Murder on the Page (A Literary Dining Mystery #1)

CHAPTER 5

C HAPTER 5

“Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather singular.”

—Mr. Hurst, in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice

I trucked after my friend, earning a caustic stare from Zach. “Does she need a lawyer?”

“Not if she has nothing to hide,” he replied.

“I d-don’t,” Tegan said, but she didn’t sound certain.

Zach waited for me to leave, but I held my ground. Sighing, he said, “Okay, Tegan, fill me in.”

Beyond Zach, I noticed Bates and the female officer eyeing the empty water bottle and sniffing the cold cup of tea. The tech took photos of each, bagged the water bottle, and then pulled a glass container from her carryall and placed the teacup, including the liquid, into it.

“I was at Allie’s until . . .” Tegan paused.

Until three a.m., I reflected. After that, it was anybody’s guess.

“Around three,” she said, stating the truth.

I breathed easier.

“I couldn’t sleep because Auntie had a scare yesterday. She fainted, and I was worried sick, and—”

“Wait,” Zach cut in. “She fainted?” He regarded me. “You neglected to mention that. ”

“It slipped my mind. Sorry.”

“Go on, Tegan,” he said.

She licked her lips. “I got restless, so I left and walked home.” Tegan and Winston lived about ten blocks from me. Not too far, but strolling at that time of night was not the safest thing to do. And slipping into her house after three, when she and her husband were on the outs, didn’t sound like the wisest idea.

“Did anyone see you?” Zach asked.

“A man with a leashed puppy relieving itself and the janitor at the mini mart. But neither of them would recognize me,” she said. “I was bundled up.”

“They’d remember your coat,” I suggested. “It’s puffy and white and knee-length. It makes her look like a roly-poly bug.”

“It does not,” Tegan said, taking umbrage.

Where’s her coat now, seeing as she hadn’t changed the rest of her outfit?

“I left the coat at home,” she said, answering my unasked question. “I knew I’d be inside here all day.” She blinked rapidly. Was she trying to signal me to keep quiet? Why not come clean? She hadn’t killed her aunt—of that, I was certain.

“Didn’t your husband see you?” Zach pressed.

“He’s traveling. On business.”

That was easily verifiable. Was it true or false?

“What did you do when you arrived home?” Zach asked.

“The usual. Brushed my teeth. Read for a few minutes. Slept.”

Sleep must have been the only thing she’d done. She hadn’t showered. Hadn’t run a comb through her hair. Hadn’t put on a stitch of new makeup.

“Did any of your neighbors see you?” Zach asked.

She shook her head. “Their houses were dark.”

That was probably true. Mostly older people populated her block. Marigold, who had been the executrix for an elderly female friend, had privately negotiated the sale of the friend’s house when the woman passed away in debt. Marigold had even made the down payment for Tegan and Winston. To be fair, she’d helped Vanna buy her first house, too.

I studied Vanna, off to one side, arms folded, her tongue working the inside of her cheek, and decided she should thank her lucky stars she could cook. Otherwise, with her rancid personality, no one would hire her.

“Allie,” Zach said.

I refocused on him. “Yes?”

“Did you hear Tegan leave your place?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I heard her rummaging around at three. I figured she’d settle down sooner or later, so I went back to sleep.”

“Your cat didn’t startle when she left the house?”

“Darcy? He’s the rare cat that can sleep through a lightning storm.”

Zach posed a few more questions to Tegan, about her relationships with Marigold and her mother, as well as the duties of her job. He asked if she donated time to the theater foundation, like her aunt did. She said no, but she volunteered at the blood bank. All seemed like pointless questions, but I got the feeling Zach was trying to take the measure of her. After all, he didn’t know her well. He’d merely interacted with her as the shop’s clerk. Perhaps he was trying to trip her up. Before he released her, he asked her for her alibi again. She reiterated what she’d said earlier, not changing a word. Had she rehearsed it?

Zach clasped my elbow and whispered, “Allie, stay close to a phone in case I need you.”

On any other day, that request might have sent goose bumps, the good kind, down my spine, but not today. It sent chills.

Tegan bid her mother good-bye, I left my Ford Transit parked on the street, and she and I strolled to Ragamuffin. I needed a scone. Yes, it would be one of the six dozen scones I’d delivered yesterday, but I was willing to pay for it. I was starving.

Ragamuffin, which was located in one of the connecting courtyards between Holly Street and Elm, was packed with customers. I’d never seen the place lacking in attendance. Its proprietary small-batch, free-trade coffee was the best. The baristas were gifted when it came to adding all sorts of unique syrups to their coffee beverages, like lavender, honey-maple, Irish cream, and more. Their green teas were fabulous, as well, with additions of cinnamon, ginger, and mint. An apple cider vinegar concoction was decidedly delicious. The exterior patio held a half-dozen bistro tables, but it was too cool to sit out, so I left Tegan at the teensy bar, which was standing room only, and moved to the register to order. I peered into the pastry case that held butterscotch cookies, gluten-free ricotta cake, cinnamon buns, and lemon scones. I ordered a cinnamon bun for Tegan and a scone for me, plus two lattes.

I carried my purchases to where Tegan was standing and unpacked our treats. Rhythmic reggae music played through speakers, but I sure didn’t feel like dancing.

“You really didn’t know about the inheritance?” I nibbled the scone. The extra lemon zest I’d added gave it a real zing.

“Not a whit.” She sipped her coffee, flinching from the heat. “I mean, Auntie might have mentioned it, but I thought she was kidding. After all, she shared the shop with Mom. I figured if she died, she’d leave her portion to my mother and let her figure out, you know, if she even wanted to keep it. Mom’s been so busy at the inn, she’s taken no interest in the bookshop.” She took a bite of her cinnamon bun and hummed her approval. “ Mmm. Moist. You should make these.”

“I’ll test out a few recipes.” I popped the lid on my coffee to let it cool. “Where did you go this morning? What’s your alibi? And don’t lie. I can read you like a book. A memorized book. And is Winston really out of town on a trip? Zach can verify that.”

“He is on a trip. I didn’t lie about that.”

“But you didn’t go home. ”

She picked up a crumb of cinnamon bun with her fingertip and sucked it off. “No. I visited a friend.”

“A friend?” I was stunned. How could she be seeing someone so soon after learning of Winston’s deceit? “What’s his name?”

“Not a guy friend. A girlfriend.”

“Golly! Why didn’t you tell Zach that? She can vouch for you.”

“No, she can’t.”

“Why not?” I asked. “What’s the big secret?”

“I can’t say. Please don’t make me. Just believe me when I say I was with her until eight forty-five.” She slumped as if the weight of the world had landed on her.

I patted her shoulder. “Okay, for now, I won’t press. You were somewhere. With someone. That’s good.” I took another bite of my scone and sipped the latte.

“Who killed my aunt?” Tegan said, her voice crackling with sadness.

My insides wrenched. My sorrow couldn’t be as poignant as hers, but I’d lost a good friend, a fellow bibliophile. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Auntie didn’t like Rick.”

“He didn’t kill her. He barely knew her.”

“She was edgy around him.”

“She would have been prickly around any of your mother’s boyfriends. She loved your father. She thought he and your mother were the perfect pair. Who else?”

“Auntie was always complaining about her neighbor Graham.”

“He’s the one you were referring to yesterday. She wanted him to get his act together.”

She hummed.

“What was the problem?” I asked. “Did he throw loud parties?”

“No. He watched her.”

“Like a stalker? ”

“Not exactly. More like he kept eyes on her. He watched other neighbors, too. He doesn’t trust anyone.”

“That reminds me of the neighbor who lived across the street from Samantha in Bewitched. Remember her?”

“Gladys Kravitz!” Tegan cried. As girls, we’d watched reruns in the afternoons and had tried in vain to twitch our noses. We’d failed miserably.

“Yes, her.” I polished off my scone and brushed my fingertips on the napkin provided with the treats. “Did you see the envelope near your aunt’s head?”

Tegan opened her eyes wide. “No.”

“It was a legal envelope about yea big.” I gestured with my hands. “With the words ‘Private and Confidential’ on it. It was empty.”

“What do you think was inside?”

“She might have kept records in it or notes for books that were reserved.” Neither of those seemed like something worth stealing.

“How did the killer get in?”

“Not sure.” At one point, Bates had gone to the stockroom. He and Zach must know by now whether the door had been locked or unlocked. “Do you have your key?”

“Sure do. I don’t leave home without it.”

“Your mother left hers at the B and B.”

“Understandable. She doesn’t open the shop. Her key is purely a backup.”

“Why do you think your aunt was holding Pride and Prejudice ?” I asked.

“Conceivably, she was reading it for the umpteenth time when the killer showed up. It was her favorite book. She could quote every passage.” Tegan dumped the remainder of her cinnamon bun into the carry bag and wadded her napkin. “She once told me that if she was reincarnated, she wanted to return as Elizabeth Bennet because Lizzie was smart yet tender, and she adored her silly family.” She smiled whimsically. “I guess that was her way of saying she thought we were silly.”

“Not you.” I patted my friend’s hand. “Not your mother, either.” Possibly Vanna, I reflected, but didn’t say it aloud.

Tegan rotated the bag with one finger. “Do you think the police will find clues? Fingerprints? DNA evidence? That kind of thing?”

“Let’s hope.” Before leaving the bookshop, I’d heard Bates requesting that another technician come to the site.

“When do you think they’ll let me in?” She sighed. “There will be so much to do.”

“As soon as they have everything they need. I’d guess around twenty-four hours.”

Had someone from the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner shown up yet? The OCME investigated all deaths due to injury or violence.

“Do you know if your mother will hold a funeral?” I asked.

“Auntie wanted to be cremated.”

That surprised me. I would have thought Marigold would have preferred a traditional burial. “You know what we should do to honor her, then?” I polished off my latte. “We should host a memorial tea, and we should center it around Pride and Prejudice. I can make food from the era, and we could ask everyone to dress up in costumes. I’m sure Lillian, with her connections at the theater, could get her hands on a variety of Regency Era getups. They’ve done plays from that time period. Or she could design some.” I remembered admiring the clothes she’d made for Sense and Sensibility , in particular the bonnets.

“What a wonderful idea! Auntie would love that.” She clapped a hand to her chest. “We could have a string quartet playing music from that era, too.”

“If you want, we could even make it a book club–type event. We could read passages from the book. ”

“Yes.” Tears leaked down Tegan’s cheeks. “That’s perfect. When?”

“Saturday, two weeks from now. That should give us plenty of time to prepare.”

“I’ll alert my mother, and we’ll clue in the bookshop customers and Auntie’s friends and the theater foundation folks.” She squinched up her face. “I can’t believe Vanna thinks—”

“You didn’t kill your aunt, and your sister knows it. If your aunt really did write a letter, like Vanna says, she’s feeling maligned. We’ll get her on board. You’ll see.”

“I need to be with my mother.”

“Go. I’ll dispose of our trash.”

Needing a project so I wouldn’t dwell on Marigold’s demise and sink into a dark emotional abyss, I delivered all the goods in the van to a nearby women’s shelter—I didn’t want to throw it all out—and then I drove to Dream Cuisine to deal with the decimated ants. By now, the pest company would’ve sprayed, but they wouldn’t have cleaned up. Most importantly, I had to figure out where the critters had entered. If Vanna hadn’t instigated the attack, and to be honest, I doubted she was smart enough to have dreamed it up, caulking might be in order.

After opening the door and tapping in the security code, I hurried to my teensy office, where I disrobed, wriggled into a one-piece jumper I kept on hand, slipped into a pair of clogs, and headed to the kitchen. When baking, I used my scrubbed, bare hands to decorate cookies and cakes and to arrange fruit in tarts and such, but when cleaning, I always covered up. Disposable latex-free gloves were one of those items I kept in stock at all times. I opened a new box, pulled on a pair, and scoured the corners of my specialty kitchen.

The project did not stop my mind from rehashing what I’d seen at the bookshop: Marigold beneath the books. The bruise on her neck. The Private and Confidential envelope. If I asked Zach, would he fill me in on his investigation? Doubtful. Would he and his partner uncover the truth? I hoped so. But even I wasn’t foolish enough to think all cases were solved. Some went cold.

“There you are,” I said when I found the offending spot where most of the pesticide had been applied. Right by the water heater. Like Tegan said, a perfectly cozy spot for a satellite colony of ants.

On hands and knees, I peeked beneath the tank. I checked for any holes or gaps in the wall behind it in case the ants had figured out how to hide while the pest guys were applying their death serum. Finding none, I dosed the area with vinegar. I was one of the few people I knew who didn’t find the odor offensive.

Then, to honor Marigold, I decided to eliminate the smell by baking her favorite cookies. She had delighted in the combination of butterscotch and chocolate. I did, too. I’d keep them for myself. To eat in solace.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I brushed them aside and opened a classical musical playlist on my cell phone, and as I listened to Ignace Pleyel’s Violin Concerto in D Major, a favorite during the Regency Era, I preheated the oven and arranged all the ingredients on the counter. The sugar, butterscotch, and chocolate morsels to the left, and dry ingredients to the right.

In a matter of minutes, I made the dough. While dropping oversized spoonfuls of the luscious goodness onto baking sheets, which I’d lined with parchment paper, the shocking image of Marigold lying on the floor of the bookshop popped into my head. My breath caught in my chest as I realized I would never see her again. Never speak to her. Never get her insight as to which book I should read next. Never hear her lead another book club. I recalled one of her favorite quotes from Pablo Neruda: “Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air. ”

Yes, that was exactly how I felt. Exactly.

Why had Marigold been holding a copy of Pride and Prejudice ? Had she picked it up for a reason? To signal who might have killed her?

My cell phone jangled. It was Zach. I answered.

“Hey,” he said softly. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay. Did you find out who did this?”

“Not yet. The wheels of justice do not move as swiftly as TV detectives make out. But we will.”

“Did the medical examiner determine she died from hitting her head on the floor?”

“Look, I know you said you’d seen a dead body before, but . . .” He paused. “But seeing the body of a person you knew—”

“Loved.”

“Isn’t easy. Believe me, you don’t want to go over it again and again. Try to erase the memory from your mind. We’re on the case.”

I slid the baking trays into the preheated oven and set the timer.

“Do you want company?” he asked.

“Rain check?”

“Sure. Is that Haydn playing in the background?”

“Pleyel.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He was one of Jane Austen’s favorite composers. I’ll educate you sometime.” I took a butterscotch morsel from the bag and plunked it into my mouth. “Were you able to finish up at the bookstore? Will Tegan be able to get in tomorrow? There will be so much to do.”

“Yes. Bates contacted her and gave her the green light.”

I wondered if Noeline had reached out to the executor for Marigold’s estate. Wouldn’t there have to be some kind of forensic accounting of the business? How would Marigold have divvied up the proceeds ?

“Did you find Marigold’s personal items?” I asked. “Her purse? Her phone?”

“Allie—”

“It was a simple question. That kind of info certainly can’t be proprietary.”

He clicked his tongue, hesitating, then said, “We found both.”

“Was everything intact?”

“She had a bunch of receipts and lots of loose change in her purse, but her wallet was empty. We think this was a robbery gone wrong.”

“If it was, why didn’t the thief steal her diamond pendant?”