Lorna Barrett - Murder Is Binding

Her words tore Tricia's attention away from the map.

"It can't be," Angelica asserted. "That car was here when I arrived on Tuesday, which was the day Doris Gleason died."

Bess checked the register. "Ms. Gleason checked in on the third."

"And Doris was murdered on the fifth," Tricia said.

"What difference does it make what day she checked in?" Bess asked.

"Until Saturday no one knew Doris even had a sister," Tricia said.

"I did," Bess said. "Deirdre Gleason told me so."

"When did she tell you?" Angelica pressed.

"I don't remember exactly."

"Why didn't you report it to the sheriff after Doris's death?" Angelica insisted.

"I didn't think about it. I mean why would I?" Bess said, sounding defensive.

Bess was right; she wouldn't have known the sheriff was looking for next of kin. Tricia turned her attention back to her map.

"Tonight's Ms. Gleason's last night with us. She's moving into her sister's home tomorrow," Bess said.

Angelica leaned against the counter, bending closer. "Really? Tell me, have you gotten to know Deirdre during her stay?"

Tricia unfolded another section of her map and rolled her eyes, only half listening to the conversation.

Bess shook her head. "Not really. She keeps to herself. Has all her meals in the bungalow."

"Has anything about her changed since her sister's death?" Angelica asked.

"Changed?" Bess echoed.

"Her appearance: clothes, glasses, makeup?"

Bess thought about it. "She got her hair cut real short."

"Did she really?" Angelica said slyly.

Tricia refolded her map and changed the subject. "Bess, do you know what tonight's special is?"

It took a moment for the question to register. "Um…seared scallops with tropical salsa."

Angelica glowered at Tricia. "Sounds yummy."

Snagging Angelica's arm, Tricia pulled her away from the reception desk. "Thanks, Bess."

"Trish!"

"Shhh," Tricia warned and steered Angelica toward the dining room. "What was all that about?" she whispered.

"I'm working on a theory. I'll tell you about it later."

The hostess arrived to seat them, and they followed her to a far corner of the crowded dining room. The table was not to Angelica's liking.

"This is outrageous," she grumbled, knocking her elbow against the paneled wall. We deserve a better table than this."

"And there aren't any others, so be quiet and read your menu." But Tricia wasn't looking at her own menu; instead, she squinted at the tiny print on the map's index.

"Aren't you even the least bit curious as to why Deirdre made it sound like she wasn't in town before her sister's death? And how come nobody in town even knew Doris had a sister?"

"Of course I'm interested," Tricia said, setting the map aside and diving into her purse for her reading glasses. "But right now I'm more interested in finding out where Winnie got that blasted cookbook."

It was Angelica's turn to shush Tricia.

"And the reason nobody in town knew Doris had a sister," Tricia whispered, "is because she's not a Stoneham native. Aside from a few people like Mr. Everett, not many of the townspeople frequent the bookstores. Bess probably didn't even know Doris existed until Deirdre came to visit."

"It still seems funny to me," Angelica griped, but focused her attention on the menu. "Especially since the sheriff told you the dead woman had no relatives."

Had the sheriff said so, or had Tricia only imagined she had? Now she wasn't sure.

She thought back. It had been Bob who'd said Doris had no heirs the day he'd cleared out the Cookery. He'd either been in denial or clueless.

"Speak of the devil," Angelica muttered, looking over Tricia's shoulder.

Tricia turned. Sheriff Adams was maneuvering her bulk past the Brookview's dining patrons, bumping into chairs and jostling tables and glasses as she made her way toward the sisters. "Now what?"

Sheriff Adams paused in front of Tricia's table, her thumbs hooked into her belt loops, a stance that would've done John Wayne proud. "Ms. Miles, I'd like to speak with you."

"Now? On a Sunday evening? In the middle of the Brookview's dining room? What about?"

The sheriff surveyed the dining room, as though making sure those at nearby tables could hear her. "Doris Gleason's murder. We can discuss it here, or we can do it in the lobby."

Tricia gauged the interest from her neighbors, who'd suddenly lowered their heads to study their soup courses or were now hiding behind menus. "I have nothing to hide. Ask away."

"I'm going to ask a judge to have your financial records subpoenaed. I contend that you stole that valuable book and killed Doris Gleason for financial gain."

"Interesting that you'd make such an accusation without proof and in front of so many witnesses," Angelica commented, still perusing her menu. "I'm sure you understand the legal ramifications of slander."

"I'm not talking to you," the sheriff growled.

"And you know something, Tricia, I don't think you should talk to the sheriff, either. I mean, not without a lawyer present. You want someone with legal experience who can document just how ridiculously this investigation is proceeding."

"Ange-" Tricia warned.

"I mean really," Angelica continued. "I'm sure you've got more money in your petty cash fund than the sheriff makes in a year. And since you couldn't give a Kadota fig about cooking or cookery books no matter how old and valuable they are, I don't see that continuing this conversation for an instant longer is going to be productive for either you or the sheriff. Especially when there are other people the law could be investigating."

"Like whom?" Sheriff Adams demanded.

"Bob Kelly, for one," Tricia said.

"We've already been over that territory."

"Then how about Deirdre Gleason," Angelica suggested. "She was in town days before her sister was murdered. Funny she didn't step forward to reveal her relationship with poor Doris until you went looking for her."

"She was out of town at the time of the murder," the sheriff said.

"And you have proof of that?"

"Deirdre Gleason was registered with the inn for three days before the murder. And although she paid for the room, she was out of town at the time of her sister's death. I'm satisfied with the information I've obtained to corroborate her story."

"And why aren't you satisfied with Tricia's answers? Because she's younger and prettier and much, much thinner than you?" Angelica asked pointedly.

Tricia slapped the table. "That's enough, Angie."

Angelica waved Tricia's protests aside, leveling her gaze at a pink-cheeked Wendy Adams. "Now unless you have specific allegations you want Tricia to address, please go away and let us have our dinner in peace. Perhaps you could do something useful, like finding out who broke Tricia's store window, or is even that beyond you?" She looked back down at her menu. "I think the herb-crusted sea bass sounds divine. How about you, Tricia?"

Tricia picked up her menu once again, struggling to keep her voice level. "I was thinking more along the lines of fowl. Perhaps the candied peacock?"

Sheriff Adams stood rooted to the spot, mouth open, eyes bulging, for a full ten seconds before she turned and stalked back across the dining room, jostling more tables as she went.

Tricia turned her menu so it hid her face from the onlookers. "That bit about me being thinner was a real low blow," she whispered. "But thanks for getting in the shot about my window."

"Well, she deserved it. There's no reason for her to keep hounding you. And do you really think she's looked into Deirdre's alibi?"

"I would think she'd have to. What makes you think Deirdre would've killed her sister?"

"Are you really sure it was Doris Gleason you saw lying dead on the floor of the Cookery? You saw her within an hour of her death; did you see her face? What was she wearing when you found her?"