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

CHAPTER 14

C HAPTER 14

“When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.”

—Caroline Bingley, in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice

I did a quick perimeter of the house and, seeing no errant footprints, dashed inside and closed and locked the door. Darcy warbled hello. I scooped him up, nuzzled his nose, set him on the floor, and dialed Zach.

“Hi, it’s me,” I said when I reached him. “Were you calling about Marigold? Have you solved her murder?”

“Sadly, no.” He sounded as exhausted as I felt. “We’re working the case. Don’t worry.”

“Did you talk to Oly Olsen?”

“Not yet.”

“Did you find out what secret Katrina might be hiding?”

“No.”

“Then why did you reach out?” I asked, somewhat exasperated.

“I wanted to see how you were doing with the menu for the memorial.”

I grunted. Really? He hadn’t called to be forthcoming about the poison in the water bottle theory?

“I made white soup that turned out well,” I said. I didn’t tell him about the footprint outside my window, seeing as I’d demolished it, plus after musing to Darcy about the gardener, I’d convinced myself that an intruder had not left the print.

“What’s white soup?”

I explained. When he said he hadn’t read Pride and Prejudice, I was surprised. No wonder he wasn’t curious about why Marigold had been holding that particular book. Sure, it was possible it had no significance. On the other hand, it had been one of her favorites, and as I’d suggested previously, a heftier coffee-table–sized book would have been a much better shield if that had been her intent. How I wished she could speak to me from the Great Beyond and give me a clue.

“I also baked Maids of Honor.” I described them and realized I hadn’t offered Zach one when he’d come to the bookshop Tuesday because I’d been too preoccupied with the details of Marigold’s will, not to mention Vanna had forced us to move the cart of treats to the side of the room.

“Do you have any left over?” he asked.

“I’ll make a new batch soon. You should touch base with Lillian if you plan to come in costume for the memorial,” I said.

“I will. Say, do you want to . . .” He stopped and let the question hang.

Want to what? I wondered. Talk about the case? Make him his own private stash of pastries? Accompany him to question Oly in person? Go on a date?

I waited, but he didn’t continue. After a long bout of silence, I said, “I’ve got to pick up Tegan. I drove her to work this morning.”

“Okay. Talk to you soon.”

I urged myself not to take affront at the abruptness of his good-bye. If I was honest, ever since ending my relationship with my ex-fiancé, I wasn’t the best at reading men. Zach might have received another call he had to take, or Bates could have been signaling him to confer about the case .

I fed Darcy and freshened his water bowl and hurled a cat toy to distract him. Then I drove to the bookshop, rehashing the short-lived conversation with Zach. When I arrived, however, I pushed all thoughts of him aside. Our friendship was fairly new, and the murder investigation was definitely taking top priority in his world.

I parked and hopped out of the van and strode toward Feast for the Eyes. Lillian was cleaning the display window of her shop. I waved. She blew me an air-kiss.

A gust of wind kicked up around me. I shivered from the onslaught and pushed into the shop. Tegan was finalizing a sale at the counter. She’d braided her hair and had outlined her eyes in charcoal, making her look no older than the anime girl on her T-shirt. Chloe, clad in a red dress with a swing skirt and sweetheart neckline, was discussing YA novels with a young woman.

When Tegan’s customer departed, I crossed to her. “I’m ready for my training session.”

“Like I said, you already know everything you have to do. You’ve rung up sales when I’ve been too busy. You’ve even unpacked shipments of boxes.”

“Are there any book clubs on the schedule?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m going to postpone all of this week’s events, and . . .” She eyed me. “Will you lead them going forward?”

“Me?” I clapped a hand to my chest. “Uh-uh. You do it.”

“No way. I’ll freeze up. You remember that time in high school.”

She’d had to give a book report in front of the English class. She’d stuttered over the opening sentence, which sent the others into hysterics and made her so flustered, she broke into tears. For a month, she didn’t tell me that two girls continued to taunt her out of a teacher’s or my earshot. When I found out, I took them to task.

“I’m daring when it comes to antics,” Tegan went on. “I’ll shortsheet anyone’s bed. But I’ve never gotten over my fear of public speaking.”

“Or confronting your sister.”

“That’s a whole other story.”

I knew she wouldn’t budge on the book club decision and moved on. “Tell me about the end-of-day procedure in the shop.”

“We tally receipts and stow them in the safe. I’ll give you the combination.” She ticked off the to-do items on her fingertips. “We roam the aisles to make sure the recommendation tags are hanging in their proper places. One of us examines the bathrooms to make sure they’re clean. We double-check that the doors are locked and the coffee is switched off. And we power-down the main computer.”

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and started to type the items in the Notes app.

“You don’t need to do that,” Tegan said. “Auntie made a checklist and hung it on the pegboard behind the computer so we don’t mess up. Oh, and you need a roster of our clients and their phone numbers and emails. Chloe made a group of contacts and sent it to me. I’ll forward that to you.” Her voice caught. “You don’t think one of our customers . . .”

“Killed your aunt?” I finished. Honestly, I didn’t know what to believe. I brushed her arm.

“I miss her so much.” She whirled into me and hugged me. Her chest shuddered.

I patted her back. When she was once again calm, I said, “What’s on your agenda for tonight?”

“I invited Dennell to dinner at the B and B. Want to join us? You should get to know her. She’s quite intense, but she’s very gifted. You should see some of the jewelry she makes.”

“I could eat.” I’d skipped lunch. “How’s she doing?”

“She joined AA, and she found an outpatient doctor who will help her with her problem. Fortunately, her business partner is none the wiser. Dennell plans to ask out of their deal in a couple of weeks.”

“That’s great news. Tell me, why haven’t I met her before now?”

“I didn’t keep you two apart on purpose. I guess . . .” Tegan hitched a shoulder. “I guess I didn’t think you’d have much in common. We met at a plasticware party.”

I wrinkled my nose.

“Yeah, you and plastic are not pals. Only glass can hold your precious leftovers.”

I knuckled her arm.

“By the way”—Tegan regarded Chloe and me—“Winston called. He wants to meet so he can console me about Aunt Marigold.”

“What did you say?”

“Bite me.”

I snuffled. “You didn’t.”

“No.” She crossed her arms as if to steady herself.

“What you should have said was, you thought about him today, which reminded you to take out the trash.”

She snickered. “Good one. Actually, I told him to bug off and said I’d reach out when I was good and ready.”

“How’d he take that?”

“Super well. Not. ”

For the next few hours, I familiarized myself with all things bookshop. When the wall clock above the computer read six p.m., I jangled my keys. “Ready to close up?”

“You bet,” Tegan said. “Chloe, finalize any sales. I’ll tend to the stockroom and restrooms. Allie will see to the book tags.”

Chloe’s customer said cheerily she’d return tomorrow, and the three of us went about our tasks.

At ten past seven, I drove Tegan to the Blue Lantern. A man and woman were entering ahead of us, the woman pausing to admire the pair of brass lanterns that flanked the entryway .

Helga, the B&B’s cook and housekeeper, a woman in her sixties with a good-natured spirit and a keen eye for whatever needed attending, greeted the pair and accepted their overcoats. She hung them on the coatrack in the foyer and turned to us. “Welcome, Miss Tegan,” she said. I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t seen Helga in her pale blue uniform with broad white lapels and white cuffs. “And Miss Allie, so lovely to see you.”

“You too, Helga.”

I’d never stayed at the Blue Lantern, but occasionally Noeline invited me to enjoy one of Helga’s legendary breakfasts. Her menu included a variety of egg dishes and some of the most delectable Belgian waffles and French toast I’d ever tasted.

“Tegan.” Dennell, bundled in a midcalf coat over a light turtleneck sweater, jeans, and boots, was standing in the parlor to the right. The silver-and-gold hook earrings and heart-shaped pendant she was wearing looked like art. She was holding a glass of sparkling water. “Over here.”

“Be right there,” Tegan said.

Some guests were convening in the parlor’s various seating areas. Many were enjoying the cheese-and-wine spread that the inn set out every evening. I saw Rick and Noeline mingling with them. The knot of Rick’s tie was loosened slightly, as if he’d slackened it on purpose after a long day of working on securing bonds. Noeline, pretty in a cream silk blouse over slim black pants and short heels, was pouring the wine and chatting up its qualities. A piano sonata was playing softly in the background.

Tegan fetched herself a glass of Perrier with lime from the handsome mahogany sideboard, while I accepted a glass of white wine from Noeline, and then we moseyed to Dennell.

Tegan hugged her and reintroduced us. “Dennell, you remember Allie, my best friend since kindergarten? ”

“I do. Nice to see you.” Dennell’s smile was strained. I wondered if she would have preferred staying home but was forcing herself to be social.

“Will my having a glass of wine bother you, Dennell?” I asked.

“No. I’ve never been a wine drinker. Scotch is . . . was my weakness.”

“Your jewelry is gorgeous,” I said. “Your designs?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I told you she’s talented,” Tegan chimed. “Every item has class written all over it.”

She guided us to a furniture arrangement that included a settee and an antique Louis XV–style upholstered chair. The two of them sat on the settee. I took the chair.

“Tell me everything you’ve learned so far about your aunt’s murder,” Dennell said.

Of course, she’d want to know. Everyone in town did.

“The police haven’t told us much,” Tegan said.

“Who do you suspect?” Dennell sipped her beverage.

“My half sister,” Tegan said acidly.

I reached over and flicked her thigh.

“Just kidding. But she’s such a pain in the—” She swallowed the next word along with a sip of Perrier. “Allie, I meant to tell you, Vanna did not find that ring Ms. Ivey mentioned. There was other jewelry, she said, but it was all costume stuff.”

I wondered if the police had searched Marigold’s car. If she had taken the diamond-and-ruby target ring to be cleaned, as I’d quietly theorized, she might have kept the jewelry store ticket in the glove box.

“Also Vanna invited a member of the Antiquarian Booksellers’ Association of America to appraise the rare books at the shop and the ones at Auntie’s home. They’re coming to town next week.”

“Was Vanna at the bookshop when you found your aunt?” Dennell asked, segueing to the murder. “I heard there was quite a mob waiting to go inside.”

“No, she wasn’t,” Tegan answered.

I listed the people who were there: Piper, Graham, some people I hadn’t recognized—tourists, most likely. “Noeline and Rick were at the front. Chloe arrived late. Vanna showed up after that.”

“Do you think someone in the crowd killed her?” Dennell asked.

“A customer suggested that Piper killed her,” I said, “but Graham Wynn’s neighbor intimated that Graham has been acting suspicious. Maybe drugs are involved.”

“Graham’s letter carrier saw him arguing with Marigold,” Tegan offered.

“Hey,” I blurted as something dawned on me. “Graham has a bandage on his arm.”

Tegan raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

“It might be covering a fresh tattoo, but what if it’s not? What if he struggled with Marigold, and she scratched him and drew blood?” I recalled asking Zach about that when we went on the hike and him remaining mum.

“Could the police match the DNA?” Tegan asked hopefully.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I wasn’t an evidence expert. “There’s also Katrina Carlson, the bartender at the Brewery. She and Marigold exchanged words. But she wasn’t in the mix on Saturday morning.”

“Come to think of it, Allie,” Tegan said, “I might have seen Quinby in the crowd.”

“Quinby?” Dennell asked.

“Quinby Canfield, the customer who believes Piper is the killer,” I said. “FYI, I don’t think Piper did it. She’s one of the nicest women on the planet.”

“Nice people kill.” Dennell sipped her drink and held the glass between two hands. “Your mom looks happy, Tegan,” she said, pivoting to a lighter subject. “Do you like the guy she’s dating?”

“Rick? He’s okay.”

“Are they, you know . . .” Dennell waggled her eyebrows.

“Intimate? Yeah, I’m sure. In fact”—Tegan glanced over her shoulder and again at us—“Rick looked pretty disheveled Saturday morning. My guess? He and my mom spent the night together. Helga, do you know?”

Helga, who was carrying a tray of caprese appetizers on skewers, stopped beside us. “That is not for me to say.”

“C’mon, Helga,” Tegan urged. “Spill the tea.”

“All I know is Mr. O’Sheedy left for a business meeting on Saturday.”

Tegan snickered. “Nah, he didn’t go to a business meeting looking like he did.”

“He did not stay for breakfast,” Helga said.

“Maybe he ducked out early,” I suggested, “so tongues wouldn’t wag.”

Helga exited the room without acknowledging my theory.

Tegan pursed her lips. “I wish . . .” She didn’t finish.

“Wish what?” Dennell asked.

“I wish my mom happiness.”

I threw my pal a knowing look. That was not at all what she was wishing. She hoped Rick would disappear.

Dinner was served in the communal dining room. There were eight rectangular tables covered in white linens. Candles and small vases of fresh flowers adorned each table. Guests could sit wherever they chose. Helga had cooked a resplendent menu that included a choice of rack of lamb, Dover sole, rosemary roasted chicken, or beef stew, potatoes prepared three different ways, petite vegetables in a butter-lemon sauce, and a number of desserts. I opted for the beef stew, garlic mashed potatoes, and the petite vegetables—a person needed one’s greens. I would finish with the flan. Tegan and Dennell both selected the chicken, scalloped potatoes, and decadent gluten-free chocolate cake.

Over the course of our meal, Dennell regaled us with stories about the jewelry business. She was funny and sincere and at peace with her decision to stay sober. When there was a lull in the conversation, I once again reflected on the jewelry Marigold had acquired over the years and the missing ring. I asked Dennell how one priced items. Why did a certain piece cost fifty thousand while another might draw a meager thousand? She explained that the name of the designer mattered—she hoped to be a big deal in the next decade or two—and the cut and weight of the gems were crucial. However, in the long run, it was all about demand.

I polished off my flan and glimpsed my watch. “Oh, my. I have to get going. I have a few loose ends to wind up at Dream Cuisine for tomorrow’s deliveries. This has been lovely, Tegan. Thanks for inviting me.”

I sped to my professional kitchen, where I began finalizing tomorrow’s deliveries. I was behind, but right now, with all that was going on, sleep was highly overrated.

With a soothing tune playing in the background, I made six dozen lemon-raspberry scones for Ragamuffin. Every summer, I froze fresh raspberries so I would always have some on hand. While the scones were baking, I mixed the batter for four dozen coffee lace cookies to deliver to Whispering Winds, a bed-and-breakfast not far from the Blue Lantern. The cookies were crisp delicacies that I drizzled with melted chocolate, but they were difficult to box up until they were completely cool because they couldn’t be stacked on top of one another when warm. Patience was required.

After removing the last of the scones and putting the first batch of cookies in to bake, I studied the recipe I had for pound cake. It required twelve eggs—six whole eggs and six egg yolks. Luckily, I bought eggs in bulk. The cake would be dense—as it should be so it could absorb the juices of the fruits in the trifle—but it would also be melt-in-your-mouth good.

I greased and floured a loaf pan. Next I whisked the butter and added the sugar. When they were fluffy, I set them aside and attacked the eggs. Using a digital scale, I weighed the dry ingredients. Measuring properly was vital to the success of any baking enterprise. I combined the ingredients, poured them into the loaf pan, and placed the pound cake in the oven to bake.

With an hour-plus to fritter away, I opened my laptop computer with the intent of playing a word game. I paused when I glimpsed the empty search bar. Instantly I pictured Marigold’s computer and the last search she’d done: gaslight. The search made sense, given the historical aspect of the book she’d started. Were all her previous searches related to her budding writing career? What if she’d cleared the history on purpose because something she’d researched could be considered incriminating?

I could be grasping at straws thinking that someone other than Marigold had wiped it clean. On the other hand, a gamer like Graham Wynn would be computer savvy, and a junior-college professor like Piper Lowry would be computer literate, too. Was it possible one of them hacked Marigold’s computer and cleared the history from afar?

Tegan said only she and Chloe knew the password, but Marigold might have written it down. Also she’d died clutching Pride and Prejudice. What if her murderer got a clue from her shield, guessed the password, and erased the search history after murdering her?

How lucky could one killer get?