“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.
Five
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.