Lorna Barrett - Murder Is Binding

"I'd be glad to help out if you need me?" said Mr. Everett, coming up behind Tricia.

"I can't keep imposing on you."

"I like to feel useful," said the older gentleman.

"Go on," Ginny encouraged. "We'll be fine."

Tricia grabbed her purse, raincoat, and umbrella and ducked past the hoard of customers for a hasty exit. She waited for traffic to pass before crossing the street. Mr. Everett's help these last few days had been a blessing. As he was at the store on a daily basis, she wondered if she should offer him a part-time job. Her balance sheet was already in better shape than what she'd initially projected and as Ginny had Sundays off, he might be willing to help out then. Granted, it was a slow day, but she could always use his help for shelving new stock. It made perfect sense, and why hadn't she thought of it before?

The Coffee Bean was just as busy as Haven't Got a Clue, and Tricia took a number, noting there were at least eight customers ahead of her. Stoneham was really hopping on this bleak, late-summer afternoon.

To pass the time, Tricia distracted herself by examining the store's stock: coffee cups that ran the gamut from artful to sublimely silly, packets of gourmet cookies, petit fours, and chocolate in colorful wrappings, everything so beautifully packaged it enticed customers to spend. But she'd get her cookies from the village bakery-if they had anything left this late in the afternoon.

As Tricia read the list of ingredients on a box of Green Mountain chocolates, she began to feel closed in. Looking up, she saw editor Russ Smith was standing well within her personal space. "Excuse me," she said, stepping aside.

"I understand you weren't happy with my article," he said without preamble.

"Who would be?"

"I owe it to my readers to-"

"Act like a tabloid journalist?"

His eyes flashed. "That's uncalled for."

"So was painting me as a murderer-and without even circumstantial evidence." Heads turned at her words. She lowered her voice. "I don't think this is the place to discuss this."

"Then how about dinner. Are you free tonight?"

Tricia blinked. "You've got to be kidding."

Smith's gaze was level. "No, I'm not. We could discuss the story, and perhaps a follow-up-among other things."

Tricia replaced the box of chocolates on the shelf. "I don't think so."

"I'm not your enemy."

"And after what you wrote about me, you're not my friend, either."

"Number forty-seven," the salesclerk called out.

Tricia glanced down at the crushed ticket in her hand. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Smith." She elbowed her way through the other customers and placed her order, all the time feeling Russ Smith's gaze on her back.

Dodging the raindrops, Tricia clutched her bags of coffee and cookies and hurried down the sidewalk. The big, green Kelly Realty FOR RENT sign was gone from the front window of the Cookery. The door stood ajar and the lights blazed. Poking her head inside, Tricia called, "Deirdre?" A woman in a baggy red flannel shirt and dark slacks, with a blue bandana tied around her hair, turned from her perch on a ten-foot ladder. In her hand she clasped a soapy sponge. A six-foot-square patch of wall had already been scrubbed of soot, showing creamy yellow paint once again.

"You shouldn't be doing that," Tricia admonished. A fall for a woman Deirdre's age could send her to a nursing home-or worse.

"It's got to be done," Deirdre said, in the same no-nonsense voice as her dead sister.

"But surely Bob Kelly ought to be paying someone to do it."

Deirdre dropped the sponge into a bucket and carefully stepped down off the ladder. "We came to an agreement on other more important things." The hint of a smile played at her lips. Perhaps she was a harder bargainer than Doris had been, which had been the reason for Bob's sour mood the evening before.

"How soon do you think you'll reopen?"

"Possibly a week. Then I think I'll hold a grand reopening the first week in October. Doris had already lined up an author signing for that week. It should work out nicely."

"But what about the smoke-damaged stock? It'll take weeks to restore them, and surely some of them won't be salvageable."

"I've got an expert coming in on Monday. Meanwhile there're hundreds of boxes in the storeroom upstairs, which thankfully Mr. Kelly neglected to clear out, and there's a room of excess stock at Doris's house. We'll start with that and fill in with newer titles until we replenish our supply of rare and used books."

"We?" Tricia asked.

Deirdre frowned, her gaze dipping. "Excuse me. I can't help talking about Doris and myself as though we'll always be together. She was my twin. When we were younger we were so very close she used to swear we could read each other's minds."

Tricia felt a pang of envy laced with guilt. She'd never felt that way about Angelica. "It sounds like you've had experience running a shop before."

"I was an accountant until last winter, but I heard so much about the Cookery from Doris I always felt I could step into her shoes and run it at a moment's notice. And now I have." She pursed her lips and swallowed.

Tricia considered carefully before voicing her next question. "Have you made any arrangements for Doris?"

Deirdre's expression hardened. "There will be no service, if that's what you mean. She told me she had no friends here in Stoneham. If there's one thing she hated, it was hypocrisy. I couldn't bear to hear platitudes and regrets from people who had no time for Doris during her life."

Ouch-that stung, but Tricia couldn't blame the woman. No doubt Deirdre would grieve for her sister in her own way and time.

"Have you had a chance to visit with your niece?"

Deirdre shook her head. "Her counselor doesn't seem to think it's a good idea. Doris and I looked so much alike it would only confuse her."

"I was very surprised to hear Doris even had a child."

"How was it you found out?" Deirdre asked.

Again, Tricia adopted an innocent stare. "I can't for the life of me remember. It must've been hard on her-being a single mother with a special child."

"You can call Susan retarded. It doesn't offend me, and it didn't offend Doris."

Tricia wasn't sure what to say.

Deirdre averted her gaze. "Being pregnant out of wedlock was one thing; keeping a Down syndrome child was another. Our family abandoned Doris. All except me," she amended. "I was the only one who cared about poor Doris. The world in general"-she turned back to Tricia-"and Stoneham in particular-always treated Doris shabbily."

"Is that what she told you?"

"It's what I observed. But yes, she did tell me that. We were very close."

"I can't say as I recall seeing you here in Stoneham before this week."

"I was not a regular visitor. We kept in touch by phone." Deirdre turned her back on Tricia, picked up her sponge, and began wiping the grimy wall once again. "Is it my imagination, or is this conversation turning into an interrogation?" She looked over her shoulder with a hard-eyed stare.

"I'm sorry. I was merely curious." Tricia changed the subject. "Tomorrow I'll be looking at a private collection of books; the owner is eager to sell. I'd be glad to look out for any cookbooks."

Spine still rigid, Deirdre gave a curt nod. "Thank you, Ms.-?"

"Call me Tricia. After all, we are neighbors."

Deirdre nodded and stepped closer to the ladder. "I must get back to work if I'm going to reopen next week. Thank you for stopping by."

Tricia knew a dismissal when she heard it. She gave a quick "Good-bye," and headed out the door.

Soft, mellow jazz issued from Haven't Got a Clue's speakers as Tricia reentered the store. Stationed at the sales counter, Ginny flipped the pages of a magazine, while sitting in the nook. Mr. Everett's nose was buried in a book without a dust jacket. Tricia hung up her coat, stowed her umbrella and purse, and headed for the coffee station, where she made a fresh pot and set out a new plate of cookies before heading for the sales counter.