Page 111 of Murder on the Page

“She has no say. You’re here at my mom’s request. In case you see something you like.” Tegan plucked a stray hair off herBook LoverT-shirt before opening the front door and motioning for me to enter first. “She knows how much Auntie treasured you.”

I stepped across the threshold and took in my immediate surroundings. I’d visited Marigold on numerous occasions, but now it all seemed so museum-like. A Chagall hung on the wall above the foyer table. A trio of small Miró paintings were mounted on the opposite wall. In the parlor, to the right, stood a piano and a grouping of antique furniture. The living room, on the left, was plush with an oversized sofa and equally cushy chairs. A portrait of Marigold as a young woman with her beloved hung above the fireplace. It was going to be her gift to him on their wedding day. On the mantel stood the urn containing her ashes. To the right and left of the fireplace were bookcases filled with books. There was also one freestanding hermetically enclosed case, similar to the one in the office at Feast for the Eyes.

“You’re going to keep the first editions, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Absolutely. Auntie couldn’t part with any of them, and neither can I.”

“We’ll need the books appraised,” Vanna said, striding into the foyer from the kitchen at the rear of the house, her four-inch heels clicking on the hardwood floors, her pencil skirt—honestly, why did she insist on wearing uncomfortable clothes?—straining with every stride. She eyed me. “What are you—” She jammed her lips together. Her restraint impressed me.

After her suggestion to host costume-food-book parties at the shop, she had been doing her best to play nice. In a prickly moment, I’d wondered whether her catering business was floundering, thus making her more eager to partner up with me, but then I’d reminded myself that couldn’t be the reason, considering what she would inherit from her aunt. I did need someone to assist me, but was she the right person? Would I need to invest in a pair of boxing gloves?

“By the way,” Vanna went on, “the Realtor has three offers on the house. She’s coming here to present them. Okay?”

Tegan nodded.

“Mother is upstairs.” Vanna pointed to the staircase. “She’d like to start there.”

She led the way. Tegan followed. Small masterpieces adorned the walls. Persian runners lined the floors.

We found Noeline in the primary bedroom, her face tear-stained. She was standing beside the bed, where an array of sweaters, skirts, and blouses were lying in a pile. Others were folded, stacked, and assorted by color. Hanging in the walk-in closet were trousers, winter coats, arty smocks, and T-shirts. Like Tegan, Marigold had delighted in wearing fun, whimsical clothing. She would don her more tailored, classical styles to impress foundation bigwigs.

“Evelyn reached out and asked if we could donate some of Marigold’s things to the community theater.” Noeline lifted a silk blouse. “What kind of character would wear this?”

“Anyone in a courtroom drama,” Tegan said.

Noeline nodded absently.

Vanna ambled to the bureau near the window. Sunlight graced her face as she opened a mahogany jewelry case. “The other day while I was waiting for the Realtor to arrive, I went through this box. I think most of it is paste.” She hooked a pinky around a necklace and displayed it to us. “There are similar containers in the closet.”

Tegan said, “Allie, help me bring everything out here.” She walked into the closet.

I followed.

She gathered smocks and T-shirts in her arms. “Grab the coats,” she said.

I lifted three, but paused when I spied a wall safe behind them, the kind you’d see in a hotel, with an electronic digital code. I plunked the coats on the floor. “Tegan, did you know about this?”

Tegan joined me and gawked. “Mom! Vanna! C’mere.”

The two joined us. It was crowded, but we managed.

Noeline gasped. “Is that—”

Tegan nodded. “Would you know the combination?”

“No clue.”

“Vanna?” Tegan asked.

“Me either,” her half sister replied.

“Ms. Ivey might know,” I suggested.

Tegan pulled out her cell phone and dialed the bank manager, who said she didn’t have a record of a wall safe and apologized. Tegan exchanged a look with me and a grin spread across her face. “What do you bet . . .” She stared at her cell phone and said, “Allie, tap in seven, seven, three, five, eight, three, four, two, three.”

I did as told and the electronic lock released. “What the—”

“Those are the reciprocal numbers forp-r-e-j-u-d-i-c-e,” Tegan said. “Auntie really was obsessed with the book.”

---