Murder Is Binding

One

"I tell you, Trish, we're all victims."

Victims? In the town voted safest in all of New Hampshire? Tricia Miles raised an eyebrow and studied the septuagenarian bookseller before her over the rim of her cardboard coffee cup. Here it comes, she thought with dread, the pitch.

Doris Gleason would never be called subtle. Everything about her screamed excess-from her bulky frame clad in a bright pink polyester dress, her dyed, jet-black pageboy haircut, to the overlarge glasses that perched on her nose. She leaned closer over the oak-and-glass display case, making Tricia glad she'd taken refuge behind the antique register as a way of guaranteeing her personal space. Too often Doris was in her face.

"If we all negotiate together, we can beat that bastard."

Tricia drained her cup and sighed. "I assume you're referring to Bob Kelly, our mutual benefactor?" President of the local chamber of commerce and owner of Kelly Realty, Bob had recruited Doris, Tricia, and all the other booksellers to relocate to the picturesque village of Stoneham, New Hampshire.

"Benefactor my ass," Doris grated, pink spots appearing on her cheeks. She removed her glasses, exhaled on one of the lenses, and polished it with the ribbed edge of her dingy white sweater. Half-moon indentations marred the ridge of her cheeks where they'd rested. "That chiseler owns or has a share in every storefront on Main Street. He controls our rents, tries to control our stock and the quality of our customers. I nearly lost my voice after our last shouting match. It was all I could do not to throttle him."

From her perch on a shelf above the register, Miss Marple, the store's resident cat, a regal, gray domestic longhair, glared down at the older woman-disapproving of her temper. Tricia had to agree, yet she understood Doris's anger. Bob Kelly had charged her extra to transform the facade of her shop front even though the changes had incorporated much-needed repairs to the century-old building.

Most of the village revered Bob. Bringing in antiquarian and specialty booksellers-and the tourist dollars they attracted-had saved the little town from financial collapse. His ideas, commitment, and even a bit of sweat equity, had turned a forgotten hamlet on the New Hampshire-Massachusetts border into a tourist mecca for readers in a world dominated by the Internet and other instant-gratification entertainment. The fact that he could also be the most demanding, insufferable bore on the face of the Earth…

Tricia forced a patient smile. "Now, Doris, you know we can't participate in collective bargaining. None of our leases come up at the same time."

Doris pulled off her glasses, set them on the counter as her lips twisted into a sneer. "I knew you wouldn't cooperate. The rumors about you must be true!"

Tricia felt her face start to burn. "What rumors?"

"That you're incredibly rich. That you don't have to worry about paying your rent. You don't have to worry about stock or overhead." Doris glanced around the well-appointed store, the richly paneled walls decorated with prints and photos of long-dead mystery authors, the expensive upholstered armchairs and large square coffee table that made up the seating nook and allowed patrons the comforts of home while they perused Tricia's stock of vintage first-edition mysteries and newly minted best sellers.

A fat lot Doris knew. Tricia struggled to quell her ire. "I have the same worries as you and every other bookseller in the village. This store isn't a hobby for me. I resent the implication that I conspired against you and the other booksellers. I didn't know Bob Kelly before I came to this town, and I'm sure my rent is probably triple or quadruple what you're currently paying."

"That's my point," Doris insisted. "If you hadn't agreed to pay such an exorbitant price, the rest of us wouldn't be in this mess."

It was true Tricia hadn't done much haggling before she signed on as the village's newest bookseller, but then she'd been used to the idea of Manhattan rents and the contrast made the deal she'd been offered seem like a steal.

"I'm sorry, Doris," Tricia said and disposed of her disposable coffee cup in the wastebasket beneath the counter, "but I really don't see how I can be of any help."

Doris straightened, her contempt palpable. "We'll see." She turned and plodded for the exit, wrenched open the door. The little bell overhead gave a cheerful tinkle, an absurd end to an unpleasant conversation.

"Don't tell me the old crab was in here carping about her rent again."

Tricia turned. Ginny Wilson, a lithe, twenty-something redhead and Tricia's only employee, staggered under the weight of a carton of books and dumped it on the counter. "Word is that Daww-ris"-she said the name with such disdain-"has been all over town, badgering the merchants to hop on her "let's save the Cookery" bandwagon. She claims she's going to have to go out of business if she can't negotiate a better lease." She waved a hand in dismissal. "I say good riddance."

A glance around the area proved at least one of the shop's regular patrons, Mr. Everett, a silver-haired elderly gent who showed up at opening and often had to be chased out at night, had been eavesdropping on the conversations. Tricia placed a finger to her lips and frowned.

"You never had to work for her," Ginny hissed and removed a sheathed box cutter from the pocket of her hunter green apron, opened it, and slit the tape on the carton. Haven't Got a Clue, the bookshop's name, was embroidered in yellow across the apron's top. Pinned to the neck strap was Ginny's name tag.

Tricia, too, wore a tag, but not an apron. She wanted some distinction made between the owner and the help-not that she didn't do her share of the hefting and carrying around the store, though she tried to do it after business hours. Slacks and sweater sets were her current dress code, and today she'd chosen a raspberry combination, which seemed to accent her blue eyes and complement her light brown hair.

"Oh, before I forget," Ginny said, dipping into her apron pocket once again. "I found this in a copy of Patricia Cornwell's newest release."

Tricia took the small folded piece of paper and sighed: another religious tract. Often visitors would hide them in books, hoping to spread the good word, but as she scanned the text Tricia's eyes went wide. "Nudists?"

Ginny grinned. "Is that weird or what?"

Tricia crumpled the leaflet and tossed it, too, into the wastebasket. "We'd better be on the lookout. If we find one, there's usually ten more hidden amongst the stock."

The circa 1935 black telephone by the register rang. Tricia picked up the heavy handset, noticing Doris had left her glasses on the counter. "Haven't Got a Clue-Tricia speaking. How can I help you?"

"Darling Trish. I'm so glad it was you who answered. I despise speaking to that little helper of yours. She never wants to put me through to you."

The apprehension Tricia had felt when talking with Doris blossomed into full-fledged dread as she recognized her sister's voice. "Angelica?"

"Of course it's me, and I've been trying to get ahold of you for a week. Doesn't that girl ever give you messages?"

"It must have slipped her mind." Which was a lie. Tricia had given Ginny orders to screen calls and to never put Angelica through. It wasn't that the sisters couldn't get along; it was just that Tricia chose not to. Growing up in Angelica's shadow had been painful enough; putting up with her in adulthood was simply out of the question.

"You should give me your cell number," Angelica badgered.

No way! "We're really very busy today, Ange; can I call you back later?" Another lie. The store was practically empty at only ten fifteen on a Tuesday morning.

"Oh no, you're not cutting me off again. I only called to tell you that I've booked a room in the sweetest little bed-and-breakfast in Stoneham, the Brookview Inn. I hear it's very quaint."

Hardly. The Brookview was Stoneham's finest show palace, boasting a French chef, spa facilities, and catering to a very exclusive clientele. Angelica had the money, of course, but the rest of her personal resume was definitely lacking. Okay, maybe that was untrue, otherwise how would she have attracted so many husbands? Still, being near her sister seemed to bring out the worst in Tricia.

"What do you want to come here for? It's deadly dull. The shopping isn't up to your usual standards. There's nothing to do here but read. You'll only be bored."

"I'm coming to see you, dear-and your little shop."

Tricia ground her teeth at the descriptor.

"I had Drew pull up your website on the computer," Angelica continued. "You know how challenged I am when it comes to anything electrical. The pictures are just darling, and you look so stunningly slim and successful, as we all knew you would be."

Tricia cringed at the second dig. On the other side of the counter, Ginny suppressed a giggle. Tricia's gaze swiveled and she pointed to a puzzled-looking patron standing by one of the shelves. Ginny gave a resigned shrug and left the counter. Tricia balanced the heavy receiver on her shoulder and took over emptying the box Ginny had started. "This really isn't a good time, Ange. We're already gearing up for the Christmas rush."

"It's only September," Angelica growled. "One would almost think you're trying to discourage me from coming."

"Don't be silly. I love it whenever you visit." And love it more when you leave. "When are you arriving?"

"This afternoon-I'm already en route." In the back of a limo, no doubt-zooming up I-95 even as they spoke. "I can't wait to see you. I should be arriving before dinner. I'll give you a ring. Now how about that cell number?"

"I'm sorry, I'll be right with you," Tricia said to a nonexistent customer. "Excuse me, Ange-I really have to go."

"Oh, all right then. Kiss, kiss-see you tonight."

Tricia slammed the phone down and turned, startling the handsome, middle-aged man with a full head of sandy hair and dressed in the dark business suit who stood before her. "I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there. How can I help you?"

The man thrust his hand forward. "Mike Harris. I want to be your next selectman and I hope you'll consider voting for me."

"Tricia Miles." She shook hands, immediately noting the absence of a ring on the fourth finger of Mike's other hand. "The general election isn't for another two months."

"It's never too soon to meet my future constituents." Mike's white-toothed smile dazzled, making Tricia feel giddy. She giggled. It had been a long time since a man had inspired that reaction in her. Far too long.

Mike relinquished her hand and passed her a glossy color folder with his left, his expression growing serious. "I understand leases are an issue with the booksellers. I'd like to better understand the problem in case I can be of some assistance. I'm no attorney, but as an independent insurance agent I've read my share of pretty complicated contracts."

Tricia studied his face, noted the fine lines around his eyes, the slight graying of his fair hair around the temples. He was maybe five years older than herself-putting him in his mid-forties, but without the girth so often associated with his age group. She'd escaped middle-age spread herself, thanks to inheriting genes from the paternal side of the family-about the only perk of growing up a Miles. Angelica hadn't fared so well and had never forgiven her for it.

She shook away thoughts of her sister, focusing again on the man before her. How had she gone six months in this town without meeting this feast for the eyes?

"I'm afraid the leases aren't an issue with me. You might want to visit my neighbor to the north over at the Cookery. She can give you all the facts as she perceives them."

Mike frowned. "I've already spoken with Ms. Gleason. She has…an interesting perspective on the subject."

"Yes." Tricia left it at that.

"I take it you're new to our little village?" Mike asked.

"I've been here almost half a year. But I can't say I've seen you in my store before."

"I'm not much of a fiction reader," he admitted. "But I've spent a bundle over at History Repeats Itself. I'm fascinated by anything to do with World War Two, military aircraft being my special interest. As a kid I wanted to be a fighter pilot. That is until I figured out I have a fear of heights."

Tricia laughed. "I can recommend some wonderful novels that take place during the war. Books by J. Robert Janes, Philip Kerr, and Greg Iles. And I'll bet I've got most of them in stock." She indicated the tall oak shelves surrounding the walls and their lower counterparts that filled the center of the long, narrow store.

Mike dazzled her with his smile again. "Some other time, perhaps. I'm taking a day off work to introduce myself to all the merchants on Main Street. Very nice meeting you, Tricia. I'm sure I'll be back." He offered his hand again, this time holding on longer.

"I'll look forward to it." Tricia held on, too. Their gazes locked and she dazzled him with a smile of her own.

Tuesday night: the slowest night of the week. Like most of the other merchants on Main Street, Tricia closed an hour early. That meant that she might actually get a chance to eat a decent dinner or truck on over to nearby Wilton to see a movie if she felt so inclined-which she usually didn't. More often than not she'd retire to her third-floor loft apartment, select a variety of CDs for the player, heat a frozen pizza, settle in her most comfy chair, and read. Since her divorce a year earlier, she hadn't often felt a need for male company. Then again, when she thought of Mike Harris's smile…

Angelica's arrival in Stoneham, however, had put a damper on her usual Tuesday-night routine.

Ginny had hung up her apron and grabbed her purse to leave. "You're going to be late meeting your sister, Tricia."

"I know," she said and sighed. "I didn't get to vacuum or anything." She retrieved her purse from the cabinet under the display case, slipped past the register, and noticed Doris's glasses still sitting on the counter. "You would've thought she'd miss these," she said and stuffed them into her bag. "I better drop them off on the way to meet Angelica."

"Better you than me-on both accounts."

"I'll give you a hundred dollars-cash-if you do both."

Ginny laughed and shook her head. "Maybe for a hundred thousand, but nothing less."

Miss Marple meowed from her perch on the shelf above the register. "Don't worry, you'll get your dinner when I come home." Miss Marple rubbed her head against the security camera. "And stop that. You keep messing up the camera's angle."

Miss Marple threw her entire eight-pound body against it, knocking it out of alignment, and purred loudly.

"I told you so-I told you so," Ginny sang. Yes, she had told Tricia the camera wasn't high enough on the wall. But it would've interfered with the decorative molding if it was mounted any higher.

Tricia scooped up the cat and set her on one of the comfortable chairs. "Stay down," she ordered.

Miss Marple tossed her head, dismissing the command.

Tricia rolled her eyes and headed for the door once again. She locked it, then realized she hadn't lowered the window shades. She'd have to do it on her return.

The lights in the Cookery bookshop were already dimmed, but Tricia could see Doris still standing behind the sales counter.

"See you tomorrow," Ginny called brightly and headed down the street toward the municipal lot where she'd parked her car.

Tricia gave a wave and turned back for the door, giving it a knock. Doris looked up, had on another pair of outsized specs, but motioned Tricia to go away before she bent back over the counter again. Tricia retrieved the glasses from her purse and knocked once more. This time, she waved them when Doris looked up.

The annoyed shopkeeper skirted the sales counter, lumbered to the door, and unlocked it.

"I'm glad you're still here. You left these in my store this morning," Tricia said.

"So that's where they went. I'm always losing them. That's why I keep an extra pair here at the shop." She pocketed them in the same ugly sweater she'd worn earlier in the day, but the rest of her attire had changed. Dressed in dark slacks and a red blouse, she looked pounds lighter, years younger, and, except for the sweater, almost elegant.

Tricia had never actually been in the Cookery before. It seemed like all her encounters with Doris had been in her own shop. Since all the storefronts were more or less the same-give or take a few feet in width-the Cookery was set up in the same configuration as Haven't Got a Clue, except that where the mystery store had a seating area, the cookbook store housed a cooking demo area: a horseshoe-shaped island with a knife block, complete with ten or twelve chef knives, a small sink, burners, and an under-the-counter refrigerator. Overhead hung a large rectangular mirror so that an audience would see the hands-on instruction. A thin film of greasy dust covered the station, which obviously hadn't been used in a while.

"Nice store," Tricia said.

"It ought to be," Doris groused. "I put a lot of money into it, and if Bob Kelly and I can't come to an agreement on it tonight, I'll lose it all."

The cost of doing business, Tricia thought, but didn't voice what would obviously be an unpopular opinion.

Doris glanced at the big clock over the register. "Bob should've been here ten minutes ago-the inconsiderate jerk."

Atop the main sales counter sat an oblong Lucite container that housed what looked like an aged booklet. The little hinged door sported a sturdy lock. "The prize of your collection?" Tricia asked, her curiosity piqued.

Doris's eyes lit up, and for the first time Tricia saw beyond the sour expression to the woman's true passion. "Yes. It's American Cookery, by Amelia Simmons, the very first American cookbook ever published back in 1796. A similar copy recently sold for ten thousand dollars at auction."

Calling the little, yellowing pamphlet a book was stretching the definition.

Doris exhaled a shaky breath, her expression akin to a lovesick teen. "I wish I could keep it myself, but-"

Tricia knew that "but" only too well. Like every other collector she, too, had coveted the holy grail for her own collection. She'd been close a few times, but had never been able to obtain an original copy of Graham's Lady's and Gentleman's Magazine containing Poe's short story "The Murders in the Rue Morgue."

"What are you asking for it?"

Doris hesitated. "I haven't actually set a price. I only obtained it a couple of weeks ago. The lockbox arrived just yesterday. But I couldn't resist putting it on exhibition." She gazed fondly at the booklet. "Of course I have a facsimile of it at home and have read it many times, but to actually hold an original copy in my hands has been the thrill of a lifetime."

Tricia nodded.

Doris shook her head. "It's sad how few people really appreciate a well-written cookbook. Most of the slobs who come in here are looking for the latest Food Network star's most recent atrocity. And I can't tell you how much money I make on old Betty Crocker books from the fifties and sixties. Not even first editions, mind you. I can sell a tenth or twelfth edition for twenty bucks." She shuddered. Clearly, the woman hated the books, but she'd sell them to pay her rent-it was something else Tricia understood.

"How did you score such a find?" Tricia asked.

Doris's expression curdled. "Private sale."

The fact that she wouldn't elaborate must've meant the former owner had since had an inkling of what the booklet might be worth.

Tricia forced a smile. "I'd better get going."

"Thank you for returning my glasses," Doris said, her tone still clipped.

"No problem."

Doris followed Tricia to the door and locked it behind her without even a good night.

Tricia headed down the sidewalk with no thought to the snub-now to face Angelica. Of the two, she ruefully admitted that she'd probably rather spend time with Doris.

She'd parked her own car in the municipal lot earlier in the day. By this time it was mostly empty. Now that school was back in session, the bulk of the summer tourist trade had evaporated. That would change when the autumn leaves began to turn and tour buses and crowds would return for another few weeks of superior sales. Thank goodness for the cruise ships that moored in Portsmouth and Boston harbors, which often brought in more customers. Once winter arrived they, too, would be gone. Still, the business slowdown would give Tricia time to establish a storefront in cyberspace, something she'd been meaning to do since she'd opened some five months previous.

Stoneham wasn't very large and it only took a minute or two for Tricia to drive to the Brookview Inn, lit up like a Thomas Kinkade painting with warm yellow light spilling from every window. Soft pink roses flanked steps leading to the entrance, the last of the summer's offerings crowding against white-painted wrought-iron railings. Tricia hesitated, taking in the delicate scent. No doubt Angelica would have doused herself in the latest overpriced perfume with a celebrity's name attached to it.

Stop it, she ordered. Yet she'd spent her whole life finding fault with her older sister. Was it natural that even as an adult she hadn't been able to let go of her childhood animosity? If she was honest with herself, she should blame their mother for fostering such an unhealthy atmosphere.

Then again, Mother never took the blame for anything.

Tricia took a breath to control her anxiety. It was really her own reactions to her sister that upset her. Angelica wasn't likely to change anytime soon. It was up to Tricia to ride out the visit and not let it turn her into the jealous child she thought she'd long outgrown.

The Brookview had given Tricia shelter for three weeks during the time when the apartment over the store was being made habitable. She could've opted for one of the efficiency bungalows behind the inn itself, but had been seduced by the sumptuous bedding and other pampering amenities, finding the inn a serene haven during the demolition and chaos of the store's renovation. And she'd tried to replicate some of that ambiance in her own much more humble abode. So far she'd only managed to acquire the four-hundred-thread-count sheets and fluffy down pillows. Tricia missed the cuisine and the friendly staff, but admitted she still preferred the privacy of her own home and the company of her cat and her precious books.

Bess, the plump sixty-something night clerk, looked up from her keyboard behind the reception desk, a smile lighting her face. "Welcome back, Ms. Miles. And what brings you to the Brookview tonight?"

"My sister, Angelica Prescott, is a guest."

"No doubt at your recommendation," Bess said and beamed.

Tricia smiled, pushing down the guilt.

"I think you'll find her in our dining room. The special tonight is hazelnut-encrusted salmon." Bess closed her eyes in a moment of pure ecstasy. "Itis to die for."

"Sounds heavenly. But I've already eaten." Her dinner had consisted of a burger on a soggy bun that Ginny snagged at the Bookshelf Diner down the street from the shop. "I'll just pop in and see if Angie's there."

"You go right ahead, dear." Bess gave a little wave and returned her attention to her keyboard.

Tricia crossed the foyer to the opened double doors at the far end of the lobby. The Brookview's elegant dining room, with its crown molding, traditional furnishings, and lamp-lit oil paintings of Revolutionary War heroes, welcomed her. And at the best table, holding court, sat Angelica, leaning forward, manicured index finger wagging to make a point with her guest. She was blond again, cut short and stylish, and what looked like a recent weight loss was evident in her face. She'd always been the family beauty, and so far age had not worked against her. Even with his back turned toward her, Tricia recognized the man who sat opposite her sister: Bob Kelly. Two of the three people on the planet who irritated Tricia the most, and now she had to deal with both of them-together.

The fact that Bob could've passed as her ex's twin-albeit a decade older-may've been responsible for part of Tricia's dislike for him. Did he have to be so drop-dead handsome? Tall, muscular, with a head full of wavy dark hair that had never seen a colorist, and those deep green eyes. Yes, except for the eyes, he could have been Christopher's double.

Dinner had been cleared and only demitasse cups and crumb-littered dessert plates remained on the linen-shrouded table.

Tricia took a breath, plastered on a smile, and charged forward. "Angie!"

Angelica looked up, a look of true pleasure lighting her expression, reinforcing the guilt Tricia felt. "Darling Trish." She rose, arms outstretched.

The women embraced and Tricia quelled the urge to cough. Angelica did indeed smell like she'd been dipped in a vat of perfume. A couple of air kisses later, Tricia pulled back. "You look fabulous. You've lost weight."

"Twenty pounds," Angelica admitted proudly. "I've just returned from this divine spa in Aspen, and-"

Bob Kelly cleared his throat. Tricia hadn't noticed that he'd also stood. She nodded, dropped her voice. "Hello, Bob. I see you've met my sister."

"Yes, and what a delightful surprise."

Tricia gave the empty chairs around the table a cursory glance. "Where's Drew?"

Angelica scowled. "Obviously not here." She abruptly changed the subject, taking her seat once again. "Order some dessert, Trish, and we'll all have a nice conversation."

Bob remained standing. "I'm afraid I have a business meeting this evening."

"So late?" Angelica asked.

"The downside of being a successful entrepreneur, I'm afraid."

Tricia fought the urge to gag. By now Doris would be furious-and that's probably exactly what Bob wanted.

Bob offered Angelica his hand. She took it. "Thank you so much for the dessert. I'd love to take you to dinner some time during your visit."

"And I'd love to accept. Do call me."

"I will. Ladies." And with a nod, Bob excused himself.

"Isn't he just a doll," Angelica whispered once he was out of earshot.

Tricia took Bob's abandoned seat and forced yet another smile. Her cheeks were already beginning to ache. "What brings you all the way to New Hampshire, Ange? This really isn't your style at all."

Angelica sighed. "I can't keep anything from you, can I?"

Tricia's stomach tensed. Bad news? Angie's twenty-pound weight loss…

Angelica played with the chunky diamond ring on her engagement finger. Her wedding band was gone. "Drew and I…well, our trial separation proved successful. We're finished."

Tricia relaxed. Not a total surprise. Drew was Angelica's fourth husband. He was a quiet, studious type, whereas Angelica was boisterous and liked fun and crowds of people. Sedate New Hampshire was much more Drew's sort of refuge. "I'm so sorry." And she was. She and Drew could talk books for hours, much to Angelica's chagrin.

"No, actually, I've come to help you with your little store," Angelica charged on. "I'm a successful businesswoman in my own right and quite naturally I assumed you'd need my help."

Tricia gritted her teeth and grimaced. Angelica had worked in a boutique in SoHo for all of five minutes some twenty years before. It had closed within weeks of opening. "No, but…thank you anyway."

"Nonsense. I'm here and I'm dying to see the little place." Angelica raised a hand in the air and within seconds a waiter appeared. "Please add the dinner to my account."

"With pleasure, ma'am." The black-suited man bowed and made a discreet exit.

Angelica rose. "Come, come," she ordered and, like a well-trained dog, Tricia jumped to her feet to follow.

Already the evening was not going as Tricia had planned.

Minutes later, Tricia steered her Lexus onto Main Street and under the banner strung across the road that proudly proclaimed Stoneham the Safest Town in New Hampshire. She pulled into the empty parking space in front of Haven't Got a Clue, cut the engine, and waited to hear the inevitable insult disguised as a compliment.

"Oh, Tricia, it's lovely," Angelica breathed, and she truly sounded awed.

All the brick-faced buildings along Main Street sported a different pastel hue, except for number 221. The bottom floor's white stone facade resembled a certain Victorian address in London, while Tricia had had the brick of the top two floors sandblasted to reveal its natural state. The door, beveled glass on the top and painted a glossy black on the bottom, looked impressive with glowing period brass lanterns on either side. The gold-leafed address numbers 221 shone brightly on the Palladian transom above. The plate-glass display window to the right did sort of spoil the effect, but the effort Tricia had made to approximate the beloved detective's home hadn't been lost on the majority of her customers.

"Surely the address is wrong," Angelica said. "Shouldn't it be 221B?"

"I didn't know you'd read Dr. Watson's stories."

"Please! Grandmother bored me to tears with them before you were born."

Tricia had never been bored when Grandmother had read her Sir Arthur's stories. As a child, she hadn't always understood them-but she'd loved the sound of all those wonderful words and her grandmother's voice.

"Come on in and I'll give you the fifty-cent tour."

Tricia opened her car door and stepped out onto the pavement. She held up her keys, selecting the proper one as Angelica got out of the car.

"Do you smell something burning?" Angelica asked.

"No." The truth was, after being sealed in the car with Angie's perfume, Tricia wondered if she'd ever be able to smell anything again.

"Something's definitely burning…or maybe smoldering," Angelica insisted. Shading her eyes, she peered into the mystery bookshop's large plate-glass window, then turned her head from right to left and sniffed loudly, her nose wrinkling.

Tricia watched as her sister moved a few steps toward the Cookery. "Trish, I think it's coming from the mail slot next door."

Sure enough, a thin veil of smoke drifted from the painted flap in the door.

Tricia jammed her keys back in her purse, scooping up her cell phone, and hurried to Angelica's side. "Dial nine-one-one," she ordered, shoving everything into her sister's hands. She grasped the Cookery's door handle, shocked when it yielded to her touch.

The smoke was thick, but with no sign of flames, Tricia took a deep breath and plunged inside. Grabbing the heavy rubber doormat, she searched in the dim light for the source of the smoke and found a section of carpet glowing red.

Swinging the mat, she beat at the embers until they were extinguished, then rushed outside for a much-needed breath of air.

The Stoneham Fire Department was only a block or so away and already Tricia could hear their sirens.

"Think there's anybody in there?" Angelica asked.

"I didn't see anyone, but I'd better look, just in case."

Back she dipped into the stinking building. The smoke seemed to hover, but already it wasn't as thick as it had been only a minute or so before. "Doris?" she called and coughed. "Doris, are you in here?"

Grateful for the security lighting that hadn't winked out, Tricia searched behind the sales counter. No sign of Doris. But a glance to her right showed that the little Lucite case that less than an hour before had housed Doris's treasured cookbook was no longer perched on the top of the shelf. Had someone tried to burn the place down to hide the theft of the book?

"Doris?" she called again, trying to remember if Doris inhabited an apartment over the shop or if she lived elsewhere.

Tricia stumbled over something and fell to her knees. The air was definitely better down here. Righting herself, Tricia pivoted to see what had tripped her. She gasped as she focused on the still form half protruding from behind the horseshoe-shaped kitchen island, noting the carving knife that jutted from its sweatered back.