Page 22 of Murder on the Page

The project did not stop my mind from rehashing what I’d seen at the bookshop: Marigold beneath the books. The bruise on her neck. ThePrivate and Confidentialenvelope. If I askedZach, would he fill me in on his investigation? Doubtful. Would he and his partner uncover the truth? I hoped so. But even I wasn’t foolish enough to think all cases were solved. Some went cold.

“There you are,” I said when I found the offending spot where most of the pesticide had been applied. Right by the water heater. Like Tegan said, a perfectly cozy spot for a satellite colony of ants.

On hands and knees, I peeked beneath the tank. I checked for any holes or gaps in the wall behind it in case the ants had figured out how to hide while the pest guys were applying their death serum. Finding none, I dosed the area with vinegar. I was one of the few people I knew who didn’t find the odor offensive.

Then, to honor Marigold, I decided to eliminate the smell by baking her favorite cookies. She had delighted in the combination of butterscotch and chocolate. I did, too. I’d keep them for myself. To eat in solace.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I brushed them aside and opened a classical musical playlist on my cell phone, and as I listened to Ignace Pleyel’s Violin Concerto in D Major, a favorite during the Regency Era, I preheated the oven and arranged all the ingredients on the counter. The sugar, butterscotch, and chocolate morsels to the left, and dry ingredients to the right.

In a matter of minutes, I made the dough. While dropping oversized spoonfuls of the luscious goodness onto baking sheets, which I’d lined with parchment paper, the shocking image of Marigold lying on the floor of the bookshop popped into my head. My breath caught in my chest as I realized I would never see her again. Never speak to her. Never get her insight as to which book I should read next. Never hear her lead another book club. I recalled one of her favorite quotes from Pablo Neruda: “Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.”

Yes, that was exactly how I felt. Exactly.

Why had Marigold been holding a copy ofPride and Prejudice? Had she picked it up for a reason? To signal who might have killed her?

My cell phone jangled. It was Zach. I answered.

“Hey,” he said softly. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay. Did you find out who did this?”

“Not yet. The wheels of justice do not move as swiftly as TV detectives make out. But we will.”

“Did the medical examiner determine she died from hitting her head on the floor?”

“Look, I know you said you’d seen a dead body before, but . . .” He paused. “But seeing the body of a person you knew—”

“Loved.”

“Isn’t easy. Believe me, you don’t want to go over it again and again. Try to erase the memory from your mind. We’re on the case.”

I slid the baking trays into the preheated oven and set the timer.

“Do you want company?” he asked.

“Rain check?”

“Sure. Is that Haydn playing in the background?”

“Pleyel.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He was one of Jane Austen’s favorite composers. I’ll educate you sometime.” I took a butterscotch morsel from the bag and plunked it into my mouth. “Were you able to finish up at the bookstore? Will Tegan be able to get in tomorrow? There will be so much to do.”

“Yes. Bates contacted her and gave her the green light.”

I wondered if Noeline had reached out to the executor for Marigold’s estate. Wouldn’t there have to be some kind of forensic accounting of the business? How would Marigold have divvied up the proceeds?

“Did you find Marigold’s personal items?” I asked. “Her purse? Her phone?”

“Allie—”

“It was a simple question. That kind of info certainly can’t be proprietary.”

He clicked his tongue, hesitating, then said, “We found both.”

“Was everything intact?”

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