Lorna Barrett - Murder Is Binding

On impulse, Tricia picked up the receiver on her bedside phone, punched in the number she'd memorized but so far hadn't used.

The phone rang four times before a sleepy voice answered, "-llo?"

"Christopher?"

Long seconds of silence.

"Tricia?"

She sagged against her pillows. "It's me."

"What time is it?"

"After one. Oh, wait-that's eleven your time. You go to bed early these days."

"It's all that fresh air. There's nothing like it." She could hear the unspoken should've done this years ago . "What's wrong?"

"Can't a friend call a friend without something being wrong?"

"Trish," he admonished.

She sighed. "Someone threw a rock through my shop window tonight."

"What?"

"And my neighbor was murdered on Tuesday." She left out the part that she was the main suspect.

"You're not serious," he said, no longer sounding sleepy.

"It's all true."

"All those years in Manhattan without a problem, and you move to a small town in New England to find chaos."

"Could only happen to me, right?" she said, but the laugh that accompanied it was forced.

"I can't just come over and make it right for you."

"I know. I wouldn't expect you to. It's just…" She reached out, petted her cat, who began to purr. "Miss Marple misses you."

"I miss her, too."

She dared speak the words she'd been afraid to ask. "Are you with anybody?"

"Nobody could live up to you."

"Then why…?" she asked, the hurt bubbling up once again. He didn't answer, hadn't had a real answer the day he'd announced his decision to leave. "I didn't want a divorce. We could've worked things out."

"No. I wasn't going to drag you down with me. You're too special for that, my girl."

But Tricia knew she would never be his girl again. "Are you happy?"

"Yeah. I am. It's a much different life. It's not something you'd enjoy. You need people. Stimulation. Tell me, were you happy before Tuesday, before all this crap happened?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation. Admitting that did make her feel a bit better.

"When things calm down, you'll feel happy again."

"Angelica's visiting. She says she wants to move to Stoneham."

"Scratch that, then," he said, which made her laugh. That's why she'd called. Some part of her had known he'd make her laugh.

"It'll be okay, Trish. You're strong and you'll get through whatever's going on. You'll be fine."

"You promise?"

"Yes. Now close your eyes and dream about something wonderful. Like a cheese blintz."

Tricia couldn't help but smile. "I take it they're hard to find in the wilds of Colorado."

"You got it, sweetheart."

She laughed again. "Thank you for picking up the phone. I'm sorry I woke you."

"You know you can call me anytime."

It was time to hang up and actually doing it was proving harder than she'd anticipated. Saying what she had to say would be even more difficult. "Good-bye, Christopher."

"Good-bye, Trish."

Tricia carefully replaced the phone in its cradle, knowing she would never call him again.

Tricia inspected her makeup in the mirror over the bathroom sink. After three attempts to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes with concealer, she admitted defeat and set the little tube aside. Talking to Christopher hadn't settled her nerves, and Russ Smith's words of warning the evening before had stayed with her, keeping her from yet another decent night's sleep.

She'd come to no conclusions during her tossing and turning, grateful she could spare no time this morning to ponder the situation. Still, she took another moment to assess herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door, wanting to look nice for Mike. She'd chosen the peach sweater set over beige slacks. With the days growing shorter, she'd soon put it away for darker fall colors. The idea of winter setting in and the possibility of spending it in the New Hampshire State Prison for Women did more than depress her.

I will not think about it, I will not think about it. And despite his chivalry after the rock incident, she cursed Russ for even hinting at the possibility she could end up in jail.

Out in the kitchen, Miss Marple rubbed her little gray body against the door leading to the stairs and the store below. "It's Sunday," Tricia told her, and took one last sip of her tepid coffee before dumping it in the sink. "You don't need to go to work until noon." But the cat would not be dissuaded.

Tricia grabbed her coat from the tree and snagged her purse and keys.

The phone rang. Who on Earth would be calling so early on a Sunday morning?

Miss Marple stood up, scratched the door, and cried piteously. Tricia unlocked and opened it for her. The phone rang again as the cat scampered down the stairs. Tricia snatched it on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Tricia, it's Angelica. What took you so long to answer?"

"I was almost out the door," she said, balancing the phone on her shoulder as she struggled into her jacket sleeves.

"I thought the store opened late today."

"It does. I'm going out to evaluate a private collection. Can this wait until later? I'm going to be late."

"Wait! I just heard about your store being vandalized. Are you okay?"

"Of course," she lied. "I'm perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"There's a murderer running around Stoneham, and now someone's targeted you-maybe the same person."

"Don't be so melodramatic. It was only a window; it'll be replaced tomorrow. Besides, I wasn't even in the building at the time."

"Are you opening the store today?"

"Definitely. But as I said, I've got to head out right now or I'll be late."

"I think you should close the store and come house hunting with me today."

"You know I can't. There are at least two buses coming through this afternoon."

"Well, at least you close early, don't you?"

"At three."

"Fine. By then I'll have looked at two or three properties. If I find one I like, I'll want your opinion."

That was a first. Tricia couldn't remember her sister ever consulting her on anything, be it a brand of designer shoes or the ripeness of a banana. For some reason, it pleased her. "Okay. Who's driving, you or me?"

"Me."

"All right. See you at three."

"Be careful," Angelica warned.

Tricia hung up the phone to find an annoyed Miss Marple sitting at her heels. "You know perfectly well there's a door at the bottom of the stairs and that it's closed until I open it."

Miss Marple stood and swaggered back to the open doorway. Tricia grabbed her purse once again and followed.

The Harris homestead was a lovely pseudo-Tudor nestled in a quaint, upscale neighborhood with mature trees and professional landscaping.

Tricia parked her car at the curb, noting Mike's sleek black Jag sat under a massive maple, its highest leaves just beginning to turn gold. The remnants of a now-untended garden rimmed the front of the buff-colored, stucco-faced house. A sense of recent abandonment clung to the property. Mike probably had his own home to take care of, and the house was huge, much too big for one person-especially someone with the beginnings of Alzheimer's disease. Poor Mrs. Harris.

Tricia pressed the doorbell and heard a resounding bing-bong from within. Moments later the heavy oak door swung open. "Welcome," Mike greeted, ushering her into an elegant foyer with its polished tile floor and matching floral wing chairs flanking a marble-topped mahogany table. To the left was a magnificent staircase, with ornately carved banisters, that swept up to the second floor. Light streamed in through stained-glass panes of green and yellow diamonds, casting a warm glow on the carpeted steps.

"What a beautiful home," she said, wondering what other delights it might contain.