Page 99 of Murder on the Page

“Mm-hmm.”

“Did you know that Evelyn Evers was a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“A doctor would know about poisons.”

“She has a solid alibi. An actress friend of Lillian’s confirmed it.”

“What if the poison was, indeed, in the water bottle, and Evelyn gave that bottle to Auntie on Friday? You heard Auntie when you chided her. She said others had warned her to hydrate, too. I’d bet dimes to dollars Evelyn did.”

Oh, my! Tegan was spot-on. The killer, learning Marigold was seriously into hydrating herself since the fainting incident, could have dosed the water the prior day, which would mean all alibis regarding Saturday were null and void.

I was about to text Zach the theory when the front dooropened. To my surprise, Katrina, clad in a sunny yellow dress, sandals, and bright colorful jewelry, stepped inside. Her floral purse was slung over one shoulder. She held a key chain in one hand. Her hair was hanging in soft curls over her shoulders. The whole look screamedSpring has sprung !but she didn’t seem cheery. In fact, her mouth was downturned, her gaze grim.

In barely a whisper, she said, “I lied.”

CHAPTER24

“Undoubtedly, there is a meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.”

—Fitzwilliam Darcy, in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice

Katrina sagged slightly. I dashed to her and guided her to a chair by the sales counter. Tegan fetched her a glass of water and gave it to her.

“You lied?” I asked.

Katrina sipped the water and nudged the glass aside. “I . . .” She gulped in air. “I can’t do it any longer. Guilt is eating at me.”

I exchanged a glance with my pal. This was it. Katrina was going to confess to murder. Tegan was free. Case solved. We waited. The teens were still browsing YA books, and the mother had settled her brood into the reading nook and was showing them pictures in an alphabet book.

“My friend who’s supposed to corroborate my alibi . . .” Katrina twirled a hand.

“The one on the three-week camping trip,” I finished.

“Yes. Her. Even when she returns, she won’t be able to confirm my story because I wasn’t with her the night before or even on the morning Marigold died. But I do have an alibi.”

My pulse started to race so fast that I was sure Katrina and Tegan could hear it churning. “Go on,” I coaxed.

“See, when I’m not working at the Brewery, I’m a hostess.” I gawked at Tegan, who shrugged her shoulders, as in the dark as I was.

“A hostess . . . online.” Katrina wheezed as if it was taking all her effort to form words. “With clients. Male clients.”

My mouth opened, but no words came out.

“I don’t have virtual sex with them,” she rushed to add. “I’m a listener.”

“A listener,” I echoed.

“Like a therapist?” Tegan asked.

“No. I’m not a therapist. I can’t be. I’m not licensed to be one.”

I recalled the Brewery article saying Katrina had wanted to become a psychiatrist, but hadn’t been able to finish college because her mother had needed full-time care and funds were scarce.

“I’m more like a friend. A confidante. See, sometimes they . . . my clients . . . ask me to say things to them. Not to turn them on,” she rushed to add, “but to bolster their ego. It’s easy for me. I’ve always been good at listening. When I was dating online, I learned to keep it neutral, you know? Dates and places—”

“Your boyfriend Upton Scott figured out the truth, didn’t he?” I cut in. “He threatened you.”

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