Murder Is Binding (11 page)

Taking the hint, Tricia busied herself by feeding Miss Marple and setting the table. Although Bob was her first official dinner guest since moving in, she decided not to use her grandmother's best china and tableware. For someone like Mike, however, she might be persuaded to pull out all the stops.

She would've liked to have returned Mike's call, thanking him for his support. Hadn't he said his mother's book collection included cookbooks? Deirdre Gleason would need additional titles to restock the Cookery. Perhaps Tricia could broker a deal for the books, which would at least keep the lines of communication open with her nearest neighbor.

When the crab puffs were finally gone Angelica declared the entrée ready to serve. She'd whipped up a romaine salad and homemade poppy-seed dressing as well. The three of them took seats at the table.

Bob dug in, chewed, and swallowed. “Unusual flavor. What is it?”

Tricia took a bite and could tell the meat wasn't beef. “Yes, it's different, but it's delicious,” she said and took another bite.

“Venison,” Angelica said, smug. “Most people won't eat it, but I know how to take out the gamey flavor.”

“And how do you do that?” Bob asked, shoveling up another mouthful.

“It's a secret.” She sipped her wine. “I'm sorry I had to use store-bought noodles, but there just wasn't time to make them from scratch,” she lamented and sighed.

Tricia watched as Bob stabbed another forkful, then savored the taste. “This is absolutely delicious. Have you ever thought about opening a restaurant, Angelica?”

Angelica brightened. “Well, actually, I have.”

Bob leaned in closer, his voice growing husky. “I've got a couple of beautiful properties that could be converted into the most exquisite little bistros.”

Tricia cringed. Honestly, he sounded like the worst kind of used car salesman.

Angelica didn't seem to notice and fluttered her eyelashes. “Do tell.”

Tricia cleared her throat, afraid they'd forgotten she was still there. She'd never seen Angelica turn on the charm for a man before—and she was sure she didn't want to see a repeat performance.

“Gee, it's too bad Drew isn't here. As I recall, Stroganoff was his favorite. And he has such a vast knowledge of architecture and renovation—which would sure be a big help if you're serious about opening a restaurant.”

“Drew?” Bob asked.

Angelica straightened in her chair, her expression souring. “My soon-to-be ex-husband.”

“I'm still hoping for a reconciliation,” Tricia said, trying to look encouraging.

Angelica put down her fork. “Well, I'm not. More Stroganoff, Bob?”

Tricia studied her sister's face. There was hurt behind her strained smile. Tricia still didn't know why her sister's marriage was about to end, and teasing her now, in front of Bob, really wasn't fair. Although, the last thing she wanted was for the two of them to start a relationship.

Tricia sipped her wine. Then again, why should she stand in the way of her sister's happiness even if she'd find it with someone like Bob Kelly? Wasn't she looking forward to seeing Mike Harris again? The pain of her own divorce was still fresh, and somewhere in the back of her mind she heard her mother scolding,
“If something happens to Dad and me, you're all you've got.”
Those words held new meaning for her after finding Doris Gleason's body, and suddenly Tricia found herself looking at her sister with kinder eyes.

“Tell me more about those hot properties, Bob,” Angelica cooed, lashes fluttering again.

Tricia's grasp on her fork tightened. If she didn't end up killing Angelica first.

Tricia lay
awake half the night, disturbed by dreams of Angelica, radiant in a long white gown, and Bob Kelly in a tuxedo with a green shirt and tie, making goo-goo eyes at each other as they exchanged I dos, and vowing to live a life of wedded bliss
in
Tricia's home. The rest of the night Tricia lay awake, various scenarios of her future—none of them good—circling through her mind.

Regular coffee might not be enough to get her through the day. A double shot of espresso was what she needed, except there was no place in all of Stoneham to get a cup of that black-as-tar brew at this time of day.

After a half hour of running nowhere on the treadmill, a shower, and a Pop-Tart breakfast, Tricia and Miss Marple headed down to the store, if only to soak up its cozy ambiance on that gray morning. Miss Marple settled down on one of the nook's chairs, ready for some serious napping, while Tricia puttered around the shop.

Mr. Everett must've seen the lights on, because he showed up especially early, with his collapsible umbrella under his arm. Tricia let him in and offered him the first complimentary cup of coffee of the day.

“Thank you,” he said, taking his first sip. He scrutinized her face. “Is something troubling you, Ms. Miles?”

She shook her head—definitely in denial—then thought better of it and nodded. “Yes. I keep thinking of all that's happened in the past few days and I can't quite make sense of it all.”

“Death is never as easy to handle in person as it is in fiction. Yet that's the fascination that inspired all the books here on your shelves.”

“That's true,” she admitted, “but it doesn't feel so antiseptic, so remote when you've actually known the deceased.”

“I agree.” He took another sip. “Death is not a stranger to Stoneham. We lose people all the time to sickness, to accidents. That we've lost one to murder gives us more in common with our big-city cousins. Not something we as a village aspire to.”

“You're right. When someone dies of natural causes there's pain, but also a sense of acceptance. But murder and accidents…” She studied the old man's gray eyes. “Did you know Winnie Wentworth?”

His gaze dipped and he took his time before answering. “Yes.”

“What was she like?”

“In years past she liked honeydew melons, green beans, and pork rinds and malt liquor on a Saturday night.”

Not the kind of details Tricia would've expected. She laughed. “How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “Just some things I observed over a number of years. For instance, you don't want customers to know how passionate you are about keeping the work of long-dead mystery authors alive. So you carry the current best sellers and give them some prominence, but when you talk to your customers, you always recommend the masters.”

Of course she did. Like the rest of the booksellers in town, Haven't Got a Clue offered used and rare books. He hadn't really answered her question.

“Tell me something else about Winnie,” she said, hungry to hear more.

Mr. Everett searched the depths of his quickly cooling coffee. “She had contempt for the written word, or at least reading for pleasure, but she recognized books as way to stay afloat with the changes that came to Stoneham these past few years.”

“Then why didn't she offer me more books?” Tricia asked, puzzled. “I didn't meet her until the day she died.”

Again he shrugged. “She was eccentric, didn't trust many people. But I do know one thing: she was always careful with her car. It's all she had. She wasn't one to drive recklessly.”

“Do you think her death was an accident or…something else?”

He glanced around the shop with its thousands of books. “Perhaps I read too much. Yet unless she was ill, it makes no sense that she crashed and died on such a beautiful, sunny day. Especially when she was the only person who knew where the book stolen from the Cookery came from.”

Though Winnie denied remembering, Tricia suspected Doris's killer could've believed the same thing. Hearing that theory from another source gave her no comfort.

 

“Oh dear,”
Mr. Everett said within minutes of opening a copy of Carter Dickson's
The Punch and Judy Murders.
Even with a Nicholas Gunn CD playing softly in the background, the tone of his voice caused Tricia to look up from opening the morning mail.

Mr. Everett rose from his chair, headed for the sales counter.

Ginny, who'd been helping a customer, excused herself and intercepted him.

The elderly gent handed a folded piece of paper to Tricia. Another nudist tract, but this one was different. Instead of a generic missive on the health benefits and pleasure of a nudist lifestyle, this one was a blatant advertisement. “Free Spirit Inc. presents Full Moon Camp and Resort,” Tricia read aloud. The tract went on to list all the amenities, including a pool, hot tubs, therapeutic massage, and—“Why is it nudists are so intent on playing volleyball?” she asked.

Ginny giggled. “Look, there's a website listed. Maybe they've got pictures.”

Tricia made the trek up to her apartment, snagged her laptop computer, and was back down to the shop in record time. She booted up and was connected to the Internet within another minute or two. The three of them gathered behind the sales counter. “If there're naughty pictures, I'm shutting it down,” she warned.

“We're all grown-ups,” Ginny said sensibly, but Mr. Everett bristled at the notion. Still, he didn't walk away.

Free Spirit's home page flashed onto the little screen. No naked people. So far so good. Instead there was a cute little graphic of a squirrel named Ricky, which was apparently the site's mascot. By clicking on various links, Ricky took visitor 120,043 on a tour of the website. First up, the volleyball court, but there were no naked men and women playing the game, only the photo of a well-groomed court. The pool was Olympic-sized, with scores of white chaise longues lined up around it, each with its own clean, neatly folded white towel. That picture was also devoid of people, as was every other photograph on the website. Instead, like any other camping resort, the text stressed the clean, well-maintained facilities at every Free Spirit location.

“It's a chain?” Mr. Everett asked.

“Apparently so.” Tricia clicked on the coming attractions page and found what she'd been looking for. “Aha. Listen to this: ‘Our newest Full Moon location is scheduled to open next summer in southern New Hampshire.'”

“You think they mean here in Stoneham?” Ginny asked.

“It can't be.” Still, there had been the rumor of a big box outfit wanting to locate in the area. No, retail was a year-round moneymaking concern while a nudist resort would, for the most part, only be seasonal.

“There's no reason it would have to be located near here. Saying ‘southern New Hampshire' is rather ambiguous. They'd probably want to be near a larger city to make it accessible for travelers,” Mr. Everett said reasonably.

“You're probably right,” Tricia agreed.

Mr. Everett stepped away from the counter. “I think I'll go back to my reading. Excuse me, ladies,” he said, and off to the nook he went.

“I think it would be cool to have a nudist resort right outside of town. Think of all the new money it would bring to the area,” Ginny said wistfully. “All those people might get bored with volleyball after a while. Did you see all those lounge chairs? They'd definitely need something good to read while they whiled away the hours working on their tans.”

“One can hope,” Tricia said. “But, oh, think about the mosquitoes and all the new places you could get bitten.” She shuddered and Ginny laughed. “Better be on the lookout for more of these,” she said, crumpled up the tract Mr. Everett had found, and tossed it into the trash.

“Could you help me, miss?” asked the customer Ginny had abandoned only a few minutes before.

“I'll keep an eye out for more of those advertisements,” Ginny told Tricia, before skirting the counter. “Now, what can I help you find?” she asked the customer.

Tricia clicked on the button for the website's home page once more. Ricky smiled at her with a toothy grin more appropriate to a cartoon chipmunk. Bob hadn't wanted to talk about big box stores. How eager would he be to talk about the possibility of a nudist resort—if she could even catch him at his realty office to ask?

Tricia didn't have an opportunity to find out. Their slow start of a morning suddenly morphed into a busy afternoon of enthusiastic shoppers looking for vintage mysteries. Tricia was deep in conversation with a Mrs. Richardson, a serious collector from the Hamptons, who had already picked out more than a dozen books with authors ranging from Margery Allingham to Cornell Woolrich. She glanced up as the bell over the door jingled and a damp Mike Harris shook the drops from his raincoat onto the mat just inside the door.

Both Ginny and Mr. Everett were also deeply involved in customer service, so Tricia gave Mike a be-with-you-when-I-can smile. He waved a no-hurry hand in response and started browsing amongst the shelves.

The Hamptons woman spent close to seven hundred dollars and left the store a happy customer; likewise, Tricia was a very happy proprietor. A Charioteer tour bus rolled down Main Street, which would hopefully mean another influx of customers. A patient Mike had settled into the nook, thumbing through
Mystery Scene Magazine.
Tricia knew she only had minutes before the store would be flooded with potential customers again.

“I'm sorry it took so long,” she apologized, taking the seat opposite him.

“No, I'm sorry. I should've called; but then I wouldn't have gotten to see you.”

Tricia felt her cheeks redden. “I wanted to thank you for your call yesterday. I didn't grab it because—”

“If it was me, I'd have been screening my calls after that hatchet job in the
Stoneham Weekly News
.”

“I'm afraid that's exactly what I was doing. Unfortunately some people believed every word. A few even came here to gawk at me.”

“Don't judge the whole village by a couple of jerks.” He changed the subject. “We still on for tomorrow?”

“I wouldn't miss it. Just give me the time and place.”

“I know you need to open at noon. Is nine o'clock too early?”

“Not at all.”

“Great.” Mike pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “Here's the address. Do you need directions?”

Tricia glanced at the paper. “No, I've driven through this neighborhood before. Very nice houses.”

Mike's smile was wistful. “Yes. It's a shame I have to sell it. But Mother's care comes first.”

Tricia nodded, remembering the pain of losing Christopher's father to dementia.

The bell over the door jangled as a fresh wave of customers entered the shop.

Mike stood. “I'd better make room for the onslaught.” They stood for a moment, looking into each other's eyes, then Mike clasped her hands and drew her close, kissed her cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

Surprised but pleased, Tricia watched Mike depart, even going so far as to follow his progress as he crossed the street to his new office and campaign headquarters. She did, however, move away from the window in case he turned. She didn't want him to know she'd been watching him.

At the coffee station, Ginny motioned for Tricia, then proffered the pot. “It isn't even two o'clock and this is the last of the coffee. We're already out of cookies. Want me to go get more?”

Tricia shook her head. “Most of our sales today have been via credit card; we haven't got much cash in the till. I'll go get the supplies and be back within half an hour. Can you manage?”

“I'd be glad to help out if you need me?” said Mr. Everett, coming up behind Tricia.

“I can't keep imposing on you.”

“I like to feel useful,” said the older gentleman.

“Go on,” Ginny encouraged. “We'll be fine.”

Tricia grabbed her purse, raincoat, and umbrella and ducked past the hoard of customers for a hasty exit. She waited for traffic to pass before crossing the street. Mr. Everett's help these last few days had been a blessing. As he was at the store on a daily basis, she wondered if she should offer him a part-time job. Her balance sheet was already in better shape than what she'd initially projected and as Ginny had Sundays off, he might be willing to help out then. Granted, it was a slow day, but she could always use his help for shelving new stock. It made perfect sense, and why hadn't she thought of it before?

The Coffee Bean was just as busy as Haven't Got a Clue, and Tricia took a number, noting there were at least eight customers ahead of her. Stoneham was really hopping on this bleak, late-summer afternoon.

To pass the time, Tricia distracted herself by examining the store's stock: coffee cups that ran the gamut from artful to sublimely silly, packets of gourmet cookies, petit fours, and chocolate in colorful wrappings, everything so beautifully packaged it enticed customers to spend. But she'd get her cookies from the village bakery—if they had anything left this late in the afternoon.

As Tricia read the list of ingredients on a box of Green Mountain chocolates, she began to feel closed in. Looking up, she saw editor Russ Smith was standing well within her personal space. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping aside.

“I understand you weren't happy with my article,” he said without preamble.

“Who would be?”

“I owe it to my readers to—”

“Act like a tabloid journalist?”

His eyes flashed. “That's uncalled for.”

“So was painting me as a murderer—and without even circumstantial evidence.” Heads turned at her words. She lowered her voice. “I don't think this is the place to discuss this.”

“Then how about dinner. Are you free tonight?”