Murder Is Binding (20 page)

Tricia turned the flashlight on and switched off the overhead light. They waited for their eyes to adjust to the darkness before she led the way back down the long staircase, with Angelica at her heels once more.

They'd reached the bottom of the stairs and just started down the hall toward the back of the house when Tricia stopped dead, flicking off the flashlight.

Angelica ran right into her. She opened her mouth but Tricia pivoted and clamped a hand across it. “Shhh!”

Voices.

In the kitchen.

Mike, and he was with another person…a woman, whose voice Tricia recognized.

With her
right hand still clamped across Angelica's mouth, Tricia shuffled across the Persian runner and into the dining room, dragging her sister along with her. She plastered herself against the wall of the darkened room, closed her eyes, and listened—concentrating.

Yes, it
was
Deirdre Gleason's voice.

“I can't make out what they're saying,” Angelica complained.

Tricia's hand tightened around her sister's arm, silencing her. She closed her eyes again, concentrating on the muffled voices, but caught only snatches of words:

“Books…case price…wholesale…”

“Total—cash only…”

Obviously they discussed some kind of financial deal. No doubt after their talk the day before, Mike had contracted Deirdre, eager to dump more of his mother's possessions. And a cash deal left no paper trail.

Although risking detection, Tricia crept forward and peeked through the crack in the door, hoping to hear better. A solemn-faced Deirdre stood beside the counter, a book in hand, looking very much like a professor in mid-lecture. Could she have picked up that much knowledge about cookbooks in such a short time? Then again, Tricia didn't know how much the sisters had discussed the business before Doris's passing. Or perhaps it was her accountant's background that made Deirdre such a hard negotiator.

Finally, a deal was struck and Mike disappeared into the butler's pantry while Deirdre started taking down the cookbooks from the kitchen cabinet.

Tricia grabbed Angelica's arm and hauled her back into the hallway where they crept along, backs pressed to the wall. “We've got to hide.”

“Where?”

“There's a closet in the foyer.”

“Ooohhh…please don't make me hide in a closet,” Angelica whined. “I'm claustrophobic.”

“We get caught and you'll feel a lot more claustrophobic sitting in a jail cell.”

With exaggerated care, Tricia opened the closet door, but the hinges were well lubricated and nothing squeaked except Angelica as Tricia pulled her inside and closed the door.

Tricia was glad she'd donned her good old dependable Timex and not the diamond-studded watch her ex-husband had given her on their tenth anniversary. She pressed the little button and the watch's face lit up: 9:53.

“How long do you think it'll take before they leave?” Angelica whimpered.

“I don't know. I just hope Mike didn't go looking for boxes in the garage. He's sure to see the broken window if he does.”

“That doesn't mean he'll come looking for us in here.”

“I can't remember if I put the pansy picture back on the wall.”

Angelica let out another strangled whine. “I hate this, I hate this. I want to go home. Please let me go home. This isn't fun anymore. In fact, it never was fun. I don't like being a criminal. How did I ever let you talk me into helping you?”

“You volunteered!”

“Keep that light on, will you? I can't stand being in here.”

“It'll wear down the battery. Besides, if you can't see you're in a closet, you can't be claustrophobic.”

“Do you have to keep reminding me!”

“Shhh!”

Footsteps creaked along the hardwood floor, paused. Tricia thought about Angelica's perfume. Could Mike have caught the scent?

Panic started to grow within her as the seconds ticked by and she heard nothing else. Then, the footsteps moved away, probably heading for the living room. Could Mike be searching for them or had he just gone looking for another empty cardboard box?

Angelica began making small squeaking noises again and Tricia pressed a hand over her mouth once more. But the sounds of anguish were also beginning to tear at her soul and she found herself putting her other arm around her sister's shoulder in hopes of comforting her. Hot tears rolled over Tricia's fingers and Angelica began to tremble. “Not too much longer. You're doing great,” she lied.

To prove her wrong, Angelica's knees went rubbery and she started to slide. Tricia struggled to hold her upright, but ended up on the closet floor beside her. Angelica drew her knees to her chest, crossed her arms over them, and rested her head on her hands, her stifled sobs bringing stinging tears to Tricia's eyes. Never had she inflicted such suffering on another human being, and yet she didn't open the door, didn't dare risk their being found.

The footsteps came closer again, then headed down the hall and faded.

Long minutes passed.

The air in the closet seemed to grow staler. Finally Tricia could stand it no longer and reached for the handle, opening the door a crack. Fresh air rushed in, and Angelica hiccupped.

“Shhh!” But this time Tricia's aim was to soothe, not rebuke.

Time crawled. Except for their breathing, no sounds broke the absolute silence.

Eventually Tricia poked her head around the door, listening.

Nothing.

More minutes passed.

Finally Tricia pulled herself up, muscles stiff from their confinement.

Angelica didn't move.

Tricia slipped out of her loafers, crept down the hall, saw no light coming from beneath the door that led to the kitchen. She padded into the dining room, peeked around at the crack around the door to the kitchen. It was dark, silent, and once again empty.

With more speed than agility, she headed back down the hall.

“It's okay, they're gone. You can come on out,” she called, but still Angelica didn't move.

Tricia stepped back into her shoes, bent down, and fumbled for the flashlight, which was still on the closet floor. She switched it on and trained the light on her sister's inert form. “Ange. Ange!” She shook her sister's shoulder.

Angelica lifted her head, blinked red-rimmed eyes. “I think I fell asleep,” she said, her voice tiny.

Tricia helped her to stand, threw her arms around Angelica. “I owe you big-time, big sister.”

“Can we go now? I think I need a really strong drink.”

“You're not the only one. Come on.”

Linking arms, Tricia steadied Angelica as they made their way back to the kitchen. She pointed the flashlight at the cabinet, which was now devoid of books. “Looks like Deirdre took the lot.”

“She can have them.”

Tricia ran the flashlight's beam across the kitchen counter. “Hey, look.” The mortar and pestle hadn't been put away, but the cocoa container was gone.

 

Angelica upended
the bottle of chardonnay, watching as a single drop fell into her empty stemmed glass. “Got anything else to drink?”

“I think you've had enough,” Tricia said, dipping another slice of baguette into herb-laced olive oil. She closed her eyes, leaned back, and let the bread lay on her tongue, savoring the spices of Tuscany.

On the way back from Grace's house, they'd diverted to Milford and a Shaw's grocery store where, despite being an emotional wreck, Angelica had been only too willing to toss together a grocery basket of comfort foods featuring bread, artesian cheeses, fresh fruit, and a couple of bottles of wine. Returning to Haven't Got a Clue, the sisters settled on the sumptuous sectional in Tricia's living room, with mellow jazz on the CD player, a purring cat, and a desire to totally pig out.

Tricia cut herself another slab of St. Agur, a French blue cheese so buttery and mild it made her think of running away from home to forever milk contented cows in lush mountain meadows. She savored the flavor again, closing her eyes and reveling in it—only to open them again to see Angelica's vacant gaze had wandered out the darkened windows that overlooked Main Street beyond.

“Don't think about it,” Tricia said.

Angelica shook herself, cleared her throat. “Think about what?”

Tricia didn't have to say. “I'm so sorry, Ange. I had no idea you had a problem with—” The words hung like a wet blanket at a birthday party.

“How could you? I mean, it's not like we were ever close.” Angelica's eyes grew moist. “Until maybe…now?”

“What happened with us? Why didn't we ever talk? Why couldn't we ever be close?”

Angelica sighed. “I was five when you were born. That's a lifetime to a little girl. I was the star, the loved one. The sun rose and set on me, and then you came along—an intruder, something to tear Mother's and Daddy's love from me.”

“But I didn't.”

“Of course you didn't. I told you, I
was
the star. And you were this little mousy thing only too happy to stand in my shadow.”

Tricia bit her tongue, struggling to hold on to the warm feelings she'd experienced toward her sister, afraid it had all been for nothing.

“Too bad Mother and Daddy didn't just smack my bottom and tell me to get over it. Think of the years we've wasted.” She held up her glass, with only a drop or two of wine at its bottom.

“Where did your claustrophobia come from?”

Angelica sighed. “I was locked in a closet when you'd just started to walk.”

Tricia's stomach roiled. “I couldn't have locked you in there.”

“Of course you didn't. You were just a baby, fussy and sick that day. I was annoyed you were getting all the attention. So I…kind of…pinched you, made you cry, only I didn't know Grandmother was watching. She threatened to send me to an orphan home. To escape her wrath I fled to Mother's bedroom closet and shut the door—only I couldn't get it open again. They didn't find me for hours and hours, and by then I was a basket case, sure they'd forgotten me and that I'd never be loved again. I've hated small, closed-in spaces ever since. Didn't you ever wonder why I never fly anywhere?”

“I did…” But not very hard, Tricia admitted to herself. “How can you drive?”

“When I'm behind the wheel, I'm in control. In other situations…let's say I just don't do as well.” She let out a breath. “There, now it's in the open. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“I'm sorry to have made you go through it all again tonight.”

Angelica's lower lip sagged. “Thank you. Let's try not to have a repeat performance.” She sniffed and sank back into the sofa cushions. “And can we please change the subject? Like what's going on with Mike Harris and Deirdre Gleason?”

Tricia, too, was glad to leave the night's events behind them. “I still say that Mike had the motive and opportunity to kill Doris.”

“Or do you only believe that now because he's proved himself to be a lying, cheating son?”

Tricia shook her head, wouldn't back down.

“Okay, give me his motive,” Angelica said mechanically, lounging against a stack of pillows.

“Stealing that rare cookbook.”

“Give me the opportunity.”

“Stoneham's sidewalks roll up at six p.m on a Tuesday. The street was empty, the shops all closed. He could've crossed the street from his campaign headquarters, stabbed her, and fled on foot with the book. It was small enough to hide under his shirt. And he's a known entity with a reason to be on Main Street at that time of night. No one would even think twice about seeing him.”

“Yada, yada, yada,” Angelica muttered, leaning forward and slathering another piece of baguette with creamy cheese.

Tricia folded her arms across her chest in defiance. “Okay, give me Deirdre's motivation for killing her sister.”

“Money. It always comes down to money, same as you figure for Mike. She inherits her sister's business, life insurance policy—”

“Doris's business was on the downslide. She complained to me that if Bob raised her rent, she'd have to close down.”

“And isn't it amazing that he's backed off that demand—”

“Only for a year, and only because he fears being sued.”

“Every sibling in the world has, at one time or another, wanted to kill his or her sisters and brothers. It's been that way since the days of Cain and Abel.”

Tricia opened her mouth to deny it, but closed it again.

“I pinched you when you were a baby. If I'd been a really rotten kid, who knows what I would've done. Of course, after that one incident I rose above such base instincts.” She gouged another lump of cheese from the rapidly disappearing slab.

Only the threat of being sent to an orphanage had curtailed young Angelica's homicidal tendencies. And while Tricia had often found her sister as irritating as a thorn imbedded in her skin, she'd never actually harbored feelings of fratricide. Not seriously at least.

“The problem is,” Angelica said offhandedly, “nobody but the two of us is even worried about who killed Doris Gleason, or who might be cheating Grace Harris. And there's really nothing we can do about either situation.”

“I'm not so sure. We just haven't got enough information.”

“And where are we going to find it?”

“I'm going back to St. Godelive's tomorrow to make sure Grace isn't given any more of Mike's cocoa, and I'm going to see what it'll take to get her out of that place.”

“Haven't you forgotten something?”

“What?”

“The sheriff is trying to pin Doris's death on you. You may not have much more time before she decides to come after you. I think you should call an attorney.”

“I've got a business to run—”

“Which you can't do from jail,” Angelica pointed out.

“Then why don't you find me a lawyer? You haven't got anything else to do.”

“In this little burg?”

“It might be better than bringing in some hotshot from Boston. A local guy—”

“Or gal—”

“—might know how to manipulate Sheriff Adams,” Tricia continued.

“Or deliver you straight into her hands,” Angelica warned.

Tricia raised her wineglass to her lips but paused before drinking. “I'll take that risk.”