Murder Is Binding

by Lorna Barrett

  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 count
er, 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.”

  “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.”

  FIFTEEN

  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.