Lorna Barrett - Bookmarked For Death

“Could be.”

“You didn’t know half the people who showed up at the signing last night. I suppose any one of those strangers could have strangled her.”

“Maybe,” Tricia said, consulting her watch. It was already after two. “I’d better get going.”

“Will you come back to the store before closing time?”

“I don’t know. It depends on how many people I can track down who knew Zoë. By the way, I hope you weren’t expecting me for dinner. I’m going to Russ’s.”

Angelica frowned. “But then I’ll be all alone with—with that cat of yours,” she said with disdain.

“So? Miss Marple won’t bite—unless you tease her. And you’d better not treat her the way you’re treating your employees. Or else.”

Angelica sniffed. “Perhaps I’ll invite Bob over for dinner.”

“Great. Maybe you can get him to help you unpack some of those boxes.”

Angelica ignored the jab, narrowing her eyes. “Will you be coming home tonight?”

“Your apartment is not my home. And . . . I don’t know. Probably.” She thought about it—how she and Russ were so involved in their respective businesses that their time together was all too rare. If she stayed with him, they might finally get some quality time together. Then again . . .

“We’ll see.”

It was no secret in Stoneham that Zoë Carter had lived on Pine Avenue most of her adult life. She was, after all, the little village’s only real celebrity. But the house in question was no palace, and was in fact the plainest house on the block. Tricia parked her car and scoped out the neighborhood, looking for rogue Canada geese. Sure enough, several waddled down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, occasionally stopping to peck at the exposed grass, no doubt looking for something to eat. She should be safe enough.

Since she wasn’t yet ready to talk to Kimberly, Tricia instead marched up the walk of Zoë’s next-door neighbor to the north and knocked on the door. Almost immediately a burly man dressed in a paint-splattered blue MIT sweatshirt and jeans, and sporting a churlish expression, opened the door but didn’t say a word.

Tricia adopted her most winning smile. “Sir, my name’s Tricia Miles. I own the mystery bookstore in town.”

“Where Zoë Carter was killed?”

“Uh, yes,” she answered, already rattled. She hurried on. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to talk to me about Zoë?”

“You gonna give me fifty bucks? The reporter from WRBS gave me fifty bucks to tell her everything I knew about the old girl.”

Taken aback, Tricia tried to remember how much cash she had in her wallet; a ten and a few ones? “I hadn’t thought—” she started.

He waved a hand in dismissal and stepped back to close the door.

“Wait!” Tricia called, but the door slammed in her face.

She tried across the street, but no one answered her knock, despite the fact that a pale blue minivan sat in the drive. She’d canvass the whole street if she had to. But first she’d check Zoë’s neighbor to the south. She crossed the street and walked past Zoë’s home, once more noting that it was the least attractive house on the street. Not that it was run-down, but no spring flowers or landscaping brightened the drab exterior, its curb appeal nil. Only the green and gold for sale sign gave the yard any color. No car stood in the drive. Was Kimberly home, parking whatever car she drove in the one-car garage, or was she out, possibly making funeral arrangements?

Tricia passed Zoë’s home and headed up the walk to the house next door on the south. By contrast, this white clapboard house with pink shutters welcomed her. Scores of sunny daffodils waved in the slight breeze against a backdrop of well-tended yews, and empty window boxes promised more color come summer. A grapevine wreath was intertwined with silk flowers and painted wooden letters in pastel hues that spelled out welcome.

Tricia lifted the brass knocker and tapped it three times. The door sprang open and a diminutive, elderly woman dressed in slacks, sweater, and a frilly white apron tied at her waist stood just inside the door. “Yes?”

“Hello,” Tricia said and explained who she was and how she’d known Zoë Carter. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Do you have some kind of identification? I mean . . . those TV people wanted me to talk about Zoë, and I don’t want anything I say to end up on television or in the newspapers.”

“I can assure you, it won’t.” Tricia dug into her purse and brought out not only her driver’s license but also a business card for Haven’t Got a Clue that she handed to the woman.

The older lady examined both items before returning Tricia’s license. “I’m Gladys Mitchell,” she said, taking Tricia’s offered hand. Gladys shook her head. “It’s all very sad, but I don’t think I can help you. Although Zoë and I were neighbors for nearly thirty years, we were hardly more than acquaintances. She kept to herself, didn’t have much personality. Wasn’t interested in chatting or getting to know any of the neighbors.”

“She seemed personable enough to me,” Tricia said, knowing she was pushing it. On a scale of one to ten, Zoë might’ve mustered a four or a five on the personality scale. “She was peddling her books at the time, wasn’t she?”

Tricia nodded.

“Then I expect she learned to force herself to at least appear interested in those who showed up to buy her wares.”

“Was Zoë friendlier before she was caught embezzling?”

The older lady pursed her lips. “You know about that?”

“I’m sure once News Team Ten finds out about it, that old scandal will make the story of her death even more titillating.”

“I know she didn’t go to jail.” That confirmed what Frannie had said. “As far as I know, she had never been in trouble before that. And her niece had just come to live with her. I believe the girl had no other relatives.”

“Did you ever read Zoë’s books?”

The older woman shivered and crossed her arms across her chest, warding off the cold. “I took the first one out of the library. I was surprised it was so good. I wasn’t expecting it to even be readable.”

“Why?”

“Because she wrote it. It was actually interesting. The characters were believable. Look at her house. Would you think someone that talented would live in such an uninteresting house?”

No. Tricia thought about Zoë, sitting at the table in Haven’t Got a Clue. She’d been dressed in a plain white blouse, a black skirt, and black pumps. She’d worn no makeup or flashy jewelry, and her short salt-and-pepper hair, cut to frame her face, would never be called stylish.

But just because the outside package was unexciting didn’t mean the woman couldn’t have lived a vicarious life of adventure through her characters.

“Zoë wasn’t a native of Stoneham, you know,” Gladys offered, disapprovingly.

“No, I didn’t.”

“She came from some little town in New York,” the woman said, as though that was somehow despicable. What would she say if Tricia admitted she was originally from Greenwich, Connecticut?

Tricia decided she’d have to make nice with Kimberly and get inside that house, see where Zoë had created her much-loved characters Jess and Addie Martin. Then again, many a famous author had decided that staring at a blank wall—and piece of paper or computer screen—was far less distracting to the creative mind than a fascinating vista or seascape.

Tricia changed the subject. “Do you know Zoë’s niece, Kimberly?”

Gladys pursed her lips. “She was a mouthy teenager. I was glad when she went off to college. At least I had peace during the school year.”