Page 57 of Murder on the Page

I took a sip of wine, set the glass aside, and picked up Christie’sThe Murder of Roger Ackroydfrom a stack on the book table. I opened to page one. Minutes later, I realized I hadn’t read a word because my mind was too preoccupied with Marigold’s death. Though I enjoyed stories featuring Hercule Poirot, I set the book aside and tried to organize my thoughts.

The money.What if the murderer knew Marigold made a withdrawal? Perhaps that person had seen her at the bank and followed her and, like Zach theorized, robbed her. Did that mean it was a random killing? No, that didn’t make sense. The timeline wasn’t correct. Marigold picked up the cash on Friday. She didn’t give the money to Evelyn, and nobody mugged her on the way home, or she would have mentioned it to me when we’d spoken Saturday morning. Of course, that didn’t rule out that a thief could’ve killed her after our phone call. I recalled the previous theory that I’d contemplated. Did Marigold withdraw the money to pay off someone?

Darn it. If only the town’s traffic cameras had been operational that morning, then the police could’ve seen who’d secretly slipped into the shop.

Darcy mewed and pleaded with his eyes for me to refocus.

Who were the likeliest suspects?Katrina’s coworker Wallis said Katrina warned Marigold not to divulge a secret. What if Marigold had been researching the topic they’d argued about that morning on her computer? What if Katrina caught Marigold in the process of browsing? Would she know how to erase an Internet search history? Or what if Wallis got the story reversed? What if Marigold was the one with the secret? I recalled the opening of her historical novel. Had she written it to give expression to that secret? What if she’d planned to pay hush money to someone who knew something private about Noeline, Tegan, or Vanna? Would a contemporary like Evelyn know what skeletons Marigold had in her closet?

I picked up the glass of Pinot.

At that moment, something outside wentclack,followed by a softthump.The sound startled me. I lost hold of the wineglass. It toppled to the floor and, miraculously, didn’t break, but the wine splattered.

Darcy yowled.

“Sorry, kitty,” I whispered, and petted his head. “It’s okay.” But was it? My heart was hammering. Was someone on the front porch?

While listening hard, I plunked Darcy on the floor, hurried to the kitchen for a paper towel, and blotted up the mess by my chair. When I didn’t hear anything more, I settled down, telling myself the sound must have come from a shutter I hadn’t repaired a week ago when a storm had nearly ripped four of them off the front of the house—conceivably, the same storm that had taken out the town’s traffic cameras. I’d fixed three of the shutters, but I’d run out of wood screws. I’d made a note to swing by the hardware store for more, but I hadn’t gotten around to it.

Darcy mewed. Concerned.

“You’re right,” I whispered. I was being too lackadaisical. My friend had been murdered. I ought to inspect.

As if on cue, the front door flew open and banged against the wall.

I couldn’t see the foyer from where I was sitting, but I wasn’t going to be caught unarmed. Adrenaline chugging through me, I leaped to my feet, grabbed the fireplace poker, and hurried to the foyer. No one was there. My tote and keys were on the table, where I’d left them. The doors to the bedrooms were closed. Was it only the wind that had caused the disturbance? Leaves were swirling in a frenzy on the porch.

I rushed to the door, closed and locked it, and set a chair from the parlor against it to act as a barricade. Next I touredevery room in the house and peeked outside through the breaks in the curtains. The streetlights were on. I didn’t see anyone lurking about.

Even so, I shivered and took the fireplace poker to bed.

“It was nothing,” I assured my cat. “Nothing.”

I slept fitfully. On Wednesday morning, I decided to check out what I’d been too afraid to examine last night. I dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt, down vest, jeans, gloves, and Timberland boots, fetched a screwdriver, and went outside. Indeed, the offending shutter was hanging by one screw, and a stool I kept on the porch had toppled. I righted it and climbed up to remove the shutter altogether until I could purchase more screws. My breath caught in my chest when I glimpsed down and saw a partial muddy footprint on the porch, where the stool had been. Male or female, I couldn’t tell. Was it mine? I had big feet. In grammar school, Tegan had meanly dubbed them water skis. I’d countered that they’d gotten me where I needed to go. I studied the markings. The imprints didn’t match the soles of my Timberlands, not to mention I hadn’t donned these particular shoes in over two weeks. I’d worn my REI boots for the hike with Zach.

Had someone been outside last night, after all? Did they bump into the stool when attempting to peek through the window? Was that the thump I’d heard? Had that same person opened the front door but lost control of it in a gust of wind? The notion made me reel. I teetered and grabbed hold of the rickety shutter for support. It couldn’t bear my weight and gave way. I toppled to the porch, shoulder first. Luckily, I didn’t hit my head or break any bones. However, when I scrambled to a stand, I saw that I’d landed smack-dab on top of the footprint, making a mess of it. There went the evidence.Shoot.

Shaken and feeling vulnerable, I scuttled inside and closed and bolted the door. Breathing high in my chest, I made a pot of coffee, fed the cat, warmed a scone, and applied a pack of frozen peas to my shoulder. While I ate my mini breakfast and nursed my bruise, rotating my arm occasionally to keep blood flowing, I tried to figure out who might have visited me last night.

Had Graham seen me driving through his neighborhood and followed me home?

Evelyn Evers couldn’t have had an inkling that I’d been standing beside Tegan when Tegan reached out to her yesterday, unless she’d called back and Tegan mentioned my name. Even if she had, why would Evelyn see me as a threat?

Katrina came to mind. If she found out Wallis told Zach and me about her argument with Marigold, would she wish to do me harm? That was a stretch, though. Zach was a much scarier prospect than I was.

What about Piper Lowry? I’d phoned her and let slip that I was looking into Marigold’s murder.

“Hey, cat, the footprint could be the gardener’s.”

Darcy didn’t give me a side glance. He was too busy lapping up the meal I’d dished into his bowl.

I didn’t need his agreement. I was right. I knew I was. The gardener must have come out to clean up the muck from last week’s mini storm. “Except that doesn’t explain the front door flying open,” I muttered. “I suppose it could’ve been due to a faulty latch.” One more thing to add to my repair list.

My reasoning should have made me feel better, but it didn’t. Desperately needing to find my calm before I made my deliveries, I dialed Tegan. “How about a quick cup of coffee, and I’ll give you a ride to work?”

She answered groggily, “I could use some caffeine.”

“Late night?”

---