Angelica shrugged. “Oh, all right. I suppose two days later the story is old news anyway.”
She drained her cup and put it into the dishwasher. “Better get dressed,” she advised. “Time is money.” She turned and headed toward her bedroom.
Tricia eyed the telephone, then the clock on the wall. It was after nine, surely late enough to call a retired schoolteacher. Abandoning her stool, she picked up the slip of paper with Stella Kraft’s number that she’d been using as a bookmark, crossed the kitchen, picked up the receiver, and dialed.
As promised, Angelica was on her best behavior, greeting both Ginny and Mr. Everett like old friends about to begin a new adventure. They eyed their temporary employer with suspicion, but dutifully donned the Cookery aprons and began the day with, if not enthusiasm, at least not scorn.
Tricia’s appointment with Zoë’s former teacher was for eleven, and the four of them started the workday by restocking shelves, dusting, vacuuming, and getting ready for an anticipated glut of customers, who arrived right at opening time.
At ten forty-five, Tricia was just about to duck out when Ginny cornered her. “Tricia, we need to talk about Saturday.”
“Saturday?” Tricia echoed.
“Yes, the statue dedication.”
Tricia smacked her forehead. “Rats! I forgot all about it.”
Ginny pulled a piece of paper from her apron pocket. “I managed to get a few minutes free yesterday and made some calls. I hope I’m not going to get in trouble about it when Angelica sees it on her phone bill.”
“What kind of calls?”
“About the extra books. I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t know if we’d be open. I took the liberty of ordering copies of all of Zoë’s books. I had them expressed, so they should arrive no later than tomorrow morning. I talked to Frannie and confirmed the tent, and wrestled the promise of a borrowed cash register if we can’t bring our extra one. It’s a shame we can’t raid some of our used stock, but if you’ll download the flyer from your laptop, I can get more of them and our newsletters printed before Saturday morning.”
Tricia swallowed as guilt coursed through her. She’d been so caught up in learning about Zoë that she’d neglected her own business. “Ginny, you’ve just earned yourself a big bonus. What would I do without you?”
“Just doing my job,” Ginny said shyly, her gaze dipping to the floor.
“And then some.” Tricia glanced at her watch. Time to go. “I’ve got to leave right now, but I promise, as soon as I get back, we’ll talk some more about this and make more contingency plans.” She reached out to touch Ginny’s arm. “Thank you.”
Ginny smiled and turned back to the register. Tricia waved for Angelica’s attention and promised to be back in time to give the others a lunch break. Since Stella lived only two blocks from Stoneham’s main drag, Tricia decided to make up for the lack of her treadmill and walk the distance.
A carefully printed sign on the front door directed visitors to the back entrance of the little house. The woman who answered Tricia’s knock looked about 108, with deeply wrinkled, leathery smoker’s skin, a husky voice, and sharp eyes that didn’t miss a trick. “Miss—” or was she a Mrs.? “—Kraft?” Tricia asked.
“Come on in,” the old woman encouraged, and held the door for Tricia to enter. The dated yet immaculate kitchen was swelteringly hot, the air stuffy, smelling like boiled potatoes with an underlying scent of mothballs. Tricia was ushered past a worn white enamel table, but declined the offer of coffee or tea.
“I heard all about Zoë Carter’s death,” Stella said.
“She was a student of yours?” Tricia asked.
“Oh, sure. Until I retired, just about every kid who graduated from Stoneham High passed through my classroom at least once.”
“But I thought Zoë wasn’t from Stoneham?”
Stella shook her head. “Neither am I. Some people in this town think that if you weren’t born here, you don’t belong here. Just as many don’t subscribe to that narrow thinking, thank goodness.”
“Did you teach her niece?”
Stella frowned. “Yes, I had her niece, too. Now that one was a piece of work. Smart, but didn’t apply herself.” She padded down the hall, motioning Tricia to follow her into the living room. Every wall had a bookcase, and it was all Tricia could do not to abandon her mission and study the hundreds—possibly thousands—of titles.
Stella gestured to the faded gold couch. “Sit, sit,” she encouraged. “Sure I can’t get you anything?”
Tricia shook her head, but took the offered seat while Stella commandeered a worn leather club chair.
“I know it was a long time ago, but do you remember what kind of student Zoë Carter was?”
Stella answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Quiet little mouse of a thing. She had excellent math skills. She won a couple of prizes or something, so obviously she wasn’t stupid. But I wasn’t all that interested in her.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I always had favorites among my students. And those with a quest to learn about literature, I doted on.”
“So as a teenager Zoë showed no storytelling aptitude?”
“None at all. If I may employ a cliché, she couldn’t write her way out of a wet paper bag.” “And yet at her death she was a New York Times bestselling author.”
The old woman cocked her head, her eyes narrowing. “Interesting, isn’t it?”
Tricia carefully phrased her next question. “What do you think brought her latent talent to the surface?”
“That’s my point. The woman—or at least the student—had no writing talent.”
“You don’t think she wrote those books?” Tricia asked, hoping she sounded convincingly skeptical.
Stella shook her head. “Never in a million years. Someone like Zoë, who’d never really known love, could never have written such believable and heart-wrenching characters.”
And how did Stella know Zoë was unloved?
“Then who—”
The old woman looked away and sighed. “I’ve been asking myself that for the last decade. I wish I’d saved the papers of some of my more impressive students; I had a few that showed promise. But who’s to say the author of those books even came from Stoneham?”
Who, indeed? “But Zoë still lived in Stoneham when the first book was published.”
“Yes. And it’s well known she never sought the limelight. She didn’t want to go on book tours, and was practically a hermit when it came to promotional activities. It was word of mouth that sold that first book—nothing Zoë did.”
“Sounds like you’ve followed her career closely.”
“Stoneham High hasn’t graduated any rocket scientists. Apparently Zoë was our only star.”
“Have you shared your suspicions with anyone else?”
“In the beginning I might have mentioned it to a few of my former colleagues—I’ve been retired for almost eight years now. But who listens to the rantings of an old English teacher?”
I might, Tricia thought.
Now to spring the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.
“Do you think it’s possible the real author of those books murdered Zoë?”
Stella didn’t even blink. “Why not? Stranger things have happened.”
Time to play devil’s advocate. “But why wait until the last book was published?”
“I’ve been pondering that same question. Zoë had been scarce in these parts since publication of the third book; I heard she moved down south. Rumor has it she only came back to Stoneham to sell her house.”
“Yes, she mentioned that at the signing the other night. Wouldn’t it be ironic if the person who wrote those books is still here in Stoneham and has been waiting all these years to take her revenge?” Tricia blurted, finally voicing the theory that had been percolating in the back of her mind.
The old woman nodded. “What makes you think it was a woman who wrote them?”
“The real author?” Tricia said, a bit surprised that Stella hadn’t immediately refuted her idea.