Page 49 of Murder on the Page

I led the way to the mystery section, pulled a copy of Spencer-Fleming’s book off the shelf, and handed it to him. “You live across the street from Marigold, don’t you?”

“That’s correct.” He scanned the book’s blurb.

“I was there with Tegan yesterday and ran into your neighbor Celia Harrigan. She thought she saw someone suspicious hanging around your house a week ago Saturday. Did you notice anyone?”

“Nope, can’t say I did.” He fixed his gaze on mine. “Between you and me, that old biddy should mind her own business.”

“I think she was concerned about you.”

“Ha!” He tilted his head, assessing me. “She’s never been concerned about anyone but herself.”

“I think she was also worried that whoever it was might have been spying on Marigold or the neighborhood, in general.”

He raised his handkerchief and coughed into it. “Sorry, allergies.”

Maybe so. It was April, after all, when everything was starting to bloom. “Also your letter carrier said—”

“What were you doing questioning him?” he demanded.

“Tegan and I were checking out her aunt’s house. It’s going up for sale.” It was a decent dodge. “He was quite friendly and let slip that you and Marigold argued recently.”

“We didn’t argue. We chatted.”

The letter carrier was adamant about the severity of their set-to, so I pressed. “What did you chat about?”

He hesitated, as if framing an answer. “Marigold didn’t like the way I cut the hedges.”

“Really?” I threw him a skeptical look. “How unlike her to get upset about something so trivial, especially since your house doesn’t abut her property.”

“She said I was letting the neighborhood down. If youdon’t mind, I’m going to check out.” He tucked the book under his arm.

To keep him talking, I tapped him on the shoulder, a technique I’d learned years ago when trying to become a teacher. It was a gentle way to refocus a person and regain the lead. “You’ll like the book. The character is strong and forthright.”

“Like you.”

“I suppose.” I offered a self-deprecating smile. “By the way, I was wondering why you were out so early last Saturday. You said you saw Marigold around six.”

“That’s right. I was on my way to work. Like anyone who owns a shop, I have to accept shipments. Restock. That sort of thing.” His gaze skated down and to the left. He wasn’t scanning the book, so I presumed again that he was trying to formulate a better answer. “Why the twenty questions? Aren’t you a baker, or did you recently join the police force?”

“Ha-ha. Funny man.”

“Some think so.”

“While we’re on the subject of your business, how’s it going at GamePlay? Are you busy? I know café and bookstore sales can be slow until after spring break.”

“I get folks all year round. Gamers are dedicated.” He marched to the checkout desk, dismissing me.

Lillian was there, reinserting the costumes she’d shown us into the dress bag. She said something to Graham. I heard the word “memorial.” He nodded, and she pulled a waistcoat from the bag. She turned it this way and that on its hanger. He appraised it and bobbed his head again, apparently agreeing to rent something like it from her, making me think he intended to attend the memorial.Interesting.

The front door burst open.

“Tegan!” a man with wild, curly hair yelled as he stormed into the shop. He was waving a book in the air. “Tegan!”

Tegan left her customers in the YA aisle and rushed into view, eyes wide with alarm. When she saw who was hailing her, her face relaxed. “Mr. Canfield, welcome,” she said cheerily.

Canfield.I knew that name. Then it came to me. I’d seen a woman named Candace Canfield playing guitar and singing folk songs at one of the coffeehouses I delivered to. At the time, I’d figured she had to be related to the owner, because she had a shy, reserved voice. Without a microphone, she could barely be heard. Perhaps she was this man’s wife. She’d looked the approximate age.

“I’ve told you, it’s Quinby,” the man said. “Just Quinby.”

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