Sheriff Adams stood rooted to the spot, mouth open, eyes bulging, for a full ten seconds before she turned and stalked back across the dining room, jostling more tables as she went.
Tricia turned her menu so it hid her face from the onlookers. "That bit about me being thinner was a real low blow," she whispered. "But thanks for getting in the shot about my window."
"Well, she deserved it. There's no reason for her to keep hounding you. And do you really think she's looked into Deirdre's alibi?"
"I would think she'd have to. What makes you think Deirdre would've killed her sister?"
"Are you really sure it was Doris Gleason you saw lying dead on the floor of the Cookery? You saw her within an hour of her death; did you see her face? What was she wearing when you found her?"
Tricia thought back. "She had on the sweater she'd been wearing all day."
"Are you sure?"
She nodded and shuddered. "I can picture it-bloodstained-with the knife handle sticking out of it."
"What about her hair? Was it the same?"
"I…I don't know. It was all mussed-it covered her face, and at the time I was glad of it." She hadn't wanted to see the dead woman's lifeless eyes.
The waiter arrived to take their orders. Angelica took her time, consulting the wine list and asking for recommendations before settling on a sauterne that would go with both the appetizers and entrees. Tricia had plenty of time to think about their conversation.
The waiter departed and Angelica leaned close. "What are you thinking?"
"Suppose Deirdre did kill Doris, she might've hightailed it back to her home in Connecticut to establish an alibi. And she also had plenty of time to plant that cookbook in my shop the day she came in and introduced herself to us. We were swamped and she wandered the store for a good ten minutes before I could stop long enough to talk to her."
"Yes, but you also said Bob could've planted it, or even Mike Harris. Make up your mind, Trish, just who is your prime suspect?"
"That's the problem. I'm as much in the dark as Sheriff Adams."
Fifteen
Miss Marple swished her tail, refusing to let Tricia pet her after Angelica dropped her off at Haven't Got a Clue. "Your dinner is only ten minutes late," she explained, but Miss Marple would have none of it.
Tricia gathered up the empty dish and water bowl, chose a can of seafood platter, and set the dish and freshwater down before the cat. Miss Marple sniffed, turned her nose up at the offering, and walked away. "You're just being contrary," Tricia accused, but Miss Marple continued across the kitchen before pausing to wash her front left paw.
With the track lights turned up to full over the kitchen's island, Tricia spread out her C of C map along with Winnie's newspaper clippings and several colored markers. She'd been itching to jump into the task since she'd found the papers in Winnie's car.
It didn't take a genius to figure out that Winnie had circled any sales that mentioned books, which wasn't at all unusual since she had apparently bought and then sold a lot of them to the other booksellers in Stoneham. Too bad Ginny had discouraged her from coming around.
Tricia took the first clipping and started charting the addresses in pink for the week prior to Winnie's death, blue for the week she died. Miss Marple sashayed back into the kitchen, rubbing her head on the backs of Tricia's calves. "Don't try to get back in my good graces," Tricia muttered and squinted at another listing, this from two weeks before Winnie died. "Follow the signs on Canfield Road." That was where Mike Harris's mother's house was located.
The ad didn't specify the house address, but Mike's mother's home had a detached garage. Would he have been so foolish as to sell the valuable old manuscript for pennies at such a sale? Then again, the book had been in remarkably good condition. He might have considered it a reproduction and not given it a second thought.
Tricia eyed the phone. She could try to call Mike, but what would she say? "Sorry I ran out of your house like a raving idiot. Now did you sell a valuable book to an old lady, kill another elderly woman for buying that book from her, and then kill the first old lady to cover your tracks?" That wouldn't go over well, but she would have to find a way to casually run into him and tactfully ask some questions. And maybe hell would freeze over in the next couple of days, too.
Miss Marple levitated onto the island. "Hey, you're not supposed to be up here," Tricia scolded, but the cat merely circled around, rubbed her head against Tricia's chin, purring lustily.
Tricia scratched the cat's head, but kept her gaze on the yellowing ad. "Follow the signs on Canfield Road," she repeated. Russ Smith should be able to check who'd placed the ad. Surely there were no confidentiality issues between a newspaper's ad page and the purchaser of said ad. There'd be no one at the paper at this time on a Sunday night. Another task for the morning, and something law enforcement ought to be doing.
Angelica taunting the sheriff hadn't been wise, and while Tricia appreciated the sentiment behind it, she was still irked at her sister. Then again, why was the sheriff so intent on nailing her for Doris Gleason's death besides clearing up the matter before the pending election? And was that enough of a motive? One thing was certain, Sheriff Adams wasn't interested in finding another suspect. If her name was to be cleared, Tricia was going to have to do it herself.
Tricia leaned against the brick wall beside the door of the Stoneham Weekly News, clutching a cardboard tray with two cups of the Coffee Bean's best brew. The recorded message had said the paper's office hours were from eight until five, but Tricia had shown up at seven forty, anticipating Russ would arrive for work before office hours. And she'd been right.
"Been waiting long?" Russ asked, as he approached from around the corner. He pulled a set of keys from his jacket pocket, selecting one of them. He looked like a farmer in well-worn jeans with the collar of a blue plaid flannel shirt sticking out the neck of his denim jacket.
"About five minutes. Hope you're thirsty," Tricia said, proffering the cardboard tray.
"I am." He unlocked the door. "Come on in."
She followed him as he led her through the darkened office. He hit the main switch and the place was flooded with fluorescent light. Peeling off his jacket, he headed for a glass cubicle in the back of the room. The rest of the office was open landscaping, with two desks with computer terminals. Stacks of the most recent issue sat atop a long counter that separated the public part of the office with the work zone behind it.
Russ took his seat, powering up his computer. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Tricia set the tray down and handed him a cup, offering creamer and sugar. "Just a little thank-you for your help the other night."
"What're friends for?"
So now he considered himself a friend. All the better. Tricia took one of the standard office guest chairs in front of his desk. "As you know, the sheriff seems determined to prove I killed Doris Gleason, quite a feat as I didn't do it."
Russ made no comment, but dumped a tub of the half-and-half into his paper cup.
"I'm taking your advice and trying to find out who did kill Doris."
"And you want me to help." It wasn't a question.
Tricia leaned forward. "I'm convinced Winnie Wentworth bought Doris's stolen cookbook at a tag sale, and I think I've found the ad right here in the Stoneham Weekly News. I was hoping you could tell me who placed it."
Russ stirred his coffee, then leaned back in his chair. "Depends on how long ago it was placed. We purge our system on a monthly basis, otherwise it gets bogged down storing all that data."