Murder Is Binding Read Free Page A

head. “Maybe for a hundred thousand, but nothing less.”
    Miss Marple meowed from her perch on the shelf above the register. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your dinner when I come home.” Miss Marple rubbed her head against the security camera. “And stop that. You keep messing up the camera’s angle.”
    Miss Marple threw her entire eight-pound body against it, knocking it out of alignment, and purred loudly.
    â€œI told you so—I told you so,” Ginny sang. Yes, she had told Tricia the camera wasn’t high enough on the wall. But it would’ve interfered with the decorative molding if it was mounted any higher.
    Tricia scooped up the cat and set her on one of the comfortable chairs. “Stay down,” she ordered.
    Miss Marple tossed her head, dismissing the command.
    Tricia rolled her eyes and headed for the door once again. She locked it, then realized she hadn’t lowered the window shades. She’d have to do it on her return.
    The lights in the Cookery bookshop were already dimmed, but Tricia could see Doris still standing behind the sales counter.
    â€œSee you tomorrow,” Ginny called brightly and headed down the street toward the municipal lot where she’d parked her car.
    Tricia gave a wave and turned back for the door, giving it a knock. Doris looked up, had on another pair of outsized specs, but motioned Tricia to go away before she bent back over the counter again. Tricia retrieved the glasses from her purse and knocked once more. This time, she waved them when Doris looked up.
    The annoyed shopkeeper skirted the sales counter, lumbered to the door, and unlocked it.
    â€œI’m glad you’re still here. You left these in my store this morning,” Tricia said.
    â€œSo that’s where they went. I’m always losing them. That’s why I keep an extra pair here at the shop.” She pocketed them in the same ugly sweater she’d worn earlier in the day, but the rest of her attire had changed. Dressed in dark slacks and a red blouse, she looked pounds lighter, years younger, and, except for the sweater, almost elegant.
    Tricia had never actually been in the Cookery before. It seemed like all her encounters with Doris had been in her own shop. Since all the storefronts were more or less the same—give or take a few feet in width—the Cookery was set up in the same configuration as Haven’t Got a Clue, except that where the mystery store had a seating area, the cookbook store housed a cooking demo area: a horseshoe-shaped island with a knife block, complete with ten or twelve chef knives, a small sink, burners, and an under-the-counter refrigerator. Overhead hung a large rectangular mirror so that an audience would see the hands-on instruction. A thin film of greasy dust covered the station, which obviously hadn’t been used in a while.
    â€œNice store,” Tricia said.
    â€œIt ought to be,” Doris groused. “I put a lot of money into it, and if Bob Kelly and I can’t come to an agreement on it tonight, I’ll lose it all.”
    The cost of doing business, Tricia thought, but didn’t voice what would obviously be an unpopular opinion.
    Doris glanced at the big clock over the register. “Bob should’ve been here ten minutes ago—the inconsiderate jerk.”
    Atop the main sales counter sat an oblong Lucite container that housed what looked like an aged booklet. The little hinged door sported a sturdy lock. “The prize of your collection?” Tricia asked, her curiosity piqued.
    Doris’s eyes lit up, and for the first time Tricia saw beyond the sour expression to the woman’s true passion. “Yes. It’s American Cookery , by Amelia Simmons, the very first American cookbook ever published back in 1796. A similar copy recently sold for ten thousand dollars at auction.”
    Calling the little, yellowing pamphlet a book was stretching the definition.
    Doris