Page 15 of Murder on the Page

“Marigold sent it to me last night,” Chloe added.

Why would Marigold have done that? Did she have a premonition of her demise? Why not send it to Tegan, too?

I said, “Chloe, share your info with Tegan.” I regarded Marigold again. Where was her purse? Most likely, she’d stowed it and her phone in the office.

A siren bleated outside. A fire truck double-parked in front of the shop. A pair of burly emergency medical technicians leaped from it and raced inside.

“The owner,” I said to them, pointing. “She’s dead. Her name is Marigold Markel. Age seventy.”

One knelt to inspect her; the other was already communicating with the police. Within minutes, a squad car pulled up behind the fire truck. Seconds later, Zach Armstrong strode into the shop clad in jeans, white turtleneck, and smoke-gray jacket. Bramblewood detectives weren’t required to wear uniforms. His partner, Detective Brendan Bates, who was as tall as an NBA player, gave off a jazz-club vibe with his tight Afro,neatly trimmed goatee, and black-on-black outfit. Like Zach, Bates was a reader. I’d met him last year at a book club featuring noir fiction. That book club was the reason for my newfound appreciation for Dashiell Hammett, Ross Macdonald, and Raymond Chandler.

Zach and Bates crossed to the EMTs, who provided a quick update. Then Bates started taking photos with his cell phone to document the crime scene, and Zack returned to me.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“It was our turn in the rotation. Are you okay?” His voice was gentle but firm. “Ever seen a dead body before?”

“Mm-hmm.”I’d never forget the day I stumbled across the chef at the Eatery after he’d suffered a heart attack. His skin had been gray, his eyes as blank as buttons.

“What do you think happened here?” Zach asked.

I explained my theory of Marigold being startled by an intruder. I added that the front door was locked when we all arrived, which was unusual, since she had been expecting a crowd. “No one had a key until Chloe”—I pointed her out—“arrived and unlocked the door and went to turn on the lights.” I indicated the panel of switches. “She saw Marigold and screamed. I took over at that point.” A shiver coursed through me. “I couldn’t detect a pulse, and with the blood pooling under her head . . .” My voice cracked. “I think there was a struggle and someone pushed her. I noted a small bruise on the right side of her neck.” My finger rose to my own neck automatically.

“Or she could’ve suffered a heart attack, stumbled, toppled the books herself, and one of them struck her,” Zach proposed.

Most of the books were in the same state as when I’d pushed them off Marigold, although the EMTs had tossed a few to one side, causing them to splay open. Seeing them like that, their spines cracked, made my head hurt.

“She’s clutching a copy ofPride and Prejudice,” I stated.

“Do you think that’s significant?” Zach asked.

“It was her favorite book, but it seems an odd one to use for protection.”

“If she was trying to protect herself,” he countered.

“There were plenty of other books to choose from.” I motioned to the ones on the floor. “Large coffee-table books, for example.” One, a thick tome about the history of costumes in theater, held a sticker with Lillian’s name on it. She often boned up on theater-related nonfiction. The latest Lee Child thriller had been tagged with Zach’s name. A bundle of YA books tied with rattan held a Post-it note that read:Piper.

“Armstrong,” Bates called over his shoulder. “Take a look.” He was on one knee and pointing to Marigold’s neck.

In the flurry, I hadn’t realized a uniformed female officer had arrived. She’d placed a large canvas carryall on the floor and was marking items with yellow crime-scene cones.

Zach left me, hitched his jeans up a tad, and crouched beside Bates. He glanced over his shoulder at me and returned his focus to Marigold’s neck. Was he inspecting the bruise? Now would he agree with me that she’d struggled with the killer?

Zach said something to Bates, who rose to his feet to make a call on his cell phone. Bates asked someone a question. He listened. Then he shook his head at Zach, who grumbled and crossed to me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The traffic cameras aren’t working in this area. The storm last week damaged them.”

Meaning the police wouldn’t be able to review footage to see if anyone came or went from the bookshop between six thirty a.m., when I’d last spoken to Marigold, and when she died.Swell.

“You should check the stockroom door,” I said, being proactive. “If it’s unlocked—”

“We will.”

“You can’t leave through the rear without securing the deadbolt,” I added. “It’s a safeguard Marigold put in place. She didn’t want to accidentally lock herself out. There could be fingerprints on the knob.”

He didn’t respond.

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