Page 23 of Murder on the Page

“She had a bunch of receipts and lots of loose change in her purse, but her wallet was empty. We think this was a robbery gone wrong.”

“If it was, why didn’t the thief steal her diamond pendant?”

CHAPTER6

“If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark.”

—Charlotte Lucas, in Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudice

“Zach, that piece of jewelry is worth a lot of money. A long-lost lover gave it to her.”

I explained that the lover, the man she was supposed to marry, had been a bibliophile, like Marigold. He died before they could wed and was the reason she was independently wealthy. Sadly, like his father and his uncle, he had a weak heart. None lived past the age of twenty-five. In preparation for their nuptials, however, he rewrote his will and bequeathed her his sizable estate.

“So,” I continued, “why wouldn’t thethief”—I stressed the word—“steal the necklace?”

Zach didn’t answer or even give me the satisfaction of a grunt.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I won’t badger you. Thank you for revealing what you could. I’ll talk to you soon.”

I ended the call, finished baking, packed up my goods, cleaned the kitchen, and headed home. Darcy was waiting for me at the door, his tail upright and curled, as if he, too, had lotsof questions and needed answers. I cradled him in my arms and stroked his chin as fresh tears trickled down my cheeks. I wanted justice for Marigold, but I would be useless if I didn’t sleep.

The next morning, I awoke to the jangle of my cell phone. Darcy, lying at the foot of my bed, complained with a yowl. No wonder. It was Sunday. I didn’t have any baking on the schedule, and I didn’t have deliveries to make. I shushed him and answered.

“Allie,” Tegan said, her voice carrying sharply through the speaker. “Come to the shop now. We need to talk.”

“It’s early.”

“Please.”

“Put on a pot of coffee. I need caffeine.”

In a matter of minutes, I fed the cat, packed a half-dozen scones in a Dream Cuisine pastry box, threw on a pair of jeans, a navy sweater, ankle boots, and peacoat, and drove to the shop. After parking on the street, I swathed my lips with gloss and lightly dusted my cheeks with rouge. Tegan wouldn’t care if I donned makeup, but in case I ran into a client or bookshop customer, I wanted to look my best.

Tentatively I approached Feast for the Eyes, treats in hand. TheCLOSEDsign faced out, but the door was unlocked. I reached for the knob. At the same time, the bells from the nearby Congregational church pealed. The sound jolted me. I shimmied off the tension and entered. The aroma of coffee wafted to me.

“Tegan!” I yelled.

She emerged from the storage room beyond the sales counter, her hair swooped sloppily into a clip, messy tendrils cupping her cheeks. Even her makeup looked slapdash. The thigh-length sweater she’d thrown on over leggings—the sweater’s design was a defeated anime woman—appeared three sizes too big. The cuffs hung way past her fingertips. It must havebeen an impulse buy. Whenever she fell into a funk, she bought something new.

“Chloe’s in the stockroom,” Tegan said. “She’ll bring out coffee when it’s brewed.”

I wrinkled my nose.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I made it.” Though Tegan couldn’t cook, she could make a good pot of coffee. Chloe scorched it. She looped her hand around my elbow and drew me to the sales counter. “I’ll get to those,” she said, referring to the books that were stacked willy-nilly on the counter. How well she knew me. My first instinct was to organize them. “For now, I simply wanted them off the floor. There was dust—fingerprint dust, I’m pretty sure—on a lot of them, so they’ll need to be cleaned.”

“I can help, if you like.”

“No. I’ll do it. I—” She plucked at the sleeves of the sweater. “The file cabinets in the office were hanging open. I suppose the police went through all of the records for our customers. One might be a suspect.”

“That would make sense.”

A small moan escaped her lips. She lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle another. I’d never seen her look so fragile. I wanted to hug her but worried she’d crumble.

“Do you know what your mother wants to do with the shop?” I asked.

“We haven’t spoken about it. She was crushed last night and went to bed with a migraine.” Idly she lifted theBramblewood Art Districtcoffee-table book from the pile on the counter and set it down. “How am I going to come in, day after day, and stand here, right where my aunt died, and sell books?”

The notion made me squirrely, too. I moved to the other side of the counter, where I would normally wait to make a purchase, and put the pastry box down. Then I perched on one of the two ladder-back chairs.

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