She waited for a pause in the conversation before speaking to Bob. “Did you ever hear of an argument between Grace Harris and Zoë Carter?”
He frowned. “Not an argument. Grace was the chair of a citizens committee reporting to the Board of Selectmen. I believe she approached Zoë on behalf of them and asked her to participate in one or more of the grand openings. Like me, she received a cold shoulder. I consider my persuasive skills to be top notch, but nothing compared to Grace Harris, who, like Mame, could ‘charm the blues right out of the horn.’ ”
Tricia blinked at that analogy, while Angelica fought to hold back a chuckle.
Okay.
Could the unhappy circumstances be as easily dismissed as Bob suggested? Could Zoë have been incredibly rude to Grace? She’d seemed anything but ruthless when Tricia had met her. A female milquetoast. From what she had seen and discovered in talking to others, Zoë had never mustered any kind of passion, be it love or anger.
“Speaking of the Board of Selectmen,” Angelica said, “when are they going to deal with the goose problem here in Stoneham—and more importantly, how? I’m going to have to have the carpet in my shop shampooed again if this keeps up.”
“It’s a sticky situation—in more ways than one,” Bob said, laughing at his own joke.
“I don’t think it’s funny,” Tricia said, and took another sip of her wine.
Bob ate another forkful of pasta. “No one can decide the best way to handle the geese. The problem is, they’re protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. You need special permission to hunt them. We just can’t dismantle their nests or break their eggs. By law, you’re not even allowed to harass them. Half the citizens of Stoneham want them shot—and as you know, hunting season ended in September. The other half want them humanely removed. The problem is, doing it humanely takes time, and I’m afraid the majority of business owners don’t want to wait.”
“I can’t say I blame them,” Angelica said, and poured herself more wine. “I’m out there cleaning off the sidewalk in front of my shop two or three times a day.”
“What’s the humane way of dealing with them?” Tricia asked.
“Scaring them, for one. The trouble is, they get used to loud noises, so that doesn’t really work. A lot of communities have hired companies that use border collies to chase the geese. This works, but it, too, takes time. They chase away one group of birds and another flies right in. You have to keep it up. Then there’s egg oiling.”
“What does that involve?”
“Sealing the eggs so what’s in them can’t develop. But that just stops the next generation of birds, not the ones you’ve already got. And it’s very labor-intensive. What we really need to do is make Stoneham unattractive to the birds. If they don’t like where they are, they’ll go away.”
“And bother some other community,” Tricia said.
“Possibly,” he conceded.
“How do you make the village less attractive to them?” Tricia asked.
“Unfortunately, that’s difficult to do. Today’s zoning laws require the presence of retention ponds to handle storm water runoff, keeping it from messing up the sewer system. The birds don’t know the ponds aren’t real. And it doesn’t help when every stay-at-home mom in the village ignores the signs that have been posted and takes her little tykes out to feed the geese.”
“Boy, you really are into this,” Angelica said admiringly.
“I need to be informed if I’m going to represent the Chamber members’ interests.”
“What about the immediate problem?” Tricia asked. “Isn’t there some way the village can clean the sidewalks on a more regular basis?”
“And don’t forget these birds are huge. I’ve had more than one frightened wisp of an old lady tell me the things charged and hissed at her,” Angelica said.
“I know, I know,” Bob said. “They’re very territorial. That aggressive behavior could become a major liability problem. If someone gets hurt, the business owners could be financially responsible for injuries incurred.”
“Not just business owners,” Tricia said. “I was chased just this morning over on Pine Avenue— residential neighborhood.”
“Cleaning the sidewalks takes money,” Bob said, getting back to the subject, “money that hasn’t been budgeted. I’m sure the business owners wouldn’t like to see taxes go up to pay for it.”
“Not especially,” Tricia said, “since it’s us who pay them—not the building owners.”
“You all knew that when you signed the leases,” Bob said.
Yeah, and he owned half the buildings on Main Street, and had stipulated that his tenants pay those taxes when he drew up the leases.
“Frannie told me that one of the options is to ‘round up and slaughter’ them. She said it’s under consideration.” Bob’s eyes narrowed. “She had no right discussing Chamber business with you.”
“She had every right. I’m a member of the Chamber, too, you know.”
“Killing them en masse would be very controversial. A lot of people love the damn things. Exterminating them could prove to be a PR nightmare—the last thing the village needs.”
And that was what he really worried about.
As though to avoid discussing that very subject, Bob launched into an update on the weekend book fair and statue dedication, but Tricia only half listened, her mind wandering back to Zoë and the ramifications of everything she’d learned today. All the facts and innuendo swirled around in her mind in a disconnected mess.
“Something wrong with the shrimp?” a concerned Angelica asked, once Bob had wound down. “Maybe I shouldn’t go so heavy on the garlic.”
Feeling contrite, Tricia gave her sister a wan smile. “It’s perfect, Ange.” She took another bite and savored the taste, once again thankful she wasn’t sentenced to eating tuna noodle casserole.
Seven
After dinner, Tricia retired to Angelica’s bedroom with her laptop and the pile of library books to comfort her. The computer looked distinctly out of place in the girly boudoir, the only room devoid of boxes, with its gilt-edged French provincial furniture and the stacks of sumptuous lace pillows lined up against the ivory velvet-covered headboard.
Angelica’s vanity sported scores of perfume bottles and colorful nail polishes. One cobalt blue bottle stood out among the crowd: Evening in Paris talc. Tricia removed the cap and breathed in a much-loved memory of her grandmother. Where had Angelica found it? They hadn’t made that scent in decades. A bigger mystery was the thought that Angelica might possibly have loved their grandmother as much as Tricia had. It wasn’t something she’d ever considered, and yet Angelica had once mentioned that it was their grandmother’s cookbook collection that got her interested in cookery. Either way, grandmother had inspired a love of books in both of her grandchildren.
Recapping the bottle, Tricia replaced it and settled on the bed, delighted that the little computer sniffed out a wireless connection—probably tapping into the signal from her own home next door. After a few minutes Miss Marple showed up from the depths of the living room’s box jungle, settled herself next to Tricia, and purred deeply as Tricia Googled the News Team Ten Web site.
As she’d hoped, Zoë’s murder was still a top story. Portia McAlister had stood in front of Zoë’s home late that afternoon, judging by the shadows behind her, and dragged up Zoë’s past indiscretions, as well as her literary triumphs.
“Before her fame as a mystery author, Zoë Carter lived a life of mystery herself. A life that included an indictment for embezzlement,” she said with deadly seriousness.
Tricia listened intently, then hit the reload button and played the video again. As a bookkeeper for Trident Log Homes, Zoë had participated in a scheme to defraud the investors. With phantom vendor accounts, she’d channeled hundreds of thousands of dollars to Thomas Norton’s pocket. Norton, the company’s married CEO, had had a brief fling with Zoë, whom he declared at the trial to be naive and delusional. Zoë, he asserted, had been under the impression Norton would leave his wife, and that it was her idea to divert the funds.