“Tricia, wait!”
After struggling into the sleeves, she opened the front door and stalked into the night.
“I’m sorry,” Russ called after her. “Come back. We’ll talk about it.”
She turned. “I’m so angry with you right now, I’m not sure I want to talk to you ever again.” She headed straight to her car, her anger intensifying with every step. She opened the car door, jammed the key in the ignition, and took off with tires squealing. It took nearly two blocks before her ire began to cool and she realized there was at least one consolation concerning her abbreviated evening with Russ: she wouldn’t have to eat tuna noodle casserole.
Tricia parked her car in the municipal lot and walked the block to her store. It wasn’t until she saw the crime scene tape still in place around the front door that she remembered she wasn’t allowed in. She stepped back on the sidewalk to get the full effect of the storefront. She’d gone to considerable time and expense to duplicate a certain Victorian address in London, from its white stone facade to the 221 rendered in gold leaf on the Palladian transom over the glossy, black-painted door. The sight never ceased to please her.
She sighed, realizing she’d told Angelica she might not return that evening, and a quick glance around her confirmed that Bob Kelly’s car was parked outside the Cookery.
It occurred to Tricia that although she had keys to Angelica’s store and apartment, she might not be all that welcome if Angelica was . . . entertaining . . . her friend.
Bob Kelly had never been Tricia’s favorite person. He looked too much like her ex-husband, albeit an older version, for her to feel comfortable around him. The fact that he could sometimes be a pompous ass had also colored her feelings in the past. She’d had to work at softening her dislike since Angelica had become romantically involved with the man.
It was with apprehension that Tricia pulled out her cell phone and punched in Angelica’s number. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Hurry, or it will go to voice mail, Tricia pleaded.
“Hello.”
“Ange, it’s Tricia. Can . . . can I come up?”
“Of course you can. Why would you think otherwi . . . oh.” Her voice flattened. “Bob and I are eating dinner. Shall I set another plate?”
“Do you mind?”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll be right up.” Tricia hung up the phone, extracted the key to the shop, and let herself in, locking up behind her. She was used to the three-flight walk and wasn’t even winded as she reached the landing. Cautiously, she knocked on the apartment door.
“It’s open,” Angelica called.
Tricia hung her jacket in the closet and followed the lights and the heavenly aroma of garlic to the spacious kitchen. Several cartons had been flattened, their contents stacked on the end of the counter. So Angelica had enlisted Bob’s help for unpacking. Only another half a million boxes to go!
“Hi, guys,” Tricia said and took her seat at the table. Angelica passed the pasta bowl. Scampi, which looked as heavenly as it smelled.
“Good thing I always cook enough for an army,” Angelica said. “What happened to your dinner date with Russ?”
“Oh, he was busy. Working.” She hoped her tone indicated the subject was now verboten.
“I talked to Wendy Adams this afternoon,” Bob started conversationally, digging at his pasta and plucking a fat shrimp with his fork. “Sorry, but she insists she needs more time to collect evidence in your store. She grudgingly suggested you could be open for the weekend. I tried to push her, but she doesn’t appreciate how closing for even a few days can affect your bottom line.”
“Amen. You got more out of her than I did. I appreciate it. Thanks, Bob.” Tricia picked at her pasta. Angelica poured her a glass of wine and Tricia found herself staring at Bob. Bob, the head of the Chamber of Commerce, someone who prided himself on knowing everybody who was anybody in southern New Hampshire. And if the owners of Trident Homes had been members of the Chamber, he might have inside information. But would he share it? She’d have to tread lightly.
“Bob, did you know Zoë Carter?” Tricia asked casually.
He shook his head. “Although it was partly because of Zoë that Stoneham became a book town.”
“What do you mean?”
Bob actually blushed. “When I had the great idea to invite all the booksellers, I naturally approached Zoë. Here we had a New York Times best-selling author living right in the village. I figured she might be interested in lending her name to our first few celebrations. She ignored my calls and letters, and when I finally cornered her, she turned me down flat.”
“Did she give you an explanation?”
“No. Just that she didn’t do—” He put two fingers from each hand into the air and wiggled them to form air quotes, “ ‘—those kinds of things.’ I called her publisher and tried to get them to help me convince her. They were sympathetic. The woman I spoke to thought it was a great PR opportunity. We’d lined up press from Portland, Nashua, and even Boston, but Zoë refused to participate. Word got out that she wasn’t willing to support the village. Ticked off quite a few people. I was shocked when Angelica told me you’d talked her into the signing. And just how did you do that?”
Tricia shrugged. “I e-mailed her from the contact page on her Web site. Got a note back from her niece, Kimberly Peters, saying the date and time were fine. That was that.”
Bob frowned. “I couldn’t figure Zoë out at all. Most of the authors I’ve run into are always looking for a chance at free publicity. This woman actually seemed afraid of it. I wonder why?”
Time to introduce a tougher subject. “Could it have been her indictment for embezzlement?”
Bob cleared his throat and frowned. “That happened a long time ago.”
“It was only about a year before her first book was published.”
“But turning Stoneham into a book town was years later. She could have lent her name in some capacity. Nobody would have remembered her past.”
“Oh, but they did,” Angelica said. “I heard it on the news.”
Tricia and Bob turned to look at her. “They compared her to some other famous mystery author who was convicted of murder when she was a teenager. It was the parallels they pushed. Both were historical authors; both were convicted of felonies.”
“The writer you’re talking about was convicted in New Zealand, not the U.S. Do they even have felonies there?” Tricia asked. She shook her head.
“Well, whatever. The fact is, they both committed crimes.”
“But no one died as a result of Zoë’s crime.”
Angelica shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Crime is crime. You, of all people, should know that.”
It was Tricia’s turn to frown. Should she mention that more than one person found it hard to believe Zoë had written the books? And passing them off as her own . . . was that another crime?
No, it was too soon to talk about Gladys Mitchell’s and Lois Kerr’s suspicions. Tricia needed facts, not innuendo, and it was just plain bad manners to spread unsubstantiated rumors about the dead. Still, the thought niggled at her brain. How could Zoë have gotten away with that kind of charade? Someone would have to have read the manuscripts—critiqued them. Very few authors worked in a vacuum.
Tricia poked her fork at her pasta, toying with a morsel of garlic. Was it possible the real author had been present at the signing just twenty-four hours before? That didn’t seem likely, either. As far as she knew, none of the readers who’d arrived to meet Zoë had any literary aspirations; at least, no one had asked the kinds of questions author wannabes tended to ask. Like “Will you read my manuscript?” and “Can I have the phone number of your agent?”
Tricia thought back to the night before and remembered something Grace Harris had said about being glad to meet Zoë under “happier circumstances.” It hadn’t meant anything at the time.