Lorna Barrett - Murder Is Binding

"How will you find it?"

"I don't know. But I'm not going to give up." Tricia took a sip of her coffee. Since Russ was supposed to be on top of everything that happened in Stoneham, she decided to tap him for more information.

"What's the scuttlebutt on a big box store coming to the area?"

He shrugged. "I hadn't heard about it."

"Is that so?" she said, incredulous.

Russ laughed. "I've got no reason to lie."

"You've at least heard about the nudist tracts someone's been leaving all over the village."

"Nudists?" Either he was clueless or the world's worst reporter.

"You need to get out of your office more often. According to the website listed on the leaflets, a nudist resort is supposed to open somewhere near here next summer."

He picked up a pen, jotted down a note. "Tell me more."

She gave him the name of the business. "Drop by any of the bookstores if you want copies of the tracts. We've all got them."

"I'll do just that."

Tricia stood and picked up her coffee. "The day's getting away from me." She turned to leave, paused, and turned back. "Just one thing: would you have told me who bought the ad if the information had still been available?"

Russ smiled. "Don't you know that a good reporter never reveals a source-be it of information or revenue?"

Tricia swallowed down her annoyance. "I'll remember that for future reference."

Piqued, Tricia discarded her nearly full cup of coffee in one of Stoneham's municipal trash cans and headed back for Haven't Got a Clue. The lights inside the Cookery were already on, and she could see that Deirdre had finished washing the walls and had even made some progress with her restocking efforts. Had Bob opened up the storage unit and let her reclaim the display pieces? Some of them even had books on them, perhaps from the stock stored on the second floor or from Doris's home storeroom.

Tricia hammered on the door and waited. Deirdre had to be in the back room. She knocked again. Sure enough, Deirdre lumbered out of the back. She looked uncannily like her sister-but then wasn't that the way with identical twins? She even seemed to have lost her glasses.

Deirdre opened the door, her smile of welcome almost convincing. "Good morning, Tricia. You're out early."

"And you're already hard at work, I see."

"I've got a schedule to keep if I want to reopen the Cookery next Monday. Come in." Deirdre stepped over to one of the bookshelves. Several opened cartons sat on the floor. She picked up a book and squinted at its cover.

"Did you lose your glasses?" Tricia asked.

"My what?" Deirdre asked, alarmed.

"Your glasses. You're not wearing them."

Deirdre patted her cheek in panic. "Good grief, you're right. I must have taken them off when I first came in. They're around here somewhere. Now what can I do for you?" she said, changing the subject.

Tricia prayed for tact, knowing there really was no easy way to begin what she had to say. "I'm sorry to say that Sheriff Adams is convinced I killed your sister."

Looking doughy and toadlike without her glasses, Deirdre merely blinked, apparently startled at Tricia's bluntness.

"I did not kill Doris," Tricia asserted.

"I should hope not," Deirdre said.

"But I do have some questions for you."

Deirdre visibly stiffened. "Me?"

"Yes. Within hours of Doris's death, the whole village was buzzing with the news. You were in town, registered at the Brookview Inn. Why didn't you step forward and let the sheriff know you were her next of kin?"

"I was not in Stoneham when Doris was killed. Yes, I'd taken a room at the inn, but I'd gone home to take care of some business and collect more clothing. I didn't arrive back until days after her death."

"How many days?"

Deirdre's eyes narrowed. "What are you implying? That I had something to do with my own sister's death?"

Tricia hesitated. If she mentioned the insurance policy, Deirdre would wonder where she learned about it. Likewise if she mentioned anything else about Doris's daughter. "Of course not. I just thought it was funny you didn't come forward sooner."

"Well, I don't think it's funny at all. What if something happened to your sister and people accused you of doing her in? Would you think that was funny?"

"No, I-"

"And neither do I." She pointed toward the door. "I think you should leave."

"Deirdre, I-"

"Now, please," she said and grasped Tricia by the shoulders, shoving her across the room and out of the Cookery, slamming the door and locking it before stalking away.

"Deirdre! Deirdre!" Tricia shouted to no avail.

Suddenly Mr. Everett was standing beside her, looking through the Cookery's door as Deirdre disappeared from view. "She's in a bit of a snit, isn't she?"

"With cause." Tricia turned and walked the ten or so feet to the door to her own store, withdrew the keys from her purse, and opened the door. Mr. Everett trotted in behind her, hitting the main light switch. Miss Marple sat on the sales counter, ready for another hard day of sleeping on the stock or perhaps a patron's lap.

Juggling his umbrella, Mr. Everett shrugged out of his coat. "Would you like me to hang up your coat as well?"

"Yes, thank you. Looks like you're ready for rain."

"There's talk we'll get the tail end of Hurricane Sheila later today or perhaps tomorrow, depending on how fast it travels."

"Hurricane?" Tricia asked. Preoccupied, she hadn't turned on the TV or the radio in days.

"Would you like me to finish alphabetizing those biographies, Ms. Miles?"

"Please call me Tricia." Mr. Everett nodded, but she knew he wouldn't. Any more than she could call him by his first name, which he'd written on his official application and she'd already forgotten. He'd always be Mr. Everett to her.

"Yes, go ahead. Oh, but maybe you wouldn't mind dusting the display up front. Should it be a sunny day, it's really going to be obvious it hasn't been touched in days. But be careful; there still may be some glass up there."

"I'll get the duster," he said and started for the utility closet.

Tricia opened the small safe from under the sales counter and sorted the bills for the drawer, settling them into their slots. She caught sight of the little scatter pin she'd bought from Winnie, which had resided in the tray since the day Winnie had died. On impulse, she scooped it up and pinned it on the left side of her turtleneck, wondering why she hadn't thought to take the little brooch upstairs to her jewelry box where it belonged.

She checked the tapes on the register and credit card machine, finding them more than half full, and though the store wouldn't open for more than an hour, she decided to raise the shade on the door and let in some natural light. Mike's office across the street was still darkened, and she wondered when or if he'd show up today. He'd said he still had some time left on the lease for his last office. Perhaps he started the day there and only came to the campaign office when work permitted.

Mr. Everett had donned one of the extra Haven't Got a Clue aprons and was happily dusting his way along the front window display. Tricia gave him a smile and turned back to stare out the window. If Mike had sold Winnie the Amelia Simmons cookbook, then found out how valuable it was, he might've decided to take back what had once been his property. He could've slipped across the street and done the deed in the thirty to forty minutes between Tricia speaking to Doris and then finding her dead. And then on Saturday morning Mike had also spent time wandering around Haven't Got a Clue when he could have planted the stolen book to avert suspicion. Not that anyone but Tricia suspected him. Or Bob. Or Deirdre.

She thought about her encounter with Mike at his mother's home the day before. What kind of woman had raised him? She looked over at her new employee. "Mr. Everett, what do you know about Mike Harris's mother?"