“Do you recognize the murder weapon?”
Tricia blinked. She’d never thought of a bungee cord as a weapon before. Her insides twisted. “I . . . think . . . it could be one of the shop’s. I don’t know. I bought a bunch of them at the dollar store in Nashua some time ago. There were three or four in the package.”
“Where would you keep them?”
“On one of the dollies in back.”
Sheriff Adams bent down, grasped Tricia’s elbow, and hauled her up. “Let’s go have a look.”
One of the deputies stood outside the washroom, taking digital photographs of the room and the victim from every angle. Tricia averted her gaze, feeling every muscle in her body tighten as they passed the tiny room and its deceased occupant.
The dollies were lined up along the wall near the back exit, two piled with boxes of books, one empty. Another deputy was crouched before the door, dusting for fingerprints, but straightened as his boss approached. “Only one or two clear prints.” He eyed Tricia. “She said she touched it—they’re probably hers.”
Tricia swallowed her annoyance. Getting angry or protesting in her own defense would only cause them to think she could be guilty. But there was no way. This time she had witnesses.
“Where do you keep these bungee cords?” Sheriff Adams asked.
Tricia pointed to a rack of shaker pegs on the wall where a red and a yellow pair of bungee cords hung, along with an old umbrella, one of her zippered sweat jackets, and Ginny’s, Angelica’s, and Mr. Everett’s coats.
“And you think there may have been a green one among them?”
She nodded. “Mr. Everett or Ginny might know for sure.”
The sheriff’s sour expression and general attitude relayed her unspoken belief that Tricia was clueless about her own property. But honestly, was she supposed to account for every pushpin, paper clip, and bungee cord on the premises?
“Just to be clear, because Ms. Carter was a famous person, Stoneham is likely to be inundated with press from Nashua, Manchester, and probably even Boston as soon as this breaks. I don’t want you talking to anyone about what you saw in that bathroom.”
“Russ Smith saw Zoë’s body, and he’s a reporter. He’s sure to write about it.”
“Yes, but he won’t give his scoop to another news outlet, and by the time the next issue of the Stoneham Weekly News comes out, the story will be as stale as week-old bread.”
Tricia swallowed her resentment. “Can I reopen in the morning?”
Sheriff Adams shook her head. “Not a chance. This store is a crime scene.”
“But I also live here.”
“Not tonight. And maybe not for a few days.”
“But I have customers. Haven’t Got a Clue is participating in the book fair and statue dedication this weekend. I have to be ready.”
“If the Sheriff’s Department is finished with its investigation, there’ll be no problem. If we’re not—” Wendy Adams’s smile was positively wolfish. “Too bad.”
“What about my cat? Can I at least retrieve her, some clothes, and other personal items?”
“Sure. And a deputy will accompany you as you gather these things.”
Did the sheriff think Tricia had already stashed some kind of evidence upstairs? That she needed to retrieve it to avoid prosecution? Tricia couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Thank you, Sheriff.”
The streets of Stoneham had been deserted for hours by the time the last of the witnesses had been interviewed by the sheriff and her staff. Standing on the damp pavement outside Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia, Angelica, Ginny, Mr. Everett, and Grace, who were finally given permission to retrieve their coats, had assembled to talk about the near-term future.
Ginny’s lower lip quivered. “We aren’t going to reopen? But—but I can’t afford to lose even one day’s pay,” she said, alarm creeping into her voice. “We need a new roof. The water heater sprang a leak. And now the dryer is on the fritz—”
Ginny’s newly purchased, darling little cottage in the woods—all appliances included—had turned into a gigantic money pit.
Tricia had saved the bad news about closing her bookstore until the sheriff had questioned everyone who’d remained after the signing. By then, it was nearly eleven o’clock. Zoë’s body still hadn’t been removed, but the sheriff assured Tricia she’d take care of securing the premises.
“Don’t worry, Ginny, you can come work for me for a few days,” Angelica suggested, her voice oozing with sweetness. “You, too, Mr. Everett. I’m a bit short of help this week, and it would solve everyone’s problems.”
“Not mine,” Tricia said, and shivered. She was hanging onto her purse, an overnight bag, her laptop computer case, and the cat carrier. Beside her on the sidewalk were a bag of litter, the cat’s box, and a grocery bag of food, bowls, and kitty toys.
Angelica leveled a glare at her sister. “We’ll all regroup at the Cookery tomorrow at nine thirty. See you then!” She gave Ginny a shove toward the municipal parking lot. Mr. Everett and Grace Harris followed reluctantly.
Angelica looked around hopefully. “Isn’t Russ going to help us with all this stuff?”
“He went back to his office. Said he wanted to get started on the story. He might even put out an extra edition if he can’t stop the presses on the current issue,” Tricia said, and grimaced. “Right now his top story is Stoneham’s mounting goose poop crisis. What happened to Bob?”
Angelica pulled a key ring from her jacket pocket. “Damage control. He said something about calling the Chamber members to fend off any bad publicity that may come from this.” She unlocked the door to her shop, turned back, and eyed the little gray cat. Miss Marple gave an indignant Yow!
“I’m not touching that cat box. I’ll take your other stuff,” Angelica said, and grabbed the purse, overnight bag, computer case, and grocery bag, leaving Tricia with the cat carrier, the litter, and the box.
Tricia followed her sister into the Cookery, both of them having thoroughly wiped their feet on a bristle doormat before entering the store. The Canada goose population had exploded in the past few weeks, with migratory birds joining their fellows who’d decided to winter near the open water of Stoneham Creek, local retention ponds, and the water traps in the neighboring Stoneham Golf Course. The result had been traffic snarled by wandering geese, and sidewalks littered with the birds’ droppings.
Tricia followed her sister through the shop and over to the little dumbwaiter at the far end of the building. “We can put most of this stuff in there. That’ll save trudging up all those stairs with it,” Angelica said.
“Not Miss Marple!”
Angelica shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you’ll be banging that carrier into your knees for two flights, and probably give the cat motion sickness. And I am not cleaning up any cat barf.”
Tricia looked up the brightly lit stairwell. What Angelica said made sense. “Okay, but don’t send it up until I get upstairs and can unload her. I don’t want her terrified by the ride.”
“All right.”
Miss Marple didn’t travel light; it would take two trips on the lift to bring up everything.
Angelica pulled her keys from her pocket. “Here’s the apartment key. Holler when you get upstairs, and I’ll send up the lift.”
“Okay.” Tricia trudged up the stairs, opened the apartment door, flicked on the lights, and breathed in the ever-present smell of Angelica’s perfume. She tended to use too much scent, making Tricia glad she wasn’t prone to respiratory problems.
Angelica’s loft apartment was completely different from her sister’s next door. Where the stairs up to the third floor opened directly into Tricia’s kitchen, Angelica’s opened into a narrow hallway which ran the length of the building. Near this end was the bedroom. Beyond was a spacious living room. Or, rather, it would have been spacious if it weren’t stacked with cartons and furniture. Angelica had reopened the Cookery with great fanfare in time for the Christmas rush only six weeks after acquiring the property. The loft conversion had taken over three months. A rented bungalow at the Brookfield Inn had been Angelica’s home during that time.