Murder Is Binding

Tricia shook her head. 'I shouldn't tell you this, but if you offer them to a dealer, you'll get substantially less than they're worth. Your best bet is to sell them on one of the online auction sites.'

Mike frowned. 'I figured as much.'

'I see some of the books are already missing.'

Mike's grip on his coffee mug tightened. 'I gave them to friends of Mother's. At first I didn't realize they might be worth anything. I even considered boxing up the lot and taking them to Goodwill just for the tax write-off. Even then, I'd need an estimate on their worth-something I couldn't do.'

'A lot of them may end up there anyway; for instance, the travel books and most of the paperbacks she has squirreled away. Unless of course she had some of the old pulp paperbacks from the forties and fifties. They're quite collectible if only for their lurid covers.'

'Doesn't sound like Mother's cup of tea.'

Tricia remembered her promise to Deirdre. 'Did your mother have any cookbooks?'

'In the kitchen. Come on, I'll show you.'

Tricia followed Mike down the dark hallway, past a formal dining room, and into a large airy kitchen, which hadn't seen a remodel since the 1970s. The harvest gold appliances and bicentennial patterned vinyl flooring, with 1776 stamped every few squares, seemed stuck in time. Then again, the oak table with stenciled Hitchcock chairs and the dark-stained woodwork were classic. Except for a layer of dust on just about everything, the room was tidy, the counters clutter free.

The hundred or more cookbooks resided in a glass-fronted double-doored cabinet above and between the sink and stove, no doubt to keep them grease free. Like in the living room, gaps on these shelves proved they had also stored more than were currently there. Would all the other cupboards be empty as well? And what did it matter? Mike had said he was liquidating the estate to pay for his mother's health care. A pity that was necessary.

Tricia opened one of the doors, selecting a book at random and thumbing through to the copyright page. 'The Cookery is in need of new stock because of smoke damage after the fire.'

'The Cookery? I thought it was closed. I saw it had been emptied out and someone was cleaning the place yesterday. I assumed it was the new tenant.'

'Doris Gleason had a sister. She's taking over the business and is looking for new stock. If you're going to dump these books anyway, you might consider offering them to Deirdre. Who knows, she might even vote for you in the election.'

He laughed. 'Thanks.'

Tricia replaced the book, closing the cabinet. She turned to find Mike staring at her, or rather her bust. She pulled her long-sleeved sweater tighter about her, crossing her arms across her chest. 'Goodness, our coffee's getting cold.'

Mike seemed to shake himself. 'Come on.' He led the way back to the living room, and they resumed their places before the cold fireplace. Tricia picked up her mug, took a sip, and resigned herself to yet another cup of tepid coffee.

Mike grabbed a book at random from the closest shelf. A yellowed piece of paper jutted out of it, marking a place. He took out the paper and showed it to her: a recipe for Yankee bean soup torn from a magazine. 'Still having problems with the propaganda leaflets?'

Tricia nodded, grateful for something else to talk about. 'Yes. And you were right. The one I showed you was just the first in a series. They've stepped up to a direct advertising campaign. Ever hear of Full Moon Camp and Resort?'

'Can't say as I have,' he said, crumpled the paper, and tossed it into the fireplace's maw. He replaced the book on the shelf.

'It gave a web address that said they were opening a new location next summer in southern New Hampshire, but it didn't specify where. I meant to call Bob Kelly about it, but with everything else that's been going on…'

Mike looked concerned. 'Such as?'

'Didn't you hear about the rock through my window?'

'No. When did that happen?'

'About eight thirty last night.'

'Huh. I was in my new office last night, unpacking. It must've happened after I left.'

'What time was that?'

'Quarter after eight, maybe eight twenty.'

Interesting.

Mike picked up his cup, swallowed a sip of cold coffee, and grimaced.

The conversation lagged.

'This really is a beautiful house,' Tricia said finally.

'If you think this looks nice, you ought to see the bedrooms,' he said a la Groucho Marx, and waggled his eyebrows for further effect. 'I'd be glad to give you a personal tour.'

Tricia's entire body tensed, but somehow she managed a weak smile. 'Sorry, I can't stay too much longer.'

'Your shop doesn't open for at least another two hours. That's plenty of time for us to get better acquainted,' he said and moved a step closer

Tricia's already tense muscles went rigid. 'I have a new employee I'm training today.'

'Oh?'

'Mr. Everett.'

'Oh, the old coot who's taken root in your store.'

'He's a treasure,' she said, feeling protective of the old gentleman. 'He'll be a great asset at Haven't Got a Clue.'

Mike turned away and set his mug back down on the tray. 'You seem to be collecting men these days.'

Tricia blinked. 'Excuse me?'

'Last night when I walked to the municipal lot to get in my car, I saw you at the diner with Russ Smith,' Mike said, a slight edge entering his voice. 'That surprised me, especially after what he wrote about you. And what will people say about my girl being seen with another man?'

My girl? That's what Christopher always called her, and she'd liked the sound of the words-the emotions behind it. But coming from Mike, the words gave her a chill.

Tricia thought about the gaping hole in her shop window, the strength it had taken to heave the miniature boulder that had shattered it. Unease wormed through her as she realized how isolated the two of them were in the big vacant house. She swallowed down the lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. 'We've been out to lunch exactly one time, that hardly makes me 'your girl.'' She even managed a little laugh.

'Maybe I'd like to change that.' Mike stepped closer, putting his hands around her and pulling her against him.

'Mike,' she said, squirming in his embrace.

He didn't let go, his face hovering close to her own, his breath warm on her cheek.

'Mike,' she said with more urgency.

He leaned in closer, brushing his lips across her neck.

Panicking, Tricia pulled her arms free and pushed against his chest. 'Mike, please!'

He stumbled back, puzzled. 'I'm sorry, Trish. I thought you were as attracted to me as I am to you.'

'That's very flattering. It's just-' How do you tell someone he's just creeped you out?

'Ah,' he said, a sympathetic lilt entering his voice. 'Too soon after your divorce?'

'That's exactly it. And anyway, it's not like Russ and I are even friends. We only discussed Doris's murder, which quickly became tedious, believe me. And it wasn't a date. We each paid for our own dinners.' She didn't mention Russ staying with her until the enclosure guys could show up. And why did she feel she owed him an explanation, anyway?

'Any new developments in the murder case?' Mike asked, with no real interest.

'Just that the stolen book's been found.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'That is news. Where was it?'

'In my store.'

'That's not good.'