Authors: Unknown Author
Untitled (8 page)
"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 w
ants yo
u to think."
ants yo
u 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.
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?"
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 lowslung 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, grayhaired 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?"
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