Lorna Barrett - Bookmarked For Death

Hildy nodded and took off toward the kitchen.

“Sorry I’m late,” Deborah said, “but I had to do some cleanup in front of my shop. That goose poop is slicker than black ice, and if you fall in it, you may as well burn what you’re wearing. Why can’t the geese just stick around the water? Why do they have to walk up and down Main Street like they own the place?”

“I agree, but I can’t be outside my store all day, shooing them away, either. Have you seen how big they are close up?”

“Yes. Some of them can even look right into my shop window.” Deborah leaned across the table and whispered, “Never mind the geese, everybody’s talking about your murder last night.”

“Don’t call it my murder.”

“Well, it happened in your store. Hey, did that pushy reporter from Boston corner you yet?”

“Yes, just as I was getting into my car to go to the grocery store. She wanted to know if Zoë had been sexually assaulted. I had to pull the old ‘no comment’ and drive away to get rid of her.”

“I couldn’t tell her much because I’d left your store before the body was found. I was hoping to put in a plug for my store, but she shut down the camera and lost all interest in me as soon as I told her.”

Tricia shook her head. “Has the sheriff spoken to you yet?”

Deborah nodded. “Last night. Woke us out of a sound sleep. It took hours to get little Davey settled down again. I’ll tell you one thing, I’m not voting for that woman the next time she’s up for reelection.”

“I’ve only talked to Frannie. Otherwise, no one’s said a word to me about it. Is it because they think I’m guilty?”

“Of course not. It’s just—”

“Don’t start that village jinx business again,” Tricia warned.

Deborah didn’t bother to try to hide her smile. “Two murders in less than a year—and you discover both bodies.”

“Don’t tell me you think I’m guilty?”

“Of course not. Everyone’s saying it’s Zoë Carter’s niece. Odds are, as her only living relative—”

“That we know of,” Tricia corrected.

“She might be in for a lot of money. Zoë’s books were New York Times bestsellers. You don’t make that list without earning a few big bucks.”

The food arrived in record time, and Deborah plunged her spoon into the steaming bowl of chili. Tricia took a bite of her sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “Frannie says you were in high school about the same time as Kimberly. What do you know about her?”

Deborah’s spoon hovered close to her mouth. “I don’t know what Frannie’s been smoking, but she must be one very mixed-up lady. I’m not even from Stoneham. I graduated from East Hampton High on Long Island.”

“You don’t have a Long Island accent.”

She grinned. “That’s what a good voice coach will get you.”

Tricia put her sandwich half back on her plate. “Whatever could Frannie have been thinking?”

“She must’ve gotten me mixed up with someone else.”

“I guess.” Under the circumstances, Tricia didn’t bother asking Deborah if she’d heard of Zoë’s checkered past. “Frannie also suggested I talk to the Stoneham librarian. Do you know her?”

Deborah shook her head. “Who has time to read?”

“But you’re a bookseller.”

“Among other things. But I also have a seven-month-old baby. I haven’t picked up a book to actually read since the day Davey was born, and my to-be-read pile nearly reaches the ceiling. I love him dearly, but I can’t wait until he starts school and I can have a few moments to myself again.”

Tricia picked up her sandwich half again, but didn’t take a bite. “I need to get my store open again. Any ideas on how I can push the sheriff’s investigation forward?”

Deborah shrugged. “I guess you’d have to talk to everybody who was at your store last night.”

“Supposedly what the sheriff is already doing.”

“Yes, but she’s so intimidating, she’ll probably frighten everyone into clamming right up. You’re more subtle. You’ll be able to get them to tell you what they remember.”

“That’s the problem. Nobody seems to remember exactly when Zoë went to the washroom. Nobody was paying attention. The security system was down, but it might’ve been disabled for hours. Truth be told, I usually set it and forget it.”

“Me, too. I mean, most of my deliveries come in through the front door.”

Tricia nodded, her gaze falling to her plate and the small pile of potato chips on it. “I want to talk to Kimberly. She’s staying at Zoë’s house here in Stoneham, but the phone number is unlisted. All my contact information for Zoë is locked in my store.”

“Have you tried reaching Zoë’s publicist or agent?”

“No, but that’s a good idea.”

Deborah moved to one side, looking beyond Tricia and out through the diner’s big, plate glass window. “There goes the News Team Ten van cruising down Main Street again. I wonder who she’s going to try and nail this time?”

“I’m actually surprised we haven’t seen more news trucks and reporters.”

“Be surprised no more,” Deborah said. “There goes another one. Channel Seven from Boston.”

Tricia pushed her lunch away, no longer hungry. “If I was smart, I’d write a press release saying I can’t make any comments, and just have Angelica hand it out to everyone.”

“Why don’t you? Then again, this can only last a few days. By then your store will be open again and things will get back to normal. Until the pilgrimages start, that is.”

“Pilgrimages?”

“Of course. You run a mystery bookstore. A best-selling mystery author was murdered there. Her fans—if that’s what you want to call anyone that ghoulish—will flock to Haven’t Got a Clue in droves. And if she signed your stock, you can ask a fortune for those books.”

“She didn’t sign the stock.”

Deborah shook her head. “Too bad.”

Just as well , Tricia thought. Selling the books for an exorbitant price, making money off a dead woman, just wouldn’t sit well with her.

Hildy stopped by the table. “Want me to box that up for you, Tricia?”

She nodded. “Thanks.”

The waitress took away the plate and Deborah scraped the last spoonful of chili from her bowl, savoring it. “I suppose someone will find out I was at the signing last night and want to talk to me, too.” She brightened. “Good promo for my shop.”

Exactly what Angelica had said.

“At least you’re still open.”

“You’ll be back in business in a day or so. Look how fast the Cookery reopened after the murder last fall.”

“Different circumstances entirely.” And besides, it had been six long weeks—a possible death for a going concern. Deborah pushed her bowl aside as Hildy returned with a Styrofoam box and the check. She glanced at it, then dug into her purse for her wallet. “Hey, I wonder what I could get on eBay for one of the last copies of Forever Cherished that Zoë Carter signed?”

“Now who’s being ghoulish?”

“I’m a businesswoman. It’s my job to make money. For me!” She peeled off a five-dollar bill and set it on the table, grabbed her hat, then wiggled back into her jacket. “Call me later if you need to talk.” And she was off.

Tricia stared down at the cold coffee in her cup, at the desolate little box with her partially eaten sandwich in it, and felt empty . I want my store back. I want my life back .

She put another five-dollar bill and a couple of ones on the table, donned her coat, and steeled her nerves to return to the Cookery, hoping Angelica’s wrath had been soothed by the act of baking.