Bookmarked For Death

Twelve

True to his word, Mr. Everett was at the Cookery before opening on Saturday morning, just as Ginny and Tricia packed up the last of the books to take to Stoneham Square and the statue dedication. Tricia had questions for Mr. Everett, but this wasn’t the time to voice them all. Perhaps later in the afternoon an opportunity would arise.

Still, she drew him aside to ask the most important one. “How did it go with Sheriff Adams?”

“She is not a very nice woman. I was glad Mr. Livingston did most of the talking; otherwise, I’m sure I’d be staring at the walls of a jail cell right now.”

“Thank heavens for good legal counsel,” Tricia agreed.

“There’s something else we need to discuss, Mr. Everett.”

“Tricia, can you help me with these boxes?” Ginny called.

“Just a second.” She turned back to Mr. Everett. “We’ll talk later.”

He nodded, and headed for the back of the shop to stow his coat.

Tricia helped Ginny stack the boxes on two of the Cookery’s dollies.

“I think I should go to the dedication,” Angelica said, as she watched Mr. Everett don his yellow Cookery apron.

“You can’t leave the store,” Tricia said, putting on her coat.

“Why not? Mr. Everett is here to take care of things. And anyway, it’s likely most of the village, and a lot of the tourists, will be at the square. The Cookery might not have any customers, anyway.”

“Not if the weatherman is correct. He’s predicting a high of only forty-six degrees today. That might just drive a bunch of the tourists into your toasty warm shop.”

“I heard a couple of TV stations will be covering the dedication,” Ginny said, and laughed. “It must be a slow weekend for news.”

Angelica went behind her sales counter, came back with a big brown envelope, and handed it to Tricia. “Here, if you see Mr. Hamilton, will you give him this?”

Tricia handed the package right back to her. “I know what this is, and I already told you, the answer is no.”

“What’s in the package?” Ginny asked, curious.

“None of your business,” Angelica snapped. She turned back to her sister. “Tricia, please? I’ll make you a cheesecake—from scratch.”

“I don’t like cheesecake.” Tricia pulled her gloves from the pockets of her jacket. “We’ll tell you all about the dedication afterward.”

“I can’t wait,” Angelica said, sarcastically.

Tricia tipped back her dolly of books and headed for the front door. “We’ll probably be back about five, after striking the set.”

“It’s not showbiz,” Angelica drawled.

“It is to me,” Tricia said, and continued to the door, which Ginny opened for her. She’d already parked her car at the curb and had loaded the borrowed cash register and some boxes of books. Too bad all of it was new stock. Mystery lovers who traveled to Stoneham were expecting to find some of their long-out-of-print favorites. Curse Sheriff Adams and her stubbornness.

The atmosphere in the village square was more like that of a circus than a cemetery, considering the event had morphed from a celebration into a memorial service. As many as twenty tents lined the outside of the square, decked out in balloons and colorful wind socks madly waving in the brisk wind, while the aroma of fried dough, hot dogs, and kettle corn filled the air. Potential customers were already milling about as the vendors set up their wares.

Fifteen or twenty geese stood by, eyeing the crowd from the edges of the park’s retention pond. Despite the do not feed the geese signs posted all around, these birds knew that the presence of people often equaled food, and they looked ready to pounce should it appear.

Tricia stood at the opening of her three-sided tent. A gale blew through the canvas walls, threatening to make a box kite out of the whole contraption. Her generic “Thank You” plastic bags had to be weighted down with rocks Ginny found in one of the small park’s gardens.

“Are you sorry you came?” Tricia asked.

Ginny had wrapped her arms around herself, the sleeves of her parka drawn over her fingers, her shoulders hunched until they touched the edges of the watch cap that covered her head and ears. She stamped her feet on the cold, damp earth. “I’d still rather be here, freezing off my behind, than working at the Cookery. I’m sorry to say I don’t feel one bit guilty leaving Angelica and Mr. Everett alone together.”

Tricia stifled a smile.

“Knock-knock. Anybody home?” Nikki Brimfield stood outside the tent, holding a white cardboard cake box in one hand and a grocery bag and the handle of an airpot coffee carafe in the other. “Thought you guys could use a bit of warming up.”

“Hooray!” Ginny cheered, and turned to make room on one of the tables.

“I stopped at the store first, hoping you’d be open again by now. Then I went by the Cookery and Angelica said I’d find you here. Boy, she was grumpy.”

Tricia ignored the last comment, but addressed the first. “We’d kill for hot coffee now, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah,” Ginny echoed.

Nikki set the box and carafe on the table, handing the grocery bag to Ginny. She opened the box, revealing a white-frosted cake with a large splotch of red.

“Oh,” Tricia said, afraid her lack of enthusiasm would be taken the wrong way.

Nikki laughed. “You’re not seeing it complete,” she said and dismantled two sides of the box to reveal the entire cake. “There’s a fake knife in the bag, Ginny. Want to hand it to me?”

Ginny did as she was told. Nikki removed a cardboard sheath and plunged the plastic carving knife into the center of the cake. Now the splotch of red made perfect sense: it represented a river of pseudo blood puddled around the knife and dripping down the sides. “It’s a red velvet cake. It was my mom’s recipe. I thought you might need some comfort food.”

Why did everyone seem to make wrong assumptions about Tricia’s definition of comfort food? So far they’d pretty much missed the mark. Couldn’t they have just asked?

“That was thoughtful of you, Nikki. Thank you,” Tricia said, trying to sound keen. Had Nikki forgotten it was less than a year ago that Tricia had seen a body with a knife in its back? The sight of the cake made the memory of that terrible evening all the more vivid.

“Now don’t you go sharing that,” Nikki cautioned, “it’s just for you, Tricia.” She indicated the bag. “I brought a couple of coconut cupcakes for you, Ginny.”

“Thanks. They’re my favorite.”

“I really appreciate the gesture,” Tricia said, taking the knife from the cake and shoving the box under one of the tables and out of sight.

“I feel so bad about everything that’s happened this week,” Nikki said. “Baking is my way of . . . well, coping.”

“Has something else bad happened?” Tricia asked.

Nikki frowned. “Didn’t you hear? The bank loan didn’t go through. Apparently I don’t have enough business acumen or assets or . . . anything.”

Oh, yes, Frannie had mentioned the loan.

“But you have all that experience. You’ve run the patisserie for a couple of years, and you’re a certified pastry chef trained in Paris,” Ginny put in.

“I know. But it isn’t good enough for the Bank of Stoneham.”

She let out a loud sigh, and for a moment Tricia thought Nikki might cry. But then she straightened, throwing back her shoulders. “I’m not giving up. I’ve already signed up for an online course on writing a business plan. I just hope Homer doesn’t find another buyer before I can get my financing together.”

“I’ll keep crossing my fingers for you,” Tricia said.

Nikki glanced at her watch. “Oh, I’ve got just enough time to go watch the unveiling. Are you going?”

Tricia shook her head. “We’ve got to stay here, not that we’ve been inundated with customers so far. I’m hoping that after the unveiling we’ll see a few more sales.”

“Okay,” Nikki said, and turned to go.

“Oh, go ahead, Tricia,” Ginny encouraged. “I can certainly handle things here. And I’m not all that interested in looking at a big old hunk of rock with a carved book on it, anyway.”

“Come on, Tricia, it’ll be fun,” Nikki chided.

Fun? To go to a memorial service? Still, Tricia looked hopefully at Ginny. “Well, if you really don’t mind.”

“Go ahead,” Ginny said, and took a Styrofoam cup from the bag Nikki had provided, then pumped coffee from the carafe.

Tricia removed her Cookery apron, stowing it under one of the tables. “Let’s go!”

They left the vendor area circling the village square and headed for the center, where the gazebo sat amid a sea of short, stubby grass, still brown from its winter dormancy. This was no backyard variety structure, but a grand, freestanding granite edifice, its copper roof a mellow green with age. Mere feet away stood the short, tarp-shrouded statue, looking lumpy and ugly against such a stately pavilion. Bob had done a good job, ensuring that the sidewalk and grass surrounding the monument were devoid of goose droppings, although telltale stains still marred what had recently been pristine concrete.

A crowd had already gathered around the monument. Tricia recognized members of Haven’t Got a Clue’s Tuesday Night Book Club in the crowd, as well as Artemus Hamilton, standing with a subdued Kimberly Peters. She wore the same wrinkled suit she’d had on at the signing. Didn’t she know how to use an iron? Tricia recognized several selectmen, a couple of the other bookstore owners, and Chamber members, who also stood by. Lois Kerr and Stella Kraft were standing with a knot of older ladies who’d gathered to one side.

Sheriff Adams and one of her deputies stood with a number of selectmen who’d shown up for the event—no doubt invited by the Chamber to give the ceremony some semblance of official sanction. Clipboard in hand, Frannie Armstrong flitted about the front of the gazebo, checking the names against her master list of invitees.

Among the missing was Grace Harris, not that Tricia had really expected Mr. Everett’s close friend to attend without him. Or was there a reason she didn’t want to be seen at Zoë’s memorial service? Another angle Tricia would have to investigate.

News cameramen and still photographers had gathered to the left of the monument. Portia McAlister was also among them and, as a member of the press, so was Russ, his Nikon dangling from his neck, a steno pad clutched in his left hand. The rope, which earlier had been securely tied around the white canvas at the bottom of the monument, had already been removed.

Bob looked dapper, if partially frozen, in a kelly green sport coat that he always wore while showing real estate. The crowd quieted as he stepped up to the microphone, tapped it, then blew on it. “Testing, testing.” Apparently satisfied with the sound quality, he consulted his notes, then raised his gaze to stare directly into the News Team Ten’s video camera. Tricia squinted. Had he had his teeth whitened since the last time she’d seen him?

“It is with great pride and affection that Stoneham’s Chamber of Commerce dedicates this statue to one of our own, New York Times best-selling author Zoë Carter, who helped bring fame to our little village. We hope Stoneham will remain a mecca to her millions of fans for generations to come.” His words were greeted with a smattering of polite applause.

“Too bad Angelica is missing this,” Nikki whispered, and giggled. “She might even swoon, seeing Bob in his green jacket.”

“Shhh!” Tricia admonished.

“We had hoped Ms. Carter’s niece,” Bob nodded toward Kimberly, “might speak, but naturally she’s quite distraught at her loss.”

As though on cue, Kimberly dabbed a tissue at her dry eyes.

“Is there anyone here who’d like to offer a fond memory or words of praise for Zoë?” Bob cleared his throat, looking hopefully at the assembled audience, but no one stepped forward. “Mr. Hamilton?” Bob implored.

All eyes turned toward the literary agent, who blushed.

“Go on,” Kimberly mouthed, and gave him a nudge.

A reluctant Hamilton stepped up to the microphone. “Uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “Uh, Zoë Carter was my very first client.” His gaze wandered the crowd, lighting on Tricia. He frowned, no doubt remembering their conversation the night before. He looked away. “Zoë, uh, never missed a deadline. The world is a . . . a different place without her.”

Different? That’s all he could come up with? Perhaps he was afraid to gush, leery of what the press might say about him when the truth about Zoë came to light.

He nodded at those assembled and stepped away from the microphone.

“Thank you,” Bob said to the sound of weak applause.

“Anyone else?”

Not a soul stepped forward.

“Anyone?” he begged.

As if on queue, the air was broken by the sound of flapping wings and the fierce honking of Canada geese as a portion of the flock took flight from the pond, making a low pass over the crowd, who seemed to duck as one.

When the cacophony receded, Bob cleared his throat, stepped away from the microphone, and moved over to the monument. He grasped the tarp with both hands and yanked dramatically. The wind caught the canvas, whipping it into the air like a sail. The crowd backed off as it came straight at them. Nikki gasped, and for a moment Tricia thought she might have been injured, but she stared straight ahead, her mouth open in astonishment. Tricia turned, and immediately her expression mirrored Nikki’s. The carving of the opened book had been shattered into several large chunks. Below, scarlet spray paint marred the brilliant white marble base, spelling out the word THIEF!