Page 37 of Murder on the Page

“Because I’ve seen others stealing to the rear yard, always during the day, some very early in the morning. I can’t say for certain”—she tapped a finger along the side of her fleshy cheek—“but Graham has been acting strangely. Lately those beady eyes of his dart this way and that. I’ve been wondering if drugs might be involved. I happen to know his business has been suffering. Perhaps he’s a dealer.”

That was a huge leap.

“If drugs are involved,” Celia went on, “then it’s possible the person in the hoodie had nothing to do with Marigold.”

CHAPTER9

“There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”

—Elizabeth Bennet, in Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudice

On the way back to Dream Cuisine, Tegan and I discussed what we’d discovered. Not much, truthfully. Was Graham Wynn taking or dealing drugs? If so, what kind? Anxiety meds to keep him calm, or more serious drugs that had made him a slacker in his business? Did Marigold find out about the drugs? Did she threaten to turn him in? If that was the case, why didn’t he kill her at home? Did he worry that the police would suspect her neighbors? What if, instead, he followed her to the shop that morning and killed her after I spoke to her, and then he mingled with the crowd, hoping his presence might be considered proof that he was innocent?

Tegan pulled in front of my kitchen. Her lip was quivering. “Auntie didn’t deserve to . . .” She hiccupped.

I rested a hand on her shoulder. “Breathe, pal. We’re going to figure this out.”

“Will you tell Zach what we’ve dug up?”

“You bet. Go to work. Occupy your mind. And tonight, binge-watch musicals with your mother. You two love musicals. Find that one starring Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron.”

“An American in Paris.”

“Yes! I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.”

She swiveled in her seat and threw her arms around me. “Thank you.”

When I entered the kitchen, the aroma in the place was incredible. I did love the scent of cloves, and when mixed with fresh herbs, divine. I turned off the slow cooker, removed the veal chops and chicken from the pot, and set them on a cutting board fitted with a juice groove. When they’d cooled for ten minutes, I cut away the meat from the bones, shredded it, and stored it in a glass food container.

An hour later, when the temperature of the stock had reduced enough, I covered the pot, arranged it on a trivet in the refrigerator, made three dozen scones and two dozen muffins—Tuesday’s orders were minimal—and headed home.

When I walked in, Darcy was on his cat-scratching llama station. He gave me an annoyed look as if to say,Where the heck have you been?

I stroked him under the chin. “Life got in the way.”

He heaved a sigh and twitched his tail, signaling he was ready for our game of Pounce.

“Uh-uh,” I warned. “No.”

He trilled,Please?

“Okay, one time.” I took the mouselike catnip toy off the llama, threw it beneath the living-room couch, and stared at my cat. I held his gaze for a full ten seconds before lifting my chin and nodding abruptly.

Responding to the command, Darcy flew off the llama and tackled the toy. Prey conquered, he leaped to the top of the llama and dropped it proudly at his feet.

“Good boy! My turn for a little exercise.”

I took a late-afternoon run and felt revitalized.

An hour later, after showering and changing into my comfypajamas, I fed Darcy his favorite tuna and decided it was time to feed myself. I’d skipped breakfast and lunch, but I wasn’t very hungry, so I threw together a batch of my go-to comfort food, mac ’n’ cheese. Using three to five cheeses made the difference. Then, taking my advice to Tegan, I carried my dinner to the living room, nestled on the couch, and switched on the TV. I couldn’t findAn American in Paris,but I spottedSingin’ in the Rainin the On Demand list and clicked on it. Humming along with Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds, I ate a bowlful of my cheesy goodness. By eleven p.m., I felt like I’d been knocked in the head with a sledgehammer and crawled into bed.

Tuesday morning, following my deliveries, I went to Dream Cuisine to finish up the white soup. I added breadcrumbs and fresh herbs bundled in cheesecloth to the pot of refrigerated veal stock, set the soup on the stove to simmer, and decided to test out a recipe for the traditional English tart Maids of Honor, which consisted of a puff pastry shell filled with sweetened cheese curds, but I’d use locally-sourced strawberry jam in my rendition.

While the pastries baked, I tasted the white soup. It was nice and savory. Hurrah! I switched off the heat and let it cool and retreated to the office to throw on the black slacks, smoky-gray silk sweater, and black short-cropped jacket, which I’d brought along. I figured if I was going to meet an attorney, I should dress appropriately.

When the pastries had cooled, I boxed them up, covered the soup pot, and arranged it on a trivet in the refrigerator, freshened my makeup, and drove to Feast for the Eyes.

Noeline Merriweather was waiting outside the shop when I arrived. I bussed her cheek. She’d been crying. How I wished I could comfort her better, but I was feeling forlorn, too.

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