Lorna Barrett - Bookmarked For Death

Tricia glanced down at the sheet cake. Zoë’s book cover had been reproduced in exact detail, but now was marred by the cake’s dissection. “Too bad cutting the cake ruins the picture. Just how did you transfer the cover onto the frosting?”

Nikki shrugged. “I snatched the picture off her Web site. It’s much the same process as an inkjet printer—only with edible inks. Not my favorite way to decorate a cake, but for occasions like this it works well.”

“And what’s the surprise?” Tricia asked knowingly.

Nikki’s eyes sparkled, subtracting a few years from her face. “Mocha chocolate cake with rum-infused white ganache filling.”

“Sounds heavenly,” Tricia said. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t had dinner, and although cake wasn’t her favorite food, she was willing to eat just about anything to stave off hunger pangs.

Already the book club members and the others who’d shown up for the signing were lining up in front of the eats table, their eyes wide in anticipation. “Let me get out of your way,” Tricia told Nikki, just as the little bell over the entrance jingled. Russ Smith, editor of the Stoneham Weekly News , entered the store. A Nikon digital camera dangled around his neck, and he grasped it in anticipation of taking a shot. He looked across the crowded shop, found Tricia, and made his way through the throng.

“Am I too late?”

“Nikki’s just cutting the cake.”

“I mean to interview the big-time author.” He didn’t roll his eyes, but his tone suggested he’d thought about it. He glanced in Zoë’s direction. “Not much of a looker, is she?”

Tricia, too, had been surprised by the author’s appearance. A plain Jane dressed in what could’ve been a nun’s habit—black skirt and shoes, and a white blouse. No headgear, of course, and the chain around her neck was unadorned as well—no gold cross hung from it.

“Now, Russ,” Tricia chided, reaching up to straighten the collar on the plaid flannel shirt beneath his denim jacket. His brown hair curled around the base of his neck. No matter how often he got a haircut, it always seemed like he needed another in short order.

“No, really, Tricia. I don’t need to be here.”

They’d been over this before. She had to agree that in a town full of booksellers, another author signing was hardly breaking news, although Zoë was perhaps the biggest name to come through town in quite a while. Still, despite his budding relationship with Tricia, it was only the enticement of a slice of Nikki’s cake that had sealed the deal and lured Russ away from his evening with ESPN. “You told me that the last few times you’ve written about Zoë, you’ve received a lovely thank you note, and even a couple of review copies over the years.”

He nodded, resigned. “You’re right.”

The cake line snaked around the table, and a number of people clutched their signed copies as they oohed and aahed over Nikki’s to-die-for confection. What was left of the book’s icing cover now looked like a mosaic, and Nikki heaped another slice onto a waiting plate.

“I saw Frannie leaving. She wasn’t exactly happy,” Russ said.

“No, and I’m afraid she’s not my only unhappy customer. Zoë’s been great, but that assistant of hers should have her mouth washed out with soap.”

“Assistant?” Russ asked, looking at those assembled.

“Zoë’s niece. She sent her home a few minutes ago. That young woman was really obnoxious.” Tricia caught sight of Grace speaking to Mr. Everett, pointing at where Kimberly had stood, and frowning. “Despite the fact this is probably the best author-signing I’ve hosted, I’m afraid Kimberly may have spoiled the evening for more than a couple of people, and that could be a bad reflection on the shop.”

“Time will tell. What is this, your fourth, fifth signing?”

“Thirteenth.”

“Well, that explains it,” Russ said and laughed. “Thirteen is an unlucky number. And you are—”

“Don’t even mention that ‘village jinx’ business to me again.” A few unfortunate events some six months before had saddled Tricia with that irritating label.

Russ shrugged, his gaze wandering over to the rapidly diminishing cake.

“Tricia?” The timbre of Ginny’s voice conveyed her growing annoyance.

“Get your cake—and be nice to Zoë,” Tricia told Russ.

“If you say so.”

Tricia hurried over to the register to save her employee from her sister. “Ginny, why don’t you help Nikki with the cake,” she suggested. “She’s got to get up awfully early tomorrow morning and really needs to leave.”

“Gladly,” Ginny grated, scooted around the counter, and stalked away.

“Ange,” Tricia admonished.

“I was just trying to help Ginny with that last customer. Honestly, she has no marketing savvy at all.”

“Ginny is the best assistant in the entire village, and you know it. Why don’t you go pester your own help?”

Angelica threw back her head and sighed theatrically. “Samantha quit this afternoon.” Which would account for Angelica’s sour mood. “She wasn’t of much use, but I don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow at the store.”

Stay busy and out of my hair , Tricia hoped.

Bursts of light drew Tricia’s attention back to Zoë, who posed, pen in hand, for Russ. Again and again the camera flashed. Printing one of the shots in the Stoneham Weekly News wasn’t going to bring in a horde of customers after the fact, but it wouldn’t be bad for business, either.

Another customer stepped up to the counter. Tricia took Ginny’s vacated spot at the register while Angelica bagged two copies of Forever Cherished and a couple of paperback thrillers from the bargain shelf.

“That’ll be fifty-seven thirty,” Tricia said and finally looked up. “Deborah!” She’d been so preoccupied she hadn’t even noticed her customer was also her best friend in Stoneham, Deborah Black. “Thanks for coming.”

“Believe me, it’s my pleasure. Little Davey’s teething. I had him with me all day at the shop—it’s his dad’s turn to deal with him.” Deborah ran the Happy Domestic, a boutique specializing in new and gently used products, how-to books, gifts, and home decor. Her son had been born some seven months before. Between running her shop and taking care of the baby, the poor woman had been worn to a frazzle. For the past few months, Tricia had been consulting her on redecorating—softening the industrial-looking exposed-brick walls—in her loft apartment. At least that was the excuse Deborah had given her husband for her Wednesday “girls’ night out” dinner with Tricia.

“We still on for lunch tomorrow?” Deborah asked. Unfortunately, she couldn’t make dinner this week and they’d already made alternate plans.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Lunch?” Angelica piped up hopefully. “Mind a straggler joining you?”

Yes, Tricia was tempted to blurt, but instead said, “You can’t go anywhere. You lost your sales force this afternoon.”

“Darn.”

“See you at the diner at noon—or as close to as possible,” Deborah said, picked up her purchase, and headed for the exit.

Deborah’s departure seemed to trigger a mass exodus of guests, who’d abandoned their paper plates and plastic forks on just about every flat surface, and headed for the checkout or exit, some having escaped without purchasing a book.

The crowd had thinned by the time the rush was over, leaving just Ginny, Grace, Mr. Everett, Russ, and Angelica on hand.

Ginny glanced at her watch. “Eight fifteen. People didn’t stay as long as we thought they would.”

“No.” Tricia took in the stacks of unsold books still sitting on the author’s table. Zoë was nowhere in sight. “Nor did they buy as many copies of Zoë’s backlist as I’d hoped.”