Murder Is Binding

Twenty

Hand clutching the office door handle, Tricia paused to wonder if what she was about to do was the right course of action. She'd debated with herself during the twenty-minute trip from St. Godelive's to the county sheriff's office, and the entire hour Sheriff Adams had let her sit in the reception area's uncomfortable plastic chairs waiting for an audience. It was now showtime.

Wendy Adams sat back in her worn gray office chair behind a scarred Formica desk, hand clamped to a phone attached to the side of her head. She waved Tricia to the same straight-backed wooden chair before her that Tricia had taken the day before. Comfort for visitors was definitely not a high priority for Sheriff Adams-and was no doubt a calculated decision.

With ankles and knees clamped together, hands folded primly on her purse, Tricia waited for another five or six minutes for the sheriff to complete her phone conversation, which consisted of a number of grunts and "uh-huhs" until Tricia was sure there was no one on the other end of the line and the sheriff was merely trying-and succeeding-to annoy her.

Tricia spent those final moments rehearsing her speech. She would not raise her voice. She would not lose her temper.

She hoped.

Finally Sheriff Adams hung up. She sat up, shuffled through some pages on the blotter before her, and without looking up spoke. "Now what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Grace Harris."

The sheriff opened a drawer, rooted through the contents, and came up with a pen, which she tested on a scrap of paper before signing a document before her. "And who's Grace Harris? You going to accuse her of killing Doris Gleason, too?" She laughed mirthlessly.

"Grace Harris is Mike Harris's mother-you know, the guy running for selectman in Stoneham. Your lifelong friend? Grace is currently a resident at St. Godelive's Assisted Living Center in Benwell."

The sheriff looked unimpressed. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"It's rather a complicated story. But it turns out Grace was the original owner of the Amelia Simmons cookbook that was stolen from the Cookery the night Doris Gleason was murdered."

Contempt twisted Sheriff Adams's features. "And how did you come up with that?"

Don't get upset. Don't get angry, Tricia chided herself. No matter what, you will remain calm.

"The story begins with a spoiled son who decided not to wait until his remaining parent died before helping himself to what he felt was his inheritance."

She recounted the whole chain of events in chronological order: how Winnie Wentworth had purchased the rare booklet in what was probably a box lot of paperbacks and other ephemera. That Winnie had sold the booklet to Doris Gleason, who was probably murdered in an attempt to recover the book. How days later Winnie sold Tricia the little gold scatter pin and died before she could recount where she'd obtained it and the booklet. How Tricia had examined Grace's book collection at Mike Harris's behest. How her own curiosity compelled her to visit Grace at St. Godelive's, where she found the woman recovering from what had at first appeared to be dementia, but was in all likelihood a drug interaction. If not for the home's new rules and regulations, how Grace would've been sentenced to live out her days in a foggy netherworld, while her son sold off her assets and treated himself to a lavish lifestyle, while bankrolling his campaign for Stoneham selectman.

During the entire recitation, the sheriff's expression remained impassive. When Tricia finally finished, Wendy Adams stood, hunched over, planted her balled fists, gorilla style, on her desktop, and drilled Tricia with her cold gaze.

"Since day one of this investigation, you have done your best to misdirect my efforts with wild accusations to divert attention from your own guilt," she said, her voice low and menacing. "I will not stand for this any longer. Mike Harris is a longtime resident of this village. If you continue to slander his good name, I will see to it that you face a lawsuit that will strip you of every asset you possess before I arrest you and see you rot in jail for the murder of Doris Gleason."

Stunned, Tricia could only stare at the woman in front of her. Mike's good name? Not according to Mr. Everett. And what possible reason could Sheriff Adams have for hating her so? Then in a flash it occurred to her: Mike Harris had shown interest in Tricia. Had asked her to lunch. Had invited her to his mother's home. Could Wendy Adams possibly have a crush on Mike? Or worse, could she be in bed with him-both literally and figuratively? Mike told Tricia he considered her his girlfriend. As a man skilled in manipulation, he could've said the same thing to Wendy Adams and she, being plain, overweight, and never married, chose to believe him. She wouldn't be the first intelligent woman to fall for flattery and the chance at romance with someone unworthy of her.

Struggling to remain calm, Tricia tried again, this time with Angelica's scenario. "There's also Deirdre Gleason's arriving in town prior to her sister's death. Why didn't she step forward? Why did she wait for you to contact her about Doris's murder before she-?"

For such a bulky woman, Sheriff Adams stepped around her desk with amazing speed, stopping only a foot in front of Tricia, towering over her. "I've had just about enough. If you're smart, you'll get out of here before I call in a deputy and have him arrest you on the spot."

"And the charge?" Tricia asked.

"Obstructing justice."

Tricia swallowed, somehow managing to hold on to her composure, and stood. "Thank you for your time, Sheriff Adams. I'm so glad you approach your job with such an open mind. I would hate to think you let personal feelings influence the way you serve the people of this county."

Wendy Adams straightened, leveled her blistering stare at Tricia, but made no further comment.

All eyes were upon her as, head held high, Tricia exited the sheriff's office and walked through the reception room and out to the parking lot. At some level, she hadn't really believed the sheriff would follow through with her threat of arrest. She did now. Angelica was right. She needed a lawyer, and fast. What was Grace's attorney's name? Sounded like some old explorer. Stanley? No, Livingston-Harold Livingston.

The sky to the southwest was darkening as Tricia headed back to her car. Her hands were shaking as she withdrew her cell phone from her purse and found that once again she hadn't bothered to switch it on. It promptly announced that she'd missed two calls-both from Haven't Got a Clue. She dialed the number. It rang three times before a cheerful voice said, "Haven't Got a Clue, this is Angelica, how can I help you?"

It took a few moments for Tricia to find her voice. "Aren't you tired of playing store by now?"

"Trish, is that you? You sound funny."

Funny was not the word. "Ginny is in charge. You are not to try to take over," she said firmly.

"Oh, she made that abundantly clear," Angelica said, woodenly. "And she's been working me like a slave-shelving books, vacuuming. My back may never be the same. How did things go with Grace?"

Tricia had to take a calming breath before she could answer. "She wants me to talk to her attorney. It's a firm in Milford. Can you look up the number for me? The guy's name is Harold Livingston."

"Of Livingston, Baker, and Smith? Office on Route 101 A, right off 'the Oval'?"

"Uh, I guess. Why?"

"Because that's the firm I called to help you out." She paused. "What's an 'Oval'?"

"It's a rotary."

"A what?"

"A roundabout." Silence. "A traffic circle?" she tried.

"Oh. Well, anyway, you have an appointment with Mr. Livingston at two p.m."

"Looks like I need him. The sheriff just told me she definitely has plans to arrest me and hopes I rot in jail."

"Well, of course she'd say that. She's facing reelection. Even if the charge doesn't stand, she's got to have someone to pin the crime on. Why should she care if it costs you thousands in legal fees, plus your reputation? I already told you who murdered Doris-it was Deirdre."

"Try convincing the sheriff of that."

"I will. Yikes, look at the time. You'd better get going if you hope to make that two o'clock appointment."

Tricia glanced at her watch. "But I haven't even had lunch yet."

"I'll make you a big dinner. Here's the number," and she rattled it off.

Tricia jotted it down, then heard the tinkle of the bell over the shop door.

"A bus just unloaded another bunch from a cruise ship. I'm going to really push that stack of Dorothy L. Sayers books Ginny made me shelve. Gotta fly," Angelica said and the connection was broken.

Tricia lowered the phone and frowned at it. Angelica seemed to be enjoying playing store clerk a little too much. She called the attorney's office, received the address and directions, and headed for Milford.

The law firm of Livingston, Baker, and Smith was located in a charming Victorian house, a painted lady done in shades of blue, and it was obvious the building had been lovingly restored and maintained. Raindrops were just starting to fall as Tricia parked between a Lexus and a Lincoln Navigator along the south side of the building. She grabbed her umbrella from the backseat but didn't bother to open it, and walked around to the front and up the wooden stairs for the main entrance, with its stained-glass double doors.

The foyer's marbled floor looked freshly waxed. The grand, curved oak stairway directly in front led to apartments on the upper level, disappearing somewhere above the twelve-foot ceiling. The law office was to her right and through another tall oak door. A Persian rug and comfortable tapestry-upholstered chairs ringed what was once a formal parlor, its gray marble fireplace sporting a bushy fern in its maw. A painting of a distinguished older gentleman in a navy suit graced the back wall. Before it stood a counter; behind it, a receptionist looked up from her workspace. "May I help you?"

Tricia approached the desk, noticed the brass nameplate below the portrait read "Harold Livingston."

"My name is Tricia Miles. I have a two o'clock appointment with Mr. Livingston."

The receptionist, a thin, fiftysomething woman in a gray suit, stood, reminding Tricia of a blue heron. "He's waiting for you. Please come this way."

Tricia followed the woman down a brightly lit corridor. Evidently the rest of the first floor had been gutted to accommodate the partners' offices, however, they must have been rebuilt with architectural salvage, the result looking more like an old bank, with oak-and-frosted-glass doors, the occupants' names painted in gold leaf.

The receptionist knocked and opened the door at the far left. "Your two o'clock is here, Mr. Livingston." She turned back to Tricia. "You can go right in."

Tricia stopped at the room's threshold to stare at the man seated at the polished mahogany desk. Instead of a stately gray-haired gent, she found a dark-haired thirtysomething man, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up, looking like he should be on a Hollywood movie set, not in a New England law firm.

"There must be some mistake. I understood I was to see Mr. Harold Livingston."

The younger man stood. "My late uncle. I'm Roger Livingston." He offered her his hand and she stepped forward to take it. Firm, but not crushing. One point in his favor. "Please sit." He indicated one of the client chairs before his desk.

"When did your uncle…pass?"

"Just over six months ago." Which would explain why he had never gone looking for Grace. Had Mike known this? Had he been biding his time, waiting for Grace to be especially vulnerable before implementing his plan to pillage his mother's estate?

"I understand you have quite a problem. I've only handled a couple of criminal cases, but I interned at a firm in Boston that took on a lot of pro bono work, defending at-risk youths."

"I'm afraid Sheriff Adams is determined to arrest me for murder, despite the fact there's no evidence or motive for me to have committed the crime. But I was also hoping to talk to your uncle about a client of his, Mrs. Grace Harris."

"Attorney-client privilege would've prevented that," he explained.

"Mrs. Harris is in desperate need of legal protection. If you've taken over your uncle's practice, I'd appreciate it if you could review her file. She told me your uncle had drawn up papers-including power of attorney-that specified who did and who did not have the right to take care of her affairs should she become incapacitated."

"As I said, I'm not at liberty to talk about Mrs. Harris's affairs."

"Would you at least speak to her? She was committed to an assisted living facility under suspicious circumstances. Her son seems to have been selling off her assets and she wants it stopped."

Roger took out a pen, jotted down a few notes. "Where is she now?"

"At St. Godelive's Assisted Living Center in Benwell."

He nodded. "I know the place."

"Will you go see her, today if possible? I'd be glad to pay you up front for your time."

"Are you a friend of Mrs. Harris's?"

"I met her yesterday, but I suspect her problems may be linked to my own legal troubles."

Roger Livingston set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. "I think you'd better tell me everything."