Murder Is Binding

Ginny nodded. 'It's not much of a home, really. More like a cottage.'

Tricia looked up. 'You've been there?'

'A couple of times. Once when we had a celebrity author come in, Doris forgot some paperwork she needed and sent me over to her house.' She lowered her voice. 'I know where she hid an extra key to the back door.'

'And?' Tricia whispered.

'Maybe it wouldn't hurt for an interested party-someone the sheriff seems to want to pin this murder on-to go over there and have a look.'

The thought repelled yet fascinated Tricia. 'But that would be breaking and entering.'

'Not if you've got the key,' Ginny said. 'You could go tonight.'

'You'd have to come with me.'

'Can't. Brian's taking me to Manchester for a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert-we've planned it for months. Which reminds me, I'm going to need to leave a little early tonight. Is that a problem?'

Tricia shook her head.

'You could go on your own to Doris's. You can park in the back. No one will see your car from the road. No one will ever know you were even there.'

'Maybe,' Tricia said.

'Think about it. In the meantime, why don't you have a nice cup of coffee and tell me all about your lunch date.' Ginny handed Tricia a cup, just the way she liked it.

'He took me to some little clam shack that served the best lobster bisque in the entire world.'

Ginny smiled. 'That would be Ed's.'

Tricia laughed. 'Does everyone know about this place but me?'

'You're still relatively new here.'

Tricia sipped her coffee, her thoughts returning to the conversation she'd had with Mike. 'You're a lifelong resident of Stoneham; do you know Mike Harris's mother?'

Ginny shook her head. 'Not my generation. I suppose my mom or grandmother might. If I think of it, I'll ask.' She considered Tricia's question for a moment. 'Why do you want to know?'

'Mike wants me to have a look at her book collection. Give him some ideas on disposing of it.'

Ginny frowned. 'Makes it sound like the books are nothing but garbage.'

'I know. The idea seemed to bother him, too.'

'What do you expect to find?'

Tricia sighed. 'Nothing of particular value. Cookbooks, book club editions of bygone best sellers…'

'And no doubt the dreaded Reader's Digest condensed books.'

Tricia shuddered. 'Please-don't blaspheme in the shop.'

Ginny laughed.

A gleaming white motor coach passed by the shop on its way to the municipal lot to disgorge the latest crowd of book-buying tourists.

Ginny brightened. 'Get ready for the ladies of the Red Hat Society. It's showtime!'

Soon after Ginny left for the evening, the store emptied out as well. All except for Mr. Everett, who sat in his favorite chair in the nook, nose buried in a paperback copy of John D. MacDonald's The Scarlet Ruse, being careful not to crease its binding. Tricia lowered the shades, closed down the register, and counted the day's receipts, locking them in the safe before disturbing him. 'Closing time,' she said.

Mr. Everett looked up, glanced at the clock, which read 7:05. 'I'm sorry, Ms. Miles. I was so entranced…' He slid a piece of paper inside the book to hold his place, and stood, about to replace it on a shelf.

'Just a moment,' Tricia said and took the book from him. As she suspected, his bookmark was indeed one of the nudist tracts. 'You wouldn't know anything about these, would you, Mr. Everett?'

Mr. Everett looked both embarrassed and aghast. 'Certainly not. But I will admit to finding more than a dozen of them in the last day or so.'

'You haven't seen who it was who put them inside the books, have you?'

'No, but I have been watching the customers in an effort to put an end to it. I'm sorry to say I haven't caught the culprit. I know everyone in the village and can't say I've seen any come in, so it must be an outsider.'

'My sentiments exactly.' Tricia turned for the sales counter and a little basket holding author promotional bookmarks. 'We'll save your place with one of these, okay?'

Mr. Everett lowered his head, his cheeks reddening. 'Thank you, Ms. Miles.'

'See you tomorrow?' she asked.

'Bright and early,' he promised, the hint of a smile gracing his lips.

Tricia walked him to the door, closed and locked it, spying a sheriff's cruiser slowing, its driver craning his neck to check out her shop. Her cheeks burned as she lowered the shades on the windows and commenced with the rest of her end-of-day tasks, tidying up and running the carpet sweeper across the rug. With Ginny gone early, every task seemed to take extra time, or maybe she was just dragging her feet. The idea of violating the sanctity of Doris Gleason's home bothered her. Then again, it bothered her more that the sheriff still seemed to think she was the prime suspect in the murder and might be staking out her store.

Maybe the deputy had been checking out Doris's shop, not Haven't Got a Clue. But if that was true the driver should've speeded up when he'd passed the Cookery, not slowed down.

Miss Marple patiently waited at the door to the apartment stairs. Tricia cut the lights and headed for the back of the shop when a furious knock at the door caught her attention. Miss Marple got up, rubbed eagerly against the door, and cried.

The knocking continued.

'Now what?' Tricia groused. Guided by safety lighting, she crossed the length of the shop, ready to tell whoever was at the door that she was closed. Pulling aside the shade, she saw Angelica balancing a tray on her knee, holding on to her huge purse, and about to knock again. Tricia opened the door. 'Ange, what are you doing here?'

'I brought you dinner.' She bustled into the shop, leaving behind the scent of her perfume. 'Why is it so dark in here?'

'The store is closed. And you don't have to bring me dinner every night.' She took a sniff-bread? Sausage? Heavenly!-and realized that her bisque lunch had been many hours before. 'Let me take the tray. Follow me, and don't step on Miss Marple when we get to the door.'

Angelica muttered something about 'that damn animal,' but followed. Tricia hit the light switch and the little gray cat scampered up the steps ahead of them, with Angelica complaining about the three-flight trek and the lack of an elevator.

Tricia balanced the tray and opened the apartment door, hitting the switch and flooding the kitchen with light. She set the tray down and lifted the dishcloth covering the evening's entrée. It looked like a meatloaf- shaped loaf of bread. 'Stromboli?' she asked.

A breathless Angelica nodded. 'And a thermos of the most amazing lobster bisque you're ever likely to eat.'

Tricia stifled a laugh. 'You don't say. Where did you get it? At a clam shack?'

'I made it.' Angelica set down her gargantuan purse on the counter and leaned against it, still panting.

'I really appreciate you feeding me, Ange, but I don't want to make you wait until after my shop closes just to eat dinner.'

'Darling, on the Continent they don't dine until nine or ten.'

'And where are you cooking all this stuff, anyway?'

'At the inn. I've made friends with the executive chef, Francois. He's learned a few things from me, too.' She turned to her suitcase-sized purse and withdrew a bottle of red wine. 'Where's the corkscrew?'

'No wine for me. I'm going out later.'

Angelica set the bottle down, shrugged out of her suede jacket, and hung it on the coatrack just inside the door. 'Where are we going?'

'Not we, me. Besides, I'm not sure what I've got planned is exactly legal.'

Angelica's eyes flashed. 'Ooh, this sounds like fun. What've you got in mind?'

'Someone told me where to find the key to Doris Gleason's house. I'm hoping I might find something the