“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?