Page 63 of Murder on the Page

“Hey,” I blurted as something dawned on me. “Graham has a bandage on his arm.”

Tegan raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

“It might be covering a fresh tattoo, but what if it’s not? What if he struggled with Marigold, and she scratched him and drew blood?” I recalled asking Zach about that when we went on the hike and him remaining mum.

“Could the police match the DNA?” Tegan asked hopefully.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I wasn’t an evidence expert. “There’s also Katrina Carlson, the bartender at the Brewery. She and Marigold exchanged words. But she wasn’t in the mix on Saturday morning.”

“Come to think of it, Allie,” Tegan said, “I might have seen Quinby in the crowd.”

“Quinby?” Dennell asked.

“Quinby Canfield, the customer who believes Piper is the killer,” I said. “FYI, I don’t think Piper did it. She’s one of the nicest women on the planet.”

“Nice people kill.” Dennell sipped her drink and held the glass between two hands. “Your mom looks happy, Tegan,”she said, pivoting to a lighter subject. “Do you like the guy she’s dating?”

“Rick? He’s okay.”

“Are they, you know . . .” Dennell waggled her eyebrows.

“Intimate? Yeah, I’m sure. In fact”—Tegan glanced over her shoulder and again at us—“Rick looked pretty disheveled Saturday morning. My guess? He and my mom spent the night together. Helga, do you know?”

Helga, who was carrying a tray of caprese appetizers on skewers, stopped beside us. “That is not for me to say.”

“C’mon, Helga,” Tegan urged. “Spill the tea.”

“All I know is Mr. O’Sheedy left for a business meeting on Saturday.”

Tegan snickered. “Nah, he didn’t go to a business meeting looking like he did.”

“He did not stay for breakfast,” Helga said.

“Maybe he ducked out early,” I suggested, “so tongues wouldn’t wag.”

Helga exited the room without acknowledging my theory.

Tegan pursed her lips. “I wish . . .” She didn’t finish.

“Wish what?” Dennell asked.

“I wish my mom happiness.”

I threw my pal a knowing look. That was not at all what she was wishing. She hoped Rick would disappear.

Dinner was served in the communal dining room. There were eight rectangular tables covered in white linens. Candles and small vases of fresh flowers adorned each table. Guests could sit wherever they chose. Helga had cooked a resplendent menu that included a choice of rack of lamb, Dover sole, rosemary roasted chicken, or beef stew, potatoes prepared three different ways, petite vegetables in a butter-lemon sauce, and a number of desserts. I opted for the beef stew, garlic mashed potatoes, and the petite vegetables—a person needed one’s greens. I would finish with the flan. Tegan and Dennell bothselected the chicken, scalloped potatoes, and decadent gluten-free chocolate cake.

Over the course of our meal, Dennell regaled us with stories about the jewelry business. She was funny and sincere and at peace with her decision to stay sober. When there was a lull in the conversation, I once again reflected on the jewelry Marigold had acquired over the years and the missing ring. I asked Dennell how one priced items. Why did a certain piece cost fifty thousand while another might draw a meager thousand? She explained that the name of the designer mattered—she hoped to be a big deal in the next decade or two—and the cut and weight of the gems were crucial. However, in the long run, it was all about demand.

I polished off my flan and glimpsed my watch. “Oh, my. I have to get going. I have a few loose ends to wind up at Dream Cuisine for tomorrow’s deliveries. This has been lovely, Tegan. Thanks for inviting me.”

I sped to my professional kitchen, where I began finalizing tomorrow’s deliveries. I was behind, but right now, with all that was going on, sleep was highly overrated.

With a soothing tune playing in the background, I made six dozen lemon-raspberry scones for Ragamuffin. Every summer, I froze fresh raspberries so I would always have some on hand. While the scones were baking, I mixed the batter for four dozen coffee lace cookies to deliver to Whispering Winds, a bed-and-breakfast not far from the Blue Lantern. The cookies were crisp delicacies that I drizzled with melted chocolate, but they were difficult to box up until they were completely cool because they couldn’t be stacked on top of one another when warm. Patience was required.

After removing the last of the scones and putting the first batch of cookies in to bake, I studied the recipe I had for pound cake. It required twelve eggs—six whole eggs and six egg yolks. Luckily, I bought eggs in bulk. The cake would bedense—as it should be so it could absorb the juices of the fruits in the trifle—but it would also be melt-in-your-mouth good.

I greased and floured a loaf pan. Next I whisked the butter and added the sugar. When they were fluffy, I set them aside and attacked the eggs. Using a digital scale, I weighed the dry ingredients. Measuring properly was vital to the success of any baking enterprise. I combined the ingredients, poured them into the loaf pan, and placed the pound cake in the oven to bake.

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