Page 91 of Murder on the Page

“Graham.” Tegan gulped down the water. “Right. We have to go to his house again.”

CHAPTER22

“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed.But pride—where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.”

—Fitzwilliam Darcy, in Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudice

“Again?” Chloe asked.

“We went there Friday night,” Tegan replied, and focused on me. “Remember Graham’s neighbor Celia Harrigan said she saw someone? It wasn’t at night. It was during the day. We were wrong to case his place in the dark. Let’s go prepared this time. We’ll pick up some dog treats and a leash.”

“Dog treats and a leash?” Chloe echoed, clearly confused.

Tegan didn’t wait for me to dissuade her. She swanned through the stockroom and out the exit.

I said to Chloe, “We’ll be back soon.”

Like we did Friday night, we parked around the corner from Marigold’s house. However, in the light of day and the sun directly overhead, it was impossible to hide in the bushes in front of her place. Instead, Tegan suggested we act like we were waiting for the Realtor to appear. She stood next to theFOR SALEsign and regarded her watch. An actress she was not, but Graham didn’t step onto his porch to check us out, and his dog didn’t attack us, so the validity of her playacting wasn’t in question.

“There’s Celia Harrigan’s house,” Tegan said. “Down the street. The yellow-and-white Craftsman.”

The woman was standing at the opening on her porch, holding binoculars to her eyes. She caught sight of us and disappeared inside.

“There’s nothing like having nosey neighbors,” Tegan said, adding, “Hey!” She hitched her chin in the direction of Graham’s house. “Who’s that pulling up?”

A black Kia Sportage parked in front of Graham’s place. Seconds later, a linebacker-sized person in a dark brown anorak exited. Face obscured by the hood, the person—I presumed by the sheer size it was a man—strode to the rear of Graham’s house.

“He’s dressed a tad warmly for spring, don’t you think?” Tegan asked. “Let’s follow.”

“No way.” I grabbed her elbow. “Are you—”

“Look. There’s another car coming,” Tegan rasped.

An old blue Chevy Tahoe parked behind the Kia. A figure in a sweatshirt hoodie and jogging pants exited, a cell phone pressed to his or her ear. It was hard to tell which sex this one was. The slimness and height could lean either way, and the boots were generic. Whoever it was followed the same path as the previous visitor.

Tegan said, “Celia Harrigan told us the person she saw was wearing a hoodie.”

The recent visitor could be the person, but so could a thousand other people who were out for a stroll in Bramblewood on this fine day.

Within a minute, a third person arrived in a silver Mercedes E-class sedan. A fourth in a green BMW SUV. They, too, rounded Graham’s house.

“We’ve got to follow and see what they’re up to,” Tegan urged.

“Pal, c’mon. For all we know, these people are going to a prayer meeting.”

“You think? Then why are they doing everything they can to hide their faces?”

“They parked their cars right in front of the house.” I jutted a hand.

“We should call the police.”

“And tell them what? Graham has guests who enter through the back entrance? That proves nothing. His front door could be busted,” I suggested.

“What if Celia Harrigan is right and Graham is dealing drugs?”

Rowf! Grr!

The pit bull charged around the corner of the house and barreled across the street, teeth bared. My adrenaline spiked.

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