The ten-minute drive to Milford helped calm Tricia’s frayed nerves, and she steered directly for the biggest grocery store in town—the better to find bitter chocolate, she figured. Angelica’s list of ingredients was long and varied, and Tricia had doubts she’d find everything her sister wanted.
Once inside the store, Tricia pushed her shopping cart down the various aisles until she found the baking section. She paused, scanning the bags of flour, and frowned. She didn’t bake, hadn’t even attempted it since she was a Girl Scout too many years ago. Should she buy all-purpose flour? Self-rising? Would wheat flour make a healthier cookie? And Angelica’s list said brown sugar, but even that came in two choices. Should she buy the dark or the light?
Carts and people pushed past her as she contemplated the myriad choices. Should she take a wild guess, or break down and call Angelica? But if she did, she was likely to get a lecture for taking so long on her errand, and get the same again when she returned to the Cookery. It would be far better to get that dressing-down only once rather than twice.
“Tricia?”
She looked up at the sound of her name, instantly recognizing the voice. “Russ, what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” Russ pushed his cart forward, pausing when he reached Tricia’s. He nudged his gold-tone glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Angelica said I’d find you here. I’ve been waiting for almost an hour. Do you know how boring a grocery store can be when you have an hour to kill?”
“Sorry,” she said, but wasn’t sure it was true. And judging by the nearly full grocery cart Russ pushed, it looked like he’d found plenty to occupy his time.
“No, I’ sorry,” he said, and sighed. “I didn’t mean to blow you off last night and run to the paper. I didn’t realize the sheriff would toss you out of your home. Why didn’t you call? Why don’t you come stay with me?”
“I want to be near my store—my home. It’s more convenient for me and my cat to stay with Angelica.”
“But Angelica doesn’t even like Miss Marple.”
“Everybody likes Miss Marple,” said a voice behind them. An elderly woman bundled up in a parka and wearing a plastic rain bonnet stood behind a grocery cart. “Can I get through please? I need to get a cake mix.”
Tricia and Russ moved aside. “I tried calling you for over three hours this morning. There was no answer,” Tricia said.
“Sorry. Every news outlet in the state has been calling me for an interview.”
“Yes, and I see you talked with someone at the Nashua Telegraph last night,” she said, her tone cool.
“It was too late to stop my press run. I figured I may as well cut my losses and get some exposure for the pictures I took last night.”
“Did they pay well?”
“No, I gave them to a buddy of mine on staff. I owe him, and this was a way to pay him back. Now I can feel free to call upon him some other time I need a favor.”
That still didn’t make it right in Tricia’s eyes, but at least she felt better knowing he hadn’t made money from Zoë’s death. It was time to turn the tables. “Russ, what do you know about Zoë Carter’s part in the downfall of Trident Homes?”
He blinked at her. “Nothing. Why?”
“A little bird told me that Zoë was prosecuted for embezzlement.”
“That’s interesting. When did all this happen?”
“Before she became a best-selling author.”
“Maybe that’s a reason she never wanted publicity.”
“Indeed. Would the Stoneham Weekly News have covered this?” she asked.
He exhaled a long breath. “Possibly. But Ted Moser, the former owner, wasn’t known for printing anything that reeked of scandal. He was a real cheerleader for the village.”
Not unlike Bob Kelly, Tricia thought.
“I’ll have a look at the archives, see what I can come up with.”
“Thanks. Meanwhile, I have to get this stuff for Angelica,” Tricia said, waving the grocery list in the air. “She’s going to have a fit because I’ve already been gone so long.”
“Come back to Stoneham and have lunch with me.”
She shook her head. “I’m having lunch with Deborah today.”
“Then have dinner with me tonight.”
“Where?”
“My dining room.”
“You’re going to cook?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Let’s face it, I’m better at it than you.”
She nodded in reluctant agreement. “Deal.” She thought about her encounter with News Team Ten. “It just so happens I may need some . . . professional advice.”
He leaned, as far as he was able, over the grocery cart. “I’m intrigued.”
Tricia’s attempt at a seductive smile was interrupted by the cake lady. “Can I just grab a bag of brown sugar? I’m making a caramelized frosting for my son-in-law’s thirty-fifth birthday. It’s his favorite.”
Tricia forced a smile. “How nice.” Then her brain clicked into PR mode, and she almost started a pitch for books as gifts before she remembered Haven’t Got a Clue was closed.
“You were saying?” Russ prompted.
She frowned.
“Professional advice?” he pressed.
“Oh, how to keep the press from bugging me.”
“Why, what happened?”
“A TV reporter named Portia McAlister cornered me at my car in the municipal parking lot not half an hour ago. Talk about persistent. The sheriff told me not to speak to the press—”
“What about me?” he asked indignantly.
“She doesn’t consider you important.”
“Thank you very little, Wendy Adams.”
Tricia ignored his feigned injured pride. “Anyway, she rattled me.”
“The sheriff?”
“No, Portia McAlister. Before I knew it, I’d said more than I intended.”
“She got what she wanted—throwing you off guard so you’d blather. As long as the camera was rolling, she got something she can broadcast. It’ll placate her boss—for a few hours. But don’t be surprised if she keeps popping up to bug you. Zoë’s death is big news in these parts. Unless a bigger story comes along, she’s going to keep at it.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Now, on to more important things. Like dinner. Is seven thirty okay?”
“Yes.”
The cake lady had retreated, so Russ sidled closer, planted a light kiss on Tricia’s lips. “Until later, then.”
Angelica was in a foul temper by the time Tricia arrived with two paper sacks full with groceries. “Look at this!” she growled, pointing to the opened bakery box piled high with cookies in the shape of daisies, and frosted in pastel shades, that sat on the Cookery’s sales counter.
“You went out and bought them after sending me all the way to Milford and the grocery store?” Tricia asked, irked.
“No! Nikki Brimfield sent them over for you!”
“Me?”
“Yes. She heard about Zoë’s murder and you finding her, and felt sorry for you. So she sent these over to cheer you up.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“Because I wanted to bake. I want my customers to enjoy my food, not mass-produced bakery food. If I use a recipe from a book in stock, I’ve got a good shot of selling that book. But not with bakery,” she emphasized it like it was a dirty word, “items.”
“Oh, come on. Everybody says Nikki’s goodies are to die for.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t need a death in my store like you had in—” She cut herself off, looking horrified. “Oh, Trish, I didn’t mean that . . . it’s just, why does she have to sell cookbooks in her bakery?”
“It’s a patisserie,” Tricia corrected.
“I don’t care what she calls it. She’s a baker, not a bookseller.”
“Ange, Stoneham is known as a book town. Can you blame her for capitalizing on it?”
“Yes! Would you feel so generous if another store sold mysteries?”
Tricia didn’t answer. Truthfully, she hadn’t considered the equation from Angelica’s perspective.
Tricia eyed her sister for a long moment. “I think sending me cookies was an extremely nice gesture on her part, and I’m going to make sure I thank her for her kindness. And, by the way, if they were sent to me, why are they open on your sales counter?”
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’!” 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 murder.”
“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 bestsellers. 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 Forever 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.