Page 2 of Murder on the Page

“I’ll meow!”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Don’t get me wrong. I liked the name Allie, and I even liked my surname. The earliest reference to Catt was Catford, a name of medieval English origins, which initially meant a ford frequented by wildcats. I considered myself pretty wild, so the name fit. But how many jokes could one girl endure in a lifetime?

What do you get when you cross a baby chick with an alley cat? A peeping Tom.

Why don’t alley cats play poker in the jungle? Too many cheetahs.

Kids could be cruel; adults too.

On the other hand, my world-traveling parents—they rarely came to the States for longer than a day’s visit—could have named me Pussy, which would have been way worse. So there you have it. I was Allie Catt, a five-foot-six, almost–twenty-six-year-old caterer who escaped into books or presided over book clubs when not making food for a client, which I aimed to do right now.

“Here, kitty, kitty.” Tegan meowed.

I whirled around. “Honestly, I don’t have time to play today.” I tapped my big-faced cat watch and motioned to the white corkboard to my right. Dozens of future orders were tacked to it, as well as a floor plan of the bookshop.

“Whew! You’re busy,” Tegan said.

Thanks to the parties that people liked to throw in Bramblewood, as well as Asheville and its ritzy enclave, Montford, I stayed regularly employed—that is, unless Vanna Harding, Tegan’s older half sister and premier caterer, didn’t get the gig first. Why Marigold hadn’t hired her to serve tomorrow’s tea was beyond me. A smirk tweaked the corners of my mouth. Maybe my food was simply better, or perhaps Marigold realized how out of touch with the common folk her snobby niece was. Vanna thought molecular gastronomy was chic. To me, it tasted like soap bubbles.

“Nice layout,” Tegan said, tapping the floor plan. “Very organized.”

“Thanks.” On the floor plan, as I did for any event I catered, I’d drawn the specs for every aspect of the location. That way, I could formulate where I’d stage the savory foods and sweets. It was like a flowchart, the flow being the attendees. Tomorrow I would set the savory food table in front of the sales counter and the sweets tables by the endcaps of each aisle.

“Why are you here?” I pulled mixing bowls from the wire racks that also held pots and pans. A half-dozen mixers stoodon a shelf beneath the island. Knives and utensils hung on a magnetic strip affixed to two of the walls. Floor-to-nearly-ceiling shelves held my designer pastry boxes, serving trays, and more. “Why aren’t you at the bookstore?”

“Auntie gave me a two-hour lunch break so she could close the shop and hold a meeting for the theater foundation board.” Tegan clerked at Feast for the Eyes. She was a terrific salesperson. She’d always been a good conversationalist.

“Why didn’t I know about it?”

“No food required. Beverages only.”

“Well, don’t bug me,” I said. “Go do something fun.”

For those unfamiliar with Bramblewood, it was a delicious locale that consisted of a primary boulevard named Main Street, as well as Mountain Road, which crossed Main Street in the middle and led into the mountains. There were a number of offshoots, too. The town brimmed with art galleries, shops, and restaurants. All the buildings were uniform red clapboard with white trim. Because the town wasn’t flat, there were charming terraced courtyards connecting the streets, each with additional shops at the crest. Tourism and second-home property owners kept the economy hopping.

Most of the homes, bed-and-breakfast inns, apartments, and condos were within walking distance of Main Street. In addition, there was a modest lake, which was north of town, a nine-hole golf course, and plenty of hiking trails. A stone’s throw away was the burgeoning metropolis of Asheville, which boasted the splendiferous Biltmore Hotel and the University of North Carolina Asheville.

In summer, the weather was spectacular. During the fall, leaf peepers descended upon the town to witness the changing colors. In winter, tourists enjoyed a variety of seasonal sports. In the spring, like right now, tulips and daffodils were in bloom, as were redbud trees and dogwoods.

I said, “I know what you can do. Ride a kayak on the FrenchBroad. You’re dressed warmly enough.” The river was one of the oldest in the world and one of two in the United States that flowed north. “Or check out the bazaar.” The town’s year-round bazaar, which was housed in a series of old abandoned buildings that artists had revitalized at the turn of the twenty-first century, offered lots of handmade goods for sale.

“Can’t. I’ve got errands to run.” Tegan smoothed her white-blond braids. “Why is it every time I visit, you’re busier than a beaver?”

“I’ve got to make ends meet.”

“No, it’s because you’re selfish,” she jibed with mock seriousness. “Selfish, selfish, selfish. Am I surprised? No, I am not. Do you know why? Because you’re an only child.”

“Blame Fern and Jamie,” I said.

Yes, I was an only child. Asurpriseonly child. My parents—Fern and Jamie, not Mom and Dad—had been shocked to become parents and hadn’t even considered stocking the pond with another guppy after my birth. During my early years, they were cool to me. Their lack of compassion was another reason I’d lost myself in the world of books. Now that I was grown, they were kinder but not warmer.

“Speaking of parents, how is your mother?” I fetched two dozen eggs from the walk-in refrigerator. “Any good prospects on the dating scene?”

“She’s seeing someone new.”

“Is he nice?”

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