Lorna Barrett - Murder Is Binding

"Yes, but-" Tricia tried to protest, but Bob cut her off again.

"She was an embarrassment to the village. It's hard to promote tourism when you've got her sort wandering about. She was a nuisance in life and a liability in death. No one's claimed her body. It'll probably be up to the taxpayers to bury her," he finished bitterly and took another gulp of wine. He turned his attention to Angelica. "Now, what kind of house were you thinking about buying or were you just interested in renting?" And Bob launched into his pitch for possible residential rentals and sales.

Taking the hint, Tricia busied herself by feeding Miss Marple and setting the table. Although Bob was her first official dinner guest since moving in, she decided not to use her grandmother's best china and tableware. For someone like Mike, however, she might be persuaded to pull out all the stops.

She would've liked to have returned Mike's call, thanking him for his support. Hadn't he said his mother's book collection included cookbooks? Deirdre Gleason would need additional titles to restock the Cookery. Perhaps Tricia could broker a deal for the books, which would at least keep the lines of communication open with her nearest neighbor.

When the crab puffs were finally gone Angelica declared the entrée ready to serve. She'd whipped up a romaine salad and homemade poppy-seed dressing as well. The three of them took seats at the table.

Bob dug in, chewed, and swallowed. "Unusual flavor. What is it?"

Tricia took a bite and could tell the meat wasn't beef. "Yes, it's different, but it's delicious," she said and took another bite.

"Venison," Angelica said, smug. "Most people won't eat it, but I know how to take out the gamey flavor."

"And how do you do that?" Bob asked, shoveling up another mouthful.

"It's a secret." She sipped her wine. "I'm sorry I had to use store-bought noodles, but there just wasn't time to make them from scratch," she lamented and sighed.

Tricia watched as Bob stabbed another forkful, then savored the taste. "This is absolutely delicious. Have you ever thought about opening a restaurant, Angelica?"

Angelica brightened. "Well, actually, I have."

Bob leaned in closer, his voice growing husky. "I've got a couple of beautiful properties that could be converted into the most exquisite little bistros."

Tricia cringed. Honestly, he sounded like the worst kind of used car salesman.

Angelica didn't seem to notice and fluttered her eyelashes. "Do tell."

Tricia cleared her throat, afraid they'd forgotten she was still there. She'd never seen Angelica turn on the charm for a man before-and she was sure she didn't want to see a repeat performance.

"Gee, it's too bad Drew isn't here. As I recall, Stroganoff was his favorite. And he has such a vast knowledge of architecture and renovation-which would sure be a big help if you're serious about opening a restaurant."

"Drew?" Bob asked.

Angelica straightened in her chair, her expression souring. "My soon-to-be ex-husband."

"I'm still hoping for a reconciliation," Tricia said, trying to look encouraging.

Angelica put down her fork. "Well, I'm not. More Stroganoff, Bob?"

Tricia studied her sister's face. There was hurt behind her strained smile. Tricia still didn't know why her sister's marriage was about to end, and teasing her now, in front of Bob, really wasn't fair. Although, the last thing she wanted was for the two of them to start a relationship.

Tricia sipped her wine. Then again, why should she stand in the way of her sister's happiness even if she'd find it with someone like Bob Kelly? Wasn't she looking forward to seeing Mike Harris again? The pain of her own divorce was still fresh, and somewhere in the back of her mind she heard her mother scolding," If something happens to Dad and me, you're all you've got ." Those words held new meaning for her after finding Doris Gleason's body, and suddenly Tricia found herself looking at her sister with kinder eyes.

"Tell me more about those hot properties, Bob," Angelica cooed, lashes fluttering again.

Tricia's grasp on her fork tightened. If she didn't end up killing Angelica first.

Tricia lay awake half the night, disturbed by dreams of Angelica, radiant in a long white gown, and Bob Kelly in a tuxedo with a green shirt and tie, making goo-goo eyes at each other as they exchanged I dos, and vowing to live a life of wedded bliss in Tricia's home. The rest of the night Tricia lay awake, various scenarios of her future-none of them good-circling through her mind.

Regular coffee might not be enough to get her through the day. A double shot of espresso was what she needed, except there was no place in all of Stoneham to get a cup of that black-as-tar brew at this time of day.

After a half hour of running nowhere on the treadmill, a shower, and a Pop-Tart breakfast, Tricia and Miss Marple headed down to the store, if only to soak up its cozy ambiance on that gray morning. Miss Marple settled down on one of the nook's chairs, ready for some serious napping, while Tricia puttered around the shop.

Mr. Everett must've seen the lights on, because he showed up especially early, with his collapsible umbrella under his arm. Tricia let him in and offered him the first complimentary cup of coffee of the day.

"Thank you," he said, taking his first sip. He scrutinized her face. "Is something troubling you, Ms. Miles?"

She shook her head-definitely in denial-then thought better of it and nodded. "Yes. I keep thinking of all that's happened in the past few days and I can't quite make sense of it all."

"Death is never as easy to handle in person as it is in fiction. Yet that's the fascination that inspired all the books here on your shelves."

"That's true," she admitted, "but it doesn't feel so antiseptic, so remote when you've actually known the deceased."

"I agree." He took another sip. "Death is not a stranger to Stoneham. We lose people all the time to sickness, to accidents. That we've lost one to murder gives us more in common with our big-city cousins. Not something we as a village aspire to."

"You're right. When someone dies of natural causes there's pain, but also a sense of acceptance. But murder and accidents…" She studied the old man's gray eyes. "Did you know Winnie Wentworth?"

His gaze dipped and he took his time before answering. "Yes."

"What was she like?"

"In years past she liked honeydew melons, green beans, and pork rinds and malt liquor on a Saturday night."

Not the kind of details Tricia would've expected. She laughed. "How do you know that?"

He shrugged. "Just some things I observed over a number of years. For instance, you don't want customers to know how passionate you are about keeping the work of long-dead mystery authors alive. So you carry the current best sellers and give them some prominence, but when you talk to your customers, you always recommend the masters."

Of course she did. Like the rest of the booksellers in town, Haven't Got a Clue offered used and rare books. He hadn't really answered her question.

"Tell me something else about Winnie," she said, hungry to hear more.

Mr. Everett searched the depths of his quickly cooling coffee. "She had contempt for the written word, or at least reading for pleasure, but she recognized books as way to stay afloat with the changes that came to Stoneham these past few years."

"Then why didn't she offer me more books?" Tricia asked, puzzled. "I didn't meet her until the day she died."

Again he shrugged. "She was eccentric, didn't trust many people. But I do know one thing: she was always careful with her car. It's all she had. She wasn't one to drive recklessly."

"Do you think her death was an accident or…something else?"