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

CHAPTER 20

C HAPTER 20

“Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”

—Mary Bennet, in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice

“N o,” I said firmly. “Don’t go there.”

“An of-age student.” Lillian raised both hands to ward off my wrath.

“Why don’t you ask her?” Stella said. “She’s volunteering at Alta Barlow Hospital today.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Because I donate my time there, too. I usually greet people and steer them to the elevator or the proper floor. It’s not easy walking into a hospital. Nearly everyone’s pulse rate spikes. Having a guide makes them feel comfortable.”

“What does Piper do there?” I asked.

“She plays with children who are in the waiting room when the grown-ups need to visit or have checkups. You know, she never had children of her own. I think it makes her feel needed.”

“That’s so nice of both of you,” Lillian said. “I should get involved.”

“Let me tell you about the opportunities.” Stella and Lillian moved to the side to chat .

“I’ll go see Piper and ask her about Saturday morning and why she lied,” I whispered to Tegan.

“Tell Zach. Let him do it.”

“I’d rather it was a friendly visit.”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

“But the shop—”

“Chloe can handle it for an hour.”

I gawked at her. “You sure? Look around. It’s a full house. I think we need to cull the crowd.”

At one thirty, when the throng thinned to two customers, Tegan grabbed her purse and offered to drive.

The Alta Barlow Hospital reception area was bright and white. Fresh flowers adorned the counter. I asked the cheery receptionist where I might find the children’s playroom, and she directed us to the right.

The playroom was filled with paraphernalia appropriate for children of all ages: books, chalkboard easels fitted with pastel chalk, stuffed animals, and a desk with art supplies, where some projects were already in progress. A janitor in a uniform was emptying a trash can by the watercooler. Piper, clad in jeans, a plaid blouse, and red canvas Keds, was perched on a tot-sized chair, reading a book to a trio of children, who were sitting, cross-legged, on an interlocking, foam, multicolored play mat. One boy, who I pegged at around five years of age, was plucking something off his striped T-shirt. The girl beside him—his sister I was pretty sure because their coloring was identical—was fiddling with one of her braids. The other boy was opening and closing the Velcro straps on his shoes.

Piper glanced in our direction, probably expecting a parent to be entering with a child, and blinked. “What are you two doing here?”

“We’d like to chat with you for a sec,” I said.

She pursed her lips, then closed the book she was reading— an A to Z Mystery titled Detective Camp. “Children, go finish up your art. I’ll be over to help in a few minutes.”

They scrambled to their feet and raced to the art table. The boy in the striped shirt pushed the girl out of the way. She squealed that she’d “tell Mom,” which meant I’d correctly assumed she was his sibling. The other boy plopped into a chair and scooped a project toward him.

Piper rose, smoothed the front of her blouse, and moved to the watercooler, where she poured herself a mini cup of water. “Want some?”

We both declined.

“What’s up?” she asked after taking a sip.

“When I talked to you yesterday,” I began, “you said you were home Saturday morning.”

“That’s right.”

“Alone.”

“Yes.” She brushed her dark hair over her shoulders. “Look, I know it doesn’t provide me with an alibi, which apparently I might need because I’m getting the feeling you suspect me of murder—”

“No,” I protested.

“Yes.” She threw me a peeved look. “But I was grading papers. I have those to show for my time.”

“Piper, I have it on good authority that you weren’t alone. Someone saw a man in the house with you.”

“What?” Her eyes widened. Her chin began to tremble.

“Piper.” I reached out, but didn’t touch her. “I don’t think you harmed Marigold, but someone has fingered you, and that someone is talking to the police.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you his name.”

“ Aha. It’s a he.”

“The witness saw you peeking in the bookshop’s windows a few days before the murder, after the shop closed. ”

“I needed some YA books. The YA aisle is the one facing the window.”

That sounded reasonable.

Tegan said, “You also came to the shop Sunday when we weren’t open and asked Chloe if you could see the crime scene.”

Piper studied the cup she was holding, as if formulating a response. After a moment, she raised her gaze to meet ours. “Being at the shop that morning, knowing Marigold had been murdered, rocked me to my core, and . . .” She gulped down the rest of her water, crushed the paper cup, and tossed it into the refreshed garbage can. “And I’ve been shaky ever since. I hoped seeing the site, making sense of it in my mind, might help.” She paused, looking as if she wanted to say something more.

I waited.

“Okay, that’s a lie,” she said with a sigh. “I came to the shop Saturday morning at seven a.m., and I met with Marigold.”

Tegan and I exchanged a glance.

Piper continued. “She wanted to talk to me about something in private. I brought my cat with me, and Marigold held him.”

“What did she want to chat about?” I asked.

Piper shook her head once, not willing to cough up that particular answer, but she pressed on. “I was in the shop less than five minutes. Marigold and I worked out the issue, and I left.” She screwed up her mouth. “After she was killed, I got to thinking . . .” Her shoulders slumped. “I got to thinking someone could have seen me and believed I killed her. I’ve read enough mysteries to know the smallest clues might lead to an arrest. So I returned, after the fact, to check out something.”

“What?” Tegan and I asked in unison.

“See, every spring, my cat sheds like crazy. The thick layers he grew for the winter come out in clumps. I worried that the police might find his hair in the shop and on Marigold’s clothes.” Her face pinched with pain. “I didn’t kill her. You’ve got to believe me. I went home and came back later, when others were already there. I didn’t do it.”

“Tell us who was with you in your house that morning,” I coaxed. “He’s your alibi.”

Piper regarded the children at the art table and returned her focus to us. “You can’t tell the police.”

I almost said I wouldn’t, but stopped short, because if I needed to, I would.

“A homeless student has been staying with me. That’s what Marigold wanted to discuss. She knew.” Piper wheezed as if all the air was leaving her lungs. The relief on her face after uttering the truth was palpable.

“Go on,” I said.

“College students are struggling right now. Leasing an apartment is expensive, especially with no credit record. Some students are able to rent rooms, and many find RVs to live in, but a few don’t have the funds and decide they need their education more than housing, so they wing it.”

“Wing it?” Tegan asked.

“They live on the street. In tents, if they can afford them.” Piper worried the sapphire gem on her necklace with her thumb and forefinger. “One of my former students is now a junior at UNC Asheville. He knew a young man who was in such a situation. He would have taken him in and hidden him in his dorm room on campus, but if he got caught, he could be ousted and didn’t want to risk it. He asked if I could help out.”

“How old is this young man?” I asked.

“Nineteen.”

Of age. I breathed easier.

“He’s a good student, and he gets excellent grades. I invited him to stay at my place for a few weeks while we figured out where else he might be able to live. He’s been very helpful with fixing a few plumbing issues and painting a bedroom. I’ve kept the drapes closed so neighbors wouldn’t get the wrong idea, but apparently someone has.” Her gaze went from me to Tegan. “I’m guessing it was Stella Burberry.”

We didn’t respond.

“Stella has a keen eye,” Piper said. “She doesn’t miss a beat. She’s a regular at the bookshop, if I’m not mistaken.”

“So, in sum, you were not alone that morning,” I said. “You admit you lied.”

“To protect him.”

“You were seen hugging a young man last week. Was it the same one?”

“Who told you? Lillian Bellingham? I saw her passing by. I wasn’t sure if she saw us.”

I nodded.

“Yes,” Piper continued. “He was so grateful for my offer, he broke down in tears. I was consoling him.”

“Piper,” I said, “I suggest you reach out to Detective Armstrong. He’s a good guy. Maybe he will know people who can help place the boy with a family for the duration of the school year.”

She thanked me profusely, and before returning to her wards, she said, “By the way, I like Graham Wynn, and I’m not trying to throw suspicion on him, but he and Marigold exchanged words last week. I couldn’t make out what they argued about. It was after a book discussion. I did hear him say, ‘Mind your own business.’ ”

On the way to the shop, I asked Tegan to stop at Ragamuffin. She idled at the curb, and I purchased three vanilla lattes, the extra one for Chloe.

Minutes later, I climbed into the car and positioned the carry pack on the floor. “You know, I’ve been haunted by a few lines of the novel your aunt was writing.” I recited them: ‘ ”She knew the truth, but she dare not tell anyone. She couldn’t. If she did, her family would be a target.’ ”

“Good memory.”

“Her words make me wonder whether she, Marigold, was the protagonist in the story, and someone was threatening to harm you or Noeline or Vanna.”

Tegan cut a look at me. “I hadn’t thought of that. That could have been why she wanted to hire Oly Olsen. To spy on, say, Graham.”

“Like I said last night, I think we should take a peek at her computer again and see if there’s something we can discover about Graham or anyone else.”

“I’m with you. Also Oly might have gathered new info since we last spoke to him.”

I wasn’t sure how that was possible, but I didn’t dissuade her of the notion.

Chloe was checking out three customers at the counter when we returned. A mother and her brood of children were browsing the children’s and YA aisle. Two senior citizens were sitting in the reading nook, books open.

“Here.” I handed Chloe the latte, and she blessed me.

“We’ll be right back,” Tegan said to her, and stepped through the doorway leading to the stockroom. I followed.

In the office, Tegan wakened Marigold’s personal computer, pulled up the Contacts page for the letter D, and poised the cursor arrow over the Due Diligence listing. “Ohmigod, did you see these?” She giggled.

With a finger, she referred to two other contacts: Dates and Places, and Detective Darcy.

I knew which one had made her laugh. “Detective Darcy?” I snickered. “Honestly? She really was obsessed with Pride and Prejudice. Click it. ”

She did and a contact for Fitzwilliam and Sons materialized. “Get out of here!” she exclaimed. “Call him.”

I pulled my cell phone from my trouser pocket and dialed. I waited and then heard an answering machine for Fitzwilliam and Sons, a detective agency. I informed Tegan.

“Another one? Leave a message.”

I waited for a beep. “Hi, this is Allie Catt, and my friend Marigold Markel has your contact in her files. I was wondering, sir, if she hired you for an assignment. She’s . . .” I pressed my lips together. I didn’t want to say the word “deceased.”

“Could you return my call?” I rattled off my number and ended the call.

Tegan said, “Do you think she picked that agency because of the name?”

“Possibly.”

“She must have listed it under D for detective.”

“Or maybe Mr. Fitzwilliam’s mother was an avid Jane Austen fan and actually gave him the first name Darcy.” I tapped my chin with a fingertip, deliberating why Marigold had reached out to not one, but two detectives. “Marigold knew Katrina’s secret. And Piper’s. What if she knew others?”

“You’re not suggesting she blackmailed anyone.”

I fanned the air. “Far from it. She was a caring person. She would have wanted to help anyone who was in trouble, like she did Piper.”

“Man, I hope her story pans out.”

“Me too.”

Tegan picked up a pen and rhythmically rapped it on the edge of the desk. “You know, it bothers me that Auntie was arguing with so many people this past week. She wasn’t the quarrelsome type. Something must have been bugging her.”

“I agree.”

“Do you think she was sick? ”

“I don’t have a clue.”

Tegan said, “That waitress at the Brewery thought Auntie knew Katrina’s secret. What if she knew others? Customers and friends confided in her all the time. What kind of secrets would be worth killing over?”

“A woman having a baby out of wedlock.”

“Or a woman running away from an abusive husband.”

“Or a man on the lam.”

Tegan flicked the pen aside. “I don’t trust Rick.”

“Whoa!” I threw up both hands. “That came out of left field. Why don’t you? Because he’s courting your mother? He’s not running from the law.”

She grunted. “What if he’s phony-baloney? What if he’s one of those guys who has two families in two states? If I ask my friend to dig into the employment records—”

“Rick is an independent contractor, so she’ll find nothing. Relax.” I patted her shoulder. “I seriously doubt he’d pawn his wedding ring if he was hiding another family. Let your mother have some fun. If he’s not the right guy, she’ll figure it out.”

Tegan picked up the pen again and resumed tap-tapping as she theorized about what other secrets her aunt might have known. “How about a married man with a clandestine lover? Or a woman with an obsession that’s embarrassing?”

That notion gave me pause. A few weeks ago, when I was browsing the bookshop for a new mystery to read, I heard Katrina ask Marigold to order a special book for her, The G-String Murders, written by none other than Gypsy Rose Lee. It was an odd choice, although Katrina did like historical romances, and the famous striptease artist, by all intents and purposes, was a person of history, with a somewhat-romantic past. Was it possible Katrina was performing or had performed at a gentlemen’s club? Did Marigold figure it out because of the strange book order? Did Katrina’s boyfriend catch her doing so? He was a photographer. What if he’d taken compromising photos? He said he had more. What if he threatened to show the pictures to her boss at the Brewery?

No, that would have been a reason for Katrina to want him dead, not Marigold. Even so, after we closed the bookshop, I decided to chat with her one more time, not that I could consider the last time we’d interacted a chat.