“Stone.” Tricia frowned. “At least I think she said stone. It was hard to tell through those broken teeth.”
“What do you think she meant by it?”
“The statue that was destroyed? What other explanation is there?”
“And she said nothing else?”
“She said it three times. I think she wanted to make sure I understood her.”
Sheriff Adams’s lips pursed. It didn’t make her look any more attractive.
“Where did they take Kimberly?” Tricia asked.
“Southern New Hampshire Medical Center in Nashua. They’ve got a trauma center. If she makes it there.”
A boulderlike weight seemed to rest on Tricia’s chest. She hadn’t been one of Kimberly’s biggest fans, but she couldn’t imagine how anyone could inflict such damage on another human being.
“Did you see any sign of a weapon?” the sheriff asked.
Tricia shook her head. “I assumed he—”
“Or she—”
“—used a sledgehammer. What else could’ve punched such holes in the walls and furniture?”
Sheriff Adams made no comment.
“I’ll bet it was the same tool that smashed the statue.”
Still no comment from the sheriff.
Tricia glanced at the clock over the sink and wondered if she should volunteer her suspicions about why a hammer-wielding burglar would ransack Zoë’s home and critically injure Kimberly. The sheriff hadn’t wanted to hear Tricia’s theories about the murder at the Cookery some seven months before; she’d probably be less receptive now. But how much longer could she keep her suspicions to herself?
She needed more information. But how was she going to get it?
Tricia sighed. “Are we about finished, Sheriff?”
“Not quite. I’m going to tell you this once and only once; you are never to violate a crime scene again. What did you think you were doing, playing hero?”
Heroine, Tricia mentally corrected. No way would she say it aloud and set off Wendy Adams’s hair-trigger temper. “I’ve read enough mysteries and true crime to know not to do that. And I did not violate a crime scene. I walked through the house, and I touched nothing but Kimberly Peters’s hand. Giving her that tiny bit of comfort was the least I could do for her—the very least I would expect from anyone.”
Wendy Adams’s expression was doubtful. “I also don’t want you talking to the press about any of this.”
Tricia raised her hands defensively. “No problem there. In fact, I’m glad to have your blessing not to speak to them.”
The sheriff merely glared at her. “Go home, Ms. Miles. And stay there.” She turned her head toward the doorway. “Placer!” Seconds later, a deputy appeared. “Please escort Ms. Miles to her car. And keep an eye on her. We wouldn’t want her to get hurt.” She ended her little speech with a sneer.
Tricia got up from her chair. The sheriff didn’t budge, and Tricia had to sidle past her in the tiny kitchen. She was glad to get away from the disaster that was Zoë’s former home. Glad to inhale deep breaths of the cold, invigorating air.
Glad to get away from Wendy Adams.
Tricia pulled up Russ’s driveway and eased the gearshift to Park. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come home with you?” he asked.
“No. I just want to go home.”
“I could keep you company,” he offered with a wry smile.
“Not tonight,” she said dryly.
“Don’t I even get a good-night kiss?” Russ asked, still strapped in the passenger seat and making no move to leave.
“Just one,” Tricia said, and leaned forward, aiming for his cheek, but Russ took her face in his hands, planting a light, warm kiss on her lips before pulling back.
“Maybe two,” Tricia said, and put a little more effort into that kiss, remembering why she liked to spend quiet time with Russ. But not tonight. Her nerves were too taut, and Russ would only want to rehash the evening’s events for hours on end. She needed something different. Someone different to talk things over with.
Russ pulled back. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
He unbuckled the seat belt and got out of the car, shutting the door. He stood, watching, as she pulled out of the drive. He waved as she took off down the road. At the corner, she could still see him standing in his yard.
Instead of heading home, Tricia steered for the convenience store on the edge of town. She parked the car and rummaged in her purse for her cell phone, selected one of the preset numbers, and waited as it rang, two, three, four times. “Hello?”
“Ange, it’s Tricia. What are you doing tonight?”
Angelica sighed. “Unpacking boxes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes,” she said shortly. “And you don’t have to rub it in.”
“I’m not. I’d kind of like some company, and I was wondering . . . what kind of ice cream do you like?”
“Ice cream?” Angelica asked, her voice rising with pleasure. “Oh, anything. But I especially like butter pecan, pralines and cream, and—what the heck—rocky road. Do you need more suggestions?”
“That’ll do.”
“Get some of that canned whipped cream. And nuts. Maybe cherries, too. If we’re going to splurge, we may as well go whole hog.”
“See you in about twenty minutes,” Tricia said, and folded up her phone.
True to her word, she arrived at the Cookery’s door precisely nineteen and a half minutes later, and let herself in.
Angelica met her at the top of the stairs to the loft apartment. No Miss Marple greeted her. In all the excitement, Tricia had forgotten she’d taken the cat and all her equipment home.
Angelica led her back to the kitchen, where the light was better, frowning as she took in her sister’s face. “What happened? You look pale. Did you and Russ have another spat?”
Tricia shook her head. “I had a bit of a shock this evening.”
“Hang up your coat. I’ll unpack the grocery sack, and we’ll talk.”
Tricia handed over the bag with its four pints of ice cream and all the trimmings. Angelica had its contents spread across the kitchen island, along with spoons and dishes, by the time Tricia returned to the kitchen.
Tricia looked around the room. The long line of boxes that had been stacked against the wall for months was considerably smaller. Several pictures had been tacked up on the walls, giving the kitchen a much homier appearance. Not prints, but antique oil paintings of fruits and vegetables—succulent strawberries, dew-kissed pears, and sun-ripened tomatoes. They reflected Angelica’s love of food—her joy in its preparation and the care she took with its presentation. Tricia looked into the living room. There was actually a coffee table in front of the couch! Okay, it was still covered in boxes, but it was at least visible, and she saw pots of herbs on the sills in front of the street-side windows. “Wow, you’ve made a lot of headway with your unpacking tonight.”
“Forget the decor; tell me what happened,” Angelica demanded, removing the lid from a pint of butter pecan.
Tricia recounted her evening. From the lack of romance at Russ’s home to finding a bloodied Kimberly to Wendy Adams’s stern interrogation.
As Angelica listened, she plopped a big scoop of ice cream into her bowl, added some whipped cream, sprinkled it with crushed nuts, and topped it with a maraschino cherry. “Oh, you poor little thing,” she cooed, not without sympathy, when Tricia finished.
Tricia scraped a small spoonful of French vanilla but didn’t put it in her mouth. Suddenly the idea of all that sweetness was a turnoff. She set the container aside. “You should’ve seen that house. There was hatred in every swing of that hammer—sledgehammer—whatever it was.”
“What were they looking for? The original manuscripts Zoë passed off as her own? Why would they think Kimberly would have them there? Didn’t you say Zoë’s main residence was down south somewhere?”
Tricia nodded. “And I can’t imagine her keeping them. The woman was an accountant—or at least some kind of bookkeeper, which might indicate she had a logical mind. I’m sure she got rid of them years ago. Kimberly said she retyped a couple of them. And if Zoë was smart, she burned the originals so there’d be no paper trail.”