Murder Is Binding (7 page)

Though not a true change of subject, it was something Tricia was much more interested in discussing. “What kinds of books did she have?”

“A little bit of everything. Strike that: a
lot
of everything. Mother was on the village board when Bob Kelly came up with the idea of bringing in all the used booksellers. I'm sure she was one of the booksellers' best customers.”

“Can she still read?”

Mike shook his head, grabbed the pepper shaker, and set it in front of his place.

How sad to lose the thing that means the most to you, Tricia thought. Of course her scattered family was important to her—she even grudgingly loved Angelica, and couldn't forget dainty little Miss Marple—but to be deprived of her favorite pastime would be akin to stealing a portion of her soul.

“Would you like me to have a look at the collection?”

Mike tore his gaze from the paper towel place mat he'd been playing with. “Would you? I'd like to see every one of them go to a good home, but that just isn't practical. I've already called libraries within a hundred-mile radius; they aren't interested. Booksellers are my last hope before I resort to a Dumpster.”

“Never say that word to a bookaholic,” Tricia warned. “And yes, I'd love to have a look. But it'll have to be on a Sunday. That's the only day my shop has limited hours. What's best for you, morning or evening?”

“Morning. Campaigning has eaten a lot more of my time than I'd planned. I'm afraid I'm falling behind in my work with deadlines looming.”

“How does nine o'clock this Sunday sound?”

“Perfect. I'll give you the address later.”

A portly, fiftysomething man with a white plastic apron over a stained white T-shirt and a paper butcher's cap covering his balding head approached the table and plopped down a couple of bottles: a Squamscot black cherry soda and a straw for her, and a bottle of Geary's pale ale for Mike. Retrieving a church key from a chain on his belt, he opened Mike's beer. “Be right back with your soup,” he grunted.

“Ed?” Tricia guessed.

Mike laughed. “You got it. He's a client of mine. Saved him a lot of money when I took over his insurance accounts. Let me know if you'd like me to take a look at your contracts. I'll bet I could offer you lower rates, too.”

Always the salesman, she thought. “I'll consider it.”

Mike took a swig of his beer and smacked his lips. “Great stuff.”

Tricia wrestled with the cap on her bottle, before giving it up for Mike to open. Uncovering the straw, she popped it into the bottle and took a sip. “Oh, this is nice.” She examined the label. “Ah, a local product.”

Mike held up his beer in salute. “I think I've patronized every microbrewery in New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Maine.”

“A real pub crawler, eh?”

Mike dazzled her with another of his smiles. “In my youth. Those wild and carefree days are behind me now.”

“But you never settled down.”

“With a family? Not yet, but there's still time,” he said and winked.

Tricia sipped her soda. A couple rose from a nearby table and walked in front of them to deposit their trash in a bin. The man's pants were slung low around his hips, exposing the top of his rear end and reminding her of the nudist tract in her purse. She'd meant to call other shop owners this morning but hadn't had time. She opened her purse and removed the leaflet. “Have you seen any of these around town?”

Mike took the paper and squinted at the text. Then he laughed. “This is a joke, right?”

“I'm afraid not. I've been pulling them out of books for the last couple of days.”

He turned it over and frowned. “My guess is this is the first in a series.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's just a basic message to get an idea across. The next in the series will give more information. It's been done hundreds of times. The U.S. and British troops dropped thousands of pounds—probably tons—of leaflets on the enemy back in World War Two. It's still done today in war-torn countries.”

“How do you know so much?” she asked, then remembered their conversation the first day they met. “Didn't you say you were a World War Two buff?”

“Yeah. I've even got a few examples of propaganda leaflets that I bought off the Internet. It's a fascinating subject. They tried dropping them by hand—only to be sucked into the plane's air intake—and in bombs that exploded at a predetermined height above the ground. The Brits were famous—and very successful at reaching their targets—by sending them up in balloons.”

“You sound like an expert.”

He shrugged. “It's just a hobby.”

Ed returned with a tray laden with steaming bowls and a basket of chunky bread, which he placed before them. “Eat hearty.”

Tricia picked up her plastic spoon and stirred the thick soup, turning up large pieces of lobster, potatoes, and onions. “Smells wonderful.”

Mike grinned. “Dig in. I guarantee you'll feel like you've died and gone to heaven.”

The Jag
pulled smoothly to the curb on the west side of Main Street, and Tricia got out. “See you soon,” Mike called and pulled away, heading south. Tricia didn't even have a chance to look for oncoming traffic before her gaze was drawn to the front of the Cookery. The yellow crime scene tape that had been there less than two hours ago was gone. A huge kelly green poster, decorated with shamrocks and screaming
FOR LEASE
—
KELLY REALTY
and a phone number, took up several square feet of the front window. The door was wedged open, and the scene of Doris Gleason's death less than forty-eight hours before was now a hive of activity. Double-parked nearby was a Becker's Moving van. Two guys in buff-colored coveralls emerged from the store, carrying boxes and loading them into the van.

Tricia hurried across the street. “What are you doing?” she asked. “You can't take those books. Who said you could—?”

“Don't talk to me, lady. Talk to him.” The mover jerked a thumb over this shoulder just as Bob Kelly emerged from the inside of the store. His nose and mouth were covered with a dust mask, and he held a clipboard in his left hand, making notes with his right.

Tricia marched up to him. “What's going on?”

Bob looked up, pulling his mask down below his chin. “I'm clearing out my property. I need to get it professionally cleaned and painted if I'm going to rent it out in the next couple of weeks.”

“Doris hasn't even been buried yet and already you're emptying her store? What kind of an unfeeling monster are you?”

Bob's glare was arctic cold. “I am a businessman. This is my property. The terms of the lease were immediately negated at the time of Doris Gleason's death.”

“What are you going to do with all her stock?”

“Put it in storage. I've rented a garage over at the self-storage center on Bailey Avenue. I'll bill the cost to her estate.”

“But it's not right!” she cried. “If the rent was paid till the end of the month—”

Bob's gaze, and his voice, softened. “You're getting all emotional over nothing, Trish. Doris is gone. What she left behind has no meaning for her now. The sheriff gave me the okay to enter the premises and I'm well within my rights to take care of my property in any way I see fit.”

She had no doubt of that. It was just such a cold-blooded move—and typical of the man. “Those books are smoke damaged, but they're still salvageable if they're taken care of properly.”

“That's not my concern.”

“Well, it ought to be. You're cheating Doris's heirs out of what's rightfully theirs.”

“The sheriff has been unable to locate any heirs. And besides, I'm not taking anything away from the heirs. Just relocating it. According to the terms of the lease—”

“Oh, give it a rest, Bob.” Fists clenched, Tricia turned on her heel and stalked into her own shop. Ginny was in the midst of making a fresh pot of complimentary coffee for their patrons, while Miss Marple dozed on the sales counter. The sight of such normalcy instantly lowered Tricia's anxiety quotient by half. That still left the other half to bubble over.

Tricia stowed her purse under the counter. “Did you see what's going on next door?”

“How could I miss it?” Ginny said. “The truck pulled up only a minute after you left for lunch. I guess that means the police have finished their investigation, otherwise Bob Kelly wouldn't be allowed inside.”

“I've read a lot of true crime and police procedurals and I've never heard of a law enforcement agency abandoning a crime scene so quickly,” Tricia said.

“Wendy Adams will figure it out. She's supposed to be good at her job,” Ginny offered.

“Maybe, but she's never had to solve a murder before.”

“But as she also pointed out, it's an election year. That'll give her plenty of incentive.”

Tricia nodded thoughtfully.

The phone rang. Tricia grabbed it. “Haven't Got a Clue, Tricia speaking. How can I help you?”

“Trish? It's Deb Black. I wanted to let you know a deputy's been canvassing Main Street, asking questions of all the shop owners.”

“Let me guess: asking questions about me.”

“More like planting suspicions.” She sounded worried.

Tricia swallowed. “Thanks for the heads-up.” She remembered the nudist tracts. “Deb, have you had a problem with leaflets about—”

“Nudists!” she cried. “Yes, and it's really, really tacky. I offer quality merchandise and these horrid little pieces of paper are just plain vulgar. I called the sheriff, but she told me she's too busy with a murder investigation to bother with something so trivial. And besides, they're not illegal, just a nuisance.”

“That's what I was afraid of.”

“I've got customers. See you Tuesday night at the auction—that is if I don't have the baby before then.”

“You got it. See you then.” Tricia hung up.

“More bad news?” Ginny had obviously been eavesdropping.

Tricia shrugged. Movement outside caught her eye. One of the movers placed another carton in the back of the truck and closed the hinged doors, throwing a bolt. “There goes the first load.” Tricia's thoughts returned to the Cookery. “Bob said Sheriff Adams hadn't located any of Doris's heirs. That doesn't mean there aren't any. I'm sure the sheriff has already searched Doris's home for that kind of information…insurance policies…whatever.”

Ginny nodded. “It's not much of a home, really. More like a cottage.”

Tricia looked up. “You've been there?”

“A couple of times. Once when we had a celebrity author come in, Doris forgot some paperwork she needed and sent me over to her house.” She lowered her voice. “I know where she hid an extra key to the back door.”

“And?” Tricia whispered.

“Maybe it wouldn't hurt for an interested party—someone the sheriff seems to want to pin this murder on—to go over there and have a look.”

The thought repelled yet fascinated Tricia. “But that would be breaking and entering.”

“Not if you've got the key,” Ginny said. “You could go tonight.”

“You'd have to come with me.”

“Can't. Brian's taking me to Manchester for a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert—we've planned it for months. Which reminds me, I'm going to need to leave a little early tonight. Is that a problem?”

Tricia shook her head.

“You could go on your own to Doris's. You can park in the back. No one will see your car from the road. No one will ever know you were even there.”

“Maybe,” Tricia said.

“Think about it. In the meantime, why don't you have a nice cup of coffee and tell me all about your lunch date.” Ginny handed Tricia a cup, just the way she liked it.

“He took me to some little clam shack that served the best lobster bisque in the entire world.”

Ginny smiled. “That would be Ed's.”

Tricia laughed. “Does everyone know about this place but me?”

“You're still relatively new here.”

Tricia sipped her coffee, her thoughts returning to the conversation she'd had with Mike. “You're a lifelong resident of Stoneham; do you know Mike Harris's mother?”

Ginny shook her head. “Not my generation. I suppose my mom or grandmother might. If I think of it, I'll ask.” She considered Tricia's question for a moment. “Why do you want to know?”

“Mike wants me to have a look at her book collection. Give him some ideas on disposing of it.”

Ginny frowned. “Makes it sound like the books are nothing but garbage.”

“I know. The idea seemed to bother him, too.”

“What do you expect to find?”

Tricia sighed. “Nothing of particular value. Cookbooks, book club editions of bygone best sellers…”

“And no doubt the dreaded
Reader's Digest
condensed books.”

Tricia shuddered. “Please—don't blaspheme in the shop.”

Ginny laughed.

A gleaming white motor coach passed by the shop on its way to the municipal lot to disgorge the latest crowd of book-buying tourists.

Ginny brightened. “Get ready for the ladies of the Red Hat Society. It's showtime!”

 

Soon after
Ginny left for the evening, the store emptied out as well. All except for Mr. Everett, who sat in his favorite chair in the nook, nose buried in a paperback copy of John D. MacDonald's
The Scarlet Ruse
, being careful not to crease its binding. Tricia lowered the shades, closed down the register, and counted the day's receipts, locking them in the safe before disturbing him. “Closing time,” she said.

Mr. Everett looked up, glanced at the clock, which read 7:05. “I'm sorry, Ms. Miles. I was so entranced…” He slid a piece of paper inside the book to hold his place, and stood, about to replace it on a shelf.

“Just a moment,” Tricia said and took the book from him. As she suspected, his bookmark was indeed one of the nudist tracts. “You wouldn't know anything about these, would you, Mr. Everett?”

Mr. Everett looked both embarrassed and aghast. “Certainly not. But I will admit to finding more than a dozen of them in the last day or so.”

“You haven't seen who it was who put them inside the books, have you?”

“No, but I have been watching the customers in an effort to put an end to it. I'm sorry to say I haven't caught the culprit. I know everyone in the village and can't say I've seen any come in, so it must be an outsider.”

“My sentiments exactly.” Tricia turned for the sales counter and a little basket holding author promotional bookmarks. “We'll save your place with one of these, okay?”

Mr. Everett lowered his head, his cheeks reddening. “Thank you, Ms. Miles.”

“See you tomorrow?” she asked.

“Bright and early,” he promised, the hint of a smile gracing his lips.

Tricia walked him to the door, closed and locked it, spying a sheriff's cruiser slowing, its driver craning his neck to check out her shop. Her cheeks burned as she lowered the shades on the windows and commenced with the rest of her end-of-day tasks, tidying up and running the carpet sweeper across the rug. With Ginny gone early, every task seemed to take extra time, or maybe she was just dragging her feet. The idea of violating the sanctity of Doris Gleason's home bothered her. Then again, it bothered her more that the sheriff still seemed to think she was the prime suspect in the murder and might be staking out her store.

Maybe the deputy had been checking out Doris's shop, not Haven't Got a Clue. But if that was true the driver should've speeded up when he'd passed the Cookery, not slowed down.

Miss Marple patiently waited at the door to the apartment stairs. Tricia cut the lights and headed for the back of the shop when a furious knock at the door caught her attention. Miss Marple got up, rubbed eagerly against the door, and cried.

The knocking continued.

“Now what?” Tricia groused. Guided by safety lighting, she crossed the length of the shop, ready to tell whoever was at the door that she was closed. Pulling aside the shade, she saw Angelica balancing a tray on her knee, holding on to her huge purse, and about to knock again. Tricia opened the door. “Ange, what are you doing here?”

“I brought you dinner.” She bustled into the shop, leaving behind the scent of her perfume. “Why is it so dark in here?”

“The store is closed. And you don't have to bring me dinner every night.” She took a sniff—bread? Sausage? Heavenly!—and realized that her bisque lunch had been many hours before. “Let me take the tray. Follow me, and don't step on Miss Marple when we get to the door.”

Angelica muttered something about “that damn animal,” but followed. Tricia hit the light switch and the little gray cat scampered up the steps ahead of them, with Angelica complaining about the three-flight trek and the lack of an elevator.

Tricia balanced the tray and opened the apartment door, hitting the switch and flooding the kitchen with light. She set the tray down and lifted the dishcloth covering the evening's entrée. It looked like a meatloaf-shaped loaf of bread. “Stromboli?” she asked.

A breathless Angelica nodded. “And a thermos of the most amazing lobster bisque you're ever likely to eat.”

Tricia stifled a laugh. “You don't say. Where did you get it? At a clam shack?”

“I made it.” Angelica set down her gargantuan purse on the counter and leaned against it, still panting.

“I really appreciate you feeding me, Ange, but I don't want to make you wait until after my shop closes just to eat dinner.”

“Darling, on the Continent they don't dine until nine or ten.”

“And where are you cooking all this stuff, anyway?”

“At the inn. I've made friends with the executive chef, François. He's learned a few things from me, too.” She turned to her suitcase-sized purse and withdrew a bottle of red wine. “Where's the corkscrew?”

“No wine for me. I'm going out later.”

Angelica set the bottle down, shrugged out of her suede jacket, and hung it on the coatrack just inside the door. “Where are we going?”

“Not we,
me.
Besides, I'm not sure what I've got planned is exactly legal.”

Angelica's eyes flashed. “Ooh, this sounds like fun. What've you got in mind?”

“Someone told me where to find the key to Doris Gleason's house. I'm hoping I might find something the sheriff could use in her investigation.”

“And what makes you think you could do a better job than the sheriff?”

“Well, I have read thousands of mysteries.”

“That's true. I'll bet you've got so much vicarious experience you could open your own investigation service.”

Tricia frowned. “Sarcasm doesn't become you.”