Page 48 of Murder on the Page

Lillian said, “It’s made of sinamay, with matching ribbon and feathers. I call it the Juliet fascinator.”

Tegan positioned it at a jaunty tilt on her head and coyly curled her fingers beneath her chin. “What do you think?”

“Your aunt would approve.” Lillian pulled a sage-green bonnet from the second box and handed it to me. “This should look perfect on you.”

I placed it on my head, tied the sassy bow, and instantly felt swept away to the Regency Era.

“Why, Elizabeth Bennet, you look ravishing!” Tegan said to me.

“My dear Jane,” I said, taking on the persona she’d granted me, “you are a breath of fresh air, but whatever will the men say? Papa would be shocked by the cost.”

“Nonsense. Papa will grant us whatever we wish.”

The two of us giggled and quickly sobered, realizing we were making sport of costumes meant for a memorial. Tears sprang to our eyes. Tegan removed her hat. I took off mine. And the two of us hugged fiercely.

“Could someone help me?” a woman with blond-streaked hair asked as she approached the sales counter.

“I’d be happy to.” I replaced the bonnet in its box and joined her. “What do you need, ma’am?”

“I’m looking for three different things. My daughter wants a YA murder mystery, but it can’t be too gory. My ten-year-old son wants something with dragons.” She wrinkled her nose. “And my husband wants the latest best-selling thriller.”

“Follow me.” I’d roamed the bookshop aisles so often that I knew where every genre was located. Marigold had tagged many of the books withBOOKSELLER RECOMMENDSlabels, which made it much easier to help the woman. Within minutes, she and I returned to the sales counter with a James Patterson novel for her husband,How to Train Your Dragonfor her son, andA Good Girl’s Guide to Murderfor her daughter. I’d helped at the register on previous occasions, so I rang her up.

“Now for the men,” Lillian was saying to Tegan as my customer was leaving. “I’ve got all sorts of ideas. Tailcoats, waistcoats, ruffled shirts, cravats. Anyone who wants to dress up should call me, and I’ll accommodate them.”

The door swung open, and Stella Burberry, another of my private home-meals clients, sauntered in, her gaze taking in the books on the endcaps.

“Hi, Stella,” I said.

She was wearing a lavender trench coat, and beneath that, a lavender knit sweater. Her trousers were lavender, too. I bit back a smile. I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t seen Stella outfitted in a single color. Blue one day. Red the next. At a book club event, she confided that dressing in a single color made life easier. She wasn’t a fashion guru and trying to assemble outfits taxed her brain. An accountant, she added, was a black-and-white, no-frills kind of person. Tegan once wisecracked that Stella reminded her of a human Crayola. Even the way she piled her lavender-streaked hair on top of her head gave her a pointy look.

Two teenaged girls in raggedy denim jackets and jeans trailed Stella, but I didn’t think they were accompanying her. Stella didn’t have children. Graham Wynn tramped in after them and shut the door with aclack.His nose was red and raw, as though he was fighting a cold. He covered his mouth with a handkerchief. He coughed into it and tucked the handkerchief into the pocket of his dark blue running suit.

“Swell,” Tegan whispered. “If he’s sick, why doesn’t he stay home?”

“Because he’s hoping to glean information about the murder,” I said.

“Or”—Chloe lowered her voice—“he’s returning to the scene of the crime.”

“Eww.”Tegan wriggled her nose.

Chloe went to help Stella, and Tegan moved to assist the girls.

Slapping on a smile, I approached Graham. “What brings you in?”

“You work here now?” he asked.

“I’m filling in.”

He peered past me, as if visualizing where Marigold died.

I clicked my tongue to redirect his attention. Ghouls were unwelcome. Lookie-loos too. How I wished I could wave a magic wand to make all the people who were coming into the shop expressly to seewhere it happeneddisappear. Poof!

“Need a book?” Remembering his penchant for clergy-themed mysteries, I said, “Have you read Julia Spencer-Fleming’sIn the Bleak Midwinter?”

“I have not.”

“It’s about the first female priest of an Episcopal church in upstate New York. A former army pilot, she locks horns with the members of her congregation, as well as the chief of police until she winds up solving mysteries with him, and they find themselves attracted to each other.”

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