Murder Is Binding

'And you're already hard at work, I see.'

'I've got a schedule to keep if I want to reopen the Cookery next Monday. Come in.' Deirdre stepped over to one of the bookshelves. Several opened cartons sat on the floor. She picked up a book and squinted at its cover.

'Did you lose your glasses?' Tricia asked.

'My what?' Deirdre asked, alarmed.

'Your glasses. You're not wearing them.'

Deirdre patted her cheek in panic. 'Good grief, you're right. I must have taken them off when I first came in. They're around here somewhere. Now what can I do for you?' she said, changing the subject.

Tricia prayed for tact, knowing there really was no easy way to begin what she had to say. 'I'm sorry to say that Sheriff Adams is convinced I killed your sister.'

Looking doughy and toadlike without her glasses, Deirdre merely blinked, apparently startled at Tricia's bluntness.

'I did not kill Doris,' Tricia asserted.

'I should hope not,' Deirdre said.

'But I do have some questions for you.'

Deirdre visibly stiffened. 'Me?'

'Yes. Within hours of Doris's death, the whole village was buzzing with the news. You were in town, registered at the Brookview Inn. Why didn't you step forward and let the sheriff know you were her next of kin?'

'I was not in Stoneham when Doris was killed. Yes, I'd taken a room at the inn, but I'd gone home to take care of some business and collect more clothing. I didn't arrive back until days after her death.'

'How many days?'

Deirdre's eyes narrowed. 'What are you implying? That I had something to do with my own sister's death?'

Tricia hesitated. If she mentioned the insurance policy, Deirdre would wonder where she learned about it. Likewise if she mentioned anything else about Doris's daughter. 'Of course not. I just thought it was funny you didn't come forward sooner.'

'Well, I don't think it's funny at all. What if something happened to your sister and people accused you of doing her in? Would you think that was funny?'

'No, I-'

'And neither do I.' She pointed toward the door. 'I think you should leave.'

'Deirdre, I-'

'Now, please,' she said and grasped Tricia by the shoulders, shoving her across the room and out of the Cookery, slamming the door and locking it before stalking away.

'Deirdre! Deirdre!' Tricia shouted to no avail.

Suddenly Mr. Everett was standing beside her, looking through the Cookery's door as Deirdre disappeared from view. 'She's in a bit of a snit, isn't she?'

'With cause.' Tricia turned and walked the ten or so feet to the door to her own store, withdrew the keys from her purse, and opened the door. Mr. Everett trotted in behind her, hitting the main light switch. Miss Marple sat on the sales counter, ready for another hard day of sleeping on the stock or perhaps a patron's lap.

Juggling his umbrella, Mr. Everett shrugged out of his coat. 'Would you like me to hang up your coat as well?'

'Yes, thank you. Looks like you're ready for rain.'

'There's talk we'll get the tail end of Hurricane Sheila later today or perhaps tomorrow, depending on how fast it travels.'

'Hurricane?' Tricia asked. Preoccupied, she hadn't turned on the TV or the radio in days.

'Would you like me to finish alphabetizing those biographies, Ms. Miles?'

'Please call me Tricia.' Mr. Everett nodded, but she knew he wouldn't. Any more than she could call him by his first name, which he'd written on his official application and she'd already forgotten. He'd always be Mr. Everett to her.

'Yes, go ahead. Oh, but maybe you wouldn't mind dusting the display up front. Should it be a sunny day, it's really going to be obvious it hasn't been touched in days. But be careful; there still may be some glass up there.'

'I'll get the duster,' he said and started for the utility closet.

Tricia opened the small safe from under the sales counter and sorted the bills for the drawer, settling them into their slots. She caught sight of the little scatter pin she'd bought from Winnie, which had resided in the tray since the day Winnie had died. On impulse, she scooped it up and pinned it on the left side of her turtleneck, wondering why she hadn't thought to take the little brooch upstairs to her jewelry box where it belonged.

She checked the tapes on the register and credit card machine, finding them more than half full, and though the store wouldn't open for more than an hour, she decided to raise the shade on the door and let in some natural light. Mike's office across the street was still darkened, and she wondered when or if he'd show up today. He'd said he still had some time left on the lease for his last office. Perhaps he started the day there and only came to the campaign office when work permitted.

Mr. Everett had donned one of the extra Haven't Got a Clue aprons and was happily dusting his way along the front window display. Tricia gave him a smile and turned back to stare out the window. If Mike had sold Winnie the Amelia Simmons cookbook, then found out how valuable it was, he might've decided to take back what had once been his property. He could've slipped across the street and done the deed in the thirty to forty minutes between Tricia speaking to Doris and then finding her dead. And then on Saturday morning Mike had also spent time wandering around Haven't Got a Clue when he could have planted the stolen book to avert suspicion. Not that anyone but Tricia suspected him. Or Bob. Or Deirdre.

She thought about her encounter with Mike at his mother's home the day before. What kind of woman had raised him? She looked over at her new employee. 'Mr. Everett, what do you know about Mike Harris's mother?'

'Grace?' he asked, not looking up from his task. 'She's a very nice woman. Used to be quite friendly with my late wife, Alice. It's a pity she had to go to St. Godelive's.'

'I'm sorry?'

He paused in his work. 'St. Godelive's. It's an assisted living center over in Benwell. I understand she came down with dementia. Such a pity.' He shook his head in obvious disapproval.

Came down with dementia? Okay.

'It used to be only the indigent that ended up there, but it seems they've been trying to upgrade the place and are now taking patients who can pay for their services.'

The indigent? Surely Grace Harris had arrived after they'd changed their policies. After all, Mike had said he'd been clearing out her home to pay for her medical expenses. She thought back to the birthday card that had fallen out of American Cookery two days before. 'Just out of curiosity, what was Mike's father's name?'

'Jason.'

And the other name on the birthday card found in Doris's cookbook was Letty. So the book hadn't been a gift from Mike's father to his mother. Scratch that notion.

Still, the possibility of Mike being a murderer nagged at her. Facts were facts. He visited the Cookery the day of Doris's death. If he'd sold the booklet to Winnie for pennies, and saw that she'd sold it to Doris and it was on display, he might have decided to take back the book-by force if necessary.

'Mr. Everett,' she called, interrupting his dusting once more. 'What do you think about Mike Harris running for selectman?'

His brows drew together in consternation. 'I really don't like to participate in idle gossip,' he began. 'Then again, I do believe I'm entitled to an opinion when it comes to the village's representation.'

'So I take it you won't be voting for him.'

'Certainly not!'