Bookmarked For Death (Berkley Prime Crime Mysteries) Page 13

  Miss Marple jumped up, landing on Tricia's lap, startling her, and nuzzled Tricia's hand for attention.

  "Looks like Nikki didn't get the loan for the patisserie, and she is absolutely devastated. I've been talking to a bunch of the Tuesday Night Book Club gals, and we want to do something to cheer her up. We're thinking of going to brunch on Sunday at the Bookshelf Diner. Ten o'clock sharp. I know it would mean a lot to Nikki if you could be there, too. Give me a call to let me know if you can make it. Bye!"

  Miss Marple wiped her damp gray nose across the back of Tricia's hand, demanding more of her attention. "You're not the only unhappy person on the planet, you know," Tricia chided, but Miss Marple was seldom interested in the goings-on in the world at large if they did not directly apply to her.

  Tricia absently rubbed the cat's head. She actually did feel sorry for Kimberly. She felt sorry for Nikki, and despite the fact that Zoe might have misrepresented someone else's work as her own, Tricia still felt a pang of pity for the woman. Had Zoe accomplished so little of worth in her own life that she felt no qualms at passing off another's work as her own? At least at first. The fact that she had rebuffed the attention best-sellerdom could have afforded her, lived rather frugally, and left the majority of her estate to charity could attest that she had never felt entirely comfortable with the whole deception.

  And now she was dead at another's hands.

  "You wouldn't want to be the killer's next victim," Stella Kraft had told Tricia the day before.

  No, she wouldn't. And yet someone she'd spoken to-- perhaps someone she knew well--had a reason for killing Zoe Carter. And now that Zoe was gone, there was a chance the killer would go to ground and never be discovered.

  Over the years more than one friend or acquaintance had asked Tricia why she was so enamored of the mystery genre. How could she actually enjoy stories that celebrated violent death? They had it all wrong. The books didn't celebrate death, but triumph for justice. Too often real-life villains got away with murder, but in fiction, justice was usually assured.

  Sometimes she wished life better imitated art.

  e l e v e n

  Friday dawned cold and wet. Typical April weather. And, Tricia reminded herself, rain was good for retail--it brought out shoppers. Too bad none of the shoppers would be visiting her store. No sooner had Tricia delivered the bad news to Angelica that Mr. Everett would be absent for the day, than her cell phone rang.

  "Tricia, it's Ginny." Her voice sounded strained.

  "Are you okay?" Tricia asked.

  "No. I'm calling in sick." This troubled Tricia. Ginny never called in sick, especially now, when she so desperately needed the money for home repairs.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Food poisoning, I think. Your sister made appetizers yesterday, and I had quite a few."

  "Are you sure that's what made you sick?"

  "I didn't have anything else all day, and I spent most of the night huddled in the bathroom with cramps and diarrhea."

  Tricia winced. More information than she wanted to know.

  "Would you tell Angelica I'll be in this afternoon if I can? I really hate to lose a couple of hours' pay, but I think it's better if I stay home, at least for the morning."

  "I agree. Take care, now."

  "Thanks, Tricia."

  Tricia hung up the phone. With Mr. Everett out for the day, and now Ginny, Angelica would be depending on Tricia to help out at the Cookery. That meant there'd be no extended breaks to look into Zoe's death. No chance to get away at all.

  It was going to be a very long day.

  Try as she might, Tricia's heart was not into selling cookbooks. Although the bulk of her own stock favored classic mystery, Tricia had been on a "cozy mystery" kick of late. Not for the first time she found herself telling Angelica's epicurean-minded customers about Diane Mott Davidson's Goldy Schulz culinary mystery series. Did Angelica's customers like chocolate? Then a Joanna Carl mystery was just the ticket. She made a beeline for a woman checking out Martha Stewart's Homekeeping Handbook to make a pitch for a Barbara Colley's "squeaky clean, Charlotte LaRue" mystery series.

  Angelica did not approve, and more than once interrupted one of Tricia's pitches. "Will you stop trying to sell things I can't supply?" she hissed. "Heck, you can't even supply them, since you sell mostly vintage stock."

  "I know, but your customers would really enjoy those books. It wouldn't hurt you to start stocking them, either-- especially since I don't."

  "Don't even go there," Angelica said, straightening up so that she stood her full two inches taller than Tricia.

  The Cookery's door opened, and Frannie Armstrong

  strode in. "Tricia!" She waved and charged forward. "I'm glad I found you. You're the last person on my list."

  "List?" Tricia repeated.

  "For the flowers."

  Tricia stared at her, uncomprehending.

  "For Zoe Carter's memorial service tomorrow. Or will Haven't Got a Clue be sending its own floral arrangement?"

  Ginny had mentioned something about it the day before. "To tell you the truth, I hadn't thought about it."

  Frannie blinked, obviously startled by this gaffe. "Oh."

  "Is the Chamber providing flowers?" Tricia asked.

  "Of course. They've ordered a beautiful Victorian mourning wreath that exactly duplicates the one Zoe wrote about in Forever Gone for Addie's beloved father, who died so tragically."

  "Of course," Tricia echoed. "Who came up with that idea?" Surely not Bob. For all he'd done to bring the rare and antiquarian booksellers to Stoneham, she doubted he'd ever picked up a book to read for pleasure.

  "Me, silly," Frannie answered. "It was fresh in my mind, since I just reread the book a few weeks back in prep for reading the new book. I finished Forever Cherished just last night." She shook her head sadly. "To think of all that talent gone from the world."

  Or possibly still living among them--angry at Zoe for taking credit for work that was not her own. Angry enough to kill.

  "Would it look tacky if I only contributed to the group fund?" Tricia asked.

  "Not at all. In fact, two displays--one on either side of the statue--would give balance. Three wouldn't look as harmonious."

  Unless someone else sent flowers. Considering Kimberly's financial situation, Tricia doubted there'd be an offering bearing a ribbon with beloved aunt draped across a spray of gladiolas. Would Zoe's agent think to send flowers? Tricia had met Zoe exactly once--for a little over an hour--had barely spoken to her, and Frannie had offered the perfect out.

  What was she thinking? She could well afford to spring for flowers. It was the proper thing to do. And yet-- honoring someone who'd passed off another's work as her own just didn't set right with Tricia. So what if she didn't yet have proof? She believed it.

  "So what do you think?" Frannie said.

  "How's twenty dollars sound?" Tricia asked.

  Frannie's eyes lit up. "That's very generous. Thank you."

  "It's my pleasure."

  Angelica ambled up to join them.

  Frannie's gaze wandered around the Cookery. "My, you have done a beautiful job with this place."

  "Thank you," Angelica said. "Would you like a tour?"

  "Just a short one. I'm on my lunch break."

  Tricia retrieved her wallet and extracted a twenty-dollar bill. After her tour, Frannie left with it, plus two Tex-Mex cookbooks, a miniwhisk, a nutmeg grater, and a jar of jalapeno pepper jam.

  "Bye, Frannie," Angelica called as Frannie left the shop. She turned to her sister and grinned. "Feel free to invite your friends to my store any time."

  Ginny showed up for work about two o'clock, looking pale, but willing. Instead of putting in hours for Angelica, though, she spent the bulk of time helping Tricia with the plans for the statue dedication and book fair set for the next day. Angelica would not be participating, and kept complaining--loudly--that she would not be able to handle the usual expected crowd that a Saturday would produce
. Thank heaven Mr. Everett called to say he would return the next morning at nine forty-five sharp. With Ginny there to help Angelica, Tricia didn't have to

  feel guilty about making a call she already felt was long overdue.

  "Medical Examiner's office."

  "Yes, I'd like to speak to the medical examiner."

  "I can take a message. Your name--?"

  "No, I don't want to leave a message, I need to speak to someone in charge. My place of business was the scene of a crime. I've been shut down for days during the investigation. I need to know when I can reopen."

  "Please leave your name and number, and someone will get back to you."

  She did, but she didn't believe for a minute that anyone would.

  She tried another tack and called her lawyer, Roger Livingston. He was actually available, and said he'd personally call the ME's office.

  Tricia helped three customers look for books, and had rung up another two sales by the time her cell phone interrupted her. She glanced at the number on the tiny screen. "Ginny, can you finish up here? I need to take this call."

  Ginny manned the cash register and Tricia stepped behind a shelf of books.

  "Tricia, it's Roger Livingston."

  "Thanks for getting back to me so soon, Roger. Good news or bad?"

  "Good. I called in a favor and got to speak right to the medical examiner. You were right. His office finished with your store yesterday, and so have the county's crime scene investigators. He said there's no reason you weren't informed and allowed to reopen."

  "I knew it. I knew Wendy Adams was just being ornery. She hates me."

  "I can't comment on that, but I've got a call in to her office. It's getting late. We may not get satisfaction today, but I'll follow up and make sure something happens by tomorrow."

  "Thanks, Roger, you're the best lawyer in the world."

  "That's true," he said, and she could picture him smiling. "And you'll receive my bill in the mail."

  It would be well worth it to reopen the door to Haven't Got a Clue and be back in business.

  A much happier Tricia kept an eye on the clock, and at five fifteen announced she needed to leave to pick up Zoe's literary agent at the airport.

  "Why don't you bring him back here for dinner?" Angelica said.

  "What for?"

  "It doesn't seem very friendly just dumping him off at the inn."

  "I'm not his friend," Tricia reminded her. "I'm doing him a favor."

  "Well, you could be his friend. I mean, you're in the book business."

  "Yes, but I'm a bookseller, not an author."

  "You could be--you have many talents. And besides, I think we should cultivate friendships with people in the publishing world. It'll be good for business in general."

  Tricia studied her sister's innocent expression. Something was going on--something Angelica wasn't being open about. A quick glance at the clock told Tricia she didn't have time to pursue it just then.

  The drive to the Manchester-Boston Regional Airport took less time than Tricia anticipated, and a glance at the arrivals screen informed her that Hamilton's plane was delayed. She browsed the airport bookstore with a judgmental eye, eventually bought the first book in Sheila Connolly's Orchard series, and settled down for a peaceful read, grateful to escape the stress she felt inside the Cookery. Half an hour later, a glance at her watch told her she'd better head for the security checkpoint and the arriving passengers. She pulled out the paper sign bearing Artemus Hamilton's name that she'd made earlier, and stood searching the faces for one she wasn't confident she'd recognize.

  The crowd had pretty much thinned when a short, chunky, balding man dressed in a black turtleneck, suit jacket, and dark slacks strode toward her, his raincoat neatly folded over one arm, a briefcase in the same hand. "Ms. Miles?"

  Tricia held out her hand. "Nice to meet you, again, Mr. Hamilton." They shook on it, his grip firm but not crushing.

  "Can you direct me to the baggage claim? I would've preferred to travel lighter, but at least I was able to read most of a manuscript during my flight."

  "A mystery?" Tricia asked eagerly.

  He shook his head. "Sorry. It's a diet book. I really don't handle that much mystery."

  "Then why--?"

  "Was Zoe Carter my client?" he finished. He shrugged. "She had a great book that transcended the genre, and I felt I could place it for her."

  Evasive, but it was an answer.

  "The baggage claim?" he reminded her.

  "Follow me. While you wait for your bag, I'll bring the car around and meet you out front. It's a white Lexus."

  Ten minutes later, Tricia pulled up to the curb, popped the trunk button, and Hamilton loaded his suitcase into it. It seemed a big bag for just an overnight stay. He climbed into the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt as Tricia eased the car back into the airport traffic.

  "How far is it to Stoneham?" he asked.

  "About twenty-five miles. It only takes about half an hour to get there."

  He nodded, taking in what scenery was discernible in the rapidly fading light.

  Conversation was light, and Tricia waited until they were off the airport property and well on their way toward Stoneham before voicing the question that had been on her mind for the past two days. Hamilton was a captive audience, and if he refused to answer, it could be a very long thirty-minute drive to Stoneham.

  "Mr. Hamilton--"

  "Call me Artie," he insisted good-naturedly.

  Tricia forced a smile. "Artie, there's speculation around Stoneham that Zoe never wrote any of her books." She risked a glance at her passenger, whose gaze had turned stony.

  "Why would anyone even think--let alone voice--that, especially now that she's passed on?" he asked. His voice had gone cold, too.

  Tricia was glad to turn her gaze back to the road ahead of them. "Her background. Her lack of interest in fiction. Her lack of interest in much of anything, really." She risked a furtive glance at the man, but he'd turned away, and was staring out the passenger window.

  "It would be--" He paused. "--disrespectful of me to even dignify that question with an answer."

  "Mr. Hamilton," she tried again, trying to sound as respectful as possible, "as you pointed out, Zoe's dead. Whoever wrote those books probably killed her. He--or she--deserves the credit. And they--him or her--deserve to pay for the crime as well."

  He sighed, still refusing to answer.

  "If you don't know who wrote them, do you know who did the rewrites?"

  "Rewrites?" he repeated dully.

  "Yes. I've never heard of an editor who accepted a manuscript without making a few single-spaced pages of editorial suggestions."

  "You've worked in publishing?" he asked, sidestepping the question.

  "No, but I've talked to enough authors to gain a good deal of insight into the process."

  Hamilton sighed, still refusing to meet her gaze.

  She tried again. "Kimberly Peters told me the original manuscripts were written on an old manual typewriter. She never actually saw her aunt write the books." Okay, that was stretching the truth a bit, but it might be what it took to get answers. "Kimberly said she keyboarded some of the manuscripts into a computer."

  Hamilton still said nothing.

  "She never actually called the books her aunt's, always referring to them as 'the manuscripts.' Like they were separate entities. Not really a part of Zoe, but something foreign. Did you ever have that same feeling?"

  Hamilton seemed to squirm in his seat. He didn't answer.

  Tricia's hands tightened on the steering wheel, and the silence went on for more than a minute, until she thought she might want to scream from the almost palpable tension. Hamilton sighed again. "I did the rewrites on the first three novels," he admitted, voice low, almost embarrassed.

  Trisha exhaled a whoosh of air, finally able to breathe once again.

  "Mind you, Zoe never came right out and admitted she didn't author those manuscrip
ts. She just made it clear that she was not open to rewrites or promotion."

  "So you took them on because they were almost good enough for publication?"

  He nodded. "Just reading her correspondence convinced me Zoe wouldn't know a verb from an adjective. She couldn't talk about the research necessary to pull off a historical novel. She had no knowledge of punctuation."