Bookmarked For Death

Twenty

The ambience at La Parisienne reflected its cuisine, from its textured plaster walls to its gilt mirrors and the shiny copper-bottomed pans that hung as decoration. Angelica had pronounced the coq au vin adequate, but assured Tricia and Russ that in her own hands it would’ve been magnificent. And, in fact, it would make a wonderful addition to her European Epicurean manuscript. Russ was about to ask her to explain when Tricia gave him a warning look. He kept quiet.

“Let’s face it, I missed my calling,” Angelica said, as she swirled the last of her pinot noir in her glass and Russ dipped into his wallet to pay for the dinner. “I should’ve opened a restaurant instead of a cookbook store. It sure would’ve been a lot easier.”

“On whom?” Tricia asked, thinking about her sister’s continuing employee problems. “And what’s going to happen at your store tomorrow? You’re still short staffed.”

“Frannie said she’d put out the word that I need help. She has a lot of contacts over at the Chamber of Commerce, you know.”

No doubt about that.

“Of course, if you don’t need Ginny—” Angelica hinted.

“I don’t even know if she’s coming in tomorrow. It depends on how Brian’s doing and if she feels she can leave him.”

Angelica waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, what’s a little food poisoning?”

“I’m sure you’d feel differently if it was your intestines tied in knots,” Tricia said.

“Let’s change the subject,” Russ said. “Like what are you going to do to protect yourself, Tricia?”

She stared at him, surprised. “From whom?”

“Exactly,” Angelica quipped.

“Come and stay with me,” he said.

Angelica shook her head. “Nope. It’s too far from her shop. And don’t forget about your cat, Trish. You can stay with me. I loved having you this past week. It was just like being back in college with a roomie.”

“Sorry to disappoint you both, but I have my own home, and I have a perfectly good security system. If somebody breaks in downstairs, they’ve got to come up three flights. I have a sturdy door in between, and a cell phone if my land-line goes dead.”

“You can’t count on someone having a coronary trudging up those three flights. And remember, Kimberly was bludgeoned with a sledgehammer. That could knock down a door, no matter how sturdy,” Russ said.

“You’re not going to frighten or bully me into anything. Either of you.”

Angelica sighed and turned her attention to Russ. “Doesn’t she sound like the heroine in a bad movie or novel? You know, the stupid character—usually a woman—who goes into a darkened basement or attic when there’s a serial killer on the loose?”

“May I remind you that I have no basement, and whoever killed Zoe is not a serial killer?”

“Unless Kimberly dies,” Russ pointed out.

For a second—and only a second—Russ’s argument made sense. “But Artemus said Kimberly will recover. I have faith in the doctors at Southern New Hampshire Medical Center to pull her through, and in no time she’ll be her smiling self again.” She cringed. Kimberly rarely smiled, and now with no front teeth, she’d be even less apt to flash her gums.

“There’s no argument. If you won’t come stay with me, I’m going to stay with you.” Angelica patted her massive purse. “I just happen to have brought along my toothbrush and nightie. I’m all set.”

“But—”

“Good,” Russ said. “Then it’s all settled.”

“It’s not settled.”

“Would you prefer we drop you off at a motel here in Nashua to stay the night?” Russ asked.

“Oh, come on, guys, you’re paranoid—both of you.”

“And you ought to be,” Angelica said.

Tricia thought about how frightened she’d been when the car had forced them off the road. Was she being foolish?

“Okay, Ange, you can stay with me. But only for tonight.”

Angelica eyed Russ. “We’ll see.”

A lot had changed in the six months since Angelica had come to live in Stoneham. The biggest change, of course, had been in Tricia herself. They’d returned from Nashua and Angelica had made herself comfortable on Tricia’s couch. They’d opened a bottle of wine, and Miss Marple had deigned to join them, even contemplating sitting on Angelica’s lap, which, upon further reflection, she decided not to do.

For more than an hour the sisters had chatted and laughed, sticking to subjects that did not include murder, cookbook manuscripts, or personal criticisms. It occurred to Tricia that somewhere between their squabbles and disagreements, the two women had added something else to their ofttimes troubled relationship: they’d become friends.

Angelica acquiesced to sleeping on the comfortable leather couch, and peace reigned during the night.

Tricia awoke the next morning to the heavenly aromas of coffee and bacon coming from her kitchen. She found Angelica standing over the stove, a dishtowel safety pinned to her nightgown, and Miss Marple sitting smartly at her feet, licking her chops.

“Did you know your cat likes bacon?” she asked.

“Where did you find bacon?”

“In the back of your freezer. You really should clean it out more often, Trish. This meat was on the verge of freezer burn.”

“I don’t cook very often,” she defended herself.

“Excuse me; you don’t cook at all.”

Tricia grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured herself a cup of coffee. “I’ve been thinking about that. I think I’d like to take you up on your offer to teach me a few simple things. Just so I could have Russ over now and then and not have to rely on Angelo’s Pizzeria or spaghetti sauce from a jar.”

Angelica paused in turning the crispy slices, her mouth dropping open. “You want me to—”

Words seemed to fail her.

“If you don’t mind. Maybe on a Sunday morning—before we have to open our stores.”

Angelica’s eyes began to fill. “I’d love that,” she managed, turned away, and cleared her throat. “And as a start, I could let you read my cooking manuscripts—use you as my guinea pig.”

Tricia set her cup down, not bothering to hide the smile that touched her lips. “Sure thing. In the meantime, how about I get the toaster out? I’ve already perfected the recipe for toast.”

She’d just plugged it in and taken bread from the fridge when the phone rang. “Tricia?” Portia McAlister asked.

“I didn’t give you this number.”

“I’m not a reporter for nothing,” she said. “Look, I thought you said you’d keep me in the loop.”

“Loop?” Tricia asked, gazing into the toaster to check on the toast’s progress.

“That incident last night. You know, the one that dented your car and nearly did the same to you and your sister.”

“How did you find out about that?”

“Uh-uh. I told you, I protect my sources.”

The police report wasn’t supposed to be available until at least Tuesday. Could it have been the tow truck driver from the Stoneham Garage who’d squealed?

It didn’t matter.

“We weren’t hurt, just shaken up.”

“Where were you going at the time?”

“Is this off the record?”

“Maybe.”

Did that matter, either?

“We were on our way to visit Kimberly Peters at the hospital in Nashua.”

“Did she say anything enlightening? I can’t get to her, and her fiancé won’t talk to me.”

That snippet of information made Tricia smile. “No. She wasn’t awake when we got there, so we went out to dinner. Would you like to know what we ordered?”

“That won’t be necessary.” The line went quiet for long seconds. “I can still use this,” Portia muttered.

“How?” Tricia asked, as the toast popped up.

“I’ll let you know,” Portia said, and hung up.

Mr. Everett was waiting at the door when Tricia came down to prepare Haven’t Got a Clue for another day of commerce. The day was overcast, the clouds hanging low and threatening. Another perfect day for retail!

“Good morning, Ms. Miles.”

“Good morning, Mr. Everett. Lovely weather.”

“Yes, we should have a good day.” Mr. Everett headed for the pegs in the back of the store to hang up his coat. “Shall I straighten up the back shelves? Someone pawed through them yesterday, stuffing the books in every which way.” He shook his head in disapproval.

“That’s fine,” Tricia said, and bent down to open the safe to collect and count out the bills to start the day. She thought about calling the Stoneham Garage to see if anyone had brought in a damaged car, but decided it was probably too early. And anyway, perhaps whoever had come after her the previous evening was smart enough to take their damaged car to Nashua or even Manchester for repairs. It wasn’t likely the Sheriff’s Department would be interested enough to make a few calls to try and locate it.

A knock at the door caused her to look up. She pushed the cash drawer shut with her hip and went to answer it. She lifted the blind; Ginny waited in the cold. Tricia opened the door.

“I think I should’ve brought my umbrella from the house.”

“Yes, but it’s too warm for snow, so that’s something in our favor.”

“Only if you believe the low forties are warm,” Ginny said, pulling off her knit hat and stuffing her gloves into her pockets.

“How’s Brian?” Tricia asked.

“Much better.” Ginny took off her coat, and headed toward the back of the store to hang it up.

The phone rang. Although the store didn’t officially open for another ten minutes, Tricia wasn’t a stickler for such details and picked up the receiver. “Haven’t Got a Clue, Tricia speaking.”

“Hi, it’s Brian. Is Ginny there yet?” He still didn’t sound well.

“Brian, Ginny says you’re better.”

Ginny stopped at the sound of Brian’s name.

“Lots. Can I speak with her, please?”

“Sure.”

Ginny hurried to take the phone from Tricia. “Hey, sweetie, what’s up?”

Tricia went back to sorting the bills for the cash drawer, trying not to listen to Ginny’s conversation, which appeared to consist of only three phrases: “Oh, God!” “You’re kidding?,” and “I don’t believe it.”

When she finally hung up, she was ashen faced.

“What’s wrong?” Tricia asked, concerned.

“The lab report came back,” Ginny said, her voice shaking.

“That was quick. How did you get them to turn it around so fast?”

“Brian’s aunt works at the hospital. She pulled some strings. They said it was salmonella that made him sick,”

“It was the ham from the fridge, right?” Tricia asked.

“No, Trish, it could only be Nikki’s cake.”

“What?” Tricia said. Astonished didn’t begin to express what emotion coursed through her.

Ginny nodded. “Brian was so caught up working on the laundry room, he didn’t eat lunch, so when I brought the cake in on Saturday night, he ate a huge piece. Not long after, he was sick.”

“Salmonella,” Tricia repeated. “It often comes from eggs. Nikki’s been in the food service business a long time. I don’t understand how she could accidentally—”

“I don’t think it was an accident. Remember I took home some of those cut-out cookies she sent over to the Cookery? I didn’t make the connection until I talked to Brian just now, but they made me sick. And now this.”

Tricia shook her head in denial. “I just can’t believe—” That Nikki would want to hurt her? Make her ill? Why? Unless what Russ had been saying all along was true. That Zoe’s killer thought she was getting too close to the truth—too close to tracking down him or her. Tricia remembered the bag of tools containing the sledgehammer and the can of spray paint sitting on the bakery’s floor. But what possible motive could Nikki have for killing Zoe? True, it was she who’d asked Tricia to invite the so-called author. Nikki left the signing early . . . and came in through the back door to strangle Zoe?

“What do you remember from the night of Zoe’s signing?” Tricia asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t paying attention when Nikki left, but she did leave early. And neither of you remembers disarming the security system, nor does Angelica.”

“It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t be hard for Nikki to do,” Ginny said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve worked in several stores in Stoneham. Half the merchants on the street have the identical system we do. Even the Cookery.”

“You think the Stoneham Patisserie might have the same system? That Nikki disabled our system and came in the back of the store to kill Zoe?”

“It’s possible.”

“But what’s her connection, her motive?”

Ginny shrugged. “The only way we’d know that is to ask her. And I doubt she’d say a word.”

Tricia thought about the awful scene at Zoe’s home on Saturday evening. “The last thing Kimberly Peters said before she lost consciousness was ‘stone.’ ”

“Stone,” Ginny repeated, looking thoughtful.

“I thought she was talking about the statue that got ruined.”

“But it’s marble, not stone.”

“Technically, marble is stone.”

“Stone,” Ginny repeated again. “It seems like I should remember something about that word.”

Tricia looked across the room. “Mr. Everett?”

Mr. Everett paused in straightening the shelves to join the two women. As a lifelong resident of Stoneham, he was a font of useful information. “Is there a family in the area named Stone?”

The old man shook his head. “Hasn’t been for years. Stoneham was named after Hiram Stone, who opened a quarry back in the mid-eighteenth century, although the village wasn’t incorporated until 1798.”

“So they died out generations ago?”

“Oh, no. One of my favorite customers was Faith Stone. Wonderful woman,” he said. “Very generous with her time. I occasionally saw her when my grocery store donated dented canned goods to the local food pantry where she volunteered. I believe she and Grace were acquainted. Something to do with the library.”

“What happened to her?”

He shook his head. “No one seems to know. She just disappeared one day.”

A shiver ran through Tricia as she remembered what Julia Overline had said the day before at Nikki’s brunch.

“Her family had her declared dead so that the estate could be freed up and fund her daughter’s further education,” Mr. Everett continued.

“Who was her daughter?” Tricia asked, dreading the answer.

“The manager of the Stoneham Patisserie: Nikki Brimfield.”

“Nikki?” Ginny repeated.

Mr. Everett nodded. “Brimfield is her married name, although I believe she’s now divorced.”

“And her maiden name?” Tricia asked, already knowing the answer.

“Stone, of course.”

Since Mr. Everett had mentioned that Grace and Faith had been acquainted, Tricia’s first impulse was to call Grace. She did, but there was no answer. Grace didn’t have voice mail or even an answering machine, so Tricia could only slam down the phone in frustration.

Her next thought was to talk to Stella Kraft. Unlike gadabout Grace, Stella was pretty much a homebody, and answered the phone on the first ring. “I’d be glad to talk with you again, Tricia.”

“Can I come over now?”

“Now is fine. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

Tricia left Ginny and Mr. Everett with a few hurried instructions, donned her coat, and started down the sidewalk. In a moment she heard her name being called.

“Tricia, Tricia!”

Tricia turned, delighted to see Grace Harris waving to her. She waited until the older woman caught up with her. “Grace, what brings you out so early on a Monday morning?”

Grace looked down at the sticky goo on her shoe. “Oh, dear, not again,” she muttered, and tried to scrape the goose poop from her sole. “I’ve run out of the Coffee Bean’s superior blend. When I saw you, I wanted to tell you how much I admire you for helping that Peters woman the other night.”

“News certainly gets around.”

“She wasn’t very nice, but I can’t imagine the cruelty it took to inflict those injuries.”

Tricia shuddered, remembering the amount of blood that had soaked into Kimberly’s clothes and pooled on Zoe’s office floor. “It was the least I could do.”

Grace nodded.

“Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?” Tricia asked.

“Of course not, dear.”

“At Zoe’s signing, you said you were glad to speak to her under ‘happier circumstances.’ What did that mean?”

Grace bowed her head. “Had I known she was destined to die within minutes, I never would have brought it up. It was thoughtless of me.”

“You couldn’t have known she’d be murdered.”

“Yes, well, I like to think of myself as a good person. And bringing up an unpleasant incident from the past is just plain bad manners.”

This was maddening. “What was it?”

“A confrontation—in public—over her not supporting Stoneham’s efforts to promote ourselves as a book town.”

“Oh, that,” Tricia said, blowing it off. “Bob Kelly mentioned it to me last week.”

“He did? Why—that—how could he?” Grace sputtered.

“Grace, it was years ago, and I’m sure everyone—everyone but Bob,” she amended—“has forgotten about it.”

“I hadn’t forgotten it, but whatever feelings I had about it, they didn’t stop me from supporting her as an author.”

Finding out the truth about who actually had written the books would have done it, for sure.

“It’s all in the past now. I think you should just forget about it,” Tricia said.

“I have tried,” Grace admitted. “I was sorry I couldn’t make it to her memorial service on Saturday, but it sounds like that was a fiasco as well.”

“Yes, it was.”

“I had an appointment at the New Hampshire Medical Center,” Grace volunteered.

“Oh, dear, I hope nothing’s wrong.”

Grace smiled. “Luckily, no. Thank you for your concern.”

“Is that also where you were early Wednesday morning?” Tricia asked, pushing the boundaries of polite conversation, but she wanted to know what Mr. Everett felt so strongly about that he would lie to her.

“Yes. In the past I had some female problems,” Grace said, without elaborating.

“I see,” Tricia said, and nodded. “Well, I’m certainly glad you’re all right.”

“Thank you.”

“I had another question for you, too. It concerns Faith Stone.”

Grace laughed. “Good grief, I haven’t thought about her in years.”

“Mr. Everett says you were friends.”

“Not really. We were acquainted. We belonged to the same book club—not unlike the one you host at Haven’t Got a Clue, only this was sponsored by the Stoneham Library. A nice little group. Mostly retirees and stay-at-home mothers.”

“Did you know Faith wanted to be a writer?” Tricia bluffed, wondering where the idea had even come from.

“Oh, yes. She used to carry a notebook around with her, scribbling down thoughts and ideas for some great saga she said she hoped to write one day.”

“She didn’t say she was actually writing it?”

Grace frowned. “She didn’t talk a lot about herself, poor thing.”

“Poor thing?”

“Her husband was the jealous kind. I can’t say I was surprised when she went missing, although they were never able to pin anything on that brute Phil Stone. More than once she came to our meetings with bruises on her arms or legs.”

“Her husband was the controlling type?”

Grace nodded. “She ultimately stopped coming to the meetings. It wasn’t long afterward that she disappeared.”

“And no one’s ever heard from her?”

“I think her body was probably dumped in the woods somewhere. Perhaps some hunter will find her bones one day.”

“Perhaps,” Tricia said.

Grace put a hand on Tricia’s arm. “You were obviously on your way somewhere, and I’m holding you up.”

“No, I’m just running an errand.”

“Well, I’ll let you go. I’ll see you tomorrow evening at the book club meeting. I’m grateful we won’t have a guest,” she said with a laugh.

“I’m so glad what happened last week hasn’t scared you off,” Tricia said.

“Oh, I think you’ll find that we’ll return. After all, don’t we love a good mystery?” Grace asked.

Tricia laughed. “Yes, but I prefer mine between the covers of a book.”

“Good-bye, dear,” Grace said with a pleased smile, and continued on her way.

Tricia pushed forward, glad to have one more mystery cleared up . . . and another still facing her.

Stella Kraft opened her back door before Tricia could press the bell. “I knew you’d eventually figure it all out,” she said smugly, her pale blue eyes sparkling.

Tricia pursed her lips, annoyed. “Why didn’t you just come right out and tell me about Faith Stone?”

“Come in, come in. I’m not paying Keyspan to heat the great outdoors,” Stella chided.

Once again the smell of boiled potatoes and mothballs filled the immaculate kitchen. Stella had set the table with mugs, spoons, and napkins, and a plate of gingersnaps. “Let me take your coat.”

“I don’t want to be a bother. I’ll just drape it over the back of the chair,” Tricia said, and settled at the table.

Stella moved to the stove, picked up the coffeepot, and poured. “Now, what led you to Faith?”

“A number of things.” Tricia told Stella about her conversations with Kimberly and Artemus Hamilton; Nikki’s tainted cookies and cake; Mr. Everett’s revelation; and Grace’s confirmation. “Nikki sure had me fooled. She always seemed so even-tempered at our book club meetings, always bringing the refreshments and all. Did you have her for a student?”

Stella nodded, taking her seat. “She’s another one who slid through my class without making much of an impact. Such a disappointment after having her mother.”

“And you lied to me when you said you had no idea who really wrote Zoe’s books.”

“I didn’t actually lie,” Stella said. “I kept the truth to myself. That’s not lying. Exactly.”

Tricia wasn’t about to debate her. Instead, she said, “Tell me about Faith Stone.”

Stella sat back in her chair, a smile lighting her face. “Faith was the best student who ever passed through my classroom. She had a real thirst for learning. Even in high school she had a wonderful gift for storytelling.”

“You said you didn’t keep any of your students’ work.”

“That was no lie, but it wasn’t easy to forget her way with words, even at that age. I hoped she’d go far. Obviously, she would have, if the books had been published before her disappearance. They would have set her free.” She shook her head sadly.

“But how did Zoe get hold of Faith’s manuscripts?”

Stella reached for a cookie. “Near as I can figure, it was from the estate sale.”

“Estate sale?”

“After she disappeared, Faith’s former in-laws pushed to have her declared dead.”

“Her in-laws, not her husband?”

Stella nodded. “Five or six years after she disappeared, her good-for-nothing husband, Phillip Stone, died in a work accident. He was a lineman for PSNH.” The local power utility. “Faith’s daughter went to live with her grandmother. I don’t know if the in-laws ever legally had Faith declared dead, but they made a big show of it and had a big sale at the house. I believe Zoe got the manuscripts at that sale. Faith’s in-laws wouldn’t have known what they were—and would have cared even less. They considered her writing a frivolous waste of time. Her ex-mother-in-law was dead by the time the books were published. Her sister-in-law never recognized Faith’s work, or I’m sure she would have tried to get her hands on some of the money Zoe raked in.”

“How long after Faith disappeared was the first book published?”

“Oh, maybe ten years. I’m assuming Zoe had the manuscripts for a couple of years before she figured out what to do with them. Not the sharpest pencil in the box, that one.”

“Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you let people know Zoe didn’t write those books?”

“I told you, I did hint about it to my colleagues, but I had no proof. All I could do was be enraged on Faith’s behalf. Eventually—” She shrugged. “I got over it.”

“But what about Nikki? Didn’t she deserve compensation? Imagine what she must have felt like. It’s certainly motive enough to kill someone.”

Stella frowned. “The only one who deserved to benefit from Faith’s work was Faith herself.”

“Which was impossible. She was dead.”

Stella blinked, then smiled. She picked up her coffee mug and took a sip. “Faith’s not dead. She just lives in Canada.”