Murder Is Binding Read online

  “Can you afford it?”

  “It’ll be a stretch, but the village—and Bob in particular—gambled on me and all the other booksellers when we first came aboard. Most of us have done okay. And it may be that Bob was tired of dealing with Doris’s complaints. He may have simply demanded a higher price to get rid of her. I don’t know, and anyway it’s moot. Doris is history. Now he can rent the place to anyone he pleases.”

  Tricia’s thoughts exactly.

  The door opened and a couple of women entered the store. “Can I help you?” Deborah asked cheerfully, abandoning the glassware.

  “Thanks for the chat.” Tricia clasped her leather briefcase and Deborah gave her a quick wave as she headed for the door.

  Tricia’s next stop was the Coffee Bean, a heavenly shop that sold exotic blends and decadent chocolates, where she bought a five-pound bag of fresh-ground Colombian coffee. Too many customers clogged the shop for her to engage the owner in idle gossip, and she’d intended to head straight back for her own store, but a new enterprise on the block caught her attention. She made one more diversion.

  A red-white-and-blue poster, with patriotic stars across the top, heralded Mike Harris’s selectman campaign office. Tucked between two shops—Stoneham’s Stoneware and History Repeats Itself—it had to be the most narrow storefront on Main Street. No wonder it had remained empty since Tricia’s arrival. It really was too small for a retail establishment.

  Tricia opened the door and entered the crowded room. Boxes and cartons stacked along the north wall awaited unpacking. Two desks and assorted chairs seemed to be in place, but none of the usual office accouterments yet occupied them. A fake ficus stood in the corner, looking decidedly forlorn.

  Footsteps sounded from a back room.

  “Hello!” Tricia called.

  Mike Harris stepped into the main room. Dressed in jeans and sneakers, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, he looked ready to tackle the towering boxes.

  “Looks like we’re neighbors,” Tricia said.

  “Hey, thanks for stopping by.”

  Tricia glanced around at the freshly painted walls and the stacks of printed literature in one of the only opened boxes. “No offense, but I wouldn’t have thought the race for selectman warranted a campaign office.”

  “Ordinarily I’d agree with you. The lease on my current office is about to run out and Bob Kelly offered me a great deal. Besides, I intended to open shop here in the village after the election anyway.”

  Tricia glanced around. “By the look of things, you haven’t been here long.”

  Mike nodded. “I moved in last evening.”

  “Before all the chaos?”

  He frowned. “I heard what happened to Ms. Gleason, but I didn’t see anything.” He shook his head. “Her death could become a campaign issue.”

  Tricia frowned. “How?”

  “Not all our citizens are happy with the way development has been handled in Stoneham. They think the village is growing too fast and want a moratorium on new businesses until an impact study can be done.” That echoed what Frannie had said about the unofficial divide between the old-timers and newcomers.

  “Sounds like a waste of taxpayer funds. From what I understand, the influx of money has paid for a new a library and sewer systems—things the village sorely needed. What’s so bad about that?”

  Mike crossed his arms over his chest, sobering. “When the tax base expands, so does the cost of maintaining it. That new sewer system is just one example.”

  He had a point, but it didn’t make sense. The newcomers had taken over the crumbling Main Street while the old-timers had fled the village for the outskirts of town, presumably building new structures along the way. No wonder there was animosity between the two camps.

  Still, how sad was it that Doris had been reduced to a campaign issue.

  “I hope you’ve registered to vote.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I have.”

  He grabbed a brochure from the stack. “That’s what we need in this town. Voters who care about Stoneham’s future.”

  She took the paper from him; he must’ve forgotten he’d given her one the day before. “I’ll read through it carefully. Why don’t you stop by my shop for a welcome-to-the-neighborhood coffee later?”

  “Sounds great. Thanks.”

  “See you then,” she said and backed toward the door.

  Mike waved. “Stop in anytime.”

  The line at the register was three deep when Tricia arrived back at Haven’t Got a Clue. Wispy hairs had escaped the pewter clip at the base of a harassed Ginny’s ponytail. “Where have you been?” she scolded Tricia under her breath. “A bus came through and these people have to be back on it in ten minutes.”

  “Sorry. I had no idea. I had to make a few stops after the bank.” While Ginny rang up two pristine early Dick Francis first editions and an Agatha Christie omnibus, Tricia bagged the order, first checking the books for nudist leaflets before tossing in the current week’s stuffers and a copy of the bookstore’s newsletter. Within a couple of minutes everyone had been served and the door shut on the last customer’s back.

  Ginny sagged with relief and headed straight for the coffee station and a caffeine fix. She collapsed onto one of the store’s comfy chairs and, still feeling guilty for leaving her alone during a rush, Tricia didn’t have the heart to remind her it was against store rules for the help to sit in the customers’ reading nook.

  Ginny took a gulp from her steaming cup and stretched her legs out before her. “Winnie Wentworth stopped by to see you.”

  “Finally,” Tricia said, circling around to face her employee.

  “You want to meet her?” Ginny asked, puzzled.

  “Deborah Black told me about her just a while ago. I wondered why she hadn’t been offering me merchandise.”

  “Her stock isn’t as good as most of our regulars. She only seems to go to tag sales to find books and other stuff to resell to the shop owners. Her car’s a rolling junk mobile. She’s been coming around the last couple of weeks. I’ve tried to discourage her, but today she was adamant; she wants to deal only with the owner—you—and said she’d be back.”

  “What’s she trying to sell us?”

  “Mostly crappy old paperbacks—things you wouldn’t even put on the bargain shelf. There were too many customers in the store, and I just didn’t want to deal with her.”

  The shop telephone rang and Tricia grabbed it. “Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia speaking.”

  “Trish, dear, where have you been all morning? That little helper of yours kept saying you were out of the store.”

  Tricia grimaced, her already haggard spirits sinking even lower. “Sorry, Ange, I was running errands.”

  “You sound tired. Is everything okay?”

  “I got back in time for a rush of customers.”

  “Good, then you’re flush. Let’s go shopping. I hear there’s an outlet mall not too far from this sleepy little village of yours.”

  “I can’t leave the shop.”

  “Every time I’ve called, you’ve been away from the store. I’ve been running all over town myself; I’m surprised I didn’t run into you.” Her sarcasm came through the phone lines loud and clear.

  Tricia ignored it. “Yes, well, Ginny was inundated with customers because I have been out most of the day.”

  “If you can’t leave now, can you at least get off early?” Angelica pressed.

  “No. Ange, this is my store. It’s up to me to—”

  Angelica cut her off with a loud sigh. “Have you never heard the word delegation?”

  “Yes, and I’m also familiar with the words responsibility and ownership. Pride of ownership,” she amended.

  “No shopping today?” Angelica whined.

  “Sorry.”

  “How about dinner tonight?”

  Tricia’s turn for the heavy sigh. “At the inn?”

  “Goodness no. I’m going to cook for you. I’ll come by at seven
with everything I need. Have you got a bottle of red in the fridge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ve got loads to tell you. See you then.”

  The phone clicked in Tricia’s ear. She hung up.

  First Angelica showed up for an extended visit. Now she wanted to cook for her little sister. Something about this whole visit didn’t feel right. Angelica was a confirmed chatterbox, yet she’d barely spoken of—nor seemed unduly upset about—her impending divorce, merely saying she and Drew would remain good friends. Still, it was unlike Angie to be so nice to Tricia. Something was definitely up, and Tricia was afraid to find out just what Angelica might be plotting.

  Winnie Wentworth had her own car, so she didn’t actually qualify as a “bag lady.” Then again, from the looks of the contents of the backseat of her bashed and battered 1993 Cadillac Seville, maybe she did live in her car.

  Winnie raked a grubby hand through the wiry mass of gray hair on top of her head. Her threadbare clothes were gray, too, either from repeated washings or from not being washed at all. She watched, eagle-eyed, as Tricia sorted through the offerings in her trunk. Book club editions, creased and well-thumbed paperbacks, all good—mostly contemporary—authors, but not the kind of stock Tricia wanted to carry at Haven’t Got a Clue.

  Desperate to find something of worth, Tricia pawed through the books a second time. “I understand you sell to all the local bookshop owners. Did you ever sell to Doris Gleason?”

  Winnie pulled back a soiled scrap of old blanket from around another stack of books. Six copies of different Betty Crocker cookbooks peeked out. “She was my best customer. Now what am I going to do with all these stupid books? Nobody else in this town will touch ’em.” Eyes narrowed, she scrutinized Tricia’s face. “And you don’t want any of my books, either, do you?”

  Tricia hesitated for a moment. “Did you see the Amelia Simmons cookbook Doris had in her special little case?”

  “See it? I sold it to her. She gave me five bucks for it.”

  “Did you know it was worth much more?”

  “Everything I sell is usually worth more than what I can get for it. But I don’t have the overhead you people do.” She nodded at Tricia. “I don’t wear no froufrou clothes. I don’t got no fancy house. Maybe she coulda given me more, but then I was only gonna ask a couple a bucks for it anyway. Most people didn’t like Doris, but she was always fair to me.”

  Perhaps Doris would be mourned after all.

  “Do you remember where you bought the book?”

  Winnie shook her head. “I don’t remember where I get stuff, let alone who I get it from. I buy from tag sales, estate sales, and auctions.” She leaned forward, squinting at Tricia, who got a whiff of the woman’s unwashed body. “But mark my words—whoever I got it from musta seen it in her shop. Outside of the fancy shops, ain’t many books like that in and around Stoneham.”

  Did Winnie realize the implications of what she’d just said? “Doris was murdered by someone who wanted that book. I think you should be careful. That person may think you can implicate him or her in Doris’s death.”

  Winnie waved a hand in annoyance. “Nah. Everybody around here knows I got a mind like a sieve. I ain’t worried. Now are you gonna take any of these books or not?”

  Tricia selected three and paid Winnie five dollars in cash.

  “Don’tcha wanna see what else I got?” Winnie folded back another end of the blanket. A small white box contained a tangle of costume jewelry: bright rhinestones of every color of the rainbow adorned brooches, clip and screw-back earrings, and necklaces. Other metals glinted dully under the trunk’s wan lightbulb. Tricia picked through the offerings. She loved the colorful brooches in the shapes of flowers, butterflies, and snowflakes, but they were out of date, not something she could really wear herself. But one little gold pin drew her attention.

  “That there’s a scatter pin, and an oldie,” Winnie said with pride.

  Tricia examined it closely. About an inch long and maybe three-quarters of an inch wide, it was made of gold—solid gold—with an old-fashioned clasp. Its face was etched with delightful leaves and curlicues. A faded memory stirred in Tricia’s mind. “My grandmother had a pin like this.”

  “It’d look real nice on a jacket or a hat,” Winnie said, smelling a sale.

  Tricia held the little pin in her hand, rubbing her thumb in circles against its surface. Grandmother Miles had worn her scatter pin on the collar of a snowy white blouse. As a little girl Tricia had sat on her grandmother’s lap, playing with the pin while Grandmother would read to her. Whatever happened to that plain little adornment?

  “You can have it for five bucks,” Winnie offered.

  Tricia’s gaze rose from the pin to the old woman before her. Winnie’s wispy hair was rustled by the breeze, her eyes red-rimmed but bright at the prospect of another sale.

  Tricia gave her ten.

  Back inside the shop, Tricia tossed the paperbacks into the trash barrel and headed for the sales counter and a group of waiting customers. She opened the cash drawer and deposited the scatter pin in the left-hand, empty change hole before ringing up the next sale.

  Winnie was foolish if she thought her poor memory would keep her safe from whoever had killed Doris Gleason. It might be something Tricia should report to Sheriff Adams.

  And she did.

  But her warning came too late to save Winnie.

  FOUR

  Sheriff Adams squinted down at Tricia, her piercing gaze sharper than a stiletto. “Two people have died in the last twenty-four hours after speaking with you, Ms. Miles. Why do you think that is?”

  Tricia exhaled a slow breath through her nose, surprised steam wasn’t escaping from her ears. “I talked to a Deputy Morrison in your office only minutes after speaking to Winnie, warning that she could be in danger from the same person who killed Doris Gleason.”

  The sheriff consulted her notebook. “That was at eleven-oh-three this morning. And have you left the premises since that time?”

  “No, she hasn’t,” Ginny answered curtly.

  A flush of gratitude warmed Tricia. Ginny just earned herself a twenty-five-cent-an-hour raise.

  Sheriff Adams frowned. “Odd all the same.”

  “How did Winnie die?” Tricia asked.

  “Car accident. She hit a bridge abutment and wasn’t wearing a seat belt. No skid marks. I’m having the car’s brakes checked.”

  “You think they were tampered with?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Well, Tricia certainly didn’t cut the lines,” Ginny said hotly. “Look, there’s not even a pill on her sweater, let alone a speck of dirt or grease.”

  Tricia fought the urge to show Sheriff Adams her grease-free fingernails.

  This is ridiculous, she thought. I am not responsible for anyone’s death. Yet the heat of Sheriff Adams’s scrutiny had caused sweat to form at the back of her neck.

  “Will there be an autopsy?” Tricia asked.

  “To rule out drug and alcohol use. It’s also possible she had a heart attack—or simply blacked out while behind the wheel. Who knows if she even ate regularly?”

  “Then why come here and practically accuse Tricia of murder?” Ginny demanded.

  Tricia laid a hand on her assistant’s arm. “Now, Ginny, I’m sure Sheriff Adams is only doing her job.” Which should include clearing me! “Are there any leads in Doris’s murder?”

  “Not so far.” Sheriff Adams slapped her notebook closed. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Tricia and Ginny, along with the six customers who’d been eavesdropping on the conversation, watched as the sheriff got into her double-parked cruiser and took off.

  “The music has stopped,” Tricia told Ginny, trying not to focus on all those pairs of eyes. “Let’s put on something cheerful. Maybe Celtic?”

  “You got it.” Ginny crossed the room for the CD player and the customers went back to perusing the shelves.

  Miss Marple jumped up on
the sales counter, rubbed her little warm face against Tricia’s hand. “Good girl,” she murmured, and yet even the comfort of petting her cat couldn’t ease the knot of apprehension that had settled in Tricia’s stomach. Two deaths less than twenty-four hours apart and both connected to that antique cookbook. Had the sheriff started looking for it on online auction sites or had she or one of her deputies called Sotheby’s? Would the killer be dumb enough to try to sell it or would he or she now dump the book to avoid drawing attention to themselves? Perhaps a third party would be enlisted to sell it in a year or two.

  Tricia’s gaze was drawn to the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes until closing, and then Angie would show up to cook her dinner—and no doubt spoil what was left of her day.

  With one last scratch behind the ears, Tricia left Miss Marple to begin her end-of-day tasks.

  Main Street was bathed in shadows as the last of the customers departed, with Mr. Everett bringing up the rear. “Good. All gone,” Ginny said, turning the sign to CLOSED and throwing the dead bolt. She diverted on her way to the register to close the blinds over the shop’s window. “Another good day.”

  “That depends on your point of view,” Tricia said, thinking about Winnie, although she knew Ginny meant the cash drawer stuffed with bills, checks, and credit card receipts.

  Ginny stopped before the counter and fished in her apron pocket.

  “Don’t tell me—” Tricia said, dreading what she knew she was about to see.

  “Yep. I found a lot more. And I’ve got a theory,” she said, slapping ten or more of the nudist leaflets on the sales counter. “Somebody’s been hiding these things in a lot of books. Pretty much everybody who comes in here is a stranger, except for—”

  “Mr. Everett?” Tricia said, aghast. She shook her head. “No, I won’t believe that sweet old man—”

  “Runs around in the buff?” Ginny finished. She thought about it and shuddered. “Have you got any ideas?”

  “No,” Tricia admitted. “I wonder if we’re the only business being targeted.”

  “We’ll have to make some calls tomorrow to find out. If we have time.” Ginny hit the release button on the cash drawer, which popped open. “Look at all that wonderful money!” She grinned.