Murder Is Binding Read online

  She shook away thoughts of her sister, focusing again on the man before her. How had she gone six months in this town without meeting this feast for the eyes?

  “I’m afraid the leases aren’t an issue with me. You might want to visit my neighbor to the north over at the Cookery. She can give you all the facts as she perceives them.”

  Mike frowned. “I’ve already spoken with Ms. Gleason. She has…an interesting perspective on the subject.”

  “Yes.” Tricia left it at that.

  “I take it you’re new to our little village?” Mike asked.

  “I’ve been here almost half a year. But I can’t say I’ve seen you in my store before.”

  “I’m not much of a fiction reader,” he admitted. “But I’ve spent a bundle over at History Repeats Itself. I’m fascinated by anything to do with World War Two, military aircraft being my special interest. As a kid I wanted to be a fighter pilot. That is until I figured out I have a fear of heights.”

  Tricia laughed. “I can recommend some wonderful novels that take place during the war. Books by J. Robert Janes, Philip Kerr, and Greg Iles. And I’ll bet I’ve got most of them in stock.” She indicated the tall oak shelves surrounding the walls and their lower counterparts that filled the center of the long, narrow store.

  Mike dazzled her with his smile again. “Some other time, perhaps. I’m taking a day off work to introduce myself to all the merchants on Main Street. Very nice meeting you, Tricia. I’m sure I’ll be back.” He offered his hand again, this time holding on longer.

  “I’ll look forward to it.” Tricia held on, too. Their gazes locked and she dazzled him with a smile of her own.

  Tuesday night: the slowest night of the week. Like most of the other merchants on Main Street, Tricia closed an hour early. That meant that she might actually get a chance to eat a decent dinner or truck on over to nearby Wilton to see a movie if she felt so inclined—which she usually didn’t. More often than not she’d retire to her third-floor loft apartment, select a variety of CDs for the player, heat a frozen pizza, settle in her most comfy chair, and read. Since her divorce a year earlier, she hadn’t often felt a need for male company. Then again, when she thought of Mike Harris’s smile…

  Angelica’s arrival in Stoneham, however, had put a damper on her usual Tuesday-night routine.

  Ginny had hung up her apron and grabbed her purse to leave. “You’re going to be late meeting your sister, Tricia.”

  “I know,” she said and sighed. “I didn’t get to vacuum or anything.” She retrieved her purse from the cabinet under the display case, slipped past the register, and noticed Doris’s glasses still sitting on the counter. “You would’ve thought she’d miss these,” she said and stuffed them into her bag. “I better drop them off on the way to meet Angelica.”

  “Better you than me—on both accounts.”

  “I’ll give you a hundred dollars—cash—if you do both.”

  Ginny laughed and shook her head. “Maybe for a hundred thousand, but nothing less.”

  Miss Marple meowed from her perch on the shelf above the register. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your dinner when I come home.” Miss Marple rubbed her head against the security camera. “And stop that. You keep messing up the camera’s angle.”

  Miss Marple threw her entire eight-pound body against it, knocking it out of alignment, and purred loudly.

  “I told you so—I told you so,” Ginny sang. Yes, she had told Tricia the camera wasn’t high enough on the wall. But it would’ve interfered with the decorative molding if it was mounted any higher.

  Tricia scooped up the cat and set her on one of the comfortable chairs. “Stay down,” she ordered.

  Miss Marple tossed her head, dismissing the command.

  Tricia rolled her eyes and headed for the door once again. She locked it, then realized she hadn’t lowered the window shades. She’d have to do it on her return.

  The lights in the Cookery bookshop were already dimmed, but Tricia could see Doris still standing behind the sales counter.

  “See you tomorrow,” Ginny called brightly and headed down the street toward the municipal lot where she’d parked her car.

  Tricia gave a wave and turned back for the door, giving it a knock. Doris looked up, had on another pair of outsized specs, but motioned Tricia to go away before she bent back over the counter again. Tricia retrieved the glasses from her purse and knocked once more. This time, she waved them when Doris looked up.

  The annoyed shopkeeper skirted the sales counter, lumbered to the door, and unlocked it.

  “I’m glad you’re still here. You left these in my store this morning,” Tricia said.

  “So that’s where they went. I’m always losing them. That’s why I keep an extra pair here at the shop.” She pocketed them in the same ugly sweater she’d worn earlier in the day, but the rest of her attire had changed. Dressed in dark slacks and a red blouse, she looked pounds lighter, years younger, and, except for the sweater, almost elegant.

  Tricia had never actually been in the Cookery before. It seemed like all her encounters with Doris had been in her own shop. Since all the storefronts were more or less the same—give or take a few feet in width—the Cookery was set up in the same configuration as Haven’t Got a Clue, except that where the mystery store had a seating area, the cookbook store housed a cooking demo area: a horseshoe-shaped island with a knife block, complete with ten or twelve chef knives, a small sink, burners, and an under-the-counter refrigerator. Overhead hung a large rectangular mirror so that an audience would see the hands-on instruction. A thin film of greasy dust covered the station, which obviously hadn’t been used in a while.

  “Nice store,” Tricia said.

  “It ought to be,” Doris groused. “I put a lot of money into it, and if Bob Kelly and I can’t come to an agreement on it tonight, I’ll lose it all.”

  The cost of doing business, Tricia thought, but didn’t voice what would obviously be an unpopular opinion.

  Doris glanced at the big clock over the register. “Bob should’ve been here ten minutes ago—the inconsiderate jerk.”

  Atop the main sales counter sat an oblong Lucite container that housed what looked like an aged booklet. The little hinged door sported a sturdy lock. “The prize of your collection?” Tricia asked, her curiosity piqued.

  Doris’s eyes lit up, and for the first time Tricia saw beyond the sour expression to the woman’s true passion. “Yes. It’s American Cookery, by Amelia Simmons, the very first American cookbook ever published back in 1796. A similar copy recently sold for ten thousand dollars at auction.”

  Calling the little, yellowing pamphlet a book was stretching the definition.

  Doris exhaled a shaky breath, her expression akin to a lovesick teen. “I wish I could keep it myself, but—”

  Tricia knew that “but” only too well. Like every other collector she, too, had coveted the holy grail for her own collection. She’d been close a few times, but had never been able to obtain an original copy of Graham’s Lady’s and Gentleman’s Magazine containing Poe’s short story “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”

  “What are you asking for it?”

  Doris hesitated. “I haven’t actually set a price. I only obtained it a couple of weeks ago. The lockbox arrived just yesterday. But I couldn’t resist putting it on exhibition.” She gazed fondly at the booklet. “Of course I have a facsimile of it at home and have read it many times, but to actually hold an original copy in my hands has been the thrill of a lifetime.”

  Tricia nodded.

  Doris shook her head. “It’s sad how few people really appreciate a well-written cookbook. Most of the slobs who come in here are looking for the latest Food Network star’s most recent atrocity. And I can’t tell you how much money I make on old Betty Crocker books from the fifties and sixties. Not even first editions, mind you. I can sell a tenth or twelfth edition for twenty bucks.” She shuddered. Clearly, the woman hated the books, but she’d sell them to pay h
er rent—it was something else Tricia understood.

  “How did you score such a find?” Tricia asked.

  Doris’s expression curdled. “Private sale.”

  The fact that she wouldn’t elaborate must’ve meant the former owner had since had an inkling of what the booklet might be worth.

  Tricia forced a smile. “I’d better get going.”

  “Thank you for returning my glasses,” Doris said, her tone still clipped.

  “No problem.”

  Doris followed Tricia to the door and locked it behind her without even a good night.

  Tricia headed down the sidewalk with no thought to the snub—now to face Angelica. Of the two, she ruefully admitted that she’d probably rather spend time with Doris.

  She’d parked her own car in the municipal lot earlier in the day. By this time it was mostly empty. Now that school was back in session, the bulk of the summer tourist trade had evaporated. That would change when the autumn leaves began to turn and tour buses and crowds would return for another few weeks of superior sales. Thank goodness for the cruise ships that moored in Portsmouth and Boston harbors, which often brought in more customers. Once winter arrived they, too, would be gone. Still, the business slowdown would give Tricia time to establish a storefront in cyberspace, something she’d been meaning to do since she’d opened some five months previous.

  Stoneham wasn’t very large and it only took a minute or two for Tricia to drive to the Brookview Inn, lit up like a Thomas Kinkade painting with warm yellow light spilling from every window. Soft pink roses flanked steps leading to the entrance, the last of the summer’s offerings crowding against white-painted wrought-iron railings. Tricia hesitated, taking in the delicate scent. No doubt Angelica would have doused herself in the latest overpriced perfume with a celebrity’s name attached to it.

  Stop it, she ordered. Yet she’d spent her whole life finding fault with her older sister. Was it natural that even as an adult she hadn’t been able to let go of her childhood animosity? If she was honest with herself, she should blame their mother for fostering such an unhealthy atmosphere.

  Then again, Mother never took the blame for anything.

  Tricia took a breath to control her anxiety. It was really her own reactions to her sister that upset her. Angelica wasn’t likely to change anytime soon. It was up to Tricia to ride out the visit and not let it turn her into the jealous child she thought she’d long outgrown.

  The Brookview had given Tricia shelter for three weeks during the time when the apartment over the store was being made habitable. She could’ve opted for one of the efficiency bungalows behind the inn itself, but had been seduced by the sumptuous bedding and other pampering amenities, finding the inn a serene haven during the demolition and chaos of the store’s renovation. And she’d tried to replicate some of that ambiance in her own much more humble abode. So far she’d only managed to acquire the four-hundred-thread-count sheets and fluffy down pillows. Tricia missed the cuisine and the friendly staff, but admitted she still preferred the privacy of her own home and the company of her cat and her precious books.

  Bess, the plump sixtysomething night clerk, looked up from her keyboard behind the reception desk, a smile lighting her face. “Welcome back, Ms. Miles. And what brings you to the Brookview tonight?”

  “My sister, Angelica Prescott, is a guest.”

  “No doubt at your recommendation,” Bess said and beamed.

  Tricia smiled, pushing down the guilt.

  “I think you’ll find her in our dining room. The special tonight is hazelnut-encrusted salmon.” Bess closed her eyes in a moment of pure ecstasy. “It is to die for.”

  “Sounds heavenly. But I’ve already eaten.” Her dinner had consisted of a burger on a soggy bun that Ginny snagged at the Bookshelf Diner down the street from the shop. “I’ll just pop in and see if Angie’s there.”

  “You go right ahead, dear.” Bess gave a little wave and returned her attention to her keyboard.

  Tricia crossed the foyer to the opened double doors at the far end of the lobby. The Brookview’s elegant dining room, with its crown molding, traditional furnishings, and lamp-lit oil paintings of Revolutionary War heroes, welcomed her. And at the best table, holding court, sat Angelica, leaning forward, manicured index finger wagging to make a point with her guest. She was blond again, cut short and stylish, and what looked like a recent weight loss was evident in her face. She’d always been the family beauty, and so far age had not worked against her. Even with his back turned toward her, Tricia recognized the man who sat opposite her sister: Bob Kelly. Two of the three people on the planet who irritated Tricia the most, and now she had to deal with both of them—together.

  The fact that Bob could’ve passed as her ex’s twin—albeit a decade older—may’ve been responsible for part of Tricia’s dislike for him. Did he have to be so drop-dead handsome? Tall, muscular, with a head full of wavy dark hair that had never seen a colorist, and those deep green eyes. Yes, except for the eyes, he could have been Christopher’s double.

  Dinner had been cleared and only demitasse cups and crumb-littered dessert plates remained on the linen-shrouded table.

  Tricia took a breath, plastered on a smile, and charged forward. “Angie!”

  Angelica looked up, a look of true pleasure lighting her expression, reinforcing the guilt Tricia felt. “Darling Trish.” She rose, arms outstretched.

  The women embraced and Tricia quelled the urge to cough. Angelica did indeed smell like she’d been dipped in a vat of perfume. A couple of air kisses later, Tricia pulled back. “You look fabulous. You’ve lost weight.”

  “Twenty pounds,” Angelica admitted proudly. “I’ve just returned from this divine spa in Aspen, and—”

  Bob Kelly cleared his throat. Tricia hadn’t noticed that he’d also stood. She nodded, dropped her voice. “Hello, Bob. I see you’ve met my sister.”

  “Yes, and what a delightful surprise.”

  Tricia gave the empty chairs around the table a cursory glance. “Where’s Drew?”

  Angelica scowled. “Obviously not here.” She abruptly changed the subject, taking her seat once again. “Order some dessert, Trish, and we’ll all have a nice conversation.”

  Bob remained standing. “I’m afraid I have a business meeting this evening.”

  “So late?” Angelica asked.

  “The downside of being a successful entrepreneur, I’m afraid.”

  Tricia fought the urge to gag. By now Doris would be furious—and that’s probably exactly what Bob wanted.

  Bob offered Angelica his hand. She took it. “Thank you so much for the dessert. I’d love to take you to dinner some time during your visit.”

  “And I’d love to accept. Do call me.”

  “I will. Ladies.” And with a nod, Bob excused himself.

  “Isn’t he just a doll,” Angelica whispered once he was out of earshot.

  Tricia took Bob’s abandoned seat and forced yet another smile. Her cheeks were already beginning to ache. “What brings you all the way to New Hampshire, Ange? This really isn’t your style at all.”

  Angelica sighed. “I can’t keep anything from you, can I?”

  Tricia’s stomach tensed. Bad news? Angie’s twenty-pound weight loss…

  Angelica played with the chunky diamond ring on her engagement finger. Her wedding band was gone. “Drew and I…well, our trial separation proved successful. We’re finished.”

  Tricia relaxed. Not a total surprise. Drew was Angelica’s fourth husband. He was a quiet, studious type, whereas Angelica was boisterous and liked fun and crowds of people. Sedate New Hampshire was much more Drew’s sort of refuge. “I’m so sorry.” And she was. She and Drew could talk books for hours, much to Angelica’s chagrin.

  “No, actually, I’ve come to help you with your little store,” Angelica charged on. “I’m a successful businesswoman in my own right and quite naturally I assumed you’d need my help.”

  Tricia gritted her teeth an
d grimaced. Angelica had worked in a boutique in SoHo for all of five minutes some twenty years before. It had closed within weeks of opening. “No, but…thank you anyway.”

  “Nonsense. I’m here and I’m dying to see the little place.” Angelica raised a hand in the air and within seconds a waiter appeared. “Please add the dinner to my account.”

  “With pleasure, ma’am.” The black-suited man bowed and made a discreet exit.

  Angelica rose. “Come, come,” she ordered and, like a well-trained dog, Tricia jumped to her feet to follow.

  Already the evening was not going as Tricia had planned.

  Minutes later, Tricia steered her Lexus onto Main Street and under the banner strung across the road that proudly proclaimed Stoneham the Safest Town in New Hampshire. She pulled into the empty parking space in front of Haven’t Got a Clue, cut the engine, and waited to hear the inevitable insult disguised as a compliment.

  “Oh, Tricia, it’s lovely,” Angelica breathed, and she truly sounded awed.

  All the brick-faced buildings along Main Street sported a different pastel hue, except for number 221. The bottom floor’s white stone facade resembled a certain Victorian address in London, while Tricia had had the brick of the top two floors sandblasted to reveal its natural state. The door, beveled glass on the top and painted a glossy black on the bottom, looked impressive with glowing period brass lanterns on either side. The gold-leafed address numbers 221 shone brightly on the Palladian transom above. The plate-glass display window to the right did sort of spoil the effect, but the effort Tricia had made to approximate the beloved detective’s home hadn’t been lost on the majority of her customers.

  “Surely the address is wrong,” Angelica said. “Shouldn’t it be 221B?”