Untitled (7 page)

   Angelica frowned. "You can't eat all those cookies. You don't even like sweets all that much, Miss Perennial Size Eight."

   Tricia exhaled, her nerves stretched taut. She and her sister had been battling the same demons for years, and things were improving too slowly. Angelica still drove her crazy. The fact that she hadn't kept her girlish figure was just one example of the continuing conflict between them.

   She glanced at her watch. "We'll have to discuss this later. I'm supposed to meet Deborah for lunch in two minutes. In the meantime, if you don't want to serve the cookies to your customers—
don't
!" She left the store and walked briskly down Main Street to the Bookshelf Diner.

   The restaurant's lunch crowd never really thinned until the last bus of tourists left. But after waiting ten minutes, Tricia snagged a table in front, sat with her back to the window that overlooked the street, and perused the menu, trying not to dwell on her little altercation with Angelica. Was it a tuna salad or a ham on rye kind of day? It was definitely a hot soup day, but today's offering was cream of broccoli. Scratch ordering soup. Tricia had a personal policy against eating anything that looked as if Miss Marple might have coughed it up after a binge of grass eating.

   Tricia was on her second cup of coffee when a windblown Deborah barreled through the diner's front door. She fell into the booth seat, scooted in, and pulled off her blue woolly hat. "So much for spring," she breathed. She signaled Hildy, the diner's middle-aged, early-shift waitress, and ordered coffee and a bowl of chili. "That ought to warm me up," she said, wriggling out of her jacket.

   "I'll have tuna on whole wheat," Tricia said.

   Hildy nodded and took off toward the kitchen.

   "Sorry I'm late," Deborah said, "but I had to do some cleanup in front of my shop. That goose poop is slicker than black ice, and if you fall in it, you may as well burn what you're wearing. Why can't the geese just stick around the water? Why do they have to walk up and down Main Street like they own the place?"

   "I agree, but I can't be outside my store all day, shooing them away, either. Have you seen how big they are close up?"

   "Yes. Some of them can even look right into my shop window." Deborah leaned across the table and whispered, "Never mind the geese, everybody's talking about your murder last night."

   "Don't call it
my m
urder."

   "Well, it happened in your store. Hey, did that pushy reporter from Boston corner you yet?"

   "Yes, just as I was getting into my car to go to the grocery store. She wanted to know if Zoë had been sexually assaulted. I had to pull the old 'no comment' and drive away to get rid of her."

   "I couldn't tell her much because I'd left your store before the body was found. I was hoping to put in a plug for my store, but she shut down the camera and lost all interest in me as soon as I told her."

   Tricia shook her head. "Has the sheriff spoken to you yet?"

   Deborah nodded. "Last night. Woke us out of a sound sleep. It took hours to get little Davey settled down again. I'll tell you one thing, I'm not voting for that woman the next time she's up for reelection."

   "I've only talked to Frannie. Otherwise, no one's said a word to me about it. Is it because they think I'm guilty?"

"Of course not. It's just—"

   "Don't start that village jinx business again," Tricia warned.

   Deborah didn't bother to try to hide her smile. "Two murders in less than a year—and you discover both bodies."

   "Don't tell me
you
think I'm guilty?"

   "Of course not. Everyone's saying it's Zoë Carter's niece. Odds are, as her only living relative—"

   "That we know of," Tricia corrected.

   "She might be in for a lot of money. Zoë's books were
New York Times
best sellers. You don't make that list without earning a few big bucks."

   The food arrived in record time, and Deborah plunged her spoon into the steaming bowl of chili. Tricia took a bite of her sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. "Frannie says you were in high school about the same time as Kimberly. What do you know about her?"

   Deborah's spoon hovered close to her mouth. "I don't know what Frannie's been smoking, but she must be one very mixed-up lady. I'm not even from Stoneham. I graduated from East Hampton High on Long Island."

   "You don't have a Long Island accent."

   She grinned. "That's what a good voice coach will get you."

   Tricia put her sandwich half back on her plate. "Whatever could Frannie have been thinking?"

   "She must've gotten me mixed up with someone else."

   "I guess." Under the circumstances, Tricia didn't bother asking Deborah if she'd heard of Zoë's checkered past. "Frannie also suggested I talk to the Stoneham librarian. Do you know her?"

   Deborah shook her head. "Who has time to read?"

   "But you're a bookseller."

   "Among other things. But I also have a seven-month-old baby. I haven't picked up a book to actually read since the day Davey was born, and my to-be-read pile nearly reaches the ceiling. I love him dearly, but I can't wait until he starts school and I can have a few moments to myself again."

   Tricia picked up her sandwich half again, but didn't take a bite. "I need to get my store open again. Any ideas on how I can push the sheriff's investigation forward?"

   Deborah shrugged. "I guess you'd have to talk to everybody who was at your store last night."

   "Supposedly what the sheriff is already doing."

   "Yes, but she's so intimidating, she'll probably frighten everyone into clamming right up. You're more subtle. You'll be able to get them to tell you what they remember."

   "That's the problem. Nobody seems to remember exactly
when
Zoë went to the washroom. Nobody was paying attention. The security system was down, but it might've been disabled for hours. Truth be told, I usually set it and forget it."

   "Me, too. I mean, most of my deliveries come in through the front door."

   Tricia nodded, her gaze falling to her plate and the small pile of potato chips on it. "I want to talk to Kimberly. She's staying at Zoë's house here in Stoneham, but the phone number is unlisted. All my contact information for Zoë is locked in my store."

   "Have you tried reaching Zoë's publicist or agent?"

   "No, but that's a good idea."

   Deborah moved to one side, looking beyond Tricia and out through the diner's big, plate glass window. "There goes the News Team Ten van cruising down Main Street again. I wonder who she's going to try and nail this time?"

   "I'm actually surprised we haven't seen more news trucks and reporters."

   "Be surprised no more," Deborah said. "There goes another one. Channel Seven from Boston."

   Tricia pushed her lunch away, no longer hungry. "If I was smart, I'd write a press release saying I can't make any comments, and just have Angelica hand it out to everyone."

   "Why don't you? Then again, this can only last a few days. By then your store will be open again and things will get back to normal. Until the pilgrimages start, that is."

   "Pilgrimages?"

   "Of course. You run a mystery bookstore. A best-selling mystery author was murdered there. Her fans—if that's what you want to call anyone that ghoulish—will flock to Haven't Got a Clue in droves. And if she signed your stock, you can ask a fortune for those books."

   "She didn't sign the stock."

   Deborah shook her head. "Too bad."

   
Just as well
, Tricia thought. Selling the books for an exorbitant price, making money off a dead woman, just wouldn't sit well with her.

   Hildy stopped by the table. "Want me to box that up for you, Tricia?"

   She nodded. "Thanks."

   The waitress took away the plate and Deborah scraped the last spoonful of chili from her bowl, savoring it. "I suppose someone will find out I was at the signing last night and want to talk to me, too." She brightened. "Good promo for my shop."

   Exactly what Angelica had said.

   "At least you're still open."

   "You'll be back in business in a day or so. Look how fast the Cookery reopened after the murder last fall."

   "Different circumstances entirely." And besides, it had been six long weeks—a possible death for a going concern.

   Deborah pushed her bowl aside as Hildy returned with a Styrofoam box and the check. She glanced at it, then dug into her purse for her wallet. "Hey, I wonder what I could get on eBay for one of the last copies of Foreve
r Cherished
that Zoë Carter signed?"

   "Now who's being ghoulish?"

   "I'm a businesswoman. It's my job to make money. For me!" She peeled off a five-dollar bill and set it on the table, grabbed her hat, then wiggled back into her jacket. "Call me later if you need to talk." And she was off.

   Tricia stared down at the cold coffee in her cup, at the desolate little box with her partially eaten sandwich in it, and felt empty
. I want my store back. I want my life back
.

   She put another five-dollar bill and a couple of ones on the table, donned her coat, and steeled her nerves to return to the Cookery, hoping Angelica's wrath had been soothed by the act of baking.

Squish!
Tricia winced and looked down at her loafer and the gummy substance clinging to it. No
t again!
She hobbled to the edge of the curb to scrape the bottom of her shoe, cursing herself for not watching where she walked.

   Mission accomplished, she started off again, but paused outside the Stoneham Patisserie. It was still crowded with customers; she'd have to thank Nikki for the cookies later.

   Business was also brisk at the Cookery, and the air was laden with the heavenly aroma of fresh-baked peanut butter blondies. Nikki's box of bakery cookies was conspicuous by its absence. A smiling Angelica flitted about the store, paper-doily-covered silver tray in hand, offering sample-size morsels—along with paper napkins—to the grateful browsers. Mr. Everett helped customers while Ginny manned the cash register. Her smile was forced, but somehow she managed not to convey to Angelica's clientele her anger at being there, while exhibiting the helpful cookery knowledge she'd picked up while working for the former owner.

   "Just a few more days," Tricia whispered to her as she bagged an order.

   "I never want to see another cookbook again," Ginny hissed. "She
is
going to pay us, right? I mean, we haven't even filled out any paperwork."

   "Angelica's good for it," Tricia assured her. "And you know I won't let you down if she isn't."

   For the first time that day, the tension eased from Ginny's face. "Thanks, Tricia. You're the world's best boss."

   "No, I'm not. But I've been where you are—in a new house that needs a lot of work, and with limited funds." Okay, that was a bit of a lie. Tricia had been extremely lucky and had never experienced a day of poverty or even strained finances in her life. But she had read Dickens, and that had to count for something.

   "While you were gone, I sneaked a peek on Angelica's computer. There are already signed copies of Zoë's books, dated last night, for sale on eBay. With pictures and everything."

   "You're kidding."

   Ginny shook her head. "It says right on the screen, 'Item location: Milford, New Hampshire.' "

   "Rats. I was hoping no one would try to cash in on her death. At least, not this soon."

   "Hey," Ginny said, and shrugged. "It's human nature. Or should I say human greed?"

   Tricia frowned. Deborah would have competition selling her copies of the book.

   The door flew open, the bell over it jangling loudly. Kimberly Peters stepped inside, her face flushed in anger. "Where do you get off telling people I killed my aunt?" she demanded.

   Ginny pointed to herself. "Me?"

   Kimberly glared at Tricia. "No, her."

   Several customers looked up from the books they were perusing, and Angelica turned so fast, she whipped her tray of blondies away from a woman who'd been about to sample one.

   "Excuse me, but could you lower your voice?" Tricia asked.

   Kimberly marched up to the sales counter. "No, I won't."

   Tricia stood her ground, exhaled an angry breath. "For your information, I haven't accused anyone of killing your aunt, least of all you. Unless I'm very much mistaken, and that's always possible, I figured you were too smart to murder her after that display you put on last night."

   It was Kimberly's turn to exhale loudly, although she did lower her voice. "I was a bit upset last night," she admitted. "But you're right. I'm not stupid enough to kill the goose that laid the golden egg. My aunt was very generous to me, and I'd be an idiot to exterminate my only relative and my employer. Now I'll probably have to go out and get a real job."

   "You mean she didn't leave you everything?"

   Kimberly's glare was blistering. "Not that it's any of your business, but no. She left me only a tiny portion of her estate. The rest will be split up among various charities. Believe me, the last thing I wanted was for the old girl to die."

   So the bulk of Zoë's estate was going to charity. Tricia itched to know the circumstances surrounding Zoë's embezzlement conviction—if indeed she
had
been convicted. Embezzlers usually go to jail, as well as having to pay hefty fines. What about the investors who'd suffered losses when Trident Homes went under? Had Zoë's eventual plan been to give away all her worldly wealth as a final act of atonement before exiting this life?

   Too many pairs of eyes still stared at them, and Tricia decided this wasn't the time to pursue Zoë's past with Kimberly. "So who's going around spreading vicious gossip about me?" Tricia asked, changing the subject.