Bookmarked For Death

Eleven

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 Zoë’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’ 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 Zoë 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 Zoë 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 Zoë 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 Zoë’s agent think to send flowers? Tricia had met Zoë 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 Zoë’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 Zoë 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 Zoë 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, Zoë’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 Zoë, 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, Zoë never came right out and admitted she didn’t author those manuscripts. 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 Zoë 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.”

“And yet you represented those books.”

“They were good. I was new to the business, but I knew I could sell them. At the time that’s all I—and Zoë—cared about.”

“Would you have made a different decision today?”

He didn’t answer.

Tricia’s grip on the steering wheel tightened once more as she thought about everything he’d said. “Who did the rewrites on the last two novels?” She thought she knew the answer before he even spoke.

“Kimberly Peters.”

Aha!

“Kimberly has an English degree. She’s written a couple of novels—women’s fiction. I’ve read her work. It’s good. It’s publishable. But Zoë wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Why not?”

“She thought one author in the family was enough.”

Which would seem to be a motive for Kimberly to get rid of her dearly “beloved” aunt.

“Why didn’t you do the last two rewrites?”

“No time. Thanks to Zoë, my agency is one of the top twenty in New York. Kimberly offered to take over the rewrites, and she was good at it. She also took over Zoë’s correspondence. She approved the cover copy and worked with the publisher’s publicist. Zoë hated any kind of promotion, but Kimberly talked her into a Web site. She put the whole thing together—coordinated the updates. She answered the fan mail. She made Zoë at least appear to be accessible. Somehow she even convinced Zoë to go on tour for the last book, coaching her all the way.”

“Kimberly did all that for Zoë, and then the woman more or less disinherited her?”

“Zoë was not a logical woman. She rarely asked me for advice.”

“Kimberly said that until recently you were named the executor of Zoë’s will. Did you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why she changed her mind?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It’s none of your business.”

Touché. Time to try another tack.

“You knew there’d be no more Jess and Addie Forever novels. What’s to stop you from helping Kimberly get published now?”

He exhaled loudly. “While Zoë was alive, it made sense to placate her. I now represent her estate. Those books will sell for another five, maybe ten, years. It wasn’t like I totally ignored Kimberly’s aspirations. I gave her a few of my colleagues’ names, but I don’t think she’s yet found representation.”

“I take it that you haven’t spoken to Kimberly about her own manuscripts since Zoë died?”

He shook his head. “She did phone me, but that subject didn’t come up.”

“Would you consider representing her now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“She’ll be at the dedication tomorrow. I’m sure you two will have a lot to talk about.”

“Possibly.”

They rode in silence for a good five minutes before Hamilton spoke again. “Ms. Miles—”

“Tricia,” she insisted.

“Tricia, please don’t talk about this to anyone. It would be—”

“Bad for business?”

“As you said, Zoë’s dead. What good would it do to drag her name through the mud?”

“I’ll make you a deal. I won’t talk about this until after this weekend. It wouldn’t do to embarrass my colleagues in the Chamber of Commerce, but if the real author of those manuscripts killed Zoë, eventually it will come out. You do see that, don’t you?”

He shrugged, sounded resigned. “If it happens, it happens. I’ll deal with it later.”

By denying everything, Tricia thought bitterly. She pulled onto Route 101, steering toward Stoneham and the Brookview Inn. She’d be glad to be rid of Hamilton. And yet . . . for some reason, she didn’t think he could be as cold and calculating as he’d come across. Or, despite his part in concealing the truth about Zoë’s books, was she just hoping she’d see a better side of him?

Long minutes of silence later, she pulled into the Brookview’s drive and stopped the car by the inn’s welcoming front entrance. She popped the trunk as Hamilton got out, then retrieved his suitcase. He walked up to the driver’s door. Tricia hit a button, and her window slid down and out of sight.

“Thank you for the ride, Ms. Miles. And thank you for giving me some time to—” He hesitated. “To come up with a plausible explanation for my actions. I hope I can be as creative as the person who wrote Zoë’s books.” With that, he turned and walked up the steps and into the inn.

The Cookery had been closed for more than an hour by the time Tricia made it back to Main Street. Dodging the goose droppings, she ended up in front of her sister’s store. After the long day, she wanted nothing more than a glass of wine, a soak in a tub, and to escape into an Agatha Christie story. That wasn’t likely to happen. At least Bob’s car wasn’t parked at the curb, so she’d only have to contend with Angelica tonight.

She unlocked the door, trailed through the darkened store with only the dim security lamps overhead to light the way, and headed up the stairs. She got to the top and opened the door Angelica had left unlocked. “Hello!” she called.

“In the kitchen,” came Angelica’s muted voice.

The patter of little paws sounded, and before Tricia could hang up her coat, Miss Marple scolded her, at the same time rubbing her head against Tricia’s legs. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you all day, Miss Marple. You must have been terribly lonely,” Tricia said, and scooped up the cat, which purred loudly, fiercely nuzzling Tricia’s neck.

Tricia put the cat down and headed to the kitchen.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Angelica said, looking up from the stove, where she stirred some heavenly smelling concoction.

“That cat has done nothing but make a pest of herself since I came up an hour ago.”

“Did you feed her?”

“That’s not my job.”

Tricia sighed, grabbed the empty and well-licked food bowl, and took it to the sink to wash. Miss Marple kept rubbing against her slacks, which were soon coated in cat hair. She selected a can of tuna in sauce, supplemented the wet with some dry food, and set it on the floor. Miss Marple dug in gratefully. Tricia rinsed and refilled the water bowl before collapsing onto one of the kitchen stools.

“You look pooped. Ready to talk?” Angelica asked eagerly.

“You bet. More than that, though, I’m starved.”

Angelica abandoned her spoon, took three steps and opened the fridge, grabbed a plate and peeled off the cling wrap before setting it on the island in front of Tricia. “I whipped these up yesterday afternoon in the store. Had a few left over and saved you some. They went over real well. Sold seven books on hors d’oeuvres because of them.”

Tricia wrinkled her nose. “Ginny said she got sick eating them.”

“Oh, don’t be absurd. Nobody else did, and believe me, if any of my customers had gotten sick, I’d have heard. People love to sue. I use only fresh ingredients, and you know how meticulously clean I keep my workspace. I’m not afraid to use my digital thermometer, either.”

No doubt about it, Angelica was a hygiene hound, and was especially careful not to cross-contaminate raw with cooked foods.

“Besides,” Angelica said loftily, “I ate six of them for lunch, and they were delicious.”

They did look appetizing, and Tricia was hungry. Throwing caution to the wind, she studied the delightful little morsels before her, choosing a baguette slice topped with cheese and what looked like homemade salsa. She took a tentative bite. Good, but probably needed time for the cheese to warm up to room temperature to truly be appreciated.

“What are you making? It smells wonderful.”

“Tlalpeno soup. Got the recipe on a trip Drew,” her ex-husband, “and I made to Mexico City about three years back. You do like avocados, don’t you?”

“Definitely.”

Angelica grabbed another glass from the cupboard and poured Tricia wine from the opened bottle of Chardonnay, then handed it to her. “Margaritas would be a better choice, but I ran out of lime juice. So tell me all about Zoë’s agent.” Angelica wasn’t above listening to gossip, and Tricia figured she could use a sounding board.

She took a sip, and sighed, letting herself relax for the first time in hours. “I had an interesting conversation with Mr. Artemus Hamilton.”

Angelica resumed her position at the stove. “And?” she asked eagerly. “What’s he like? Is he looking for new clients?”

Tricia blinked, taken aback by the question. “I didn’t ask. He did, however, admit that Zoë Carter never wrote her bestsellers.”

Angelica snorted. “Yeah, and Santa comes down my chimney every Christmas Eve.”

“I’m serious, Ange. I’ve been hearing rumors, and her agent confirmed it.”

“But that’s ridiculous.”

“I talked to Zoë’s next-door neighbor, the Stoneham librarian, and even Zoë’s old English teacher. None of them ever believed she wrote the books.”

“Then why didn’t someone say something before now?”

“No one had proof.”

“So what are you saying, that the real author stepped up and killed Zoë?”

Tricia nodded.

“But why would the author wait until now? The first book was published over a decade ago. I know. I bought it. In fact, I still have it.” She waved a hand toward the stacks of unopened boxes that still littered her adjoining living room. “Somewhere in all this mess.”

“I talked to Kimberly about it. She wasn’t the author, but she knew Zoë didn’t write them, either. Kimberly has an English degree and supposedly has some writing ability. Somehow she got Zoë to allow her to do the rewrites on the last few books. It’s possible she could’ve felt at least a bit of ownership after she started doing that and approving the cover copy, et cetera.”

“But who did write the novels?” Angelica asked.

Tricia shrugged. “We may never know. And speaking of books . . . why are you so interested in Artemus Hamilton?”

“Me?” Angelica said, sounding anything but innocent. “Yes. Every time I mention him, you glow like a light-bulb. Come on, level with me.”

Angelica bit her lip, looking thoughtful. “If I tell you, do you promise you won’t make fun of me?”

Tricia sighed. “I promise.”

Angelica turned to her pantry, opened the door, and took out a folding metal step stool. Setting it in front of the refrigerator, she stepped up to open the cabinet over the appliance. From it, she withdrew a sheaf of papers. She stepped down, closed the distance between them, and handed it to Tricia.

“Easy-Does-It Cooking,” she read, “by Angelica Miles.”

She looked up at her sister. “You’ve written a cookbook?”

Angelica nodded. “Actually, I’ve written three. This is my latest.”

Tricia flipped through the pages, noting the document wasn’t formatted in accepted manuscript style. “What are you going to do with it?”

She shrugged. “I thought I might offer it to Mr. Hamilton. I kind of looked at his firm’s Web site. Apparently they do take nonfiction. Now I just need an introduction to him.”

Tricia handed back the papers. “Don’t look at me.”

Angelica frowned. “Why not? You did him a favor by driving him to the Brookview. He owes you.”

“May I remind you, we did not part on happy terms. And”—she looked at the manuscript in her sister’s hands—“you can’t submit something like that without doing the upfront research.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve been researching cooking my whole life. And during the past five months, when I’ve been working ten-hour days, I realized that what the world needs is recipes for delicious, easy, and quick-to make dinners.”

“Ange, have you looked at the bookshelves in your own store? There are scores of cookbooks just like that already in print.”

Angelica shook her head. “Not like mine.”

“And it’s not even properly formatted,” Tricia pointed out.

“Oh, who cares about that? The quality will shine through.”

“Fine. Find out the hard way. But one more thing: if I’ve learned anything talking to authors, there’s nothing worse than shoving your manuscript at an agent or editor at an inappropriate time. It’s the kiss of death.”

“Oh, what do you know?” Angelica said, and held the pages to her chest as though they were a babe in diapers. “You’ll see. I’m going to sell my cookbooks. I’ll be fabulously successful, maybe even land my own TV show like Rachael Ray or Paula Deen. Lord knows I’ve got the personality.”

And the ego, too.

“Fine. Don’t listen to me.” Tricia sniffed the air. “But, oh fabulous sister chef of mine, I think you’ll find your soup is scorched.”

Angelica dropped the manuscript on the counter as though it were on fire, and rushed to the stove. Grabbing the spoon, she stirred the pot, her expression souring. She took a taste. “Oh, no,” she wailed. “My lovely, lovely soup.”

Tricia shook her head, got up, and walked over to pick up the phone. “Looks like it’s pizza again, after all.”