Page 64 of Murder on the Page

With an hour-plus to fritter away, I opened my laptop computer with the intent of playing a word game. I paused when I glimpsed the empty search bar. Instantly I pictured Marigold’s computer and the last search she’d done:gaslight.The search made sense, given the historical aspect of the book she’d started. Were all her previous searches related to her budding writing career? What if she’d cleared the history on purpose because something she’d researched could be considered incriminating?

I could be grasping at straws thinking that someone other than Marigold had wiped it clean. On the other hand, a gamer like Graham Wynn would be computer savvy, and a junior-college professor like Piper Lowry would be computer literate, too. Was it possible one of them hacked Marigold’s computer and cleared the history from afar?

Tegan said only she and Chloe knew the password, but Marigold might have written it down. Also she’d died clutchingPride and Prejudice.What if her murderer got a clue from her shield, guessed the password, and erased the search history after murdering her?

How lucky could one killer get?

CHAPTER15

“Do not consider me now as an elegant female, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking the truth from her heart.”

—Elizabeth Bennet, in Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudice

The next morning, I donned a long-sleeved white shirt, black jeans, ankle boots, and lightweight puff jacket. I fed and snuggled Darcy, kissed him good-bye, and ventured out. It wasn’t raining—the sun was shining and the aroma of new flowers perfumed the air—but it was chilly.

While making deliveries, I decided to resume listening to Sherlock Holmes’sThe Sign of the Four.I was at the part where the police were arresting Thaddeus Sholto, when I spied Fair Exchange, the pawnshop where I’d purchased my Celtic knot. I parked in the lot on Holly Street and hoofed it to the sidewalk. I wanted to pick the owner’s brain about where Marigold might have taken the ring she’d removed from her safety-deposit box. She wouldn’t have pawned it. She hadn’t needed the money. But perhaps he knew jewelers who were good at cleaning antique pieces.

Nearing the pawnshop, I drew to a halt. Of all people, Rick O’Sheedy was entering Fair Exchange, an overcoat slung over his left arm. In his right hand, he carried a messenger bag-style leather briefcase.

Something niggled at the edges of my brain warning me to be wary. Why, I couldn’t say, but throughout my childhood years, my parents had urged me to listen to my intuition. If I was going to be in charge of my fate, they said, I had to be alert. So I lingered and observed Rick’s transaction through the pawnshop window. J.J., the owner, a bald man with a scruffy beard and spectacles—he’d probably come out of the womb looking withered and tired—was on a moving ladder, pushing himself to the right as he dusted the top shelf of books.

Rick sauntered toward him, pulling something from his breast pocket while speaking. I couldn’t see what it was, but J.J. descended the ladder and held out his hand. Rick passed it to him, and J.J. placed the item on the sales counter. He let the spectacles, which were attached to a chain, fall to his chest and lifted a loupe. He held it to his right eye. Waiting, Rick rubbed his arms nervously, as if eager to conclude the business deal as quickly as possible. Why? Had he brought in a stolen ring? To be specific, Marigold’s ring?

Don’t leap to conclusions, Allie. And don’t judge the man based on your pal’s misgivings.

J.J. said something to Rick, which seemed to put Rick at ease. He stopped rubbing his arms and started idly twirling his key ring on his index finger. J.J. jotted out a receipt on a pad, tore the top sheet off the pad, went to the antique cash register, and rang up a sale, or, in this case, a purchase. He pulled out a few hundred-dollar bills and gave them and the receipt to Rick.

Business concluded, Rick gestured a two-fingered salute and left, and J.J. stowed whatever Rick had sold him in a drawer, to the right of the cash register.

Though curiosity was ticking my insides like crazy, I waited a few beats before wandering in. When I did, I said, “Morning, J.J.”

He squinted at first before realizing he needed his glasses. After putting them on, he said, “Well, I’ll be. It’s the alley cat.” He snickered. When I’d first told him my name, he’d laughed so hard, which led to a conversation about our ancestry. His family had come from the same part of Ireland that mine had. “What would be bringing you in today, lass?”

“I wanted to ask you about jewelers who might be good at cleaning antique jewelry.”

“I do fine work, if I don’t mind bragging, but there are plenty in town. It depends on what type of jewelry you need cleaned.”

“A diamond-and-ruby target ring, circa 1920.”

He whistled. “I’d like to see that.”

“So the man who was just here didn’t bring you something like that?”

“Ha!” J.J. chortled. “Nah, he was getting rid of his wedding ring. Seems his wife divorced him. Heartbroken, he decided not to hold on to it.”

Rick didn’t strike me as the heartbroken type. Had he acted up a storm so he could soak J.J. for more money than the ring was worth? Maybe that was what I’d sensed when I’d spotted him at first. He’d looked cagey because he was in need of cash.

“He said he wanted to clean the slate so he could make room in his heart for someone new.”

Like Noeline?I wondered. “He sure opened up to you.”

J.J. smiled, baring his tobacco-stained teeth. “I’m like a father confessor.”

“Could I see the ring?”

He pulled it from the drawer and held it out to me. “Plain, with a simple inscription inside.”

Love always,it read.

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