“What am I thinking?” she said, and gave her forehead a slap. “I’m not going to find her in a U.S.-based group.”
“Find who?” Ginny asked.
“A writer,” Tricia said.
“Maybe I can help.”
“I need the laptop. I’ve got to check the Crime Writers of Canada Web site.”
“Crime Writers of Canada? We don’t carry any books from Canadian publishers, do we?”
“Not really. To make any kind of a living, most Canadian authors have U.S. publishers.”
“So what’s the name of this Canadian author?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Then how can you look him—or her—up? Or do you have the book title?”
Tricia shook her head. “No author, no title, no ISBN.”
Ginny spread her arms wide. “Then—how?”
“I’m going to take a good guess.” Tricia headed for the back of the store and the stairs to her loft apartment. “I’m going to go online to check. Call me on my cell if things get hairy down here.”
“You got it,” Ginny said.
Miss Marple saw Tricia heading for the stairs and jumped down from one of the bookshelves to lope after her. Tricia opened the door to the stairs and the cat took off like a shot.
Less than a minute later, Tricia had powered up her computer and waited as it found the Internet connection. At the Google site, she typed in “Crime Writers of Canada,” and in seconds was taken to the CWC home page. She clicked on the button labeled Member Bios, selecting S. A fast perusal came up with only one name that had the initials F and S: Fiona Sample.
Tricia was already familiar with that name. She’d read at least one, perhaps two, books in the Bonnie Chesterfield librarian “cozy mystery” series. She remembered she’d liked them, but hadn’t kept up with the rest of the series—simply because she’d been preoccupied. By her divorce, by opening Haven’t Got a Clue, and by the hundreds of other mystery books vying for her attention . . .
The question was: Could Fiona Sample actually be Faith Stone?
She clicked on the link to the author’s bio. Fiona Sample was born in the U.S., but came to Canada in the early 1990s to live and work in Toronto. She married a Canadian citizen and lived happily outside of Kitchener, Ontario, with her two children, twins Jessica and Andre, and a house full of cats and dogs, as well as a yard full of chickens.
Chickens? Addie Martin from the Forever book series had kept chickens, too.
Tricia tried to remember the Bonnie Chesterfield books. They were contemporary novels set in western New York. Had Faith originally come from that state and transplanted herself to New Hampshire, as Tricia had done, or was the locale just enough over the border to interest an American publisher?
Tricia left the computer long enough to search her own bookshelves. It took ten minutes, but she did find the first book in Fiona Sample’s series: Death Turns a Page, published some seven years before.
She flipped through the pages, reading paragraphs at random. The book was well written, and memories of it came back to her almost at once, but it didn’t resonate like the Jess and Addie Forever historical mysteries. Could this be the same author who wrote the books Zoe took credit for?
Tricia just wasn’t sure.
She went back to the computer and scanned the rest of the entry, then clicked on the link to Fiona’s Web site. The site had only four pages. The About Fiona page had little more on it than the CWC site, and no picture, either. Tricia clicked the Contact button. That page gave her yet another link, which she clicked, and up popped an empty note addressed to Fiona@FionaSample.com with a subject line of From the Web site.
Tricia thought about what she could write in the message area, something that would elicit a fast reply. After a few moments she erased the subject line and typed in “Nikki’s in trouble.” In the message area, she added, “She needs her mother.” Tricia signed it with her standard signature line of her name, the store name, and the telephone number; clicked the Send button; and sent it flying through cyberspace.
With her laptop tucked under her arm, Tricia returned to Haven’t Got a Clue, set the computer up behind the sales counter, and wondered when—or even if—she’d get a reply to her e-mail. For now, there was nothing to do but wait. And since the store was quiet, she decided to surf the Internet.
What she’d seen Sunday night at the scene of her car—chase? wreck?—had stayed with her: an open body of water with no geese. She Googled the words “swan” and “geese,” and hit the Enter key. Within seconds, a list of Web sites appeared on her computer screen.
The first few sites weren’t helpful. But on the fourth one, she hit pay dirt. It suggested that mute swans, like the one she’d seen on Miller’s Pond, had been used successfully as goose deterrents. Apparently swans aggressively protect their young, chasing away any creatures—including man—that dare to intrude on their breeding grounds. Bob hadn’t mentioned swans during their talk some days before. Did he even know about this?
Hitting the Compose button, Tricia keyed in a quick note, including the Web site’s URL, addressed the note to Bob at his Chamber e-mail address, and hit the Send key—just as a customer opened the door and entered. Tricia didn’t get back to her computer for another ten minutes. The note she found waiting her attention wasn’t from Fiona Sample or Bob, but from Portia McAlister.
“Did you see my latest report? Catch it online,” and she gave the URL.
Tricia clicked on the link.
The report was dated that morning, and she waited impatiently while the video loaded, then hit the Play button.
Portia stood along a bare patch of road, tall pines the only backdrop. The location looked suspiciously familiar. The door opened, admitting three potential customers. Ginny sprang into action, welcoming them as Tricia strained to listen to the report.
“—on this lonely patch of road. Stoneham merchants Tricia Miles, owner of the mystery bookstore Haven’t Got a Clue, and her sister Angelica, who owns the Cookery bookstore, were two sisters on a mission of mercy when tragedy almost struck.”
“Is this the only Agatha Christie book you have in stock?” asked a white-haired woman in a purple ski jacket.
“Uh—” Tricia tore her attention from the laptop’s screen. “No.” She cast about. “Mr. Everett, could you help this customer?”
Mr. Everett signaled the woman to follow him.
Portia had continued with her report, heedless of her lack of an audience. “—Kimberly Peters, in critical condition at Southern New Hampshire Medical Center—”
“There’s no more coffee in the pot,” said a gentleman customer, thrusting his empty cardboard cup at Tricia.
She gritted her teeth, trying to hold her temper. “One of us will take care of that in just a minute. Please excuse me for a moment.” She turned back to the screen.
“Are these three incidents linked?” Portia asked earnestly.
The old telephone on the cash desk rang.
“With murder and attempted murder,” Portia went on.
The phone rang again.
Tricia clicked on the video, stopping Portia in mid-sentence. She grabbed the phone. “Haven’t Got a Clue mystery bookstore. This is Tricia, how may I help you?” she asked, sounding anything but helpful.
“This is Fiona Sample. What did you mean by your e-mail, Ms. Miles?”
“Oh, it’s you!” Tricia said, startled, and had to catch her breath. “Uh, as I said in the note, I think your daughter Nikki’s in terrible trouble. She needs her mother.”
“I don’t have a daughter by that name.”
“You did when your name was Faith Stone.”
Silence.
“Did you write the five Jess and Addie Forever historical mysteries attributed to Zoe Carter?” Tricia asked, pointblank.