Tricia was not fond of the job, but when she thought about it, she felt the same way.
“Is the Chamber actually considering killing the geese?”
“It’s an option.”
“Who told you this?”
“Bob. Bob Kelly.”
The phone rang. “Break time over,” Frannie said, and stepped across the room to the reception desk. She picked up the receiver. “Stoneham Chamber of Commerce, Frannie speaking. How may I help you?”
Tricia gave a brief wave before she closed the door behind her. Sure enough, she was going to have to step carefully in the wake of the geese.
The early April sunshine held no warmth, and Tricia pulled up her collar against the wind. Since she was supposed to have lunch with Deborah today, she could ask her about Kimberly Peters. In the meantime, Angelica would be hopping mad if she didn’t show up with flour, walnuts, and chocolate and peanut butter chips within the next half hour.
Reluctantly, Tricia headed for the municipal parking lot and her car. Preoccupied with the search for her keys in her purse, she didn’t spot the WRBS van parked at the edge of the lot until it was too late. A brunette in a camel hair coat and calf-high black boots, clutching a microphone, made a beeline for Tricia.
Panicked, Tricia dropped her keys, fumbled to pick them up, and stood, finding herself looking into the lens of a video camera.
“Tricia Miles?” asked the brunette. “Portia McAlister, WRBS News. I understand you found the body of bestselling author Zoë Carter in your store’s washroom last night.”
“Uh . . . uh . . .” Mesmerized by the camera, Tricia couldn’t think.
“She was strangled with your bungee cord.”
“I’m—I’m not sure.”
“About what?” Portia pressed.
“If it actually was my bungee cord.” She turned, pressed the button on her key ring and the car’s doors unlocked. “I really have to go.” Good sense—and Sheriff Adams’s order not to talk to the press—licked in. “I’ve got no more comments.”
“She was found on the toilet. What was the state of the body? Was she fully clothed? Had she been sexually assaulted?”
Appalled by the question, Tricia slid into the car, slammed the door, buckled up, and started the engine. The cameraman swung around to block her exit.
Tricia pressed a control, and her window opened by two or three inches. “Please,” she implored, “I have to be somewhere.”
The microphone plunged toward her again. “Where are you going? Will you be talking to a lawyer?”
A lawyer? She hadn’t done anything that warranted talking to a lawyer!
Tricia jammed the gearshift into drive, letting the car move forward a few inches. The cameraman didn’t budge. She honked the horn furiously, edged forward a few more inches. What if he didn’t move? If she hit him, then she’d have reason to speak to a lawyer.
“This is harassment. If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll call the sheriff!”
“Back off, Mark,” the reporter said, and the cameraman immediately obliged, lowering his camera. “We’ll speak again, Ms. Miles,” Portia said as Tricia pulled away.
It sounded like a threat.
Four
The ten-minute drive to Milford helped calm Tricia’s frayed nerves, and she steered directly for the biggest grocery store in town—the better to find bitter chocolate, she figured. Angelica’s list of ingredients was long and varied, and Tricia had doubts she’d find everything her sister wanted.
Once inside the store, Tricia pushed her shopping cart down the various aisles until she found the baking section. She paused, scanning the bags of flour, and frowned. She didn’t bake, hadn’t even attempted it since she was a Girl Scout too many years ago. Should she buy all-purpose flour? Self-rising? Would wheat flour make a healthier cookie? And Angelica’s list said brown sugar, but even that came in two choices. Should she buy the dark or the light?
Carts and people pushed past her as she contemplated the myriad choices. Should she take a wild guess, or break down and call Angelica? But if she did, she was likely to get a lecture for taking so long on her errand, and get the same again when she returned to the Cookery. It would be far better to get that dressing-down only once rather than twice.
“Tricia?”
She looked up at the sound of her name, instantly recognizing the voice. “Russ, what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” Russ pushed his cart forward, pausing when he reached Tricia’s. He nudged his gold-tone glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Angelica said I’d find you here. I’ve been waiting for almost an hour. Do you know how boring a grocery store can be when you have an hour to kill?”
“Sorry,” she said, but wasn’t sure it was true. And judging by the nearly full grocery cart Russ pushed, it looked like he’d found plenty to occupy his time.
“No, I’ sorry,” he said, and sighed. “I didn’t mean to blow you off last night and run to the paper. I didn’t realize the sheriff would toss you out of your home. Why didn’t you call? Why don’t you come stay with me?”
“I want to be near my store—my home. It’s more convenient for me and my cat to stay with Angelica.”
“But Angelica doesn’t even like Miss Marple.”
“Everybody likes Miss Marple,” said a voice behind them. An elderly woman bundled up in a parka and wearing a plastic rain bonnet stood behind a grocery cart. “Can I get through please? I need to get a cake mix.”
Tricia and Russ moved aside. “I tried calling you for over three hours this morning. There was no answer,” Tricia said.
“Sorry. Every news outlet in the state has been calling me for an interview.”
“Yes, and I see you talked with someone at the Nashua Telegraph last night,” she said, her tone cool.
“It was too late to stop my press run. I figured I may as well cut my losses and get some exposure for the pictures I took last night.”
“Did they pay well?”
“No, I gave them to a buddy of mine on staff. I owe him, and this was a way to pay him back. Now I can feel free to call upon him some other time I need a favor.”
That still didn’t make it right in Tricia’s eyes, but at least she felt better knowing he hadn’t made money from Zoë’s death. It was time to turn the tables. “Russ, what do you know about Zoë Carter’s part in the downfall of Trident Homes?”
He blinked at her. “Nothing. Why?”
“A little bird told me that Zoë was prosecuted for embezzlement.”
“That’s interesting. When did all this happen?”
“Before she became a best-selling author.”
“Maybe that’s a reason she never wanted publicity.”
“Indeed. Would the Stoneham Weekly News have covered this?” she asked.
He exhaled a long breath. “Possibly. But Ted Moser, the former owner, wasn’t known for printing anything that reeked of scandal. He was a real cheerleader for the village.”
Not unlike Bob Kelly, Tricia thought.
“I’ll have a look at the archives, see what I can come up with.”
“Thanks. Meanwhile, I have to get this stuff for Angelica,” Tricia said, waving the grocery list in the air. “She’s going to have a fit because I’ve already been gone so long.”
“Come back to Stoneham and have lunch with me.”
She shook her head. “I’m having lunch with Deborah today.”
“Then have dinner with me tonight.”
“Where?”
“My dining room.”
“You’re going to cook?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Let’s face it, I’m better at it than you.”
She nodded in reluctant agreement. “Deal.” She thought about her encounter with News Team Ten. “It just so happens I may need some . . . professional advice.”
He leaned, as far as he was able, over the grocery cart. “I’m intrigued.”