CHAPTER 11

C HAPTER 11

"My good opinion once lost, is lost forever."

—Fitzwilliam Darcy, in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice

"W ould you come to the bookshop with me?" Tegan asked while shifting her car into gear. "I need time to process this. Why would Auntie withdraw one hundred thousand dollars?"

I buckled my seat belt. "Maybe she wanted to give the theater foundation the money she intended to bequeath to it on Saturday rather than make the foundation wait for her to, you know . . ."

Tegan moaned. "To die."

"Yes . . . No," I said, quickly revising as something niggled at the edges of my mind. "Wouldn't she have consulted Mr. Tannenbaum if she'd decided to do that? And don't you think she would have delivered it in the ‘Private and Confidential' envelope Ms. Ivey put it in, which was found empty at the crime scene?"

"Ms. Ivey didn't say anything about a ‘Private and Confidential' envelope. She said she put it into a bank envelope, and Auntie slotted the envelope into her satchel."

"You're right! Do you remember seeing your aunt's satchel at the shop?"

"Yes. It was tucked under the sales counter. The police went through it. They didn't find any cash or bank envelope in it. "

We both fell silent. Cars whooshed by.

A recent exchange with Marigold came to mind. Last week, when I went to Feast for the Eyes to pick up the Jenn McKinlay mystery I'd preordered, she asked me if I'd read Grisham's The Firm or The Whistler, or Puzo's The Godfather. I said yes, I'd read all three—each of the books had bribery as a theme—but before we could discuss them, a customer entered, desperately in need of a book for her granddaughter's birthday, and I had to depart to deliver lemon-lavender scones to a client.

"Or . . ." I said softly, letting the word hang.

"Or what?" Tegan glanced at me.

"What if someone wanted to blackmail her?"

"No, no, and no. Auntie never did anything wrong in her life. She was as honest as the day is long." Tegan took the turns at too high a speed. She'd never been involved in an accident, so I didn't ask her to slow down, but I gripped the door handle in case she was tempting fate.

A minute later, she pulled into her parking spot in the alley behind the shop, and we hustled through the rear door. The aroma of burned coffee wafted to me.

"Chloe," I muttered, and switched off the coffeepot. "Tegan, it's time you invest in a Keurig. It's not worth the waste . . . or the stench."

"You mean, it's time we invest."

My head ached at the thought of partnering with my best friend. Would we face the same kinds of conflicts Dennell was experiencing with her business partner? Maybe it would be better if I was a silent partner, like Noeline. On the other hand, I could instigate some specialty events at the shop and drum up business utilizing my catering skills. Throw a few teas. Even open up a small café in the far-right corner. There was room. What kind of license would we need?

We weaved between a new shipment of book boxes, and I said, "I've got an idea. Let's go through your aunt's email and texts and see who she was communicating with. She might have mentioned the cash."

"The police confiscated her phone, and they browsed the shop's computer, as well as her personal one."

"Okay, but how thoroughly?"

She threw me a sideways glance. "You read too many mysteries."

"Get with the times, girlfriend. Fresh eyes on the prize . . . or, in this case, clues."

We passed through the arch to the bookshop and came to a halt. Lots of people were browsing books in the aisles. A line of customers was waiting at the sales counter ready to check out. Chloe was trying furiously to keep up. Her red scarf was askew. Her usually smooth black hair looked as if she'd combed it with an eggbeater. Evidently, one person managing the bookshop that was overrun with traffic was not enough manpower.

"Oh, good, you're here," Lillian Bellingham said to Tegan. She was standing on the other side of the sales counter. In her tailored 1940s-style suit, with its broad shoulders, tapered waist, and large lapels, she looked like she could be cast in Witness for the Prosecution. All she'd need was a fancy fascinator hat to complete the ensemble. "I have sample costumes for the memorial." She'd draped a travel dress bag over one ladder-back chair and had stacked a bunch of hatboxes on the other.

"In a sec," Tegan said, and sidled next to Chloe to tend to customers. "Allie, would you bag the books?"

I saluted.

Lillian said, "Your aunt would be so happy you're having the memorial for her. How she treasured the theater, and she lived for afternoon tea."

Minutes later, when the line of customers had dwindled to one, Tegan rounded the counter and splayed her hands. "Show us what you brought, Lillian. "

"What do you think of this little number?" Lillian unzipped the dress bag and pulled out a lacy sage-green gown with empire bodice, puff sleeves, and an elegant train.

"Ooh," Tegan said. "Pretty, but not for me. It's perfect for Allie, though it might need altering. This green is her favorite color. Got anything in blue?"

"Of course, but nothing with anime characters," Lillian teased.

"Ha-ha."

"Check out the hats I brought, too." She gestured to the stack of boxes. "Open the top one."

Tegan did and pulled out a baby-blue boater. "Love it."

Lillian said, "It's made of sinamay, with matching ribbon and feathers. I call it the Juliet fascinator."

Tegan positioned it at a jaunty tilt on her head and coyly curled her fingers beneath her chin. "What do you think?"

"Your aunt would approve." Lillian pulled a sage-green bonnet from the second box and handed it to me. "This should look perfect on you."

I placed it on my head, tied the sassy bow, and instantly felt swept away to the Regency Era.

"Why, Elizabeth Bennet, you look ravishing!" Tegan said to me.

"My dear Jane," I said, taking on the persona she'd granted me, "you are a breath of fresh air, but whatever will the men say? Papa would be shocked by the cost."

"Nonsense. Papa will grant us whatever we wish."

The two of us giggled and quickly sobered, realizing we were making sport of costumes meant for a memorial. Tears sprang to our eyes. Tegan removed her hat. I took off mine. And the two of us hugged fiercely.

"Could someone help me?" a woman with blond-streaked hair asked as she approached the sales counter .

"I'd be happy to." I replaced the bonnet in its box and joined her. "What do you need, ma'am?"

"I'm looking for three different things. My daughter wants a YA murder mystery, but it can't be too gory. My ten-year-old son wants something with dragons." She wrinkled her nose. "And my husband wants the latest best-selling thriller."

"Follow me." I'd roamed the bookshop aisles so often that I knew where every genre was located. Marigold had tagged many of the books with BOOKSELLER RECOMMENDS labels, which made it much easier to help the woman. Within minutes, she and I returned to the sales counter with a James Patterson novel for her husband, How to Train Your Dragon for her son, and A Good Girl's Guide to Murder for her daughter. I'd helped at the register on previous occasions, so I rang her up.

"Now for the men," Lillian was saying to Tegan as my customer was leaving. "I've got all sorts of ideas. Tailcoats, waistcoats, ruffled shirts, cravats. Anyone who wants to dress up should call me, and I'll accommodate them."

The door swung open, and Stella Burberry, another of my private home-meals clients, sauntered in, her gaze taking in the books on the endcaps.

"Hi, Stella," I said.

She was wearing a lavender trench coat, and beneath that, a lavender knit sweater. Her trousers were lavender, too. I bit back a smile. I couldn't remember a time when I hadn't seen Stella outfitted in a single color. Blue one day. Red the next. At a book club event, she confided that dressing in a single color made life easier. She wasn't a fashion guru and trying to assemble outfits taxed her brain. An accountant, she added, was a black-and-white, no-frills kind of person. Tegan once wisecracked that Stella reminded her of a human Crayola. Even the way she piled her lavender-streaked hair on top of her head gave her a pointy look .

Two teenaged girls in raggedy denim jackets and jeans trailed Stella, but I didn't think they were accompanying her. Stella didn't have children. Graham Wynn tramped in after them and shut the door with a clack. His nose was red and raw, as though he was fighting a cold. He covered his mouth with a handkerchief. He coughed into it and tucked the handkerchief into the pocket of his dark blue running suit.

"Swell," Tegan whispered. "If he's sick, why doesn't he stay home?"

"Because he's hoping to glean information about the murder," I said.

"Or"—Chloe lowered her voice—"he's returning to the scene of the crime."

"Eww." Tegan wriggled her nose.

Chloe went to help Stella, and Tegan moved to assist the girls.

Slapping on a smile, I approached Graham. "What brings you in?"

"You work here now?" he asked.

"I'm filling in."

He peered past me, as if visualizing where Marigold died.

I clicked my tongue to redirect his attention. Ghouls were unwelcome. Lookie-loos too. How I wished I could wave a magic wand to make all the people who were coming into the shop expressly to see where it happened disappear . Poof!

"Need a book?" Remembering his penchant for clergy-themed mysteries, I said, "Have you read Julia Spencer-Fleming's In the Bleak Midwinter ?"

"I have not."

"It's about the first female priest of an Episcopal church in upstate New York. A former army pilot, she locks horns with the members of her congregation, as well as the chief of police until she winds up solving mysteries with him, and they find themselves attracted to each other. "

I led the way to the mystery section, pulled a copy of Spencer-Fleming's book off the shelf, and handed it to him. "You live across the street from Marigold, don't you?"

"That's correct." He scanned the book's blurb.

"I was there with Tegan yesterday and ran into your neighbor Celia Harrigan. She thought she saw someone suspicious hanging around your house a week ago Saturday. Did you notice anyone?"

"Nope, can't say I did." He fixed his gaze on mine. "Between you and me, that old biddy should mind her own business."

"I think she was concerned about you."

"Ha!" He tilted his head, assessing me. "She's never been concerned about anyone but herself."

"I think she was also worried that whoever it was might have been spying on Marigold or the neighborhood, in general."

He raised his handkerchief and coughed into it. "Sorry, allergies."

Maybe so. It was April, after all, when everything was starting to bloom. "Also your letter carrier said—"

"What were you doing questioning him?" he demanded.

"Tegan and I were checking out her aunt's house. It's going up for sale." It was a decent dodge. "He was quite friendly and let slip that you and Marigold argued recently."

"We didn't argue. We chatted."

The letter carrier was adamant about the severity of their set-to, so I pressed. "What did you chat about?"

He hesitated, as if framing an answer. "Marigold didn't like the way I cut the hedges."

"Really?" I threw him a skeptical look. "How unlike her to get upset about something so trivial, especially since your house doesn't abut her property."

"She said I was letting the neighborhood down. If you don't mind, I'm going to check out." He tucked the book under his arm.

To keep him talking, I tapped him on the shoulder, a technique I'd learned years ago when trying to become a teacher. It was a gentle way to refocus a person and regain the lead. "You'll like the book. The character is strong and forthright."

"Like you."

"I suppose." I offered a self-deprecating smile. "By the way, I was wondering why you were out so early last Saturday. You said you saw Marigold around six."

"That's right. I was on my way to work. Like anyone who owns a shop, I have to accept shipments. Restock. That sort of thing." His gaze skated down and to the left. He wasn't scanning the book, so I presumed again that he was trying to formulate a better answer. "Why the twenty questions? Aren't you a baker, or did you recently join the police force?"

"Ha-ha. Funny man."

"Some think so."

"While we're on the subject of your business, how's it going at GamePlay? Are you busy? I know café and bookstore sales can be slow until after spring break."

"I get folks all year round. Gamers are dedicated." He marched to the checkout desk, dismissing me.

Lillian was there, reinserting the costumes she'd shown us into the dress bag. She said something to Graham. I heard the word "memorial." He nodded, and she pulled a waistcoat from the bag. She turned it this way and that on its hanger. He appraised it and bobbed his head again, apparently agreeing to rent something like it from her, making me think he intended to attend the memorial. Interesting.

The front door burst open.

"Tegan!" a man with wild, curly hair yelled as he stormed into the shop. He was waving a book in the air. "Tegan! "

Tegan left her customers in the YA aisle and rushed into view, eyes wide with alarm. When she saw who was hailing her, her face relaxed. "Mr. Canfield, welcome," she said cheerily.

Canfield. I knew that name. Then it came to me. I'd seen a woman named Candace Canfield playing guitar and singing folk songs at one of the coffeehouses I delivered to. At the time, I'd figured she had to be related to the owner, because she had a shy, reserved voice. Without a microphone, she could barely be heard. Perhaps she was this man's wife. She'd looked the approximate age.

"I've told you, it's Quinby," the man said. "Just Quinby."

"Quinby," Tegan said even more sunnily. "Is your better half Candace with you?" she asked, confirming my suspicion that the singer was his wife.

"No."

I'd never seen Quinby Canfield before. Angular, with jawbones that could cut ice, he had a feral look in his eye, like he was itching for a fight, but Tegan seemed steady and unworried.

"I didn't like the beginning of this book," Quinby said. "I want to return it." He shoved it at her.

Tegan inspected it. "The spine is broken."

"Not my fault."

"It was intact when you purchased it."

"Says who?" He balled a fist.

My shoulders tensed. Would I need to intervene? I was bigger and stronger than my petite pal.

Tegan remained calm and continued to scan the book. After a long moment, she said, "Okay, then. I'll give you a refund. Get in line."

Ugh. Was the customer always right? Would the book now go on the discounted table? How was Tegan staying so nonchalant? I wanted to punch the bully in his pointy nose.

Chloe approached the desk with Stella, who was carrying an armload of cozy mysteries. From the spines, I could see one was a Honeychurch Hall mystery and another was a Paws & Claws Mystery. I'd read both of the delightful books and couldn't wait for new releases in the series. Stella lined up behind Quinby.

Sotto voce, but loudly enough for all to hear, Quinby said to Graham, "If you ask me, that raven-haired she-wolf Piper Lowry killed Marigold."

I gasped. That was some accusation and some description—yes, Piper had dark hair, but she wasn't at all predatory. In fact, she struck me as a docile woman with a kind word for everyone. Did Quinby know Graham personally, or was he spouting off because he felt Graham was a kindred spirit?

"She's a bad influence on the young," Quinby continued. "She taught my son squat. He had to do an extra year at the JC in order to better his grades before he could get accepted at UNC Asheville. She thinks we all have money to burn."

"Quinby Canfield, that's not true," Stella said. "I know Piper very well. She would never make anyone do an extra year unless he or she needed it. She's devoted to her students."

I'd have to agree. Once when I was browsing the bookstore, I'd spotted Piper with a small group of students she'd brought in on a field trip. She was teaching them in the nook area. Her manner was excellent and enthralling. Each of her students was paying rapt attention.

"Bah, Stella!" Quinby sliced the air with a hand. "Keep your trap shut."

"Do you two know each other?" I asked.

"I'm Quinby's accountant," Stella said. "And I'm Piper's neighbor."

Small world. But, then, Bramblewood's population was a mere nine thousand . Six degrees of separation was a real thing here .

Graham finalized his purchase, threw me a curious look upon exiting, and Quinby stepped forward.

"Piper Lowry is bad news," Quinby continued, palm out, ready for his refund. "That's all there is to it, and I'll make sure the police know it."

"Quinby," Tegan said, "for your edification, Piper and my aunt got along famously. They could wax rhapsodic about any kind of fiction or nonfiction, and Piper is always up-to-date on the latest books her students might enjoy."

"Well," he said, "I don't like talking out of turn . . ."

Sure you do, I thought.

"But I saw her sneaking around the bookshop a few days before the murder, peeking in the windows after hours. Why was she doing that? Not to get ideas for the classroom, that's for sure. My guess? She was trying to find a secret way in."

A niggling sensation ran down my spine as I recalled Chloe saying Piper had seemed more than curious about the murder—so curious, in fact, that she'd come into the shop Sunday under the pretense of needing consoling and asked to see exactly where Marigold died. Was I wrong about her? Did a killer lurk beneath the surface of her sweet personality?

"Quinby, there's no way she killed Marigold," Stella said. "No way."

I hoped she was right.

"Why, I saw—"

"Shut it, Stella!" Quinby said sharply.

The bookshop went deadly quiet. Tegan handed Quinby Canfield his money. He didn't thank her and left with a huff.

When the door banged closed behind him, we all heaved a collective sigh.

"What a tornado!" I exclaimed.

"He's always been like that," Lillian said. "He has a beef against everyone and everything. "

"FYI," Stella said, "his kid is a slacker. I know that's not nice to say, but he won't apply himself."

"How does Quinby make a living?" Lillian asked. "I mean, I know he's a landscaper, but I don't know how he makes a go of it. Everything he plants dies."

"He lives frugally." Stella paid for her items, accepted a bag from Chloe, and waved good-bye.

When the door swung shut, Tegan said, "Why would Quinby lash out against Piper? So what if he saw her in the area? Lots of people roam these streets."

Lillian said, "Well, to be truthful, Piper can be secretive."

Being secretive didn't make her a killer. We all kept secrets. The diaries that were wedged between my mattress were filled with them, like the time I'd downed a dozen donuts one Sunday morning at the age of ten, or having a crush on Finn Parker in sixth grade, or making a death wish in tenth grade for Heather What's-her-name. To this day, I couldn't remember her last name. I'd hated her because she told lies about me. The list went on. I was no saint. And I was definitely no angel. But I wasn't a killer.

"Lillian, how is Piper secretive?" Tegan asked as she started to ring up Stella's books.

Lillian zipped the dress bag. "Well, I was making a home delivery in her neck of the woods the other day, a really lovely ensemble that her neighbor ordered for a theater event, and I saw Piper with a younger man. They were standing just inside her front door. Hugging. When she saw me glancing her way, she closed the door."

"How much younger?" Tegan asked.

"Over sixteen but under twenty-one. Her arms were around him."

"He was most likely one of the students she tutors," Tegan reasoned. "I'll bet she was comforting him because he got a bad grade or something. "

Lillian clucked her tongue. "It didn't look like a mercy hug to me, but what do I know?"

Uh-uh. I wouldn't go there. Piper was not having an affair with a student, even an of-age student. On the other hand, I swallowed hard, if she was and Marigold found out, would Piper have killed her to keep the secret?