Tricia hadn't expected such vehemence from mild-mannered Mr. Everett.
'Do you mind telling me why?'
He exhaled a sharp breath. 'His reputation as a youth was…soiled.'
'In what way?'
'It seems to me he was always in trouble. Schoolyard fights, shoplifting, and when he got older, he was a terror on wheels. That's not someone I want to represent me, even in local government.'
'I see. And you don't believe he's capable of redemption?'
'I suppose everyone is. However, there's also a saying I've come to believe in: a leopard doesn't change its spots.' And with that, he turned back to his dusting.
Thoughts of Mike kept replaying through Tricia's mind like a CD on repeat. Although she really didn't know Mr. Everett all that well, she trusted his assessment of Mike's character. She was also sure Angelica would accuse her of taking out her anger at Mike by making him a possible suspect. Then again, Angelica was convinced Deirdre had killed Doris, taken the book to fake a robbery, and then tried to cover her crime with arson.
Confronting Deirdre was one thing; she had no fear of the older woman. Confronting Mike, with his strong hands and steel-like arms, would be another thing. And what if all her suppositions were wrong? What if Doris had been murdered by a complete stranger? But that didn't make sense, either. Doris had unlocked her door to let her killer in. Someone had planted the stolen cookbook in Tricia's store. Someone still in town.
Someone who didn't want to be arrested for murder.
Sixteen
As promised, the men from Enclosures Inc. arrived to replace the broken window at just past ten that morning. The whole operation took a lot longer than Tricia anticipated, and Miss Marple was extremely unhappy to be banished to the loft apartment during the repair. Her howls could be heard by everyone in the store, and Tricia found herself explaining to more than one person that no one was pulling the cat's tail. Still, the entire ordeal put a damper on business.
After the window was replaced and order once again reigned, Tricia again called her security company. They were still too busy to come out to fix her system, but she suspected her monthly bill would arrive on time with no mention of interrupted service. She documented the call and intended to start contacting other firms when she realized the day was once again getting away from her. And she had to at least try to smooth over the damage Angelica had done between her and Sheriff Adams before attending to other matters.
Tricia drove to the sheriff's office rehearsing her speech. When she got there, Wendy Adams listened, but from the look on her face, she wasn't likely to accept anything Tricia had to say.
'You're beginning to sound like a broken record, Ms. Miles,' she said at last and leaned back in her office chair, folding her hands over her ample stomach. 'Or maybe someone so desperate she can't wait to point the finger at anyone else to evade suspicion.'
'Look, Sheriff, I'm sorry my sister was rude to you yesterday, but I have real concerns that you're not taking this investigation seriously.'
'Oh, I'm very serious. And I'm going to prove that you killed Doris Gleason.'
'Even if I'm not guilty? That'll be quite a trick.'
'Ms. Miles, I've known Mike Harris nearly all his life-and mine. He's no more a killer than I am. Perhaps he had a few run-ins with the law as a teenager-speeding, I believe-but he hasn't had so much as a traffic ticket in recent memory.' She picked up her phone, right index finger poised to push buttons on the keypad. 'Now if you'll excuse me, I have
And what would that be? Tricia wondered. Issuing parking tickets? Even that seemed beyond the sheriff's capabilities, as she hadn't issued one ticket to Deirdre for monopolizing the parking space in front of Tricia's store. 'Do you have any idea who broke my window, or is it considered too petty a crime to be worth the sheriff's department's time?'
Wendy Adams stabbed the air with her index finger, pointed to the door, her expression menacing.
Tricia turned and left the office, heading for her car. With Ginny and Mr. Everett taking care of Haven't Got a Clue, she had time to pursue her own investigation. Her next stop: a visit with Grace Harris. But first, she dropped in at her store to select a certain book off the shelf.
St. Godelive's Assisted Living Center squatted on a small rise, an older, bland brick building without the flash that seemed to come standard with newer homes for the infirmed. No retaining pond filled with cute ducks and geese, no water spout, and virtually nothing in the way of landscaping. In fact, all the place needed was a chain-link fence and razor wire to win a prison look-alike contest. The over-cast sky only reinforced that notion.
Tricia parked her car and walked along the cracked sidewalk to the main entrance. Pulling open the plate- glass door, she stepped inside and sighed at the sea of institutional gray paint that greeted her. Everything seemed drained of color, from the tile floor to the glossy walls devoid of ornamentation, to the woman dressed in a gray tunic who manned the reception desk. Already feeling depressed, Tricia checked in and signed the guest book, was given a visitor's badge, and was directed to the third floor.
Stepping out of the elevator, Tricia was struck by the starkness around her-that and the nose-wrinkling scent of urine that all the air fresheners in the world wouldn't quite erase. The bland white corridor-wide enough to accommodate wheelchairs and gurneys-had no carpet, no doubt left bare for easy cleaning, with sturdy handrails fixed along the walls to aid those who no longer walked on steady legs.
A hefty woman in blue scrubs, whose name tag read 'Martha,' manned the nurses' station to her left. She greeted Tricia with a genuine smile. 'Can I help you?'
'I'd like to visit Grace Harris.'
'Are you a friend? She gets so few visitors. In fact, I think you're only the second or third person to visit her the whole time she's been with us.'
Tricia frowned. 'And how long is that?'
'Almost six months, which is a shame as she's improved so much in the past few weeks.'
'Doesn't her son visit?' Tricia asked, surprised.
The nurse shrugged. 'Occasionally. You'd be surprised how many people dump their relatives in places like this and never think to visit them again.'
That wasn't the impression Mike had given her. 'So you don't think he's a good son?'
The nurse shrugged. 'It's not my place to judge.' But it was clear she had. Martha rounded the counter. 'This time of day Grace will probably be in the community room. Follow me, please.'
Tricia noted that most of the patient room doors were open, with too many white-haired, slack-jawed elderly people staring vacant-eyed at TVs mounted high on the walls. They passed a few ambulatory residents shuffling through the hall, or slowly maneuvering themselves aimlessly back and forth in their wheelchairs, barely noticing the stranger in their midst.
Martha paused in the community room's doorway, pointing across the way. 'There she is, over by the window. Let me know if you need anything else.' Her smile was genuine.
'Thank you,' Tricia said and turned to watch Grace as the nurse's footfalls faded.
She hesitated before entering the nearly empty room. Three old gents played cards at a square table off to the right, and a couple of older women sat together on a couch knitting or crocheting colorful afghans that cascaded across their laps. Except for the TV in the corner droning on and on, it was the only color in the otherwise drab room.
These residents seemed to be functioning on a higher level than those she'd already passed. However, Grace, a mere wisp of a woman dressed in a pink cotton housedress with slippered feet and looking like everybody's great-grandma, stared vacantly out the window at the cloudy sky. Her white hair had once been permed, judging by the flat two inches broken by a part in the middle. Pale pink little-girl bunny barrettes on either side of her face kept the hair from falling into her eyes.
Tricia padded closer to the woman and waited, hoping she wouldn't startle her. 'Grace,' she called softly.
