Upon opening the door, an eight-pound bundle of gray fur pounced, meowing frantically. “Miss Marple. Did you miss your Mum?”
“Yow!” the cat replied emphatically.
“Angelica? Angelica?” Tricia called, but there was no other sign of life in the darkened apartment. She flicked on the switches and padded down the hall to the kitchen. A note was attached to the refrigerator door. Having dinner with Bob. Don’t wait up for me.
“Yow!” Miss Marple insisted.
“We’re alone! Hurray!”
But Miss Marple was not about to be placated. Her dinner was late, and she’d been left alone for yet another day. Tricia busied herself and fed the cat, who tucked in with gusto.
Tricia stood in the middle of the unfamiliar kitchen and tried to think of what she should do next. She could unpack some of Angelica’s boxes, which would either anger or delight her sister, but she was tired, and the thought of hauling around a lot of dusty, heavy boxes was not enticing.
Take care of your own business, said a small voice within her. Though she didn’t have access to the store itself, voice mail continued to pick up the shop’s incoming calls. Although the outgoing message said the store was temporarily closed, customers and creditors were still leaving messages that needed to be answered.
Tricia settled down on one of the stools at the island and keyed in the number to retrieve her calls. Sure enough, there were seven of them awaiting her attention. Three were from customers wanting to know the status of their orders; two were from buyers; someone was interested in selling her late mother’s collection of mysteries; and the last was from Frannie. “Tricia, it’s me,” she said. No mistaking that Texas twang.
Miss Marple jumped up, landing on Tricia’s lap, startling her, and nuzzled Tricia’s hand for attention.
“Looks like Nikki didn’t get the loan for the patisserie, and she is absolutely devastated. I’ve been talking to a bunch of the Tuesday Night Book Club gals, and we want to do something to cheer her up. We’re thinking of going to brunch on Sunday at the Bookshelf Diner. Ten o’clock sharp. I know it would mean a lot to Nikki if you could be there, too. Give me a call to let me know if you can make it. Bye!”
Miss Marple wiped her damp gray nose across the back of Tricia’s hand, demanding more of her attention. “You’re not the only unhappy person on the planet, you know,” Tricia chided, but Miss Marple was seldom interested in the goings-on in the world at large if they did not directly apply to her.
Tricia absently rubbed the cat’s head. She actually did feel sorry for Kimberly. She felt sorry for Nikki, and despite the fact that Zoë might have misrepresented someone else’s work as her own, Tricia still felt a pang of pity for the woman. Had Zoë accomplished so little of worth in her own life that she felt no qualms at passing off another’s work as her own? At least at first. The fact that she had rebuffed the attention best-sellerdom could have afforded her, lived rather frugally, and left the majority of her estate to charity could attest that she had never felt entirely comfortable with the whole deception.
And now she was dead at another’s hands.
“You wouldn’t want to be the killer’s next victim,” Stella Kraft had told Tricia the day before.
No, she wouldn’t. And yet someone she’d spoken to—perhaps someone she knew well—had a reason for killing Zoë Carter. And now that Zoë was gone, there was a chance the killer would go to ground and never be discovered.
Over the years more than one friend or acquaintance had asked Tricia why she was so enamored of the mystery genre. How could she actually enjoy stories that celebrated violent death? They had it all wrong. The books didn’t celebrate death, but triumph for justice. Too often real-life villains got away with murder, but in fiction, justice was usually assured.
Sometimes she wished life better imitated art.
Eleven
Friday dawned cold and wet. Typical April weather. And, Tricia reminded herself, rain was good for retail—it brought out shoppers. Too bad none of the shoppers would be visiting her store. No sooner had Tricia delivered the bad news to Angelica that Mr. Everett would be absent for the day, than her cell phone rang.
“Tricia, it’s Ginny.” Her voice sounded strained.
“Are you okay?” Tricia asked.
“No. I’m calling in sick.” This troubled Tricia. Ginny never called in sick, especially now, when she so desperately needed the money for home repairs.
“What’s wrong?”
“Food poisoning, I think. Your sister made appetizers yesterday, and I had quite a few.”
“Are you sure that’s what made you sick?”
“I didn’t have anything else all day, and I spent most of the night huddled in the bathroom with cramps and diarrhea.”
Tricia winced. More information than she wanted to
know.
“Would you tell Angelica I’ll be in this afternoon if I can? I really hate to lose a couple of hours’ pay, but I think it’s better if I stay home, at least for the morning.”
“I agree. Take care, now.”
“Thanks, Tricia.”
Tricia hung up the phone. With Mr. Everett out for the day, and now Ginny, Angelica would be depending on Tricia to help out at the Cookery. That meant there’d be no extended breaks to look into Zoë’s death. No chance to get away at all.
It was going to be a very long day.
Try as she might, Tricia’s heart was not into selling cookbooks. Although the bulk of her own stock favored classic mystery, Tricia had been on a “cozy mystery” kick of late. Not for the first time she found herself telling Angelica’s epicurean-minded customers about Diane Mott Davidson’s Goldy Schulz culinary mystery series. Did Angelica’s customers like chocolate? Then a Joanna Carl mystery was just the ticket. She made a beeline for a woman checking out Martha Stewart’ Homekeeping Handbook to make a pitch for a Barbara Colley’s “squeaky clean, Charlotte LaRue” mystery series.
Angelica did not approve, and more than once interrupted one of Tricia’s pitches. “Will you stop trying to sell things I can’t supply?” she hissed. “Heck, you can’t even supply them, since you sell mostly vintage stock.”
“I know, but your customers would really enjoy those books. It wouldn’t hurt you to start stocking them, either—especially since I don’t.”
“Don’t even go there,” Angelica said, straightening up so that she stood her full two inches taller than Tricia.
The Cookery’s door opened, and Frannie Armstrong strode in. “Tricia!” She waved and charged forward. “I’m glad I found you. You’re the last person on my list.”
“List?” Tricia repeated.
“For the flowers.”
Tricia stared at her, uncomprehending.
“For Zoë Carter’s memorial service tomorrow. Or will Haven’t Got a Clue be sending its own floral arrangement?”
Ginny had mentioned something about it the day before. “To tell you the truth, I hadn’t thought about it.”
Frannie blinked, obviously startled by this gaffe. “Oh.”
“Is the Chamber providing flowers?” Tricia asked.
“Of course. They’ve ordered a beautiful Victorian mourning wreath that exactly duplicates the one Zoë wrote about in Forever Gone for Addie’s beloved father, who died so tragically.”
“Of course,” Tricia echoed. “Who came up with that idea?” Surely not Bob. For all he’d done to bring the rare and antiquarian booksellers to Stoneham, she doubted he’d ever picked up a book to read for pleasure.
“Me, silly,” Frannie answered. “It was fresh in my mind, since I just reread the book a few weeks back in prep for reading the new book. I finished Forever Cherished just last night.” She shook her head sadly. “To think of all that talent gone from the world.”