"How was I to know she was interested in that house?" Angelica groused.
A customer entered the store, and Angelica sprang into action. "Welcome to Haven't Got a Clue. Can I help you find something?" She hurried over to the woman.
"She hasn't got a clue where anything is," Ginny growled, then gulped her coffee, setting the cup down with a dull thunk. "I'd better help the customer before your sister helps us right out of business." She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, straightened, and stepped forward, heading for the customer. "Did you say Ngaio Marsh? Right over here."
Scowling, Angelica backed off and stepped up to the coffee station. "I really didn't know Ginny wanted that house," she hissed.
"She'll get over it. Have a cup of coffee." Tricia poured the last of the pot into one of the store's cups and gave it to Angelica.
Angelica swirled the dregs, then glanced over the assortment of creamers, choosing hazelnut. "How did it go at the lawyer's office?"
"Better than I thought. And he's going to try to help Grace, too."
"That's great. I wonder if he does real estate closings."
Ginny cleared her throat, glared at Angelica. "Have you finished unpacking that case of Dashiell Hammetts yet, Ange?"
"Don't call me Ange. And no, I haven't."
Tricia wasn't about to get caught up in a Ginny/Angie catfight and headed to the back of the store where Mr. Everett was already happily rearranging the biographies. "Mr. Everett, you mentioned Deirdre was grumpy. Just what was bothering her today?"
The older man straightened, holding on to a biography of Anthony Boucher by Jeffrey Marks. "That woman is just as disagreeable as her sister ever was. In fact, if I didn't know she was dead, I would swear I'd spent time with Doris, not Deirdre Gleason."
"Did you know Doris well?" Tricia asked.
"Not well, but I'd observed her enough times. I was a grocer. I knew how to cook a few basic dishes, and when my wife died I attended a number of the Cookery's demonstrations to learn more. Macaroni and cheese from a box palls after a few meals," he confided.
"Would you say the sisters' personalities were interchangeable?" Angelica asked from behind Tricia, who hadn't heard her sister approach.
"Ms. Deirdre puts on airs when she thinks she's got an audience, but in private she's just as irascible as her late sibling."
Angelica gave her sister a jab. "Didn't I tell you? I'd bet my Anolon cookware the woman next door is really Doris, not Deirdre."
"Don't be absurd. We've been over this before."
"And I'm still right. I'll bet when they were kids those identical twins switched personalities whenever it suited them. And if that's so, why wouldn't they do that later in life?"
"Nobody in their right mind agrees to change identities, especially if they're about to be killed."
"Well, of course Deirdre wouldn't agree to the idea-not if she was the victim. But if Doris did take her identity, she'd have it all. The insurance payout would cover her debts and she'd also have access to whatever assets Deirdre, a successful businesswoman, had owned, which would save her failing shop and also help support her daughter. And why should she feel guilt? Her sister had a fatal illness, she would've died anyway. Doris may have justified the act believing she'd saved Deirdre from the horror of a painful death."
The idea made sense, but Tricia didn't want to embrace it. Not only did it negate her own theory that Mike Harris killed Doris, but there was no way on Earth she wanted Angelica to be proven right-again.
"Maybe I should go next door and talk to Deirdre. I know a fair bit about cooking. If she does, too, it would only help prove my point."
"Do what you want," Tricia said and waved a hand in dismissal. "Talking about all this isn't getting the work around here done."
Mr. Everett bent over his task once more as Angelica rolled her eyes theatrically. "Says she who's been away from the store all day."
"There won't be a store if I can't get Sheriff Adams off my back," Tricia countered.
"Well, even if you do go to jail, I'm still here to pick up the pieces. And isn't that what family is for?"
Tricia found her fingers involuntarily clenching-her body's way of saving her from another murder rap by preventing her from choking the life out of her only sibling. Meanwhile, Angelica stood before her, waiting for some kind of an answer.
Tricia turned away. "I'm starving, I haven't had a thing to eat since breakfast. Where's the bakery bag? There must be a few cookies left."
"Sorry," Angelica apologized. "I ate the last one just before you came back."
Suddenly fratricide seemed like a wonderful solution to all life's problems.
Twenty-Two
Tricia tried not to keep an eye on the clock, but after Angelica had been gone for almost an hour she began to worry. What if Angelica said or did something to tip Deirdre off about her suspicions? What if Deirdre threatened Angelica? The what-ifs in her mind began to escalate and she was glad to wait on the few customers who'd braved the elements to patronize Haven't Got a Clue.
The rain had not let up and the street lamps had already blinked on. Tricia let a still-distraught Ginny leave early, and she and Mr. Everett were discussing the merits of doing more author signings and the possibility of staring a reading group when Angelica finally returned.
"Well?" Tricia asked.
Angelica pushed up her sweater sleeves and shrugged. "That woman would make a pretty fair poker player."
"What was her attitude?" Mr. Everett asked. "Polite or had she reverted to type?"
Tricia blinked, surprised. That made twice in one day Mr. Everett had shown irritation.
"She was polite, but she has absolutely no clue how to sell a room," Angelica said and made an attempt to fluff up her rain-dampened hair. "Then again, her house was no better."
Mr. Everett frowned, puzzled by the remark.
"That's because she's selling books-not a room," Tricia grated, hoping Mr. Everett wouldn't ask Angelica how she knew about Doris's home.
"Yes, but if you want to be successful," Angelica continued, oblivious of her gaffe, "you've got to have atmosphere, which you've achieved here with your hunter green accents, sumptuous paneling, the copper tiled ceiling, the oak shelves-you've even got great carpet. This room makes you want to sit down with a good book, a glass of sherry, and a cigar."
Mr. Everett blinked at this last.
"Well, not me personally-I don't smoke-but you know what I mean. Whoever that woman is next door-she's clueless when it comes to selling."
"And what would you do to entice a customer to buy old cookbooks?" Mr. Everett asked.
She turned to face him. "I'd offer more than just books. Exotic gadgets-even just as decor. I'd have samples of dipping sauces, tapanades, mustards, relishes, jams, jellies, and chutneys. I'd feature different cuisines, from Indian to Irish to Asian fusion."
"Doris used to have cooking demonstrations. And don't forget, the lure of Stoneham is rare and antiquarian books," Tricia told her.
"So why can't you offer the new with the old? Tricia, people love to eat. For a big segment of the population, food is more important than sex. Why else would there be an obesity crisis in this country? When life hands you lemons, you make a meringue pie or a luscious curd."
Had Angelica found solace in food? Then again, she'd recently lost a lot of weight. Maybe she'd made the effort to appear more attractive to the husband who no longer wanted her.
"My point is," Angelica continued, "her shtick is food. She ought to play it up."
"Did you tell her that?"
Angelica frowned. "Not exactly. I did tell her I was thinking of opening a restaurant, and we had a nice discussion about food prep."
"Did she seem to know a lot about cooking?" Tricia asked.
"She asked a lot of questions. The kind someone might ask if they weren't sure what they were getting into."
"Where does this leave your theory about her?"
"I don't know," Angelica admitted. "She
may have been testing me, or maybe just giving me a snow job."
"I didn't know you wanted to open a restaurant, Mrs. Prescott," said Mr. Everett. "I'm an old hand when it comes to fresh produce. I'd enjoy having a dialogue on it with you some time, if you wouldn't mind."
"I'd love to. How about tomorrow? We can unpack books and talk asparagus and Swiss chard."
"I'll look forward to it," he said.
Thunder rumbled overhead. Tricia looked around the empty shop. "Thanks to what's left of Hurricane Sheila, I don't think we're going to have any more customers tonight. Why don't we call it a day? You can head on home, Mr. Everett."
"If the weather were better, I would insist on staying on until our normal closing time, but I think I will take you up on your generous offer. I will be here bright and early tomorrow, however." He took off his apron and went to the back of the store to retrieve his jacket and umbrella. "Until the morning, ladies."
"Good night," the sisters chorused, as the door shut on his back.
"I'd better head upstairs and get that chicken in the oven if we're ever going to eat tonight," Angelica said.
"What chicken?"
"I went out during a lull and got the fixings. If I'd known I'd have something to celebrate, I would've gotten steaks. We can have that tomorrow."
"Isn't roast chicken kind of pedestrian for you?" Tricia asked.
"Comfort food is comfort food." Angelica glanced around the shop. "Miss Marple, are you coming?"
The cat, curled up on one of the nook's comfy chairs, opened one eye, glared at Angelica, and closed it again.
"So much for trying to make friends with you. " All business, she headed toward the stairs at the back of the shop. "Okay, I'm off."
"I've got things to do," Tricia called. "Be up in a few minutes."
Tricia locked the door and pulled the shades down on the big plate-glass window that overlooked the sidewalk on Main Street, thankful to have a few minutes to herself to decompress. Roger Livingston had made her feel better about her own legal situation, but poor Grace Harris was still alone, still trapped at St. Godelive's.
Tricia crossed to the sales counter. With Angelica gone, Miss Marple decided to be more sociable and hopped down from the chair, trotting over to jump up on the counter and then over to the shelf behind the register next to the still-nonfunctioning security camera.
Tricia planted her hands on her hips. "How many times have I asked you not to get up there?"
Miss Marple said, "Yeow!"
Tricia lifted the cat from the shelf, placing her on the floor. Not one to take direction well, Miss Marple jumped up on the sales counter and again said, "Yeow!"
"Don't even think about getting back up there," Tricia cautioned and turned back for the camera. How could one eight-pound cat continually knock a wall-mounted camera out of alignment? Tricia usually had it pointing at the register-in case someone tried to rob them-but she often thought it made more sense to train it on the back of the shop where shoplifters tended to steal the most merchandise. Now it pointed out toward the street, in the direction of the Cookery, exactly as it had on the night of Doris Gleason's murder.
Tricia peeked around the side of the shade, glancing across the street to Mike Harris's darkened storefront campaign headquarters. She hadn't pulled the shades down on the night of the murder. If Mike had killed Doris, he would've had to cross the street to enter the Cookery during the interval Tricia had left the village to pick up Angelica at the Brookview Inn and her return some thirty minutes later.
She glanced over her shoulder at the camera still mounted on the wall. Had it been in operation at the time? If so, what would she find if she studied the tape?
Footsteps pounded at the far end of the shop, and Angelica appeared at the open doorway to the loft apartment. "Are you ever coming up? I want you to give me a hand making stuffed grape leaves. My version is just divine."
"In a minute," Tricia said, annoyed.
Angelica padded across the shop in her stocking feet. "What's got you so hyped up?"
"What do you mean?"
"The look on your face. It almost says 'eureka!'"
"I'm just wondering…Miss Marple messed with my security system the night Doris was murdered. I don't think I reset the system before I left to pick you up at the inn. What if it recorded Mike Harris crossing the street from his new offices and showed him going to the Cookery?"
Angelica frowned. "It might show him crossing the street and heading north, but you couldn't prove he went next door."
"No, but it might be something my new lawyer could use to help prove me innocent should Sheriff Adams make good her threat to arrest me."
"Well, I'm all for that. I've got the chicken in on low if you want to play your tape. Do we need to take it upstairs?"
"I only have a DVD player in the loft, but we could play it back on the shop's monitor."
"Go for it."
Always interested in technology of any kind, Miss Marple moved to the edge of the counter to study the operation. Tricia hadn't touched the cassette since the morning before Doris had been murdered, and the whirr of it rewinding in the player fascinated the cat.
Tricia noticed Angelica's bare feet. "Where are your shoes?"
"They got wet. Maybe I'll bring a pair of slippers over tomorrow."
"Don't get too comfortable. You'll soon have your own house here in Stoneham."
The tape came to a halt with a clunk and Tricia was about to press the play button when someone banged sharply on the shop door. "Ignore it," Angelica advised. "The store's closed."
The banging came again, this time accompanied by a voice Tricia recognized: Mike Harris. "Open up. I know you're in there, Tricia. The lights are still on," he bellowed. Miss Marple jumped down from her perch and hightailed it across the shop and up the stairs to the apartment. Tricia bit her lip, looked back at the door.
"Don't you dare open that door," Angelica ordered. "He sounds ticked."
The banging continued. Then got much louder.
"I think he's kicking it in," Tricia said, alarmed. "What if he gets inside?"
"Call the sheriff's department," Angelica said.
"Are you kidding? They'd probably lock me up, not him!"
The wood around the door began to splinter.
"Don't you have any friends in this town you can call?" Angelica asked anxiously.
"Mr. Everett and Ginny."
Angelica grabbed the shop's phone and started dialing. "Why couldn't you have a modern phone?"
"Use your cell," Tricia implored.
"I left it upstairs. Ah, it's ringing. Come on, Bob, answer!"
The door crashed open and Mike burst into the shop, soaking wet, chest heaving, his face twisted in anger. "Where the hell do you get off accusing me of murder?" he demanded.
"Answer the phone," Angelica implored.
"Hang up!" Mike ordered.
A defiant Angelica held on to the receiver.
"I said hang up!"
"Bob, it's Angelica! Get over to Haven't Got a Clue right now. There's a madman-"
Before she could finish her sentence, Mike had charged across the carpet, yanked the phone from her hand, and pulled the cord from the wall. Both she and Tricia darted behind the sales counter, putting it between them and the crazy man before them.
"Why did you visit my mother at the home and fill her head with nonsense?"
"What are you talking about?" Tricia bluffed.
"I just got a call from Sheriff Adams. She said you'd visited Mom, accused me of trying to poison her and steal from her. That's a bold-faced lie!"
"Is it?" Tricia said. "The home changed their practices, stopped serving her the gourmet chocolate laced with who knows what that you brought her. It only took a couple of days for her mind to clear. She filed papers to keep you away from her assets. Winnie Wentworth may be dead, but you left enough evidence to nail you for selling off items from your mother's home without her permission."
His eyes
had narrowed at the mention of Winnie. "You have no proof."
"An admission of guilt if I ever heard one," Angelica quipped.
"Ange, shush!" Tricia ordered.
"Come on, Trish, you were all hyped just now to see if he was on that tape."
"Ange," Tricia warned.
"What tape?" Mike demanded.
"From the security camera. It was focused out on the street the night Doris Gleason was murdered," Angelica said.
"Give it to me," Mike commanded.
"In your dreams," Angelica said with a sneer.
"Ange," Tricia said through clenched teeth. "You're going to get us killed."
"I said give it to me!" Mike lifted the heavy phone with both hands and smashed it through the top of the sales counter, sending chunks and shards of glass spraying across the carpet.
Both women jumped back and screamed.
Deirdre suddenly stood in the open door, her big red handbag dangling from her left forearm. "What's going on?" she demanded.
"Call the sheriff! Call the sheriff!" Angelica squealed.
Instead, Deirdre stepped inside the shop, pushed the door so that it was ajar-but it wouldn't shut properly with the doorjamb broken and hanging.
"I said what's going on?" Deirdre repeated.
"They've got something I want," Mike said, then turned. "Now give it to me."
The sisters stole a look at each other. Angelica barely nodded, but it was enough for Tricia to reach down to retrieve the tape from the video recorder. She handed it to Mike and backed up, hitting the wall, nearly cracking her head on the shelf that housed the useless video camera.
Mike dropped the tape to the carpeted floor, stomped on it with his booted right foot until the case cracked. Again and again his foot came down until the plastic gave way and he was left pummeling the ribbon of magnetic videotape.
Breathing hard, he looked up, his eyes wild. "Give me a bag."
Tricia blinked, unsure what he meant.
"I said give me a bag!"
Angelica pulled one of the green plastic Haven't Got a Clue shopping bags out from under the counter and threw it at him.
Murder Is Binding bm-1 Page 22
