“In the kitchen,” came Angelica’s muted voice.
The patter of little paws sounded, and before Tricia could hang up her coat, Miss Marple scolded her, at the same time rubbing her head against Tricia’s legs. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you all day, Miss Marple. You must have been terribly lonely,” Tricia said, and scooped up the cat, which purred loudly, fiercely nuzzling Tricia’s neck.
Tricia put the cat down and headed to the kitchen.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Angelica said, looking up from the stove, where she stirred some heavenly smelling concoction.
“That cat has done nothing but make a pest of herself since I came up an hour ago.”
“Did you feed her?”
“That’s not my job.”
Tricia sighed, grabbed the empty and well-licked food bowl, and took it to the sink to wash. Miss Marple kept rubbing against her slacks, which were soon coated in cat hair. She selected a can of tuna in sauce, supplemented the wet with some dry food, and set it on the floor. Miss Marple dug in gratefully. Tricia rinsed and refilled the water bowl before collapsing onto one of the kitchen stools.
“You look pooped. Ready to talk?” Angelica asked eagerly.
“You bet. More than that, though, I’m starved.”
Angelica abandoned her spoon, took three steps and opened the fridge, grabbed a plate and peeled off the cling wrap before setting it on the island in front of Tricia. “I whipped these up yesterday afternoon in the store. Had a few left over and saved you some. They went over real well. Sold seven books on hors d’oeuvres because of them.”
Tricia wrinkled her nose. “Ginny said she got sick eating them.”
“Oh, don’t be absurd. Nobody else did, and believe me, if any of my customers had gotten sick, I’d have heard. People love to sue. I use only fresh ingredients, and you know how meticulously clean I keep my workspace. I’m not afraid to use my digital thermometer, either.”
No doubt about it, Angelica was a hygiene hound, and was especially careful not to cross-contaminate raw with cooked foods.
“Besides,” Angelica said loftily, “I ate six of them for lunch, and they were delicious.”
They did look appetizing, and Tricia was hungry. Throwing caution to the wind, she studied the delightful little morsels before her, choosing a baguette slice topped with cheese and what looked like homemade salsa. She took a tentative bite. Good, but probably needed time for the cheese to warm up to room temperature to truly be appreciated.
“What are you making? It smells wonderful.”
“Tlalpeno soup. Got the recipe on a trip Drew,” her ex-husband, “and I made to Mexico City about three years back. You do like avocados, don’t you?”
“Definitely.”
Angelica grabbed another glass from the cupboard and poured Tricia wine from the opened bottle of Chardonnay, then handed it to her. “Margaritas would be a better choice, but I ran out of lime juice. So tell me all about Zoë’s agent.” Angelica wasn’t above listening to gossip, and Tricia figured she could use a sounding board.
She took a sip, and sighed, letting herself relax for the first time in hours. “I had an interesting conversation with Mr. Artemus Hamilton.”
Angelica resumed her position at the stove. “And?” she asked eagerly. “What’s he like? Is he looking for new clients?”
Tricia blinked, taken aback by the question. “I didn’t ask. He did, however, admit that Zoë Carter never wrote her bestsellers.”
Angelica snorted. “Yeah, and Santa comes down my chimney every Christmas Eve.”
“I’m serious, Ange. I’ve been hearing rumors, and her agent confirmed it.”
“But that’s ridiculous.”
“I talked to Zoë’s next-door neighbor, the Stoneham librarian, and even Zoë’s old English teacher. None of them ever believed she wrote the books.”
“Then why didn’t someone say something before now?”
“No one had proof.”
“So what are you saying, that the real author stepped up and killed Zoë?”
Tricia nodded.
“But why would the author wait until now? The first book was published over a decade ago. I know. I bought it. In fact, I still have it.” She waved a hand toward the stacks of unopened boxes that still littered her adjoining living room. “Somewhere in all this mess.”
“I talked to Kimberly about it. She wasn’t the author, but she knew Zoë didn’t write them, either. Kimberly has an English degree and supposedly has some writing ability. Somehow she got Zoë to allow her to do the rewrites on the last few books. It’s possible she could’ve felt at least a bit of ownership after she started doing that and approving the cover copy, et cetera.”
“But who did write the novels?” Angelica asked.
Tricia shrugged. “We may never know. And speaking of books . . . why are you so interested in Artemus Hamilton?”
“Me?” Angelica said, sounding anything but innocent. “Yes. Every time I mention him, you glow like a light-bulb. Come on, level with me.”
Angelica bit her lip, looking thoughtful. “If I tell you, do you promise you won’t make fun of me?”
Tricia sighed. “I promise.”
Angelica turned to her pantry, opened the door, and took out a folding metal step stool. Setting it in front of the refrigerator, she stepped up to open the cabinet over the appliance. From it, she withdrew a sheaf of papers. She stepped down, closed the distance between them, and handed it to Tricia.
“Easy-Does-It Cooking,” she read, “by Angelica Miles.”
She looked up at her sister. “You’ve written a cookbook?”
Angelica nodded. “Actually, I’ve written three. This is my latest.”
Tricia flipped through the pages, noting the document wasn’t formatted in accepted manuscript style. “What are you going to do with it?”
She shrugged. “I thought I might offer it to Mr. Hamilton. I kind of looked at his firm’s Web site. Apparently they do take nonfiction. Now I just need an introduction to him.”
Tricia handed back the papers. “Don’t look at me.”
Angelica frowned. “Why not? You did him a favor by driving him to the Brookview. He owes you.”
“May I remind you, we did not part on happy terms. And”—she looked at the manuscript in her sister’s hands—“you can’t submit something like that without doing the upfront research.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been researching cooking my whole life. And during the past five months, when I’ve been working ten-hour days, I realized that what the world needs is recipes for delicious, easy, and quick-to make dinners.”
“Ange, have you looked at the bookshelves in your own store? There are scores of cookbooks just like that already in print.”
Angelica shook her head. “Not like mine.”
“And it’s not even properly formatted,” Tricia pointed out.
“Oh, who cares about that? The quality will shine through.”
“Fine. Find out the hard way. But one more thing: if I’ve learned anything talking to authors, there’s nothing worse than shoving your manuscript at an agent or editor at an inappropriate time. It’s the kiss of death.”
“Oh, what do you know?” Angelica said, and held the pages to her chest as though they were a babe in diapers. “You’ll see. I’m going to sell my cookbooks. I’ll be fabulously successful, maybe even land my own TV show like Rachael Ray or Paula Deen. Lord knows I’ve got the personality.”
And the ego, too.
“Fine. Don’t listen to me.” Tricia sniffed the air. “But, oh fabulous sister chef of mine, I think you’ll find your soup is scorched.”
Angelica dropped the manuscript on the counter as though it were on fire, and rushed to the stove. Grabbing the spoon, she stirred the pot, her expression souring. She took a taste. “Oh, no,” she wailed. “My lovely, lovely soup.”
Tricia shook her head, got up, and walked over to pick up the phone. “Looks like it’s pizza again, after all.”
Twelve