locked. Panicked, she pulled at it, fumbling for the lever.

  A hand touched hers and she shrieked and jumped back.

  "Calm down, calm down," Mike soothed and stepped forward.

  Tricia backed away, afraid he might come after her. Instead, he flipped the dead bolt, pulled the door open. Fresh air and the sunny morning poured into the foyer once again. Tricia zipped past Mike and onto the step outside. The tightness in her chest relaxed a bit and she felt like an absolute idiot for her behavior. She turned back. Mike stood in the open doorway, looking concerned.

  Tricia forced a smile. "See you in town." Her tone almost sounded normal.

  Mike stared at her for long seconds, his face impassive, then nodded and closed the door.

  Frozen in time, Tricia stared for long seconds at the barrier between the real world and the stifling air of the lifeless house before she turned and hurried down the steps, letting out a whoosh of air as she went.

  It wasn't until she'd driven a block away that she felt anywhere near calm again.

  Tricia welcomed the return to the familiar surroundings at Haven't Got a Clue. True to form, Mr. Everett had been waiting outside the locked door for her. As expected, he was full of questions and concerned about the boarded-up shop.

  "We will open today, won't we?" he asked, anxiously, as she unlocked the door.

  "Yes, although it does seem awfully dark in here. We'll have to turn on all the lights. Let me hang up our coats and we'll get started."

  It soothed the last of Tricia's jagged nerves to walk Mr. Everett through the daily tasks, and it turned out he'd been observant during all the months he'd visited the store as a customer who never purchased anything. He probably knew everything about the daily routine except the combination to the little safe under the counter.

  During the three hours the store was open they shelved four boxes of books, waited on fifteen customers, and sold seventeen novels. Not bad for what was usually her slowest day. They also found another twenty-two nudist leaflets. Who on Earth had been stashing them around the store, and why hadn't they caught the culprit?

  Staying busy kept Tricia from thinking too much about her panic at being at the Harris home alone with Mike. Then again, too often lately she'd been employing a selective memory-especially when it came to what could be her future. And why had she ever agreed to go house hunting with Angelica?

  True to her word, Angelica showed up at precisely 3 p.m., honking the car horn outside Haven't Got a Clue. Anticipating her sister's arrival, Tricia had closed a few minutes early, stuffed the day's receipts in the safe, waved good-bye to Mr. Everett, and was ready to go when the rental car pulled up out front.

  "That stupid out-of-state car is still parked in front of your store," Angelica said in greeting, glaring at the offending vehicle.

  Tricia buckled her seat belt as a horn blasted behind them.

  Angelica hit the gas and the car lurched forward. "The shop looks dreadful. Couldn't you at least have that plywood painted to match the rest of the storefront?"

  "It'll only be there another day."

  "It's not likely to entice customers. You look dreadful, too, Trish. Those dark circles under your eyes are really unbecoming."

  Tricia bit her tongue to keep from blurting a scathing retort.

  Oblivious of her sister's pique, Angelica continued. "I have big news. I won!"

  "Won what?" Tricia asked, glad for the change of subject.

  "The parlay on Deborah Black's baby. He was born last night at eight thirty-seven p.m."

  "How did you even know about it?"

  "I told you, I visited all the stores in town. The owner of History Repeats Itself, Jim Roth, sold me the square. He's an absolute doll. Too bad he's married."

  "Speaking of dolls, how was your big date with Bob last night?"

  Angelica snorted. "Some date. He takes me to this little dump of a clam shack on the side of the highway and gives me an hour-long real estate pitch. Although I have to admit the food was pretty good."

  A grudging admission if Tricia had ever heard one.

  "Still, it reinforces my belief that what this little town needs is fine dining. And I might be just the person to make it happen."

  Tricia was determined not to encourage her. "I had dinner at the diner last night and only three tables were occupied. They roll up Stoneham's sidewalks at seven."

  "It might have to be a lunch-only establishment. Surely that little diner can't handle all the tourists at midday."

  But Tricia didn't want to talk about restaurants. Her window had been broken at about eight thirty. Where had Bob been at the time? "So what time did you invite Bob back to your hotel room?"

  Angelica's hand's tightened on the wheel. "I didnot invite him to my room."

  "But surely he took you back to the inn. What time was that?"

  "Terribly early. Somewhere around eight."

  So, Bob could've thrown the rock. The question was, why?

  "At least he invited me to the dining room for a nightcap," Angelica continued with disdain. "Otherwise I would've been in bed and asleep by nine o'clock."

  "What time did he leave?" Tricia pressed.

  "I don't know. Maybe nine fifteen."

  Tricia's insides sagged. So much for Bob being responsible, though that still left him a viable suspect in Doris's murder. "The subject of where he went after he left us on Tuesday night didn't come up, did it?"

  "It did. But it wasn't easy working it into the conversation," Angelica said, her attention focused on the road. "Bob doesn't li
ke to talk negatively about Stoneham. And the first murder in sixty years is definitely negative."

  "And?"

  "He wouldn't say. Just that it was 'business.'"

  "Typical of him." There had to be other avenues Tricia could explore, but right now she couldn't think of any so she concentrated on the matter at hand. "Did you find anything promising on your house hunt this morning?"

  Angelica brightened. "Actually, Bob did steer me toward a darling little cottage that's for rent with an option to buy. The problem is the size. It's much too small."

  "Is that where we're going now?"

  "Yes. If nothing else, it's got potential."

  Stoneham's small business district was already past, and trees and mileposts sped by.

  "I'm trying to decide what to do with the money," Angelica said.

  "Money?" Tricia asked, confused. "Oh yeah, the parlay. How much did you win, anyway?"

  "Four hundred dollars."

  "Four hundred dollars?" Tricia repeated, shocked.

  "Not bad, huh? I think I'll send Deborah some flowers as a little thank-you."

  Tricia sank back in her seat. "And you'll still have enough left for a Louis Vuitton key chain, too."

  A number of businesses hugged the road that approached the highway. Tricia spotted the old smashed-up Cadillac Seville sitting beside a service station. "Stop the car!" she yelled, craning her neck as they whipped past.

  Angelica slammed on the brakes, the car fishtailing onto the shoulder. "What's wrong? Did I hit something?"

  "Back up, back up!"

  Angelica jammed the gearshift into reverse and hit the accelerator.

  "Whoa-stop, stop!" Tricia called, unhooking her seat belt and bolting from the car. She charged across the sea of asphalt surrounding the closed gas station, halting in front of the mangled mess that had once been Winnie Wentworth's most prized possession. The front end was now a tangle of metal, already rusting from all the rain they'd had since Winnie's death. The windshield's glass had been reduced to a spider's web of cracks. No sign of blood. With no seat belt, she might have been ejected out the driver's window. The outcome was the same: death.