Murder Is Binding by Lorna Barrett

staking out her store.
    Maybe the deputy had been checking out Doris’s shop, not Haven’t Got a Clue. But if that was true the driver should’ve speeded up when he’d passed the Cookery, not slowed down.
    Miss Marple patiently waited at the door to the apartment stairs. Tricia cut the lights and headed for the back of the shop when a furious knock at the door caught her attention. Miss Marple got up, rubbed eagerly against the door, and cried.
    The knocking continued.
    â€œNow what?” Tricia groused. Guided by safety lighting, she crossed the length of the shop, ready to tell whoever was at the door that she was closed. Pulling aside the shade, she saw Angelica balancing a tray on her knee, holding on to her huge purse, and about to knock again. Tricia opened the door. “Ange, what are you doing here?”
    â€œI brought you dinner.” She bustled into the shop, leaving behind the scent of her perfume. “Why is it so dark in here?”
    â€œThe store is closed. And you don’t have to bring me dinner every night.” She took a sniff—bread? Sausage? Heavenly!—and realized that her bisque lunch had been many hours before. “Let me take the tray. Follow me, and don’t step on Miss Marple when we get to the door.”
    Angelica muttered something about “that damn animal,” but followed. Tricia hit the light switch and the little gray cat scampered up the steps ahead of them, with Angelica complaining about the three-flight trek and the lack of an elevator.
    Tricia balanced the tray and opened the apartment door, hitting the switch and flooding the kitchen with light. She set the tray down and lifted the dishcloth covering the evening’s entrée. It looked like a meatloaf-shaped loaf of bread. “Stromboli?” she asked.
    A breathless Angelica nodded. “And a thermos of the most amazing lobster bisque you’re ever likely to eat.”
    Tricia stifled a laugh. “You don’t say. Where did you get it? At a clam shack?”
    â€œI made it.” Angelica set down her gargantuan purse on the counter and leaned against it, still panting.
    â€œI really appreciate you feeding me, Ange, but I don’t want to make you wait until after my shop closes just to eat dinner.”
    â€œDarling, on the Continent they don’t dine until nine or ten.”
    â€œAnd where are you cooking all this stuff, anyway?”
    â€œAt the inn. I’ve made friends with the executive chef, François. He’s learned a few things from me, too.” She turned to her suitcase-sized purse and withdrew a bottle of red wine. “Where’s the corkscrew?”
    â€œNo wine for me. I’m going out later.”
    Angelica set the bottle down, shrugged out of her suede jacket, and hung it on the coatrack just inside the door. “Where are we going?”
    â€œNot we, me. Besides, I’m not sure what I’ve got planned is exactly legal.”
    Angelica’s eyes flashed. “Ooh, this sounds like fun. What’ve you got in mind?”
    â€œSomeone told me where to find the key to Doris Gleason’s house. I’m hoping I might find something the sheriff could use in her investigation.”
    â€œAnd what makes you think you could do a better job than the sheriff?”
    â€œWell, I have read thousands of mysteries.”
    â€œThat’s true. I’ll bet you’ve got so much vicarious experience you could open your own investigation service.”
    Tricia frowned. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”
    Angelica advanced on the stove, turning on the oven. “Well, just listen to yourself. Got a cookie sheet handy?”
    Arms crossed over her chest, Tricia nodded toward the cabinet next to the stove. Already acquainted with some other portions of the kitchen, Angelica found aluminum foil in another cupboard, tore a sheet, and pressed it over the tray. “The stromboli should only take ten