Page 59 of Murder on the Page

“Call me suspicious, but would you phone Evelyn and sort of, you know, ask where she was Saturday morning?”

“You can’t possibly think she killed my aunt.”

I tilted my head.

Tegan frowned. “Can I touch base later? It’s early. She’s a theater person.”

“Please.”

“Let’s take it outside.” She left the line. I followed. She pulled out her cell phone and selected a recent contact. “Evelyn,” she said when someone answered. “It’s Tegan Potts. Yes, I know. I’m sorry to bother you so early, but, um . . . what’s the next production?” she hedged, reluctant to launch an interrogation. She listened. “Really?Annie Get Your Gun? I love that show.” She crooned, “ ‘Anything you can do, I can do better.’ ” After a long pause, she snickered. “Oh, thank you, but no, I won’t audition. I’ve got severe stage fright. I can barely look at a microphone without fainting. I only sing in my shower or in my car.”

“Tegan,” I whispered, reining in my frustration, “get to the point.”

“Um, Evelyn, where were you Saturday morning?”

She held the phone away from her ear. Evelyn was squawking so loudly that I could hear every word. She was chastising Tegan for questioning her integrity.

When she quieted, Tegan pressed the phone to her ear and said, “No, ma’am, I’m not accusing you of anything. I was wondering because, see, we—” Tegan listened. “Yes, Allie and me. We’re trying to establish where everyone who knew Auntie was.”

Evelyn spit out a response.

Tegan flinched. “Yes, ma’am.” She received another earful of Evelyn’s diatribe. “No, ma’am. Allie is not close to her parents. What’s that?” She positioned the phone between both of our ears.

Evelyn said in a dramatically husky voice, “That’s good to hear, because Fern Catt is a vagabond.”

“That’s harsh,” I whispered to Tegan. “My parents like to travel. They are not drifters.” As much as my parents’globetrotting ways bothered me, I was not about to let anyone badmouth them.

“Never in her life has Fern been able to put down roots,” Evelyn went on, “let alone raise a child.”

How well did she know my mother? Could Fern shed light on Evelyn as a person?

“Evelyn . . .” Tegan looked flummoxed as to how to proceed.

I said, sotto voce, “Go back to why we’re inquiring.”

“Ma’am, we were curious because, well, we’d like to help the police rule out everyone we admire. My aunt’s murder is such a mystery.”

“For your information, young lady,” Evelyn said in a condescending tone, “I was at the theater erecting sets. There were ten crew persons and a handful of actors around to verify. As for the offer of free season tickets, it is now rescinded.” She ended the call.

Tegan sighed and pocketed her phone. “I hate you, Allie. She didn’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t deserve to be dismissed, either. And don’t forget, Sherlock Holmes said, ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’ We’re trying to rule out suspects.”

We stepped inside Ragamuffin again, and when we reached the front of the line, I treated my pal to a muffin and latte. We sat at a bistro table and chatted about Winston for a nanosecond, just to rehash what her mother had doled out last night about her pending divorce, and then I let her carp about how overbearing her half sister was. When she had exhausted her anger, I drove her to work and fetched my wares from Dream Cuisine.

For the next three hours, I delivered goodies to clients, starting with the cowboy-themed cookies and office party treats. Then cream cheese muffins to Blessed Bean. Chocolatecrinkle cookies to Milky Way. Raspberry-chocolate tarts to Perfect Brew. Two pumpkin pies and a dozen scones to Pinnacle Lodge, a log cabin–themed inn with cottages. Each concern was pleased with my work. Each paid on the spot, as I required. I’d been stiffed by my very first client and swore I’d never accept late payments in the future. I couldn’t run a business on credit.

Pulling into my driveway, I checked my cell phone. I’d missed a call from Zach.

CHAPTER14

“When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.”

—Caroline Bingley, in Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudice

Idid a quick perimeter of the house and, seeing no errant footprints, dashed inside and closed and locked the door. Darcy warbled hello. I scooped him up, nuzzled his nose, set him on the floor, and dialed Zach.

“Hi, it’s me,” I said when I reached him. “Were you calling about Marigold? Have you solved her murder?”

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