Untitled (9 page)

   Lois nodded. "My office has a door. This way."

   Tricia followed the woman to a small office behind the circulation desk and took the chair the librarian offered. Lois sat down behind her desk and folded her hands on the uncluttered top. "How can I help you?"

   "Did you know Zoë Carter?"

   The old lady nodded, as though she'd expected the question. "Although not well," she admitted. "She'd come in here on Saturday mornings to read a week's worth of the
Wall Street Journal
."

   "What for?"

   Lois shrugged. "It certainly didn't pertain to her writing. And I would've thought she could afford a subscription."

   "I understand that before she became published, she was a bookkeeper for Trident Log Homes." She waited to see if the librarian took the conversational bait.

   "Yes, the Chamber of Commerce is now housed in what was formerly their main sales office. They went out of business . . . oh, maybe ten years ago."

   Until today, Tricia had always assumed it had failed because there were so many log-home businesses located in New England.

   "People seem to remember Zoë played a part in Trident's demise, but no longer remember the details. Embezzlement, wasn't it?"

   The librarian lowered her gaze. "I believe so. I don't know the details, and even if I did, I wouldn't feel comfortable talking about it. It all happened a long time ago, and now the poor woman is dead."

   "Yes. It wasn't long after the whole Trident affair that Zoë's first book was published."

   Lois nodded, and seemed relieved to talk about something else. "That book always puzzled me . . . as did the ones that followed, if truth be told."

   "Why?"

   "Because Ms. Carter never came to us to help her with her research. I suppose for her later books she could have done it all on the Internet . . . but she could have read the
Wall Street Journal
on her computer, as well. If she had one, that is."

   "Did she read historical novels?"

   "Not that I recall. In fact, I don't think she had a library card. She never showed any interest in fiction, or books for that matter, at all."

   That was odd. Most authors were voracious readers. Then again, Zoë hadn't talked about her writing much at her "appearance" the night before. She'd been cordial, and spoke about the book, reading a passage and answering questions—but only what pertained to the book itself. She'd bragged about her awards to Grace, but she hadn't really talked about the work itself, or how she approached it. And she'd mentioned more than once that the series had ended with no hope of her returning to it.

   "What are you really saying? That you think she had help writing the books?"

   "I didn't mean to imply anything," Lois said, spreading her hands in a placating manner. "I'm merely stating what I know, and that's the fact that Zoë Carter didn't read fiction."

   "Lots of people don't visit libraries to take out books. I haven't visited a library in years."

   "Is that something you're proud of?" Lois asked pointedly.

   "No." Tricia quickly backpedaled. "It's just, I've always been lucky enough to have the means to buy every book I've ever wanted. And it's a large part of why my lifelong ambition was to become a bookseller—even if I embraced that career only in the last year."

   "Sadly, for many people, the only means they have of reading a book—be it fiction or nonfiction—is through a library. Stoneham is lucky the Board of Selectmen realizes the importance of a strong library. Without sufficient funding, we'd have to cut hours and staff. We could lose accreditation with the statewide system, which would hamper us in many ways, one of which is that we couldn't participate in interlibrary loans. We can't obtain every book published, and without interlibrary loans, our patrons would be cut off from borrowing works owned by other libraries."

   "I didn't realize that."

   "Sadly, a lot of people don't. A library is more than just books. These days, we're total media centers. And that takes money."

   Duly chastised, Tricia cast about for another subject. "Um, do you know Zoë Carter's niece, Kimberly Peters?"

   "
Her,
" Lois said with contempt. "She was banned from the library several times during her teenage years. Inappropriate behavior. She'd meet boys. They'd visit the more remote shelves and . . . let's just say they did their own brand of research on human biology."

   "Oh, dear." Tricia sighed. "Zoë hinted that Kimberly had been a handful growing up. And after spending an hour or so with her last evening, I have to say she hasn't changed. They had a bit of a tiff, but it certainly wasn't anything worth killing Zoë over."

   "Pent-up resentment perhaps? It doesn't take much to snap a fragile mind."

   "Kimberly didn't give that impression. She seemed more bored and . . . maybe frustrated? She asked one of my employees why she worked in retail, intimating it was beneath her. I wonder if she felt that way about her own job as Zoë's assistant."

   "Why don't you ask her?"

   Tricia nodded. "I think I will."

   "You might also want to talk to Stella Kraft. She taught English at the high school for over forty years. I'll bet she taught Zoë, and maybe even Kimberly."

   Tricia blinked. "I was told Zoë wasn't a native of Stoneham—that she came from somewhere in New York."

   The librarian sighed. "Some of our citizens are very territorial. The truth is, we can't all be from Stoneham. I myself am originally from Reading, Pennsylvania."

   "Yes, I have noticed an 'us versus them' bias from some of the villagers."

   "It might die out—in another couple of generations," Lois said with a wry smile. "That is, if they can keep the young people from escaping en masse. Already the majority of villagers come from other places."

   Tricia smiled, too. "How can I get in touch with Stella Kraft?"

   "She's in the phone book." Lois swiveled her chair, reached for the slender book behind her desk. Adjusting her reading glasses, she flipped through the pages of the phone book until she found the entry, grabbed a scrap of paper, and wrote down the number, then handed it to Tricia.

   "Tell her I sent you to her. She'll talk to you."

   Tricia stood. "That's very kind. Thank you."

   Lois stood as well. "Kindness has nothing to do with it. I'm a bit of a mystery fan myself. I can't wait to see how this unravels."

It was
still too early to head over to Russ's house for dinner, so Tricia wandered the library, checking out its mystery section and finding a few books she'd never read. Since she'd left her to-be-read pile of books by her now inaccessible bedside table, her visit had proved to be a godsend. She applied for and received a library card, and settled down to start the latest book in the Jeff Resnick mystery series.

   The next time Tricia looked at her watch, a full hour and a half had passed. She stuffed the piece of paper with Zoë's schoolteacher's name and number between the pages as a bookmark, gathered up her purse and the other books she'd checked out, and headed for the door.

   Tricia arrived at Russ's house ten minutes late, knocked on the door, and was soon rewarded with Russ's smiling face. "I wondered what happened to you. You're usually so punctual."

   "I got sidetracked," she said, her nose wrinkling as she stepped across the entryway's threshold. She detected a kind of fishy odor. "What is that . . . aroma?" she asked.

   He brightened. "You like it?" Apparently he hadn't heard the touch of sarcasm in her voice. "It's my mother's specialty: tuna noodle casserole. I figured that after what you've been through, you might need some good, oldfashioned comfort food."

   Tricia couldn't quite suppress a shudder. Her life didn't revolve around food the way Angelica's did, and there were few things she found truly unpalatable. Unfortunately, warmed-over tuna was one of them. Was it something to do with the canning process that changed the flavor of the fish when it was heated? On other occasions, Russ had made barbeque or splendid seafood pasta dishes. Why had he resorted to this? And since her mostly uneaten sandwich still sat in Angelica's little demonstration area's fridge, Tricia suddenly realized how ravenously hungry she was.

   "Let me take your coat," Russ said.

   Tricia shrugged out of her jacket, glancing into the living room. Russ had assembled a plate of cheese and crackers on the chrome-and-glass cocktail table, and she made a beeline for it.

   "Can I get you a drink? Some sherry, perhaps?" Russ asked, over the squeal of his police scanner.

   Tricia glanced across the room at the hated little black box that sat atop Russ's TV. She turned back to him. "I'd love it," she said, seating herself on the leather couch and grabbing the cheese spreader, smearing some Brie onto a butter cracker. She wolfed it down, glad Russ wasn't in the room to notice. Maybe if she filled up on crackers, she wouldn't have to eat the casserole.

   Russ returned with a cordial glass of sherry for Tricia and his usual Scotch and soda, setting them down on the cocktail table and taking a seat next to Tricia. She was more interested in the Brie.

   "You said you were sidetracked?" he said, raising his voice to be heard over the scanner.

   "Yes. I've had a very long day," she shouted in response.

   "Looking into Zoë's past, no doubt."

   "I need to get my store open and running again, and I'm sure Wendy Adams won't be in any hurry to help me with that. She'd drag her feet for months on this investigation if she thought she could get away with it."

   "What?" he asked, over the squawk of the scanner.

   "Can you please turn that down?" she practically yelled.

   "Sure thing." He got up and turned off the scanner, plunging the room into silence. He took his seat next to Tricia and daubed cheese on a cracker for himself. "What were you saying?"

   She sighed. "I said Wendy Adams would probably keep my store closed forever if she thought she could get away with it."

   "Aren't you being a little hard on her?"

   "No. You haven't heard her tone when she speaks to me. She blames me for something I never did. There's no way I can change her misperceptions of the past."

   "I guess," he said, and took a sip of his drink. "What else did you do today?"

   "First of all, I had to soothe my employees' ruffled feathers. They're not happy working for Angelica, and I can't say as I blame them. My sister's managerial style is more militaristic than altruistic. I'm surprised she doesn't strut up and down her shop carrying a riding crop, in case one of them steps out of line. She gives them orders, then hovers over them, waiting for them to make mistakes. Not the best way to build trust."

   "I can see why she loses so many employees."

   Tricia nodded, and spread Brie on another cracker. "I spoke to Frannie at the Chamber. She's the eyes and ears of Stoneham, but even she hadn't heard much about the investigation into Zoë's death." She took a bite.

"So far there isn't much to tell."

Tricia swallowed. "Oh?"

   "I have a few friends in the Sheriff's Department," Russ admitted, "but they're not talking, at least not about specifics. What else did you do today?"

   "I spoke to a couple of Zoë's neighbors, and Lois Kerr at the library. Do you know her?"

   "Only most of my life."

   Tricia picked up the cheese spreader and had another go at the Brie. She wasn't about to tell Russ about the possibility that Zoë hadn't written the
Forever
books. Shocked? Yes. Appalled? Definitely. And how could it possibly be true? Could someone get away with that kind of deception for almost a decade? Still, both Gladys and Lois had known Zoë for years, if only from a distance, and had had plenty of time to observe her conduct and speculate what she was capable of, whereas Tricia had had only a little over an hour to observe her.

   She took a sip of her sherry and noticed that the smell from the kitchen seemed to be growing stronger. She picked up another cracker and grabbed the knife again, overloading it with cheese.

   "Whoa! Leave some room for dinner," Russ chided as Tricia bit into her seventh cracker.

   Tricia sank against the back of the couch, swirling what was left of the mahogany-colored liquid in her glass. "At least I managed to avoid the press for the rest of the day. They just can't take no for an answer."

   "I hope you're not including me in that statement," he said, moving close enough that his breath was warm on her neck.

   "Can you take no?" Tricia asked, the hint of a smile creeping onto her lips.

   He pulled back slightly. "Only if you really mean it."

   Tricia sank against the back of the couch and exhaled, trying to coax her muscles to relax. "I didn't get a chance to see the news. Did Portia McAlister find out about Zoë's criminal past yet?"

   Russ straightened. "It was the top story."

   "Rats. I would have liked to have seen the report. I wonder if they'll post it on the station's Web site."

   "Don't tell me you want to look right now?"

   She did, but she didn't voice it. "Did you get a chance to look at the
Stoneham Weekly News'
s archives?"

   "Yes, and as I suspected, Ted Moser brushed the story under the rug. There was a short article about Trident Homes going under, but no real detail."

   Scratch an official record. Unless— "Where would the case have been prosecuted? Nashua?"

   "Yes."

   "I suppose I could go dig through old court reports, but I don't think I need that kind of detail."

   "No," Russ said, and sidled closer once again. "What're your plans for tomorrow?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.