Page 58 of Murder on the Page

“Yeah. Mom talked my ear off.”

“About?”

“Me. Winston. My failed marriage. Of course, Vanna had to offer her two cents. Spare me!”

“Are you dressed?”

“Enough.”

“I’ll pick you up in fifteen,” I said, and promised Darcy I’d be home soon. Time was relative. He twitched his tail and retreated to his cat bed beneath the kitchen table.

The Blue Lantern was a bed-and-breakfast designed in the Gothic Revival style, a variation of the Victorian architectural style, with steeply pitched roofs and pointed-arch windows. The peacock blue exterior color was a lovely contrast to the extravagant white vergeboard trim along the roof. The front porch spanned the entire width of the house. Multiple lanterns hung from shepherd’s hooks. The gardens were just coming into bloom. Tulips in various shades of pink, orange, and yellow abounded. Years ago, when Montford was offering run-down historic buildings for twenty thousand dollars, Noeline Merriweather purchased the place for a song. Quickly she fixed it up to be one of the premier inns in town.

I swung into the semicircular drive and spied Tegan standing on the porch with her mother. Both had bundled up for a brisk day.

Noeline waved to me as Tegan clambered into my van and yelled, “Feed her! She’s cranky.”

“Will do.”

Minutes later, I parked in a public lot on Elm Street, and Tegan and I jogged up the terrace steps toward Ragamuffin. “Did Vanna secure a Realtor?”

“She did.”

“Did you tell her about the safety-deposit box items and cash?”

“I did.”

“And?” I asked.

“She continues to harp about you getting a portion of the bookshop.”

It wasn’t my fault. Marigold could make up her own darned mind. I let my peeve go, and held the door to the café open for Tegan to enter. Ragamuffin was packed. The aroma of cinnamon muffins was intoxicating.

“Are you clearheaded enough to answer a question?” I asked. It was one that had been plaguing me ever since I woke.

“I’m as clearheaded as a . . . as a . . . There is no idiom for that. I’m good. What’s up?”

The line to order was eight customers long.

“Did Evelyn Evers call you after you and she spoke?”

“How’d you guess? She was crying and wanted to tell me how much she loved Auntie.”

“What did you say to her?”

“I agreed that Auntie was special. Why?”

“Did she ask if anyone else was listening in on your conversation with her yesterday?”

“Actually, she did, which I thought was weird, but decided she simply liked privacy.”

All right, it was a given that Evelyn’s favorite foundation was due to receive a tidy sum of money, and yes, perhaps Marigold let slip to Evelyn about the hundred K she had on her person and Evelyn coveted it, but did that make her a murderer?

Stop, Allie. You know Evelyn. She’s a nice woman. Larger than life and at times bossy, but nice.

My rational brain did battle with my irrational one for about ten seconds.

“Allie?” Tegan prompted.

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