Murder Is Binding

Three

Stoneham's chamber of commerce resided in the former sales office of a company offering log homes. Tricia had passed it hundreds of times, and though she'd been a member since before the actual day she'd opened her store, she'd never had time to visit the office.

She stood out on the sidewalk admiring the charming little pseudohome with its stone chimney, folksy rockers on the front porch, and the double dormers poking through the green-painted metal roof. Someone had a green thumb, judging by the welcoming baskets of magenta fuchsias, pink begonias, and colorful pansies that hung suspended along the porch's roofline.

Tricia climbed the steps and entered through the glossy, red-painted door. Like every other business in Stoneham, a little bell tinkled as she entered. Inside, the cabin was just as charming, with its chinked walls and timbered rafters. The outside had hinted of a second floor, but the cathedral ceiling was a good twenty feet above her and sunlight streamed through the dormer windows. A sitting area, furnished in comfortable leather couches and chairs with a rustic flair, gave way to racks of local brochures, file cabinets, and other utilitarian office equipment.

"Howdy!" came a female voice with a thick Texas twang. "How can I help you?"

Tricia stepped up to a counter, where a thin woman with close-cropped, gray-streaked brown hair, with a face wrinkled by years of smiles, and wearing a baggy crimson-and-white Hawaiian shirt awaited. "I was hoping to find Bob Kelly here. His real estate office is closed and I thought-"

"I don't usually see much of Bob during the workday. He tends to catch up on chamber business on evenings and weekends. Today's an exception. He's been doing damage control; interviews with the media and such. We've got ourselves a little PR crisis here in Stoneham after last night's events."

So now Doris's death was an event?

"Is there something I can help you with?" the woman asked again and went back to chomping on her gum cud.

"My name is Tricia Miles, and-"

"I know you! You're the lady runs that mystery store. Let's see, joined in late March this year. Haven't made one of our luncheons at the Brookview Inn, yet, have you? Best grub in town, that's for sure."

"Uh, no," Tricia said, wondering if this woman was for real or putting on an act.

The woman extended a calloused hand. "Hi. Frannie Mae Armstrong, but folks just call me Frannie. Named after my grandma on Daddy's side."

Tricia blinked, but took her hand. "How nice."

Frannie's handshake was as strong as any man's though not crushing. "How's the book business? Doin' real well, are ya? I read romances myself. Love that Nora Roberts-but not those J. D. Robb ones she writes." Frannie leaned closer, lowered her voice confidentially. "They're set in the future, ya know, and that's just plain weird."

"Can't say as I've ever read any of her work."

"You're missing out on some real entertainment. Since that Have a Heart romance bookstore opened, my TV watching has dropped by half."

"You'd seem to be one of the few locals who patronize us."

Frannie nodded sagely. "Oh, there's a few of us out there. Maybe you should try starting a reader group-maybe team up with the library on that. They supply the warm bodies, you supply the books."

"That's a good idea. Thanks."

"But you're right about one thing: there does seem to be an us-verses-them sort of rivalry going on among the merchants. There's also no doubt that bringing in the booksellers has revitalized Stoneham. Some of the old-timers-that's what I call those businessmen who were around before the booksellers came-resent you newcomers. What for?" she asked, her hands flying into the air. "They didn't want to be located on Main Street anyway-it was falling apart. Most of 'em moved to the edge of town to be near the highway. And the bookstores bring in lots of money. Saved 'em all from bankruptcy if you ask me." She shook her head.

"Have you lived in Stoneham long?" Tricia asked, genuinely interested.

"Must be going on twenty years, now." She laughed and the windows rattled. "It's my accent, huh? I am a long way from home," she admitted, "but I've come to love the changing seasons. That is until I retire, then I'll be off to Hawaii. They call it paradise, ya know." She straightened, her face losing some of its animation, all business now. "Now just what was it you wanted to ask of old Bob?"

Tricia had almost forgotten why she'd stopped in. "I had some questions concerning Doris Gleason's murder."

Frannie shook her head, her left hand rising to clasp the side of her face. "Lord, isn't that just awful. And I heard you found her, you poor little thing."

"Yes, I did. Did you know Doris?"

"No. She wasn't a chamber member. I called her several times to ask if she wanted to join, but she was just the most ornery woman I ever did speak to. Told me to stop bothering her or she'd report me to the state's attorney general as a telemarketer."

"But being a chamber member is great, even if you only use it to promote your store."

"I know, and I tried to tell her that, but she hung up on me. I don't see how she stayed in business as long as she did. And now she's dead. Well, I guess she annoyed someone one time too many, don'tcha think?"

Tricia shrugged, afraid to agree-especially as it appeared she was the prime suspect. "Doris told me she had an appointment to meet with Bob last night, but apparently he didn't make it over to the Cookery to see her before she was killed."

Frannie crossed her thin arms across her equally thin chest. "Well, that's Bob for you. He's always overbooking himself. Thinks he's Superman." Frannie laughed again, and Tricia feared for the window's mullions. "I know he had a dinner meeting at the Brookview Inn. Must've fallen behind schedule."

"I saw him there last night. When he left, he said he was late for an appointment. I assumed he meant with Doris, but he didn't show up for at least another hour after he left the inn."

"Do tell," Frannie said and cocked her head. She paused in her gum chewing, looking thoughtful. "I wonder…" But she didn't articulate exactly what it was she pondered. Long seconds went by before she shook herself and seemed to remember Tricia stood before her. "Do you want to leave Bob a message?"

Tricia shook her head. "I'll call him later."

"You want his cell number? He doesn't mind taking calls when it comes to protecting the good name of Stoneham. Business is business, ya know."

"I don't want to bother him." That wasn't exactly true…

"Well, I'll tell him you stopped by. If there's anything the chamber can do for you, you just give us a holler, ya hear?"

Discussion over.

Tricia managed a wan smile. "Thank you, Frannie, you've been most helpful." Not.

She headed for the door with Frannie calling a cheerful good-bye behind her. Once outside, Tricia stood on the porch for a few moments, wondering what it was concerning Bob that Frannie hadn't wanted to talk about.

Since she'd gone inside, a crew had arrived to take down the Safest Town banner from the north end of the street. Had they already removed the one from the south end?

A sheriff's cruiser rolled slowly past, its driver taking in both sides of the street. Was it just the cool breeze that made the hairs on the back of Tricia's neck prickle or was it the idea the deputy might be watching her?

Two hours later, Tricia was positive she did not suffer from paranoia. Even Ginny remarked about the sheriff's cruiser making a regular circuit up and down Main Street, and that too often its occupant's attention seemed to be focused on Haven't Got a Clue.

When she ducked out to take the previous day's receipts to the bank, Tricia noticed a patrol car parked in the municipal lot. Inside it, a deputy's gaze was trained on Stoneham's main drag. It made Tricia want to look over her shoulder, keeping an eye out for the real murderer. Then again, Doris's killer could be just about anybody. Since there was no sign of forced entry and the door had been unlocked, it was likely Doris had opened it to let in her killer. Meaning, she'd probably known the person-and Tricia wasn't about to let anyone think that person might be her.

What would Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot, or any other self-respecting protagonist in a Christie novel do in this situation? Ask questions.

Tricia took a detour on the way back to her shop, stopping at the Happy Domestic, a boutique specializing in new and gently used products, consisting of how-to books, gifts, and home decor. She'd met the owner, Deborah Black, at an auction several months before where they'd shared coffee and local gossip, and they had continued to look out for each other at every other sale. Deborah loaded up on glassware and bric-a-brac while Tricia had scoured box lots for interesting titles.

Thirtysomething Deborah, her swollen belly straining against a maternity smock, wore a plastic smile that never waned until the customer she'd waited on had exited her store. "Oh God," she exhaled and collapsed against her sales counter. "Sometimes I think I'll kill myself if I have to coo over another satin pillow with the words 'Do Not Disturb' cross-stitched on it."

Tricia laughed. "Only a few days more and you'll have a vacation from customers. You're due next week, aren't you?"

"And, boy, am I ready. Jim Roth over at History Repeats Itself has a parlay going. He says I won't make it until my due date on Monday." She looked down at herself and laughed. "And he may be right."

"Hey, nobody told me about the parlay."

"I think there's a few squares left, if you want to get in."

"I may just visit him when I leave here."

Deborah studied Tricia's face. "Betting on my baby's birth is not why you came to visit today-not during work hours. You're here about Doris, right?"

"That obvious, huh?"

"Well, her murder is the talk about town." She bent down to pick up a cardboard carton.

"Let me get that," Tricia said and lifted the box onto the counter. "So, tell me what you know about Doris," Tricia prompted.

Deborah untucked one of the box's flaps and withdrew a paper-wrapped package, talking as she worked. "She was a nasty piece of work. The rest of us avoided her at all costs. Never a positive word. Never contributed to the United Way. Never wanted to do anything positive for the village or the community at large. Her view in life seemed to be 'What have you done for me lately?'"

"So the rest of the shop owners won't be mourning her."

Deborah shook her head, tossing her long brown hair back across her shoulders. "You know what she was like."

How pathetic, Tricia thought, not to be mourned at all. Surely Doris had had some redeeming qualities. She voiced that question.

Deborah shook her head, unwrapping the first of the bundles, a delicate pink, etched water goblet. "Not that I noticed. You might want to talk to some of the other booksellers. Most have been around here longer than me. But if you expect heartfelt tributes, you're wasting your time." She held up one of the glasses to the light. "Aren't these just the prettiest crystal?"

Tricia nodded and counted the remaining bundles. "Only seven."

"If nothing else, I can sell them as a set of six. I'll set up a whole new display around them. Lots of pink, girly items. It'll be gorgeous."

"Did you pick these up at the last auction?"

She shook her head. "No. I got them from Winnie Wentworth."

"Who?"

Deborah laughed. "The village eccentric. A combination bag lady/antiques picker. I'm surprised you haven't met her. She sells to all the shop owners."

Tricia inspected one of the goblets. "Is the quality of her merchandise always this good?"

"Gosh, no. She sells mostly junk-but occasionally she comes up with a few prizes. I learned to inspect most items pretty thoroughly for chips, nicks, and repairs before I part with any money."

Tricia set the glass back down on the counter. "I'm sure you've heard the gossip going around town. Doris had an appointment with Bob Kelly, but no one wants to look at him as a possible suspect. You've been here longer than me-what do you know about him?"

Deborah sobered. "Definitely a man who focuses on results. It's no wonder he's been single all these years. He lives and breathes the real estate business. But he has been good for the village."

Another testimonial for Saint Bob.

"Doris complained about her new lease," Deborah continued, "and it's made me look at my bottom line as well. I'm already trying to budget for a substantial increase when it comes time for me to renew."

"Can you afford it?"

"It'll be a stretch, but the village-and Bob in particular-gambled on me and all the other booksellers when we first came aboard. Most of us have done okay. And it may be that Bob was tired of dealing with Doris's complaints. He may have simply demanded a higher price to get rid of her. I don't know, and anyway it's moot. Doris is history. Now he can rent the place to anyone he pleases."

Tricia's thoughts exactly.

The door opened and a couple of women entered the store. "Can I help you?" Deborah asked cheerfully, abandoning the glassware.

"Thanks for the chat." Tricia clasped her leather briefcase and Deborah gave her a quick wave as she headed for the door.

Tricia's next stop was the Coffee Bean, a heavenly shop that sold exotic blends and decadent chocolates, where she bought a five-pound bag of fresh-ground Colombian coffee. Too many customers clogged the shop for her to engage the owner in idle gossip, and she'd intended to head straight back for her own store, but a new enterprise on the block caught her attention. She made one more diversion.

A red-white-and-blue poster, with patriotic stars across the top, heralded Mike Harris's selectman campaign office. Tucked between two shops-Stoneham's Stoneware and History Repeats Itself-it had to be the most narrow storefront on Main Street. No wonder it had remained empty since Tricia's arrival. It really was too small for a retail establishment.

Tricia opened the door and entered the crowded room. Boxes and cartons stacked along the north wall awaited unpacking. Two desks and assorted chairs seemed to be in place, but none of the usual office accouterments yet occupied them. A fake ficus stood in the corner, looking decidedly forlorn.

Footsteps sounded from a back room.

"Hello!" Tricia called.

Mike Harris stepped into the main room. Dressed in jeans and sneakers, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, he looked ready to tackle the towering boxes.

"Looks like we're neighbors," Tricia said.

"Hey, thanks for stopping by."

Tricia glanced around at the freshly painted walls and the stacks of printed literature in one of the only opened boxes. "No offense, but I wouldn't have thought the race for selectman warranted a campaign office."

"Ordinarily I'd agree with you. The lease on my current office is about to run out and Bob Kelly offered me a great deal. Besides, I intended to open shop here in the village after the election anyway."

Tricia glanced around. "By the look of things, you haven't been here long."

Mike nodded. "I moved in last evening."

"Before all the chaos?"

He frowned. "I heard what happened to Ms. Gleason, but I didn't see anything." He shook his head. "Her death could become a campaign issue."

Tricia frowned. "How?"

"Not all our citizens are happy with the way development has been handled in Stoneham. They think the village is growing too fast and want a moratorium on new businesses until an impact study can be done." That echoed what Frannie had said about the unofficial divide between the old-timers and newcomers.

"Sounds like a waste of taxpayer funds. From what I understand, the influx of money has paid for a new a library and sewer systems-things the village sorely needed. What's so bad about that?"

Mike crossed his arms over his chest, sobering. "When the tax base expands, so does the cost of maintaining it. That new sewer system is just one example."

He had a point, but it didn't make sense. The newcomers had taken over the crumbling Main Street while the old-timers had fled the village for the outskirts of town, presumably building new structures along the way. No wonder there was animosity between the two camps.

Still, how sad was it that Doris had been reduced to a campaign issue.

"I hope you've registered to vote."

"Yes, as a matter of fact I have."

He grabbed a brochure from the stack. "That's what we need in this town. Voters who care about Stoneham's future."

She took the paper from him; he must've forgotten he'd given her one the day before. "I'll read through it carefully. Why don't you stop by my shop for a welcome-to-the-neighborhood coffee later?"

"Sounds great. Thanks."

"See you then," she said and backed toward the door.

Mike waved. "Stop in anytime."

The line at the register was three deep when Tricia arrived back at Haven't Got a Clue. Wispy hairs had escaped the pewter clip at the base of a harassed Ginny's ponytail. "Where have you been?" she scolded Tricia under her breath. "A bus came through and these people have to be back on it in ten minutes."

"Sorry. I had no idea. I had to make a few stops after the bank." While Ginny rang up two pristine early Dick Francis first editions and an Agatha Christie omnibus, Tricia bagged the order, first checking the books for nudist leaflets before tossing in the current week's stuffers and a copy of the bookstore's newsletter. Within a couple of minutes everyone had been served and the door shut on the last customer's back.

Ginny sagged with relief and headed straight for the coffee station and a caffeine fix. She collapsed onto one of the store's comfy chairs and, still feeling guilty for leaving her alone during a rush, Tricia didn't have the heart to remind her it was against store rules for the help to sit in the customers' reading nook.

Ginny took a gulp from her steaming cup and stretched her legs out before her. "Winnie Wentworth stopped by to see you."

"Finally," Tricia said, circling around to face her employee.

"You want to meet her?" Ginny asked, puzzled.

"Deborah Black told me about her just a while ago. I wondered why she hadn't been offering me merchandise."

"Her stock isn't as good as most of our regulars. She only seems to go to tag sales to find books and other stuff to resell to the shop owners. Her car's a rolling junk mobile. She's been coming around the last couple of weeks. I've tried to discourage her, but today she was adamant; she wants to deal only with the owner-you-and said she'd be back."

"What's she trying to sell us?"

"Mostly crappy old paperbacks-things you wouldn't even put on the bargain shelf. There were too many customers in the store, and I just didn't want to deal with her."

The shop telephone rang and Tricia grabbed it. "Haven't Got a Clue, Tricia speaking."

"Trish, dear, where have you been all morning? That little helper of yours kept saying you were out of the store."

Tricia grimaced, her already haggard spirits sinking even lower. "Sorry, Ange, I was running errands."

"You sound tired. Is everything okay?"

"I got back in time for a rush of customers."

"Good, then you're flush. Let's go shopping. I hear there's an outlet mall not too far from this sleepy little village of yours."

"I can't leave the shop."

"Every time I've called, you've been away from the store. I've been running all over town myself; I'm surprised I didn't run into you." Her sarcasm came through the phone lines loud and clear.

Tricia ignored it. "Yes, well, Ginny was inundated with customers because I have been out most of the day."

"If you can't leave now, can you at least get off early?" Angelica pressed.

"No. Ange, this is my store. It's up to me to-"

Angelica cut her off with a loud sigh. "Have you never heard the word delegation?"

"Yes, and I'm also familiar with the words responsibility and ownership. Pride of ownership," she amended.

"No shopping today?" Angelica whined.

"Sorry."

"How about dinner tonight?"

Tricia's turn for the heavy sigh. "At the inn?"

"Goodness no. I'm going to cook for you. I'll come by at seven with everything I need. Have you got a bottle of red in the fridge?"

"Yes."

"Good. I've got loads to tell you. See you then."

The phone clicked in Tricia's ear. She hung up.

First Angelica showed up for an extended visit. Now she wanted to cook for her little sister. Something about this whole visit didn't feel right. Angelica was a confirmed chatterbox, yet she'd barely spoken of-nor seemed unduly upset about-her impending divorce, merely saying she and Drew would remain good friends. Still, it was unlike Angie to be so nice to Tricia. Something was definitely up, and Tricia was afraid to find out just what Angelica might be plotting.

Winnie Wentworth had her own car, so she didn't actually qualify as a "bag lady." Then again, from the looks of the contents of the backseat of her bashed and battered 1993 Cadillac Seville, maybe she did live in her car.

Winnie raked a grubby hand through the wiry mass of gray hair on top of her head. Her threadbare clothes were gray, too, either from repeated washings or from not being washed at all. She watched, eagle-eyed, as Tricia sorted through the offerings in her trunk. Book club editions, creased and well-thumbed paperbacks, all good-mostly contemporary-authors, but not the kind of stock Tricia wanted to carry at Haven't Got a Clue.

Desperate to find something of worth, Tricia pawed through the books a second time. "I understand you sell to all the local bookshop owners. Did you ever sell to Doris Gleason?"

Winnie pulled back a soiled scrap of old blanket from around another stack of books. Six copies of different Betty Crocker cookbooks peeked out. "She was my best customer. Now what am I going to do with all these stupid books? Nobody else in this town will touch 'em." Eyes narrowed, she scrutinized Tricia's face. "And you don't want any of my books, either, do you?"

Tricia hesitated for a moment. "Did you see the Amelia Simmons cookbook Doris had in her special little case?"

"See it? I sold it to her. She gave me five bucks for it."

"Did you know it was worth much more?"

"Everything I sell is usually worth more than what I can get for it. But I don't have the overhead you people do." She nodded at Tricia. "I don't wear no froufrou clothes. I don't got no fancy house. Maybe she coulda given me more, but then I was only gonna ask a couple a bucks for it anyway. Most people didn't like Doris, but she was always fair to me."

Perhaps Doris would be mourned after all.

"Do you remember where you bought the book?"

Winnie shook her head. "I don't remember where I get stuff, let alone who I get it from. I buy from tag sales, estate sales, and auctions." She leaned forward, squinting at Tricia, who got a whiff of the woman's unwashed body. "But mark my words-whoever I got it from musta seen it in her shop. Outside of the fancy shops, ain't many books like that in and around Stoneham."

Did Winnie realize the implications of what she'd just said? "Doris was murdered by someone who wanted that book. I think you should be careful. That person may think you can implicate him or her in Doris's death."

Winnie waved a hand in annoyance. "Nah. Everybody around here knows I got a mind like a sieve. I ain't worried. Now are you gonna take any of these books or not?"

Tricia selected three and paid Winnie five dollars in cash.

"Don'tcha wanna see what else I got?" Winnie folded back another end of the blanket. A small white box contained a tangle of costume jewelry: bright rhinestones of every color of the rainbow adorned brooches, clip and screw-back earrings, and necklaces. Other metals glinted dully under the trunk's wan lightbulb. Tricia picked through the offerings. She loved the colorful brooches in the shapes of flowers, butterflies, and snowflakes, but they were out of date, not something she could really wear herself. But one little gold pin drew her attention.

"That there's a scatter pin, and an oldie," Winnie said with pride.

Tricia examined it closely. About an inch long and maybe three-quarters of an inch wide, it was made of gold-solid gold-with an old-fashioned clasp. Its face was etched with delightful leaves and curlicues. A faded memory stirred in Tricia's mind. "My grandmother had a pin like this."

"It'd look real nice on a jacket or a hat," Winnie said, smelling a sale.

Tricia held the little pin in her hand, rubbing her thumb in circles against its surface. Grandmother Miles had worn her scatter pin on the collar of a snowy white blouse. As a little girl Tricia had sat on her grandmother's lap, playing with the pin while Grandmother would read to her. Whatever happened to that plain little adornment?

"You can have it for five bucks," Winnie offered.

Tricia's gaze rose from the pin to the old woman before her. Winnie's wispy hair was rustled by the breeze, her eyes red-rimmed but bright at the prospect of another sale.

Tricia gave her ten.

Back inside the shop, Tricia tossed the paperbacks into the trash barrel and headed for the sales counter and a group of waiting customers. She opened the cash drawer and deposited the scatter pin in the left-hand, empty change hole before ringing up the next sale.

Winnie was foolish if she thought her poor memory would keep her safe from whoever had killed Doris Gleason. It might be something Tricia should report to Sheriff Adams.

And she did.

But her warning came too late to save Winnie.