Murder Is Binding bm-1

by Lorna Barrett

  "Money. It always comes down to money, same as you figure for Mike. She inherits her sister's business, life insurance policy-"

  "Doris's business was on the downslide. She complained to me that if Bob raised her rent, she'd have to close down."

  "And isn't it amazing that he's backed off that demand-"

  "Only for a year, and only because he fears being sued."

  "Every sibling in the world has, at one time or another, wanted to kill his or her sisters and brothers. It's been that way since the days of Cain and Abel."

  Tricia opened her mouth to deny it, but closed it again.

  "I pinched you when you were a baby. If I'd been a really rotten kid, who knows what I would've done. Of course, after that one incident I rose above such base instincts." She gouged another lump of cheese from the rapidly disappearing slab.

  Only the threat of being sent to an orphanage had curtailed young Angelica's homicidal tendencies. And while Tricia had often found her sister as irritating as a thorn imbedded in her skin, she'd never actually harbored feelings of fratricide. Not seriously at least.

  "The problem is," Angelica said offhandedly, "nobody but the two of us is even worried about who killed Doris Gleason, or who might be cheating Grace Harris. And there's really nothing we can do about either situation."

  "I'm not so sure. We just haven't got enough information."

  "And where are we going to find it?"

  "I'm going back to St. Godelive's tomorrow to make sure Grace isn't given any more of Mike's cocoa, and I'm going to see what it'll take to get her out of that place."

  "Haven't you forgotten something?"

  "What?"

  "The sheriff is trying to pin Doris's death on you. You may not have much more time before she decides to come after you. I think you should call an attorney."

  "I've got a business to run-"

  "Which you can't do from jail," Angelica pointed out.

  "Then why don't you find me a lawyer? You haven't got anything else to do."

  "In this little burg?"

  "It might be better than bringing in some hotshot from Boston. A local guy-"

  "Or gal-"

  "-might know how to manipulate Sheriff Adams," Tricia continued.

  "Or deliver you straight into her hands," Angelica warned.

  Tricia raised her wineglass to her lips but paused before drinking. "I'll take that risk."

  Nineteen

  Tricia wasn't exactly sure how Angelica ended up in her bed while she and Miss Marple were relegated to the couch, but she vowed it wouldn't happen again. She'd run four miles on the treadmill, showered, and breakfasted before Angelica even opened an eye.

  "Coffee," Angelica wailed, as she shuffled into the kitchen. Her hair stood out at odd angles and Tricia's white terry bathrobe was at least two sizes too small for her. She settled on a stool at the island and allowed Tricia to place a steaming mug in front of her. "Please, don't ever let me polish off an entire bottle of wine again."

  "I've got to get the store ready for the day. Hang out here as long as you want. I left the phone book over on the counter."

  Squinting, Angelica peered over the rim of her cup. "Phone book?"

  "You said you'd find me a lawyer today."

  "Oh yeah." She closed her eyes and took a tentative sip. "I didn't sleep real well last night. Had a lot of time to think. You've got too much going on, what with chasing around and looking for killers, so I've decided the least I can do is help out at Haven't Got a Clue."

  Sudden panic gripped Tricia. If Angelica made herself comfortable in the store, she'd never get rid of her. "No need. I've just hired Mr. Everett. Between him and Ginny, and me, we're covered."

  "But Mr. Everett has spent a lot of time watching Deirdre, and you've got to go see Grace Harris. And Ginny has to have a lunch break at some point. No, I insist. And I intend to help you as long as I'm here in Stoneham."

  Tricia didn't bother to argue. Instead, she turned and marched down the stairs to her shop. As expected, Mr. Everett was waiting at the front door, with his umbrella in hand. She let him in and he immediately went to the coffee station, pulled out a new filter, and measured coffee for the Bunn-o-Matic.

  "You're ready for rain again, I see," Tricia said and moved to the counter to watch him, marveling at how easily he'd slipped into Haven't Got a Clue's daily routine.

  "Doppler radar shows what's left of Hurricane Sheila sweeping through western New York. We'll see it by the afternoon, I'm afraid."

  Tricia nodded. Thinking about the day ahead, she asked, "Mr. Everett, would you mind keeping an eye on Deirdre again today?"

  His brow puckered. "It's not as interesting as working here, but if that's what you need me to do, I'm happy just to feel useful."

  Time to dig a little deeper. "Has she…mentioned her sister much?"

  Mr. Everett hit the coffeemaker's start button. "She doesn't really talk to me, except to order me about. I must say I expected her to be a little kinder than Doris. Then again, they are twins."

  Were twins, Tricia automatically corrected to herself. "I assume you haven't told her that you're on my payroll."

  "Not exactly. I told her that you were concerned about her safety and had asked me to help out."

  That being the case, it wasn't likely she'd say anything of any use in front of Mr. Everett. Still, having a mole in enemy territory could be beneficial.

  "What time does Deirdre usually show up at the Cookery?"

  He consulted his watch. "Right about now."

  As if on cue, the white car with Connecticut plates pulled into the parking space in the empty slot between Haven't Got a Clue and the Cookery.

  "Why don't you take Deirdre a cup of coffee? And maybe you can find out where she's getting her new stock."

  Mr. Everett smiled. "Shall I pretend I'm master spy George Smiley?"

  "Why not? It may even make your day go faster."

  "I will admit that I'm looking forward to Ms. Gleason reopening her store so that I may come back here and do some real work. Those biographies could still use reorganizing."

  "I'm sure it'll only be for another couple of days. And I really appreciate you helping Deirdre out like this. I'm fairly certain she won't voice her gratitude to us directly."

  Ginny arrived as Mr. Everett departed. "Grab my coat when you hang up yours, please."

  Ginny did as she was asked. "Going somewhere first thing in the morning?"

  Tricia finished counting the bills for the cash drawer. "I've got an errand to run that just won't wait."

  "No problem. I can handle just about anything that crops up."

  Tricia closed the register, remembering something she'd meant to ask Ginny before this. "You worked for Doris Gleason at one time. Did she always have that ugly jet-black hair?"

  Ginny laughed. "No. She only started dying it in the past year."

  "Do you remember when she started?"

  Ginny let out a breath, frowning. "It must've been just before I came to work for you. I thought she looked downright stupid."

  "What about that pageboy hairdo?"

  "She used to have long white hair pinned up in a bun. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing the day she showed up with it cut short and dyed coal black."

  "Tricia!" came the sound of Angelica's voice from the stairwell to the loft apartment.

  Tricia snatched her jacket and struggled into the sleeves. "My sister thinks she might like to help out around the store. But I want to make it clear that you are in charge. And whatever you do, don't let her bully you. In fact, if she insists on helping, start her out stocking shelves. Hauling around heavy boxes ought to discourage her from volunteering in the future."

  Ginny's grin was positively evil. "This could be an awful lot of fun."

  Tricia grabbed the photo album she'd rescued from Grace's trash can, stuffed it into a plastic bag, snagged her purse, and hurried for the door. "Make it so-and thanks."

  "Tricia!" Angelica called aga
in.

  The door closed on Tricia's back with the jingling of little bells. She headed down the sidewalk at a brisk pace, but made sure to look through the Cookery's plate-glass window, where she could see Deirdre already bullying Mr. Everett. A big first-week bonus was definitely in store for the patient little man.

  Tricia parked her car, huddled in her jacket, and headed up the long concrete walk toward St. Godelive's main entrance. Just since the day before, a riot of yellow and magenta chrysanthemums had been planted around the entryway, giving the somber brick entrance a badly needed splash of color on this gray day. She walked through the entrance and was surprised that the foyer's drab, institutional gray paint had been replaced by a sunny yellow. New original art, beautifully framed, adorned the walls. A small plaque gave the names of the residents who had made the paintings.

  "What happened?" Tricia inquired at the reception desk, taking in the entryway with the wave of her hand.

  The receptionist grinned. "New management. The official takeover was almost two weeks ago. So far the changes have been invisible-mainly new client procedures, that sort of thing. I'm hoping we see a lot more physical changes to the building and grounds. It'll make life a lot more comfortable and cheerful for our residents and staff."

  "And your visitors, too. I'm here to see Mrs. Grace Harris."

  The woman pushed the guest book and pen in front of Tricia with one hand and a visitor's badge with the other.

  The elevator doors opened to the same depressing sight Tricia had witnessed on the previous day. It would no doubt take weeks-maybe longer-before the whole building saw a cosmetic makeover. Could the new patient procedures be responsible for Grace's return to her senses?

  Tricia made a point to stop at the nurses' station. Martha was once again on duty.

  "Hi, Martha. I'm here to see Mrs. Harris again."

  "Welcome back. She's either in her room or the community room where you found her yesterday. Would you like me to take you there?"

  "No need. I was thinking it might be nice to bring Grace a gift. Maybe some fruit, or candy, or-"

  Martha shook her head. "I'm afraid we can't allow that."

  "Is that one of your new rules?"

  She nodded. "Well-meaning family and friends were bringing in outside food and desserts that played havoc with our clients' medical problems. For instance, there are a number of medications that interact with grapefruit. And a box of chocolates given to a diabetic can mean hospitalization."

  "I understand Grace's son often brought her special gourmet cocoa. Do you still have it?"

  Martha shook her head. "When St. Godelive's was sold, the staff was given strict instructions to dispose of any contraband that could compromise a client's well-being. That means everything not provided by the parent company was immediately trashed."

  And days later Grace's personality emerged from a drugged state.

  "Well, I can certainly understand your banning such things. Perhaps I could bring her some flowers or a plant instead?"

  "I'm sure she'd love that. And it would sure brighten up her room."

  Tricia leaned in closer, lowered her voice. "What would it take for Mrs. Harris to leave St. Godelive's?"

  "She'd have to have somewhere to go where someone could watch over her. Although she's made splendid progress, she might even be able to live alone once more, but that would be up to her doctors and her family."

  And perhaps the help of a good attorney.

  "What do the doctors think caused Grace's remarkable recovery?"

  "We're not allowed to talk about our clients' conditions."

  "But surely her son was notified when she started to get better."

  "Of course. But I can't-"

  "-talk about it," Tricia finished for her. "I understand. Thank you." She gave Martha a sweet smile before starting down the hallway.

  Once again she found Grace in the community room, in the same chair, staring out the same window, her expression blank. She still clasped the book Tricia had given her the day before, and for a moment Tricia's heart sank. Had Grace's recovery been only temporary? In a scant eighteen hours had she descended back into the maelstrom of fog that had held her captive for months?

  "Grace?"

  The light blue eyes flashed with recognition as Grace looked up. "Tricia! You came back. Did you bring me another book? Look, I've already finished Deadly Honeymoon." She held up the book, opening it to the last page.

  "Did you enjoy it?"

  "Just as much as the first time I read it. I'd love to reread all of Block's Bernie Rhodenbarr books again. Do you have any of them?"

  "I'm sure I do. And I'd be glad to give them to you."

  "Oh no. I can pay." She patted the chair next to her, inviting Tricia to sit. "I could barely sleep last night. So many thoughts circled through my head. First of all, were you able to go to my house?"

  Tricia moistened her dry lips before answering. "Yes."

  As Grace studied Tricia's face, her expression began to sag. "It's gone, isn't it? All my jewelry. All Jason's coins. Everything."

  "I'm afraid so," Tricia said, sadly.

  Grace's hand flew to the little gold scatter pin Tricia had given her the day before. "Then this is all I have left from my grandmother." Her bottom lip trembled. "Jason would've been so disappointed in Michael. I can barely think his name without getting angry."

  "You need to use that anger to get you out of here."

  But Grace wasn't listening. "That boy has been the major disappointment of my life. We tried giving him pets when he was small, but he'd only torment them. A week didn't go by that we weren't called by the principal's office during his school years. In desperation, we sent him to boarding school for his last two years of high school. That seemed to straighten him out for a while. He flunked out of three colleges before he finally managed to graduate. He stayed away for a number of years after that. After Jason died, Michael came back to Stoneham, but it didn't take long before I'd found him helping himself to his father's possessions."

  "The coin collection?"

  Grace nodded. "And more."

  Tricia opened her purse, took out the folded piece of paper she'd appropriated from the computer desk in Grace's house. "Do you recognize this figurine?"

  Grace studied the ink-jet photo. "Jason gave me one just like this for my birthday one year. He gave me one every year since the late 1970s. I've got quite a collection." She studied the page, seemed to understand its significance. "They're all gone, too, aren't they?"

  "If that's what you kept in your curio cabinet in the living room, then I'm afraid so."

  "I only kept a few in there, along with some Waterford crystal," she shook her head, her eyes glistening. "All my beautiful things…"

  "I'm afraid I have another unhappy piece of news." Tricia explained about the drug-laced cocoa and the fact that St. Godelive's being sold was what had saved her sanity. "Unfortunately, the chocolate Mike provided has been discarded, that means we can't prove what he's done to you, but at least he can't bring in any more."

  "You've got to contact my lawyer, Harold Livingston. His office is in Milford." She shook her head impatiently. "I don't understand why he hasn't come looking for me. Not only is he my lawyer, but we've been friends for over thirty years…at least I always thought so."

  "I'll give him a call as soon as I get back to my store." And maybe Mr. Livingston could help Tricia protect her own interests, too. "I brought you something." Tricia withdrew the photo album from the plastic bag and handed it to Grace.

  "Where did you get this?"

  "I found it and a lot of other photos in the trash at your house."

  "Oh dear, no," Grace said, and tears began to flow once more.

  "It's okay. I rescued all I could find. I've got them safe at my store, and I'd be glad to hold on to them until you're out of here."

  Grace turned moist eyes on Tricia. "You've been very kind to me, dear. Why?"

  So she could clear her own name and g
et Sheriff Adams off her back?

  Definitely.

  Because Grace strongly reminded her of her own grandmother?

  Maybe.

  Because it was the right thing to do?

  No contest.

  Twenty

  Hand clutching the office door handle, Tricia paused to wonder if what she was about to do was the right course of action. She'd debated with herself during the twenty-minute trip from St. Godelive's to the county sheriff's office, and the entire hour Sheriff Adams had let her sit in the reception area's uncomfortable plastic chairs waiting for an audience. It was now showtime.

  Wendy Adams sat back in her worn gray office chair behind a scarred Formica desk, hand clamped to a phone attached to the side of her head. She waved Tricia to the same straight-backed wooden chair before her that Tricia had taken the day before. Comfort for visitors was definitely not a high priority for Sheriff Adams-and was no doubt a calculated decision.

  With ankles and knees clamped together, hands folded primly on her purse, Tricia waited for another five or six minutes for the sheriff to complete her phone conversation, which consisted of a number of grunts and "uh-huhs" until Tricia was sure there was no one on the other end of the line and the sheriff was merely trying-and succeeding-to annoy her.

  Tricia spent those final moments rehearsing her speech. She would not raise her voice. She would not lose her temper.

  She hoped.

  Finally Sheriff Adams hung up. She sat up, shuffled through some pages on the blotter before her, and without looking up spoke. "Now what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

  "Grace Harris."

  The sheriff opened a drawer, rooted through the contents, and came up with a pen, which she tested on a scrap of paper before signing a document before her. "And who's Grace Harris? You going to accuse her of killing Doris Gleason, too?" She laughed mirthlessly.

  "Grace Harris is Mike Harris's mother-you know, the guy running for selectman in Stoneham. Your lifelong friend? Grace is currently a resident at St. Godelive's Assisted Living Center in Benwell."

  The sheriff looked unimpressed. "What's that got to do with anything?"