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

CHAPTER 21

C HAPTER 21

“When she is secure of him, there will be more leisure for falling in love as much as she chooses.”

—Charlotte Lucas, in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice

T egan and I drove separately, knowing we’d both head home after our inquiry.

The lot in front of the Brewery was full. We parked in the side lot and hoofed it to the front entrance. Once inside, we realized there wasn’t a seat to be had, although there were a few spaces at the standing-only tables. Tegan and I secured two spots, and I scanned the restaurant for Katrina. I glimpsed her working the bar with the same guy as last night.

Wallis, her blond hair swept into a messy bun with tendrils gracing her cheeks, laid down two napkins on our table. I’d been hoping she’d be working tonight’s shift. On the way to the Brewery, I’d formulated a plan, and Wallis had a starring role in the execution of it.

“Hello, again, Allie,” she said. “You’re becoming a regular. Spruce Goose?”

“Sure,” I said.

“An Ugly Pig,” Tegan said.

“Who are you calling ugly?” Wallis joshed, and winked.

“A side of your house fries, too,” Tegan added. “With all three sauces.” The sriracha aioli was my favorite. Tegan preferred the cumin catsup. We both liked the chutney mayo .

“Wallis, before you go, I’ve got a question for you.” I lowered my voice. “Katrina’s ex-boyfriend—”

“Scum.”

“Yeah, I got that vibe. I saw him here last night. He and Katrina exchanged words. I asked if she wanted to talk about it, but she told me to butt out. Do you know”—I decreased my volume even further—“if he’s blackmailing her?”

Wallis cut a look at Katrina and returned her gaze to me. Matching my tone, she said, “You’ll have to ask her.”

“Did she and Marigold argue about pictures Upton took?”

“You know about the pictures?”

Bingo! I was right. “Yes. He’s a creep.”

“To the max.”

“Tell her to talk to me. I think I could help her.”

“She didn’t kill Marigold,” she stated with authority. “I asked her.”

I swallowed hard. That was bold on her part, but how would she know whether Katrina was lying? I didn’t think they were best buds. “Even so, tell her. Please.”

“I’ll be back with those beers,” she said in her full voice.

In minutes, she returned, set down our drinks, and said, “Katrina will talk to you, Allie, but only you. Alone. Outside. Behind the kitchen.”

She wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me, not with Wallis and Tegan knowing where I was. I had to risk it.

Zach entered the Brewery with Bates and made a beeline to the hostess. He said something. She gave a curt nod and headed away as if he’d sent her on a mission. Bates was viewing something on his cell phone. Zach did the same.

In a flash, I sneaked through the kitchen and out the door to the rear of the building.

Katrina was, once again, pacing with an unlit cigarette in hand. She flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the toe of her shoe. “So you figured things out, huh? ”

“Upton is blackmailing you. With what? Does he have photos of you at a gentlemen’s club?”

“A gentlemen’s . . .” Her mouth dropped open. “What gave you that idea? Do I look like I can pole dance?”

“You’re fit.”

“Ha! That’s sweet, but no I’m not. I don’t work out a stitch. However, you were close with your guess. Upton took some compromising photos.”

Of the two of them? In the act? Ew.

“He threatened to post them on social media.”

“What a slime bucket.”

“Yeah, he’s a vindictive SOB and super angry that we broke up.”

I waited. When she didn’t proceed, I said, “Marigold and you argued. Was it about him?”

She nodded. “She wanted me to leave him.”

“Did she learn about the photos, or did you tell her?”

Katrina fell silent.

“You were heard saying to her, ‘If anyone finds out, I’ll know it was you who told them,’ which, I’m guessing, meant Upton would keep quiet about the photos if you paid him off. Except he reneged on your deal, didn’t he? He came around last night wanting more money.”

“No, he . . .” Katrina pulled her hair free of the decorative clasp holding her curls off her face. “Look, Marigold’s heart was in the right place. She wanted to mother me, like she did everyone else, but she was making me feel bad about what I was doing.”

If Katrina was a willing participant in the photos, it was none of Marigold’s business. Why would she butt in? Katrina wasn’t her daughter or even a relative.

Katrina went on, “I have low-enough self-esteem without someone holding up a mirror.”

After the breakup with my fiancé, my ego suffered. Therapy and a few self-help books prodded me into getting my head together. One book advised me to chant: “I am a good person. I am worthy. I don’t need a man to love me to bolster my self-esteem.” I chanted for three months until I convinced myself I was not only worthy, I was great.

Katrina refastened her hair in the clasp. “I know Wallis is the one who blabbed to you, as well as to that hunky Detective Armstrong. He came in earlier today and asked me my whereabouts on Saturday morning.”

“He did?” My parting question outside Blessed Bean must have spurred Zach to immediate action. So, why had he returned now?

“I informed him I was with a friend. We spent Friday night and into the next morning bad-mouthing our exes, but my friend is out of town and can’t be reached. She’s on a three-week unplugged camping trip. When she gets back, she’ll touch base with him.”

The friend thing sounded iffy, but there was no way to disprove it.

I wished Katrina well, said I hoped she and Upton could work things out to her satisfaction, and went inside. To my surprise, Zach and Bates were questioning the owner, Oly Olsen. He was a sixty-something bear of a man with thinning hair, rosy cheeks, and a nose that had withstood a pounding or two.

Zach caught sight of me, held up a hand for Oly to sit tight, and waved me over. “I wanted to tell you that Piper Lowry reached out to me.” His voice was monotone. His gaze official, not warm. “I am able to help her because my mother, a do-gooder by nature, knows lots of folks willing to assist, so thanks for getting me involved.”

“You bet. And did the student confirm her alibi?”

“He did.”

“That’s great.” I smiled, but he didn’t return the gesture. “I heard you spoke with Katrina Carlson, too. ”

Oly’s ears perked up. “Why did you need to speak to my best bartender, Detective?”

Zach said, “She was a person of interest in the Marigold Markel murder, but she’s cleared.”

Is she? I wanted to ask, but kept mute. I certainly didn’t want to receive a chillier reception from Zach than the one I was getting. If he accepted her unsubstantiated alibi, then I would, too.

“Good to know,” Oly said. “That means my job for Marigold is done.”

“What job was that, sir?” Zach asked.

“Marigold wanted to hire me. Just this morning, I received a delayed email from her. It was weird getting it after, you know, she died, but the Internet . . .” His laugh was gravelly and gruff. “It’s amazing it works at all.”

“What did she ask you to do?” Zach pressed.

“She wanted me to dig into Katrina’s problem and sort out her pride.”

‘ ”Sort out her pride,’ ” Zach repeated, and gazed at me as if I had the answer.

I shrugged, clueless.

“That was the message,” Oly said. “ ‘Sort out her pride.’ I figured it was why she’d asked if I’d read that book, Allie . Like I told you, I did. When my girls were in high school, me and my wife read everything they did. In the story, Elizabeth Bennet is clever and can talk circles around anyone, but her hasty judgment—her pride—leads her astray. I suppose Katrina is much like Elizabeth. But if she is no longer a suspect, and I am happy to hear she is not, then my investigation is no longer necessary.”

No longer curious why Zach and Bates had come to see Oly, I bid the detectives and Oly good night, then I returned to Tegan and filled her in on the conversation about the delayed email from her aunt .

“ ‘Sort out her pride?’ ” Tegan raised an eyebrow.

I nodded. “Do you think she reached out to Fitzwilliam and Sons to investigate someone’s prejudice?”

Tegan narrowed her gaze. “Do not kid about this.”

“I’m being serious.”

After she and I finished our fries and were heading to our respective vehicles, I glimpsed my cell phone. No one from Fitzwilliam and Sons had reached out yet.

“If and when they do,” Tegan said, “text me.”

Darcy was awake when I entered the house, waiting at the door like an anxious parent checking up on an errant teen.

“Good evening, sir,” I said. “I had a long day. How about you?”

He chuffed his response.

“You have food. Water. You even have a llama.”

He complained again.

I bent and nuzzled his nose. “I’m sorry. I forget that you’re a weird cat. You get lonely. I’m going to read for a bit in bed before going to sleep. You game?”

He meowed.

I grabbed my copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, tucked Darcy under one arm, and carried him through the house as I got ready for bed.

Later, after reading four chapters of the book, I switched off the bedside light and snuggled beneath the sheets thinking I’d fall asleep in seconds, but to my dismay, I couldn’t get Katrina’s words out of my head. Her friend was on an unplugged vacation. Maybe I needed to do the same. But how could I take time off? I didn’t have a business partner, and now I was part owner of a bookshop. My mother often carped that I needed to prioritize me if I was going to have a life. She could be right.

When the morning sun glared through the break in the curtains and stabbed my eye like a sword, I lurched to a sitting position. Had I overslept? How could I have forgotten to set the alarm? Yipes!

Church bells chimed, and I leaned back on my pillow, chuckling.

“It’s Sunday,” I said to the cat. “Yay! I don’t have to bake, and I don’t have any deliveries.”

He mewed his support.

Like many towns in North Carolina, Bramblewood had its share of churches. The Congregational church, built in 1905, was the one nearest to me, and the place where my grandmother had attended services until her death. Nana and I had been close, much closer than I ever would be to Fern and Jamie. I’d gone with her a few times to services, but after her passing, when my parents didn’t force me to go, I stopped.

“However, I do have to go to the bookshop,” I said to the cat.

He tilted his head and swiped the air with his tail.

“Because.” That ought to be enough explanation for him, but it wasn’t. He bounded onto my stomach and glowered at me. “Because,” I continued, “Tegan is counting on me. There might be shipments of boxes to unpack or recommendation tags to hang or a book club to arrange.” How had Marigold managed it all?

Darcy grumbled and hunkered down.

I stroked his ears and cooed, “I’ll be home before you know it.”

Who was I kidding? My furry companion had an internal alarm clock that Apple, if it was smart, ought to clone. Without glancing at a wristwatch, he knew when it was time for me to feed him and usually—not today, for some reason—if I’d overslept. How many times had I awakened with a paw brushing my nose? Hello, sleepyhead, wake up!

I clambered out of bed, washed up, did a quick stretching session, and fed Darcy. In less than twenty minutes, I was out the door .

When I strode into the bookshop, which wouldn’t open officially until noon, I found Chloe arranging preordered books at the sales counter.

“Book clubs,” I said. “Have we rescheduled them?”

“Good morning to you, too.” Dressed in a red jumper over a white blouse, knee socks, and black Mary Janes, she reminded me of a character out of a children’s novel. “As a matter of fact, we have one tomorrow night, Monday, for our Amateur Sleuths group. We’ve been reading Twelve Angry Librarians by Miranda James, which, if you didn’t know, is the pen name of Dean James.”

“I do know, and I’ve read that book.” The series featured interim library director Charlie Harris and his highly intelligent and animated cat, Diesel.

She tapped a sheet to the right of the cash register. “This is the list of attendees.”

I perused it and recognized many of the names, like Stella, Lillian, and Piper.

Tegan waltzed from one of the aisles, her arms laden with books.

“Tegan, I really think you should lead the first book club since . . .” I faltered. Since your aunt won’t be able to. “It would be good for you to do confront your fear before the memorial.”

“Nope. You’re taking the helm.” She placed her treasures on the counter and began to sort them by genre.

“But I bake at night.”

“Excuses, excuses. The club lasts two hours. You can make the time. Auntie created book club questions for every book in the shop that didn’t have author-prepared questions and saved them in a file drawer in the office. It’ll be easy-peasy.”

“Zach Armstrong is signed up,” Chloe said. “So is his partner.”

I eyed her curiously. “I didn’t know they read books starring amateur sleuths.”

“Men can surprise you,” Chloe joked .

“Chloe,” Tegan said, tapping a stack of three cookbooks. “These are the other books Vanna requested.”

“Oh, I forgot to mention.” Chloe gently rapped her temple with her knuckles. “She came in earlier to pick up her partial order and said she’d return later.”

Tegan’s mouth curved up in a grin. “ Phew. That means I don’t have to see her.” She threw me a sly glance. “You either.”

I didn’t want to admit I was relieved and quietly moved to the pegboard to review Marigold’s instructions for daily duties.

“Vanna was talking up your mother’s new boyfriend,” Chloe said.

“Talking up, as in, she approves of him?” Tegan arched an eyebrow.

“Apparently, he’s been super helpful handing out her business cards to ‘muckety-mucks at the hospital.’ Her words, not mine.” Chloe bound the cookbooks with raffia ribbon and affixed a Post-it note with Vanna’s name on it. “How are you getting along with him?”

Tegan shrugged one shoulder. “I rarely see him. He’s a busy guy. On Friday night, when Allie and I met Mom for dinner, he was at the hospital reading to kids. Today he can’t make church because—”

“He was reading to them at night?” Chloe asked, stacking a pair of romance novels. “That’s odd. Volunteers only read to kids in the afternoon.”

“How do you know?” I asked after landing on the chore of cleaning up the reading nook.

“I entertain the kids there a couple of times a month. It’s my way of giving back to the community, and . . .” She giggled. “And a way to convince myself I don’t want to ever become a mother. Don’t get me wrong. The kids are sweet, but I’m constantly reminded that I don’t have enough patience to repeatedly answer the question ‘Why?’ ”

Tegan exchanged a glance with me. “Rick also said he was reading to them last Saturday morning. He told my mom Thursday nights and Saturday mornings are his slots.”

“Uh-uh.” Chloe shook her head. “Not possible. Only afternoons,” she repeated.

“Why would he lie?” Tegan asked. “Is he two-timing my mother? Is he lying about his career? Is he not really a bond guy? Maybe he’s a grifter.”

“Tegan,” I cooed, “chill. He must have a good reason.”

“You said he hawked a ring at the pawnshop. I’ll bet he needs the money, and now he’s after my mother’s. He’s a con artist.” Her voice was rising by decibels. “What if he killed Auntie so he could get his hands on the hundred thousand—”

“Tegan, stop!” I barked. “You’re making yourself crazy. Your mother is a sane and sober woman. She’s not stupid. And Rick is not a killer. He’s simply got to account for his—”

“I was convinced the business meeting Helga said Rick had last Saturday morning was actually reading to kids, because they wouldn’t have cared if he’d come rumpled, but it was a lie,” Tegan hissed. “A lie!” With short intakes of air, she tried to calm herself, but couldn’t.

I fetched her a glass of water and shoved it into her hands.

Chloe said, “I thought after you ruled out Piper that Graham Wynn was your main suspect in your aunt’s murder.”

“Graham.” Tegan gulped down the water. “Right. We have to go to his house again.”