Mr. Everett had donned one of the extra Haven't Got a Clue aprons and was happily dusting his way along the front window display. Tricia gave him a smile and turned back to stare out the window. If Mike had sold Winnie the Amelia Simmons cookbook, then found out how valuable it was, he might've decided to take back what had once been his property. He could've slipped across the street and done the deed in the thirty to forty minutes between Tricia speaking to Doris and then finding her dead. And then on Saturday morning Mike had also spent time wandering around Haven't Got a Clue when he could have planted the stolen book to avert suspicion. Not that anyone but Tricia suspected him. Or Bob. Or Deirdre.
She thought about her encounter with Mike at his mother's home the day before. What kind of woman had raised him? She looked over at her new employee. "Mr. Everett, what do you know about Mike Harris's mother?"
"Grace?" he asked, not looking up from his task. "She's a very nice woman. Used to be quite friendly with my late wife, Alice. It's a pity she had to go to St. Godelive's."
"I'm sorry?"
He paused in his work. "St. Godelive's. It's an assisted living center over in Benwell. I understand she came down with dementia. Such a pity." He shook his head in obvious disapproval.
Came down with dementia? Okay.
"It used to be only the indigent that ended up there, but it seems they've been trying to upgrade the place and are now taking patients who can pay for their services."
The indigent? Surely Grace Harris had arrived after they'd changed their policies. After all, Mike had said he'd been clearing out her home to pay for her medical expenses. She thought back to the birthday card that had fallen out of American Cookery two days before. "Just out of curiosity, what was Mike's father's name?"
"Jason."
And the other name on the birthday card found in Doris's cookbook was Letty. So the book hadn't been a gift from Mike's father to his mother. Scratch that notion.
Still, the possibility of Mike being a murderer nagged at her. Facts were facts. He visited the Cookery the day of Doris's death. If he'd sold the booklet to Winnie for pennies, and saw that she'd sold it to Doris and it was on display, he might have decided to take back the book-by force if necessary.
"Mr. Everett," she called, interrupting his dusting once more. "What do you think about Mike Harris running for selectman?"
His brows drew together in consternation. "I really don't like to participate in idle gossip," he began. "Then again, I do believe I'm entitled to an opinion when it comes to the village's representation."
"So I take it you won't be voting for him."
"Certainly not!"
Tricia hadn't expected such vehemence from mild-mannered Mr. Everett.
"Do you mind telling me why?"
He exhaled a sharp breath. "His reputation as a youth was…soiled."
"In what way?"
"It seems to me he was always in trouble. Schoolyard fights, shoplifting, and when he got older, he was a terror on wheels. That's not someone I want to represent me, even in local government."
"I see. And you don't believe he's capable of redemption?"
"I suppose everyone is. However, there's also a saying I've come to believe in: a leopard doesn't change its spots." And with that, he turned back to his dusting.
Thoughts of Mike kept replaying through Tricia's mind like a CD on repeat. Although she really didn't know Mr. Everett all that well, she trusted his assessment of Mike's character. She was also sure Angelica would accuse her of taking out her anger at Mike by making him a possible suspect. Then again, Angelica was convinced Deirdre had killed Doris, taken the book to fake a robbery, and then tried to cover her crime with arson.
Confronting Deirdre was one thing; she had no fear of the older woman. Confronting Mike, with his strong hands and steel-like arms, would be another thing. And what if all her suppositions were wrong? What if Doris had been murdered by a complete stranger? But that didn't make sense, either. Doris had unlocked her door to let her killer in. Someone had planted the stolen cookbook in Tricia's store. Someone still in town.
Someone who didn't want to be arrested for murder.
Sixteen
As promised, the men from Enclosures Inc. arrived to replace the broken window at just past ten that morning. The whole operation took a lot longer than Tricia anticipated, and Miss Marple was extremely unhappy to be banished to the loft apartment during the repair. Her howls could be heard by everyone in the store, and Tricia found herself explaining to more than one person that no one was pulling the cat's tail. Still, the entire ordeal put a damper on business.
After the window was replaced and order once again reigned, Tricia again called her security company. They were still too busy to come out to fix her system, but she suspected her monthly bill would arrive on time with no mention of interrupted service. She documented the call and intended to start contacting other firms when she realized the day was once again getting away from her. And she had to at least try to smooth over the damage Angelica had done between her and Sheriff Adams before attending to other matters.
Tricia drove to the sheriff's office rehearsing her speech. When she got there, Wendy Adams listened, but from the look on her face, she wasn't likely to accept anything Tricia had to say.
"You're beginning to sound like a broken record, Ms. Miles," she said at last and leaned back in her office chair, folding her hands over her ample stomach. "Or maybe someone so desperate she can't wait to point the finger at anyone else to evade suspicion."
"Look, Sheriff, I'm sorry my sister was rude to you yesterday, but I have real concerns that you're not taking this investigation seriously."
"Oh, I'm very serious. And I'm going to prove that you killed Doris Gleason."
"Even if I'm not guilty? That'll be quite a trick."
"Ms. Miles, I've known Mike Harris nearly all his life-and mine. He's no more a killer than I am. Perhaps he had a few run-ins with the law as a teenager-speeding, I believe-but he hasn't had so much as a traffic ticket in recent memory." She picked up her phone, right index finger poised to push buttons on the keypad. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have real police work to attend to."
And what would that be? Tricia wondered. Issuing parking tickets? Even that seemed beyond the sheriff's capabilities, as she hadn't issued one ticket to Deirdre for monopolizing the parking space in front of Tricia's store. "Do you have any idea who broke my window, or is it considered too petty a crime to be worth the sheriff's department's time?"
Wendy Adams stabbed the air with her index finger, pointed to the door, her expression menacing.
Tricia turned and left the office, heading for her car. With Ginny and Mr. Everett taking care of Haven't Got a Clue, she had time to pursue her own investigation. Her next stop: a visit with Grace Harris. But first, she dropped in at her store to select a certain book off the shelf.
St. Godelive's Assisted Living Center squatted on a small rise, an older, bland brick building without the flash that seemed to come standard with newer homes for the infirmed. No retaining pond filled with cute ducks and geese, no water spout, and virtually nothing in the way of landscaping. In fact, all the place needed was a chain-link fence and razor wire to win a prison look-alike contest. The over-cast sky only reinforced that notion.
Tricia parked her car and walked along the cracked sidewalk to the main entrance. Pulling open the plate-glass door, she stepped inside and sighed at the sea of institutional gray paint that greeted her. Everything seemed drained of color, from the tile floor to the glossy walls devoid of ornamentation, to the woman dressed in a gray tunic who manned the reception desk. Already feeling depressed, Tricia checked in and signed the guest book, was given a visitor's badge, and was directed to the third floor.