Murder Is Binding (17 page)

Mr. Everett had donned one of the extra Haven't Got a Clue aprons and was happily dusting his way along the front window display. Tricia gave him a smile and turned back to stare out the window. If Mike had sold Winnie the Amelia Simmons cookbook, then found out how valuable it was, he might've decided to take back what had once been his property. He could've slipped across the street and done the deed in the thirty to forty minutes between Tricia speaking to Doris and then finding her dead. And then on Saturday morning Mike had also spent time wandering around Haven't Got a Clue when he could have planted the stolen book to avert suspicion. Not that anyone but Tricia suspected him. Or Bob. Or Deirdre.

She thought about her encounter with Mike at his mother's home the day before. What kind of woman had raised him? She looked over at her new employee. “Mr. Everett, what do you know about Mike Harris's mother?”

“Grace?” he asked, not looking up from his task. “She's a very nice woman. Used to be quite friendly with my late wife, Alice. It's a pity she had to go to St. Godelive's.”

“I'm sorry?”

He paused in his work. “St. Godelive's. It's an assisted living center over in Benwell. I understand she came down with dementia. Such a pity.” He shook his head in obvious disapproval.

Came down with dementia? Okay.

“It used to be only the indigent that ended up there, but it seems they've been trying to upgrade the place and are now taking patients who can pay for their services.”

The indigent? Surely Grace Harris had arrived after they'd changed their policies. After all, Mike had said he'd been clearing out her home to pay for her medical expenses. She thought back to the birthday card that had fallen out of
American Cookery
two days before. “Just out of curiosity, what was Mike's father's name?”

“Jason.”

And the other name on the birthday card found in Doris's cookbook was Letty. So the book hadn't been a gift from Mike's father to his mother. Scratch that notion.

Still, the possibility of Mike being a murderer nagged at her. Facts were facts. He visited the Cookery the day of Doris's death. If he'd sold the booklet to Winnie for pennies, and saw that she'd sold it to Doris and it was on display, he might have decided to take back the book—by force if necessary.

“Mr. Everett,” she called, interrupting his dusting once more. “What do you think about Mike Harris running for selectman?”

His brows drew together in consternation. “I really don't like to participate in idle gossip,” he began. “Then again, I do believe I'm entitled to an opinion when it comes to the village's representation.”

“So I take it you won't be voting for him.”

“Certainly not!”

Tricia hadn't expected such vehemence from mild-mannered Mr. Everett.

“Do you mind telling me why?”

He exhaled a sharp breath. “His reputation as a youth was…soiled.”

“In what way?”

“It seems to me he was always in trouble. Schoolyard fights, shoplifting, and when he got older, he was a terror on wheels. That's not someone I want to represent me, even in local government.”

“I see. And you don't believe he's capable of redemption?”

“I suppose everyone is. However, there's also a saying I've come to believe in: a leopard doesn't change its spots.” And with that, he turned back to his dusting.

Thoughts of Mike kept replaying through Tricia's mind like a CD on repeat. Although she really didn't know Mr. Everett all that well, she trusted his assessment of Mike's character. She was also sure Angelica would accuse her of taking out her anger at Mike by making him a possible suspect. Then again, Angelica was convinced Deirdre had killed Doris, taken the book to fake a robbery, and then tried to cover her crime with arson.

Confronting Deirdre was one thing; she had no fear of the older woman. Confronting Mike, with his strong hands and steel-like arms, would be another thing. And what if all her suppositions were wrong? What if Doris had been murdered by a complete stranger? But that didn't make sense, either. Doris had unlocked her door to let her killer in. Someone had planted the stolen cookbook in Tricia's store. Someone still in town.

Someone who didn't want to be arrested for murder.

As promised,
the men from Enclosures Inc. arrived to replace the broken window at just past ten that morning. The whole operation took a lot longer than Tricia anticipated, and Miss Marple was extremely unhappy to be banished to the loft apartment during the repair. Her howls could be heard by everyone in the store, and Tricia found herself explaining to more than one person that no one was pulling the cat's tail. Still, the entire ordeal put a damper on business.

After the window was replaced and order once again reigned, Tricia again called her security company. They were still too busy to come out to fix her system, but she suspected her monthly bill would arrive on time with no mention of interrupted service. She documented the call and intended to start contacting other firms when she realized the day was once again getting away from her. And she had to at least try to smooth over the damage Angelica had done between her and Sheriff Adams before attending to other matters.

Tricia drove to the sheriff's office rehearsing her speech. When she got there, Wendy Adams listened, but from the look on her face, she wasn't likely to accept anything Tricia had to say.

“You're beginning to sound like a broken record, Ms. Miles,” she said at last and leaned back in her office chair, folding her hands over her ample stomach. “Or maybe someone so desperate she can't wait to point the finger at anyone else to evade suspicion.”

“Look, Sheriff, I'm sorry my sister was rude to you yesterday, but I have real concerns that you're not taking this investigation seriously.”

“Oh, I'm very serious. And I'm going to prove that you killed Doris Gleason.”

“Even if I'm not guilty? That'll be quite a trick.”

“Ms. Miles, I've known Mike Harris nearly all his life—and mine. He's no more a killer than I am. Perhaps he had a few run-ins with the law as a teenager—speeding, I believe—but he hasn't had so much as a traffic ticket in recent memory.” She picked up her phone, right index finger poised to push buttons on the keypad. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have
real
police work to attend to.”

And what would that be? Tricia wondered. Issuing parking tickets? Even that seemed beyond the sheriff's capabilities, as she hadn't issued one ticket to Deirdre for monopolizing the parking space in front of Tricia's store. “Do you have any idea who broke my window, or is it considered too petty a crime to be worth the sheriff's department's time?”

Wendy Adams stabbed the air with her index finger, pointed to the door, her expression menacing.

Tricia turned and left the office, heading for her car. With Ginny and Mr. Everett taking care of Haven't Got a Clue, she had time to pursue her own investigation. Her next stop: a visit with Grace Harris. But first, she dropped in at her store to select a certain book off the shelf.

 

St. Godelive's
Assisted Living Center squatted on a small rise, an older, bland brick building without the flash that seemed to come standard with newer homes for the infirmed. No retaining pond filled with cute ducks and geese, no water spout, and virtually nothing in the way of landscaping. In fact, all the place needed was a chain-link fence and razor wire to win a prison look-alike contest. The over-cast sky only reinforced that notion.

Tricia parked her car and walked along the cracked sidewalk to the main entrance. Pulling open the plate-glass door, she stepped inside and sighed at the sea of institutional gray paint that greeted her. Everything seemed drained of color, from the tile floor to the glossy walls devoid of ornamentation, to the woman dressed in a gray tunic who manned the reception desk. Already feeling depressed, Tricia checked in and signed the guest book, was given a visitor's badge, and was directed to the third floor.

Stepping out of the elevator, Tricia was struck by the starkness around her—that and the nose-wrinkling scent of urine that all the air fresheners in the world wouldn't quite erase. The bland white corridor—wide enough to accommodate wheelchairs and gurneys—had no carpet, no doubt left bare for easy cleaning, with sturdy handrails fixed along the walls to aid those who no longer walked on steady legs.

A hefty woman in blue scrubs, whose name tag read “Martha,” manned the nurses' station to her left. She greeted Tricia with a genuine smile. “Can I help you?”

“I'd like to visit Grace Harris.”

“Are you a friend? She gets so few visitors. In fact, I think you're only the second or third person to visit her the whole time she's been with us.”

Tricia frowned. “And how long is that?”

“Almost six months, which is a shame as she's improved so much in the past few weeks.”

“Doesn't her son visit?” Tricia asked, surprised.

The nurse shrugged. “Occasionally. You'd be surprised how many people dump their relatives in places like this and never think to visit them again.”

That wasn't the impression Mike had given her. “So you don't think he's a good son?”

The nurse shrugged. “It's not my place to judge.” But it was clear she had. Martha rounded the counter. “This time of day Grace will probably be in the community room. Follow me, please.”

Tricia noted that most of the patient room doors were open, with too many white-haired, slack-jawed elderly people staring vacant-eyed at TVs mounted high on the walls. They passed a few ambulatory residents shuffling through the hall, or slowly maneuvering themselves aimlessly back and forth in their wheelchairs, barely noticing the stranger in their midst.

Martha paused in the community room's doorway, pointing across the way. “There she is, over by the window. Let me know if you need anything else.” Her smile was genuine.

“Thank you,” Tricia said and turned to watch Grace as the nurse's footfalls faded.

She hesitated before entering the nearly empty room. Three old gents played cards at a square table off to the right, and a couple of older women sat together on a couch knitting or crocheting colorful afghans that cascaded across their laps. Except for the TV in the corner droning on and on, it was the only color in the otherwise drab room.

These residents seemed to be functioning on a higher level than those she'd already passed. However, Grace, a mere wisp of a woman dressed in a pink cotton housedress with slippered feet and looking like everybody's great-grandma, stared vacantly out the window at the cloudy sky. Her white hair had once been permed, judging by the flat two inches broken by a part in the middle. Pale pink little-girl bunny barrettes on either side of her face kept the hair from falling into her eyes.

Tricia padded closer to the woman and waited, hoping she wouldn't startle her. “Grace,” she called softly.

Slowly the woman turned red-rimmed eyes on Tricia.

“Hello, my name is Tricia Miles. I live in Stoneham and own a bookstore there. I understand you like to read mysteries. I brought you one.” She held out a copy of Lawrence Block's
Deadly Honeymoon.
“I understand you used to have a copy of this book.”

Grace held out a wrinkled hand, took the book, which no longer had its dust cover, and studied the spine. “Used to have a copy?” she said, her voice sounding small, and looked up at Tricia, confused. “What happened to the one in my living room?”

She remembered! But then wasn't it true that with Alzheimer's disease old memories stayed intact while short-term memory faded? “Yes, that's right,” Tricia agreed. “I thought you might like to read it again.”

Grace turned her attention back to the book, flipping through its pages. “That was very thoughtful of you…” She looked up in confusion. “Who did you say you were?”

“Tricia Miles. I own one of the bookstores in Stoneham. It's called Haven't Got a Clue.”

“Oh yes, the new mystery bookstore. I've been meaning to visit it. When did you open? Last week?”

“Five months ago.”

Grace frowned. “That can't be right. I remember reading about it in the
Stoneham Weekly News.
The article distinctly said the store would open on April fourth.”

Tricia swallowed down her surprise. “Yes, we did. But that was five months ago.”

Grace's brows drew closer together, her face creasing in confusion once again. “Where did the time go?” She looked up at Tricia and her eyes opened wide in recognition, her mouth drooping. “Where did you get that pin? It's mine.”

Tricia's hand flew to the gold scatter pin at her throat. “I bought it.”

Grace shook her head. “Oh no. I would never have sold it. It belonged to my grandmother.”

“Are you sure?” Tricia asked.

“Would you let me look at it?” Grace held out her veiny hand.

Tricia unfastened the pin and handed it to Grace, who held it close to her face, squinted at the curlicues and scrollwork, her right index finger tracing the pattern. “See here, it says Loretta. That was my grandmother's name.”

She handed the pin back to Tricia, who also had to squint. She turned the pin around and around again, and finally did see that it wasn't just ornamentation, but a name: Loretta. She gave the pin back to Grace, who immediately fastened it to her housedress.

“Mrs. Harris, did you ever own a cookbook called
American Cookery
, by Amelia Simmons?”

“A book? I'm not sure.”

Another sign of Alzheimer's?

“I did have a darling little pamphlet written by someone named Amelia that belonged to my mother. It may have even belonged to my grandmother—it was very old—but I don't think I ever made anything out of it. All that colonial food was so stodgy. Jason, my late husband, he was partial to ethnic food. He loved watching Julia Child on TV and often had me make her recipes.”

Julia Child and ethnic food didn't seem to belong in the same sentence.

“Did friends call your grandmother Loretta, or did they have a pet name for her?”

Grace frowned. “Hmm. Seems to me they called her Letty.”

“Was your grandfather Roddy?”

“Rodney,” Grace corrected. “Why do you ask? Are you a long-lost relative?”

Tricia saw an unoccupied chair across the way and pulled it across the floor so that she could face Grace instead of towering over her. She sat. “I have some unhappy news for you. I believe the cookbook and that pin you're now wearing were sold. Probably many more items from your home have been sold, too.”

“That can't be. My son Michael—” But her eyes widened and her words trailed off. Slowly, her face began to crumple as tears filled her eyes. “Not again,” she crooned, nearly folded in half, and began to rock. “Not again.”

Tricia placed a hand on the old woman's arm. “I'm so sorry I had to tell you.”

“If what you say is true, it isn't the first time he's stolen from me. I was a good mother. We gave him everything. Why would he keep doing this to me?”

“He said he needed the money so that you could stay here and be taken care of.”

Grace turned sad eyes on Tricia. “But I have insurance. There should've been no need to sell my things—and especially without telling me.”

“Does Mike have power of attorney?”

Grace shook her head. “No. There's no way I would ever give him that. My lawyer has instructions for my care when I can no longer make decisions; they specifically say that Michael is never to be permitted to represent my affairs.”

“Are you aware that your son placed you here? He's been telling everyone you have Alzheimer's disease.”

“I admit my memory hasn't been as good as it was, but lately I've felt so much more like my old self. I've been wondering how I ended up here and why no one comes to see me. I have many good friends…” Her voice trailed off again as her hand grasped the pin on her housedress, and her gaze slipped out through the window.

Tricia waited for a minute or two for the old woman to continue, but Grace seemed to have lost interest in the conversation.

“Mrs. Harris? Mrs. Harris?”

“How is it you came to buy this pin?” Grace said at last.

“I bought it from a woman named Winnie Wentworth. I believe she got it at a tag sale at your home. She sold it to me last week. She was killed in a car accident the very same day.”

“Killed? Oh my. An accident?”

“I'm not sure.”

A tear rolled down Grace's cheek, and her gnarled hand still clasped the pin on her chest. “I love this pin. It meant so much to my grandmother. She gave it to me when I was a bride. I have her wedding band hidden with some of my other jewelry. It would break my heart to know it, too, was gone.”

Feeling the need to ease the old woman's pain, Tricia found herself patting Grace's back. “Do you remember the last time you saw your son?”

Grace stared straight ahead again, her gaze unfocusing. “At my home. We argued over…” She shook her head. “We argued.”

Probably over money, or Mike's pilfering. And shortly afterward, Grace had ended up in St. Godelive's.

“I've asked about leaving here,” Grace said, “but they won't give me a straight answer, and I must get to my home to stop Michael from stealing from me. I don't know you, but—” She glanced up at Tricia with worried bloodshot eyes. “Would you help me?”

Despite the need to clear her own name, Tricia had no hesitation in answering. “Of course. What do you want me to do?”

“Please make sure the rest of my jewelry is safe. I had two beautiful jewelry boxes in my bedroom, but I've also hidden some of my most valuable items just to keep them out of Michael's reach. Gifts from my husband, and some that belonged to my mother and grandmother. Then there's Jason's coin collection. It's worth tens of thousands. Michael helped himself to some of it after his father died.”

“Where should I look?”

“There's a small trapdoor on the floor at the head of the bed in the master bedroom. I don't think Michael knows about it.”