“What for?”
Lois shrugged. “It certainly didn’t pertain to her writing. And I would’ve thought she could afford a subscription.”
“I understand that before she became published, she was a bookkeeper for Trident Log Homes.” She waited to see if the librarian took the conversational bait.
“Yes, the Chamber of Commerce is now housed in what was formerly their main sales office. They went out of business . . . oh, maybe ten years ago.”
Until today, Tricia had always assumed it had failed because there were so many log-home businesses located in New England.
“People seem to remember Zoë played a part in Trident’s demise, but no longer remember the details. Embezzlement, wasn’t it?”
The librarian lowered her gaze. “I believe so. I don’t know the details, and even if I did, I wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about it. It all happened a long time ago, and now the poor woman is dead.”
“Yes. It wasn’t long after the whole Trident affair that Zoë’s first book was published.”
Lois nodded, and seemed relieved to talk about something else. “That book always puzzled me . . . as did the ones that followed, if truth be told.”
“Why?”
“Because Ms. Carter never came to us to help her with her research. I suppose for her later books she could have done it all on the Internet . . . but she could have read the Wall Street Journal on her computer, as well. If she had one, that is.”
“Did she read historical novels?”
“Not that I recall. In fact, I don’t think she had a library card. She never showed any interest in fiction, or books for that matter, at all.”
That was odd. Most authors were voracious readers. Then again, Zoë hadn’t talked about her writing much at her “appearance” the night before. She’d been cordial, and spoke about the book, reading a passage and answering questions—but only what pertained to the book itself. She’d bragged about her awards to Grace, but she hadn’t really talked about the work itself, or how she approached it. And she’d mentioned more than once that the series had ended with no hope of her returning to it.
“What are you really saying? That you think she had help writing the books?”
“I didn’t mean to imply anything,” Lois said, spreading her hands in a placating manner. “I’m merely stating what I know, and that’s the fact that Zoë Carter didn’t read fiction.”
“Lots of people don’t visit libraries to take out books. I haven’t visited a library in years.”
“Is that something you’re proud of?” Lois asked pointedly.
“No.” Tricia quickly backpedaled. “It’s just, I’ve always been lucky enough to have the means to buy every book I’ve ever wanted. And it’s a large part of why my lifelong ambition was to become a bookseller—even if I embraced that career only in the last year.”
“Sadly, for many people, the only means they have of reading a book—be it fiction or nonfiction—is through a library. Stoneham is lucky the Board of Selectmen realizes the importance of a strong library. Without sufficient funding, we’d have to cut hours and staff. We could lose accreditation with the statewide system, which would hamper us in many ways, one of which is that we couldn’t participate in interlibrary loans. We can’t obtain every book published, and without interlibrary loans, our patrons would be cut off from borrowing works owned by other libraries.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
“Sadly, a lot of people don’t. A library is more than just books. These days, we’re total media centers. And that takes money.”
Duly chastised, Tricia cast about for another subject. “Um, do you know Zoë Carter’s niece, Kimberly Peters?”
“Her,” Lois said with contempt. “She was banned from the library several times during her teenage years. Inappropriate behavior. She’d meet boys. They’d visit the more remote shelves and . . . let’s just say they did their own brand of research on human biology.”
“Oh, dear.” Tricia sighed. “Zoë hinted that Kimberly had been a handful growing up. And after spending an hour or so with her last evening, I have to say she hasn’t changed. They had a bit of a tiff, but it certainly wasn’t anything worth killing Zoë over.”
“Pent-up resentment perhaps? It doesn’t take much to snap a fragile mind.”
“Kimberly didn’t give that impression. She seemed more bored and . . . maybe frustrated? She asked one of my employees why she worked in retail, intimating it was beneath her. I wonder if she felt that way about her own job as Zoë’s assistant.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
Tricia nodded. “I think I will.”
“You might also want to talk to Stella Kraft. She taught English at the high school for over forty years. I’ll bet she taught Zoë, and maybe even Kimberly.”
Tricia blinked. “I was told Zoë wasn’t a native of Stoneham—that she came from somewhere in New York.”
The librarian sighed. “Some of our citizens are very territorial. The truth is, we can’t all be from Stoneham. I myself am originally from Reading, Pennsylvania.”
“Yes, I have noticed an ‘us versus them’ bias from some of the villagers.”
“It might die out—in another couple of generations,” Lois said with a wry smile. “That is, if they can keep the young people from escaping en masse. Already the majority of villagers come from other places.”
Tricia smiled, too. “How can I get in touch with Stella Kraft?”
“She’s in the phone book.” Lois swiveled her chair, reached for the slender book behind her desk. Adjusting her reading glasses, she flipped through the pages of the phone book until she found the entry, grabbed a scrap of paper, and wrote down the number, then handed it to Tricia.
“Tell her I sent you to her. She’ll talk to you.” Tricia stood. “That’s very kind. Thank you.”
Lois stood as well. “Kindness has nothing to do with it. I’m a bit of a mystery fan myself. I can’t wait to see how this unravels.”
Six
It was still too early to head over to Russ’s house for dinner, so Tricia wandered the library, checking out its mystery section and finding a few books she’d never read. Since she’d left her to-be-read pile of books by her now inaccessible bedside table, her visit had proved to be a godsend. She applied for and received a library card, and settled down to start the latest book in the Jeff Resnick mystery series.
The next time Tricia looked at her watch, a full hour and a half had passed. She stuffed the piece of paper with Zoë’s schoolteacher’s name and number between the pages as a bookmark, gathered up her purse and the other books she’d checked out, and headed for the door.
Tricia arrived at Russ’s house ten minutes late, knocked on the door, and was soon rewarded with Russ’s smiling face. “I wondered what happened to you. You’re usually so punctual.”
“I got sidetracked,” she said, her nose wrinkling as she stepped across the entryway’s threshold. She detected a kind of fishy odor. “What is that . . . aroma?” she asked.
He brightened. “You like it?” Apparently he hadn’t heard the touch of sarcasm in her voice. “It’s my mother’s specialty: tuna noodle casserole. I figured that after what you’ve been through, you might need some good, old-fashioned comfort food.”
Tricia couldn’t quite suppress a shudder. Her life didn’t revolve around food the way Angelica’s did, and there were few things she found truly unpalatable. Unfortunately, warmed-over tuna was one of them. Was it something to do with the canning process that changed the flavor of the fish when it was heated? On other occasions, Russ had made barbeque or splendid seafood pasta dishes. Why had he resorted to this? And since her mostly uneaten sandwich still sat in Angelica’s little demonstration area’s fridge, Tricia suddenly realized how ravenously hungry she was.