Tricia resisted the temptation to reach out and comfort Kimberly, who probably wouldn’t have appreciated it anyway. Kimberly’s despair wasn’t grief for her aunt—more for her own circumstances. And what could Zoë have possibly offered to keep her in a situation she found so miserable?
“What about the manuscripts? Can you tell me about them?” Tricia asked.
“What do you expect me to say?”
That Zoë didn’t write them! she wanted to scream. Instead, Tricia struggled to keep her voice level. “What was Zoë’s writing process? Did she write them on a typewriter or a computer—or even longhand?”
Kimberly stabbed her potato with her fork, and exhaled a long, slow breath. Evidently that question had hit a nerve. “I believe the original manuscripts were written on an old manual typewriter. I wasn’t around when they were actually typed, so I can’t be sure.”
“Are you saying all the manuscripts were written before you came to live with your aunt?”
Again, Kimberly hesitated. “I was seventeen years old when I came to live with Zoë. My parents had just died. I’d never been close to my aunt, and I didn’t much care about her or her hobbies. I didn’t become interested in the books until my sophomore year in college, when I changed my major from humanities to English lit. One of our assignments was to read the first Forever book.” She paused, and took a breath. “It changed my life. Those characters were so beautifully drawn, they inspired me. And that’s when I first thought that I might want to write a book, too.”
Tricia raised an eyebrow, surprised at Kimberly’s candor. “Go on,” she encouraged.
“Zoë was delighted I took an interest. She hired me during vacations to key in her manuscripts, read over her contracts, and help with publicity. It got her publisher off her back, and it was a great way for me to learn about the publishing industry. In some ways we actually became a team.”
“But there was always a bit of animosity between you?”
Kimberly’s gaze dipped, and she scraped cheese and flesh from the potato skin. “Zoë was a really private person. There was a lot she never wanted to talk about, things she didn’t want to reveal, even to me. She’d be pissed to know I’m talking to you about her.”
But that didn’t answer Tricia’s question, and she got the feeling they could dance around the subject for days and Kimberly wouldn’t reveal what it was that Zoë had kept hidden all these years. She swallowed, abandoning that line of inquiry. “Tell me about those threatening letters Zoë received that you mentioned the other day.”
Kimberly sobered, and then let out a resigned breath. “I only found out about it a few weeks ago, when a new batch of them came in. Apparently, she’d been getting them off and on for years.”
“What made you think the blackmailer could be here in Stoneham?”
“Most of the letters were postmarked from Milford or Nashua.”
“Did Zoë worry about them? Is that why she finally put the house here in Stoneham up for sale?”
“No. She blew them off as from a crank. Authors get a lot of oddball fan mail and solicitations. Someone always wants you to look at a manuscript or to give them your literary agent’s name. Zoë hadn’t been back to Stoneham in over a year, and she was tired of paying for utilities and for someone to look in on the house now and then.”
“How did Zoë respond to these letters?”
“She ignored them.”
“Did she keep the letters?”
Kimberly shook her head. “Just the last batch. Sheriff Adams asked me about them the night Zoë was killed. I had to turn them over to her. She seems to think they’ll lead to the murderer.”
Tricia bit her lip to keep from saying, “Well, duh!” Then again, she wasn’t sure Wendy Adams was capable of solving a petty robbery, let alone a murder. “Too bad. I would’ve loved to have seen them.”
Kimberly’s mouth twitched. “I thought you might say that. I brought copies.” She reached for her purse.
Talk about a surprise. But still . . . “Why give them to me?”
“Because, besides the press, you’re the only one who seems to care what happened to my aunt.”
“Funny. I wasn’t sure you did.”
Kimberly leaned forward. “I didn’t like my aunt very much. She could’ve helped me a lot more than she did. She interfered with friendships I’d made and kept me from seeing people I enjoyed. But she was all I had, and I guess I feel some kind of weird twisted loyalty to her.” She brought out the papers. “If you don’t want them, I can always get rid of them.” She pulled the little oil lamp to the center of the table, removed the hurricane glass, and waved the papers over the flame.
Tricia’s heart pounded. “No!”
The old Kimberly was back, and flashed another wicked smile. For a moment Tricia was afraid she’d actually set the pages on fire. Then the smile faded. She placed them on the table and shoved them toward Tricia.
Tricia swallowed, her hands shaking as she picked up the folded stack. Kimberly had just earned the price of her gargantuan dinner. Tricia read the first note and frowned.
An honest woman repays her debts. You’ve found riches in your new career, leaving behind those whose financial life you helped ruin.
Tricia scanned through the several sheets of paper. They were all like that, random sentences pointing the finger of guilt, but not specifying the crime nor demanding a set amount of cash.
But worst of all, she recognized the handwriting.
Ten
Tricia swallowed, and tried to keep her hands from shaking. “Can I keep these, or at least one of these?”
“You can have them all,” Kimberly said. “I made more than one set of copies.”
“Thank you.”
Tricia couldn’t tear her eyes from the familiar script. How many times had she seen that spidery scrawl on book requests and other forms at Haven’t Got a Clue? It belonged to Mr. Everett.
She scanned the lines again. No, he’d made no mention of the books themselves, didn’t accuse her of stealing another’s work—just that she had unpaid debts. Why would he believe Zoë Carter owed him money? Had she known he was the one sending the letters? Was she shocked when she showed up at Haven’t Got a Clue and found Mr. Everett at her signing?
Tricia thought back to that night. Mr. Everett had barely spoken to Zoë. She couldn’t swear on a Bible, but she also didn’t remember him being in the vicinity of the washroom at any time before Zoë’s body was found. In fact, he and Grace Harris had been pretty much inseparable that entire evening—as they usually were since they’d started . . . well, dating didn’t seem the right word—since they’d renewed their friendship over the past winter.
“Are you okay?” Kimberly asked, pausing in her eating marathon. “You look a little pale.”
“Perfectly fine,” Tricia said, but she pushed her plate away. She’d completely lost her appetite.
Eugenia paused at the table. “Everything all right?”
Kimberly pushed her plates of uneaten food toward the waitress. “You want to box these up? I’ll be taking them home.”
“Sure thing.” She placed the check facedown on the table, picked up the plates, and headed for the kitchen.
Kimberly pushed the check toward Tricia. “Thanks for feeding me for a couple of days. Got any ideas on how I can eat for the next six months?” she added snidely.
“I’m not your enemy,” Tricia said.
“Yeah, and you’re not my friend, either,” Kimberly said. She stood up.