Sheriff Adams's piercing glare was fixed on Tricia. "I thought you said this thing was a book?"
Tricia looked down at the little booklet. "Technically, it is. Its significance is undisputed in the evolution of American cookery books. It's condition and rarity make it extremely valuable."
"This can't be worth ten grand," the sheriff said, poking the pamphlet with the eraser end of a pencil, unconvinced.
"Oh yes, it can," Ginny chirped up. "I looked it up on-line."
The sheriff shook her head, then took in the four women standing around the sales counter. "Who's touched the book since it was found?"
Tricia looked sidelong at her sister, but didn't answer.
The quiet lengthened. "Okay, it was me," an exasperated Angelica said, crossing her arms across her chest. "And what's the big deal anyway?"
"You might've obliterated whatever incriminating fingerprints were on it," the sheriff muttered.
"Oh, don't go all CSI on me. Whoever stole that little pamphlet probably wiped it clean before they dumped it here."
"Ange," Tricia warned.
The sheriff turned her scrutiny back to Tricia. "It's very odd that the person who found Ms. Gleason's body should now possess the stolen book."
"And not at all coincidental, if someone is trying to implicate my sister as Doris's killer," Angelica said, her voice rising. "And do we even know this is the same book?"
The sheriff turned to Tricia for the answer. "Given its rarity, it's unlikely there'd be two copies of it in a town this size. And, Sheriff, I assure you I have no idea how it ended up in my store, but I'm not responsible."
"Any ideas on who might be?"
If she had, she certainly would've volunteered that information before now. Tricia shook her head, fought to stay calm. "People wander in and out of here all day long, most of them strangers. Anyone could've planted that book here."
"But it's not likely Ms. Gleason would've let a stranger into her shop after hours."
"She was expecting someone," Tricia reminded the sheriff. "Bob Kelly."
"Trish." It was Angelica's turn to scold.
Sheriff Adams threw back her head and straightened to her full height. "Mr. Kelly has accounted for his whereabouts at the time of Ms. Gleason's death. I'm satisfied with his answers."
It was all Tricia could do not to blurt, "Yeah, but-" The way the sheriff kept glowering at her reinforced her fear that she remained the prime suspect.
"Why wasn't I told my sister expected Bob Kelly on the night of her death?" Deirdre demanded.
"I saw no need to upset you. And as I've just told Ms. Miles here, I don't suspect him."
"And why not? He was determined to force my sister out. The way he cleaned out the store less than forty-eight hours after her death is proof positive."
Sheriff Adams pointed a finger of warning at Deirdre. "This discussion is closed." She looked over her shoulder at the young deputy standing behind them. "Placer, take this 'book' to the office and lock it up. We'll send it to the state crime lab first thing Monday morning."
The uniformed officer stepped forward with what looked like a tackle box, which he opened, and took out a pair of latex gloves. He withdrew a paper evidence bag, shook it open, and picked up the booklet. A yellowed note card fell from it, hitting the carpeted floor.
"What's that?" Angelica asked, bending down.
"Looks like a birthday card," Tricia said.
"Don't touch it," the sheriff warned. "Placer?"
The deputy elbowed his way in and picked up the card, setting it and the booklet back on the counter before stepping aside. The five women crowded around, silently studying the front of the card, with its old-fashioned font and the image of a dozen red roses, the colors muted by the yellowing paper. "Happy Birthday, to my dear wife," Angelica read.
"Open it up," the sheriff said.
Ginny stepped back so the deputy, with his gloved hands, could do so. The text in black was the usual syrupy wishes for a happy day; it was the peacock-blue-inked script that drew them in. "To my dearest Letty, Happy Birthday, love Roddy."
"What kind of a name is Letty?" Ginny asked.
"Letitia comes to mind. Or it could be short for something else," Tricia suggested. She raised her gaze. "Anybody in town named Letitia or Letty?"
The sheriff shook her head. "Not that I know of. And I've lived here my whole life."
They watched as the deputy carefully placed the book into a paper evidence bag, then put the card in another. With a curt nod to his boss, the officer headed out the door to his double-parked cruiser.
"That book is worth a lot of money. With my sister's passing, it now belongs to me," Deirdre asserted.
"It's part of a criminal investigation," the sheriff said.
"Will I ever get it back?"
"Possibly. But these things take time. Sometimes years."
"Years?" Deirdre repeated, appalled.
"Just what are you going to do to the book?" Ginny asked.
The sheriff bristled. "Normal procedure."
"Wait a minute," Tricia said. "Subjecting that book to black magnetic powder or ninhydrin would ruin it. I suppose iodine fuming might work. It develops prints beautifully. They'd just have to be photographed, not lifted, but it should spare the book. Then again, all that humidity." She shook her head. "CrimeScope. That's the book's best option, though on a porous surface like paper, it might not show a viable fingerprint, either."
"How do you know so much?" Sheriff Adams asked, suspicious.
Tricia waved a hand, taking in the thousands of books on the shelves around them. "I deal in mystery fiction. Not only do I read the classics, I read contemporary authors like Patricia Cornwell, Kathy Reichs, and Elizabeth Becka. You can practically get a degree in forensics just by reading these top authors. But that doesn't change the fact that it's likely only Angelica's prints are on the book, anyway."
"I want a receipt for it," Deirdre said. The sheriff just about rolled her eyes, and Deirdre snorted in outrage. "If any harm comes to that book, I will not only sue the county sheriff's department, but you personally."
"Will you at least ask the state lab to take special care with it?" Tricia pressed.
"I'll ask, but I can't make any guarantees."
"And I can't guarantee I won't immediately speak to my lawyer, either," Deirdre said. "Now about that receipt-"
Tricia provided a pen and a piece of paper. The sheriff scribbled a few lines, handing the sheet to Deirdre, who gave Tricia a nod. "I appreciate you calling me over. Otherwise, I'm not even sure I'd have been told the book was found." She turned on her heel and stalked out the door.
Sheriff Adams was the next to leave, following Deirdre without even a good-bye.
Angelica scowled. "I thought people from New Hampshire were supposed to be extra nice. Isn't that the state motto? Be nice or die?"
"That's 'Live Free or Die,' and don't judge all of us by some people," Ginny said, then, "What am I saying? Sheriff Adams is a good person. I've just never known her to be so cold. She must be getting pressure from somewhere else, like maybe the village board."
"What should I do next, Ms. Miles?" asked Mr. Everett, who hadn't said a word during the entire conversation.
"Why don't you go back and help Deirdre? Ginny and I can manage here." He didn't look happy, but nodded anyway. She glanced up at the clock. Two hours until official closing. Although the onlookers had disappeared, there was no reason she had to stay closed. She followed Mr. Everett to the door, turning the sign back toOPEN , and shut the door behind him.
"I guess I should go, too. Have to get ready for my big date tonight," Angelica said brightly. Shouldering her enormous handbag, she fingered a wave, called, "Ciao," and she, too, was gone.