Free Murder Is Binding by Lorna Barrett Page B

magnitude.
    â€œPlease sign our guest book,” she suggested as she handed over the purchase to a dapper old gent.
    â€œI will, thank you.”
    The phone rang and Ginny stepped up to the counter, taking the next customer. Tricia answered on the second ring. “Haven’t Got a Clue, this is Tricia speaking, how can I help you?”
    â€œHi, Tricia, it’s Mike Harris.” Aha—one friendly voice remained among the locals. “Scuttlebutt about town is that you’ve developed into the village jinx. How’s it feel to be raked over the coals?” Then again…
    Tricia sidled over to the front window, looked across the street to Mike’s campaign office. “I’m feeling the heat but so far haven’t been burned.”
    â€œHow’d you like to escape the pressure cooker for an hour or two? I know a little bistro up on the highway that serves a mean lobster bisque, and their sourdough bread is the stuff of legends.”
    â€œRight now that sounds heavenly.”
    â€œFine. I’ll pick you up at eleven thirty.”
    â€œI’ll be here.” Tricia hung up the phone and turned to find Ginny at her elbow.
    â€œA date?”
    â€œIt’s not a date.”
    â€œThat’ll be thirty-seven fifty,” Ginny told the elderly male customer. “Then what do you call lunch with a handsome man?”
    â€œAn escape. Can I help you find something?” Tricia asked a matronly woman in a denim jumper.
    Six sales and fourteen more nudist tracts later, Tricia glanced at the shop’s clock. The Care Free tour bus had picked up its passengers and there was sure to be a lull in foot traffic, assuring Tricia she needn’t feel guilty for leaving Ginny alone in the shop.
    At precisely eleven thirty a sleek black Jaguar pulled up in front of Haven’t Got a Clue, its powerful engine revving. Ginny gawked and inhaled deeply. “Ooh! I smell money.”
    â€œBehave,” Tricia scolded and grabbed her purse. “I’ll try to be back within—”
    â€œTake your time. I’ll be fine here,” Ginny said. “But you’ll have to report on everything the two of you talk about.”
    â€œNo promises,” Tricia said, suppressing a smile as she headed for the door. Then on impulse, she stopped, went back to the counter, and fished one of the nudist leaflets from the trash, stuffing it in her handbag. “See you later,” she told Ginny as the door closed behind her.
    In celebration of the beautiful early autumn day, the Jag’s windows were wide open, and Tricia bent down to see Mike’s smiling face. “Hop in.”
    Tricia opened the door and slid onto the cool, black leather seat. “What a beautiful car. The insurance business must be booming.”
    â€œNot bad if I say so myself.”
    Tricia pulled shut the door and buckled her seat belt as Mike eased the car back into traffic. Her gaze momentarily lighted on the Cookery, the yellow crime tape still attached to the door frame reminding her of Doris Gleason’s murder. She shook the thought away and concentrated on the Jag’s dashboard, with its GPS screen and rows of buttons and switches. It reminded her of the cockpit of a jumbo jet. She wiggled her shoulders deeper into the leather, remembering she had once been used to this kind of luxury in the early days of her marriage to Christopher. She glanced across the seat, caught Mike’s eye. He looked fabulous in a gray pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt, and a pale yellow silk tie—and nothing like her ex. “You’re dressed to the nines. For my benefit?”
    â€œI’d love to say yes, but I’ve got a speaking engagement later this afternoon. There’s always next time.” Again he flashed those perfect white teeth.
    Next time. That sounded nice. Maybe Angelica had been right. In pursuing her goals to get the bookstore up and running Tricia had neglected to