Page 44 of Murder on the Page

I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Why me? What did Marigold think I could bring to the table? Sure, I’d led a few book discussions, and yes, I was an avid reader, but why not give all three-quarters of the bookstore ownership to Tegan? My pal and I would have to talk about what she expected of me. I wasn’t going to give up my job as a caterer, but I supposed I could devote a day or two, or, at the very least, afternoons, to the enterprise.

When we emerged from the conference room, the bookshop was bustling with customers. Like the Scarecrow inThe Wizard of Oz,Chloe was standing behind the sales counter jutting her arms right, left, and crosswise giving directions.

Tegan clasped my arm. “This afternoon, will you go to the bank with me? That way, I won’t miss anything Ms. Ivey might say. You know me when my brain gets flooded with too much information.”

“Sure.” She was exaggerating. She could process data as quickly and efficiently as a computer, but I could see she was feeling overwhelmed after the reading of the will.

“I have to admit I’m surprised Vanna didn’t demand she take the lead at the bank,” she said. “Auntie’s house obviously captured her attention. Shiny objects and all that.”

I chuckled.

Noeline wrapped Tegan in her arms and petted her hair. “Darling, I know you loved your aunt. I’m sorry that your sister is . . .” She couldn’t finish.

“Is a gray sprinkle on a rainbow cupcake?” I quipped.

Tegan cackled, and gave me a high five for coming up with the retort. “Isn’t that what you were going to say, Mom?”

“Something like that.” Noeline kissed Tegan’s cheek. “Call me if you need me for anything.” Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Are you going to the B and B?” Tegan asked.

“No, I’m off to have lunch with Rick.” She waited for a second, as if hoping Tegan would say,Have fun,but Tegan didn’t. Mopping the tears with her pinkies, Noeline followed a customer carrying a large Feast for the Eyes tote bag out the front door.

For a few minutes, I lingered at the shop and directed eager readers to the proper aisle, while Tegan and Chloe concluded sales.

When the place quieted down, I drove to Dream Cuisine. I spent the next couple of hours finalizing orders that were due to be delivered tomorrow: two dozen blueberry scones for a startup café; four dozen iced cookies for Jimmy Madison’s birthday party; six dozen mini spinach quiches, three dozen mozzarella-stuffed mushrooms, and four dozen bacon-wrapped jalapeño peppers for an office party at Legal Eagles, one of my steadiest gigs. The spicy aromas of the appetizers tickled my salivary glands and made me hungry. While the scones andcakes baked, I noshed on bacon bites, tiny morsels of bacon wrapped around melon and sprigs of rosemary.Yum.

While icing the cookies, which I’d made in cowboy boot shapes, seeing as the birthday boy desperately wanted to grow up to be a sheriff with a horse, I mulled over the foods I still wanted to taste-test for Marigold’s memorial. Tarts. Tea sandwiches. I knew how to make trifle, but I decided I needed to bake at least one pound cake. I hadn’t made it in years.

At one p.m., Tegan arrived and said she would drive.

Bramblewood Savings and Loan, one of the first banks established in town, was located on Main Street, east of Mountain Road. Like the other buildings in town, it was red clapboard with white trim. In the main room, customers were waiting in a cordoned-off line for two clerks to attend to them. To the right, small offices were fitted with desks for all advisors. We strode to the manager’s reception desk and gave our names. The assistant escorted us into Ms. Ivey’s office, a formal room with dark brown furniture, one potted plant, and three filing cabinets.

Ivey rose to greet us and dismissed her assistant. “Ladies.” A stately woman, she reminded me of the original Miss Moneypenny in the James Bond novels. Her eyes were cool and quizzical, her demeanor reserved and official.

After Tegan introduced me and explained that I was purely there for moral support, the bank manager led us to the vault of safety-deposit boxes so we could inspect Marigold’s container. The room smelled like metal and some kind of cleaning solution. After the gate was locked and we were alone inside, she gave Tegan a key, retaining a duplicate for herself, and together they inserted their matching keys into the locks of Marigold’s box and twisted. Aclickwas heard. The box jutted out an inch. Ivey slid it from its slot and set it on the felt-topped cabinet in the center of the room.

She lifted the lid and removed a sheaf of papers, which hadbeen tucked into a clear pocket folder. “This is a list of the contents of the box. I have a duplicate in your aunt’s folder on my desk.” One by one, she laid the items on the felt and, using a pen, marked them off against the list. “ ‘Tiffany diamond ring, value twenty thousand.’ Check. ‘Blue antique cushion lab diamond ring, value nineteen thousand.’ Check. ‘Late-Victorian old-mine diamond cluster ring, value sixteen thousand.’ Check.”

Tegan gasped. “I had no idea Auntie had so many costly keepsakes. I mean, I knew she appreciated antique jewelry, but all I remember seeing are knickknacks, you know? I thought the mainstay would be funky rings picked up at garage sales and pawnshops.”

Ivey added more rings to the collection, reciting each piece’s worth. Then she moved on to the bracelets. “ ‘Bulgari serpent bracelet in blue rose gold with sapphires, fifteen thousand. Elizabeth Locke Venetian glass, ten thousand. HermèsDans les NuagesArt Deco bangle, four hundred dollars.’ ”

Tegan pointed to the latter. “Okay, that’s the kind of jewelry I thought she owned. Glitzy, trendy stuff. Why did she have so many items worth thousands? She rarely wore any of them. Wait until Vanna finds out.”

“Is anything missing, Ms. Ivey?” I asked, once again picturing the empty envelope at the crime scene.

“No, I don’t believe so.” She regarded her list and counted again. “Wait. A ring is gone.”

“Which one?” Tegan asked.

“ ‘A diamond-and-ruby target ring, circa 1920, value seventy-nine thousand dollars.’ ”

“I remember that ring,” Tegan said. “Auntie told me all about its history. It was worth seventy-nine thousand?”

“At purchase, that was the cost. The value will have gone up by now.”

“Did Marigold sign out the ring?” I asked.

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