Murder Is Binding Read Online Free PDF Page B

can move some kind of cot into my room. You’re much too upset to drive, so give me your keys,” Angelica insisted once again.
    â€œThat won’t be necessary. This is my home and I’m staying put. And I’m not upset,” she lied. “As soon as the sheriff is finished, I’ll drive you back to the inn.”
    â€œNonsense,” Bob interrupted. “I’d be delighted to escort you back to the Brookview, Mrs. Prescott.”
    Angelica turned slowly to face Bob. “Call me Angelica,” she said, her voice softening, her blue eyes lowered coyly.
    Bob smiled, practically oozing with gentlemanly charm.
    What was this effect Angie had on men? And what was wrong with these two? A woman had been murdered mere feet from where they all stood. Then again, if Bob managed to get Angelica out of Tricia’s hair, she might be inclined to ignore some of his other annoying attributes.
    Sheriff Adams returned, looking bad-tempered. “I guess that’s all for tonight, folks. But I’ll be needing official statements from all three of you. I’ll send a deputy by sometime tomorrow to take them. In the meantime, please don’t leave town without notifying the sheriff’s department.”
    As if, Tricia was tempted to sniff. Then it occurred to her what Sheriff Adams was really saying: that perhaps she didn’t believe their accounts as they’d given them.
    Â 
    Miss Marple hadn’t appreciated an early wake-up call, but the image of Doris Gleason with a knife in her back kept Tricia from restful sleep; her dreams had been shadowed by dark menacing images she could only half remember. She’d showered, dressed, and fed herself and her cat before trundling down the stairs to her shop. Next on the list: vacuuming, tidying, and all the other chores she hadn’t accomplished before leaving the night before. It was while resetting the security system she noticed the cord from the wall-mounted camera dangling loose, with the unmistakable indentations from feline teeth.
    â€œMiss Marple. Didn’t I tell you not to mess with that camera?” she admonished.
    The cat jumped to the counter and rubbed her head against Tricia’s arm.
    â€œOh no, you don’t. I am not your friend right now.”
    Miss Marple swished her tail and jumped down, sashaying across the carpet without a backward glance.
    Before Tricia could call the security company, the phone rang and she let the answering machine kick in. “The Haven’t Got a Clue mystery bookstore’s hours are ten a.m. to seven p.m. on Mondays, Tuesdays ten to six; Wednesday through Saturday ten to seven, and Sunday noon to three. Please leave a message at the tone.”
    Beep!
    â€œBernie Weston, Nashua Telegraph. Looking to interview Tricia Miles about last night’s Stoneham murder at the Cookery. Please call at—” He left a number.
    That was one phone call Tricia was determined not to return. True, talking to the press would get the shop’s name in the newspaper, but a murder—even next door to a mystery bookstore—was negative publicity, and she preferred not to believe that even negative publicity was good publicity.
    She wiped the message from the machine and dialed another number.
    â€œWe’re swamped,” said the harried male voice at Ace Security. “I might be able to get someone out to you by the end of the week, but I can’t make any promises. If the rest of your system’s intact, you shouldn’t have too much of a problem.”
    Let’s see: murder, theft, and arson had occurred just feet from Tricia’s doorstep. Why wouldn’t she feel secure with a third of her system on the blink? As a small-business owner, she’d wanted to patronize other local businesses, but now wondered if she’d regret that decision.
    She hung up the phone, put a soothing Enya CD on low, and commandeered her sheepskin duster. Taking care of her