Tricia opened her purse, took out the folded piece of paper she'd appropriated from the computer desk in Grace's house. 'Do you recognize this figurine?'
Grace studied the ink-jet photo. 'Jason gave me one just like this for my birthday one year. He gave me one every year since the late 1970s. I've got quite a collection.' She studied the page, seemed to understand its significance. 'They're all gone, too, aren't they?'
'If that's what you kept in your curio cabinet in the living room, then I'm afraid so.'
'I only kept a few in there, along with some Waterford crystal,' she shook her head, her eyes glistening. 'All my beautiful things…'
'I'm afraid I have another unhappy piece of news.' Tricia explained about the drug-laced cocoa and the fact that St. Godelive's being sold was what had saved her sanity. 'Unfortunately, the chocolate Mike provided has been discarded, that means we can't prove what he's done to you, but at least he can't bring in any more.'
'You've got to contact my lawyer, Harold Livingston. His office is in Milford.' She shook her head impatiently. 'I don't understand why he hasn't come looking for me. Not only is he my lawyer, but we've been friends for over thirty years…at least I always thought so.'
'I'll give him a call as soon as I get back to my store.' And maybe Mr. Livingston could help Tricia protect her own interests, too. 'I brought you something.' Tricia withdrew the photo album from the plastic bag and handed it to Grace.
'Where did you get this?'
'I found it and a lot of other photos in the trash at your house.'
'Oh dear, no,' Grace said, and tears began to flow once more.
'It's okay. I rescued all I could find. I've got them safe at my store, and I'd be glad to hold on to them until you're out of here.'
Grace turned moist eyes on Tricia. 'You've been very kind to me, dear. Why?'
So she could clear her own name and get Sheriff Adams off her back?
Definitely.
Because Grace strongly reminded her of her own grandmother?
Maybe.
Because it was the right thing to do?
No contest.
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?'
'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
