“I assume you’ve read the books?” Stella paused and Tricia nodded. “Do you think a male author could’ve done justice to Addie’s character, or the loss of her son in the mine cave-in?”
“That depends on the author,” Tricia said, surprised a former English teacher would even voice such a sentiment. “But Kimberly Peters told me someone—a man—called her to say I was spreading rumors about her and her aunt. And let me assure you, I have not been.”
“How do you know she was telling you the truth about the call?”
Tricia opened her mouth to protest, and then just as quickly shut it.
Stella nodded. “I’d be skeptical of anything that one tells you.”
“But she knows more than she’s telling.”
“More than she’s telling you. That’s not to say she hasn’t spoken to others.”
Sheriff Adams in particular, Tricia thought. Still, that was good—if it meant solving the crime and getting her store back open.
“If all this is true, what could have happened that triggered the killer? If she wanted the glory, why wait until the last book was published to take revenge?”
Stella looked like she was about to say something, then thought better of it and shook her head. “I’d be careful about mentioning Zoë’s lack of creative talent and the idea she might not have written the books.”
“But wouldn’t that be a credible motive for the killing? Giving the true author credit for those books?”
“Yes, but getting the credit will also land that person in jail. There’s nothing to be gained—unless Zoë was killed out of spite.” Stella shook her head. “Whoever killed Zoë will do everything she can to remain anonymous. If I were you, dear, I’d let the sheriff handle this one. You wouldn’t want to be the killer’s next victim.”
Eight
It was almost noon by the time Tricia returned from Stella’s house. She opened the door to the Cookery and Angelica pounced upon her immediately. “Big news,” she cried. Tricia could practically feel the waves of exhilaration emanating from her sister.
Tricia wiggled out of her jacket. “Tell me about it before you jump out of your skin.”
“Bob just called. They’ve decided to change the whole dedication ceremony on Saturday.”
“Change how?” Tricia asked, heading for the closet at the back of the store.
“It’ll now be a memorial service for Zoë Carter.”
Tricia stopped. “What does that mean for the vendors?”
“Vendors?” Angelica said, confused.
“Yes. The dedication was supposed to be a celebration of books and how they saved Stoneham. It’ll look pretty tacky if we’re all set up around the square selling books, hot dogs, and fried dough. It sounds more like a circus than a memorial service.”
Angelica frowned. “Oh. Well, I’m sure Bob thought about that. He’s a genius when it comes to PR. But don’t you see, this is a great opportunity for you. Ginny said she’d ordered extra copies of Zoë’s books. You’ll make out like a bandit.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Um, Bob—or rather the Chamber—was wondering if you’d be willing to call some of Zoë’s publishing colleagues and invite them to the ceremony. Like maybe Zoë’s agent.”
Tricia was about to blurt a definitive “No,” then thought better of it. What better way to find out more about Zoë than from people inside the publishing industry? “Maybe you’re right, Ange. Bob just might be a genius after all.”
Since Ginny had gone out for a sandwich and was unavailable to talk about their Saturday plans, Tricia hiked the stairs to Angelica’s loft apartment. A chatty Miss Marple met her as she opened the door, admonishing her for leaving her alone once again.
“I know, I know. But Angelica serves food in her store. No cats allowed.”
“Yow!” Miss Marple protested.
“I’ll relay your dissatisfaction to the Health Department,” Tricia promised.
Miss Marple followed her to the kitchen, and Tricia filled her bowl with kitty treats.
With the cat placated, Tricia picked up Angelica’s kitchen extension before scoping out the fridge in search of sustenance for herself. Despite its being lunch hour, Tricia called and found Bob in his office at the Chamber of Commerce. “Hi, Bob, Angelica said you wanted to talk to me about the dedication ceremony,” she said, and it was no effort to keep a smile in her voice.
“Yes, the Chamber held an emergency meeting on it this morning, sorry you weren’t able to make it—” Make it? She hadn’t even known about it. But since she rarely went to Chamber meetings anyway, it wasn’t a big deal. “Changing our focus to include a memorial ceremony for Zoë Carter is an opportunity we, as her adopted hometown, didn’t feel we could pass up. And since we’ve already got everything set up for the dedication anyway, it’s a win-win situation.”
“But what about the words carved on the statue?” she asked, looking past the scampi leftovers to root around in the back of the fridge. It wasn’t really a statue. Tricia had seen drawings of the proposed piece. A big block of marble with a carved open book on the top.
“Turns out they weren’t able to do the engraving before the ceremony on Saturday, so we can still change what it says. How’s that for luck?”
Tacky. But Tricia wasn’t about to argue the point. She withdrew a bowl of what looked like homemade soup, removed the plastic cover, and sniffed. It still smelled good. “Ange said you wanted me to contact Zoë’s colleagues,” she said, and opened a drawer to find a spoon.
“Yes. They thought you, as a mystery bookseller, would have a better feel for who in the publishing world should be contacted.”
Oops! Deborah had suggested Tricia do the same thing the day before—but with everything else that was going on, Tricia had completely forgotten about it. She put the bowl in the microwave and punched in ninety seconds. “Did you speak to Kimberly Peters about this?”
“Following in her aunt’s footsteps, she declined to be involved, although she did say she’d at least show up,” he said, his voice conveying his disapproval. “Will you help us, Tricia?”
“Bob, I would love to. How soon do you need to know?”
“We’d like to have the guest list set by tomorrow. Is that a problem?”
“No. In fact, I’ll start making calls as soon as I get off the phone with you.”
“Thanks, Tricia. This is a big help to the Chamber. And I’ll see what I can do to nudge Wendy Adams about reopening your shop. She’s stubborn, but she can see reason when it’s pointed out to her.”
“I’d appreciate that, Bob. Thanks.”
She took notes as he repeated the details surrounding the dedication, which pretty much matched what she remembered from the Chamber’s previous communications.
“I’ll get right on this and give you an update later today.”
“Thanks, Tricia.”
Tricia replaced the phone on its cradle and resisted the urge to rub her hands together with pleasure. Then reality set in. How the blazes was she supposed to get a hold of, let alone assure the attendance of, Zoë’s colleagues? There was only one thing to do—hit the Internet to try to find some answers.
The microwave stopped, giving a resounding beep, beep, beep, to let her know her lunch was ready, but Tricia was too hyped to eat. Instead, she went in search of her laptop computer, set it on the kitchen island, and connected to the Internet. Her first stop, Zoë’s Web site. She checked out the media page and found pay dirt. Zoë’s agent was none other than Artemus Hamilton. Tricia had met the short, balding man several times at cocktail parties during her years in Manhattan.
A search of the Yahoo! Yellow Pages gave her Hamilton’s office number, and she eagerly dialed the phone. An answering machine picked up after the third ring, directing her to leave a message. “This is Tricia Miles, owner of the Haven’t Got a Clue bookstore in Stoneham, New Hampshire. I’m sorry to say that your client Zoë Carter died in my store on Tuesday night. Stoneham is having a memorial service in her honor, and we wanted to invite—”