Untitled (20 page)

   Tricia smiled. "See you Monday."

   "Bye," Ginny said, and crossed the lot to her own car.

   Tricia made it to Russ's house exactly on time. She hadn't even had a chance to raise her arm to knock on the front door before it was jerked open. "Tricia!" It sounded like he was greeting a long-lost friend. His hopeful expression and the way he practically bounced on his feet reminded her of a small child desperate to get back into someone's good graces.

   "Hi, Russ." She stepped forward, planted a gentle kiss on his lips, then another, before he took her hand and pulled her over the threshold and into the brightly lit entryway.

   "Let me take your coat," he said.

   She handed him her coat and stepped into the living room.

   No dim lights, no unpleasant aroma. In fact, no aroma at all. And, once again, the sound of the police scanner contributed to the lack of ambiance. Tricia sighed. Well, what did she expect? Maybe sending the flowers a few days before was all the romance Russ could muster. He was also probably dying to talk about the statue dedication, and she wasn't sure she was up to it. "What are we having for dinner?"

   "Pizza. After last time, I figured it was a safe choice."

   And easy. "Have you called it in yet?"

   "I wanted to wait for you. I didn't want to take a chance on ordering the wrong toppings." And, unspoken, risking her ire. Okay, they would both be walking on eggshells with each other for a little while.

   "I'll eat anything but anchovies . . . and maybe those terrible canned black olives."

   "Veggies?" he offered.

   "Always."

   
Squawk!
"Dispatch to Two-A."

   Russ's head snapped around as he listened to the police scanner.

   "Two-A," said a disembodied voice.

   "Respond to a noise complaint at seventeen Wilder Road. The complainant, who does not wish contact, is a neighbor directly across the street and reports loud music coming from the house for the last three hours."

   "Two-A responding."

   He turned back to Tricia, risked a smile. "Let's have a drink," he said, took her hand and led her to the living room couch. Scattered across the books and folded newspapers on the cocktail table were photographs of the vandalized statue he'd taken earlier that day, along with a bottle of white zinfandel and two glasses. He poured, offering her one of the glasses.

   Tricia took it, but also picked up a photo. "What made you print them?"

   "I thought you might like to see them."

   She studied the picture. "It's a shame someone had to ruin the statue. If only Bob hadn't decided to dedicate it to Zoë." She wasn't about to elaborate on her theories to Russ. Let him find his own answers about the so-called writer's life—and her death.

   "The whole thing was a fiasco, from start to finish," Russ said, leaning back against the cushions. "First of all, Bob should never have contracted with a Vermont quarry for the marble. He should've gone with granite. After all, New Hampshire is the Granite State. And as the head of the Chamber of Commerce, he's the first one to complain when someone doesn't support local business."

   "Oh, you're right. A major faux pas," Tricia agreed.

   "And then they ordered the inscription too late for the dedication, which made it easy for them to change the focus of the celebration. Let me tell you, more than a few of the booksellers are annoyed the Chamber would honor a woman who refused to help the village get established as a book town."

   Tricia hadn't had an opinion on that before now, but she had to admit she agreed with the sentiment.

   "Added to that, a bunch of the locals are upset that the Chamber is honoring an 'outsider.' At least it wasn't public money that paid for the statue. That would've really landed the Board of Selectmen in hot water."

   "You're a Stoneham native. What do you think of outsiders?" Tricia asked.

   "I love them," he answered without hesitation. "You in particular." He leaned forward to kiss her nose. "They've saved this burg from dying."

   She set the photo down on the table and sat back on the couch, wishing they were in her own loft apartment. Was that what was wrong? In her own home she could control the atmosphere. Play soft music, dim the lights, light a few scented candles. Okay, she'd probably served pizza way too many times herself, but that was only because she wasn't very good at—or interested in—cooking, despite Angelica's offers to teach her a few basic recipes. Maybe she ought to reconsider that decision.

   And maybe she should reconsider what she wanted out of the relationship. Russ was the only man she'd dated since her divorce less than two years ago. Could what they had even be called much of a relationship? Was she afraid to risk more heartbreak? If there was any spark between them, she'd spent little effort fanning what might burst into flames.

   And he had been the first to say—in writing, no less— the word
love
.

   "Did you read my top story in this week's issue?" Russ asked.

   Tricia looked up at him. He wasn't at all like Christopher—and maybe that was something she found comforting. "Story?" she asked.

   "Yeah, in the
Stoneham Weekly News
."

   It took a moment for the question to register. Tricia hesitated before answering. She hadn't. The
Stoneham Weekly
News
had arrived, but what with everything that had happened, it had been shunted into the trash—probably by Ginny. "Not yet," she said finally. "Didn't you say it concerned the geese problem?"

   "Yes." He shook his head and frowned. "We have a murder right here in the village, and I come out with a story on goose shit."

   "You're not psychic. You couldn't know someone would die," she said reasonably.

   "Of course, the geese are just another one of Bob's problems."

   "Surely it's up to the Village Board to deal with them, not the Chamber of Commerce."

   "Yes, and privately Bob is advocating killing them."

   "Frannie mentioned that was an option. She was pretty upset by the idea. But Bob seemed noncommittal when I spoke to him the other night."

   "He knows you're a bleeding-heart animal lover— despite the inconvenience of cleaning up after the birds. He's not about to say what he really thinks in front of you."

   "And what do you think?"

   "About the geese?"

   "No, about Bob."

   Russ looked thoughtful. "Four years ago he almost single-handedly brought the village back from the brink of bankruptcy. That's pretty amazing."

   "You didn't answer my question."

   "Personally, I think the guy's a jerk. But you won't see that opinion in the
Stoneham Weekly News
any time soon."

   A smile crept across Tricia's lips. Their eyes met, and she leaned in to kiss him.

   
Squawk!
"Dispatch to Six-B."

   "Six-B," came the reply.

   She pulled back, lips pursed. "Russ," she said, speaking over the dispatcher, "do we have to listen to the scanner all evening?"

   "Would you rather watch TV?"

   "Not really. I want to sit and converse, although not about Zoë's death," she said adamantly. "Can't we talk about . . . I don't know . . . current events? Books? Music?"

   "You're so interested in crime, I thought you were entertained by it."

   "I'm interested in crime
stories
—fiction—not listening to noisy neighbor reports, or—"

   "Fourteen Alpha and Six Charlie, respond to a burglary in progress at thirty-six Pine Avenue. Break."

   "Thirty-six Pine Avenue?" Tricia repeated. "But that's Zoë Carter's house." She leaped up from the couch, nearly spilling her wine.

   "Fourteen Alpha en route," came a voice from the scanner, quickly followed by "Six Charlie en route."

   "Are you sure?" Russ asked, not as quick on his feet.

   "Yes," she called behind her, already heading for the front closet and her coat.

   "Where are you going?"

   "Kimberly's staying at the house alone. That's only two blocks away! We might be able to get there quicker than the sheriff's deputies. Come on!" she yelled and was out the door, running for her car.

   Ginny's prediction of snow had already come true in the few minutes Tricia had been inside Russ's house. A dusting covered the grass and the windshield of her car.

   She'd hopped in, had the engine revving, and the wipers going when Russ finally slammed his front door and jogged to the car. He'd barely closed the passenger door when Tricia jammed her foot on the accelerator and spun the tires.

   The car fishtailed on the damp pavement as she rounded the corner.

   "Slow down!" Russ implored.

   Hands gripping the steering wheel, Tricia paid no attention to her panicked passenger, turned the corner, and took out a piece of the corner lot's grass.

   "I'm going to report you to the sheriff if you don't slow down," Russ hollered.

   Tricia jammed on the brakes and the car shuddered to a halt at the curb in front of number thirty-six. She yanked open the door and started running toward the house.

   "Hey, you! Stop!" Russ yelled, and began running in the opposite direction.

   Every light in the house appeared to be switched on, and the front door was ajar. Without a thought—and probably foolishly—Tricia entered. "Kimberly! Kimberly!"

   The living room had been ransacked. Pillows and sofa cushions slashed, books dumped on the floor. The shelves on one wall had been cleared of everything breakable. Porcelain figurines and ginger jars lay smashed on the carpeted floor. Tricia cast about, but found no sign of Kimberly.

   "Kimberly, where are you?"

   She stepped over the detritus and headed down the welllit hallway. The bedroom door on the left was open. She poked her head inside, saw the bed had been dismantled, the sheets and blankets in a jumble on the floor, the mattress and box springs standing against the far wall—just the metal frame and dust bunnies marked where they had once been. Except for a few clothes on hangers, the closet was empty. Not much else populated the space. Was it because the house was in the process of being sold, or was Zoë as spare with her possessions as she had been with the details of her life?

   Tricia moved on. The bedroom on the other side of the hall was in much the same condition. A couple of empty suitcases lay open on the floor, the mattress stood against the wall, the box springs askew, revealing nothing had been stored beneath it. The dresser drawers all hung open, but there was nothing inside them, the contents—socks and underwear—were strewn across the floor.

   "Kimberly?" Tricia called again.

   Still no answer.

   Tricia hurried on. The hallway dead-ended at what looked to be a home office—no doubt Zoë's inner sanctum—and it, too, had been turned upside down. Copies of the hardcover and paperback editions of the
Forever
books were scattered across the floor; a lamp lay smashed; pens, pencils, and other office supplies were spread among tapes and broken CDs and DVDs. The screen on a little television in an armoire was shattered. The glass from every picture had been smashed, the pictures themselves punched from the frames. Likewise, holes, three or four inches in diameter—from a sledgehammer?—marred the walls. And an old, battered trunk was upended in the corner, its contents dumped over the floor. It had suffered the same fate as the walls, with holes punched through its thin exterior.

   A groan came from what appeared to be a bloody mass of clothes on the floor. "Kimberly!"

   Tricia crouched and pulled back what had once been a white sweater. Kimberly's face was mottled, and her cheek was sunken; her blood-coated teeth hung broken, jagged in her gums. Tricia was glad she and Russ hadn't gotten as far as eating pizza, because her stomach roiled, but with nothing to bring up, she merely gagged.

   Kimberly groaned again, and Tricia forced herself to turn back to the once attractive woman.

   "The deputies are on their way," she managed, her voice catching.

   Kimberly's hand groped for Tricia's, found it, her fingers slippery with her own blood. "Thone," she said through swelling lips.

   "I don't understand."

   "Thone," she tried again, almost frantic.

   "I don't know what you mean."

   Kimberly whimpered. "Thone," she said again.

   Thone? "Phone?" Tricia tried.

   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.

Zoë'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 Zoë'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."