Untitled (6 page)

   "I believe I've spoken to her on the phone, but . . . I haven't even had time to get a library card. I mean . . . I really only read mysteries, and I order everything I want and then some from distributors, as well as buy from people willing to sell their collections."

   "It wouldn't hurt for you to talk to Lois in person. Maybe get yourself a library card. Libraries are the best value you can get for your tax dollars."

"Yes, ma'am," Tricia murmured with respect.

Frannie laughed. "Any other questions?"

"Who would know Kimberly Peters?"

   Frannie frowned. "Her high school teachers, I suppose. I don't know much about her. Russ Smith might, though. I mean, if she ever got in trouble—and it wouldn't surprise me, with that attitude of hers—it would've ended up in the
Stoneham Weekly News
crime blotter." That column was often only a paragraph or two long—if it even ran.

   "You might also try Deborah Black," Frannie added. "She's only a few years older than Kimberly. Maybe she remembers her from school."

   "Great idea. Thanks."

   Frannie craned her neck to look beyond Tricia. "There they go again," she said, and shook her head.

   Tricia turned to see a line of Canada geese marching down the sidewalk, no doubt heading for Stoneham Creek. It was the only running water in the area, and it seemed to be the attraction that kept luring the geese from the relative calm of the outlying retention ponds.

   "Can't the Chamber pressure the Village Board to do something about them?" Tricia asked.

   "They could get the state and the federal government to approve roundup-and-slaughter operations," she said matterof-factly.

   "What?" Tricia asked, horrified.

   "Yup, that's what they call it. They wait until the geese are molting and can't fly, then they herd those poor birds into boxes and gas them with carbon dioxide."

   "But I thought they were protected—and that's why the population keeps growing."

   "Hey, it's happened. In Washington State, Minnesota, and Michigan. I read about it on the Internet," Frannie said, her voice filled with disapproval. "I'm willing to put up with a little inconvenience—cleaning off the sidewalks—if it'll save just one of those beautiful birds."

   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—clicked 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.

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'm
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 N
ashua
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."

   Tricia's attempt at a seductive smile was interrupted by the cake lady. "Can I just grab a bag of brown sugar? I'm making a caramelized frosting for my son-in-law's thirtyfifth birthday. It's his favorite."

   Tricia forced a smile. "How nice." Then her brain clicked into PR mode, and she almost started a pitch for books as gifts before she remembered Haven't Got a Clue was closed.

   "You were saying?" Russ prompted.

   She frowned.

   "Professional advice?" he pressed.

   "Oh, how to keep the press from bugging me."

   "Why, what happened?"

   "A TV reporter named Portia McAlister cornered me at my car in the municipal parking lot not half an hour ago. Talk about persistent. The sheriff told me not to speak to the press—"

   "What about me?" he asked indignantly.

   "She doesn't consider you important."

   "Thank you very little, Wendy Adams."

   Tricia ignored his feigned injured pride. "Anyway, she rattled me."

   "The sheriff?"

   "No, Portia McAlister. Before I knew it, I'd said more than I intended."

   "She got what she wanted—throwing you off guard so you'd blather. As long as the camera was rolling, she got something she can broadcast. It'll placate her boss—for a few hours. But don't be surprised if she keeps popping up to bug you. Zoë's death is big news in these parts. Unless a bigger story comes along, she's going to keep at it."

   "I was afraid you'd say that."

   "Now, on to more important things. Like dinner. Is seven thirty okay?"

"Yes."

   The cake lady had retreated, so Russ sidled closer, planted a light kiss on Tricia's lips. "Until later, then."

Angelica was
in a foul temper by the time Tricia arrived with two paper sacks full with groceries. "Look at
this
!" she growled, pointing to the opened bakery box piled high with cookies in the shape of daisies, and frosted in pastel shades, that sat on the Cookery's sales counter.

   "You went out and bought them after sending me all the way to Milford and the grocery store?" Tricia asked, irked.

   "No! Nikki Brimfield sent them over for
you
!"

   "Me?"

   "Yes. She heard about Zoë's murder and you finding her, and felt sorry for you. So she sent these over to cheer you up."

   "Why are you so angry?"

   "Because
I w
anted to bake. I want my customers to enjoy
my
food, not mass-produced
bakery
food. If I use a recipe from a book in stock, I've got a good shot of selling that book. But not with
bakery,
" she emphasized it like it was a dirty word, "items."

   "Oh, come on. Everybody says Nikki's goodies are to die for."

   "Yeah, well, I don't need a death in my store like you had in—" She cut herself off, looking horrified. "Oh, Trish, I didn't mean that . . . it's just, why does she have to sell cookbooks in her bakery?"

   "It's a patisserie," Tricia corrected.

   "I don't care what she calls it. She's a baker, not a bookseller."

   "Ange, Stoneham is known as a book town. Can you blame her for capitalizing on it?"

   "Yes! Would you feel so generous if another store sold mysteries?"

   Tricia didn't answer. Truthfully, she hadn't considered the equation from Angelica's perspective.

   Tricia eyed her sister for a long moment. "I think sending me cookies was an extremely nice gesture on her part, and I'm going to make sure I thank her for her kindness. And, by the way, if they were sent to
me
, why are they open on
your
sales counter?"