Murder Is Binding (15 page)

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 did
not
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 like 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.

Angelica was suddenly at her side. “This belonged to the woman who sold Doris the cookbook?”

Tricia nodded and leaned forward to try the rear passenger side door handle. It opened.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Angelica said and pulled Tricia's hand away. “This is a crime scene.”

“The sheriff said Winnie's death was an accident. There's no crime tape. Poking around inside the car isn't trespassing.”

“Says you.”

Tricia waved her sister off and climbed into the grimy, damp interior. Various unpleasant odors assaulted her, and it was difficult to discern them: sweat, urine, and possibly mold? She rooted through the pile of gray clothes and blankets on the floor, coming up with a sheaf of yellowing newspaper clippings that had been stuffed under the driver's seat. She backed out of the car, shoving the papers toward Angelica, who stepped away in horror.

“I don't want to touch that. Think of all the germs!”

Tricia slammed the car door, shook her head in disgust, and set the fluttering papers on the right rear quarter panel. They were all the same: pages from the
Stoneham Weekly News
advertising section, listing tag sales, estate sales, and auctions, with a number of entries circled.

“There must be five or six weeks' worth here,” Tricia said, flipping through the sheets.

“So what?”

“Maybe we can find the address where Winnie bought that cookbook.”

Angelica frowned. “What good will that do?”

“It might lead us to whoever killed her.”

“You just told me the sheriff said it was an accident.”

“And if you believe her, let me interest you in some swampland in Florida. Oh, Ange, it's obvious Sheriff Adams doesn't care about actually solving Doris's murder. She seems to spend all her time trying to pin it on me!” She gathered up the scraps and started back for Angelica's car.

“You can't take that stuff along,” Angelica said, struggling to keep up with her sister's brisk pace.

“Why not? The sheriff apparently didn't want it. It's just garbage now.”

“Then throw it away.”

Tricia stopped dead, turned, and faced her sister. “Not until I map out where Winnie found her treasures in her last few weeks.”

Angelica started
the car and pulled back onto the highway. “You
are
in a mood today.”

Tricia clutched the papers on her lap. “I have reason to be.” She let out a sigh and related her encounter with Mike Harris earlier that morning, feeling better for finally having unburdened her soul. “I'm even wondering if he could've thrown that rock through my store window last night.”

“Hmm. Sounds more like you had a panic attack,” Angelica commented, steering the rental car through the countryside with amazing familiarity. “My friend Carol used to get them whenever she had to face something unpleasant—like a visit with her in-laws. No wonder she could never stay married for more than six months at a time.”

“It's never happened to me before.”

“You're under stress,” Angelica explained reasonably. “Who wouldn't be with the possibility of a murder charge hanging over her head?”

“I did
not
kill Doris Gleason, and I wish everyone would just stop saying that.”

“My, we are very,
very
testy today. Mind you, right about now I could go for a tight embrace with a handsome man. And so far I've liked every man I've met here in Stoneham. They seem like the marrying kind.”

“You'd be bored silly within a month and you know it,” Tricia grumbled.

The idea of Angelica living nearby—and the possibility of Bob Kelly as a possible brother-in-law—was enough to make Tricia physically ill, especially since she still wanted to believe he had a hand in Doris's death. Too bad she didn't have a shred of evidence to prove it.

Time to ask the big question that had been so much on her mind. “Ange, isn't there any hope you and Drew can get back together?”

Angelica's mouth tightened, and she took her time before answering. “No.”

“Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

“Oh, it's all so tedious,” she said, with impatience.

“You obviously haven't found someone else. Has he?”

Again Angelica's hands tightened on the steering wheel. “If you must know, yes. And she's ten years older than me, with a face full of wrinkles! Some woman he works with. They talk about math and physics and bonsai, of all things. One thing led to another and…he asked me to move out so she could move in.”

And that's why Angelica had lost weight and come to Stoneham—to lick her emotional wounds. And Tricia had dropped all those snide comments about Drew in front of Bob the night before. “I'm so sorry, Ange.”

“It was his house, after all,” she continued, her gaze riveted on the road. “Drew isn't a beast. I'll get a good settlement. He paid for the trip to Aspen, and for storing my things until I find a place to settle. He's really been very kind.”

Except for tossing her aside like an old shoe. But then Christopher had been just as generous when he'd announced he'd wanted his freedom, too. Maybe the Miles girls were just doomed to be unlucky in love.

“It's taken me a few months,” Angelica continued, resigned, “but now I'm ready to move on. I mean, what choice do I have?”

“There's no chance of counseling, or—?”

Angelica shook her head. “Apparently he's loved that woman for years, but always thought she was unattainable. Then her husband died last year, and Drew figured he wasn't getting any younger. Not that he was unhappy with me, he later told me. But one thing led to another and…well, the rest as they say is history.”

Tricia let out a breath. At least Christopher hadn't left her for someone else. Freedom for him meant solitude, which he'd apparently found and savored.

“Ah, here we are.” Angelica slowed the car and turned off the highway onto a long gravel drive lined with decades-old maples. A little white cottage stood in a clearing, looking like something out of
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
, with its forest green shuttered windows, gabled, slate roof, its foundation surrounded by alternating pink and red rosebushes still in bloom.

“Oh, Ange, it's darling,” Trish said. “Can we go inside?”

“I wish. But the agent who showed it to me this morning said she couldn't come back today. I just wanted you to see it, to see what you think.”

“I love it.” And it was far enough away from the village that Angelica might not want to drive into town come winter when the roads were reputed to be icy and treacherous. Bad Tricia wanting to keep her sister at bay! And really, she wasn't sure she felt that way anymore. Well, at least some of the time, and that had to be progress. Didn't it?

“Do you want to walk around the yard?” Angelica asked, hope coloring her voice.

“Sure.”

The sisters got out of the car and walked ten or so yards to stand before the cottage. “Isn't that slate roof just incredible?” Angelica asked.

A few tiles looked skewed; did that mean it leaked? Tricia sidled between a couple of rosebushes, shaded her eyes, and peered in through one of the leaded glass windows. The room inside was bare, but the walls, in neutral tones, looked freshly painted and the floors shone like they'd just been sanded and sealed.

“That's fir flooring, and look at the wonderful fieldstone fireplace. Imagine how cozy it would be on a cold winter's night,” Angelica said wistfully.

Tricia stood back. “It's delightful. I had no idea a sweet little place like this was even available locally.”

Angelica's smile was tentative. “I'm glad you like it. I thought you might be angry with me for wanting to live near you. It might not be forever, I just—I need you right now. Is that too terrible a thing for a sister to say?”

Touched, Tricia rested a hand on her sister's arm. “No, and I'm happy you feel that way. I just wish I could leave all the baggage from our childhood behind.”

“I have none. But then why should I? I was the cherished child they never thought they'd have, and you were…well, you weren't expected. By that time Mother had moved on to other pursuits.”

Angelica's words were nothing Tricia hadn't considered for herself too many times over the years, yet it did hurt to hear them. She withdrew her hand.

Angelica frowned. “I've spoiled the moment, haven't I?”

Nothing new
, Tricia felt tempted to say, instead she turned and walked back to the car. Angelica took the hint and followed. Once inside, she started the engine, backed into the turnaround, and headed down the drive for the highway once again.

“Where to now?” Tricia asked, not caring what the answer was.

“I thought it might be fun to have dinner at the inn tonight. My treat. What do you say?”

Since the idea of cooking for herself was always a turnoff, and Miss Marple wouldn't be expecting her dinner for several hours anyway, Tricia nodded.

As she drove, Angelica gave a running commentary about the cottage's charms and its drawbacks, including the lack of closet space and how she thought she might like to add a patio and lap pool to the backyard and did Tricia know anything about pool maintenance?

“No.”

Meanwhile, Tricia turned her attention back to Winnie's newspaper clippings. She must have circled forty or fifty addresses and Tricia wasn't sure she had a detailed map of the area to check them out. Stoneham had no map store, and she wasn't aware of any of the bookstores catering to local history, either. Maybe the chamber of commerce had done an advertising map. If she ran into Bob, she'd ask. Other than that she decided to just call Frannie at the C of C office on Monday.

Others must have had the same early-dinner idea as Angelica because the inn's parking lot was jammed, and though she circled the lot twice, there simply were no empty spaces. “Darn. Now I'm going to have to park behind the inn in the bungalow lot.”

“So, there's a back entrance, isn't there?”

“Is there? I don't know.”

Once behind the inn, Tricia pointed out the door that led to the building's secondary entrance, and Angelica parked the car next to the Dumpster, the only available spot in the back lot. They got out of the car and she pointed to the white Altima with the Connecticut plates that sat in front of the door. “Look, there's that stupid car that's been taking all the desirable parking places in the village. I've had enough. I'm going to ask Bess who owns it.”

Angelica marched ahead, leaving Tricia struggling to keep up.

Bess was once again stationed at the inn's reception desk, but she was helping another guest and the sisters had to wait to gain her attention. Tricia wandered over to a wooden rack that held brochures detailing the local attractions, and much to her delight found a stack of chamber of commerce maps of Stoneham. She scooped one up. Dinner now seemed unimportant.

Angelica stepped up to the reception desk.

“I hope you're enjoying your stay, Mrs. Prescott,” Bess greeted at last.

“Very much so. In fact, I'm so impressed with the whole place, I'm thinking of moving to Stoneham.”

“That's wonderful. Now, how can I help you this evening?”

“There's a car in the back lot with Connecticut plates: 64B R59. Does it belong to a guest?”

Bess's smile faltered. “I'm not sure I should give out that information.”

“But I'm about to become a townie,” Angelica insisted.

“That's villager,” Tricia corrected.

Bess frowned. “I guess it can't hurt,” she said, although she didn't sound convinced. Angelica repeated the plate number. Bess tapped a few keys on her computer. “Let's see. Oh, here it is. The car belongs to Deirdre Gleason; she's in bungalow two.”

Her words tore Tricia's attention away from the map.

“It can't be,” Angelica asserted. “That car was here when I arrived on Tuesday, which was the day Doris Gleason died.”

Bess checked the register. “Ms. Gleason checked in on the third.”

“And Doris was murdered on the fifth,” Tricia said.

“What difference does it make what day she checked in?” Bess asked.

“Until Saturday no one knew Doris even had a sister,” Tricia said.

“I did,” Bess said. “Deirdre Gleason told me so.”

“When did she tell you?” Angelica pressed.

“I don't remember exactly.”

“Why didn't you report it to the sheriff after Doris's death?” Angelica insisted.

“I didn't think about it. I mean why would I?” Bess said, sounding defensive.

Bess was right; she wouldn't have known the sheriff was looking for next of kin. Tricia turned her attention back to her map.

“Tonight's Ms. Gleason's last night with us. She's moving into her sister's home tomorrow,” Bess said.

Angelica leaned against the counter, bending closer. “Really? Tell me, have you gotten to know Deirdre during her stay?”

Tricia unfolded another section of her map and rolled her eyes, only half listening to the conversation.

Bess shook her head. “Not really. She keeps to herself. Has all her meals in the bungalow.”

“Has anything about her changed since her sister's death?” Angelica asked.

“Changed?” Bess echoed.

“Her appearance: clothes, glasses, makeup?”

Bess thought about it. “She got her hair cut real short.”

“Did she really?” Angelica said slyly.

Tricia refolded her map and changed the subject. “Bess, do you know what tonight's special is?”

It took a moment for the question to register. “Um…seared scallops with tropical salsa.”

Angelica glowered at Tricia. “Sounds yummy.”

Snagging Angelica's arm, Tricia pulled her away from the reception desk. “Thanks, Bess.”

“Trish!”

“Shhh,” Tricia warned and steered Angelica toward the dining room. “What was all that about?” she whispered.

“I'm working on a theory. I'll tell you about it later.”

The hostess arrived to seat them, and they followed her to a far corner of the crowded dining room. The table was not to Angelica's liking.

“This is outrageous,” she grumbled, knocking her elbow against the paneled wall. We deserve a better table than this.”

“And there aren't any others, so be quiet and read your menu.” But Tricia wasn't looking at her own menu; instead, she squinted at the tiny print on the map's index.

“Aren't you even the least bit curious as to why Deirdre made it sound like she wasn't in town before her sister's death? And how come nobody in town even knew Doris had a sister?”

“Of course I'm interested,” Tricia said, setting the map aside and diving into her purse for her reading glasses. “But right now I'm more interested in finding out where Winnie got that blasted cookbook.”

It was Angelica's turn to shush Tricia.

“And the reason nobody in town knew Doris had a sister,” Tricia whispered, “is because she's not a Stoneham native. Aside from a few people like Mr. Everett, not many of the townspeople frequent the bookstores. Bess probably didn't even know Doris existed until Deirdre came to visit.”

“It still seems funny to me,” Angelica griped, but focused her attention on the menu. “Especially since the sheriff told you the dead woman had no relatives.”

Had the sheriff said so, or had Tricia only imagined she had? Now she wasn't sure.

She thought back. It had been Bob who'd said Doris had no heirs the day he'd cleared out the Cookery. He'd either been in denial or clueless.

“Speak of the devil,” Angelica muttered, looking over Tricia's shoulder.

Tricia turned. Sheriff Adams was maneuvering her bulk past the Brookview's dining patrons, bumping into chairs and jostling tables and glasses as she made her way toward the sisters. “Now what?”

Sheriff Adams paused in front of Tricia's table, her thumbs hooked into her belt loops, a stance that would've done John Wayne proud. “Ms. Miles, I'd like to speak with you.”