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.”