Page 16 of Murder on the Page

“Have you found her keys?” I asked.

A smile tugged the corners of his mouth and quickly vanished. “When would I have had time to search?”

“Right, of course. I’m a dolt. An idiot.” I was blathering. I hated to blather. Out of nowhere, it dawned on me that our date for the sing-along in Asheville—if he’d intended it to be an official date—would need to be postponed, and I wanted to kick myself for having such a selfish, aimless thought. “I’m not thinking straight,” I said, and apologized. Tears stung my eyes. My heart ached as though cinched with metal bands.

“Do you have a key to the shop?” he asked.

“No. I’m not an employee. Tegan and Chloe have them.”

Noeline had joined Tegan in a huddle. She was saying something that seemed to be unnerving my pal. Tegan was shaking her head in denial.

“Allie?” Zach said softly to make me refocus.

“Noeline has keys, too. She mentioned that she left them at home.”

“Noeline?”

“Noeline Merriweather, Marigold’s younger sister.” I motioned to her. “She’s part owner of the bookshop and runs the Blue Lantern bed-and-breakfast.”

“In Montford.”

“That’s the one.”

Zach shifted his weight and pulled a notepad and pen from his hip pocket. “Tell me about the others who were waiting to enter when you arrived.”

“Do you think the murderer might be one of them?”

His face gave away nothing.

But taking that as a maybe, I proceeded to explain who Rick O’Sheedy was, before moving on to Piper Lowry, Graham Wynn, and the other few patrons of the shop that I recognized from book clubs. I described each one by height and clothing. Zach took in the crowd on the sidewalk, as if memorizing names and faces.

“There are a few tourists, too,” I added.

“Got it.”

“By the way, Graham is Marigold’s neighbor,” I said. “He saw her at six this morning. Outside her house. I spoke to her around six thirty. She was already here. What if the killer . . .”

Zach tapped the nib of his pen on his notepad. “Uh-uh. Do not speculate. You are not a trained detective. I don’t care how many murder mysteries you’ve read or watched.”

“How about all the real crime podcasts I’ve listened to?” I asked, and instantly regretted the sassy quip. “I don’t see Marigold’s things. Her purse. Her phone. I suppose they could be in the office, or the killer might have stolen them. And that envelope marked ‘Private and Confidential’ . . .” Bates had left it in place. A yellow cone stood beside it. “It’s empty.”

“You touched it?”

“Um, one corner.”

“Okay. In the future, don’t touch anything at a crime scene.”

In the future, I would not see another crime scene.

“Would you please ask Marigold’s sister to talk with me?” he asked.

I crossed to her. “Noeline, Detective Armstrong would like to speak with you.”

Mascara-stained tears streaked her cheeks. With a wadded tissue in her fist, she slinked to him. He asked a question. She responded. He asked another. She fished in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She opened it with her fingerprintand handed it to him. He scrolled through something, messages I supposed, and gave it back.

Tegan sidled to me. “What’s he doing?”

“Checking your mother’s communications with Marigold is my guess.”

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