Murder Is Binding

suppose iodine fuming might work. It develops prints beautifully. They'd just have to be photographed, not lifted, but it should spare the book. Then again, all that humidity.' She shook her head. 'CrimeScope. That's the book's best option, though on a porous surface like paper, it might not show a viable fingerprint, either.'

'How do you know so much?' Sheriff Adams asked, suspicious.

Tricia waved a hand, taking in the thousands of books on the shelves around them. 'I deal in mystery fiction. Not only do I read the classics, I read contemporary authors like Patricia Cornwell, Kathy Reichs, and Elizabeth Becka. You can practically get a degree in forensics just by reading these top authors. But that doesn't change the fact that it's likely only Angelica's prints are on the book, anyway.'

'I want a receipt for it,' Deirdre said. The sheriff just about rolled her eyes, and Deirdre snorted in outrage. 'If any harm comes to that book, I will not only sue the county sheriff's department, but you personally.'

'Will you at least ask the state lab to take special care with it?' Tricia pressed.

'I'll ask, but I can't make any guarantees.'

'And I can't guarantee I won't immediately speak to my lawyer, either,' Deirdre said. 'Now about that receipt-'

Tricia provided a pen and a piece of paper. The sheriff scribbled a few lines, handing the sheet to Deirdre, who gave Tricia a nod. 'I appreciate you calling me over. Otherwise, I'm not even sure I'd have been told the book was found.' She turned on her heel and stalked out the door.

Sheriff Adams was the next to leave, following Deirdre without even a good-bye.

Angelica scowled. 'I thought people from New Hampshire were supposed to be extra nice. Isn't that the state motto? Be nice or die?'

'That's 'Live Free or Die,' and don't judge all of us by some people,' Ginny said, then, 'What am I saying? Sheriff Adams is a good person. I've just never known her to be so cold. She must be getting pressure from somewhere else, like maybe the village board.'

'What should I do next, Ms. Miles?' asked Mr. Everett, who hadn't said a word during the entire conversation.

'Why don't you go back and help Deirdre? Ginny and I can manage here.' He didn't look happy, but nodded anyway. She glanced up at the clock. Two hours until official closing. Although the onlookers had disappeared, there was no reason she had to stay closed. She followed Mr. Everett to the door, turning the sign back toOPEN , and shut the door behind him.

'I guess I should go, too. Have to get ready for my big date tonight,' Angelica said brightly. Shouldering her enormous handbag, she fingered a wave, called, 'Ciao,' and she, too, was gone.

Tricia and Ginny exchanged glances. 'I need a cup of coffee,' Tricia said.

'I'd go for something stronger,' Ginny muttered.

'Not during work hours-but I agree. Put something cheerful on the CD player and hope we get busy so we don't have to think about what we've just been through.'

'You got it,' Ginny said.

Tricia poured them both a cup of coffee while Ginny sorted through a stack of jewel boxes, selecting a jazz piano CD.

Peace now reigned, but forgetting the significance of finding that wretched booklet in her store wasn't going to be so easily accomplished.

The hands on the clock finally crawled around to closing time. Despite her hopes otherwise, very few customers had come in during the intervening hours and Tricia and Ginny had completed all their end-of-day tasks, save for counting the receipts. Mr. Everett had checked in, assuring Tricia that Deirdre had left the Cookery for the day, then he, too, departed. Miss Marple sat patiently at the door to the stairs, anticipating her evening routine.

Ginny grabbed her coat and purse from the back closet and headed for the exit. 'Night, Trish.'

The door opened before she could grasp the handle. Russ Smith stood in the open doorway. 'Are you closed?'

'Yes,' Ginny said emphatically.

'Not quite,' Tricia said. 'How can I help you?' Her tone was civil, but cool.

'Want me to stay?' Ginny asked.

Tricia shook her head. 'Go on. Have a nice day off. See you Monday.'

Ginny looked uncertain, but Tricia waved her off. 'It's okay. Now scoot.'

As the door closed behind her, Russ walked up to the counter. Shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, he gave the shop the once-over. 'I seem to be your last customer.'

'Yes, and you're keeping me from my dinner.'

'As I recall, I invited you out.'

'And as I recall, I turned you down. Come on, you're only here because you heard the book stolen from Doris Gleason's store was found here earlier today.'

'Actually, I didn't know that, but thank you for sharing. The special over at the diner is meat loaf and real mashed potatoes.'

'How do you know they're real?'

'I wasn't always a small-time reporter. I worked the Boston crime beat for years. And besides, I've seen the peels in their garbage.'

Tricia's stomach growled, betraying her.

'See, at least part of you wants to go with me. And what's your alternative: a peanut butter sandwich?'

Had he been scoping out her cupboards and fridge? And although she'd neglected her paperwork for days and needed to catch up, the truth was she really didn't want to be alone tonight and cursed Angelica for having a date.

'Okay,' she agreed, 'but only if we go Dutch.'

Russ shrugged. 'Saves me eight-ninety-nine plus tax and tip.'

Already Tricia regretted her decision, yet she locked the cash drawer, pocketing the keys. 'I have to feed my cat before I can go.'

'Do what you gotta do,' he said and flopped down into one of the nook's chairs. 'I'll wait.'

The walk to the Bookshelf Diner had been silent. At least the rain had stopped, but a voice in Tricia's head kept up a litany of 'big mistake, big mistake' with every step along the damp pavement.

Russ held the door open for her. A sign on the metal floor stand said SEAT YOURSELF. With only two other booths occupied, they had their pick of the place. Heads turned as the village jinx walked down the aisle, but Tricia aimed for the back of the restaurant with her head held high. She slid across the last booth's red Naugahyde seat and shrugged out of her jacket, folding it and placing it next to her. Russ hung his on a peg and sat down.

A college-age waitress with a quick smile, a pierced brow, and a name tag that said 'Eugenia' handed them menus and took their drink orders before disappearing.

Tricia eyed her surroundings. The name over the door did not match the decor. The only books in the Bookshelf Diner were of the trompe l'oeil variety-and then on a commercial wall covering. The waitress returned, setting the stemmed glass down in front of Tricia and pouring coffee for Russ. After quickly consulting the menu she did order the meat loaf, then practically gulped the well-deserved glass of red wine.

'Tough day, huh?' Russ asked.

'I've had better. And I don't want to talk about it.'

'Why should you? The sheriff suspects you of murder. I'm sure it's just lack of motive that's keeping her from locking you up. She'll have to turn up the heat after finding that book in your store.'

'She did not find it. My sister did.'

'Then she's not doing you any favors, either.'

Tricia snatched up her glass, gulping down the rest of her wine, then let it smack back down on the table. 'I barely knew Doris Gleason. She argued with Bob Kelly, had an appointment to see him on the night she was murdered. He wanted her out of that store, which is at least a credible motive for murder. He left the Brookview Inn before Ange and I did, but he didn't show up at the Cookery until more than an hour after I found Doris dead. Where was he during that time?'