Murder Is Binding by Lorna Barrett Page B

spoken of—nor seemed unduly upset about—her impending divorce, merely saying she and Drew would remain good friends. Still, it was unlike Angie to be so nice to Tricia. Something was definitely up, and Tricia was afraid to find out just what Angelica might be plotting.
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    Winnie Wentworth had her own car, so she didn’t actually qualify as a “bag lady.” Then again, from the looks of the contents of the backseat of her bashed and battered 1993 Cadillac Seville, maybe she did live in her car.
    Winnie raked a grubby hand through the wiry mass of gray hair on top of her head. Her threadbare clothes were gray, too, either from repeated washings or from not being washed at all. She watched, eagle-eyed, as Tricia sorted through the offerings in her trunk. Book club editions, creased and well-thumbed paperbacks, all good—mostly contemporary—authors, but not the kind of stock Tricia wanted to carry at Haven’t Got a Clue.
    Desperate to find something of worth, Tricia pawed through the books a second time. “I understand you sell to all the local bookshop owners. Did you ever sell to Doris Gleason?”
    Winnie pulled back a soiled scrap of old blanket from around another stack of books. Six copies of different Betty Crocker cookbooks peeked out. “She was my best customer. Now what am I going to do with all these stupid books? Nobody else in this town will touch ’em.” Eyes narrowed, she scrutinized Tricia’s face. “And you don’t want any of my books, either, do you?”
    Tricia hesitated for a moment. “Did you see the Amelia Simmons cookbook Doris had in her special little case?”
    â€œSee it? I sold it to her. She gave me five bucks for it.”
    â€œDid you know it was worth much more?”
    â€œEverything I sell is usually worth more than what I can get for it. But I don’t have the overhead you people do.” She nodded at Tricia. “I don’t wear no froufrou clothes. I don’t got no fancy house. Maybe she coulda given me more, but then I was only gonna ask a couple a bucks for it anyway. Most people didn’t like Doris, but she was always fair to me.”
    Perhaps Doris would be mourned after all.
    â€œDo you remember where you bought the book?”
    Winnie shook her head. “I don’t remember where I get stuff, let alone who I get it from. I buy from tag sales, estate sales, and auctions.” She leaned forward, squinting at Tricia, who got a whiff of the woman’s unwashed body. “But mark my words—whoever I got it from musta seen it in her shop. Outside of the fancy shops, ain’t many books like that in and around Stoneham.”
    Did Winnie realize the implications of what she’d just said? “Doris was murdered by someone who wanted that book. I think you should be careful. That person may think you can implicate him or her in Doris’s death.”
    Winnie waved a hand in annoyance. “Nah. Everybody around here knows I got a mind like a sieve. I ain’t worried. Now are you gonna take any of these books or not?”
    Tricia selected three and paid Winnie five dollars in cash.
    â€œDon’tcha wanna see what else I got?” Winnie folded back another end of the blanket. A small white box contained a tangle of costume jewelry: bright rhinestones of every color of the rainbow adorned brooches, clip and screw-back earrings, and necklaces. Other metals glinted dully under the trunk’s wan lightbulb. Tricia picked through the offerings. She loved the colorful brooches in the shapes of flowers, butterflies, and snowflakes, but they were out of date, not something she could really wear herself. But one little gold pin drew her attention.
    â€œThat there’s a scatter pin, and an oldie,” Winnie said with pride.
    Tricia examined it closely. About an inch long and maybe three-quarters of an inch wide, it was made of gold—solid gold—with an