Murder Is Binding (16 page)

“Now? On a Sunday evening? In the middle of the Brookview's dining room? What about?”

The sheriff surveyed the dining room, as though making sure those at nearby tables could hear her. “Doris Gleason's murder. We can discuss it here, or we can do it in the lobby.”

Tricia gauged the interest from her neighbors, who'd suddenly lowered their heads to study their soup courses or were now hiding behind menus. “I have nothing to hide. Ask away.”

“I'm going to ask a judge to have your financial records subpoenaed. I contend that you stole that valuable book and killed Doris Gleason for financial gain.”

“Interesting that you'd make such an accusation without proof and in front of so many witnesses,” Angelica commented, still perusing her menu. “I'm sure you understand the legal ramifications of slander.”

“I'm not talking to you,” the sheriff growled.

“And you know something, Tricia, I don't think you should talk to the sheriff, either. I mean, not without a lawyer present. You want someone with legal experience who can document just how ridiculously this investigation is proceeding.”

“Ange—” Tricia warned.

“I mean really,” Angelica continued. “I'm sure you've got more money in your petty cash fund than the sheriff makes in a year. And since you couldn't give a Kadota fig about cooking or cookery books no matter how old and valuable they are, I don't see that continuing this conversation for an instant longer is going to be productive for either you or the sheriff. Especially when there are other people the law could be investigating.”

“Like whom?” Sheriff Adams demanded.

“Bob Kelly, for one,” Tricia said.

“We've already been over that territory.”

“Then how about Deirdre Gleason,” Angelica suggested. “She was in town days before her sister was murdered. Funny she didn't step forward to reveal her relationship with poor Doris until you went looking for her.”

“She was out of town at the time of the murder,” the sheriff said.

“And you have proof of that?”

“Deirdre Gleason was registered with the inn for three days before the murder. And although she paid for the room, she was out of town at the time of her sister's death. I'm satisfied with the information I've obtained to corroborate her story.”

“And why aren't you satisfied with Tricia's answers? Because she's younger and prettier and much, much thinner than you?” Angelica asked pointedly.

Tricia slapped the table. “That's enough, Angie.”

Angelica waved Tricia's protests aside, leveling her gaze at a pink-cheeked Wendy Adams. “Now unless you have specific allegations you want Tricia to address, please go away and let us have our dinner in peace. Perhaps you could do something useful, like finding out who broke Tricia's store window, or is even that beyond you?” She looked back down at her menu. “I think the herb-crusted sea bass sounds divine. How about you, Tricia?”

Tricia picked up her menu once again, struggling to keep her voice level. “I was thinking more along the lines of fowl. Perhaps the candied peacock?”

Sheriff Adams stood rooted to the spot, mouth open, eyes bulging, for a full ten seconds before she turned and stalked back across the dining room, jostling more tables as she went.

Tricia turned her menu so it hid her face from the onlookers. “That bit about me being thinner was a real low blow,” she whispered. “But thanks for getting in the shot about my window.”

“Well, she deserved it. There's no reason for her to keep hounding you. And do you really think she's looked into Deirdre's alibi?”

“I would think she'd have to. What makes you think Deirdre would've killed her sister?”

“Are you really sure it was Doris Gleason you saw lying dead on the floor of the Cookery? You saw her within an hour of her death; did you see her face? What was she wearing when you found her?”

Tricia thought back. “She had on the sweater she'd been wearing all day.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded and shuddered. “I can picture it—bloodstained—with the knife handle sticking out of it.”

“What about her hair? Was it the same?”

“I…I don't know. It was all mussed—it covered her face, and at the time I was glad of it.” She hadn't wanted to see the dead woman's lifeless eyes.

The waiter arrived to take their orders. Angelica took her time, consulting the wine list and asking for recommendations before settling on a sauterne that would go with both the appetizers and entrées. Tricia had plenty of time to think about their conversation.

The waiter departed and Angelica leaned close. “What are you thinking?”

“Suppose Deirdre did kill Doris, she might've hightailed it back to her home in Connecticut to establish an alibi. And she also had plenty of time to plant that cookbook in my shop the day she came in and introduced herself to us. We were swamped and she wandered the store for a good ten minutes before I could stop long enough to talk to her.”

“Yes, but you also said Bob could've planted it, or even Mike Harris. Make up your mind, Trish, just who is your prime suspect?”

“That's the problem. I'm as much in the dark as Sheriff Adams.”

Miss Marple
swished her tail, refusing to let Tricia pet her after Angelica dropped her off at Haven't Got a Clue. “Your dinner is only ten minutes late,” she explained, but Miss Marple would have none of it.

Tricia gathered up the empty dish and water bowl, chose a can of seafood platter, and set the dish and freshwater down before the cat. Miss Marple sniffed, turned her nose up at the offering, and walked away. “You're just being contrary,” Tricia accused, but Miss Marple continued across the kitchen before pausing to wash her front left paw.

With the track lights turned up to full over the kitchen's island, Tricia spread out her C of C map along with Winnie's newspaper clippings and several colored markers. She'd been itching to jump into the task since she'd found the papers in Winnie's car.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that Winnie had circled any sales that mentioned books, which wasn't at all unusual since she had apparently bought and then sold a lot of them to the other booksellers in Stoneham. Too bad Ginny had discouraged her from coming around.

Tricia took the first clipping and started charting the addresses in pink for the week prior to Winnie's death, blue for the week she died. Miss Marple sashayed back into the kitchen, rubbing her head on the backs of Tricia's calves. “Don't try to get back in my good graces,” Tricia muttered and squinted at another listing, this from two weeks before Winnie died. “Follow the signs on Canfield Road.” That was where Mike Harris's mother's house was located.

The ad didn't specify the house address, but Mike's mother's home had a detached garage. Would he have been so foolish as to sell the valuable old manuscript for pennies at such a sale? Then again, the book had been in remarkably good condition. He might have considered it a reproduction and not given it a second thought.

Tricia eyed the phone. She could try to call Mike, but what would she say? “Sorry I ran out of your house like a raving idiot. Now did you sell a valuable book to an old lady, kill another elderly woman for buying that book from her, and then kill the first old lady to cover your tracks?” That wouldn't go over well, but she would have to find a way to casually run into him and tactfully ask some questions. And maybe hell would freeze over in the next couple of days, too.

Miss Marple levitated onto the island. “Hey, you're not supposed to be up here,” Tricia scolded, but the cat merely circled around, rubbed her head against Tricia's chin, purring lustily.

Tricia scratched the cat's head, but kept her gaze on the yellowing ad. “Follow the signs on Canfield Road,” she repeated. Russ Smith should be able to check who'd placed the ad. Surely there were no confidentiality issues between a newspaper's ad page and the purchaser of said ad. There'd be no one at the paper at this time on a Sunday night. Another task for the morning, and something law enforcement ought to be doing.

Angelica taunting the sheriff hadn't been wise, and while Tricia appreciated the sentiment behind it, she was still irked at her sister. Then again, why was the sheriff so intent on nailing her for Doris Gleason's death besides clearing up the matter before the pending election? And was that enough of a motive? One thing was certain, Sheriff Adams wasn't interested in finding another suspect. If her name was to be cleared, Tricia was going to have to do it herself.

 

Tricia leaned
against the brick wall beside the door of the
Stoneham Weekly News
, clutching a cardboard tray with two cups of the Coffee Bean's best brew. The recorded message had said the paper's office hours were from eight until five, but Tricia had shown up at seven forty, anticipating Russ would arrive for work before office hours. And she'd been right.

“Been waiting long?” Russ asked, as he approached from around the corner. He pulled a set of keys from his jacket pocket, selecting one of them. He looked like a farmer in well-worn jeans with the collar of a blue plaid flannel shirt sticking out the neck of his denim jacket.

“About five minutes. Hope you're thirsty,” Tricia said, proffering the cardboard tray.

“I am.” He unlocked the door. “Come on in.”

She followed him as he led her through the darkened office. He hit the main switch and the place was flooded with fluorescent light. Peeling off his jacket, he headed for a glass cubicle in the back of the room. The rest of the office was open landscaping, with two desks with computer terminals. Stacks of the most recent issue sat atop a long counter that separated the public part of the office with the work zone behind it.

Russ took his seat, powering up his computer. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Tricia set the tray down and handed him a cup, offering creamer and sugar. “Just a little thank-you for your help the other night.”

“What're friends for?”

So now he considered himself a friend. All the better. Tricia took one of the standard office guest chairs in front of his desk. “As you know, the sheriff seems determined to prove I killed Doris Gleason, quite a feat as I didn't do it.”

Russ made no comment, but dumped a tub of the half-and-half into his paper cup.

“I'm taking your advice and trying to find out who
did
kill Doris.”

“And you want me to help.” It wasn't a question.

Tricia leaned forward. “I'm convinced Winnie Wentworth bought Doris's stolen cookbook at a tag sale, and I think I've found the ad right here in the
Stoneham Weekly News.
I was hoping you could tell me who placed it.”

Russ stirred his coffee, then leaned back in his chair. “Depends on how long ago it was placed. We purge our system on a monthly basis, otherwise it gets bogged down storing all that data.”

“Why don't you just copy it onto a CD?”

“What for? It's not even old news. We don't really care who buys classified ad space. It's the display ads that bring in the money. And we keep bound copies of the paper for posterity—not that I think anyone would ever want to look at an old ad ever again.”

“The ad I'm concerned with was printed in the August nineteenth issue.”

Russ tapped at his computer keyboard, studied the screen, then shook his head. “Looks like Sherry has already purged the August ads.”

Tricia gripped her cup, hoping her disappointment wasn't too obvious. “Well, thank you for looking.”

Russ turned back to face her and picked up his cup once more. “Just who did you think placed the ad?”

“I don't think I should speculate, at least not to you, without some other kind of proof.”

“How will you find it?”

“I don't know. But I'm not going to give up.” Tricia took a sip of her coffee. Since Russ was supposed to be on top of everything that happened in Stoneham, she decided to tap him for more information.

“What's the scuttlebutt on a big box store coming to the area?”

He shrugged. “I hadn't heard about it.”

“Is that so?” she said, incredulous.

Russ laughed. “I've got no reason to lie.”

“You've at least heard about the nudist tracts someone's been leaving all over the village.”

“Nudists?” Either he was clueless or the world's worst reporter.

“You need to get out of your office more often. According to the website listed on the leaflets, a nudist resort is supposed to open somewhere near here next summer.”

He picked up a pen, jotted down a note. “Tell me more.”

She gave him the name of the business. “Drop by any of the bookstores if you want copies of the tracts. We've all got them.”

“I'll do just that.”

Tricia stood and picked up her coffee. “The day's getting away from me.” She turned to leave, paused, and turned back. “Just one thing: would you have told me who bought the ad if the information had still been available?”

Russ smiled. “Don't you know that a good reporter never reveals a source—be it of information or revenue?”

Tricia swallowed down her annoyance. “I'll remember that for future reference.”

 

Piqued, Tricia
discarded her nearly full cup of coffee in one of Stoneham's municipal trash cans and headed back for Haven't Got a Clue. The lights inside the Cookery were already on, and she could see that Deirdre had finished washing the walls and had even made some progress with her restocking efforts. Had Bob opened up the storage unit and let her reclaim the display pieces? Some of them even had books on them, perhaps from the stock stored on the second floor or from Doris's home storeroom.

Tricia hammered on the door and waited. Deirdre had to be in the back room. She knocked again. Sure enough, Deirdre lumbered out of the back. She looked uncannily like her sister—but then wasn't that the way with identical twins? She even seemed to have lost her glasses.

Deirdre opened the door, her smile of welcome almost convincing. “Good morning, Tricia. You're out early.”

“And you're already hard at work, I see.”

“I've got a schedule to keep if I want to reopen the Cookery next Monday. Come in.” Deirdre stepped over to one of the bookshelves. Several opened cartons sat on the floor. She picked up a book and squinted at its cover.

“Did you lose your glasses?” Tricia asked.

“My what?” Deirdre asked, alarmed.

“Your glasses. You're not wearing them.”

Deirdre patted her cheek in panic. “Good grief, you're right. I must have taken them off when I first came in. They're around here somewhere. Now what can I do for you?” she said, changing the subject.

Tricia prayed for tact, knowing there really was no easy way to begin what she had to say. “I'm sorry to say that Sheriff Adams is convinced I killed your sister.”

Looking doughy and toadlike without her glasses, Deirdre merely blinked, apparently startled at Tricia's bluntness.

“I did not kill Doris,” Tricia asserted.

“I should hope not,” Deirdre said.

“But I do have some questions for you.”

Deirdre visibly stiffened. “Me?”

“Yes. Within hours of Doris's death, the whole village was buzzing with the news. You were in town, registered at the Brookview Inn. Why didn't you step forward and let the sheriff know you were her next of kin?”

“I was
not
in Stoneham when Doris was killed. Yes, I'd taken a room at the inn, but I'd gone home to take care of some business and collect more clothing. I didn't arrive back until days after her death.”

“How many days?”

Deirdre's eyes narrowed. “What are you implying? That I had something to do with my own sister's death?”

Tricia hesitated. If she mentioned the insurance policy, Deirdre would wonder where she learned about it. Likewise if she mentioned anything else about Doris's daughter. “Of course not. I just thought it was funny you didn't come forward sooner.”

“Well, I don't think it's funny at all. What if something happened to
your
sister and people accused you of doing her in? Would you think
that
was funny?”

“No, I—”

“And neither do I.” She pointed toward the door. “I think you should leave.”

“Deirdre, I—”

“Now, please,” she said and grasped Tricia by the shoulders, shoving her across the room and out of the Cookery, slamming the door and locking it before stalking away.

“Deirdre! Deirdre!” Tricia shouted to no avail.

Suddenly Mr. Everett was standing beside her, looking through the Cookery's door as Deirdre disappeared from view. “She's in a bit of a snit, isn't she?”

“With cause.” Tricia turned and walked the ten or so feet to the door to her own store, withdrew the keys from her purse, and opened the door. Mr. Everett trotted in behind her, hitting the main light switch. Miss Marple sat on the sales counter, ready for another hard day of sleeping on the stock or perhaps a patron's lap.

Juggling his umbrella, Mr. Everett shrugged out of his coat. “Would you like me to hang up your coat as well?”

“Yes, thank you. Looks like you're ready for rain.”

“There's talk we'll get the tail end of Hurricane Sheila later today or perhaps tomorrow, depending on how fast it travels.”

“Hurricane?” Tricia asked. Preoccupied, she hadn't turned on the TV or the radio in days.

“Would you like me to finish alphabetizing those biographies, Ms. Miles?”

“Please call me Tricia.” Mr. Everett nodded, but she knew he wouldn't. Any more than she could call him by his first name, which he'd written on his official application and she'd already forgotten. He'd always be Mr. Everett to her.

“Yes, go ahead. Oh, but maybe you wouldn't mind dusting the display up front. Should it be a sunny day, it's really going to be obvious it hasn't been touched in days. But be careful; there still may be some glass up there.”

“I'll get the duster,” he said and started for the utility closet.

Tricia opened the small safe from under the sales counter and sorted the bills for the drawer, settling them into their slots. She caught sight of the little scatter pin she'd bought from Winnie, which had resided in the tray since the day Winnie had died. On impulse, she scooped it up and pinned it on the left side of her turtleneck, wondering why she hadn't thought to take the little brooch upstairs to her jewelry box where it belonged.

She checked the tapes on the register and credit card machine, finding them more than half full, and though the store wouldn't open for more than an hour, she decided to raise the shade on the door and let in some natural light. Mike's office across the street was still darkened, and she wondered when or if he'd show up today. He'd said he still had some time left on the lease for his last office. Perhaps he started the day there and only came to the campaign office when work permitted.