“Let me take your coat,” Russ said.
Tricia shrugged out of her jacket, glancing into the living room. Russ had assembled a plate of cheese and crackers on the chrome-and-glass cocktail table, and she made a beeline for it.
“Can I get you a drink? Some sherry, perhaps?” Russ asked, over the squeal of his police scanner.
Tricia glanced across the room at the hated little black box that sat atop Russ’s TV. She turned back to him. “I’d love it,” she said, seating herself on the leather couch and grabbing the cheese spreader, smearing some Brie onto a butter cracker. She wolfed it down, glad Russ wasn’t in the room to notice. Maybe if she filled up on crackers, she wouldn’t have to eat the casserole.
Russ returned with a cordial glass of sherry for Tricia and his usual Scotch and soda, setting them down on the cocktail table and taking a seat next to Tricia. She was more interested in the Brie.
“You said you were sidetracked?” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the scanner.
“Yes. I’ve had a very long day,” she shouted in response.
“Looking into Zoë’s past, no doubt.”
“I need to get my store open and running again, and I’m sure Wendy Adams won’t be in any hurry to help me with that. She’d drag her feet for months on this investigation if she thought she could get away with it.”
“What?” he asked, over the squawk of the scanner.
“Can you please turn that down?” she practically yelled.
“Sure thing.” He got up and turned off the scanner, plunging the room into silence. He took his seat next to Tricia and daubed cheese on a cracker for himself. “What were you saying?”
She sighed. “I said Wendy Adams would probably keep my store closed forever if she thought she could get away with it.”
“Aren’t you being a little hard on her?”
“No. You haven’t heard her tone when she speaks to me. She blames me for something I never did. There’s no way I can change her misperceptions of the past.”
“I guess,” he said, and took a sip of his drink. “What else did you do today?”
“First of all, I had to soothe my employees’ ruffled feathers. They’re not happy working for Angelica, and I can’t say as I blame them. My sister’s managerial style is more militaristic than altruistic. I’m surprised she doesn’t strut up and down her shop carrying a riding crop, in case one of them steps out of line. She gives them orders, then hovers over them, waiting for them to make mistakes. Not the best way to build trust.”
“I can see why she loses so many employees.”
Tricia nodded, and spread Brie on another cracker. “I spoke to Frannie at the Chamber. She’s the eyes and ears of Stoneham, but even she hadn’t heard much about the investigation into Zoë’s death.” She took a bite.
“So far there isn’t much to tell.”
Tricia swallowed. “Oh?”
“I have a few friends in the Sheriff’s Department,” Russ admitted, “but they’re not talking, at least not about specifics. What else did you do today?”
“I spoke to a couple of Zoë’s neighbors, and Lois Kerr at the library. Do you know her?”
“Only most of my life.”
Tricia picked up the cheese spreader and had another go at the Brie. She wasn’t about to tell Russ about the possibility that Zoë hadn’t written the Forever books. Shocked? Yes. Appalled? Definitely. And how could it possibly be true? Could someone get away with that kind of deception for almost a decade? Still, both Gladys and Lois had known Zoë for years, if only from a distance, and had had plenty of time to observe her conduct and speculate what she was capable of, whereas Tricia had had only a little over an hour to observe her.
She took a sip of her sherry and noticed that the smell from the kitchen seemed to be growing stronger. She picked up another cracker and grabbed the knife again, overloading it with cheese.
“Whoa! Leave some room for dinner,” Russ chided as Tricia bit into her seventh cracker.
Tricia sank against the back of the couch, swirling what was left of the mahogany-colored liquid in her glass. “At least I managed to avoid the press for the rest of the day. They just can’t take no for an answer.”
“I hope you’re not including me in that statement,” he said, moving close enough that his breath was warm on her neck.
“Can you take no?” Tricia asked, the hint of a smile creeping onto her lips.
He pulled back slightly. “Only if you really mean it.”
Tricia sank against the back of the couch and exhaled, trying to coax her muscles to relax. “I didn’t get a chance to see the news. Did Portia McAlister find out about Zoë’s criminal past yet?”
Russ straightened. “It was the top story.”
“Rats. I would have liked to have seen the report. I wonder if they’ll post it on the station’s Web site.”
“Don’t tell me you want to look right now?”
She did, but she didn’t voice it. “Did you get a chance to look at the Stoneham Weekly News’s archives?”
“Yes, and as I suspected, Ted Moser brushed the story under the rug. There was a short article about Trident Homes going under, but no real detail.”
Scratch an official record. Unless—“Where would the case have been prosecuted? Nashua?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I could go dig through old court reports, but I don’t think I need that kind of detail.”
“No,” Russ said, and sidled closer once again. “What’re your plans for tomorrow?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
Tricia sighed. “I’m going to try contacting Zoë’s former high school English teacher.”
“What for?” he said, nibbling her ear.
A flicker of unease wormed through Tricia, and she drew away. “Just looking into her background.”
“Anything else?”
“I want to talk to Kimberly again . . . if I can track her down. Say, do you remember her ever getting into trouble when she was a teenager? Apparently she was a bit of a hellion.”
“Again, that was before I took over the Stoneham Weekly News. I’ve already searched the archives once. You could do it, if you’re that interested.”
“I might be, thanks. Has there been any word on funeral arrangements for Zoë?”
Russ sighed. “I talked with my buddy Glenn at the Baker Funeral Home, who spoke to me off the record. When the body’s released by the medical examiner’s office, it’s to be cremated. Nobody’s contacted me or my staff about a paid-for obit in the paper. I’ll go with what I’ve been working on, although it’s really pretty skimpy. Fact-filled, but not personable.”
“That’s pretty much what I’ve picked up, too.”
His smile was coy. “You’d have made a pretty good reporter.”
High praise, or something else? Some quality in his tone put her on alert.
He leaned in closer once more, his mouth mere centimeters from her ear. “Tell me,” he said breathlessly, “what were you thinking when you found Zoë Carter dead in your washroom?”
Tricia sat bolt upright. First the photos, now this! “Excuse me!”
Russ straightened. “I mean . . .” He hesitated. “Come on, Tricia. Everybody in the village is wondering. Zoë was Stoneham’s only celebrity. You found her. It’s news. And giving me an exclusive would be—”
Using the couch’s arm, Tricia pushed herself to her feet. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’d use me like this.”
“I’m not using you. I’m tapping you—just like you just asked me about Kimberly Peters, Zoë’s embezzlement charges, and even her funeral arrangements.”
“It’s not the same thing, and you know it.”
He sat forward, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Hey, you’re a source. What we have together has no bearing on the story I’m working on. And it’s not like I’m going to splash it over the national news. I’m a crummy little weekly. Throw me a bone, will you?”
“I’ve just told you everything I know.” Maybe that wasn’t entirely true, but it was close. “You saw her body. Can’t you tap into your own feelings? Why on earth would you have to know about and report mine?” She stormed off toward the entryway, wrenched open the closet door, and found her coat.