Page 29 of Murder on the Page

“He didn’t seem to be lying, but I’m not a human polygraph.” As much as I might like to be. I hated when people lied to me. Did Zach’s ruse of going on a hike constitute as one? “Look, I loved Marigold. I would never—”

He held a fingertip to my lips. “Shh.I know. I just wanted you to repeat your account, to make sure I hadn’t misunderstood any of it. In the early stages of an investigation, we have to pay attention. Stories change. Alibis fluctuate.”

Needing to cool my jets—he didn’t really suspect me, did he?—I downed another cookie. After a long silence, I said, “Tegan and I are going to have a memorial tea for Marigold. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“You can have a memorial anytime.”

“You’re invited, by the way. It’ll be at Feast for the Eyes. Two weeks from yesterday.” I told him our plan to honor Marigold’s favorite book by serving food appropriate to the Regency Era and that we’d be asking attendees to wear costumes.

“Unique idea.”

We sat in reverent silence for a moment.

“Why was she holdingPride and Prejudice?” I murmured, my voice rife with emotion. Not knowing the answer was driving me nuts. “It’s got to be significant. There were all those other books to choose from.”

“How are Tegan and her sister and mother?” he asked, avoiding my question.

“Half sister,” I corrected. “They’re managing. Tegan and Noeline went to church.” I set the pita wraps on paper plates and pushed one in his direction. “Did you find fingerprints on the books that buried Marigold?”

He cocked his head. “Are you trying to wheedle information from an officer of the law?”

“You aren’t naïve enough to believe I’d go on a hike with you and not ask questions.”

Another smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, but he tamped it down.

“Did you?” I pressed. “You dusted the books. There was gunk on them. Did you dust the door handles? Was everything wiped clean?”

“We think the killer used gloves.”

“Of course. So you didn’t find any telltale DNA.”

He hummed.

“Or did you? From the struggle? Did Marigold scratch the killer?”

He didn’t answer.

I twisted the pita wrap on my plate but didn’t pick it up. “How did the killer get in? Through the rear entrance?”

“Both doors were locked.”

“A closed-room murder,” I said, a touch of awe in my tone. I enjoyed reading closed-room murders. There were plenty written during the Golden Age of Detective Fiction by authors like Christie, Sayers, and Marsh, but my latest favorite was a present-day mystery titledUnder Lock and Skeleton Key,about a female magician who moved home to help her father. His construction company built secret staircases.

“It wasn’t necessarily a closed-room murder,” Zach said. “If the murderer had a key to the shop—”

“Tegan did not kill her aunt!” I didn’t mean to sound so shrill, but I had to defend my friend. “Sorry.”

“You care. I get it.”

“Noeline didn’t do it, either. Or Chloe. Those are the only people who have keys.”

“What about the cleaning crew?”

“Yes, I suppose they’d have one,” I conceded. “Which means there could be others that have access, like a pest control company,” I said, recalling that mine had a key to Dream Cuisine. “Or the alarm company. Or the IT guy who overhauled the shop’s computer system last month.”

“For your information, we found Marigold’s set of keys.”

“Meaning the killer didn’t take them.”

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