Untitled (12 page)

   "What kind of calls?"

   "About the extra books. I hope you don't mind, but I didn't know if we'd be open. I took the liberty of ordering copies of all of Zoë's books. I had them expressed, so they should arrive no later than tomorrow morning. I talked to Frannie and confirmed the tent, and wrestled the promise of a borrowed cash register if we can't bring our extra one. It's a shame we can't raid some of our used stock, but if you'll download the flyer from your laptop, I can get more of them and our newsletters printed before Saturday morning."

   Tricia swallowed as guilt coursed through her. She'd been so caught up in learning about Zoë that she'd neglected her own business. "Ginny, you've just earned yourself a big bonus. What would I do without you?"

   "Just doing my job," Ginny said shyly, her gaze dipping to the floor.

   "And then some." Tricia glanced at her watch. Time to go. "I've got to leave right now, but I promise, as soon as I get back, we'll talk some more about this and make more contingency plans." She reached out to touch Ginny's arm. "Thank you."

   Ginny smiled and turned back to the register. Tricia waved for Angelica's attention and promised to be back in time to give the others a lunch break. Since Stella lived only two blocks from Stoneham's main drag, Tricia decided to make up for the lack of her treadmill and walk the distance.

   A carefully printed sign on the front door directed visitors to the back entrance of the little house. The woman who answered Tricia's knock looked about 108, with deeply wrinkled, leathery smoker's skin, a husky voice, and sharp eyes that didn't miss a trick. "Miss—" or was she a Mrs.? "—Kraft?" Tricia asked.

   "Come on in," the old woman encouraged, and held the door for Tricia to enter. The dated yet immaculate kitchen was swelteringly hot, the air stuffy, smelling like boiled potatoes with an underlying scent of mothballs. Tricia was ushered past a worn white enamel table, but declined the offer of coffee or tea.

"I heard all about Zoë Carter's death," Stella said.

"She was a student of yours?" Tricia asked.

   "Oh, sure. Until I retired, just about every kid who graduated from Stoneham High passed through my classroom at least once."

   "But I thought Zoë wasn't from Stoneham?"

   Stella shook her head. "Neither am I. Some people in this town think that if you weren't born here, you don't belong here. Just as many don't subscribe to that narrow thinking, thank goodness."

   "Did you teach her niece?"

   Stella frowned. "Yes, I had her niece, too. Now that one was a piece of work. Smart, but didn't apply herself." She padded down the hall, motioning Tricia to follow her into the living room. Every wall had a bookcase, and it was all Tricia could do not to abandon her mission and study the hundreds—possibly thousands—of titles.

   Stella gestured to the faded gold couch. "Sit, sit," she encouraged. "Sure I can't get you anything?"

   Tricia shook her head, but took the offered seat while Stella commandeered a worn leather club chair.

   "I know it was a long time ago, but do you remember what kind of student Zoë Carter was?"

   Stella answered without a moment's hesitation. "Quiet little mouse of a thing. She had excellent math skills. She won a couple of prizes or something, so obviously she wasn't stupid. But I wasn't all that interested in her." She leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I probably shouldn't admit this, but I always had favorites among my students. And those with a quest to learn about literature, I doted on."

   "So as a teenager Zoë showed no storytelling aptitude?"

   "None at all. If I may employ a cliché, she couldn't write her way out of a wet paper bag."

   "And yet at her death she was a Ne
w York Times
bestselling author."

   The old woman cocked her head, her eyes narrowing. "Interesting, isn't it?"

   Tricia carefully phrased her next question. "What do you think brought her latent talent to the surface?"

   "That's my point. The woman—or at least the student— had no writing talent."

   "You don't think she wrote those books?" Tricia asked, hoping she sounded convincingly skeptical.

   Stella shook her head. "Never in a million years. Someone like Zoë, who'd never really known love, could never have written such believable and heart-wrenching characters."

   And how did Stella know Zoë was unloved?

   "Then who—?"

   The old woman looked away and sighed. "I've been asking myself that for the last decade. I wish I'd saved the papers of some of my more impressive students; I had a few that showed promise. But who's to say the author of those books even came from Stoneham?"

   Who, indeed? "But Zoë still lived in Stoneham when the first book was published."

   "Yes. And it's well known she never sought the limelight. She didn't want to go on book tours, and was practically a hermit when it came to promotional activities. It was word of mouth that sold that first book—nothing Zoë did."

   "Sounds like you've followed her career closely."

   "Stoneham High hasn't graduated any rocket scientists. Apparently Zoë was our only star."

   "Have you shared your suspicions with anyone else?"

   "In the beginning I might have mentioned it to a few of my former colleagues—I've been retired for almost eight years now. But who listens to the rantings of an old English teacher?"

   
I might
, Tricia thought.

   Now to spring the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. "Do you think it's possible the real author of those books murdered Zoë?"

   Stella didn't even blink. "Why not? Stranger things have happened."

   Time to play devil's advocate. "But why wait until the last book was published?"

   "I've been pondering that same question. Zoë had been scarce in these parts since publication of the third book; I heard she moved down south. Rumor has it she only came back to Stoneham to sell her house."

   "Yes, she mentioned that at the signing the other night. Wouldn't it be ironic if the person who wrote those books is still here in Stoneham and has been waiting all these years to take her revenge?" Tricia blurted, finally voicing the theory that had been percolating in the back of her mind.

   The old woman nodded. "What makes you think it was a woman who wrote them?"

   "The real author?" Tricia said, a bit surprised that Stella hadn't immediately refuted her idea.

   "I assume you've read the books?" Stella paused and Tricia nodded. "Do you think a male author could've done justice to Addie's character, or the loss of her son in the mine cave-in?"

   "That depends on the author," Tricia said, surprised a former English teacher would even voice such a sentiment. "But Kimberly Peters told me someone—a man—called her to say I was spreading rumors about her and her aunt. And let me assure you, I have not been."

   "How do you know she was telling you the truth about the call?"

   Tricia opened her mouth to protest, and then just as quickly shut it.

   Stella nodded. "I'd be skeptical of anything
that
one tells you."

"But she knows more than she's telling."

   "More than she's telling
you.
That's not to say she hasn't spoken to others."

   
Sheriff Adams in particular
, Tricia thought. Still, that was good—if it meant solving the crime and getting her store back open.

   "If all this is true, what could have happened that triggered the killer? If she wanted the glory, why wait until the last book was published to take revenge?"

   Stella looked like she was about to say something, then thought better of it and shook her head. "I'd be careful about mentioning Zoë's lack of creative talent and the idea she might not have written the books."

   "But wouldn't that be a credible motive for the killing? Giving the true author credit for those books?"

   "Yes, but getting the credit will also land that person in jail. There's nothing to be gained—unless Zoë was killed out of spite." Stella shook her head. "Whoever killed Zoë will do everything she can to remain anonymous. If I were you, dear, I'd let the sheriff handle this one. You wouldn't want to be the killer's next victim."

It was
almost noon by the time Tricia returned from Stella's house. She opened the door to the Cookery and Angelica pounced upon her immediately. "Big news," she cried. Tricia could practically feel the waves of exhilaration emanating from her sister.

   Tricia wiggled out of her jacket. "Tell me about it before you jump out of your skin."

   "Bob just called. They've decided to change the whole dedication ceremony on Saturday."

   "Change how?" Tricia asked, heading for the closet at the back of the store.

   "It'll now be a memorial service for Zoë Carter."

   Tricia stopped. "What does that mean for the vendors?"

   "Vendors?" Angelica said, confused.

   "Yes. The dedication was supposed to be a celebration of books and how they saved Stoneham. It'll look pretty tacky if we're all set up around the square selling books, hot dogs, and fried dough. It sounds more like a circus than a memorial service."

   Angelica frowned. "Oh. Well, I'm sure Bob thought about that. He's a genius when it comes to PR. But don't you see, this is a great opportunity for you. Ginny said she'd ordered extra copies of Zoë's books. You'll make out like a bandit."

   "I don't know about that."

   "Um, Bob—or rather the Chamber—was wondering if you'd be willing to call some of Zoë's publishing colleagues and invite them to the ceremony. Like maybe Zoë's agent."

   Tricia was about to blurt a definitive "No," then thought better of it. What better way to find out more about Zoë than from people inside the publishing industry? "Maybe you're right, Ange. Bob just might be a genius after all."

Since Ginny
had gone out for a sandwich and was unavailable to talk about their Saturday plans, Tricia hiked the stairs to Angelica's loft apartment. A chatty Miss Marple met her as she opened the door, admonishing her for leaving her alone once again.

   "I know, I know. But Angelica serves food in her store. No cats allowed."

   "Y
ow!
" Miss Marple protested.

   "I'll relay your dissatisfaction to the Health Department," Tricia promised.

   Miss Marple followed her to the kitchen, and Tricia filled her bowl with kitty treats.

   With the cat placated, Tricia picked up Angelica's kitchen extension before scoping out the fridge in search of sustenance for herself. Despite its being lunch hour, Tricia called and found Bob in his office at the Chamber of Commerce. "Hi, Bob, Angelica said you wanted to talk to me about the dedication ceremony," she said, and it was no effort to keep a smile in her voice.

   "Yes, the Chamber held an emergency meeting on it this morning, sorry you weren't able to make it—" Make it? She hadn't even known about it. But since she rarely went to Chamber meetings anyway, it wasn't a big deal. "Changing our focus to include a memorial ceremony for Zoë Carter is an opportunity we, as her adopted hometown, didn't feel we could pass up. And since we've already got everything set up for the dedication anyway, it's a win-win situation."

   "But what about the words carved on the statue?" she asked, looking past the scampi leftovers to root around in the back of the fridge. It wasn't really a statue. Tricia had seen drawings of the proposed piece. A big block of marble with a carved open book on the top.

   "Turns out they weren't able to do the engraving before the ceremony on Saturday, so we can still change what it says. How's that for luck?"

   Tacky. But Tricia wasn't about to argue the point. She withdrew a bowl of what looked like homemade soup, removed the plastic cover, and sniffed. It still smelled good. "Ange said you wanted me to contact Zoë's colleagues," she said, and opened a drawer to find a spoon.

   "Yes. They thought you, as a mystery bookseller, would have a better feel for who in the publishing world should be contacted."

   Oops! Deborah had suggested Tricia do the same thing the day before—but with everything else that was going on, Tricia had completely forgotten about it. She put the bowl in the microwave and punched in ninety seconds. "Did you speak to Kimberly Peters about this?"

   "Following in her aunt's footsteps, she declined to be involved, although she did say she'd at least show up," he said, his voice conveying his disapproval. "Will you help us, Tricia?"

   "Bob, I would love to. How soon do you need to know?"

   "We'd like to have the guest list set by tomorrow. Is that a problem?"

   "No. In fact, I'll start making calls as soon as I get off the phone with you."

   "Thanks, Tricia. This is a big help to the Chamber. And I'll see what I can do to nudge Wendy Adams about reopening your shop. She's stubborn, but she can see reason when it's pointed out to her."

   "I'd appreciate that, Bob. Thanks."

   She took notes as he repeated the details surrounding the dedication, which pretty much matched what she remembered from the Chamber's previous communications.

   "I'll get right on this and give you an update later today."

   "Thanks, Tricia."

   Tricia replaced the phone on its cradle and resisted the urge to rub her hands together with pleasure. Then reality set in. How the blazes was she supposed to get a hold of, let alone assure the attendance of, Zoë's colleagues? There was only one thing to do—hit the Internet to try to find some answers.

   The microwave stopped, giving a resounding beep, beep, beep, to let her know her lunch was ready, but Tricia was too hyped to eat. Instead, she went in search of her laptop computer, set it on the kitchen island, and connected to the Internet. Her first stop, Zoë's Web site. She checked out the media page and found pay dirt. Zoë's agent was none other than Artemus Hamilton. Tricia had met the short, balding man several times at cocktail parties during her years in Manhattan.