Page 73 of Murder on the Page

What did I do now? Dare to exist?

CHAPTER17

“We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him.”

—Mr. Bennet, in Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudice

Cool breath ballooned between Vanna’s bright red lips. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “Are you trying to steal one of my clients?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“You’re a sly one, Allie Catt. I know what you did regarding my aunt. You cozied up to her and made her trust you. That’s why she gave you a quarter of the—”

“Stop, Vanna!” I held up my hand like a righteous Cher inCluelessmight, Cluelessbeing the movie reboot ofEmma.“Why don’t you like me? Ever since I met you, you’ve been mean to me. Is it because Tegan is my friend and not yours?”

“She’s my sister.”

“But not your friend. The two of you have never been warm to one another and that makes you mad, doesn’t it? In fact, it makes you jealous of anyone who is her friend.”

“Get real.”

“She could use your support right now. She really misses your aunt.”

“So do I.” Her lower lip pushed forward.

“Then start acting respectful. Of me. Of Tegan.” My friendwasnotguilty.Not, not, not.“And vis-à-vis your clients, I will never poach them. You’ve got your style of catering and I have mine. Never the twain shall meet. Now, feed your own ego. I’m busy.”

“Allie, be assured I’ve got my eye on you.”

“Ouch! That must hurt.” I mimed plucking it off me. “Would you like it back?”

She bristled.

“FYI, if you’re willing to help, Vanna, we could use some eyes on a certain someone who lives across the street from your aunt.”

“Who?”

“Graham Wynn. Since you’re going to be around there with the Realtor, take notes . . . if you know how to write.”

I didn’t wait for her response and hurried away from the festival. The thought of listening to cheery music with Vanna anywhere in the vicinity was turning my stomach sour, not to mention I was kicking myself for hurling such a petty response. Yes, I liked to be witty, but not cruel.

In bed, I struggled to sleep, not because I was rehashing my encounter with Vanna—I’d apologize the next time I saw her—but because I was wondering how I could have handled the conversation with Zach better. Needless to say, I couldn’t come up with an answer. He didn’t want me prying. I didn’t want a murderer to go free.

When I awoke at five a.m., Darcy growled at me. Positioned by my feet, he was plainly not pleased with my nightlong nonstop movement.

“Go to sleep,” I muttered. “I’m not going to Dream Cuisine. I’m going to cook here. You can be a lazybones, if you want.”

After dressing in sweats, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and my comfy UGG slippers, I prepared Darcy’s meal,set it by the dining table, reentered the kitchen, and closed the Plexiglas door. I donned an apron and queued up Taylor Swift’s “A Place in This World.” By the time she reached the second verse, I was singing along full blast, which helped eliminate the tension in my shoulders.

Shortbread cookies were fairly easy to make. Some I would deliver to customers. Others were tests for Tegan’s approval, because I’d be serving them at the memorial. I began organizing ingredients on the counter, and my cell phone pinged. It was my mother, paying no mind as to what time it was in the US. Granted, she knew I kept baker’s hours, but texting someone at the crack of dawn was rude.

Fern:Checking in. Your father says hello. Any progress on the case?

I bit back a smile. The case, meaning the investigation?

Me:The police aren’t sharing.

I didn’t want to go into detail about Zach shutting me down. I was still shivering from his icy good-bye.

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