Page 89 of Murder on the Page

I nodded. “Do you think she reached out to Fitzwilliam and Sons to investigate someone’s prejudice?”

Tegan narrowed her gaze. “Do not kid about this.”

“I’m being serious.”

After she and I finished our fries and were heading to our respective vehicles, I glimpsed my cell phone. No one from Fitzwilliam and Sons had reached out yet.

“If and when they do,” Tegan said, “text me.”

Darcy was awake when I entered the house, waiting at the door like an anxious parent checking up on an errant teen.

“Good evening, sir,” I said. “I had a long day. How about you?”

He chuffed his response.

“You have food. Water. You even have a llama.”

He complained again.

I bent and nuzzled his nose. “I’m sorry. I forget that you’re a weird cat. You get lonely. I’m going to read for a bit in bed before going to sleep. You game?”

He meowed.

I grabbed my copy ofThe Murder of Roger Ackroyd,tucked Darcy under one arm, and carried him through the house as I got ready for bed.

Later, after reading four chapters of the book, I switched off the bedside light and snuggled beneath the sheets thinking I’d fall asleep in seconds, but to my dismay, I couldn’t get Katrina’s words out of my head. Her friend was on an unplugged vacation. Maybe I needed to do the same. But how could I take time off? I didn’t have a business partner, and now I was part owner of a bookshop. My mother often carped that I needed to prioritizemeif I was going to have a life. She could be right.

When the morning sun glared through the break in the curtains and stabbed my eye like a sword, I lurched to a sittingposition. Had I overslept? How could I have forgotten to set the alarm?Yipes!

Church bells chimed, and I leaned back on my pillow, chuckling.

“It’s Sunday,” I said to the cat. “Yay! I don’t have to bake, and I don’t have any deliveries.”

He mewed his support.

Like many towns in North Carolina, Bramblewood had its share of churches. The Congregational church, built in 1905, was the one nearest to me, and the place where my grandmother had attended services until her death. Nana and I had been close, much closer than I ever would be to Fern and Jamie. I’d gone with her a few times to services, but after her passing, when my parents didn’t force me to go, I stopped.

“However, I do have to go to the bookshop,” I said to the cat.

He tilted his head and swiped the air with his tail.

“Because.” That ought to be enough explanation for him, but it wasn’t. He bounded onto my stomach and glowered at me. “Because,” I continued, “Tegan is counting on me. There might be shipments of boxes to unpack or recommendation tags to hang or a book club to arrange.” How had Marigold managed it all?

Darcy grumbled and hunkered down.

I stroked his ears and cooed, “I’ll be home before you know it.”

Who was I kidding? My furry companion had an internal alarm clock that Apple, if it was smart, ought to clone. Without glancing at a wristwatch, he knew when it was time for me to feed him and usually—not today, for some reason—if I’d overslept. How many times had I awakened with a paw brushing my nose?Hello, sleepyhead, wake up!

I clambered out of bed, washed up, did a quick stretching session, and fed Darcy. In less than twenty minutes, I was out the door.

When I strode into the bookshop, which wouldn’t open officially until noon, I found Chloe arranging preordered books at the sales counter.

“Book clubs,” I said. “Have we rescheduled them?”

“Good morning to you, too.” Dressed in a red jumper over a white blouse, knee socks, and black Mary Janes, she reminded me of a character out of a children’s novel. “As a matter of fact, we have one tomorrow night, Monday, for our Amateur Sleuths group. We’ve been readingTwelve Angry Librariansby Miranda James, which, if you didn’t know, is the pen name of Dean James.”

“I do know, and I’ve read that book.” The series featured interim library director Charlie Harris and his highly intelligent and animated cat, Diesel.

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