Выбрать главу

“Come on, Tricia, it’ll be fun,” Nikki chided.

Fun? To go to a memorial service? Still, Tricia looked hopefully at Ginny. “Well, if you really don’t mind.”

“Go ahead,” Ginny said, and took a Styrofoam cup from the bag Nikki had provided, then pumped coffee from the carafe.

Tricia removed her Cookery apron, stowing it under one of the tables. “Let’s go!”

They left the vendor area circling the village square and headed for the center, where the gazebo sat amid a sea of short, stubby grass, still brown from its winter dormancy. This was no backyard variety structure, but a grand, freestanding granite edifice, its copper roof a mellow green with age. Mere feet away stood the short, tarp-shrouded statue, looking lumpy and ugly against such a stately pavilion. Bob had done a good job, ensuring that the sidewalk and grass surrounding the monument were devoid of goose droppings, although telltale stains still marred what had recently been pristine concrete.

A crowd had already gathered around the monument. Tricia recognized members of Haven’t Got a Clue’s Tuesday Night Book Club in the crowd, as well as Artemus Hamilton, standing with a subdued Kimberly Peters. She wore the same wrinkled suit she’d had on at the signing. Didn’t she know how to use an iron? Tricia recognized several selectmen, a couple of the other bookstore owners, and Chamber members, who also stood by. Lois Kerr and Stella Kraft were standing with a knot of older ladies who’d gathered to one side.

Sheriff Adams and one of her deputies stood with a number of selectmen who’d shown up for the event—no doubt invited by the Chamber to give the ceremony some semblance of official sanction. Clipboard in hand, Frannie Armstrong flitted about the front of the gazebo, checking the names against her master list of invitees.

Among the missing was Grace Harris, not that Tricia had really expected Mr. Everett’s close friend to attend without him. Or was there a reason she didn’t want to be seen at Zoë’s memorial service? Another angle Tricia would have to investigate.

News cameramen and still photographers had gathered to the left of the monument. Portia McAlister was also among them and, as a member of the press, so was Russ, his Nikon dangling from his neck, a steno pad clutched in his left hand. The rope, which earlier had been securely tied around the white canvas at the bottom of the monument, had already been removed.

Bob looked dapper, if partially frozen, in a kelly green sport coat that he always wore while showing real estate. The crowd quieted as he stepped up to the microphone, tapped it, then blew on it. “Testing, testing.” Apparently satisfied with the sound quality, he consulted his notes, then raised his gaze to stare directly into the News Team Ten’s video camera. Tricia squinted. Had he had his teeth whitened since the last time she’d seen him?

“It is with great pride and affection that Stoneham’s Chamber of Commerce dedicates this statue to one of our own, New York Times best-selling author Zoë Carter, who helped bring fame to our little village. We hope Stoneham will remain a mecca to her millions of fans for generations to come.” His words were greeted with a smattering of polite applause.

“Too bad Angelica is missing this,” Nikki whispered, and giggled. “She might even swoon, seeing Bob in his green jacket.”

“Shhh!” Tricia admonished.

“We had hoped Ms. Carter’s niece,” Bob nodded toward Kimberly, “might speak, but naturally she’s quite distraught at her loss.”

As though on cue, Kimberly dabbed a tissue at her dry eyes.

“Is there anyone here who’d like to offer a fond memory or words of praise for Zoë?” Bob cleared his throat, looking hopefully at the assembled audience, but no one stepped forward. “Mr. Hamilton?” Bob implored.

All eyes turned toward the literary agent, who blushed.

“Go on,” Kimberly mouthed, and gave him a nudge.

A reluctant Hamilton stepped up to the microphone. “Uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “Uh, Zoë Carter was my very first client.” His gaze wandered the crowd, lighting on Tricia. He frowned, no doubt remembering their conversation the night before. He looked away. “Zoë, uh, never missed a deadline. The world is a . . . a different place without her.”

Different? That’s all he could come up with? Perhaps he was afraid to gush, leery of what the press might say about him when the truth about Zoë came to light.

He nodded at those assembled and stepped away from the microphone.

“Thank you,” Bob said to the sound of weak applause.

“Anyone else?”

Not a soul stepped forward.

“Anyone?” he begged.

As if on queue, the air was broken by the sound of flapping wings and the fierce honking of Canada geese as a portion of the flock took flight from the pond, making a low pass over the crowd, who seemed to duck as one.

When the cacophony receded, Bob cleared his throat, stepped away from the microphone, and moved over to the monument. He grasped the tarp with both hands and yanked dramatically. The wind caught the canvas, whipping it into the air like a sail. The crowd backed off as it came straight at them. Nikki gasped, and for a moment Tricia thought she might have been injured, but she stared straight ahead, her mouth open in astonishment. Tricia turned, and immediately her expression mirrored Nikki’s. The carving of the opened book had been shattered into several large chunks. Below, scarlet spray paint marred the brilliant white marble base, spelling out the word THIEF!

Thirteen

“What does it mean?” Nikki gasped.

“This is an outrage!” someone called out.

“What kind of security measures were taken to protect the statue?” said someone else.

Bob Kelly stood transfixed, his gaze focused on his brainchild, utterly flabbergasted at the devastation, while Wendy Adams and her deputy tried to keep the crowd away from the ruined marble.

The TV cameras continued to roll while photographers’ flashes strobed. Russ scribbled madly on his steno pad.

Among those not speculating on the vandalism: Kimberly Peters and Artemus Hamilton, who stood staring mutely at the desecrated monument. Was it because they understood what the graffiti meant?

“Wendy,” Bob bellowed, “how could you have let this happen?”

“You can’t blame the Sheriff’s Department—we never got a request to protect the statue.”

“Maybe not, but it’s your responsibility to keep the village safe.”

The sheriff’s brows inched menacingly closer. “My deputies and I have eight hundred and seventy-six square miles to protect. We can’t be everywhere at once, Bob.”

Bob turned to face Kimberly Peters. “I—I don’t know what to say, how to apologize—” he stammered.

Tight-lipped, Kimberly replied, “Try, Mr. Kelly.”

Bob stood there, mouth agape, his gaze returning to the defaced monument.

Tricia backed away. “I think it’s time to go,” she told Nikki.

“Yeah. To think I left Steve alone in the shop for an hour for this. Then again . . .” She let the sentence trail, looking thoughtful.

“You don’t trust Steve?”

“Of course I trust him. He’s got a lot of talent, and he works harder than anyone I’ve ever hired. But sometimes I just need a break from him. He doesn’t have a lot of friends, so I’m afraid he sees me as a confidante, and I’d really rather not play that role.”

“Have you let him know this?”

She sighed. “He doesn’t always listen to me.”

“Yet he wants to bend your ear?” Tricia nodded, knowingly. “I’ve met a few men like that myself.”

Nikki looked to the south, toward the patisserie. “Well, I hope they find the creep who wrecked the statue and nail him. Then again, Wendy Adams couldn’t find herself in a fun house mirror, let alone locate a vandal.” She shook her head. “See you on Tuesday at the book club, if not before,” she said, and gave Tricia’s shoulder a quick pat before heading for Main Street.