Murder Is Binding

Thirteen

Tricia inspected her makeup in the mirror over the bathroom sink. After three attempts to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes with concealer, she admitted defeat and set the little tube aside. Talking to Christopher hadn't settled her nerves, and Russ Smith's words of warning the evening before had stayed with her, keeping her from yet another decent night's sleep.

She'd come to no conclusions during her tossing and turning, grateful she could spare no time this morning to ponder the situation. Still, she took another moment to assess herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door, wanting to look nice for Mike. She'd chosen the peach sweater set over beige slacks. With the days growing shorter, she'd soon put it away for darker fall colors. The idea of winter setting in and the possibility of spending it in the New Hampshire State Prison for Women did more than depress her.

I will not think about it, I will not think about it. And despite his chivalry after the rock incident, she cursed Russ for even hinting at the possibility she could end up in jail.

Out in the kitchen, Miss Marple rubbed her little gray body against the door leading to the stairs and the store below. 'It's Sunday,' Tricia told her, and took one last sip of her tepid coffee before dumping it in the sink. 'You don't need to go to work until noon.' But the cat would not be dissuaded.

Tricia grabbed her coat from the tree and snagged her purse and keys.

The phone rang. Who on Earth would be calling so early on a Sunday morning?

Miss Marple stood up, scratched the door, and cried piteously. Tricia unlocked and opened it for her. The phone rang again as the cat scampered down the stairs. Tricia snatched it on the third ring. 'Hello?'

'Tricia, it's Angelica. What took you so long to answer?'

'I was almost out the door,' she said, balancing the phone on her shoulder as she struggled into her jacket sleeves.

'I thought the store opened late today.'

'It does. I'm going out to evaluate a private collection. Can this wait until later? I'm going to be late.'

'Wait! I just heard about your store being vandalized. Are you okay?'

'Of course,' she lied. 'I'm perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be?'

'There's a murderer running around Stoneham, and now someone's targeted you-maybe the same person.'

'Don't be so melodramatic. It was only a window; it'll be replaced tomorrow. Besides, I wasn't even in the building at the time.'

'Are you opening the store today?'

'Definitely. But as I said, I've got to head out right now or I'll be late.'

'I think you should close the store and come house hunting with me today.'

'You know I can't. There are at least two buses coming through this afternoon.'

'Well, at least you close early, don't you?'

'At three.'

'Fine. By then I'll have looked at two or three properties. If I find one I like, I'll want your opinion.'

That was a first. Tricia couldn't remember her sister ever consulting her on anything, be it a brand of designer shoes or the ripeness of a banana. For some reason, it pleased her. 'Okay. Who's driving, you or me?'

'Me.'

'All right. See you at three.'

'Be careful,' Angelica warned.

Tricia hung up the phone to find an annoyed Miss Marple sitting at her heels. 'You know perfectly well there's a door at the bottom of the stairs and that it's closed until I open it.'

Miss Marple stood and swaggered back to the open doorway. Tricia grabbed her purse once again and followed.

The Harris homestead was a lovely pseudo-Tudor nestled in a quaint, upscale neighborhood with mature trees and professional landscaping.

Tricia parked her car at the curb, noting Mike's sleek black Jag sat under a massive maple, its highest leaves just beginning to turn gold. The remnants of a now-untended garden rimmed the front of the buff-colored, stucco- faced house. A sense of recent abandonment clung to the property. Mike probably had his own home to take care of, and the house was huge, much too big for one person-especially someone with the beginnings of Alzheimer's disease. Poor Mrs. Harris.

Tricia pressed the doorbell and heard a resounding bing-bong from within. Moments later the heavy oak door swung open. 'Welcome,' Mike greeted, ushering her into an elegant foyer with its polished tile floor and matching floral wing chairs flanking a marble-topped mahogany table. To the left was a magnificent staircase, with ornately carved banisters, that swept up to the second floor. Light streamed in through stained-glass panes of green and yellow diamonds, casting a warm glow on the carpeted steps.

'What a beautiful home,' she said, wondering what other delights it might contain.

'Thanks. It was a nice place to grow up in. And as you can see, my parents took good care of it.' He held out his hands. 'Let me take your jacket. I've got a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen. Can I get you a cup?'

'Yes, thanks,' she said and shed her coat.

Mike took it from her and hung it in a closet off to the left at the base of the stairs. 'How do you take it?'

'Milk or creamer only-no sugar.'

'Coming right up. Most of the books are in the living room,' he said, gesturing to his right. Go have a look- make yourself at home.' He gave her an encouraging smile and took off down a dark hallway.

'Thanks,' she called after him.

With Mike gone, an unnerving silence enveloped her. She took in a deep breath of stale air and wondered how long the house had been closed up.

Since she was there to see the books, Tricia figured she might as well get started and entered the living room through the opened French doors, where both chaos and order reigned. A stack of mismatched, taped cartons sat beside an empty curio cabinet just inside the doors, bald patches in the dust suggesting the shapes of the delicate objects that had once occupied it. Several seating arrangements compartmentalized the large room. Most of the furniture lay hidden beneath drop cloths, while other pieces, richly brocaded in shades of beige, were not. The carpet hadn't seen a vacuum cleaner in months. Rectangular patches on the walls hinted at where paintings, prints, or photographs had once hung.

Tricia picked her way across the room to the reading nook with its matching wide and inviting pillowed chairs and floor lamps, not unlike what she'd created for Haven't Got a Clue. The adjacent bookshelves stood on either side of a white painted mantel and drew her to them. It didn't take much imagination to conjure up an image of a sedate Mrs. Harris in her declining years, seated in one of the chairs before a roaring fire, book in hand, lost in its pages.

Now the room felt cold, empty. Without its mistress, the room-if not the home-had lost its soul.

Tricia shook away the image and retrieved her reading glasses from her purse, slipping them on to assess the titles. Mrs. Harris had eclectic taste in reading material, from mystery fiction to romances, biographies to travel books, as well as mainstream fiction and the classics, and she'd grouped them as such. Noticeable gaps on the shelves proved that the collection was not entirely intact.

She grabbed a mystery at random, Deadly Honeymoon, by Lawrence Block. It turned out to be a first edition with a mint condition dust cover. She'd sold a used, discarded library copy for eight dollars only a week before. This would bring much more. Checking the copyright dates on several other books was just as encouraging. Other titles by authors such as James Michener and Ann Morrow Lindbergh were also first editions. They'd be worth more signed, but were still valuable to die-hard collectors.

Mike reappeared with a tray containing two steaming mugs and a plate of Oreos, which he set on the dusty table in the nook. He handed her a mug. 'So what do you think?'

'I'm no expert on most of what's here, but a lot appear to be first editions. That's always a plus.'

'Could you give me a ballpark estimate on the whole lot?'