Murder Is Binding by Lorna Barrett Page A

minutes to reheat. Why don’t you set the table?”
    Why don’t you stop ordering me around in my own kitchen? Tricia felt like shouting. Instead she gathered up plates, bowls, and spoons. Miss Marple sat beside her empty dinner bowl and complained loudly. “And you, too,” Tricia hissed and picked up the dish, putting it in the sink to soak.
    By the time she’d fed the cat, Angelica had popped the bread into the oven and was pouring the soup into a copper-bottomed pan to reheat as well. “Did you know there was a sheriff’s car parked down the street from here? Looks like they’ve got you under surveillance.”
    The heat returned to Tricia’s cheeks. “That’s why I want to go to Doris’s house. The sheriff still has an unnatural fixation on the idea that I might’ve killed her.”
    â€œOr they could just be watching her shop—maybe waiting for the killer to return to the scene of the crime.”
    â€œThere’s nothing to return to. Bob Kelly emptied the place out this afternoon.”
    â€œI heard about that.”
    Was there nothing the local gossip mill missed?
    The yeasty aroma of bread filled the kitchen, and Tricia’s stomach gurgled in anticipation. Angelica leaned against the counter. “You can’t go out the front door without the deputy seeing you, so I think it best if I leave first, swing around and pick you up in the alley behind the store.”
    â€œWait a minute, you’re not going with me.”
    â€œHow much investigating do you think you can pull off with a tail?”
    â€œHow do you know so much about police procedure?”
    Angelica rolled her eyes. “I do have a television, you know. I’ve seen enough crime shows over the years to have as much investigative experience as you.”
    â€œTelevision? Please. The scientific blunders alone have every jury in the country believing you can pull forensic evidence out of thin air, and they expect it in minutes when the reality is that most police departments are understaffed, and most labs underfunded and overworked, and—”
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with us checking out Doris Gleason’s house?” Angelica turned, plucked a wooden spoon from the utensil crock on the counter, and stirred the soup.
    â€œ We are not going to do it. I am. Do you realize how much trouble I’d be in if I was caught? What kind of sister would I be to put you in that same situation?”
    â€œThen who’s going to act as your lookout? You can’t search the place if you’re looking over your shoulder every minute.”
    Tricia hadn’t considered that. She changed tacks. “I don’t know if the house is on a well-lit street, if the neighbors would be watching. I’m not even sure I can go through with it. I just thought I’d drive out there and take a look.”
    â€œThen there’s no harm in me going with you. Here, try some of the soup.” Angelica held out the spoon.
    Tricia tasted it, surprised at its robust flavor. She took another taste. It was even better than the bisque at Ed’s—something only hours before she would have thought impossible. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
    Angelica shrugged. “Let’s get back to the subject of searching Doris’s house. Do you have any latex gloves? We don’t want to leave a bunch of fingerprints.”
    â€œWe don’t need gloves. It wasn’t a crime scene. I have no intension of committing a misdemeanor by breaking in if I can’t find the key.”
    â€œParty pooper.”
    â€œWhy are you so hyped to come along, anyway?”
    Angelica smiled coyly. “Because it just might be fun.”

SEVEN
    Doris Gleason’s little white cottage had seen happier days, as evidenced by its peeling paint, rusty metal roof, and the overgrown privet that adorned the west side of the property. As Ginny promised, a gravel