Page 108 of Murder on the Page

Battling tears, I told her to set the urn by the lectern we’d positioned beside the sales counter.

Noeline complied. When she returned, she said, “How can we help?”

“Put me to work,” Helga said.

“Don’t do a thing, either of you,” Tegan said, joining us and kissing her mother’s cheek. “We hired staff. Just be present for everyone else. Go. Mingle.”

As they moved off, Tegan’s friend Dennell entered in a lavender frock. She was carrying two large bottles of spring water. I was glad to see she looked rested. Her eyes had lost the haunted look.

Tegan clasped Dennell’s hand. “Thanks for coming.” She guided her friend to the beverage table.

Lillian, Stella, Piper, and Evelyn arrived at two.

Evelyn, a larger-than-life woman who towered over the others, and made herself even taller with the coiled updo she always sported, excused herself and made a beeline for me. She clutched my elbow. “All is forgiven.” Her tone was low, with a definite edge.

I swallowed hard. “All is—”

“You believed me to be a murderer.”

“N-no.” I tried to break free.

Evelyn held on tight. “Oh, yes, honey, you did.” Her dark brown eyes were as stony as onyx, but then her gaze softened. “Under the circumstances, it was understandable. Everyonewas presumed guilty, and well they should have been. Marigold was a sweet soul and deserved justice. You did right by her.” She released my arm and smiled warmly. “If you have time, why don’t you volunteer at the theater foundation? The powers that be have recently invited me to take over Marigold’s job. I’d like to get to know you better.”

My knees, which for a second had turned to jelly, grew steadier, and I decided that, yes, to honor Marigold, I’d give volunteering a try . . . in my spare time.

“Allie!” a woman called from the front of the shop.

I was shocked to see my mother and father strolling in. “Fern. Jamie.” I hurried to them and kissed each of them on the cheek. We didn’t embrace. Neither was a hugger. “Why are you here?”

“We came to pay our respects,” my mother said. “Tegan texted me.”

Fern was shorter and slimmer than me, and had straight, dark hair. In keeping with her wish to never draw attention to herself, she’d donned a cargo jacket over a beige blouse and slacks. My father, as slim as my mother, although a tad taller, had worn similar nondescript clothing. I could easily see the two of them, the moment the memorial ended, jetting off for another adventurous trek.

“Everyone’s in costume,” Fern said, stating the obvious.

Not everyone,I mused, which was fine. Tegan and I knew many wouldn’t get into the spirit.

“Yes,” I said. “Some are in costume because we thought the celebration should be an homage to Marigold’s favorite book,Pride and Prejudice.” Apparently, Tegan hadn’t mentioned that aspect of the memorial to my mother. I gestured to the posters and quotations.

“Never read it,” Fern said. “But the shop is lovely. And you’re lovely. Your sage-green dress matches your eyes.” She petted my cheek, which jolted me. Icouldn’t remember the last time she’d touched me tenderly. “Tegan said you were trapped by a killer. I can’t imagine. You are so brave. We’re so very proud of you.”

That sent a seismic shock wave through me. Never, not once in my life, had my mother said she was proud of me. I supposed standing up to a murderer set the bar.

“I knew you’d solve the mystery,” Fern continued. “Didn’t I tell you, Jamie? Our girl is as bright as a spark. No one holds a candle to her.” She turned back to me. “I hope the police were appreciative of your service.”

Actually, Zach did thank me for sending him the image of the bank envelope that I’d found in Rick’s briefcase. That led the police to search Rick’s room at the inn. They found the stolen money stuffed into a sock, along with a half-empty bottle of eye drops, the solution of which matched the poison used to kill Marigold, and they’d discovered surveillance equipment in the closet.

“Quiche?” a server asked as she drew near with a tray of appetizers.

My father reached for one and popped it into his mouth. “You made these?” he asked me around a mouthful.

“I did.”

“Delicious.” He winked at my mother. “I told you it was a good thing you didn’t teach her to cook.”

Everything I’d learned had come from a book or a cooking show.

“Be nice.” Fern batted his arm, but she was smiling. “Oh, Jamie, there’s poor Noeline. Let’s give our condolences.”

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