Lorna Barrett - Murder Is Binding

Tricia frowned. "And how long is that?"

"Almost six months, which is a shame as she's improved so much in the past few weeks."

"Doesn't her son visit?" Tricia asked, surprised.

The nurse shrugged. "Occasionally. You'd be surprised how many people dump their relatives in places like this and never think to visit them again."

That wasn't the impression Mike had given her. "So you don't think he's a good son?"

The nurse shrugged. "It's not my place to judge." But it was clear she had. Martha rounded the counter. "This time of day Grace will probably be in the community room. Follow me, please."

Tricia noted that most of the patient room doors were open, with too many white-haired, slack-jawed elderly people staring vacant-eyed at TVs mounted high on the walls. They passed a few ambulatory residents shuffling through the hall, or slowly maneuvering themselves aimlessly back and forth in their wheelchairs, barely noticing the stranger in their midst.

Martha paused in the community room's doorway, pointing across the way. "There she is, over by the window. Let me know if you need anything else." Her smile was genuine.

"Thank you," Tricia said and turned to watch Grace as the nurse's footfalls faded.

She hesitated before entering the nearly empty room. Three old gents played cards at a square table off to the right, and a couple of older women sat together on a couch knitting or crocheting colorful afghans that cascaded across their laps. Except for the TV in the corner droning on and on, it was the only color in the otherwise drab room.

These residents seemed to be functioning on a higher level than those she'd already passed. However, Grace, a mere wisp of a woman dressed in a pink cotton housedress with slippered feet and looking like everybody's great-grandma, stared vacantly out the window at the cloudy sky. Her white hair had once been permed, judging by the flat two inches broken by a part in the middle. Pale pink little-girl bunny barrettes on either side of her face kept the hair from falling into her eyes.

Tricia padded closer to the woman and waited, hoping she wouldn't startle her. "Grace," she called softly.

Slowly the woman turned red-rimmed eyes on Tricia.

"Hello, my name is Tricia Miles. I live in Stoneham and own a bookstore there. I understand you like to read mysteries. I brought you one." She held out a copy of Lawrence Block's Deadly Honeymoon . "I understand you used to have a copy of this book."

Grace held out a wrinkled hand, took the book, which no longer had its dust cover, and studied the spine. "Used to have a copy?" she said, her voice sounding small, and looked up at Tricia, confused. "What happened to the one in my living room?"

She remembered! But then wasn't it true that with Alzheimer's disease old memories stayed intact while short-term memory faded? "Yes, that's right," Tricia agreed. "I thought you might like to read it again."

Grace turned her attention back to the book, flipping through its pages. "That was very thoughtful of you…" She looked up in confusion. "Who did you say you were?"

"Tricia Miles. I own one of the bookstores in Stoneham. It's called Haven't Got a Clue."

"Oh yes, the new mystery bookstore. I've been meaning to visit it. When did you open? Last week?"

"Five months ago."

Grace frowned. "That can't be right. I remember reading about it in the Stoneham Weekly News . The article distinctly said the store would open on April fourth."

Tricia swallowed down her surprise. "Yes, we did. But that was five months ago."

Grace's brows drew closer together, her face creasing in confusion once again. "Where did the time go?" She looked up at Tricia and her eyes opened wide in recognition, her mouth drooping. "Where did you get that pin? It's mine."

Tricia's hand flew to the gold scatter pin at her throat. "I bought it."

Grace shook her head. "Oh no. I would never have sold it. It belonged to my grandmother."

"Are you sure?" Tricia asked.

"Would you let me look at it?" Grace held out her veiny hand.

Tricia unfastened the pin and handed it to Grace, who held it close to her face, squinted at the curlicues and scrollwork, her right index finger tracing the pattern. "See here, it says Loretta. That was my grandmother's name."

She handed the pin back to Tricia, who also had to squint. She turned the pin around and around again, and finally did see that it wasn't just ornamentation, but a name: Loretta. She gave the pin back to Grace, who immediately fastened it to her housedress.

"Mrs. Harris, did you ever own a cookbook called American Cookery , by Amelia Simmons?"

"A book? I'm not sure."

Another sign of Alzheimer's?

"I did have a darling little pamphlet written by someone named Amelia that belonged to my mother. It may have even belonged to my grandmother-it was very old-but I don't think I ever made anything out of it. All that colonial food was so stodgy. Jason, my late husband, he was partial to ethnic food. He loved watching Julia Child on TV and often had me make her recipes."

Julia Child and ethnic food didn't seem to belong in the same sentence.

"Did friends call your grandmother Loretta, or did they have a pet name for her?"

Grace frowned. "Hmm. Seems to me they called her Letty."

"Was your grandfather Roddy?"

"Rodney," Grace corrected. "Why do you ask? Are you a long-lost relative?"

Tricia saw an unoccupied chair across the way and pulled it across the floor so that she could face Grace instead of towering over her. She sat. "I have some unhappy news for you. I believe the cookbook and that pin you're now wearing were sold. Probably many more items from your home have been sold, too."

"That can't be. My son Michael-" But her eyes widened and her words trailed off. Slowly, her face began to crumple as tears filled her eyes. "Not again," she crooned, nearly folded in half, and began to rock. "Not again."

Tricia placed a hand on the old woman's arm. "I'm so sorry I had to tell you."

"If what you say is true, it isn't the first time he's stolen from me. I was a good mother. We gave him everything. Why would he keep doing this to me?"

"He said he needed the money so that you could stay here and be taken care of."

Grace turned sad eyes on Tricia. "But I have insurance. There should've been no need to sell my things-and especially without telling me."

"Does Mike have power of attorney?"

Grace shook her head. "No. There's no way I would ever give him that. My lawyer has instructions for my care when I can no longer make decisions; they specifically say that Michael is never to be permitted to represent my affairs."

"Are you aware that your son placed you here? He's been telling everyone you have Alzheimer's disease."

"I admit my memory hasn't been as good as it was, but lately I've felt so much more like my old self. I've been wondering how I ended up here and why no one comes to see me. I have many good friends…" Her voice trailed off again as her hand grasped the pin on her housedress, and her gaze slipped out through the window.

Tricia waited for a minute or two for the old woman to continue, but Grace seemed to have lost interest in the conversation.

"Mrs. Harris? Mrs. Harris?"

"How is it you came to buy this pin?" Grace said at last.

"I bought it from a woman named Winnie Wentworth. I believe she got it at a tag sale at your home. She sold it to me last week. She was killed in a car accident the very same day."

"Killed? Oh my. An accident?"

"I'm not sure."

A tear rolled down Grace's cheek, and her gnarled hand still clasped the pin on her chest. "I love this pin. It meant so much to my grandmother. She gave it to me when I was a bride. I have her wedding band hidden with some of my other jewelry. It would break my heart to know it, too, was gone."