Page 3 of Murder on the Page

“How would I know? I haven’t met him,” she said with a bite.

“Then don’t judge a book by its cover . . . or lack of one.”

“Spare me.” My pal flopped melodramatically onto a stool by the counter, crossed her legs, and bounced one tiny foot. If I didn’t know better, she was getting ready to audition for a Tennessee Williams play. But I did know better. Though shecould be chatty one-on-one with customers, she hated putting herself in the public eye.

Me? I’d performed in a lot of plays growing up. I wasn’t a ham, but I didn’t shy away from the spotlight. “Did they meet online?” I asked.

“Ugh, no! They met the old-fashioned way, after bumping into one another, literally, in a grocery aisle.”

Tegan’s mother, Noeline Merriweather, was the proud owner of the Blue Lantern, a bed-and-breakfast in Montford. Twice a widow, she had pieced herself together after her second husband, Tegan’s father, the true love of her life, passed away from a rare blood disease. Recently she’d rejoined the dating pool. Clearly, Tegan was not happy about it. She didn’t believe her mother had grieved long enough, but even I knew people grieved differently. Time was not a measure. Shakespeare wrote, “Grief makes one hour ten.” I might not have lost a husband, but the demise of my engagement had left me hurting and wondering if I would ever find someone to love.

“What does Vanna think of him?” I asked.

Tegan rubbed her finger under her nose. “She says he’s okay. I bet if I had a brother, he wouldn’t be so happy about it.”

I had brothers. Guy friend “brothers” who wanted to take care of me. Protect me. My best guy friend from high school had hated my first boyfriend. My best guy friend from college had abhorred my second boyfriend. And my best guy friend from my just-out-of-college days had despised my fiancé. According to him, no one was good enough for me. Period. I wasn’t sure why I attracted guys who treated me like a younger sister. I wasn’t the girl-next-door type. I had ample curves, and according to my mother, my curly red hair was saucy, bordering on scandalous. She didn’t have a clue where I’d gotten it. Not from her or my father—their hair was stick straight and dark brown—and no one in their lineage had red hair or even a red beard. In addition to my aforementioned attributes, my ex-fiancé saidmy sage-green eyes were smoldering.Definitely notgirl-next-doorish. Maybe my guy friends had latched onto me because my smile was bright and cheery, with no hint of a sirenlike come-on. Also I wasn’t a prude, but I didn’t wear anything that showed off my cleavage. I liked sporty, fitted clothing. For catering and deliveries, I wore the basics: white shirt or white sweater and black slacks, leggings, or jeans, like I was wearing today.

“Look, I’m sorry to intrude on your work time,” Tegan said.

“I know you need to focus. It’s just . . .” She burst into tears and flailed her arms. “My cheating ratfink husband wants a divorce.”

“Oh, honey.” I ran to her and attempted a hug. Her down coat prevented me from getting a good grip. “Why didn’t you start with that?” I had lots of compassion for women who had been dumped like me. At least, I hadn’t married the guy.

“I did. I said I needed to talk, but you didn’t hear me. When you’re on a mission . . .” She waved her hand.

She was right. I could be single-minded. My mother said it was my fatal flaw. I begged to differ. Being single-minded made it possible for me to accomplish anything I aimed to do. Well, almost anything.

“Whoa!” Tegan exclaimed.

I gazed in the direction she was pointing and moaned. “Oh, no!” A long trail of ants was marching across the floor from the pantry to the rear door. “No, no, no!”

“It’s a satellite colony,” Tegan said.

“A what?”

“A group of ants that didn’t go into hibernation in the winter because they found a warm spot, like a kitchen.” All of her young life, Tegan had enjoyed studying science and anything computer-related. It wasn’t until high school that she fell in love with the magical world of books.

“Crud.” I couldn’t bake in a place where I’d have to sprayant killer solution. The natural way to get rid of ants was water and vinegar, but that wouldn’t work fast enough. “Grab this.” I shrugged into my peacoat, snatched up my keys, rebagged the items on the counter, and shoved them into Tegan’s arms. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To my house.”

“But your kitchen is small.”

“I can make it work.” I wasn’t Wonder Woman. I couldn’t move at warp speed. But I wouldn’t let Marigold down. I had twenty-four hours to complete the task.

I lived around the corner from Dream Cuisine, but I almost always drove because I needed my Ford Transit for deliveries. We stowed the bags in the rear of the van and climbed in. “Buckle up.”

I sped lickety-split to my mountain retreat, which was located at the far end of a cul-de-sac. Actually, the house wasn’t mine. It belonged to my parents. I was renting from them. I called itminebecause I had no fear they would want it back. They would never return to town to live. When they turned sixty, they decided Bramblewood was too pedantic for their tastes.

On the way there, I phoned the pest company that serviced Dream Cuisine and put them on alert for ants. They had their own key and promised they’d solve the problem before the end of the day. I warned them about the four-digit security code sometimes not taking on the first try. They assured me they could deal with it.

I skidded up the rain-slick gravel driveway, parked beneath the carport, hurried to the porch, and pushed through the front door. The aroma of knotty pine wafted to me.Heaven.I removed my coat and hurled it, as well as my tote bag, onto the leather couch in the living room. In addition to the living room, there was a parlor, two modest bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths, a laundry room, an attic for storage, a dining nook, and the aforementioned kitchen. Thirty years ago, my parents had bought the place furnished and hadn’t updated a thing. Luckily, the owner before them had good taste. They’d liked shabby chic and comfy when it came to seating, plus they’d installed a double oven, side-by-side refrigerator, granite counters, petite island, and pantry large enough to store my trays, mixers, and whatnot. The rest of the décor wasgetaway cabinin flavor. A few skylights. An easy-to-light gas fireplace. A lovely south-facing bay window by the kitchen dining area with a sitting bench. To make the house even homier, I’d added a rocking chair, throw pillows, and a number of plaques with sassy literary sayings, my favorite being:A book lover never goes to bed alone.Upkeep on the house was a challenge. A month ago, the roof had a leak. Six months ago, the porch needed shoring up. Before that, the washing machine overflowed and soaked the floor. Thankfully, my parents agreed to pay for all repairs.

“Put the groceries on the table in the dining nook.” I tossed my key ring on the foyer table.A creature of habit is a creature of comfort,my mother often said; to which, I’d snarkily retort,A creature of habit is a creature.

Tegan obeyed. “Don’t you lock your door?”

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