Murder Is Binding by Lorna Barrett

chocolates, where she bought a five-pound bag of fresh-ground Colombian coffee. Too many customers clogged the shop for her to engage the owner in idle gossip, and she’d intended to head straight back for her own store, but a new enterprise on the block caught her attention. She made one more diversion.
    A red-white-and-blue poster, with patriotic stars across the top, heralded Mike Harris’s selectman campaign office. Tucked between two shops—Stoneham’s Stoneware and History Repeats Itself—it had to be the most narrow storefront on Main Street. No wonder it had remained empty since Tricia’s arrival. It really was too small for a retail establishment.
    Tricia opened the door and entered the crowded room. Boxes and cartons stacked along the north wall awaited unpacking. Two desks and assorted chairs seemed to be in place, but none of the usual office accouterments yet occupied them. A fake ficus stood in the corner, looking decidedly forlorn.
    Footsteps sounded from a back room.
    â€œHello!” Tricia called.
    Mike Harris stepped into the main room. Dressed in jeans and sneakers, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, he looked ready to tackle the towering boxes.
    â€œLooks like we’re neighbors,” Tricia said.
    â€œHey, thanks for stopping by.”
    Tricia glanced around at the freshly painted walls and the stacks of printed literature in one of the only opened boxes. “No offense, but I wouldn’t have thought the race for selectman warranted a campaign office.”
    â€œOrdinarily I’d agree with you. The lease on my current office is about to run out and Bob Kelly offered me a great deal. Besides, I intended to open shop here in the village after the election anyway.”
    Tricia glanced around. “By the look of things, you haven’t been here long.”
    Mike nodded. “I moved in last evening.”
    â€œBefore all the chaos?”
    He frowned. “I heard what happened to Ms. Gleason, but I didn’t see anything.” He shook his head. “Her death could become a campaign issue.”
    Tricia frowned. “How?”
    â€œNot all our citizens are happy with the way development has been handled in Stoneham. They think the village is growing too fast and want a moratorium on new businesses until an impact study can be done.” That echoed what Frannie had said about the unofficial divide between the old-timers and newcomers.
    â€œSounds like a waste of taxpayer funds. From what I understand, the influx of money has paid for a new a library and sewer systems—things the village sorely needed. What’s so bad about that?”
    Mike crossed his arms over his chest, sobering. “When the tax base expands, so does the cost of maintaining it. That new sewer system is just one example.”
    He had a point, but it didn’t make sense. The newcomers had taken over the crumbling Main Street while the old-timers had fled the village for the outskirts of town, presumably building new structures along the way. No wonder there was animosity between the two camps.
    Still, how sad was it that Doris had been reduced to a campaign issue.
    â€œI hope you’ve registered to vote.”
    â€œYes, as a matter of fact I have.”
    He grabbed a brochure from the stack. “That’s what we need in this town. Voters who care about Stoneham’s future.”
    She took the paper from him; he must’ve forgotten he’d given her one the day before. “I’ll read through it carefully. Why don’t you stop by my shop for a welcome-to-the-neighborhood coffee later?”
    â€œSounds great. Thanks.”
    â€œSee you then,” she said and backed toward the door.
    Mike waved. “Stop in anytime.”
    The line at the register was three deep when Tricia arrived back at Haven’t Got a Clue. Wispy hairs had escaped the pewter clip at the base of a harassed Ginny’s ponytail. “Where have you