Untitled (23 page)

   Tricia waved a hand in dismissal. "I saw your report online days ago."

   "Ah, but I didn't tell the whole story. She got off by turning in her boss—her ex-lover. The court was lenient because she had no prior convictions and had recently taken in her orphaned niece. It was very unusual. She may have had some kind of political in, although I haven't been able to figure out the exact connection."

   "It's still old news," Tricia said.

   Portia chewed her lip for a moment, as though considering. "Zoë was being blackmailed."

   "The person who wrote the letters has come forward. The sheriff investigated that angle and moved on to other things."

   Portia frowned and sighed. "You
have
been persistent."

   "I had good teachers," Tricia said, and waved a hand to

take in all the mystery stories on the bookshelves around them.

   "Okay, but this is the last thing I'm offering up." Portia leaned closer, lowered her voice. "As a girl, Zoë Carter wanted to be a nun."

   "A nun?" Tricia repeated, surprised. Then again, Zoë dressed so conservatively, and her lifestyle was so . . . bland. But no one she'd spoken to had mentioned Zoë had deep religious convictions.

   Portia nodded. "She got kicked out of the convent for improper behavior. With a little digging, I found out it was for stealing. Apparently she wasn't quite able to honor her vow of poverty. I guess her indictment for embezzlement several years later shouldn't have come as a huge surprise."

   Maybe, but despite the millions she'd raked in as the socalled author of the
Forever
books, she hadn't lived the life of a millionaire, either.

   "None of this seems to have anything to do with her getting murdered in my store."

   "Nothing we
yet
know about. She had so many skeletons in the closet, I'm surprised no other reporters dug deep to find the truth about her before this."

   "Yes, it would've been great fodder for the tabloids, especially as she was such a hermit when it came to book promotion."

   "If you can't tell me about your run-ins with Zoë dead and Kimberly just attacked, tell me what you make of that ruined statue."

   "Same thing as you do—that Zoë's killer did it."

   "Any suspects?" Portia pushed.

   Tricia shook her head. "Not so far."

   "And why attack Kimberly?"

   "To retrieve the original manuscripts?" Tricia suggested.

   "Why?"

   "To conceal who wrote them."

"Conceal or reveal?"

Tricia nodded. "Good question."

   The coffeemaker stopped bubbling as the last of the brew dripped into the pot.

   "If what you said about Zoë not writing the books is true, it's just another chink in her armor," Portia said.

   "What are you going to do with that piece of knowledge?"

   "I'm going to find out the truth. And I'm going to report it. Maybe I can even parlay it into a job in a better market."

   "Better than Boston?" Tricia asked.

   "Hey, winter in LA is a lot warmer than here on the East Coast."

   "Can I count on you to tell me what you find out?" Tricia asked, pouring coffee for them both and handing one of the cups to Portia.

   "Possibly. Can I expect the same from you?"

   "Count on it."

   They touched their paper coffee cups in a toast.

Tricia always
considered the Bookshelf Diner's name a bit of a misrepresentation. After all, she didn't know of many diners with a function room. Whether it was a diner or a family restaurant, it did indeed offer this amenity, and it was usually reserved for private parties, baby and wedding showers, and after-funeralservice occasions. The theme of its decor was unidentifiable; no doubt its creamy walls and the nondescript purple-gray floral border that ran just below the room's ceiling were deliberate choices, so that the room could be used for any purpose. In this instance, the occasion was more supportive than celebratory.

   A long table had been set up in the center of the room, with unused smaller tables and extra chairs pushed off to the side. A stab at elegance had been attempted, but the linen tablecloth, though clean, had seen its share of spilled wine.

   Tricia arrived later than she'd wanted, and was seated at one end of the table. The guest of honor was seated directly opposite her at the far end of the table, with at least four book club members and several of Nikki's other friends in between. Nikki's assistant, Steve Fenton, sat at her left, looking uncomfortable in the presence of so many women. He'd made an effort to spiff up, too. The do-rag was gone and the sleeves of his denim shirt were rolled up, revealing his heavily muscled arms.

   Among the missing, Grace Harris and Mr. Everett. Tricia hadn't expected to see her employee—he never spent money frivolously—but she'd more than half expected to see his lady friend, who often acted as the book group's unofficial spokesperson.

   "Glad you could make it," Frannie said, handing Tricia a menu.

   "Where's Grace?" Tricia asked, noting an empty chair at the middle of the table.

   "Grace Harris come to a diner?" Frannie asked, incredulous.

   "Why not? I never got the impression she was a snob."

   "Oh, I didn't mean that. She's the nicest woman on the face of the planet," Frannie hurriedly attested. "It's just that she's so classy, what with her lovely clothes and jewelry. I would just never expect her to get down and dirty and eat eggs, bacon, and home fries with ketchup."

   Tricia had to agree with that statement. And it was also true that, gracious as she was, it was the reading and the discussion of the books that she enjoyed, not necessarily the company of the people in the group. Except for Mr. Everett, that is.

   Tricia glanced at her menu. She'd already eaten a bagel, and wasn't the least bit hungry. Maybe she'd just order toast and a cup of anything other than coffee. She set the menu aside.

   "Anyway," Frannie started, addressing the others, "as I was telling you, if you don't want to be responsible for the deaths of innocent creatures, you've got to contact the Board of Selectmen and tell them."

   "They wouldn't really kill the geese, would they?" Julia Overline asked.

   "I don't care if they do," said a woman in a blue sweater, sitting farther up the table. "They're messy and they're noisy. Think of all the homeless people we could feed with them."

   
Oh, yeah, that's the answer
, Tricia thought, considering all the health regulations that proposed solution would violate. Some people just didn't have a clue . . . or were just woefully ignorant. She chose to think the latter.

   At the head of the table, Nikki sat in animated conversation with a woman Tricia didn't know.

   "Poor Nikki. I'm glad so many people showed up to cheer her up," Frannie said, changing the subject.

   "She's worked so hard," Julia piped up. Of all the members of the book group, Tricia knew Julia the least. Grayhaired and plump, wearing a floral-embroidered sweatshirt, she was a voracious reader who'd recently joined the readers group, and had bought at least ten books, which certainly endeared her to Tricia. "She's had such a rough life. The family's home burned to the ground when she was just an infant. Her father died, too, but that was years after her mother's disappearance."

   Tricia blinked. "Her mother's what?"

   "Disappearance—when Nikki was just a young girl. It was the talk of Stoneham for months."

   "And she was never found?"

   Julia shook her head.

   "Did the authorities feel it was foul play?" Tricia asked

   Julia shrugged. "She just disappeared. No sign of a struggle, or blood, or anything. She didn't take any clothes. Her purse was still in her home. Her car was parked in the driveway. She was just gone."

"Didn't they suspect her husband?"

   Julia shrugged. "Of course. After all, it was no secret he used to hit the poor woman. But they never arrested him for it. He was at work—with witnesses—the day she disappeared.

   Tricia knew that in cases like the one Julia described, the husband was always suspected—especially if the relationship had involved domestic abuse. "How old was Nikki at the time?"

   "Nine or ten. Years later they had her mother declared dead in order to settle the estate so Nikki could go to that fancy pastry institute in Paris."

   "They? Who's they?"

   "Nikki's grandmother and her aunt—Phil's mother and sister."

   Poor Nikki. Tricia had never really been as close to her mother as she would've liked. Angelica had been the child her parents never thought they'd have. Tricia's arrival five years later had been a surprise, and perhaps not as welcome as that of the favored Angelica. But Tricia had had her grandmother to love. A grandmother who'd imparted to her the love of books—especially mysteries.

   "Sounds like Nikki's a real fighter," Tricia said.

   "She sure is," Frannie agreed, and took a sip of her ice water. "Which is why I'm sure she'll bounce back from this loan disappointment. And speaking of fighting, just look at the muscles on that guy's arms," she said, with an admiring glance at Fenton.

   "Oh, yes," Julia agreed. "It's so sad about him, too."

   "Sad?" Tricia asked.

   "He was once considered a shoo-in for the Olympic track team, until he hurt one of his knees."

   "He used to be a personal trainer at the Stoneham gym." Julia gave Tricia a knowing glance. "You don't think he developed all those heavenly muscles lifting trays of cookies and cakes, do you?"

"Gym?" Tricia asked. There was no gym in Stoneham.

"It folded before you got here," Frannie explained.

   Tricia studied the hunk at Nikki's side. He had to be a decade older than Nikki—more Tricia's age—reminding her of a younger, more handsome version of Bruce Willis. "Are they involved?"

   "Not a chance," Julia answered, and laughed. "Nikki told me she was through with men after her divorce. They say she married a man just like her father—and just as abusive."

   "I've seen Steve walking or jogging around the village or out on the road to Route 101," Tricia said.

   "Of course. He doesn't drive, you know."

   "Why is that?" Tricia asked.

   Julia shrugged. "I guess because he's such a fitness nut. I've also seen him tooling around the village on a bike in good weather."

   Frannie leaned closer, spoke with a hint of excitement in her voice. "I heard you were involved in some excitement last night."

   "Me?" Tricia said, frowning.

   "Yes, it's all over town that you and Russ Smith chased away a burglar and saved Kimberly Peters's life."

   "Oh, that," Tricia said, and looked around, hoping to see the waitress and snag a cup of something hot.

   "Did you really?" Julia asked eagerly. Obviously the whole town w
asn't
talking about it. Conversation around the table had stopped, all of them now looking at Tricia, waiting for her to spill the whole story.

   "It wasn't that big a deal. Kimberly had already called nine-one-one. We just got there before the deputies did."

   "What about the burglar?" Julia asked.

   "Russ went after him, but he got away."

   "Kimberly? Wasn't she that awful young woman at the signing with Zoë Carter?" Julia asked.

   Tricia nodded.

   "Why do you think someone came after her?" Frannie asked.

   "I have no idea," Tricia lied.

   "I heard Kimberly's in critical condition," Frannie said. Had she called the hospital to find out, or had she relied on her network of friendly informants to get this information?

   "I didn't know that," Tricia said.

   Frannie nodded. "She suffered head injuries. It's touch and go if she'll live." She shook her head and
tsk
ed. "I've been reading a lot of detective books lately, you know, and I think Kimberly's attacker was probably the same person who killed her aunt."

   "Oh, that's obvious," Julia said. "But the funny thing is . . . it's probably someone we all know." Her gaze flitted around the table. "Someone who was in your store on Tuesday, Tricia."

   As though she hadn't already considered that fact one hundred times. Then again, there was no one she would even think could be capable of such a heinous act.

   Still, she wondered about Grace. How she'd suddenly left town either the night of the murder or the morning after. And Mr. Everett had lied about it. But there was no way Grace had killed Zoë. She'd been accounted for during the entire ten or fifteen minutes Zoë had been absent from the group.

   It couldn't be Grace. Grace, who'd had some as yet unknown beef with Zoë.

   But what if the killer was someone Grace knew? Someone she'd tried to shield? What if—?

   "Can I take your order?" Janice, the Bookshelf Diner's weekend waitress stood by Tricia's elbow. She'd been so lost in thought, she hadn't even noticed her arrival.

   "Just an order of wheat toast and a cup of tea, please."

   Frannie tapped Tricia's arm. "No wonder you've managed to keep your figure. You never eat anything fattening."

   "That you know of," Tricia said, and forced a laugh.

   Janice continued circling the table until she'd taken all the orders, then retreated. The woman in the blue sweater tapped her water glass, gaining everyone's attention. She stood up and held her glass up in a toast. "Stoneham has, unfortunately, had a spate of serious crime. What one individual has done has shaken many of us. And yet it can't be argued that our little town isn't safe. It's outsiders that have attracted the wrong element." Her gaze momentarily settled on Tricia before moving back to the head of the table. "The real citizens of Stoneham know what true friendship is. That's why we're here this morning, to show our love and support to our dear friend, Nikki."