Murder Is Binding bm-1

by Lorna Barrett

  "We'll check the rest of the kitchen and the garbage on the way out. We'd better get moving in case Mike shows up."

  "It's almost nine thirty. If he was going to steal more of his mother's possessions, wouldn't he do it earlier in the day?"

  "Who can fathom the criminal mind?" Tricia took off down the darkened hall, the flashlight beam guiding her way. She paused in the foyer at the base of the grand stairway leading to the upstairs.

  "Can't we turn on any lights?"

  "Not unless we can be sure they can't be seen from the street."

  "What do we tell the paramedics if one of us falls and breaks her neck?"

  "Oops?" Tricia aimed the light up the long, dark stairway, wishing she'd taken Mike up on his offer of a house tour. Then again, she might've unwillingly ended up in one of the beds.

  They crept up the stairs, with Angelica so close behind Tricia that she could feel her sister's breath on her neck. A stair creaked, Angelica squeaked, and a shot of adrenaline coursed through Tricia.

  "If any vampires jump out at us I'm going to lose it completely," Angelica rasped.

  They made it to the top of the stairs without any attacking bloodsuckers descending and Tricia ran the flashlight's beam across the floor and into an open doorway. Angelica grabbed her sleeve as she started forward, following her step for step.

  The prim and proper formal sitting room had Victorian furniture and decor, from the clunky marble-topped tables, embroidered pillows on the horsehair couches, to the frosted glass sconces on the walls. They found another parlor across the hall, but this was furnished for more masculine tastes, no doubt the domain of the late Jason Harris.

  A computer sat on the desk, with neat stacks of papers at its side. Tricia trained the light over one of the pages. "Exhibit one," she said, the light focused on the eBay logo on the top of the sheet. It was a listing for the online auction site, complete with a picture of a Hummel figurine. "I'll bet this is one of the things from Grace's now-empty curio cabinet downstairs. He's been listing her stuff. This is only dated yesterday. And I'll bet I gave him the idea," she said, angry with herself.

  "Don't be ridiculous. Look at that stack," Angelica pointed out. "Nobody could accomplish all that in only a day. See, there are photos for everything, too. Doesn't the background look like the kitchen counter and backsplash?"

  She was right.

  Tricia folded the paper, stowing it in her pocket. "I'll show this to Grace to confirm it's one of her figurines. Maybe there's a way she can recover it, or at least prove that Mike's been stealing from her."

  "We'd better get moving," Angelica advised.

  "The bedrooms must be in the back," Tricia whispered and turned away for the doorway, still unable to squelch the feeling they were violating the house with their presence.

  The two small bedrooms on the right side of the hall were connected by an old-fashioned bathroom. The first, painted in tones of blue, would've suited a boy, and had probably been Mike's. The other, a tiny guest room with a small empty closet, had only a bed, an empty dresser, and a straight-backed wooden chair.

  They crossed to the other side of the hall and Tricia played the flashlight's beam across an unmade king-sized bed. "Aha, the master bedroom."

  "Now can we turn on a light?" Angelica asked.

  Tricia threw a switch and the lights blazed. Unlike the other rooms that were more or less intact, the once-pretty master suite had been ransacked. What Tricia had taken as a rumpled bed proved to be destroyed-the sheets torn and the pillows shredded. The gold-edged French provincial dresser's drawers had all been dumped, with piles of woman's clothes littering the floor. She didn't see the jewelry boxes Grace had told her about.

  "Looks like the result of a lot of anger," Angelica said.

  "I hope this means he didn't find Grace's hiding place."

  "And you know where it is?"

  Tricia nodded. "Help me move the mattress and box springs."

  "Do I look like a stevedore?" But Angelica did help Tricia pull the mattress up to stand against the wall, and they hauled up one of the twin box springs against it, too. Grace hadn't mentioned the trapdoor would be under a large area rug. They ended up moving the other box spring, dragging away the heavy headboard and side rails in order to pull up the rug. The trapdoor was exactly as Grace had described it, although much larger than Tricia had anticipated, measuring one by two feet. Tricia knelt in front of the recessed brass ring, pulled it up, and yanked open the door. The hiding space was even bigger than the door to it, and filled with an assortment of little black velvet-covered boxes.

  Angelica grabbed one and popped it open. "Trish, look."

  It was empty.

  It took ten minutes of searching to find that they were all empty.

  Tricia's eyes grew moist. She hadn't thought the loss of Grace's treasures would affect her so much. But anguish soon turned to pique. "That stinking rat."

  Angelica sniffed. "Maybe you were right. A man who could steal from his own mother probablyis capable of throwing a rock through a storefront window. Do you think he's already sold everything?" Angelica asked, her voice soft.

  "You saw all those eBay sheets." Tricia picked up the first of the boxes and replaced it in the hiding place. "Have you seen his expensive little car? I'm not saying an insurance agent couldn't afford it, but it seems pretty coincidental that he bought it after his mother was put in the home-and her assets started disappearing." She glanced around at the devastation. "This had to just happen."

  "How do you know?"

  "Just yesterday morning Mike offered me a tour of the upstairs. He wouldn't have if the room was in this shape."

  "Unless he was hoping to suddenly discover a robbery with a handy witness in tow."

  Tricia frowned. "He did seem eager for me to come up here." Maybe Angelica was right and it wasn't her feminine wiles that had precipitated the invitation.

  She shook her head. No, the slimeball had made his intentions well known.

  "How did he ever find Grace's hidey hole?" Angelica wondered. "I mean, this isn't exactly the easiest place to find."

  "He's been throwing out receipts. There were lots of them in the trash. He could've found one from whoever built this hiding space."

  "It's possible," Angelica agreed, but she sounded skeptical. She helped Tricia replace the rest of the boxes before they restored the room to the way they'd found it. Hopefully Mike wouldn't notice if the sheets, pillows, or bedspread weren't in the exact same positions.

  Tricia turned the flashlight on and switched off the overhead light. They waited for their eyes to adjust to the darkness before she led the way back down the long staircase, with Angelica at her heels once more.

  They'd reached the bottom of the stairs and just started down the hall toward the back of the house when Tricia stopped dead, flicking off the flashlight.

  Angelica ran right into her. She opened her mouth but Tricia pivoted and clamped a hand across it. "Shhh!"

  Voices.

  In the kitchen.

  Mike, and he was with another person… a woman, whose voice Tricia recognized.

  Eighteen

  With her right hand still clamped across Angelica's mouth, Tricia shuffled across the Persian runner and into the dining room, dragging her sister along with her. She plastered herself against the wall of the darkened room, closed her eyes, and listened-concentrating.

  Yes, it was Deirdre Gleason's voice.

  "I can't make out what they're saying," Angelica complained.

  Tricia's hand tightened around her sister's arm, silencing her. She closed her eyes again, concentrating on the muffled voices, but caught only snatches of words:

  "Books… case price… wholesale…"

  "Total-cash only…"

  Obviously they discussed some kind of financial deal. No doubt after their talk the day before, Mike had contracted Deirdre, eager to dump more of his mother's possessions. And a cash deal left no paper trail.

  Although riski
ng detection, Tricia crept forward and peeked through the crack in the door, hoping to hear better. A solemn-faced Deirdre stood beside the counter, a book in hand, looking very much like a professor in mid-lecture. Could she have picked up that much knowledge about cookbooks in such a short time? Then again, Tricia didn't know how much the sisters had discussed the business before Doris's passing. Or perhaps it was her accountant's background that made Deirdre such a hard negotiator.

  Finally, a deal was struck and Mike disappeared into the butler's pantry while Deirdre started taking down the cookbooks from the kitchen cabinet.

  Tricia grabbed Angelica's arm and hauled her back into the hallway where they crept along, backs pressed to the wall. "We've got to hide."

  "Where?"

  "There's a closet in the foyer."

  "Ooohhh…please don't make me hide in a closet," Angelica whined. "I'm claustrophobic."

  "We get caught and you'll feel a lot more claustrophobic sitting in a jail cell."

  With exaggerated care, Tricia opened the closet door, but the hinges were well lubricated and nothing squeaked except Angelica as Tricia pulled her inside and closed the door.

  Tricia was glad she'd donned her good old dependable Timex and not the diamond-studded watch her ex-husband had given her on their tenth anniversary. She pressed the little button and the watch's face lit up: 9:53.

  "How long do you think it'll take before they leave?" Angelica whimpered.

  "I don't know. I just hope Mike didn't go looking for boxes in the garage. He's sure to see the broken window if he does."

  "That doesn't mean he'll come looking for us in here."

  "I can't remember if I put the pansy picture back on the wall."

  Angelica let out another strangled whine. "I hate this, I hate this. I want to go home. Please let me go home. This isn't fun anymore. In fact, it never was fun. I don't like being a criminal. How did I ever let you talk me into helping you?"

  "You volunteered!"

  "Keep that light on, will you? I can't stand being in here."

  "It'll wear down the battery. Besides, if you can't see you're in a closet, you can't be claustrophobic."

  "Do you have to keep reminding me!"

  "Shhh!"

  Footsteps creaked along the hardwood floor, paused. Tricia thought about Angelica's perfume. Could Mike have caught the scent?

  Panic started to grow within her as the seconds ticked by and she heard nothing else. Then, the footsteps moved away, probably heading for the living room. Could Mike be searching for them or had he just gone looking for another empty cardboard box?

  Angelica began making small squeaking noises again and Tricia pressed a hand over her mouth once more. But the sounds of anguish were also beginning to tear at her soul and she found herself putting her other arm around her sister's shoulder in hopes of comforting her. Hot tears rolled over Tricia's fingers and Angelica began to tremble. "Not too much longer. You're doing great," she lied.

  To prove her wrong, Angelica's knees went rubbery and she started to slide. Tricia struggled to hold her upright, but ended up on the closet floor beside her. Angelica drew her knees to her chest, crossed her arms over them, and rested her head on her hands, her stifled sobs bringing stinging tears to Tricia's eyes. Never had she inflicted such suffering on another human being, and yet she didn't open the door, didn't dare risk their being found.

  The footsteps came closer again, then headed down the hall and faded.

  Long minutes passed.

  The air in the closet seemed to grow staler. Finally Tricia could stand it no longer and reached for the handle, opening the door a crack. Fresh air rushed in, and Angelica hiccupped.

  "Shhh!" But this time Tricia's aim was to soothe, not rebuke.

  Time crawled. Except for their breathing, no sounds broke the absolute silence.

  Eventually Tricia poked her head around the door, listening.

  Nothing.

  More minutes passed.

  Finally Tricia pulled herself up, muscles stiff from their confinement.

  Angelica didn't move.

  Tricia slipped out of her loafers, crept down the hall, saw no light coming from beneath the door that led to the kitchen. She padded into the dining room, peeked around at the crack around the door to the kitchen. It was dark, silent, and once again empty.

  With more speed than agility, she headed back down the hall.

  "It's okay, they're gone. You can come on out," she called, but still Angelica didn't move.

  Tricia stepped back into her shoes, bent down, and fumbled for the flashlight, which was still on the closet floor. She switched it on and trained the light on her sister's inert form. "Ange. Ange!" She shook her sister's shoulder.

  Angelica lifted her head, blinked red-rimmed eyes. "I think I fell asleep," she said, her voice tiny.

  Tricia helped her to stand, threw her arms around Angelica. "I owe you big-time, big sister."

  "Can we go now? I think I need a really strong drink."

  "You're not the only one. Come on."

  Linking arms, Tricia steadied Angelica as they made their way back to the kitchen. She pointed the flashlight at the cabinet, which was now devoid of books. "Looks like Deirdre took the lot."

  "She can have them."

  Tricia ran the flashlight's beam across the kitchen counter. "Hey, look." The mortar and pestle hadn't been put away, but the cocoa container was gone.

  Angelica upended the bottle of chardonnay, watching as a single drop fell into her empty stemmed glass. "Got anything else to drink?"

  "I think you've had enough," Tricia said, dipping another slice of baguette into herb-laced olive oil. She closed her eyes, leaned back, and let the bread lay on her tongue, savoring the spices of Tuscany.

  On the way back from Grace's house, they'd diverted to Milford and a Shaw's grocery store where, despite being an emotional wreck, Angelica had been only too willing to toss together a grocery basket of comfort foods featuring bread, artesian cheeses, fresh fruit, and a couple of bottles of wine. Returning to Haven't Got a Clue, the sisters settled on the sumptuous sectional in Tricia's living room, with mellow jazz on the CD player, a purring cat, and a desire to totally pig out.

  Tricia cut herself another slab of St. Agur, a French blue cheese so buttery and mild it made her think of running away from home to forever milk contented cows in lush mountain meadows. She savored the flavor again, closing her eyes and reveling in it-only to open them again to see Angelica's vacant gaze had wandered out the darkened windows that overlooked Main Street beyond.

  "Don't think about it," Tricia said.

  Angelica shook herself, cleared her throat. "Think about what?"

  Tricia didn't have to say. "I'm so sorry, Ange. I had no idea you had a problem with-" The words hung like a wet blanket at a birthday party.

  "How could you? I mean, it's not like we were ever close." Angelica's eyes grew moist. "Until maybe…now?"

  "What happened with us? Why didn't we ever talk? Why couldn't we ever be close?"

  Angelica sighed. "I was five when you were born. That's a lifetime to a little girl. I was the star, the loved one. The sun rose and set on me, and then you came along-an intruder, something to tear Mother's and Daddy's love from me."

  "But I didn't."

  "Of course you didn't. I told you, I was the star. And you were this little mousy thing only too happy to stand in my shadow."

  Tricia bit her tongue, struggling to hold on to the warm feelings she'd experienced toward her sister, afraid it had all been for nothing.

  "Too bad Mother and Daddy didn't just smack my bottom and tell me to get over it. Think of the years we've wasted." She held up her glass, with only a drop or two of wine at its bottom.

  "Where did your claustrophobia come from?"

  Angelica sighed. "I was locked in a closet when you'd just started to walk."

  Tricia's stomach roiled. "I couldn't have locked you in there."

  "Of course you didn't. You w
ere just a baby, fussy and sick that day. I was annoyed you were getting all the attention. So I…kind of…pinched you, made you cry, only I didn't know Grandmother was watching. She threatened to send me to an orphan home. To escape her wrath I fled to Mother's bedroom closet and shut the door-only I couldn't get it open again. They didn't find me for hours and hours, and by then I was a basket case, sure they'd forgotten me and that I'd never be loved again. I've hated small, closed-in spaces ever since. Didn't you ever wonder why I never fly anywhere?"

  "I did…" But not very hard, Tricia admitted to herself. "How can you drive?"

  "When I'm behind the wheel, I'm in control. In other situations…let's say I just don't do as well." She let out a breath. "There, now it's in the open. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."

  "I'm sorry to have made you go through it all again tonight."

  Angelica's lower lip sagged. "Thank you. Let's try not to have a repeat performance." She sniffed and sank back into the sofa cushions. "And can we please change the subject? Like what's going on with Mike Harris and Deirdre Gleason?"

  Tricia, too, was glad to leave the night's events behind them. "I still say that Mike had the motive and opportunity to kill Doris."

  "Or do you only believe that now because he's proved himself to be a lying, cheating son?"

  Tricia shook her head, wouldn't back down.

  "Okay, give me his motive," Angelica said mechanically, lounging against a stack of pillows.

  "Stealing that rare cookbook."

  "Give me the opportunity."

  "Stoneham's sidewalks roll up at six p.m on a Tuesday. The street was empty, the shops all closed. He could've crossed the street from his campaign headquarters, stabbed her, and fled on foot with the book. It was small enough to hide under his shirt. And he's a known entity with a reason to be on Main Street at that time of night. No one would even think twice about seeing him."

  "Yada, yada, yada," Angelica muttered, leaning forward and slathering another piece of baguette with creamy cheese.

  Tricia folded her arms across her chest in defiance. "Okay, give me Deirdre's motivation for killing her sister."