Page 68 of Murder on the Page

Did they? I’d never known anyone who was murdered. On TV, the cases were solved within days, and in nearly all the mysteries I read, the killer was brought to justice by the finalpage. Not the cold cases, of course. Those could take years. I prayed that wouldn’t be the situation this time.

“What’s up, then?” I asked, quelling my disappointment.

“I wondered if you’d like to get something to eat at the Celtic Festival. It’s not super cold out. We shouldn’t freeze. But if you’d rather not—”

“I’d love to.” Though I was tired, I did want to spend time with him, and yes, I hoped I could pick his brain and give him a clue he hadn’t thought of. For instance, I hadn’t told him about Quinby Canfield accusing Piper of killing Marigold, and I wasn’t sure I’d mentioned the historical suspense story I’d found on Marigold’s computer. I said, “I’ll meet you in front of the rec center in thirty.”

I placed Darcy on top of the comforter, did a quick cleanup because I smelled like a baker who had delivered goods and sold books all day—an odd combo, to be sure—and slipped into a sage-green turtleneck and light sweater. Darcy watched me with obvious displeasure. I pulled a similar face and stuck out my tongue. “Feline lesson number two: You may be judgmental but don’t gloat.”

He trilled something.

I trotted to him and scrubbed him under his chin. “Yes, I know. You are the love of my life, too. You make me feel treasured.”

Without budging his body, his tail flipped up and plopped down on the comforter.

“I’ll be home soon,” I said, and went on foot to the Bramblewood Park and Rec Center.

Like a Renaissance fair, the Celtic Festival would include live music, food and beverages, face painting, arts and crafts, and organized chats to help attendees learn about Celtic history and traditions. As a girl of Irish descent, I’d often wondered if being a Celt was the same as being Irish, but I learnedin my teens that wasn’t the case. The Celts were a group of people, while Ireland was a nation, not to mention that the Celts once spanned Eastern and Central Europe, but many were wiped out by the Roman Empire, or they conformed to other cultures. The traditionally Celtic nations now included Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, as well as Brittany in France and Catalonia in Spain.

I approached the rec center, an auditorium-sized space where the town often held concerts, and I paused to drink in the festive atmosphere. White tents, open-air booths, and pop-up dining stations were everywhere. Cheerful bagpipe music was droning through speakers. People in colorful folk dance costumes were swirling around a maypole. Attendees were roaming about in traditional kilts and tams or in period costumes, the women’s clothing quite similar to dresses worn during the Regency Era.

Seeing all the costumes made me wonder how Lillian was doing with orders for the memorial. Right then, as if I’d conjured her out of thin air, I spotted her near the pop-up Nectar Café chatting with the same twenty-something actress she’d dined with at the Brewery the other night. They were standing near an outdoor heater. Lillian sported a kilt, a puffy-sleeved blouse, knee stockings, and a tam. Her friend was in a lovely blue gown and shawl.

“Lillian, hello!” I called as I approached. I didn’t see Zach and decided I’d stay put so he could find me.

Lillian introduced me to her friend Yvonne, who was slim and winsome, with a Cupid’s-bow mouth and loose updo that enhanced her cheekbones. Both women were sipping a golden liquid, with cinnamon swizzle sticks poking from their glasses. Cider, I determined.

“Your costumes are gorgeous,” I said.

“Thanks,” Yvonne replied. She had a slight accent, which Icouldn’t place. Eastern European was my guess. “I’m going to play Hermia inA Midsummer Night’s Dreamnext month, and I’ll wear this.”

“I’ll have to come see it.” I enjoyed Shakespeare’s plays, in particular the comedies.

“How are you holding up, Allie?” Lillian asked. “I heard the scuttlebutt. You’re now part owner of the bookshop?”

I wondered who’d told her. Not Vanna. She would have been mortified to share that tidbit. Possibly Chloe, without guile.

“Busy lady.” Lillian’s face grew grim. “Any word on . . . you know . . . Marigold’s murder? Have they found who did it?”

“No. I’m meeting Detective Armstrong in a few minutes.”

“Oh?” She gave me a sly smirk. “Are you two an item?”

“We’re friends,” I said flatly.For now.Who knew what the future might hold?

“Are you feeding him theories? Tegan said you and she were batting around ideas.”

Aha!Tegan was Lillian’s source. We’d have to chat. “No. I’m not feeding him anything, except the occasional cookie.”

Lillian laughed and grew serious again. “Tegan mentioned something about Katrina Carlson and Marigold having an argument.”

Tegan needs to zip her lips,I mused. Whatever clues we dug up were for the police—and only the police.

“I know Katrina pretty well,” Yvonne remarked. “I cannot imagine her arguing with anyone, but if her boyfriend, Upton—I should say her ex-boyfriend—was involved, it is likely.” She made a dismissive sound.

“You know him?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. He is a photographer. He takes all the photos for the theater productions. She used to come to the theater to watch him in action.”

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