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

CHAPTER 13

C HAPTER 13

She was convinced that she could have been happy with him,when it was no longer likely they should meet.

—Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

W hen the shop cleared of customers, another thought occurred to me. I joined Tegan. “Your aunt was going to have lunch with Evelyn Evers on Monday. But what if after she withdrew the money from the bank on Friday, she put the bank envelope into the other envelope and met with Evelyn that evening? She could’ve kept the ‘Private and Confidential’ envelope to recycle.”

“Meaning nothing was stolen.”

“Yes.” That would only solve one question about the crime scene, but any little bit helped, right?

Tegan moved to the primary computer and opened the Contacts app. She found the theater foundation’s telephone number and punched it into the store’s telephone keypad. When someone answered, she gave her name and asked if Evelyn was in. She covered the mouthpiece. “The receptionist is getting her.”

I’d met Evelyn on numerous occasions. An ob-gyn until she retired, the successful Black woman had been one of Marigold’s best friends. She was intelligent and well-read and a dynamo in the African-American community in Asheville .

“Yes, Evelyn, hi. It’s Tegan Potts. Marigold’s niece.” Tegan paused, and I could see her shoulders shake ever so slightly. She was stemming fresh tears. “Thank you. That’s very sweet of you. Yes, she will be missed.” Tegan tapped her foot, listening. “Yes, she was a grand, wonderful lady. Um, Evelyn, I have to ask a sensitive question. Did you meet with my aunt Friday evening?” She listened to the response. “You didn’t?” Tegan made a face at me. “What’s that, Evelyn? Why do I ask? Because Auntie withdrew a large sum of money from her bank account that day, and I met with the attorney for her estate this morning, and he said she was going to leave that same amount of money to the theater foundation.” She paused, listened again, then proceeded to speak. “One hundred thousand dollars.”

Evelyn reacted so loudly with shock and gratitude even I could hear her from the other end of the telephone call.

“Yes, it’s a lot of money,” Tegan said, “but my aunt appears to have amassed a significant fortune.” She nodded. “Of course. The attorney will make sure the distribution reaches you. It could take a little time.” More nodding. “Yes, I know the foundation needs the funds. Tickets? Why, sure, I’d be happy to accept season tickets from you. Thank you for your time. Good-bye.” Tegan hung up the phone. “She was crying.”

“To be expected. They were contemporaries. For years, they worked together on the foundation.”

Tegan sagged and tears trickled down her cheeks.

I threw an arm around her. “Buck up. Hold it together a few more hours. I have to finish up at Dream Cuisine, but afterward I’ll make dinner for you at my house, if you want.”

“Can’t. Sorry. I agreed to have dinner with Mom and Vanna. . . and Rick.” Her nose wrinkled with displeasure.

“Any word from your soon-to-be ex?”

“Crickets. Which is fine by me. If he finds out about my inheritance— ”

“I told you, he can’t touch it. Also you have the right to initiate the divorce, you know. It is not a one-way street.”

She wiggled her mouth right and left.

“You’ll need to secure an attorney,” I said.

“It appears I can afford one now.” She folded her arms across her chest.

“Winston is a slug.”

“A creep.”

“A fool.”

“An imbecile, jerk, loser,” she said.

“He brings everyone joy when he leaves the room,” I quipped.

That made her snort. “That is why I love you.” She jutted a finger at me. “You have some of the best comebacks.” She knuckled my arm. “Go. Do that thing you’re brilliant at. And save me one of everything you make.”

“Tomorrow you should show me the ropes here. Teach me what I’ll need to do to support you.”

“You already know how to do everything better than me.” She hugged me. “Love you.”

“Love you more.”

The weather had grown cooler since I’d entered the bookshop. A stiff breeze was whipping along the street and cut through me. Teeth chattering, I protected my core with my arms and hustled to my Ford Transit. Luckily, I’d invested in seat warmers.

When I arrived at Dream Cuisine, I queued up some jazz music. I couldn’t listen to an audiobook while cooking. I might miss a step in a recipe. The first in the lineup, Kenny G’s “Songbird” piped through the Bluetooth speaker. There was nothing like cool jazz to put me in the mood for spending time in my happy place .

For the next hour, dancing slowly in time with the music, I made the batter for the extra scones and cookies I’d need for the memorial and froze it all; then I packaged up the cowboy cookies, inserted the appetizers for the office party into eco-friendly containers, and arranged the scones on pretty party trays, which I would retrieve the following day. After I stowed everything into the walk-in refrigerator—I would deposit it all into the catering van in the morning—I decided to make a detour before heading home.

Wind was whisking through town and kicking up leaves and debris as I drove. I wasn’t sure why I wanted to swing by Marigold’s house again. Was I silly enough to hope the last few days were all a bad nightmare and I’d see her in her living room nestled in her favorite chair?

Yeah, no such luck. The house was dark and dreary. No exterior or interior lights had switched on automatically. I wondered if Vanna had spoken to a Realtor. If she had, keeping the house dark until it was up for sale could be a tactic. If that was the case, however, why wouldn’t she have mentioned it to Tegan when they’d exchanged text messages? Perhaps she would tell her at dinner tonight.

As I passed by, Graham was sitting on a rocking chair on his porch, puffing on a cigarette while peering at a cell phone. The light from the phone’s screen illuminated his face. He did not look happy. Not keen to have him think I was spying on him, I sped out of sight.

At home, I slipped on my favorite leggings and a soft hoodie sweatshirt. I didn’t have much of an appetite, so I ate a quick snack of cold salami, sliced carrots, and Manchego cheese, and served Darcy a gourmet salmon treat. Then I poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir, set it on the table beside my oversized armchair, and switched on the gas fireplace in the living room. I snuggled into the chair, and Darcy hopped up and curled into my lap. His purring gave me comfort .

I took a sip of wine, set the glass aside, and picked up Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd from a stack on the book table. I opened to page one. Minutes later, I realized I hadn’t read a word because my mind was too preoccupied with Marigold’s death. Though I enjoyed stories featuring Hercule Poirot, I set the book aside and tried to organize my thoughts.

The money. What if the murderer knew Marigold made a withdrawal? Perhaps that person had seen her at the bank and followed her and, like Zach theorized, robbed her. Did that mean it was a random killing? No, that didn’t make sense. The timeline wasn’t correct. Marigold picked up the cash on Friday. She didn’t give the money to Evelyn, and nobody mugged her on the way home, or she would have mentioned it to me when we’d spoken Saturday morning. Of course, that didn’t rule out that a thief could’ve killed her after our phone call. I recalled the previous theory that I’d contemplated. Did Marigold withdraw the money to pay off someone?

Darn it. If only the town’s traffic cameras had been operational that morning, then the police could’ve seen who’d secretly slipped into the shop.

Darcy mewed and pleaded with his eyes for me to refocus.

Who were the likeliest suspects? Katrina’s coworker Wallis said Katrina warned Marigold not to divulge a secret. What if Marigold had been researching the topic they’d argued about that morning on her computer? What if Katrina caught Marigold in the process of browsing? Would she know how to erase an Internet search history? Or what if Wallis got the story reversed? What if Marigold was the one with the secret? I recalled the opening of her historical novel. Had she written it to give expression to that secret? What if she’d planned to pay hush money to someone who knew something private about Noeline, Tegan, or Vanna? Would a contemporary like Evelyn know what skeletons Marigold had in her closet ?

I picked up the glass of Pinot.

At that moment, something outside went clack, followed by a soft thump. The sound startled me. I lost hold of the wineglass. It toppled to the floor and, miraculously, didn’t break, but the wine splattered.

Darcy yowled.

“Sorry, kitty,” I whispered, and petted his head. “It’s okay.” But was it? My heart was hammering. Was someone on the front porch?

While listening hard, I plunked Darcy on the floor, hurried to the kitchen for a paper towel, and blotted up the mess by my chair. When I didn’t hear anything more, I settled down, telling myself the sound must have come from a shutter I hadn’t repaired a week ago when a storm had nearly ripped four of them off the front of the house—conceivably, the same storm that had taken out the town’s traffic cameras. I’d fixed three of the shutters, but I’d run out of wood screws. I’d made a note to swing by the hardware store for more, but I hadn’t gotten around to it.

Darcy mewed. Concerned.

“You’re right,” I whispered. I was being too lackadaisical. My friend had been murdered. I ought to inspect.

As if on cue, the front door flew open and banged against the wall.

I couldn’t see the foyer from where I was sitting, but I wasn’t going to be caught unarmed. Adrenaline chugging through me, I leaped to my feet, grabbed the fireplace poker, and hurried to the foyer. No one was there. My tote and keys were on the table, where I’d left them. The doors to the bedrooms were closed. Was it only the wind that had caused the disturbance? Leaves were swirling in a frenzy on the porch.

I rushed to the door, closed and locked it, and set a chair from the parlor against it to act as a barricade. Next I toured every room in the house and peeked outside through the breaks in the curtains. The streetlights were on. I didn’t see anyone lurking about.

Even so, I shivered and took the fireplace poker to bed.

“It was nothing,” I assured my cat. “Nothing.”

I slept fitfully. On Wednesday morning, I decided to check out what I’d been too afraid to examine last night. I dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt, down vest, jeans, gloves, and Timberland boots, fetched a screwdriver, and went outside. Indeed, the offending shutter was hanging by one screw, and a stool I kept on the porch had toppled. I righted it and climbed up to remove the shutter altogether until I could purchase more screws. My breath caught in my chest when I glimpsed down and saw a partial muddy footprint on the porch, where the stool had been. Male or female, I couldn’t tell. Was it mine? I had big feet. In grammar school, Tegan had meanly dubbed them water skis. I’d countered that they’d gotten me where I needed to go. I studied the markings. The imprints didn’t match the soles of my Timberlands, not to mention I hadn’t donned these particular shoes in over two weeks. I’d worn my REI boots for the hike with Zach.

Had someone been outside last night, after all? Did they bump into the stool when attempting to peek through the window? Was that the thump I’d heard? Had that same person opened the front door but lost control of it in a gust of wind? The notion made me reel. I teetered and grabbed hold of the rickety shutter for support. It couldn’t bear my weight and gave way. I toppled to the porch, shoulder first. Luckily, I didn’t hit my head or break any bones. However, when I scrambled to a stand, I saw that I’d landed smack-dab on top of the footprint, making a mess of it. There went the evidence. Shoot .

Shaken and feeling vulnerable, I scuttled inside and closed and bolted the door. Breathing high in my chest, I made a pot of coffee, fed the cat, warmed a scone, and applied a pack of frozen peas to my shoulder. While I ate my mini breakfast and nursed my bruise, rotating my arm occasionally to keep blood flowing, I tried to figure out who might have visited me last night.

Had Graham seen me driving through his neighborhood and followed me home?

Evelyn Evers couldn’t have had an inkling that I’d been standing beside Tegan when Tegan reached out to her yesterday, unless she’d called back and Tegan mentioned my name. Even if she had, why would Evelyn see me as a threat?

Katrina came to mind. If she found out Wallis told Zach and me about her argument with Marigold, would she wish to do me harm? That was a stretch, though. Zach was a much scarier prospect than I was.

What about Piper Lowry? I’d phoned her and let slip that I was looking into Marigold’s murder.

“Hey, cat, the footprint could be the gardener’s.”

Darcy didn’t give me a side glance. He was too busy lapping up the meal I’d dished into his bowl.

I didn’t need his agreement. I was right. I knew I was. The gardener must have come out to clean up the muck from last week’s mini storm. “Except that doesn’t explain the front door flying open,” I muttered. “I suppose it could’ve been due to a faulty latch.” One more thing to add to my repair list.

My reasoning should have made me feel better, but it didn’t. Desperately needing to find my calm before I made my deliveries, I dialed Tegan. “How about a quick cup of coffee, and I’ll give you a ride to work?”

She answered groggily, “I could use some caffeine.”

“Late night?”

“Yeah. Mom talked my ear off. ”

“About?”

“Me. Winston. My failed marriage. Of course, Vanna had to offer her two cents. Spare me!”

“Are you dressed?”

“Enough.”

“I’ll pick you up in fifteen,” I said, and promised Darcy I’d be home soon. Time was relative. He twitched his tail and retreated to his cat bed beneath the kitchen table.

The Blue Lantern was a bed-and-breakfast designed in the Gothic Revival style, a variation of the Victorian architectural style, with steeply pitched roofs and pointed-arch windows. The peacock blue exterior color was a lovely contrast to the extravagant white vergeboard trim along the roof. The front porch spanned the entire width of the house. Multiple lanterns hung from shepherd’s hooks. The gardens were just coming into bloom. Tulips in various shades of pink, orange, and yellow abounded. Years ago, when Montford was offering run-down historic buildings for twenty thousand dollars, Noeline Merriweather purchased the place for a song. Quickly she fixed it up to be one of the premier inns in town.

I swung into the semicircular drive and spied Tegan standing on the porch with her mother. Both had bundled up for a brisk day.

Noeline waved to me as Tegan clambered into my van and yelled, “Feed her! She’s cranky.”

“Will do.”

Minutes later, I parked in a public lot on Elm Street, and Tegan and I jogged up the terrace steps toward Ragamuffin. “Did Vanna secure a Realtor?”

“She did.”

“Did you tell her about the safety-deposit box items and cash?”

“I did. ”

“And?” I asked.

“She continues to harp about you getting a portion of the bookshop.”

It wasn’t my fault. Marigold could make up her own darned mind. I let my peeve go, and held the door to the café open for Tegan to enter. Ragamuffin was packed. The aroma of cinnamon muffins was intoxicating.

“Are you clearheaded enough to answer a question?” I asked. It was one that had been plaguing me ever since I woke.

“I’m as clearheaded as a . . . as a . . . There is no idiom for that. I’m good. What’s up?”

The line to order was eight customers long.

“Did Evelyn Evers call you after you and she spoke?”

“How’d you guess? She was crying and wanted to tell me how much she loved Auntie.”

“What did you say to her?”

“I agreed that Auntie was special. Why?”

“Did she ask if anyone else was listening in on your conversation with her yesterday?”

“Actually, she did, which I thought was weird, but decided she simply liked privacy.”

All right, it was a given that Evelyn’s favorite foundation was due to receive a tidy sum of money, and yes, perhaps Marigold let slip to Evelyn about the hundred K she had on her person and Evelyn coveted it, but did that make her a murderer?

Stop, Allie. You know Evelyn. She’s a nice woman. Larger than life and at times bossy, but nice.

My rational brain did battle with my irrational one for about ten seconds.

“Allie?” Tegan prompted.

“Call me suspicious, but would you phone Evelyn and sort of, you know, ask where she was Saturday morning?”

“You can’t possibly think she killed my aunt.”

I tilted my head .

Tegan frowned. “Can I touch base later? It’s early. She’s a theater person.”

“Please.”

“Let’s take it outside.” She left the line. I followed. She pulled out her cell phone and selected a recent contact. “Evelyn,” she said when someone answered. “It’s Tegan Potts. Yes, I know. I’m sorry to bother you so early, but, um . . . what’s the next production?” she hedged, reluctant to launch an interrogation. She listened. “Really? Annie Get Your Gun ? I love that show.” She crooned, “ ‘Anything you can do, I can do better.’ ” After a long pause, she snickered. “Oh, thank you, but no, I won’t audition. I’ve got severe stage fright. I can barely look at a microphone without fainting. I only sing in my shower or in my car.”

“Tegan,” I whispered, reining in my frustration, “get to the point.”

“Um, Evelyn, where were you Saturday morning?”

She held the phone away from her ear. Evelyn was squawking so loudly that I could hear every word. She was chastising Tegan for questioning her integrity.

When she quieted, Tegan pressed the phone to her ear and said, “No, ma’am, I’m not accusing you of anything. I was wondering because, see, we—” Tegan listened. “Yes, Allie and me. We’re trying to establish where everyone who knew Auntie was.”

Evelyn spit out a response.

Tegan flinched. “Yes, ma’am.” She received another earful of Evelyn’s diatribe. “No, ma’am. Allie is not close to her parents. What’s that?” She positioned the phone between both of our ears.

Evelyn said in a dramatically husky voice, “That’s good to hear, because Fern Catt is a vagabond.”

“That’s harsh,” I whispered to Tegan. “My parents like to travel. They are not drifters.” As much as my parents’ globetrotting ways bothered me, I was not about to let anyone badmouth them.

“Never in her life has Fern been able to put down roots,” Evelyn went on, “let alone raise a child.”

How well did she know my mother? Could Fern shed light on Evelyn as a person?

“Evelyn . . .” Tegan looked flummoxed as to how to proceed.

I said, sotto voce, “Go back to why we’re inquiring.”

“Ma’am, we were curious because, well, we’d like to help the police rule out everyone we admire. My aunt’s murder is such a mystery.”

“For your information, young lady,” Evelyn said in a condescending tone, “I was at the theater erecting sets. There were ten crew persons and a handful of actors around to verify. As for the offer of free season tickets, it is now rescinded.” She ended the call.

Tegan sighed and pocketed her phone. “I hate you, Allie. She didn’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t deserve to be dismissed, either. And don’t forget, Sherlock Holmes said, ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’ We’re trying to rule out suspects.”

We stepped inside Ragamuffin again, and when we reached the front of the line, I treated my pal to a muffin and latte. We sat at a bistro table and chatted about Winston for a nanosecond, just to rehash what her mother had doled out last night about her pending divorce, and then I let her carp about how overbearing her half sister was. When she had exhausted her anger, I drove her to work and fetched my wares from Dream Cuisine.

For the next three hours, I delivered goodies to clients, starting with the cowboy-themed cookies and office party treats. Then cream cheese muffins to Blessed Bean. Chocolate crinkle cookies to Milky Way. Raspberry-chocolate tarts to Perfect Brew. Two pumpkin pies and a dozen scones to Pinnacle Lodge, a log cabin–themed inn with cottages. Each concern was pleased with my work. Each paid on the spot, as I required. I’d been stiffed by my very first client and swore I’d never accept late payments in the future. I couldn’t run a business on credit.

Pulling into my driveway, I checked my cell phone. I’d missed a call from Zach.