“Why don’t you just back off and take notes, and we’ll compare strategies later,” Tricia suggested.
Angelica shook her head, not a moussed hair on her blond head moving. “These events are supposed to boost sales.”
“And they do. Go help Ginny at the sales counter and you’ll see for yourself.”
Angelica frowned. “I was really hoping to speak to Zoë for a few minutes.”
“What about?”
“Oh, you know, the craft of writing. The publishing world. Stuff like that.”
Angelica had never been interested in those subjects before. Tricia looked back toward her guest, who was signing a book for Tuesday Night Book Club newcomer Julia Overline. “I’m sure Zoë would be glad to talk to you for a few moments, but can’t it wait until the end of the signing? I’d rather she give the most attention to paying customers. That is, after all, what she’s here for.”
“Oh, all right,” Angelica groused. She and Ginny were not the best of friends. In fact, Tricia had had to break up more than a couple of spats between them. Still, Angelica turned and headed toward the cash desk. Ginny looked up, saw her approach, and glowered.
Tricia turned her attention back to her guest author and the line of fans awaiting her attention. Elderly Grace Harris, her short white hair perfectly coiffed and always as poised as her first name, stepped up to the table with two copies of the book nestled in the crook of her left arm, offering her right hand to Zoë.
“It’s nice to meet you once again, Ms. Carter—this time in happier circumstances.” She didn’t elaborate, and Zoë continued to smile sweetly. “I’ve read every one of your books at least three times. You deserve every award you’ve received,” Grace said, her voice carefully modulated.
“Thank you so much. Believe me, I feel so honored to have those two Edgar statuettes and my three Agatha Award teapots. Historical mysteries usually aren’t as popular as, say, a Tess Gerritsen thriller or the forensic novels of Kathy Reichs and Patricia Cornwell, but I don’t mind being in such good company.”
“I was disappointed to hear you’ve decided to retire the series. Isn’t there anything your fans can do to change your mind?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s time to move on, literally and figuratively speaking. I’m selling off the old Stoneham homestead. My winter residence in North Carolina will be my permanent home base.”
“I’m surprised a woman your age still lives in this climate,” Kimberly cut in, returning pink-cheeked from her smoke break outside.
“I have ties here,” Grace said, taken aback. “And I like the changing of the seasons.”
“Highly overrated. And a fall on the ice could be fatal for someone your age. That’s why I can’t wait to get Aunt Zoë out of this backwater. And what is it with all the goose poop around here?” She lifted her right foot to examine the bottom of her shoe, where some of the offensive goop still clung, then wiped her feet on the carpet, staining it.
Tricia stepped forward. “I’m terribly sorry. Lately the geese have gotten out of hand. We make an effort to clear the sidewalk several times a day, but—”
“Obviously, you’re not doing a very good job of it.”
Tricia clamped her teeth together, trying to hold onto her patience. Kimberly could have wiped her feet on the natural bristle doormat just inside the entrance, instead of grinding the droppings into the rug.
Zoë turned in her chair, lowered her voice. “If you’re going to continue to be this disagreeable, Kimberly, why don’t you just go home?”
“It’s my job to take care of you, Auntie dear. To see to your every need,” Kimberly simpered.
The cords in Zoë’s neck distended alarmingly, and Tricia was afraid she was about to lose her temper when a voice rang out from behind her.
“Shall we cut the cake?”
Tricia turned, grateful for the interruption. Nikki held a cake knife in one hand, a stack of paper napkins in the other. Though younger than Tricia by ten years, at thirty-one Nikki looked older—probably because she worked so hard. As manager of the Stoneham Patisserie, her baking prowess was renowned. She’d insisted on bringing the cake, her contribution as a member of the book club. And who in their right mind would turn down one of her fabulous creations?
But Zoë hadn’t finished with Kimberly. “Go. Now.”
Kimberly’s cheeks flushed. “I’ll go. But how will you get home, Auntie dear? You can’t walk the dangerous streets of Stoneham—ll four blocks of it—back to the house.” She bent lower, but her words were still audible to a handful of onlookers. “Not with your blackmailer lurking out there.”
The color drained from Zoë’s face. “I’m sure I can prevail on someone to take me home.”
“Y-yes, of course,” Tricia stammered. “I’d be delighted.”
“I’d be glad to take Ms. Carter home,” Mr. Everett volunteered eagerly. “She’ll be quite safe with me.”
Zoë looked as if she was about to protest, but Kimberly spoke again. “I may not be there when you get back. And you forgot to take your medication earlier, so you’d better take it by at least eight o’clock. I wouldn’t want you to keel over and get hurt.” She turned on her heel, marched to the door, and yanked it open. Tricia was glad she didn’t slam it—otherwise she’d probably need to replace the glass. Twenty or so pairs of eyes stared at the exit.
Embarrassed for Zoë, Grace turned away, and the next person in line held out a book for the author to sign.
Tricia turned to Nikki and found her looking at the door where Kimberly had exited, her expression thoughtful. “She’s a nasty piece of work.”
“And how.” Tricia let out an exasperated breath. “Thanks for breaking the tension.”
“No problem. But I didn’t mean to rush the evening along, either,” Nikki said, making the first cut. “It’s just that I really need to get home and get to bed. Three thirty comes awfully early. I already told Steve to head on home.”
“Three thirty? Is that when you guys have to get up?” Tricia asked.
“It’s the only way to have fresh bread and pastries available for our customers at eight a.m.”
“Then it’s well worth it—at least for your customers. Any news on the bank loan?”
“Not yet. I’ve got my fingers crossed it’ll be either tomorrow or Thursday. Then the Stoneham Patisserie will be mine, all mine.” The power of her grin could have lit a hundred lightbulbs.
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed, too. What does Steve think?” Steve Fenton was well known around town as “the weirdo who doesn’t drive.” He had a reputation as a loner who was often seen riding his bike or jogging around the village—and sometimes hitched a ride to nearby Milford and surrounds. Maybe ten years older than Nikki, he was also her only employee and as knowledgeable about baking as Ginny was about book-selling—and just as valued.
“He says he’ll rough up the bank manager if I don’t get it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Steve is. He’s all bluff and bluster, but I’m glad he’s on my side.”
Steve could be called scary. Tall, brawny, head shaved bald, sporting a do-rag and gold earring, and his muscular arms covered with tattoos, he fit the description of a biker, but without the motorcycle.
Tricia glanced down at the sheet cake. Zoë’s book cover had been reproduced in exact detail, but now was marred by the cake’s dissection. “Too bad cutting the cake ruins the picture. Just how did you transfer the cover onto the frosting?”
Nikki shrugged. “I snatched the picture off her Web site. It’s much the same process as an inkjet printer—only with edible inks. Not my favorite way to decorate a cake, but for occasions like this it works well.”
“And what’s the surprise?” Tricia asked knowingly.
Nikki’s eyes sparkled, subtracting a few years from her face. “Mocha chocolate cake with rum-infused white ganache filling.”