Kimberly shook her head ever so slightly, a moan escaping.
Thone?
"Stone?" Tricia asked.
Kimberly nodded. For a moment her fingers tightened around Tricia's, and then went slack.
"Can't you ever mind your own business?" came a cold, hard voice from the open doorway.
Tricia started; she hadn't heard anyone approach. She looked up to see a grim-faced Sheriff Wendy Adams looming over her.
f i f t e e n
Zoe's tiny kitchen was about the only room in the house that had escaped the madman's wrath. And surely it had to be a man who'd inflicted all the damage.
Unlike the night of Zoe's death, when Angelica had thrust a sustaining cup of coffee into Tricia's hand, now she had only a damp tissue to clutch. She sat at the little Formica table under Sheriff Adams's unrelenting glare. "Let's go over it again."
Tricia sighed. "We heard the call come over the police scanner. We raced right over. Russ went running across the yard and I came into the house."
The sheriff shook her head in disgust. "A tremendously stupid act," she said under her breath.
"Russ was chasing whoever ransacked the place and injured Kimberly," Tricia continued.
"There could've been more than one assailant. You didn't know there wasn't."
That was true. Still, their showing up had probably frightened the attacker away.
At least, that was what Tricia chose to believe.
"Get on with it," the sheriff prompted.
"I hurried through the house and found Kimberly in the office. Bloodied but breathing. Is she still alive?"
"She was when the ambulance pulled out of here."
Tricia shuddered at the thought of Kimberly's bashed and bloodied face. "Where's Russ?" she asked, in an effort to distract herself.
"Talking with one of my deputies."
"I take it he didn't catch the robber."
"No. Too bad he was our high school newspaper editor. He might've caught the perp if he'd lettered in track."
Tricia blinked. Perp? Wendy Adams sounded like a caricature of a TV lawman . . . er, woman.
The sheriff crossed her arms over her ample bosom and leaned against the counter by the sink. "Now what was it Ms. Peters said to you before she lost consciousness?"
"Stone." Tricia frowned. "At least I think she said stone. It was hard to tell through those broken teeth."
"What do you think she meant by it?"
"The statue that was destroyed? What other explanation is there?"
"And she said nothing else?"
"She said it three times. I think she wanted to make sure I understood her."
Sheriff Adams's lips pursed. It didn't make her look any more attractive.
"Where did they take Kimberly?" Tricia asked.
"Southern New Hampshire Medical Center in Nashua. They've got a trauma center. If she makes it there."
A boulderlike weight seemed to rest on Tricia's chest. She hadn't been one of Kimberly's biggest fans, but she couldn't imagine how anyone could inflict such damage on another human being.
"Did you see any sign of a weapon?" the sheriff asked.
Tricia shook her head. "I assumed he--"
"Or she--"
"--used a sledgehammer. What else could've punched such holes in the walls and furniture?"
Sheriff Adams made no comment.
"I'll bet it was the same tool that smashed the statue."
Still no comment from the sheriff.
Tricia glanced at the clock over the sink and wondered if she should volunteer her suspicions about why a hammer-wielding burglar would ransack Zoe's home and critically injure Kimberly. The sheriff hadn't wanted to hear Tricia's theories about the murder at the Cookery some seven months before; she'd probably be less receptive now. But how much longer could she keep her suspicions to herself?
She needed more information. But how was she going to get it?
Tricia sighed. "Are we about finished, Sheriff?"
"Not quite. I'm going to tell you this once and only once; you are never to violate a crime scene again. What did you think you were doing, playing hero?"
Heroine, Tricia mentally corrected. No way would she say it aloud and set off Wendy Adams's hair-trigger temper. "I've read enough mysteries and true crime to know not to do that. And I did not violate a crime scene. I walked through the house, and I touched nothing but Kimberly Peters's hand. Giving her that tiny bit of comfort was the least I could do for her--the very least I would expect from anyone."
Wendy Adams's expression was doubtful. "I also don't want you talking to the press about any of this."
Tricia raised her hands defensively. "No problem there. In fact, I'm glad to have your blessing not to speak to them."
The sheriff merely glared at her. "Go home, Ms. Miles. And stay there." She turned her head toward the doorway. "Placer!" Seconds later, a deputy appeared. "Please escort Ms. Miles to her car. And keep an eye on her. We wouldn't want her to get hurt." She ended her little speech with a sneer.
Tricia got up from her chair. The sheriff didn't budge, and Tricia had to sidle past her in the tiny kitchen. She was glad to get away from the disaster that was Zoe's former home. Glad to inhale deep breaths of the cold, invigorating air.
Glad to get away from Wendy Adams.
Tricia pulled up Russ's driveway and eased the gearshift to Park. "Are you sure you don't want me to come home with you?" he asked. "No. I just want to go home." "I could keep you company," he offered with a wry smile.
"Not tonight," she said dryly.
"Don't I even get a good-night kiss?" Russ asked, still strapped in the passenger seat and making no move to leave.
"Just one," Tricia said, and leaned forward, aiming for his cheek, but Russ took her face in his hands, planting a light, warm kiss on her lips before pulling back.
"Maybe two," Tricia said, and put a little more effort into that kiss, remembering why she liked to spend quiet time with Russ. But not tonight. Her nerves were too taut, and Russ would only want to rehash the evening's events for hours on end. She needed something different. Someone different to talk things over with.
Russ pulled back. "I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay."
He unbuckled the seat belt and got out of the car, shutting the door. He stood, watching, as she pulled out of the drive. He waved as she took off down the road. At the corner, she could still see him standing in his yard.
Instead of heading home, Tricia steered for the convenience store on the edge of town. She parked the car and rummaged in her purse for her cell phone, selected one of the preset numbers, and waited as it rang, two, three, four times. "Hello?"
"Ange, it's Tricia. What are you doing tonight?"
Angelica sighed. "Unpacking boxes."
"Alone?"
"Yes," she said shortly. "And you don't have to rub it in."
"I'm not. I'd kind of like some company, and I was wondering . . . what kind of ice cream do you like?"
"Ice cream?" Angelica asked, her voice rising with pleasure. "Oh, anything. But I especially like butter pecan, pralines and cream, and--what the heck--rocky road. Do you need more suggestions?"
"That'll do."
"Get some of that canned whipped cream. And nuts. Maybe cherries, too. If we're going to splurge, we may as well go whole hog."
"See you in about twenty minutes," Tricia said, and folded up her phone.
True to her word, she arrived at the Cookery's door precisely nineteen and a half minutes later, and let herself in.
Angelica met her at the top of the stairs to the loft apartment. No Miss Marple greeted her. In all the excitement, Tricia had forgotten she'd taken the cat and all her equipment home.
Angelica led her back to the kitchen, where the light was better, frowning as she took in her sister's face. "What happened? You look pale. Did you and Russ have another spat?"
Tricia shook her head. "I had a bit of a shock this evening."
"H
ang up your coat. I'll unpack the grocery sack, and we'll talk."
Tricia handed over the bag with its four pints of ice cream and all the trimmings. Angelica had its contents spread across the kitchen island, along with spoons and dishes, by the time Tricia returned to the kitchen.
Tricia looked around the room. The long line of boxes that had been stacked against the wall for months was considerably smaller. Several pictures had been tacked up on the walls, giving the kitchen a much homier appearance. Not prints, but antique oil paintings of fruits and vegetables--succulent strawberries, dew-kissed pears, and sun-ripened tomatoes. They reflected Angelica's love of food--her joy in its preparation and the care she took with its presentation. Tricia looked into the living room. There was actually a coffee table in front of the couch! Okay, it was still covered in boxes, but it was at least visible, and she saw pots of herbs on the sills in front of the street-side windows. "Wow, you've made a lot of headway with your unpacking tonight."
"Forget the decor; tell me what happened," Angelica demanded, removing the lid from a pint of butter pecan.
Tricia recounted her evening. From the lack of romance at Russ's home to finding a bloodied Kimberly to Wendy Adams's stern interrogation.
As Angelica listened, she plopped a big scoop of ice cream into her bowl, added some whipped cream, sprinkled it with crushed nuts, and topped it with a maraschino cherry. "Oh, you poor little thing," she cooed, not without sympathy, when Tricia finished.
Tricia scraped a small spoonful of French vanilla but didn't put it in her mouth. Suddenly the idea of all that sweetness was a turnoff. She set the container aside. "You should've seen that house. There was hatred in every swing of that hammer--sledgehammer--whatever it was."
"What were they looking for? The original manuscripts Zoe passed off as her own? Why would they think Kimberly would have them there? Didn't you say Zoe's main residence was down south somewhere?"
Tricia nodded. "And I can't imagine her keeping them. The woman was an accountant--or at least some kind of bookkeeper, which might indicate she had a logical mind. I'm sure she got rid of them years ago. Kimberly said she retyped a couple of them. And if Zoe was smart, she burned the originals so there'd be no paper trail."
Angelica shook her head, took another spoonful of ice cream. "And Russ had no clue who he was chasing?"
"Just someone in dark sweats and a hoodie."
Angelica frowned. "Didn't you say there was no sign of a hammer in the house?"
Tricia nodded.
Angelica shook her head, frowning. "That doesn't make sense. It would be pretty difficult, if not impossible, to run while carrying a sledgehammer. The handles are like three feet long."
"We're not sure it actually was a sledgehammer."
"From the way you described those holes in the walls, what else could it be? And you're no slouch when it comes to those kinds of details."
Modesty prevented Tricia from agreeing.
"So," Angelica continued, "where do you think the bad guy threw the hammer? In some bushes? Was this person already in the neighbor's yard when Russ took off after him--her--whoever?"
Tricia thought back. Everything had happened so fast. "I'm not sure. I ran straight for the open front door, and Russ didn't, so I guess maybe that could have happened. A couple of deputies followed the trail in the snow, but it petered out on the street. They talked about bringing in some dogs, but Russ said he lost the runner after about a block. He thought he heard a car start up on the next street over, but he couldn't be sure if it was just a neighbor or the person he was chasing."
Angelica added some more whipped cream to her bowl. "It's pretty cold out, but I've got plenty of long underwear and fresh batteries in my big flashlight. What say we take a field trip to Pine Avenue and have a look for that hammer?"
Tricia pushed her spoon and the virtually untouched container of ice cream aside. "Oh, no. Sheriff Adams warned me off, and I don't intend to disobey her. Besides, I'm sure she's already combing the neighborhood for it."
"Are you afraid of the sheriff?"
"Yes! She shut down my business for four days. I'm not going to give her a reason to do it again."
Angelica stuck out her tongue. "Party pooper!"
Tricia shook her head. "I think I'm just plain pooped." She stood. "Time for me to go home. To my cat. To my own bed." The thoughts cheered her.
Angelica's expression was a cross between a frown and a pout. "I can't say I'm happy you're going home."
Of course not. If the store had been closed a few more days, she'd have a reprieve from finding permanent replacement workers as long as Ginny and Mr. Everett had nowhere else to go.
"I'm going to miss you, Trish. It was fun having you here. While I was alone here tonight, I realized I even miss Miss Marple."
Tricia swallowed, feeling guilty for her sarcastic thought. She felt even worse when Angelica came around the island and gathered her in her arms for a hug.
s i x t e e n
Tricia woke at seven the next morning to the sound of a flock of honking geese flying over her building. Why was it they made such a pleasant noise and such an unpleasant mess? As the sound faded, she threw back the covers and got up to revel in her usual Sunday morning routine: three miles on the treadmill, a shower, and then a satisfying breakfast of a microwavethawed bagel with cream cheese and coffee. Miss Marple had been especially happy to return to her favorite haunts and eat her meals in her usual spot. All was right once again in Miss Marple's world, and she let Tricia know it with her continuous happy purring.
First on Tricia's agenda was tidying her shop. Although the store had been closed to customers, it had still accumulated an inordinate amount of dust. Dusting was Mr. Everett's favorite job, so she decided that she'd give the washroom another going over. Despite all her efforts the afternoon before, she feared she'd missed cleaning all the messy black fingerprint powder, and she wanted to give Haven't Got a Clue a thorough vacuuming before the store opened.
Then she remembered Artemus Hamilton was leaving Stoneham this morning. She took a chance, phoned the Brookview Inn, and found him still there.
"Mr. Hamilton? It's Tricia Miles. I'm glad I caught you before you checked out."
"By any chance are you related to an Angelica Miles?" he asked.
"Um . . . yes," she said, taken aback. "She's my sister."
"I just had a visit from her. She brought me fresh-baked muffins, hot coffee, and a manuscript." He didn't sound pleased.
"I'm so sorry. I tried to tell her she should query you, but she's very new to bookselling and knows virtually nothing about the publishing business."
"That much was obvious. Now why were you calling?"
"I'm afraid I have some disturbing news."
"News?" he repeated, dully.
"It's about Kimberly Peters. I'm afraid there's been--" Accident wasn't the right word. "I'm sorry to tell you she was attacked in Zoe's home last night. She was taken to Southern New Hampshire Hospital in Nashua. I'm sorry, I don't know what her condition is."
"Attacked?" he repeated, sounding much more interested.
"Yes." Tricia proceeded to fill him in on the previous evening's events.
"Oh, my," he said, sounding rather shell-shocked by the time Tricia finished her recitation.
"I know she's not your client or anything, but I thought you might like to know."
"Yes. Thank you. And you say she's at a hospital in Nashua?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps--" He stopped, and Tricia was surprised to
hear a catch in his voice. "Perhaps I'll send her some flowers before I leave."
"That would be nice," Tricia said, and then mentally amended--if she survives. "Have you got a ride to the airport?"
"Yes. The inn's shuttle will take me. Thanks for asking. And thank you for calling, Ms. Miles." Hamilton hung up.
Tricia frowned, annoyed at his abrupt dismissal. She exhaled a long breath, but decided not to worry about it. She had other thi
ngs to do.
Miss Marple danced around the door to the stairwell, and Tricia was just about to head downstairs when the phone rang. She glanced at the little readout, but didn't recognize the number on caller ID. She picked up the receiver anyway, hoping it wouldn't be Portia McAlister. "Hello?"
"Tricia?" Whew! It was Ginny.
"You sound awful. What's wrong?"
"I'm just tired. I spent most of the night in the emergency room at Southern New Hampshire Medical Center in Nashua."
Bookmarked For Death (Berkley Prime Crime Mysteries) Page 17