Bookmarked For Death (Berkley Prime Crime Mysteries)

by Lorna Barrett

  "And yet you represented those books."

  "They were good. I was new to the business, but I knew I could sell them. At the time that's all I--and Zoe--cared about."

  "Would you have made a different decision today?"

  He didn't answer.

  Tricia's grip on the steering wheel tightened once more

  as she thought about everything he'd said. "Who did the rewrites on the last two novels?" She thought she knew the answer before he even spoke.

  "Kimberly Peters."

  Aha!

  "Kimberly has an English degree. She's written a couple of novels--women's fiction. I've read her work. It's good. It's publishable. But Zoe wouldn't hear of it."

  "Why not?"

  "She thought one author in the family was enough."

  Which would seem to be a motive for Kimberly to get rid of her dearly "beloved" aunt.

  "Why didn't you do the last two rewrites?"

  "No time. Thanks to Zoe, my agency is one of the top twenty in New York. Kimberly offered to take over the rewrites, and she was good at it. She also took over Zoe's correspondence. She approved the cover copy and worked with the publisher's publicist. Zoe hated any kind of promotion, but Kimberly talked her into a Web site. She put the whole thing together--coordinated the updates. She answered the fan mail. She made Zoe at least appear to be accessible. Somehow she even convinced Zoe to go on tour for the last book, coaching her all the way."

  "Kimberly did all that for Zoe, and then the woman more or less disinherited her?"

  "Zoe was not a logical woman. She rarely asked me for advice."

  "Kimberly said that until recently you were named the executor of Zoe's will. Did you know that?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know why she changed her mind?"

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  "It's none of your business."

  Touche. Time to try another tack.

  "You knew there'd be no more Jess and Addie Forever

  novels. What's to stop you from helping Kimberly get published now?"

  He exhaled loudly. "While Zoe was alive, it made sense to placate her. I now represent her estate. Those books will sell for another five, maybe ten, years. It wasn't like I totally ignored Kimberly's aspirations. I gave her a few of my colleagues' names, but I don't think she's yet found representation."

  "I take it that you haven't spoken to Kimberly about her own manuscripts since Zoe died?"

  He shook his head. "She did phone me, but that subject didn't come up."

  "Would you consider representing her now?"

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  "She'll be at the dedication tomorrow. I'm sure you two will have a lot to talk about."

  "Possibly."

  They rode in silence for a good five minutes before Hamilton spoke again. "Ms. Miles--"

  "Tricia," she insisted.

  "Tricia, please don't talk about this to anyone. It would be--"

  "Bad for business?"

  "As you said, Zoe's dead. What good would it do to drag her name through the mud?"

  "I'll make you a deal. I won't talk about this until after this weekend. It wouldn't do to embarrass my colleagues in the Chamber of Commerce, but if the real author of those manuscripts killed Zoe, eventually it will come out. You do see that, don't you?"

  He shrugged, sounded resigned. "If it happens, it happens. I'll deal with it later."

  By denying everything, Tricia thought bitterly. She pulled onto Route 101, steering toward Stoneham and the Brookview Inn. She'd be glad to be rid of Hamilton. And yet . . . for some reason, she didn't think he could be as cold and calculating as he'd come across. Or, despite his part in concealing the truth about Zoe's books, was she just hoping she'd see a better side of him?

  Long minutes of silence later, she pulled into the Brookview's drive and stopped the car by the inn's welcoming front entrance. She popped the trunk as Hamilton got out, then retrieved his suitcase. He walked up to the driver's door. Tricia hit a button, and her window slid down and out of sight.

  "Thank you for the ride, Ms. Miles. And thank you for giving me some time to--" He hesitated. "To come up with a plausible explanation for my actions. I hope I can be as creative as the person who wrote Zoe's books." With that, he turned and walked up the steps and into the inn.

  The Cookery had been closed for more than an hour by the time Tricia made it back to Main Street. Dodging the goose droppings, she ended up in front of her sister's store. After the long day, she wanted nothing more than a glass of wine, a soak in a tub, and to escape into an Agatha Christie story. That wasn't likely to happen. At least Bob's car wasn't parked at the curb, so she'd only have to contend with Angelica tonight.

  She unlocked the door, trailed through the darkened store with only the dim security lamps overhead to light the way, and headed up the stairs. She got to the top and opened the door Angelica had left unlocked. "Hello!" she called.

  "In the kitchen," came Angelica's muted voice.

  The patter of little paws sounded, and before Tricia could hang up her coat, Miss Marple scolded her, at the same time rubbing her head against Tricia's legs. "I'm sorry I didn't come to see you all day, Miss Marple. You must have been terribly lonely," Tricia said, and scooped up the cat, which purred loudly, fiercely nuzzling Tricia's neck.

  Tricia put the cat down and headed to the kitchen.

  "I'm glad you're here," Angelica said, looking up from the stove, where she stirred some heavenly smelling concoction. "That cat has done nothing but make a pest of herself since I came up an hour ago."

  "Did you feed her?"

  "That's not my job."

  Tricia sighed, grabbed the empty and well-licked food bowl, and took it to the sink to wash. Miss Marple kept rubbing against her slacks, which were soon coated in cat hair. She selected a can of tuna in sauce, supplemented the wet with some dry food, and set it on the floor. Miss Marple dug in gratefully. Tricia rinsed and refilled the water bowl before collapsing onto one of the kitchen stools.

  "You look pooped. Ready to talk?" Angelica asked eagerly.

  "You bet. More than that, though, I'm starved."

  Angelica abandoned her spoon, took three steps and opened the fridge, grabbed a plate and peeled off the cling wrap before setting it on the island in front of Tricia. "I whipped these up yesterday afternoon in the store. Had a few left over and saved you some. They went over real well. Sold seven books on hors d'oeuvres because of them."

  Tricia wrinkled her nose. "Ginny said she got sick eating them."

  "Oh, don't be absurd. Nobody else did, and believe me, if any of my customers had gotten sick, I'd have heard. People love to sue. I use only fresh ingredients, and you know how meticulously clean I keep my workspace. I'm not afraid to use my digital thermometer, either."

  No doubt about it, Angelica was a hygiene hound, and was especially careful not to cross-contaminate raw with cooked foods.

  "Besides," Angelica said loftily, "I ate six of them for lunch, and they were delicious."

  They did look appetizing, and Tricia was hungry. Throw ing caution to the wind, she studied the delightful little morsels before her, choosing a baguette slice topped with cheese and what looked like homemade salsa. She took a tentative bite. Good, but probably needed time for the cheese to warm up to room temperature to truly be appreciated. "What are you making? It smells wonderful."

  "Tlalpeno soup. Got the recipe on a trip Drew," her exhusband, "and I made to Mexico City about three years back. You do like avocados, don't you?"

  "Definitely."

  Angelica grabbed another glass from the cupboard and poured Tricia wine from the opened bottle of Chardonnay, then handed it to her. "Margaritas would be a better choice, but I ran out of lime juice. So tell me all about Zoe's agent." Angelica wasn't above listening to gossip, and Tricia figured she could use a sounding board.

  She took a sip, and sighed, letting herself relax for the first time in hours. "I had an interesting conversati
on with Mr. Artemus Hamilton."

  Angelica resumed her position at the stove. "And?" she asked eagerly. "What's he like? Is he looking for new clients?"

  Tricia blinked, taken aback by the question. "I didn't ask. He did, however, admit that Zoe Carter never wrote her best sellers."

  Angelica snorted. "Yeah, and Santa comes down my chimney every Christmas Eve."

  "I'm serious, Ange. I've been hearing rumors, and her agent confirmed it."

  "But that's ridiculous."

  "I talked to Zoe's next-door neighbor, the Stoneham librarian, and even Zoe's old English teacher. None of them ever believed she wrote the books."

  "Then why didn't someone say something before now?"

  "No one had proof."

  "So what are you saying, that the real author stepped up and killed Zoe?"

  Tricia nodded.

  "But why would the author wait until now? The first book was published over a decade ago. I know. I bought it. In fact, I still have it." She waved a hand toward the stacks of unopened boxes that still littered her adjoining living room. "Somewhere in all this mess."

  "I talked to Kimberly about it. She wasn't the author, but she knew Zoe didn't write them, either. Kimberly has an English degree and supposedly has some writing ability. Somehow she got Zoe to allow her to do the rewrites on the last few books. It's possible she could've felt at least a bit of ownership after she started doing that and approving the cover copy, et cetera."

  "But who did write the novels?" Angelica asked.

  Tricia shrugged. "We may never know. And speaking of books . . . why are you so interested in Artemus Hamilton?"

  "Me?" Angelica said, sounding anything but innocent.

  "Yes. Every time I mention him, you glow like a lightbulb. Come on, level with me."

  Angelica bit her lip, looking thoughtful. "If I tell you, do you promise you won't make fun of me?"

  Tricia sighed. "I promise."

  Angelica turned to her pantry, opened the door, and took out a folding metal step stool. Setting it in front of the refrigerator, she stepped up to open the cabinet over the appliance. From it, she withdrew a sheaf of papers. She stepped down, closed the distance between them, and handed it to Tricia.

  "Easy-Does-It Cooking," she read, "by Angelica Miles." She looked up at her sister. "You've written a cookbook?"

  Angelica nodded. "Actually, I've written three. This is my latest."

  Tricia flipped through the pages, noting the document wasn't formatted in accepted manuscript style. "What are you going to do with it?"

  She shrugged. "I thought I might offer it to Mr. Hamilton. I kind of looked at his firm's Web site. Apparently they do take nonfiction. Now I just need an introduction to him."

  Tricia handed back the papers. "Don't look at me."

  Angelica frowned. "Why not? You did him a favor by driving him to the Brookview. He owes you."

  "May I remind you, we did not part on happy terms. And"--she looked at the manuscript in her sister's hands-- "you can't submit something like that without doing the upfront research."

  "Are you kidding? I've been researching cooking my whole life. And during the past five months, when I've been working ten-hour days, I realized that what the world needs is recipes for delicious, easy, and quick-to make dinners."

  "Ange, have you looked at the bookshelves in your own store? There are scores of cookbooks just like that already in print."

  Angelica shook her head. "Not like mine."

  "And it's not even properly formatted," Tricia pointed out.

  "Oh, who cares about that? The quality will shine through."

  "Fine. Find out the hard way. But one more thing: if I've learned anything talking to authors, there's nothing worse than shoving your manuscript at an agent or editor at an inappropriate time. It's the kiss of death."

  "Oh, what do you know?" Angelica said, and held the pages to her chest as though they were a babe in diapers. "You'll see. I'm going to sell my cookbooks. I'll be fabulously successful, maybe even land my own TV show like Rachael Ray or Paula Deen. Lord knows I've got the personality."

  And the ego, too.

  "Fine. Don't listen to me." Tricia sniffed the air. "But, oh fabulous sister chef of mine, I think you'll find your soup is scorched."

  Angelica dropped the manuscript on the counter as though it were on fire, and rushed to the stove. Grabbing the spoon, she stirred the pot, her expression souring. She took a taste. "Oh, no," she wailed. "My lovely, lovely soup."

  Tricia shook her head, got up, and walked over to pick up the phone. "Looks like it's pizza again, after all."

  t w e l v e

  True to his word, Mr. Everett was at the Cookery before opening on Saturday morning, just as Ginny and Tricia packed up the last of the books to take to Stoneham Square and the statue dedication. Tricia had questions for Mr. Everett, but this wasn't the time to voice them all. Perhaps later in the afternoon an opportunity would arise.

  Still, she drew him aside to ask the most important one. "How did it go with Sheriff Adams?"

  "She is not a very nice woman. I was glad Mr. Livingston did most of the talking; otherwise, I'm sure I'd be staring at the walls of a jail cell right now."

  "Thank heavens for good legal counsel," Tricia agreed. "There's something else we need to discuss, Mr. Everett."

  "Tricia, can you help me with these boxes?" Ginny called.

  "Just a second." She turned back to Mr. Everett. "We'll talk later."

  He nodded, and headed for the back of the shop to stow his coat.

  Tricia helped Ginny stack the boxes on two of the Cookery's dollies.

  "I think I should go to the dedication," Angelica said, as she watched Mr. Everett don his yellow Cookery apron.

  "You can't leave the store," Tricia said, putting on her coat.

  "Why not? Mr. Everett is here to take care of things. And anyway, it's likely most of the village, and a lot of the tourists, will be at the square. The Cookery might not have any customers, anyway."

  "Not if the weatherman is correct. He's predicting a high of only forty-six degrees today. That might just drive a bunch of the tourists into your toasty warm shop."

  "I heard a couple of TV stations will be covering the dedication," Ginny said, and laughed. "It must be a slow weekend for news."

  Angelica went behind her sales counter, came back with a big brown envelope, and handed it to Tricia. "Here, if you see Mr. Hamilton, will you give him this?"

  Tricia handed the package right back to her. "I know what this is, and I already told you, the answer is no."

  "What's in the package?" Ginny asked, curious.

  "None of your business," Angelica snapped. She turned back to her sister. "Tricia, please? I'll make you a cheesecake--from scratch."

  "I don't like cheesecake." Tricia pulled her gloves from the pockets of her jacket. "We'll tell you all about the dedication afterward."

  "I can't wait," Angelica said, sarcastically.

  Tricia tipped back her dolly of books and headed for the front door. "We'll probably be back about five, after striking the set."

  "It's not showbiz," Angelica drawled.

  "It is to me," Tricia said, and continued to the door,

  which Ginny opened for her. She'd already parked her car at the curb and had loaded the borrowed cash register and some boxes of books. Too bad all of it was new stock. Mystery lovers who traveled to Stoneham were expecting to find some of their long-out-of-print favorites. Curse Sheriff Adams and her stubbornness.

  The atmosphere in the village square was more like that of a circus than a cemetery, considering the event had morphed from a celebration into a memorial service. As many as twenty tents lined the outside of the square, decked out in balloons and colorful wind socks madly waving in the brisk wind, while the aroma of fried dough, hot dogs, and kettle corn filled the air. Potential customers were already milling about as the vendors set up their wares.

  Fifteen or twenty geese stood by, eyeing the
crowd from the edges of the park's retention pond. Despite the do not feed the geese signs posted all around, these birds knew that the presence of people often equaled food, and they looked ready to pounce should it appear.

  Tricia stood at the opening of her three-sided tent. A gale blew through the canvas walls, threatening to make a box kite out of the whole contraption. Her generic "Thank You" plastic bags had to be weighted down with rocks Ginny found in one of the small park's gardens.