Murder Is Binding bm-1

by Lorna Barrett

  "Just let me try."

  "Fine. If you've got time to waste, be my guest." She pulled out the old insurance statement and read off the pertinent information.

  "Hmm. This could take some time," Angelica admitted, ruefully. "I may have to call in a few favors. I'll get back to you." She hung up.

  Tricia drained her cup and replaced the handset. "Good luck."

  As usual, Mr. Everett was waiting outside the door of Haven't Got a Clue at 9:55 a.m. on that gray Friday morning. He liked to be the first customer inside the door every day, although "customer" was a misnomer since so far in the five months the shop had been open he hadn't bought a thing. But he usually only drank one cup of Tricia's free coffee and, despite hanging around for most of the day, he ate only one or two of the complimentary cookies that she laid out for the paying clientele. And if she and Ginny were busy with customers, Mr. Everett had been known to make a recommendation or two and could knowledgeably talk about any book they had in stock.

  Tricia unlocked the shop's door. "Good morning, Mr. Everett."

  "Morning, Ms. Miles. Looks like rain today."

  A glance at the sky proved the clouds hung low. "Ah, but rain is good for retail. It brings in customers who spend. And there's no better weather to settle down with a good book."

  "Obviously you haven't yet seen one of our winters."

  She laughed. "You've got me there."

  Mr. Everett didn't share in her mirth, nor did he move to his customary seat in the nook; instead he looked down at the folded newspaper in his hands. "I brought you a present, but I don't think you're going to like it." He handed her an obviously read copy of the Stoneham Weekly News. The 72-point headline screamed "A Murderer Among Us?"

  "Oh dear," Tricia breathed.

  Mr. Everett patted her arm. "Why don't I make the coffee this morning?"

  Tricia nodded dumbly and headed for the sales counter. She laid the paper flat and immediately Miss Marple jumped up to investigate. The swishing of her tail and rubbing of her head against Tricia's chin made it difficult to follow the text. By the time she'd reached the end of the first column, Tricia had removed a miffed Miss Marple and set her on the floor. She looked over at Mr. Everett, who'd taken shelter behind the side counter and the coffeemaker. He averted his gaze.

  For a moment Tricia wasn't sure if she'd been libeled or slandered. She finished the article, then read it again. And again. Russ Smith was a careful writer, so suing him was definitely out. It wasn't so much what he said, but what he didn't say that inferred her probable guilt. Her lack of answers to his questions and the fact that Sheriff Adams had no other suspects in Doris Gleason's murder painted an unflattering picture.

  Bob Kelly hadn't been mentioned at all. The editor knew Bob had an appointment with Doris the night she was killed, knew the two of them had argued about the leases, but instead he'd intimated that Tricia was suspected of murder-no one else.

  Ginny arrived just as the phone rang. Tricia had no intention of answering it. She let the answering machine take it as Ginny hung up her coat. Then she folded the newspaper and put it under the counter.

  The door opened and a couple of women entered. "Good morning, ladies, and welcome to Haven't Got a Clue."

  Dressed in jogging attire, they didn't look like tourists, and they didn't have that we're here to spend look in their eyes. One of the women giggled. "This is a mystery bookstore, isn't it? You sell murder mysteries, don't you?"

  Tricia swallowed, forced a smile. "Yes."

  "I hope you don't murder your customers," the other woman said and snickered.

  Ginny returned in her shop apron with the look of a mother tiger out to save her cub and insinuated herself between Tricia and the women. "Mrs. Barton, Mrs. Grant, thanks for stopping by. This must be your first visit to Haven't Got a Clue. Can I help you find a book?"

  "No, thanks, we just came by to look the place over," one of them said, bending to look around Ginny and catch a glimpse of Tricia.

  Tricia turned her back on the women and found some busywork at the counter. She tried not to listen to the rest of the conversation, but noted Ginny's words were not delivered in her usual, friendly tone.

  Eventually the door opened, the bell tinkled, and the door closed. Footsteps approached. "You okay?" Ginny asked.

  Tricia turned, braved a smile. "Sure."

  "Everybody's talking about Russ Smith's front-page article. I wouldn't be surprised if more of the villagers dropped by just to have a look at-" She stopped, looked embarrassed.

  "Look at what?" Mr. Everett asked, still standing at the coffee station.

  "The, uh, jinx," Ginny said in a tiny voice.

  The muscles in Tricia's calves ached from being so tense. "We'll just have to welcome them, if they do. Maybe I should get another couple of pounds of coffee." She almost managed to keep her voice steady.

  "You're being a lot more generous than I could be," Ginny said.

  "I won't let idle gossip run me out of town. I'm here for the long haul."

  Ginny's smile was tentative. "You go, girl."

  With a small tray in hand, Mr. Everett appeared behind Ginny. "Coffee, ladies?"

  Tricia and Ginny each took a cup, and Mr. Everett took one, too. "I propose a toast. To Haven't Got a Clue, the best bookshop in all of Stoneham. Long may we read!"

  Tricia swallowed down the lump in her throat.

  "Here, here!" Ginny agreed, and the three of them raised their cardboard coffee cups in salute.

  Like most Friday afternoons, this one was busy, and the forecasted rain did bring out paying customers. Stoneham was a favorite day trip for senior groups from Vermont, Massachusetts, and from within New Hampshire itself, a happy happenstance for every business owner in the village. And while most seniors took the trips to alleviate boredom, a lot of them actually were avid readers. However, when four or five buses converged at once, the result was chaos.

  Ten or twelve customers hovered like angry bees around the sales counter in Haven't Got a Clue. "Our bus leaves in less than ten minutes," someone from the back of the crowd growled.

  "It won't leave without you," Ginny said reasonably, as she stacked wrapped books into a plastic carrier bag.

  "Well if it does, you'll be paying my hotel bill for the night," snapped a thin, bleached blonde in a beige cashmere sweater set and pearls. An idle threat. There were no hotels or motels in or around Stoneham. Just the Brookview Inn.

  Tricia's fingers flew over the cash register's keys, and not for the first time she wished the store had a laser checkout system. Though tagging the books would be great for inventory purposes, the resale value on the older, most expensive books would plummet.

  "As soon as the last bus rolls down the road and out of town, we'll break open that pound of Godiva I've been saving," she muttered to Ginny, who smiled gratefully. Lunchtime had come and gone several hours earlier, but they'd been too busy to even stop and grab a bite.

  The shop door opened and the little bell rang as Tricia accepted a copy of Dorothy L. Sayers's Gaudy Night from a pair of outstretched hands. She turned to ring it up when from beside her Ginny let out a stifled scream. Mouth covered with one hand, with the other she pointed at the apparition standing just inside the door.

  Tricia, too, gulped at the sight of the seventysomething plump, but smartly dressed woman who stood in the doorway. She took in the tailored red pantsuit, white turtleneck shirt, and large red leather purse, designer glasses, and severely short, dyed jet-black hair. Unable to find her voice, Tricia mouthed the name: "Doris?"

  The woman charged forward with an energy the living Doris Gleason had never possessed. "Hello, I'm Deirdre Gleason. Doris was my sister." The voice was a shade deeper, her words spoken more slowly. "What on Earth happened to Doris's shop? Why is it empty? Where is all her stock?"

  "Excuse me, but I was here first," said the woman in a damp trench coat, elbowing her way forward.

  Tricia looked from her customers to the doppelganger in front
of her. "Can you give us a couple of minutes? We're a little overwhelmed right now, but I'd be glad to tell you everything I know as soon as things calm down." She gestured toward the coffee station. "Help yourself and then we'll talk."

  The woman's lips pursed, but she nodded and skirted the crowd at the sales counter.

  Once the initial shock had passed, Tricia had little time to think about Deirdre Gleason, who wandered the store during the rush. Nine customers and three hundred dollars later, the shop was nearly empty and Ginny gave Tricia a nudge in the direction of the mystery woman who had finally settled in the sitting nook. "I believe in ghosts," she whispered. "Make sure she isn't one of them, will you?"

  A curious Miss Marple had perched on the coffee table in front of the woman. The cat wasn't spitting or acting odd, so Ginny's fear of specters was no doubt unfounded.

  Tricia sat down on the chair opposite Deirdre and offered her hand. "Hello, my name is Tricia Miles. I own this store and-"

  "You found my sister's body." A statement, not an accusation.

  Tricia swallowed, pulling her hand back. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

  The woman shrugged, her creased face ravaged by the effects of gravity and sorrow. "The coroner said poor Doris was sick with cancer and probably didn't even know it. I would've lost her anyway. I'm just sorry I never got a chance to say good-bye."

  Tears threatened and Tricia's throat closed. Angelica was a gigantic pain in the butt, but she had always been in Tricia's life. Sometimes lurking, sometimes in her face, but always her big sister. The thought of her suddenly gone…

  "I'm sorry there's nothing I can tell you that will ease your pain. Someone killed your sister and I believe it had to do with a rare cookbook that was stolen the night she died."

  "The sheriff told me all about it. I'm not sure she believes it."

  Not good news, but not totally unexpected, either. "I didn't know Doris had a sister, although I did know about her daughter."

  Deirdre's left eyebrow arched. "Doris wasn't one to chat about her personal life."

  Tricia quickly adopted a wide-eyed and, what she hoped was, innocent expression. No way was she going to say how she knew about Doris's daughter. Deirdre's penetrating gaze was as unforgiving as her late sister's.

  "Why is the Cookery empty? What happened to all the stock? I spoke to Doris last Monday and she didn't say anything about closing the shop. In fact, she said she was negotiating a new lease."

  "That's true. Uh…" Tricia stalled, trying to come up with a tactful reply. "The landlord apparently didn't realize Doris had any heirs. I think he-"

  "Jumped the gun at emptying the store?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  The woman sighed, shook her head, irritated.

  Tricia became aware that her palms, resting on her knees, had begun to perspire. She wiped them on the side of her slacks and sat back in the comfortable chair, feeling anything but comfortable. "He had all the books and display pieces moved to a storage unit. I'm afraid they may be smoke damaged."

  "Would you happen to know where I can contact this…this landlord person?"

  "Yes. As a matter of fact, I believe I have one of his business cards."

  Ginny, who had been unabashedly eavesdropping, spoke up. "I'll get it. It's here in the register." She opened the drawer, lifted the cash tray, and came up with the card. In seconds she'd handed it to Deirdre.

  "Thank you." She stowed the card in the pocket of her jacket. "It was always my intention to move to Stoneham to help Doris with the shop. Her death has just hastened my entry into the world of bookselling." She opened her purse, took out a tissue, and bowed her head, looking ready to cry. "I've been a very selfish woman. I should've been there for her in her time of need. I knew she was having cash-flow problems; I knew she wasn't feeling well. And I knew she'd had employee problems-"

  At this, Ginny stepped back, looking guilty. She'd quit the Cookery to take the job with Tricia. Doris had never replaced her.

  Deirdre faced Tricia once again. "I was always too busy, wasting money on travel and clothes when I should've been here helping my sister."

  Tricia wasn't sure how or if she should reply. Deirdre made it easy on her and rose from her seat.

  "What will happen to Doris's daughter?" Tricia asked, and also stood.

  "Susan is now my responsibility." Deirdre pursed her lips, an effort that failed to stop them trembling. "It wasn't Doris's way to let on that she cared-about anything. But she loved that girl. It broke her heart when Susan had to go live in the group home. But apparently she's happy there. Doris told me she has friends and a job. I don't know how I'll tell her she'll never see her mother again."

  The three women stood there, all of them fighting tears for several long moments. Finally Deirdre cleared her throat and straightened, her expression once again impassive. "Thank you for answering my questions. It was traumatic to hear of Doris's death. Finding her had to be even more so."

  Odd, Tricia thought, except for Frannie, Deirdre had been the only other person to acknowledge that she might've felt traumatized by the experience. This morning's newspaper story had brought it all back in vivid detail, but it had also bolstered Tricia's determination to clear her name. And yet, she had no clue how to go about it.

  "Yes, it was. If only I'd arrived a few minutes sooner."

  "You mustn't blame yourself. If you had arrived sooner, Doris's murderer might've killed you, too."

  Deirdre's words, spoken with such casualness, made Tricia go cold.

  Nine

  "Good night, Mr. Everett," Tricia said, shut the door, turned the sign on it to CLOSED , and was about to shut and lock it when she saw the familiar rental car pull up in front of the shop.

  Ginny was still tidying up, but she, too, saw the car, turned off the vacuum, and began to wind up the cord. "You don't mind if I leave, do you?" she said, already shoving the cleaner toward the utility closet. "Sorry to say, but your sister really hates me for all the times I screened your calls."

  "I know, and I'm sorry. I never thought you two would ever face each other." Tricia crossed to the register, opened it, lifted the money tray, and withdrew an envelope-Ginny's paycheck. "I didn't get a chance to tell you before, but I've given you a raise. Sorry it couldn't be more."

  Already shrugging into her jacket, Ginny paused, her surprise evident. "But you gave me a raise only last month."

  "Well, you've been so supportive these past few days I figured you'd earned another."

  Ginny accepted the envelope. "Thank you, Tricia. I've worked for three booksellers here in the village in the past four years, but you are by far the best." She gave Tricia a quick hug.

  "Can somebody help me?" came a muffled, annoyed voice from behind the shop's locked door.

  Tricia crossed the store to open the door, letting in Angelica, who scowled as Ginny went out, calling cheerfully behind her, "See you tomorrow."

  Once again Angelica was weighed down with a grocery bag full of ingredients. "That girl," she muttered and dumped the sack on the nook's coffee table.

  "Ange, I hope you don't think you have to come here every evening and cook for me," Tricia said, although the thought of the leftovers now residing in her freezer was a comfort.

  "You work so hard, and it's the only part of the day you have time for me." She patted one of Tricia's cheeks and simpered, "I do so miss my baby sister. We've still got years and years to catch up on."

  Tricia didn't reply. It was the memory of Deirdre Gleason's sorrow at the loss of her sister that made her keep quiet. She would try to be a better sister to Angelica. She would.

  She turned for the door.

  "I've got it," Angelica said, triumphantly.

  "Got what?"

  She pulled a piece of paper from her jacket pocket and waved it in the air. "Doris's beneficiary."

  With everything else going on, Tricia had completely forgotten her quest from earlier in the day. "Don't tell me. Susan Gleason, but in some kind of trust with
Deirdre Gleason in control."

  Angelica's face fell. "Who told you?"

  "I met Deirdre a couple of hours ago. She came into the shop, wanted to know why the Cookery was empty."

  Surprise turned to pique. Angelica exhaled sharply. "If you only knew how much trouble I went through to get this."

  "Sorry, Ange. I figured you'd come up against the same brick walls I did." Avoiding her sister's gaze, Tricia reached for the door.

  "Don't lock it-I've asked Bob Kelly to join us for dinner," Angelica called, rummaging through the grocery bag. "Oh dear. I hope you've got an onion. I don't think I picked one up at the store."

  "I wish you'd asked me first."

  "Doesn't everyone keep onions?" Angelica asked, looking up from her supplies.

  "I mean about inviting Bob. I told you he isn't my favorite person."

  "Like you, that poor man is a virtual workaholic. Why I'll bet he hasn't had a home-cooked meal in ages."

  "What are you making?"

  "Stroganoff."

  Like Pavlov's dog, already Tricia anticipated the aroma of one of her most favorite entrées. "Well, next time please let me know when you're going to invite guests to my home."

  "That's why I invited him. If I'm going to be staying in Stoneham for the winter, I'll need a place to live. I considered staying in one of the inn's bungalows, but I really want more space and I've heard Bob is the best person to talk to about the local real estate market." And with that, Angelica picked up the sack and headed for the door to the upstairs apartment, where she paused. "Why don't you like Bob, anyway? What's he ever done to you?"

  "Have you taken a close look at his face?"

  "Yes, and he's a very good-looking man."

  Tricia crossed her arms over her chest. "Exactly. And who does he remind you of?"

  Angelica thought about it for a moment. "Christopher?"

  "Duh! My ex-husband."

  "Well, that's certainly not Bob's fault," Angelica said with a shrug and turned. "I'll go get dinner started. Don't let me keep you from whatever you have to finish up."