Page 94 of Murder on the Page

“Trifle,” I muttered.

I needed to keep focused if I wanted to make the dessert correctly. It wasn’t hard to construct, especially once the pound cake was baked—let’s hear it for planning ahead—but the stirred custard could be tricky and could curdle if one wasn’t careful.

First I prepared a bowl of ice water and set it aside. This was crucial. Next, in a saucepan, I whisked together the egg yolks, milk, and sugar, and turned on the burner to medium. Stirring continuously, I watched as the mixture simmered to the desired texture. Once it was cooked, I removed it from the heat, added the vanilla, and put the pan in the ice water, again swirling the mixture constantly. When the custard was sufficiently cooled, I poured it into a bowl and covered it with plastic wrap. This would prevent a skin from forming on top. I placed the bowl in the refrigerator, then checked on the strawberry freezer jam, which I would use when assembling the trifle. Freezer jam was exactly what it sounded like—jam that did well in the freezer and could be used at any time to enhance a dish. It was runnier than typical jam. I often added a roomtemperature dollop to a warm scone.

For the next two hours, I decided to make mini tarts, using a lemon curd filling that I would top with fresh fruit. I always had frozen mini tart crusts, in their tart tins, ready to go. Once a week, I made lemon curd that I jarred and preserved.

I slid the tarts into the preheated oven and rinsed the raspberries, blueberries, and strawberries.

Minutes later, the timer pinged. I removed the crusts from the oven and slid the pans, one by one, into the countertop multi-tiered rack to cool. One pan tipped and the tart tin slipped off, causing the tarts to spill out and crumble.

“Drat.” I needed an assistant. I was going too fast. “Slow down, Allie.”

Darcy mewed his agreement.

“Hush.” I cleaned up the mess and wondered if I’d ever be able to expand my business. I could ask someone like Chloe toassist. She had free time on her hands. But she wasn’t a baker, by any stretch of the imagination. I mean, get real. She burned coffee. Maybe I could put feelers out to some of the bakers at cafés and restaurants around town. They’d have to be subtle feelers, like a clandestine business card palmed off after a delivery. I didn’t want anyone to get fired for taking a second job.

On the other hand, I didn’t need to expand. I managed what clientele I had, and I would be working in the bookshop and earning an income from my portion of the partnership that would cover expenses. Or would it? Did Feast for the Eyes make money? I hadn’t thought to ask Tegan. What if Marigold had covered the shop’s losses with her own funds, meaning I would be working simply for the fun of it?

Another timer jangled. The custard was ready, and the remaining tart shells were cool. I assembled one of the trifles in a pretty glass bowl by drizzling the inch-square pound cake pieces with triple sec, topping the cake with custard, adding a layer of freezer jam, and then repeating the process. I whisked the cream and stored it in two containers, one of which I’d take with me so I could decorate the trifle with it right before serving. Then I assembled the tarts.

At ten to four I arrived at Feast for the Eyes, and Tegan helped me take the tarts and trifle, plus the assortment of teas, teacups, and plates I’d brought, into the conference room. She had draped the table with a white tablecloth and added pretty napkins.

Lillian was already there in the stockroom, hanging the dresses Chloe, Tegan, and I had selected. She looked primed for the tea in an ankle-length blue floret dress with lovely blue bows. “Here’s your hat, Allie,” she said, handing me the sage-green bonnet I’d tried on.

Tegan locked the shop’s front door, flipped over the OUT TOLUNCHsign, and returned to the stockroom to change. “That will give us a little privacy,” she said, and giggled nervously.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Are we . . .” She ran her lip between her teeth. “Are we dishonoring Auntie’s memory by having too much fun?”

I clasped her elbow gently. “Your aunt would be so proud of you for handling the tragedy with aplomb. I remember her telling me about losing the love of her life. She scraped herself off the floor and put one foot in front of another. ‘Life,’ she said, ‘never promises us anything. We have to make of it what we can.’ ”

Tegan threw her arms around me. “You’re so right.” Tears pooled in her eyes.

When we were all dressed in our costumes—Chloe in a red Empire dress with back buttons, and Tegan in a dusky blue dress festooned with cream-colored flowers—the four of us convened at the table.

Just as I was serving the trifle, the door to the conference room flew open.

“Tegan!” Winston Potts barged in, his face flush with rage. Sweat dripped down the sides. “How dare you consult an attorney!”

Tegan popped out of her chair. “Don’t you ‘how dare’ me! How dareyoulet yourself in with the spare key? Don’t Closed signs matter to you? And more importantly, how dare you have an affair? How dareyoumake me feel like garbage? Why, Mr. Wickham, you disgust me.”

Her soon-to-be ex-husband stammered, “W-Wick—”

“You are the one who sullied our marriage,” Tegan continued. “You are the soul who is at fault. I shall not be blamed, and I shall not be dissuaded from my resolve.”

I gaped at her. Had she referred to her husband as Mr. Wickham? Had she actually used the words “shall” and “sullied”? Was she roleplaying, or was she channeling Elizabeth Bennet? Whatever was going on was working because Winston’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He yanked on the lapels of his too-tight jacket. He hadn’t put on weight. It had been an ego purchase, for sure, and would never fit him.

Finally he found his voice and croaked, “I love you.” He dropped to one knee and pressed his hands together in a pleading gesture.

“I don’t care,” she said.

“We can work this out.”

“No, sir, we cannot. You forsook me. You broke upthis.” She wagged a finger between the two of them. “You drove me away. You cannot beg forgiveness. Give me that key and take your leave.” With that, she lifted her teacup and, pinky extended, took a sip.

Winston scrambled to his feet and puffed out his cheeks. He reminded me of a blowfish I’d seen on an aquarium visit. An ugly, mad blowfish. “Now you listen here—”

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