Squish!
Tricia winced and looked down at her loafer and the gummy substance clinging to it. Not 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.
“How do I know? I got an anonymous call on my voice mail. And they told me right where to find you.”
“They? Man or woman?”
“A man.”
Besides Mr. Everett and a couple of Angelica’s customers, the only man Tricia had spoken to that day was Russ Smith, and it wasn’t likely he’d be spreading that kind of gossip. Not if he ever hoped to woo her again.
Not knowing what else to say to that news, Tricia changed tack. “I’m very sorry about your loss, Kimberly. Your aunt’s work was loved by millions.”
“Yes,” she said, yanking down her suit jacket—brown, and just as wrinkled as the one she’d worn the day before.
“It was.”
“It.” Not “she.”
“Were you serious when you mentioned blackmail last night?”
“Sort of.”
“How can one ‘sort of’ be blackmailed?”
“There was no implicit threat. Just a strong suggestion that one should honor one’s debts,” Kimberly explained.
“And did your aunt owe someone a lot of money?”
Kimberly shrugged. “Not as far as I know. And anyhow, it’s not my problem.” And with that, she turned and stalked out of the store.
Not her problem? Only if the blackmailer gave up or Kimberly didn’t care about her aunt’s reputation, which was entirely possible.
Angelica hurried over to the sales desk. “What was that all about?”
“I don’t think we need to do a rerun in front of your customers,” Tricia whispered.
Angelica shoved the tray of blondies at Ginny. “Circulate the store, will you?”
“Please,” Tricia admonished her.
Angelica glowered. “Just do it,” she told Ginny, who followed Kimberly’s lead and stalked away from the register.
It was Tricia’s turn to get angry. “Ange, if this is how you treat your employees, it’s no wonder they quit after only a couple of days.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, sounding truly puzzled.
Tricia shook her head. “I would appreciate it if you would treat Ginny and Mr. Everett with respect. I don’t want either of them quitting on me because you’ve treated them badly.”
“How have I treated them badly? I treat them just the same as I treat all my help.”
“My point exactly.”
“What did Kimberly say? What did she say?” Angelica badgered. “Denied everything, right?”
“Well, of course she would. But I don’t think for a minute she killed Zoë,” Tricia said. “I don’t think she’d be that stupid.”
“Unless that’s what she wants you to think.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I think you’re discounting Kimberly far too easily.”
“I’m not saying she doesn’t have more to tell. But here in the Cookery wasn’t the place for a meaningful conversation. I’ll have to get her on her own—in a quiet setting. But first I need to find out more about both her and Zoë Carter.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“By talking to people.”
“Who?”
Tricia shrugged. “Townspeople. Her neighbors.”
“You think a local person killed her?”
“Could be.”
“You didn’t know half the people who showed up at the signing last night. I suppose any one of those strangers could have strangled her.”
“Maybe,” Tricia said, consulting her watch. It was already after two. “I’d better get going.”
“Will you come back to the store before closing time?”
“I don’t know. It depends on how many people I can track down who knew Zoë. By the way, I hope you weren’t expecting me for dinner. I’m going to Russ’s.”
Angelica frowned. “But then I’ll be all alone with—with that cat of yours,” she said with disdain.
“So? Miss Marple won’t bite—unless you tease her. And you’d better not treat her the way you’re treating your employees. Or else.”
Angelica sniffed. “Perhaps I’ll invite Bob over for dinner.”
“Great. Maybe you can get him to help you unpack some of those boxes.”
Angelica ignored the jab, narrowing her eyes. “Will you be coming home tonight?”
“Your apartment is not my home. And . . . I don’t know. Probably.” She thought about it—how she and Russ were so involved in their respective businesses that their time together was all too rare. If she stayed with him, they might finally get some quality time together. Then again . . .
“We’ll see.”
It was no secret in Stoneham that Zoë Carter had lived on Pine Avenue most of her adult life. She was, after all, the little village’s only real celebrity. But the house in question was no palace, and was in fact the plainest house on the block. Tricia parked her car and scoped out the neighborhood, looking for rogue Canada geese. Sure enough, several waddled down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, occasionally stopping to peck at the exposed grass, no doubt looking for something to eat. She should be safe enough.
Since she wasn’t yet ready to talk to Kimberly, Tricia instead marched up the walk of Zoë’s next-door neighbor to the north and knocked on the door. Almost immediately a burly man dressed in a paint-splattered blue MIT sweatshirt and jeans, and sporting a churlish expression, opened the door but didn’t say a word.
Tricia adopted her most winning smile. “Sir, my name’s Tricia Miles. I own the mystery bookstore in town.”
“Where Zoë Carter was killed?”
“Uh, yes,” she answered, already rattled. She hurried on. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to talk to me about Zoë?”
“You gonna give me fifty bucks? The reporter from WRBS gave me fifty bucks to tell her everything I knew about the old girl.”
Taken aback, Tricia tried to remember how much cash she had in her wallet; a ten and a few ones? “I hadn’t thought—” she started.
He waved a hand in dismissal and stepped back to close the door.
“Wait!” Tricia called, but the door slammed in her face.
She tried across the street, but no one answered her knock, despite the fact that a pale blue minivan sat in the drive. She’d canvass the whole street if she had to. But first she’d check Zoë’s neighbor to the south. She crossed the street and walked past Zoë’s home, once more noting that it was the least attractive house on the street. Not that it was run-down, but no spring flowers or landscaping brightened the drab exterior, its curb appeal nil. Only the green and gold for sale sign gave the yard any color. No car stood in the drive. Was Kimberly home, parking whatever car she drove in the one-car garage, or was she out, possibly making funeral arrangements?
Tricia passed Zoë’s home and headed up the walk to the house next door on the south. By contrast, this white clapboard house with pink shutters welcomed her. Scores of sunny daffodils waved in the slight breeze against a backdrop of well-tended yews, and empty window boxes promised more color come summer. A grapevine wreath was intertwined with silk flowers and painted wooden letters in pastel hues that spelled out welcome.
Tricia lifted the brass knocker and tapped it three times. The door sprang open and a diminutive, elderly woman dressed in slacks, sweater, and a frilly white apron tied at her waist stood just inside the door. “Yes?”
“Hello,” Tricia said and explained who she was and how she’d known Zoë Carter. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Do you have some kind of identification? I mean . . . those TV people wanted me to talk about Zoë, and I don’t want anything I say to end up on television or in the newspapers.”
“I can assure you, it won’t.” Tricia dug into her purse and brought out not only her driver’s license but also a business card for Haven’t Got a Clue that she handed to the woman.
The older lady examined both items before returning Tricia’s license. “I’m Gladys Mitchell,” she said, taking Tricia’s offered hand. Gladys shook her head. “It’s all very sad, but I don’t think I can help you. Although Zoë and I were neighbors for nearly thirty years, we were hardly more than acquaintances. She kept to herself, didn’t have much personality. Wasn’t interested in chatting or getting to know any of the neighbors.”
“She seemed personable enough to me,” Tricia said, knowing she was pushing it. On a scale of one to ten, Zoë might’ve mustered a four or a five on the personality scale. “She was peddling her books at the time, wasn’t she?”
Tricia nodded.
“Then I expect she learned to force herself to at least appear interested in those who showed up to buy her wares.”
“Was Zoë friendlier before she was caught embezzling?”
The older lady pursed her lips. “You know about that?”
“I’m sure once News Team Ten finds out about it, that old scandal will make the story of her death even more titillating.”
“I know she didn’t go to jail.” That confirmed what Frannie had said. “As far as I know, she had never been in trouble before that. And her niece had just come to live with her. I believe the girl had no other relatives.”
“Did you ever read Zoë’s books?”
The older woman shivered and crossed her arms across her chest, warding off the cold. “I took the first one out of the library. I was surprised it was so good. I wasn’t expecting it to even be readable.”
“Why?”
“Because she wrote it. It was actually interesting. The characters were believable. Look at her house. Would you think someone that talented would live in such an uninteresting house?”
No. Tricia thought about Zoë, sitting at the table in Haven’t Got a Clue. She’d been dressed in a plain white blouse, a black skirt, and black pumps. She’d worn no makeup or flashy jewelry, and her short salt-and-pepper hair, cut to frame her face, would never be called stylish.
But just because the outside package was unexciting didn’t mean the woman couldn’t have lived a vicarious life of adventure through her characters.
“Zoë wasn’t a native of Stoneham, you know,” Gladys offered, disapprovingly.
“No, I didn’t.”
“She came from some little town in New York,” the woman said, as though that was somehow despicable. What would she say if Tricia admitted she was originally from Greenwich, Connecticut?
Tricia decided she’d have to make nice with Kimberly and get inside that house, see where Zoë had created her much-loved characters Jess and Addie Martin. Then again, many a famous author had decided that staring at a blank wall—and piece of paper or computer screen—was far less distracting to the creative mind than a fascinating vista or seascape.
Tricia changed the subject. “Do you know Zoë’s niece, Kimberly?”
Gladys pursed her lips. “She was a mouthy teenager. I was glad when she went off to college. At least I had peace during the school year.”
“I understand Zoë lived most of her time down south.”
“For the last couple of years, yes. I wasn’t surprised when the FOR SALE sign went up the other day.”
“Why now? She must’ve made a fortune on her books. Why do you think she didn’t take this step before now?”
The old lady shook her head. “As I said, we weren’t friends. You’ll have to ask her niece that. As far as I know, she’s the only one in town that Zoë ever trucked with.” The old woman took a step back, allowing the door to almost close. “Oprah will be on soon. I really have to go.” And with that she closed the door, leaving Tricia standing on the cold concrete step, staring at Gladys’s welcome wreath and feeling anything but.
Few residents answered her knocks as she visited the rest of the homes along Pine Avenue. One angry goose charged at her, hissing and flapping its wings, when she tried to walk up one driveway, and Tricia had to abandon her task. By late afternoon, she was chilled and had little left in the way of stamina. Still, she had a few more places to look for the facts concerning Zoë’s background, and she did not want to return to the Cookery to face Angelica—or worse, the wrath of her two employees, who were little more than indentured servants until Haven’t Got a Clue could reopen. A call to the sheriff’s office had not rewarded her with good news. Sheriff Adams was not available. Her message would be relayed. Thank you, and have a nice day.
Not!
It was nearly five when Tricia pulled into the Stoneham library’s parking lot, which was nearly full. The library had once been in a quaint little Cape Cod house, but with the explosion of new tax revenue from the revitalization of Main Street, the village had built a new library—complete with retention pond for containing storm water runoff—only eighteen months before. The concrete walks and beautiful landscaping would have welcomed her as she stepped out of her car, except, like most of the rest of the village, the library hadn’t escaped the onslaught of the Canada geese, who had left their messy calling cards.
Sidestepping the droppings, Tricia entered the low-slung brick building and strode up to the front desk to ask the woman behind a computer terminal if she could speak to the head librarian. She disappeared behind a wall festooned with posters encouraging one and all to READ and returned a minute later with an older, bespectacled, gray-haired woman in a drab brown woolen skirt and a crisp white blouse.
Lois Kerr looked as stern as any head librarian Tricia had ever met—until she smiled; then her expressive eyes hinted at the warmth of her personality.
Tricia held out her hand. “Hello, my name is Tricia Miles. I own the mystery bookstore in the village, Haven’t Got a Clue.”
“Yes, I believe we’ve spoken on the phone several times. I’m very happy to meet you at last.” Her smile waned. “I heard about the unpleasantness at your store last night.”
“Extremely unpleasant,” Tricia agreed. “One of the villagers suggested I come see you.” She noticed several people at the checkout desk looking in their direction. “Is there someplace more private we could talk?”
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.”