Lorna Barrett - Bookmarked For Death

“I believe I’ve spoken to her on the phone, but . . . I haven’t even had time to get a library card. I mean . . . I really only read mysteries, and I order everything I want and then some from distributors, as well as buy from people willing to sell their collections.”

“It wouldn’t hurt for you to talk to Lois in person. Maybe get yourself a library card. Libraries are the best value you can get for your tax dollars.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tricia murmured with respect.

Frannie laughed. “Any other questions?”

“Who would know Kimberly Peters?”

Frannie frowned. “Her high school teachers, I suppose. I don’t know much about her. Russ Smith might, though. I mean, if she ever got in trouble—and it wouldn’t surprise me, with that attitude of hers—it would’ve ended up in the Stoneham Weekly News crime blotter.” That column was often only a paragraph or two long—if it even ran.

“You might also try Deborah Black,” Frannie added. “She’s only a few years older than Kimberly. Maybe she remembers her from school.”

“Great idea. Thanks.”

Frannie craned her neck to look beyond Tricia. “There they go again,” she said, and shook her head.

Tricia turned to see a line of Canada geese marching down the sidewalk, no doubt heading for Stoneham Creek. It was the only running water in the area, and it seemed to be the attraction that kept luring the geese from the relative calm of the outlying retention ponds.

“Can’t the Chamber pressure the Village Board to do something about them?” Tricia asked.

“They could get the state and the federal government to approve roundup-and-slaughter operations,” she said matter-of-factly.

“What?” Tricia asked, horrified.

“Yup, that’s what they call it. They wait until the geese are molting and can’t fly, then they herd those poor birds into boxes and gas them with carbon dioxide.”

“But I thought they were protected—and that’s why the population keeps growing.”

“Hey, it’s happened. In Washington State, Minnesota, and Michigan. I read about it on the Internet,” Frannie said, her voice filled with disapproval. “I’m willing to put up with a little inconvenience—cleaning off the sidewalks—if it’ll save just one of those beautiful birds.”

Tricia was not fond of the job, but when she thought about it, she felt the same way.

“Is the Chamber actually considering killing the geese?”

“It’s an option.”

“Who told you this?”

“Bob. Bob Kelly.”

The phone rang. “Break time over,” Frannie said, and stepped across the room to the reception desk. She picked up the receiver. “Stoneham Chamber of Commerce, Frannie speaking. How may I help you?”

Tricia gave a brief wave before she closed the door behind her. Sure enough, she was going to have to step carefully in the wake of the geese.

The early April sunshine held no warmth, and Tricia pulled up her collar against the wind. Since she was supposed to have lunch with Deborah today, she could ask her about Kimberly Peters. In the meantime, Angelica would be hopping mad if she didn’t show up with flour, walnuts, and chocolate and peanut butter chips within the next half hour.

Reluctantly, Tricia headed for the municipal parking lot and her car. Preoccupied with the search for her keys in her purse, she didn’t spot the WRBS van parked at the edge of the lot until it was too late. A brunette in a camel hair coat and calf-high black boots, clutching a microphone, made a beeline for Tricia.

Panicked, Tricia dropped her keys, fumbled to pick them up, and stood, finding herself looking into the lens of a video camera.

“Tricia Miles?” asked the brunette. “Portia McAlister, WRBS News. I understand you found the body of bestselling author Zoë Carter in your store’s washroom last night.”

“Uh . . . uh . . .” Mesmerized by the camera, Tricia couldn’t think.

“She was strangled with your bungee cord.”

“I’m—I’m not sure.”

“About what?” Portia pressed.

“If it actually was my bungee cord.” She turned, pressed the button on her key ring and the car’s doors unlocked. “I really have to go.” Good sense—and Sheriff Adams’s order not to talk to the press—licked in. “I’ve got no more comments.”

“She was found on the toilet. What was the state of the body? Was she fully clothed? Had she been sexually assaulted?”

Appalled by the question, Tricia slid into the car, slammed the door, buckled up, and started the engine. The cameraman swung around to block her exit.

Tricia pressed a control, and her window opened by two or three inches. “Please,” she implored, “I have to be somewhere.”

The microphone plunged toward her again. “Where are you going? Will you be talking to a lawyer?”

A lawyer? She hadn’t done anything that warranted talking to a lawyer!

Tricia jammed the gearshift into drive, letting the car move forward a few inches. The cameraman didn’t budge. She honked the horn furiously, edged forward a few more inches. What if he didn’t move? If she hit him, then she’d have reason to speak to a lawyer.

“This is harassment. If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll call the sheriff!”

“Back off, Mark,” the reporter said, and the cameraman immediately obliged, lowering his camera. “We’ll speak again, Ms. Miles,” Portia said as Tricia pulled away.

It sounded like a threat.

The ten-minute drive to Milford helped calm Tricia’s frayed nerves, and she steered directly for the biggest grocery store in town—the better to find bitter chocolate, she figured. Angelica’s list of ingredients was long and varied, and Tricia had doubts she’d find everything her sister wanted.

Once inside the store, Tricia pushed her shopping cart down the various aisles until she found the baking section. She paused, scanning the bags of flour, and frowned. She didn’t bake, hadn’t even attempted it since she was a Girl Scout too many years ago. Should she buy all-purpose flour? Self-rising? Would wheat flour make a healthier cookie? And Angelica’s list said brown sugar, but even that came in two choices. Should she buy the dark or the light?

Carts and people pushed past her as she contemplated the myriad choices. Should she take a wild guess, or break down and call Angelica? But if she did, she was likely to get a lecture for taking so long on her errand, and get the same again when she returned to the Cookery. It would be far better to get that dressing-down only once rather than twice.

“Tricia?”

She looked up at the sound of her name, instantly recognizing the voice. “Russ, what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” Russ pushed his cart forward, pausing when he reached Tricia’s. He nudged his gold-tone glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Angelica said I’d find you here. I’ve been waiting for almost an hour. Do you know how boring a grocery store can be when you have an hour to kill?”

“Sorry,” she said, but wasn’t sure it was true. And judging by the nearly full grocery cart Russ pushed, it looked like he’d found plenty to occupy his time.

“No, I’ sorry,” he said, and sighed. “I didn’t mean to blow you off last night and run to the paper. I didn’t realize the sheriff would toss you out of your home. Why didn’t you call? Why don’t you come stay with me?”

“I want to be near my store—my home. It’s more convenient for me and my cat to stay with Angelica.”

“But Angelica doesn’t even like Miss Marple.”

“Everybody likes Miss Marple,” said a voice behind them. An elderly woman bundled up in a parka and wearing a plastic rain bonnet stood behind a grocery cart. “Can I get through please? I need to get a cake mix.”