Bookmarked For Death (Berkley Prime Crime Mysteries)

by Lorna Barrett

  "Are you sorry you came?" Tricia asked.

  Ginny had wrapped her arms around herself, the sleeves of her parka drawn over her fingers, her shoulders hunched until they touched the edges of the watch cap that covered her head and ears. She stamped her feet on the cold, damp earth. "I'd still rather be here, freezing off my behind, than working at the Cookery. I'm sorry to say I don't feel one bit guilty leaving Angelica and Mr. Everett alone together."

  Tricia stifled a smile.

  "Knock-knock. Anybody home?" Nikki Brimfield stood outside the tent, holding a white cardboard cake box in one hand and a grocery bag and the handle of an airpot coffee carafe in the other. "Thought you guys could use a bit of warming up."

  "Hooray!" Ginny cheered, and turned to make room on one of the tables.

  "I stopped at the store first, hoping you'd be open again by now. Then I went by the Cookery and Angelica said I'd find you here. Boy, she was grumpy."

  Tricia ignored the last comment, but addressed the first. "We'd kill for hot coffee now, that's for sure."

  "Yeah," Ginny echoed.

  Nikki set the box and carafe on the table, handing the grocery bag to Ginny. She opened the box, revealing a white-frosted cake with a large splotch of red.

  "Oh," Tricia said, afraid her lack of enthusiasm would be taken the wrong way.

  Nikki laughed. "You're not seeing it complete," she said and dismantled two sides of the box to reveal the entire cake. "There's a fake knife in the bag, Ginny. Want to hand it to me?"

  Ginny did as she was told. Nikki removed a cardboard sheath and plunged the plastic carving knife into the center of the cake. Now the splotch of red made perfect sense: it represented a river of pseudo blood puddled around the knife and dripping down the sides. "It's a red velvet cake. It was my mom's recipe. I thought you might need some comfort food."

  Why did everyone seem to make wrong assumptions about Tricia's definition of comfort food? So far they'd pretty much missed the mark. Couldn't they have just asked?

  "That was thoughtful of you, Nikki. Thank you," Tricia said, trying to sound keen. Had Nikki forgotten it was less than a year ago that Tricia had seen a body with a knife in its back? The sight of the cake made the memory of that terrible evening all the more vivid.

  "Now don't you go sharing that," Nikki cautioned, "it's just for you, Tricia." She indicated the bag. "I brought a couple of coconut cupcakes for you, Ginny."

  "Thanks. They're my favorite."

  "I really appreciate the gesture," Tricia said, taking the knife from the cake and shoving the box under one of the tables and out of sight.

  "I feel so bad about everything that's happened this week," Nikki said. "Baking is my way of . . . well, coping."

  "Has something else bad happened?" Tricia asked.

  Nikki frowned. "Didn't you hear? The bank loan didn't go through. Apparently I don't have enough business acumen or assets or . . . anything."

  Oh, yes, Frannie had mentioned the loan.

  "But you have all that experience. You've run the patisserie for a couple of years, and you're a certified pastry chef trained in Paris," Ginny put in.

  "I know. But it isn't good enough for the Bank of Stoneham." She let out a loud sigh, and for a moment Tricia thought Nikki might cry. But then she straightened, throwing back her shoulders. "I'm not giving up. I've already signed up for an online course on writing a business plan. I just hope Homer doesn't find another buyer before I can get my financing together."

  "I'll keep crossing my fingers for you," Tricia said.

  Nikki glanced at her watch. "Oh, I've got just enough time to go watch the unveiling. Are you going?"

  Tricia shook her head. "We've got to stay here, not that we've been inundated with customers so far. I'm hoping that after the unveiling we'll see a few more sales."

  "Okay," Nikki said, and turned to go.

  "Oh, go ahead, Tricia," Ginny encouraged. "I can certainly handle things here. And I'm not all that interested in looking at a big old hunk of rock with a carved book on it, anyway."

  "Come on, Tricia, it'll be fun," Nikki chided.

  Fun? To go to a memorial service? Still, Tricia looked hopefully at Ginny. "Well, if you really don't mind."

  "Go ahead," Ginny said, and took a Styrofoam cup from the bag Nikki had provided, then pumped coffee from the carafe.

  Tricia removed her Cookery apron, stowing it under one of the tables. "Let's go!"

  They left the vendor area circling the village square and headed for the center, where the gazebo sat amid a sea of short, stubby grass, still brown from its winter dormancy. This was no backyard variety structure, but a grand, freestanding granite edifice, its copper roof a mellow green with age. Mere feet away stood the short, tarp-shrouded statue, looking lumpy and ugly against such a stately pavilion. Bob had done a good job, ensuring that the sidewalk and grass surrounding the monument were devoid of goose droppings, although telltale stains still marred what had recently been pristine concrete.

  A crowd had already gathered around the monument. Tricia recognized members of Haven't Got a Clue's Tuesday Night Book Club in the crowd, as well as Artemus Hamilton, standing with a subdued Kimberly Peters. She wore the same wrinkled suit she'd had on at the signing. Didn't she know how to use an iron? Tricia recognized several selectmen, a couple of the other bookstore owners, and Chamber members, who also stood by. Lois Kerr and Stella Kraft were standing with a knot of older ladies who'd gathered to one side.

  Sheriff Adams and one of her deputies stood with a number of selectmen who'd shown up for the event--no doubt invited by the Chamber to give the ceremony some semblance of official sanction. Clipboard in hand, Frannie Armstrong flitted about the front of the gazebo, checking the names against her master list of invitees.

  Among the missing was Grace Harris, not that Tricia had really expected Mr. Everett's close friend to attend without him. Or was there a reason she didn't want to be seen at Zoe's memorial service? Another angle Tricia would have to investigate.

  News cameramen and still photographers had gathered to the left of the monument. Portia McAlister was also among them and, as a member of the press, so was Russ, his Nikon dangling from his neck, a steno pad clutched in his left hand. The rope, which earlier had been securely tied around the white canvas at the bottom of the monument, had already been removed.

  Bob looked dapper, if partially frozen, in a kelly green sport coat that he always wore while showing real estate. The crowd quieted as he stepped up to the microphone, tapped it, then blew on it. "Testing, testing." Apparently satisfied with the sound quality, he consulted his notes, then raised his gaze to stare directly into the News Team Ten's video camera. Tricia squinted. Had he had his teeth whitened since the last time she'd seen him?

  "It is with great pride and affection that Stoneham's Chamber of Commerce dedicates this statue to one of our own, New York Times best-selling author Zoe Carter, who helped bring fame to our little village. We hope Stoneham will remain a mecca to her millions of fans for generations to come." His words were greeted with a smattering of polite applause.

  "Too bad Angelica is missing this," Nikki whispered, and giggled. "She might even swoon, seeing Bob in his green jacket."

  "Shhh!" Tricia admonished.

  "We had hoped Ms. Carter's niece," Bob nodded toward Kimberly, "might speak, but naturally she's quite distraught at her loss."

  As though on cue, Kimberly dabbed a tissue at her dry eyes.

  "Is there anyone here who'd like to offer a fond memory or words of praise for Zoe?" Bob cleared his throat, looking hopefully at the assembled audience, but no one stepped forward. "Mr. Hamilton?" Bob implored.

  All eyes turned toward the literary agent, who blushed.

  "Go on," Kimberly mouthed, and gave him a nudge.

  A reluctant Hamilton stepped up to the microphone. "Uh . . ." He cleared his throat. "Uh, Zoe Carter was my very first client." His gaze wandered the crowd, lighting on Tricia. He frowned, no doubt remembering the
ir conversation the night before. He looked away. "Zoe, uh, never missed a deadline. The world is a . . . a different place without her."

  Different? That's all he could come up with? Perhaps he was afraid to gush, leery of what the press might say about him when the truth about Zoe came to light.

  He nodded at those assembled and stepped away from the microphone.

  "Thank you," Bob said to the sound of weak applause. "Anyone else?"

  Not a soul stepped forward.

  "Anyone?" he begged.

  As if on queue, the air was broken by the sound of flapping wings and the fierce honking of Canada geese as a portion of the flock took flight from the pond, making a low pass over the crowd, who seemed to duck as one.

  When the cacophony receded, Bob cleared his throat, stepped away from the microphone, and moved over to the monument. He grasped the tarp with both hands and yanked dramatically. The wind caught the canvas, whipping it into the air like a sail. The crowd backed off as it came straight at them. Nikki gasped, and for a moment Tricia thought she might have been injured, but she stared straight ahead, her mouth open in astonishment. Tricia turned, and immediately her expression mirrored Nikki's.

  The carving of the opened book had been shattered into several large chunks. Below, scarlet spray paint marred the brilliant white marble base, spelling out the word thief!

  t h i r t e e n

  "What does it mean?" Nikki gasped. "This is an outrage!" someone called out. "What kind of security measures were taken to protect the statue?" said someone else.

  Bob Kelly stood transfixed, his gaze focused on his brainchild, utterly flabbergasted at the devastation, while Wendy Adams and her deputy tried to keep the crowd away from the ruined marble.

  The TV cameras continued to roll while photographers' flashes strobed. Russ scribbled madly on his steno pad.

  Among those not speculating on the vandalism: Kimberly Peters and Artemus Hamilton, who stood staring mutely at the desecrated monument. Was it because they understood what the graffiti meant?

  "Wendy," Bob bellowed, "how could you have let this happen?"

  "You can't blame the Sheriff's Department--we never got a request to protect the statue."

  "Maybe not, but it's your responsibility to keep the village safe."

  The sheriff's brows inched menacingly closer. "My deputies and I have eight hundred and seventy-six square miles to protect. We can't be everywhere at once, Bob."

  Bob turned to face Kimberly Peters. "I--I don't know what to say, how to apologize--" he stammered.

  Tight-lipped, Kimberly replied, "Try, Mr. Kelly."

  Bob stood there, mouth agape, his gaze returning to the defaced monument.

  Tricia backed away. "I think it's time to go," she told Nikki.

  "Yeah. To think I left Steve alone in the shop for an hour for this. Then again . . ." She let the sentence trail, looking thoughtful.

  "You don't trust Steve?"

  "Of course I trust him. He's got a lot of talent, and he works harder than anyone I've ever hired. But sometimes I just need a break from him. He doesn't have a lot of friends, so I'm afraid he sees me as a confidante, and I'd really rather not play that role."

  "Have you let him know this?"

  She sighed. "He doesn't always listen to me."

  "Yet he wants to bend your ear?" Tricia nodded, knowingly. "I've met a few men like that myself."

  Nikki looked to the south, toward the patisserie. "Well, I hope they find the creep who wrecked the statue and nail him. Then again, Wendy Adams couldn't find herself in a fun house mirror, let alone locate a vandal." She shook her head. "See you on Tuesday at the book club, if not before," she said, and gave Tricia's shoulder a quick pat before heading for Main Street.

  Tricia headed in the opposite direction. At least she wasn't the only one in the village who questioned Sheriff Adams's qualifications.

  Most of the crowd had already dispersed, deserting the square and definitely not visiting any of the vendor tents or food kiosks. Talk about a disaster. Her bottom line for the week was already red, and this event had plunged it into an even deeper scarlet.

  Ginny stood at the tent's opening, arms wrapped around her, stamping her feet to keep warm. "I saw everyone leaving. What happened?"

  Tricia explained while Ginny craned her neck and stood on tiptoes, looking across the square in a vain effort to see the ruined statue. "I miss out on all the fun," she groused.

  "We may as well pack up. I don't think we'll sell another book here today."

  "Tricia, we didn't sell any books today."

  Tricia grimaced at the thought, bending to grab one of the empty boxes from under the table.

  "What will you do with Nikki's cake?"

  "I can't take it to the Cookery. Ange doesn't want to serve anything she didn't make herself."

  "Can I take a slice home to Brian? He could use a treat. With the stove on the fritz, he's pretty sick of sandwiches and microwaved soup."

  "Take the whole thing. I'm not going to eat it. It's very sweet of Nikki to keep giving me sweet treats, but I'm just not into them."

  "And that's how you stay so thin," Ginny said, and poked at the padding on her own hip.

  Tricia grabbed another couple of books. "It would also aggravate Angelica if I brought it home."

  Ginny laughed. "Well, that alone might be worth it. Are you sure you can't take even half of it?"

  Tricia pushed the cake box toward her assistant. "No. Until the sheriff lets me back into my store, I have to live with Angie."

  "It'll be a hardship, but I think between the two of us, we can eat the whole cake." Ginny set the cake aside and started packing books.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tricia pulled her car in front of the tent, and they loaded it. She waved at her nearest neighbor, who was packing up her fried dough stand. "What a bust today turned out to be," she said to Tricia, who nodded and offered a wan smile.

  Ginny decided to walk back to the Cookery so that she could put Nikki's cake in her car trunk. Mr. Everett met Tricia on the sidewalk with a dolly and helped her take a case of books from her car's trunk.

  "Did you notice the crime scene tape is gone?" He nodded toward the door of Haven't Got a Clue.

  "When did that happen?"

  "Just after you left. I tried to call, but your cell phone must be turned off."

  Roger Livingston's call to the Medical Examiner's Office must have done some good. "Are we allowed inside?" she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  "Yes," he said eagerly, and shot a glance at the Cookery, where Angelica stood behind the closed door, disapproval etched across her face.

  Tricia flashed her a smile. "Mr. Everett, I know it's a terrible imposition, but would you be willing to stay at the Cookery, at least for the rest of the day, while Ginny and I get things going again next door?"

  He sighed, as though he'd known she'd ask this question. "Yes. But, tomorrow is Ginny's day off, and you'll need me at Haven't Got a Clue." It wasn't a question; it was a statement.

  "Yes, of course."

  That was sure to start a fight with Angelica. But really, shouldn't she have been looking for a new employee during the past week anyway?

  Tricia plucked the store key from among the others on her ring and placed it in the lock, savoring this moment. She opened the door and breathed in the scent of her store, a mix of old paper, furniture polish, and . . . freedom. How she'd missed days spent in the long, narrow shop with its richly paneled walls decorated with prints and photos of long-dead mystery authors, the comfy tapestry-upholstered chairs in the readers' nook, and the restored tin ceiling-- the only original feature she'd been able to keep during renovation. She took in all her favorite features and sighed. She was home.

  Mr. Everett cleared his throat, reminding her that he stood, coatless, directly behind her. "Where do you want me to put these?"

  "Oh, anywhere. I don't think we'll be able to reopen today."

  "Why not?" said Ginny, coming u
p from behind. "We've still got five hours. It won't take us that long to get the coffee on and the register open."

  "Yes, but I need to give that washroom a thorough cleaning and I need to rescue Miss Marple," Tricia said, hearing the joy in her voice and realizing, for the first time in days, that she actually felt something other than angst.

  "Come on, Mr. Everett, help me get these books inside while Tricia gets her cat," Ginny said. "It's time for us all to go back home."