Murder Is Binding (6 page)

Tricia nearly
choked on her wine. “You what?”

Angelica picked up her napkin, smoothed out the folds, and placed it on her lap. “I don't like the idea of you living up here all on your own. Murders happening right next to your place of business.” She shook her head. “Mother and Daddy would be heartsick if they thought I'd abandon you in such a violent community. I feel it's my duty to stay here with you at least throughout the crisis.”

Tricia sat back in her chair. “There is no crisis. This is the first murder in Stoneham in over sixty years. It's not likely to happen again.”

“What about that poor woman who crashed her car?”

“You heard about that, too?”

“I told you, people here like to talk.”

“Well, there's no proof she was murdered. I'll bet she didn't maintain that old rust bucket she drove.”

Angelica picked up her fork, speared a chunk of tomato. “Surely that's what yearly car inspections prevent.”

“Let's get back on topic, which is you moving to Stoneham. There's nothing for you to do here. There's no shopping, no art galleries, no museums, no gourmet restaurants—and as you pointed out, no shoe stores.”

Angelica toyed with a piece of pasta. “Perhaps it's my destiny to bring culture and a sense of style to this little backwater.”

“Stoneham is my home. Don't call it a backwater. It has history and charm and it doesn't need outsiders coming in with an agenda to change it.”

“Au contraire. You yourself are an outsider. Bob Kelly told me the majority of booksellers were all recruited from out of state to come here. And you just said yourself that most of your customers are out of towners.”

“Yes, but—”

“Most of the villagers don't mind you little guys opening shop, but they don't want malls and big box stores moving in and changing the area's character, not to mention all the people from Boston crossing the state line just because it's cheaper to live here.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“Change happens, Tricia,” she said, pointedly. “Whether some people want it or not.”

Tricia's temper flared. “You do not need to live here in Stoneham.”

Angelica swirled the wine in her glass. “And I may not stay long. Just long enough to see you through this ordeal.” And then she did something that totally startled Tricia; she laid one of her hands on Tricia's. “I may not have been the best big sister in the past, but I intend to make up for that now.”

Flabbergasted, Tricia could only sit there with her mouth open. Then she shut it. Angelica had never before displayed even a hint of altruism. Something else was behind her visit, and her newfound sisterly love.

How long would it be before she revealed her true intent?

 

Being labeled
the village jinx didn't seem to have an impact on customers at Haven't Got a Clue. A busload of bibliomaniacs on a day trip from Boston had unloaded an hour earlier, and business had been brisk. It was easy to tell the townsfolk from the transients. The villagers paused at the shop's windows, faces peering in to see the jinx on display like at a zoo, judgment in their eyes. Tricia braved a smile for each of them, but the faces turned away.

Tricia rang up a three-hundred-dollar sale for a British first edition of Agatha Christie's
Why Didn't They Ask Evans?
and carefully wrapped the book in acid-free tissue before placing it in one of the store's elegant, custom-printed, foil-stamped shopping bags. No plastic for an order of this magnitude.

“Please sign our guest book,” she suggested as she handed over the purchase to a dapper old gent.

“I will, thank you.”

The phone rang and Ginny stepped up to the counter, taking the next customer. Tricia answered on the second ring. “Haven't Got a Clue, this is Tricia speaking, how can I help you?”

“Hi, Tricia, it's Mike Harris.” Aha—one friendly voice remained among the locals. “Scuttlebutt about town is that you've developed into the village jinx. How's it feel to be raked over the coals?” Then again…

Tricia sidled over to the front window, looked across the street to Mike's campaign office. “I'm feeling the heat but so far haven't been burned.”

“How'd you like to escape the pressure cooker for an hour or two? I know a little bistro up on the highway that serves a mean lobster bisque, and their sourdough bread is the stuff of legends.”

“Right now that sounds heavenly.”

“Fine. I'll pick you up at eleven thirty.”

“I'll be here.” Tricia hung up the phone and turned to find Ginny at her elbow.

“A date?”

“It's not a date.”

“That'll be thirty-seven fifty,” Ginny told the elderly male customer. “Then what do you call lunch with a handsome man?”

“An escape. Can I help you find something?” Tricia asked a matronly woman in a denim jumper.

Six sales and fourteen more nudist tracts later, Tricia glanced at the shop's clock. The Care Free tour bus had picked up its passengers and there was sure to be a lull in foot traffic, assuring Tricia she needn't feel guilty for leaving Ginny alone in the shop.

At precisely eleven thirty a sleek black Jaguar pulled up in front of Haven't Got a Clue, its powerful engine revving. Ginny gawked and inhaled deeply. “Ooh! I smell money.”

“Behave,” Tricia scolded and grabbed her purse. “I'll try to be back within—”

“Take your time. I'll be fine here,” Ginny said. “But you'll have to report on everything the two of you talk about.”

“No promises,” Tricia said, suppressing a smile as she headed for the door. Then on impulse, she stopped, went back to the counter, and fished one of the nudist leaflets from the trash, stuffing it in her handbag. “See you later,” she told Ginny as the door closed behind her.

In celebration of the beautiful early autumn day, the Jag's windows were wide open, and Tricia bent down to see Mike's smiling face. “Hop in.”

Tricia opened the door and slid onto the cool, black leather seat. “What a beautiful car. The insurance business must be booming.”

“Not bad if I say so myself.”

Tricia pulled shut the door and buckled her seat belt as Mike eased the car back into traffic. Her gaze momentarily lighted on the Cookery, the yellow crime tape still attached to the door frame reminding her of Doris Gleason's murder. She shook the thought away and concentrated on the Jag's dashboard, with its GPS screen and rows of buttons and switches. It reminded her of the cockpit of a jumbo jet. She wiggled her shoulders deeper into the leather, remembering she had once been used to this kind of luxury in the early days of her marriage to Christopher. She glanced across the seat, caught Mike's eye. He looked fabulous in a gray pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt, and a pale yellow silk tie—and nothing like her ex. “You're dressed to the nines. For my benefit?”

“I'd love to say yes, but I've got a speaking engagement later this afternoon. There's always next time.” Again he flashed those perfect white teeth.

Next time. That sounded nice. Maybe Angelica had been right. In pursuing her goals to get the bookstore up and running Tricia had neglected to factor in time to build a social life.

“Is this little restaurant in Milford?”

“Just east of there. It's only twenty minutes down the road. Don't worry, I'll have you back to your store before the Red Hat Society bus comes in.”

Tricia stifled a laugh. “Do you have all the tourist bus schedules memorized?”

“I'm making an effort. Stoneham's economy has rebounded thanks to tourism. I want the business owners to know how much I appreciate their efforts to keep the village in the black.”

“Happy potential constituents mean a landslide victory?”

“Something like that.”

“Forgive me, but I thought the village voted for these kinds of things in the winter—not on traditional election day.”

“That's right. This is a special election at the next town meeting to fill the spot left by Sam Franklin, who had a heart attack and died a few weeks back. My opponent and I are pretty much evenly matched.”

Tricia couldn't remember seeing any other literature for the selectman campaign, realizing she didn't even know the other candidate's name.

“What made you decide to run?”

“Too many former Stoneham selectmen have been outsiders who came to the area after retiring. They fought against the idea of tourism, wanting Stoneham to remain a quaint little—dead—village. They were also lawyers,” he said with contempt. “They didn't have a clue how to bring life back to the village. It was people like Bob Kelly who turned Stoneham around. The board begged him to take the job of village administrator, but he said he couldn't afford to take the pay cut.”

“Oh?”

“It's only a part-time job, but Bob felt it would take away from running his real estate empire. Besides, he wields his own power as president of the chamber of commerce.”

“Yes, he does seem to, doesn't he?”

“We could use a couple more Bob Kellys in Stoneham. I intend to follow his lead in a number of areas. We need to boost the tourist trade by offering more than just the lure of used books. We need more restaurants; maybe attract some kind of light industry.”

“And do you insure buildings suited for light industry?”

Mike flashed his pearly whites. “How did you guess?”

“Is there anything in the works?” she asked, thinking about the rumors of a big box store coming to town.

He kept his eyes on the road. “There might be, and that's all I'm at liberty to say about it.”

“You're a tease.”

“And you're beautiful.”

That wasn't true…but she liked hearing it anyway.

She cast around for something else to talk about. “I've noticed the locals don't seem too interested in supporting the booksellers. Why do you think that is?”

He shrugged, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “You don't sell what they need.”

“Which is?”

“That's something I need to learn,” he admitted. “Rare and antiquarian books and expensive baubles—those are for collectors and people who don't know what to do with their money.”

Hurt and irritation suddenly welled within Tricia. “Is that how you feel about us?”

Mike momentarily tore his gaze from the road. “Of course not. But that's what a lot of the villagers think. Surely you've at least considered that.”

“Yes,” she grudgingly admitted.

The Jaguar slowed and Mike pulled into the parking lot of a little ramshackle building, its white paint peeling, the bands of color on the lobster buoys decorating it bleached to pastel hues. A hand-painted sign with red lettering proclaimed
ED'S.

“Oh,” Tricia said, trying—and failing—to hold her disappointment in check. “It's a clam shack.”

“Don't let the outside fool you. They serve the best chowders and bisques on the eastern seaboard.”

Except that they were at least fifty miles from the ocean. Tricia painted on a brave smile. “And I can't wait to try it.”

The décor inside Ed's consisted of nets studded with lobster buoys, lobster traps—complete with plastic lobsters—starfish, and shells. Picnic tables were covered in plastic tablecloths with lighthouse motifs, and each had bottles of ketchup, vinegar, salt and pepper shakers, as well as bolts of paper towels on upright wooden holders.

“Nothing too fancy,” Mike conceded. “But you won't be disappointed. Sit down while I go order.”

Tricia nodded, her smile still fixed.

She chose a table near the rear of the tented patio. Attached to the wall was a large gray hood with a heater inside, presumably used to keep the makeshift dining room habitable during the colder months. Several other couples munched on fried clams and fries served on baker's tissue set in red plastic baskets, washing it down with cans of soft drinks or bottles of beer.

Settling at the table, Tricia ran her fingers across the tablecloth, thankful to find it wasn't sticky. Still, she tore off four sheets of paper toweling, fashioning two crude place mats.

Mike returned with napkins and plastic cutlery. “It'll only be a few minutes.” He settled on the bench across from her and tied a lobster bib around his neck, settling it over his suit coat. “Don't want to spill soup on my tie. Have to look presentable for my speech this afternoon.”

“What are you talking about? Who are you speaking to?”

“A group of seniors at the center on Maple Street. Thanks to my mother's difficulties, I have a unique perspective on the kinds of problems they have, what with the cost of medicine, health care, and the realities of living on a fixed income.”

“You mentioned your mother's difficulties,” she began, interested, but not wanting to appear too nosy.

“I probably wouldn't have returned to Stoneham last year if it weren't for Mother. Alzheimer's,” he explained succinctly.

Something inside Tricia's chest constricted.

“At first she seemed safe enough to leave on her own, but her mind has really deteriorated in the past year,” Mike continued. “I had her moved into an assisted living facility almost six months ago. The next step is probably to a locked ward in a nursing home.”

“I'm so sorry.” Head bent, Tricia looked unseeing at the table in front of her. Mike's words had triggered a plethora of unhappy memories for her. She'd watched her former father-in-law go from a funny, loving man to a sometimes violent, empty-eyed soul. It had torn Christopher's immediate family apart, putting a strain on her own marriage. A strain that contributed to shattering it.

“Let's talk about something more pleasant,” Mike suggested. “Like books. They're your specialty. I've slowly been cleaning out mother's house, and I don't have a clue about what to do with her lifelong collection of books.”