Murder Is Binding

Twenty-Two

Tricia tried not to keep an eye on the clock, but after Angelica had been gone for almost an hour she began to worry. What if Angelica said or did something to tip Deirdre off about her suspicions? What if Deirdre threatened Angelica? The what-ifs in her mind began to escalate and she was glad to wait on the few customers who'd braved the elements to patronize Haven't Got a Clue.

The rain had not let up and the street lamps had already blinked on. Tricia let a still-distraught Ginny leave early, and she and Mr. Everett were discussing the merits of doing more author signings and the possibility of staring a reading group when Angelica finally returned.

"Well?" Tricia asked.

Angelica pushed up her sweater sleeves and shrugged. "That woman would make a pretty fair poker player."

"What was her attitude?" Mr. Everett asked. "Polite or had she reverted to type?"

Tricia blinked, surprised. That made twice in one day Mr. Everett had shown irritation.

"She was polite, but she has absolutely no clue how to sell a room," Angelica said and made an attempt to fluff up her rain-dampened hair. "Then again, her house was no better."

Mr. Everett frowned, puzzled by the remark.

"That's because she's selling books-not a room," Tricia grated, hoping Mr. Everett wouldn't ask Angelica how she knew about Doris's home.

"Yes, but if you want to be successful," Angelica continued, oblivious of her gaffe, "you've got to have atmosphere, which you've achieved here with your hunter green accents, sumptuous paneling, the copper tiled ceiling, the oak shelves-you've even got great carpet. This room makes you want to sit down with a good book, a glass of sherry, and a cigar."

Mr. Everett blinked at this last.

"Well, not me personally-I don't smoke-but you know what I mean. Whoever that woman is next door-she's clueless when it comes to selling."

"And what would you do to entice a customer to buy old cookbooks?" Mr. Everett asked.

She turned to face him. "I'd offer more than just books. Exotic gadgets-even just as decor. I'd have samples of dipping sauces, tapanades, mustards, relishes, jams, jellies, and chutneys. I'd feature different cuisines, from Indian to Irish to Asian fusion."

"Doris used to have cooking demonstrations. And don't forget, the lure of Stoneham is rare and antiquarian books," Tricia told her.

"So why can't you offer the new with the old? Tricia, people love to eat. For a big segment of the population, food is more important than sex. Why else would there be an obesity crisis in this country? When life hands you lemons, you make a meringue pie or a luscious curd."

Had Angelica found solace in food? Then again, she'd recently lost a lot of weight. Maybe she'd made the effort to appear more attractive to the husband who no longer wanted her.

"My point is," Angelica continued, "her shtick is food. She ought to play it up."

"Did you tell her that?"

Angelica frowned. "Not exactly. I did tell her I was thinking of opening a restaurant, and we had a nice discussion about food prep."

"Did she seem to know a lot about cooking?" Tricia asked.

"She asked a lot of questions. The kind someone might ask if they weren't sure what they were getting into."

"Where does this leave your theory about her?"

"I don't know," Angelica admitted. "She may have been testing me, or maybe just giving me a snow job."

"I didn't know you wanted to open a restaurant, Mrs. Prescott," said Mr. Everett. "I'm an old hand when it comes to fresh produce. I'd enjoy having a dialogue on it with you some time, if you wouldn't mind."

"I'd love to. How about tomorrow? We can unpack books and talk asparagus and Swiss chard."

"I'll look forward to it," he said.

Thunder rumbled overhead. Tricia looked around the empty shop. "Thanks to what's left of Hurricane Sheila, I don't think we're going to have any more customers tonight. Why don't we call it a day? You can head on home, Mr. Everett."

"If the weather were better, I would insist on staying on until our normal closing time, but I think I will take you up on your generous offer. I will be here bright and early tomorrow, however." He took off his apron and went to the back of the store to retrieve his jacket and umbrella. "Until the morning, ladies."

"Good night," the sisters chorused, as the door shut on his back.

"I'd better head upstairs and get that chicken in the oven if we're ever going to eat tonight," Angelica said.

"What chicken?"

"I went out during a lull and got the fixings. If I'd known I'd have something to celebrate, I would've gotten steaks. We can have that tomorrow."

"Isn't roast chicken kind of pedestrian for you?" Tricia asked.

"Comfort food is comfort food." Angelica glanced around the shop. "Miss Marple, are you coming?"

The cat, curled up on one of the nook's comfy chairs, opened one eye, glared at Angelica, and closed it again.

"So much for trying to make friends with you. " All business, she headed toward the stairs at the back of the shop. "Okay, I'm off."

"I've got things to do," Tricia called. "Be up in a few minutes."

Tricia locked the door and pulled the shades down on the big plate-glass window that overlooked the sidewalk on Main Street, thankful to have a few minutes to herself to decompress. Roger Livingston had made her feel better about her own legal situation, but poor Grace Harris was still alone, still trapped at St. Godelive's.

Tricia crossed to the sales counter. With Angelica gone, Miss Marple decided to be more sociable and hopped down from the chair, trotting over to jump up on the counter and then over to the shelf behind the register next to the still-nonfunctioning security camera.

Tricia planted her hands on her hips. "How many times have I asked you not to get up there?"

Miss Marple said, "Yeow!"

Tricia lifted the cat from the shelf, placing her on the floor. Not one to take direction well, Miss Marple jumped up on the sales counter and again said, "Yeow!"

"Don't even think about getting back up there," Tricia cautioned and turned back for the camera. How could one eight-pound cat continually knock a wall-mounted camera out of alignment? Tricia usually had it pointing at the register-in case someone tried to rob them-but she often thought it made more sense to train it on the back of the shop where shoplifters tended to steal the most merchandise. Now it pointed out toward the street, in the direction of the Cookery, exactly as it had on the night of Doris Gleason's murder.

Tricia peeked around the side of the shade, glancing across the street to Mike Harris's darkened storefront campaign headquarters. She hadn't pulled the shades down on the night of the murder. If Mike had killed Doris, he would've had to cross the street to enter the Cookery during the interval Tricia had left the village to pick up Angelica at the Brookview Inn and her return some thirty minutes later.

She glanced over her shoulder at the camera still mounted on the wall. Had it been in operation at the time? If so, what would she find if she studied the tape?

Footsteps pounded at the far end of the shop, and Angelica appeared at the open doorway to the loft apartment. "Are you ever coming up? I want you to give me a hand making stuffed grape leaves. My version is just divine."

"In a minute," Tricia said, annoyed.

Angelica padded across the shop in her stocking feet. "What's got you so hyped up?"

"What do you mean?"

"The look on your face. It almost says 'eureka!'"

"I'm just wondering…Miss Marple messed with my security system the night Doris was murdered. I don't think I reset the system before I left to pick you up at the inn. What if it recorded Mike Harris crossing the street from his new offices and showed him going to the Cookery?"

Angelica frowned. "It might show him crossing the street and heading north, but you couldn't prove he went next door."

"No, but it might be something my new lawyer could use to help prove me innocent should Sheriff Adams make good her threat to arrest me."

"Well, I'm all for that. I've got the chicken in on low if you want to play your tape. Do we need to take it upstairs?"

"I only have a DVD player in the loft, but we could play it back on the shop's monitor."

"Go for it."

Always interested in technology of any kind, Miss Marple moved to the edge of the counter to study the operation. Tricia hadn't touched the cassette since the morning before Doris had been murdered, and the whirr of it rewinding in the player fascinated the cat.

Tricia noticed Angelica's bare feet. "Where are your shoes?"

"They got wet. Maybe I'll bring a pair of slippers over tomorrow."

"Don't get too comfortable. You'll soon have your own house here in Stoneham."

The tape came to a halt with a clunk and Tricia was about to press the play button when someone banged sharply on the shop door. "Ignore it," Angelica advised. "The store's closed."

The banging came again, this time accompanied by a voice Tricia recognized: Mike Harris. "Open up. I know you're in there, Tricia. The lights are still on," he bellowed. Miss Marple jumped down from her perch and hightailed it across the shop and up the stairs to the apartment. Tricia bit her lip, looked back at the door.

"Don't you dare open that door," Angelica ordered. "He sounds ticked."

The banging continued. Then got much louder.

"I think he's kicking it in," Tricia said, alarmed. "What if he gets inside?"

"Call the sheriff's department," Angelica said.

"Are you kidding? They'd probably lock me up, not him!"

The wood around the door began to splinter.

"Don't you have any friends in this town you can call?" Angelica asked anxiously.

"Mr. Everett and Ginny."

Angelica grabbed the shop's phone and started dialing. "Why couldn't you have a modern phone?"

"Use your cell," Tricia implored.

"I left it upstairs. Ah, it's ringing. Come on, Bob, answer!"

The door crashed open and Mike burst into the shop, soaking wet, chest heaving, his face twisted in anger. "Where the hell do you get off accusing me of murder?" he demanded.

"Answer the phone," Angelica implored.

"Hang up!" Mike ordered.

A defiant Angelica held on to the receiver.

"I said hang up!"

"Bob, it's Angelica! Get over to Haven't Got a Clue right now. There's a madman-"

Before she could finish her sentence, Mike had charged across the carpet, yanked the phone from her hand, and pulled the cord from the wall. Both she and Tricia darted behind the sales counter, putting it between them and the crazy man before them.

"Why did you visit my mother at the home and fill her head with nonsense?"

"What are you talking about?" Tricia bluffed.

"I just got a call from Sheriff Adams. She said you'd visited Mom, accused me of trying to poison her and steal from her. That's a bold-faced lie!"

"Is it?" Tricia said. "The home changed their practices, stopped serving her the gourmet chocolate laced with who knows what that you brought her. It only took a couple of days for her mind to clear. She filed papers to keep you away from her assets. Winnie Wentworth may be dead, but you left enough evidence to nail you for selling off items from your mother's home without her permission."

His eyes had narrowed at the mention of Winnie. "You have no proof."

"An admission of guilt if I ever heard one," Angelica quipped.

"Ange, shush!" Tricia ordered.

"Come on, Trish, you were all hyped just now to see if he was on that tape."

"Ange," Tricia warned.

"What tape?" Mike demanded.

"From the security camera. It was focused out on the street the night Doris Gleason was murdered," Angelica said.

"Give it to me," Mike commanded.

"In your dreams," Angelica said with a sneer.

"Ange," Tricia said through clenched teeth. "You're going to get us killed."

"I said give it to me!" Mike lifted the heavy phone with both hands and smashed it through the top of the sales counter, sending chunks and shards of glass spraying across the carpet.

Both women jumped back and screamed.

Deirdre suddenly stood in the open door, her big red handbag dangling from her left forearm. "What's going on?" she demanded.

"Call the sheriff! Call the sheriff!" Angelica squealed.

Instead, Deirdre stepped inside the shop, pushed the door so that it was ajar-but it wouldn't shut properly with the doorjamb broken and hanging.

"I said what's going on?" Deirdre repeated.

"They've got something I want," Mike said, then turned. "Now give it to me."

The sisters stole a look at each other. Angelica barely nodded, but it was enough for Tricia to reach down to retrieve the tape from the video recorder. She handed it to Mike and backed up, hitting the wall, nearly cracking her head on the shelf that housed the useless video camera.

Mike dropped the tape to the carpeted floor, stomped on it with his booted right foot until the case cracked. Again and again his foot came down until the plastic gave way and he was left pummeling the ribbon of magnetic videotape.

Breathing hard, he looked up, his eyes wild. "Give me a bag."

Tricia blinked, unsure what he meant.

"I said give me a bag!"

Angelica pulled one of the green plastic Haven't Got a Clue shopping bags out from under the counter and threw it at him.

Mike picked up the largest pieces of tape, shoving them in the bag. "We're safe now, Doris."

"Shut up," Deirdre/Doris growled, moving closer, her expression menacing. "We're not safe. You and your stupid temper. Can't you see you've ruined it all?"

Mike's mouth twitched, but he didn't say anything, just kept picking up the plastic fragments.

Angelica stepped back, bumping into Tricia. "I told you she killed Deirdre," she hissed.

Tricia reached out, pinched Angelica to silence her.

"These two are now a liability. We'll have to get rid of them." Doris opened her purse and brought out a couple of the wickedly sharp kitchen knives that matched those from the Cookery's demonstration area. "Take this," she said, shoving the handle of a boning knife toward Mike. "Ladies, come out from behind the counter. Slowly. No funny business."

Funny business was the last thing on Tricia's mind. She gave Angelica a shove in the small of her back. Angelica stayed rooted.

"Look," Angelica said, her voice relatively level. "I've got a nice roast chicken in the oven. I'm making a wonderful appetizer, too. Can't we all have a glass of wine and talk this over?"

Doris's lips were a thin line. Her cheeks had gone pink, her grasp on the knife handle tightened.

Tricia gave her sister another slight shove. "Ange." Finally, Angelica took a step forward.

"What are we going to do?" Mike asked.

Doris ignored him. "Out in front, ladies, hands where I can see them."

Tricia and Angelica stepped around to the front of the cash desk, Tricia's shoes crunching on glass. Angelica yelped, stepping away from the sparkling shards, leaving a patch of blood on the carpet.

"You." Doris nodded toward Tricia. "Where's your car?"

"In the municipal lot."

She turned to Angelica. "You?"

"My car's there, too."

"So's mine," Mike groused. "Terrific, now how do we get out of here?"

"Deirdre's car is parked just outside." Doris fished inside her purse and came up with a set of keys. She tossed them at Tricia, who caught them. "You'll drive."

"Where?"

Doris nodded toward the street. "Just get in the car."

"Oooohh," Angelica crooned in anguish, and shifted from foot to foot, the patch of blood growing larger on the rug.

Mike grabbed Tricia's arm, pushed her ahead of him, pressing the knife against her hip. "If I'm not mistaken, the femoral artery is near the tip of this knife. You wouldn't want it severed and ruin your beautiful carpet, not to mention your day."

Doris stepped forward, brandishing her shorter vegetable knife. "Don't think I can't do a lot of damage with this," she told Angelica. "I can filet a five-pound salmon in under a minute. Just think what I could do to your internal organs in only seconds. Liver anyone?" she said and laughed.

No one else did.

She shoved Angelica forward, toward the door.

The wind had picked up and the rain came down like stinging pellets as Tricia led the way to the pavement outside her shop, with Mike practically attached to her. They paused and he looked up and down the dark, empty street. No one stood on the sidewalk. No hope of rescue.

Mike pushed Tricia toward the driver's door. "Get in. Don't try anything-unless you want Doris to slice your sister."

Tricia yanked the door handle. It was like a bad movie, including Doris's and Mike's corny dialogue. I'll wake up from this nightmare, I'll wake up soon. But it wasn't a dream.

Already soaked through, she got in, slammed the door, and on automatic pilot, buckled her seat belt. Glancing over her shoulder she saw Doris with one hand on Angelica's shoulder, the knife-wielding one hidden in shadow.

Mike got in the passenger side, brandishing the wicked knife clenched in his left hand at mid-chest-the perfect position for slashing. "You really blew it, Trish. We could've been great together."

"Is that what you told Wendy Adams?"

"We've talked," he admitted, his expression a leer. "And more."

The right rear passenger door opened. Angelica ducked her head, got in, scrambled across the seat with Doris crawling in after her. The door banged shut.

For a long moment no one said anything.

"Start the car," Doris ordered. "And don't try anything funny. You saw what happened to Deirdre. She thought I didn't have the guts to kill. They say it's easier the second time."

"What about Winnie?" Tricia asked.

"Not my handiwork," Doris said and glanced at Mike.

Tricia swallowed, her gaze focused on Doris's reflection in the rearview mirror. "Then it doesn't matter if you kill us here or someplace else."

"Think I'm joking?" Doris lunged to her left and Angelica cried out.

"She cut me, Trish! She cut me!"

Stomach churning, Tricia's neck cracked as she whirled to look, but the heel of Mike's hand caught her shoulder with a painful punch. "Ange?" Tricia shouted.

"I'm okay, I'm okay!" Angelica cried, but the fear in her voice said she was anything but.

Tricia's eyes darted to the rearview mirror. She could just make out Angelica's bloody left hand clutching the slash in her light-colored sweater.

"I'll cut her again, only with more precision, if you don't start the car. Do it now!"

Tricia tore her gaze from the mirror, fumbled to put the key into the ignition, turned it until the engine caught.

"If you don't want to see your sister's throat cut, I suggest you put the car in gear and head north to Route 101," Doris ordered.

Tricia glanced askance at Mike, hoping her pleading gaze would be met with some shred of compassion, but there was none. And why would he show that emotion for her when he'd shown Winnie no mercy and treated his own mother so callously?

Tricia turned her gaze back to the empty rain-soaked street. All the other shops had closed; the only beacon of light was the Bookshelf Diner. Even if she blasted the horn, no one was likely to hear or even pay attention to the car as it passed. Their one ace in the hole was Bob Kelly. Had Angelica reached him or his voice mail, or had she simply been bluffing?

Come on, Bob.

Then again, Mr. Everett knew of their suspicions. If they turned up missing, he could point the law in Mike's and Doris's direction. That is, if Sheriff Adams would even listen to him. And if he spoke, would he become the next murder victim?

Stalling, Tricia fumbled with the buttons and switches on the dash until she found and turned on the headlights. Next, she checked the mirrors before pulling out of the parking space and driving slowly down Main Street, heading out of the village. Within a minute the glow of friendly street lamps was behind them, the inky darkness broken only by the car's headlights.

"Turn here and go straight until you reach Route 101," Doris directed.

"Then where?"

"You'll head for Interstate 93."

"Where are we going?" Angelica asked, uncomprehending.

Tricia could guess. The interstate cut through the White Mountain National Forest, the perfect place to dump a couple of bodies where they wouldn't be found for months-if ever.

No one spoke for a long minute.

Angelica cleared her throat. "Does anyone have a handkerchief or something? All this blood is ruining my sweater. Not that I could ever find anyone in this town who can repair cashmere, even if they could get the stains out."

Tricia exhaled a shaky breath. Was Angelica's claustrophobia acting up, or was she simply in shock? Either she didn't realize what was going to happen to them, or she was in deep denial.

Time was running out. If they got as far as the interstate, they were as good as dead.

"My foot's still bleeding, you know," Angelica went on. "I think there might be a piece of glass in it."

Mike smashed his fist against the dashboard. "Will you shut up!"

Tricia clenched the steering wheel. Route 101 was only a couple of miles ahead. If she was going to save them, it had to be in the next few minutes-and she could only think of one option: crashing the car.

She'd read too many mysteries to think of disobeying Mike's or Doris's direct orders-Angelica's bleeding shoulder was proof of that. Still, she couldn't remember any fictional scenario from a book that would keep herself and Angelica alive.

The most famous car crash she could recall was that of Princess Diana in a tunnel in Paris. The one passenger wearing a seat belt had lived-the others didn't. Only Tricia wore a seat belt. If she crashed the car, would Angelica survive? How fast did she need to go to incapacitate her captors without permanently maiming her sister?

The headlights flashed on a mile marker.

The dashboard clock's green numerals changed.

Not much time left.

"What happened, Doris? Did Mike witness Deirdre's murder and hit you up for money?"

"None of your business," she snapped.

"He didn't have to see the murder," Angelica said. "I'll bet he planned it."

Collusion! Suddenly, it all made sense. "You sold Doris the million-dollar insurance policy, and when she told you her sister was dying and she'd have to change the beneficiary-"

"All very neat, really," Doris said. "It solved all our problems."

"Not Mike's. His mother has regained her memory."

"I'm having her moved from St. Godelive's in the morning. She'll go right back to loving her nightly mug of cocoa tomorrow night."

Not with Roger Livingston looking after her affairs, but Tricia wasn't going to voice that fact.

"Why did you throw the rock through my window?" Tricia asked Mike.

He laughed. "Just to keep things interesting."

"Did you really think I was going out with Russ Smith?"

"It crossed my mind."

"Oh please," Angelica groused.

Keep them talking, something inside Trish implored. "There's still something I don't get."

"And what's that?" Doris asked.

"Why did you set the Cookery on fire and disable the smoke alarms when you had every intension of keeping it open with 'Deirdre' as the owner? You could've destroyed everything. Or did you have the contents heavily insured as well?"

"The place wouldn't have burned. That carpet is flame-retardant. I know, I paid a small fortune for it."

"Stop all this yapping and turn on the defroster. Can't you see the windshield's steaming up?" Mike carped, and rubbed at the glass with his free hand.

Tricia glanced down, couldn't find the control. Instead, she fumbled for the window button on the door's arm, pressing it. The window started to open.

"I said turn on the defroster!"

"I don't know where it is!" She held the button until the window was completely open. The rain poured in and she eased her foot from the accelerator.

Mike leaned closer, searching the dashboard. "Doris, where the hell is it?"

"I don't know. This is Deirdre's car. Keep pushing buttons until you find it."

With Mike preoccupied, Tricia knew her window of opportunity was short. Headlights cut through the gloom on the road up ahead. If she could sideswipe the vehicle, or merely scare them into thinking she would, they were sure to call the sheriff. If she didn't kill them all first.

"Now or never," she breathed and jammed her foot down on the accelerator.

Mike fell back against his seat, the knife flying from his grasp, disappearing onto the darkened floor.

Tricia aimed straight for the oncoming car.

"What are you, crazy?" Angelica screamed from behind.

Tricia risked a glance in the rearview mirror, but Angelica wasn't talking to her; she wrestled with Doris in the backseat-trying to disarm her.

Mike's hands fumbled around Tricia's legs, yanking her foot from the accelerator, grappling for the missing knife.

The wail of the approaching car's horn cut through the rain pounding on the roof and Angelica's screams. Tricia steered to the right, barely missing the oncoming car.

Mike grabbed the steering wheel, jerking it left, and Tricia jammed her foot on the brake, sending Mike flying. The car hydroplaned on the slick, wet road, sliding sideways.

Tricia wrestled with the wheel, but the car had a mind of its own, hit the guardrail, and went airborne, sailing into the black, rainy night, flipping before it landed in the swollen waters of Stoneham Creek.