Or possibly still living among them—angry at Zoë for taking credit for work that was not her own. Angry enough to kill.
“Would it look tacky if I only contributed to the group fund?” Tricia asked.
“Not at all. In fact, two displays—one on either side of the statue—would give balance. Three wouldn’t look as harmonious.”
Unless someone else sent flowers. Considering Kimberly’s financial situation, Tricia doubted there’d be an offering bearing a ribbon with beloved aunt draped across a spray of gladiolas. Would Zoë’s agent think to send flowers? Tricia had met Zoë exactly once—for a little over an hour—had barely spoken to her, and Frannie had offered the perfect out.
What was she thinking? She could well afford to spring for flowers. It was the proper thing to do. And yet—honoring someone who’d passed off another’s work as her own just didn’t set right with Tricia. So what if she didn’t yet have proof? She believed it.
“So what do you think?” Frannie said.
“How’s twenty dollars sound?” Tricia asked.
Frannie’s eyes lit up. “That’s very generous. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
Angelica ambled up to join them.
Frannie’s gaze wandered around the Cookery. “My, you have done a beautiful job with this place.”
“Thank you,” Angelica said. “Would you like a tour?”
“Just a short one. I’m on my lunch break.”
Tricia retrieved her wallet and extracted a twenty-dollar bill. After her tour, Frannie left with it, plus two Tex-Mex cookbooks, a miniwhisk, a nutmeg grater, and a jar of jalapeno pepper jam.
“Bye, Frannie,” Angelica called as Frannie left the shop.
She turned to her sister and grinned. “Feel free to invite your friends to my store any time.”
Ginny showed up for work about two o’clock, looking pale, but willing. Instead of putting in hours for Angelica, though, she spent the bulk of time helping Tricia with the plans for the statue dedication and book fair set for the next day. Angelica would not be participating, and kept complaining—loudly—that she would not be able to handle the usual expected crowd that a Saturday would produce. Thank heaven Mr. Everett called to say he would return the next morning at nine forty-five sharp.
With Ginny there to help Angelica, Tricia didn’t have to feel guilty about making a call she already felt was long overdue.
“Medical Examiner’s office.”
“Yes, I’d like to speak to the medical examiner.”
“I can take a message. Your name—”
“No, I don’t want to leave a message, I need to speak to someone in charge. My place of business was the scene of a crime. I’ve been shut down for days during the investigation. I need to know when I can reopen.”
“Please leave your name and number, and someone will get back to you.”
She did, but she didn’t believe for a minute that anyone would.
She tried another tack and called her lawyer, Roger Livingston. He was actually available, and said he’d personally call the ME’s office.
Tricia helped three customers look for books, and had rung up another two sales by the time her cell phone interrupted her. She glanced at the number on the tiny screen. “Ginny, can you finish up here? I need to take this call.”
Ginny manned the cash register and Tricia stepped behind a shelf of books.
“Tricia, it’s Roger Livingston.”
“Thanks for getting back to me so soon, Roger. Good news or bad?”
“Good. I called in a favor and got to speak right to the medical examiner. You were right. His office finished with your store yesterday, and so have the county’s crime scene investigators. He said there’s no reason you weren’t informed and allowed to reopen.”
“I knew it. I knew Wendy Adams was just being ornery. She hates me.”
“I can’t comment on that, but I’ve got a call in to her office. It’s getting late. We may not get satisfaction today, but I’ll follow up and make sure something happens by tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Roger, you’re the best lawyer in the world.”
“That’s true,” he said, and she could picture him smiling. “And you’ll receive my bill in the mail.”
It would be well worth it to reopen the door to Haven’t Got a Clue and be back in business.
A much happier Tricia kept an eye on the clock, and at five fifteen announced she needed to leave to pick up Zoë’s literary agent at the airport.
“Why don’t you bring him back here for dinner?” Angelica said.
“What for?”
“It doesn’t seem very friendly just dumping him off at the inn.”
“I’m not his friend,” Tricia reminded her. “I’m doing him a favor.”
“Well, you could be his friend. I mean, you’re in the book business.”
“Yes, but I’m a bookseller, not an author.”
“You could be—you have many talents. And besides, I think we should cultivate friendships with people in the publishing world. It’ll be good for business in general.”
Tricia studied her sister’s innocent expression. Something was going on—something Angelica wasn’t being open about. A quick glance at the clock told Tricia she didn’t have time to pursue it just then.
The drive to the Manchester-Boston Regional Airport took less time than Tricia anticipated, and a glance at the arrivals screen informed her that Hamilton’s plane was delayed. She browsed the airport bookstore with a judgmental eye, eventually bought the first book in Sheila Connolly’s Orchard series, and settled down for a peaceful read, grateful to escape the stress she felt inside the Cookery. Half an hour later, a glance at her watch told her she’d better head for the security checkpoint and the arriving passengers. She pulled out the paper sign bearing Artemus Hamilton’s name that she’d made earlier, and stood searching the faces for one she wasn’t confident she’d recognize.
The crowd had pretty much thinned when a short, chunky, balding man dressed in a black turtleneck, suit jacket, and dark slacks strode toward her, his raincoat neatly folded over one arm, a briefcase in the same hand. “Ms. Miles?”
Tricia held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, again, Mr. Hamilton.” They shook on it, his grip firm but not crushing.
“Can you direct me to the baggage claim? I would’ve preferred to travel lighter, but at least I was able to read most of a manuscript during my flight.”
“A mystery?” Tricia asked eagerly.
He shook his head. “Sorry. It’s a diet book. I really don’t handle that much mystery.”
“Then why—”
“Was Zoë Carter my client?” he finished. He shrugged. “She had a great book that transcended the genre, and I felt I could place it for her.”
Evasive, but it was an answer.
“The baggage claim?” he reminded her.
“Follow me. While you wait for your bag, I’ll bring the car around and meet you out front. It’s a white Lexus.”
Ten minutes later, Tricia pulled up to the curb, popped the trunk button, and Hamilton loaded his suitcase into it. It seemed a big bag for just an overnight stay. He climbed into the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt as Tricia eased the car back into the airport traffic.
“How far is it to Stoneham?” he asked.
“About twenty-five miles. It only takes about half an hour to get there.”
He nodded, taking in what scenery was discernible in the rapidly fading light.
Conversation was light, and Tricia waited until they were off the airport property and well on their way toward Stoneham before voicing the question that had been on her mind for the past two days. Hamilton was a captive audience, and if he refused to answer, it could be a very long thirty-minute drive to Stoneham.
“Mr. Hamilton—”
“Call me Artie,” he insisted good-naturedly.
Tricia forced a smile. “Artie, there’s speculation around Stoneham that Zoë never wrote any of her books.” She risked a glance at her passenger, whose gaze had turned stony.