Page 96 of Murder on the Page

Tegan said, “Let Allie and me help you look.”

“I’ve searched everywhere!”

“Breathe, Mother.” Tegan poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on the mahogany bar trolley. Noeline gladly accepted it.

For a good fifteen minutes, Tegan and I rummaged through the cushions of the divan and rifled through every file in the cabinets. Tegan removed and replaced book after book from the shelves. I got to my knees and searched under all the furniture.

When we’d exhausted every possibility, I said, “Let’s go through the desk one more time.” I told them about Marigold’s quest.

Five minutes later, just as when I’d helped Marigold, I found a ring of keys stuffed into the rear corner of the topmost-right drawer of the desk. “Voilà!”

Noeline bounded to her feet and gripped them in her fist. “You’re a magician.”

“Sometimes things get jostled when opening and closing drawers.” I reiterated what I’d said to Marigold about how many times I’d lost a measuring cup or cookie cutter in the far corner of a kitchen drawer.

Even though I was offering reassuring words, a nagging sensation tugged at the corners of my mind. Was it possible someone had moved Marigold’s keys to make her question her sanity? Was that same person toying with Noeline? No, it didn’t make sense. To what end?

“Do you keep a lot of cash on hand here, Noeline?” I asked.

“No. Most of our transactions are credit cards.”

I eyed the vintage floor safe. To open it, one needed a combination, not a key. “Do you lock the office door when you leave?”

“Yes. Our records hold a lot of personal information. Why?”

Tegan gave me a questioning look.

“I was wondering if a thief might have taken your keys and made a copy so they could access the office.”

Noeline gasped. “Heavens.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “None of our lodgers has complained about being hacked.”

“That’s a relief,” I said.

Dream Cuisine was robbed a year ago. No records were stolen, but my favorite stand mixer and an autographed first-edition cookbook were taken. For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out who would’ve done it until it dawned on me that the cleaning crew I’d hired had worked for me on only one occasion before claiming they really weren’t kitchen-type people. The police retrieved my items from them within a week.

“Mother, are you in here?” Vanna flounced into the office and caught the toe of her four-inch heel on the area rug. She stumbled forward, the hem of her flowing silk skirt snagging on the corner of the floor safe. “Oh, crap. Help me.”

I ran to her rescue, telling her to stand still so she wouldn’t tear the fabric. When I’d freed her, she adjusted her skirt and tugged the hem of her knit top down.

“Thank you, Allie. That was very kind of you.”

Oh, my word. Had I heard correctly? She wasn’t chiding me? “You’re welcome.”

“Mother said she resolved things between you and me.” Using a finger, Vanna daintily smoothed the right side of her hair, which was swept into a chignon. “I hope that’s so.”

“It is. No bad blood. All is forgiven.”

For now.I wasn’t gullible enough to believe Vanna would change her ways. She would verbally assail me at some point in the future. I’d be prepared.

“Are we dining together?” Vanna asked. “I heard Helga is serving her famous roast lamb.”

“I’m heading home,” I said. “I came over because Tegan—”

My pal knuckled me and shook her head sharply.

“Because Tegan wanted to show me the office. I’ve . . . been looking for a vintage floor safe for the longest time,” I improvised, instantly wishing I could take the inane response back.

Vanna accepted my explanation. “Another time,” she murmured.

---