Lorna Barrett - Bookmarked For Death

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 Nashua 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 thirty-fifth 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 wanted 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?”

Angelica frowned. “You can’t eat all those cookies. You don’t even like sweets all that much, Miss Perennial Size Eight.”

Tricia exhaled, her nerves stretched taut. She and her sister had been battling the same demons for years, and things were improving too slowly. Angelica still drove her crazy. The fact that she hadn’t kept her girlish figure was just one example of the continuing conflict between them.

She glanced at her watch. “We’ll have to discuss this later. I’m supposed to meet Deborah for lunch in two minutes. In the meantime, if you don’t want to serve the cookies to your customers— don’ !” She left the store and walked briskly down Main Street to the Bookshelf Diner.

The restaurant’s lunch crowd never really thinned until the last bus of tourists left. But after waiting ten minutes, Tricia snagged a table in front, sat with her back to the window that overlooked the street, and perused the menu, trying not to dwell on her little altercation with Angelica. Was it a tuna salad or a ham on rye kind of day? It was definitely a hot soup day, but today’s offering was cream of broccoli. Scratch ordering soup. Tricia had a personal policy against eating anything that looked as if Miss Marple might have coughed it up after a binge of grass eating.

Tricia was on her second cup of coffee when a windblown Deborah barreled through the diner’s front door. She fell into the booth seat, scooted in, and pulled off her blue woolly hat. “So much for spring,” she breathed. She signaled Hildy, the diner’s middle-aged, early-shift waitress, and ordered coffee and a bowl of chili. “That ought to warm me up,” she said, wriggling out of her jacket.

“I’ll have tuna on whole wheat,” Tricia said.