Page 9 of Murder on the Page

Chicken,I thought.

“For your information, Miss Catt,” Vanna continued, “I can throw a better tea party than you any day. Any. Day.” Her shrill tone could have shattered crystal.

A quote from my high-school English teacher came to me: “Deflect to conquer when confronted by a bully.”

I said, “I’m sure you can, Vanna. You’re a wonderful caterer.”

“But Auntie hiredyou.”

“Because I know the clientele. I come to book clubs and special events and—”

“Big deal. I can memorize people’s names.”

“Plus I think she wanted to do me a favor. You know, to pad my pockets so I can buy myself a birthday present. I will turn twenty-six in a few weeks.” I’d been born on Mother’s Day. What a thorn that must have been in Fern’s side! “Marigold thought—”

“Stuff it.” Vanna wagged a pointy fingernail in my direction. If it had been any sharper, she’d have to register it as a weapon. “In the future, don’t say yes to any offers from my aunt.”

“Or what?” I asked.

Tegan joined me and repeated the question. “Or what?”

I elbowed her to keep quiet. I didn’t need Vanna more riled than she already was.

“Or Dream Cuisine”—Vanna gave me and my pal a withering look—“might earn some bad reviews.”

“Are you saying you’ll damage my reputation?” I asked, truly appalled by the threat.

“That’s libel,” Tegan added.

“Libel,schmibel.Beware.” Vanna aimed two fingers from her eyes to ours. “I’m watching you.”

CHAPTER3

“Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.”

—Elizabeth Bennet, in Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudice

Seething, I returned to my house, and over the course of the next few hours, with jazz music blasting, I baked dozens of cookies, made batches of fudge, and piped fifty custards into pretty floral tasting cups. Throughout, I dwelled on Vanna. Was it possible she’d discovered, earlier than at the bookshop, that Marigold had offered me the gig? Did she sabotage Dream Cuisine by bringing in ants? Each time I mulled over the possibility, I convinced myself I was wrong. Vanna wasn’t vindictive, just snappish.

On the other hand, the French poet Anatole France said, “It is well for the heart to be naïve and the mind not to be.”

Somebody rapped on the front door and pushed it open. Quickly I grabbed a spatula, as if that would be a good weapon, and raced through the Plexiglas door.

“Hello? Anybody home?” Zach Armstrong poked his head into the house, with a twinkle in his eye, a lock of his lustrous brown hair dangling on his forehead, and a wicked grin that carved a long dimple down the right side of his handsome face.

I lowered the spatula, bellowed to my artificially intelligent virtual assistant to stop the music, and tucked a loose hairbeneath my headband. How did I look? Did I have flour on my face or on myMartha Stewart doesn’t live hereapron?

“Are you going to make me beg?” Zach asked.

“For what?”

“I caught a whiff of cookies as I was getting in an afternoon run.” Zach stepped inside. At thirty-four, he looked lean and virile in his snug-fitting tracksuit. “You know I’m a cookie hound.”

“Actually, no, I didn’t know that. We’ve had coffee at Ragamuffin Coffeehouse, let me see, two times? Each time you ate a scone.” Ragamuffin was one of my best clients. They requested scones with regularity. They were also the chief buyer of my cream cheese muffins.

“Nah. No way. Scones are for sissies.”

“Take that back.” I aimed the spatula at him.

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