“It’s my job to be persistent. And you’re making that job very difficult.”
“Sorry. It can’t be helped.”
Portia straightened. “If you can’t tell me about the crimes against Carter and her niece, at least tell me why you’re so interested in them yourself.”
“Initially I wanted to get my store open. Wendy Adams had me shut down for days. Longer than was technically necessary.”
“And now?”
“Let’s just say I’m not sure the Sheriff’s Department is following every one of their leads.” And are clueless about some potential leads, she kept herself from voicing aloud.
Portia leaned her elbows on the counter. “You know, I could be a big help to you. I know things about the case you probably don’t.”
“Such as?”
“I’m not about to spill them without getting something in return.”
Tricia hoisted the coffee grounds basket into the air. “I did offer you coffee.”
“I can get that from the diner.”
“You do have that option.”
“Come on, Tricia, toss me something. Just a crumb.”
Tricia thought about it. It might be better to get someone with the tenacity of a terrier in on the hunt. Someone who could ask questions and redirect Wendy Adams’s anger away from Tricia’s inquiries.
“How do you feel about revealing your sources?”
“I spent a week in jail back in the spring of 2003 to protect one. I have to tell you, those orange jumpsuits are ugly as hell, and the fabric chafes, but I’d do it over again if I had to.”
Tricia poured water into the coffeemaker and hit the On switch. She’d promised Artemus Hamilton she wouldn’t say anything about Zoë not writing the Jess and Addie books until after the weekend. That was before someone had gone after and nearly killed Kimberly Peters.
“Okay, I’m ready to dish. Years ago, several of Stoneham’s citizens questioned whether Zoë Carter actually wrote any of the books she’s credited with.”
Portia’s eyes widened. “Interesting. Did they have any proof?”
Tricia shook her head. “No, but their suspicions got me looking into things.”
“And you don’t believe she wrote the books, either?”
“I know she didn’t write them. I’ve had it confirmed from two sources.”
“Would one of them be Kimberly Peters?”
“I’m not saying. You asked me to toss you a crumb. That was it. Now it’s your turn to give up something.”
Portia straightened and smoothed back her hair. “Okay. Fair is fair. Like you, I’ve been looking into Zoë Carter’s background. It seems she was indicted for embezzlement back in the 1990s.”
Tricia waved a hand in dismissal. “I saw your report online days ago.”
“Ah, but I didn’t tell the whole story. She got off by turning in her boss—her ex-lover. The court was lenient because she had no prior convictions and had recently taken in her orphaned niece. It was very unusual. She may have had some kind of political in, although I haven’t been able to figure out the exact connection.”
“It’s still old news,” Tricia said.
Portia chewed her lip for a moment, as though considering. “Zoë was being blackmailed.”
“The person who wrote the letters has come forward. The sheriff investigated that angle and moved on to other things.”
Portia frowned and sighed. “You have been persistent.”
“I had good teachers,” Tricia said, and waved a hand to take in all the mystery stories on the bookshelves around them.
“Okay, but this is the last thing I’m offering up.” Portia leaned closer, lowered her voice. “As a girl, Zoë Carter wanted to be a nun.”
“A nun?” Tricia repeated, surprised. Then again, Zoë dressed so conservatively, and her lifestyle was so . . . bland. But no one she’d spoken to had mentioned Zoë had deep religious convictions.
Portia nodded. “She got kicked out of the convent for improper behavior. With a little digging, I found out it was for stealing. Apparently she wasn’t quite able to honor her vow of poverty. I guess her indictment for embezzlement several years later shouldn’t have come as a huge surprise.”
Maybe, but despite the millions she’d raked in as the socalled author of the Forever books, she hadn’t lived the life of a millionaire, either.
“None of this seems to have anything to do with her getting murdered in my store.”
“Nothing we yet know about. She had so many skeletons in the closet, I’m surprised no other reporters dug deep to find the truth about her before this.”
“Yes, it would’ve been great fodder for the tabloids, especially as she was such a hermit when it came to book promotion.”
“If you can’t tell me about your run-ins with Zoë dead and Kimberly just attacked, tell me what you make of that ruined statue.”
“Same thing as you do—that Zoë’s killer did it.”
“Any suspects?” Portia pushed.
Tricia shook her head. “Not so far.”
“And why attack Kimberly?”
“To retrieve the original manuscripts?” Tricia suggested.
“Why?”
“To conceal who wrote them.”
“Conceal or reveal?”
Tricia nodded. “Good question.”
The coffeemaker stopped bubbling as the last of the brew dripped into the pot.
“If what you said about Zoë not writing the books is true, it’s just another chink in her armor,” Portia said.
“What are you going to do with that piece of knowledge?”
“I’m going to find out the truth. And I’m going to report it. Maybe I can even parlay it into a job in a better market.”
“Better than Boston?” Tricia asked.
“Hey, winter in LA is a lot warmer than here on the East Coast.”
“Can I count on you to tell me what you find out?” Tricia asked, pouring coffee for them both and handing one of the cups to Portia.
“Possibly. Can I expect the same from you?”
“Count on it.”
They touched their paper coffee cups in a toast.
Seventeen
Tricia always considered the Bookshelf Diner’s name a bit of a misrepresentation. After all, she didn’t know of many diners with a function room. Whether it was a diner or a family restaurant, it did indeed offer this amenity, and it was usually reserved for private parties, baby and wedding showers, and after-funeral-service occasions. The theme of its decor was unidentifiable; no doubt its creamy walls and the nondescript purple-gray floral border that ran just below the room’s ceiling were deliberate choices, so that the room could be used for any purpose. In this instance, the occasion was more supportive than celebratory.
A long table had been set up in the center of the room, with unused smaller tables and extra chairs pushed off to the side. A stab at elegance had been attempted, but the linen tablecloth, though clean, had seen its share of spilled wine.
Tricia arrived later than she’d wanted, and was seated at one end of the table. The guest of honor was seated directly opposite her at the far end of the table, with at least four book club members and several of Nikki’s other friends in between. Nikki’s assistant, Steve Fenton, sat at her left, looking uncomfortable in the presence of so many women. He’d made an effort to spiff up, too. The do-rag was gone and the sleeves of his denim shirt were rolled up, revealing his heavily muscled arms.
Among the missing, Grace Harris and Mr. Everett. Tricia hadn’t expected to see her employee—he never spent money frivolously—but she’d more than half expected to see his lady friend, who often acted as the book group’s unofficial spokesperson.
“Glad you could make it,” Frannie said, handing Tricia a menu.
“Where’s Grace?” Tricia asked, noting an empty chair at the middle of the table.
“Grace Harris come to a diner?” Frannie asked, incredulous.
“Why not? I never got the impression she was a snob.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. She’s the nicest woman on the face of the planet,” Frannie hurriedly attested. “It’s just that she’s so classy, what with her lovely clothes and jewelry. I would just never expect her to get down and dirty and eat eggs, bacon, and home fries with ketchup.”