Page 70 of Murder on the Page

“I’d say it’s because of the theme of classism.”

“Explain.”

“The novel suggests that though class determines one’s social standing, it’s arbitrary and doesn’t account for one’s behavior.”

“I can agree with that.”

“Jane Austen emphasized how rules and prejudices influenced people’s lives and decisions. For example, Mr. Darcy was disagreeable and awkward in social situations and considered himself above the fray when it came to others not of his class.”

“Thus, he was proud.”

“Exactly. Therefore, to Elizabeth and her family, the charming Wickham was a better catch. However, in the end, it appeared Darcy was misunderstood.”

“How so?”

“He was honest and truthful, he helped Elizabeth’s sister out of a prickly situation with no fanfare to himself, and he was intensely amiable when it came to Lizzie, while the duplicitous Wickham turned out to be a cad of the lowest order.”

Zach studied his scotch. “I’ve known a few cads over the years.”

That intrigued me. I sipped my drink and said, “I don’t know much about you. Care to explain.”

“How about over dinner?”

“Yes, please.” Was this a date? An official date? I was reluctant to ask.

We passed a booth offering an array of Celtic jewelry. One necklace looked similar to mine. The vendor tried to sell me a matching ring. I declined.

At the pop-up food site named the Pint House, we perused the handwritten menu.

“I’d love shepherd’s pie,” I said, adding it to the list of foods I intended to make for the memorial. It was a hearty dish that originated in Ireland and the UK, consisting of ground meat, onions, potatoes, and carrots, all baked in a mashed potato crust.

“I’ll try the mac-and-cheese pie,” Zach said, “and I’ll share if you’ll give me a bite of yours.”

“Done, but I’m warning you, I make a killer mac ’n’ cheese, and this one won’t compare.”

“You’ll have to cook me dinner someday.”

“When you grill me a steak,” I countered.

He purchased our meals and two bottles of water, and we sat at one of the common seating wood-plank tables, alongside a pair of musicians resting from their bagpiping duties. They were holding a private conversation that sounded heated and scooted to the far end of the table.

I took a bite of the pie and swooned. The mashed potato crust was laced with cheddar cheese. “Zach, earlier you said you’ve known a few cads. Care to explain? Were you married and some loser ran off with your wife?”

“No. Nothing like that. I . . .” His face pinched with a painful memory. He stirred his mac-and-cheese pie with his fork, but didn’t eat. He pushed the dish away and leaned forward on his elbows, hands folded on the table. “I was married. You were right on that count, but she passed away fifteen years ago.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“We met in high school. The day after we graduated, wemarried. I was eighteen. A year later, she died of COPD complications.”

“How awful.” I reached over to touch his arm. “Did you know she was sick?”

“Yes. We decided whatever time we had together would be worth it. Six months after her death, I joined the army. As for the cad comment”—his shoulders rose and fell—“my younger sister dated more than her share of losers over the years. With my dad gone, I was in charge of shooing them away. She hated me for that, until she met her current husband. Husband number two.” He pulled his arms from beneath my hands and dug into his food. “Carpe diem. Seize the day,” he said between bites. “Life is too short to waste a moment of it.”

“Your father—”

“Passed when I was sixteen. He was a heavy smoker. I’ve never lit up in my life.”

“And your mother?”

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