CHAPTER 16

C HAPTER 16

"I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine ."

—Elizabeth Bennet, in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice

B y the time I got home, I was dog-tired, but I couldn't go to bed. Not only because it was early—seven p.m.—but because Darcy wouldn't let me, considering the way he was pacing the floor. He wasn't starving. He was in need of attention.

"Really, sir?" I grumbled, picking him up and staring into his eyes. "Sometimes I swear you are a dog. Feline lesson number one: Cats aren't supposed to mind that their humans go away for hours at a time."

I carried him to my bedroom and told him about my day, filling him in on what Tegan had uncovered and complaining that I was frustrated with the police. Why hadn't they come up with the killer's identity by now?

My cell phone chimed. Zach was calling. Had he sensed my dismay? Were we that in tune? No, not possible. Like Tegan would say, "Cool your jets, Allie."

I answered after one ring. "Evening. Got the killer?"

He sighed. "Allie, murder investigations take time."

Did they? I'd never known anyone who was murdered. On TV, the cases were solved within days, and in nearly all the mysteries I read, the killer was brought to justice by the final page. Not the cold cases, of course. Those could take years. I prayed that wouldn't be the situation this time.

"What's up, then?" I asked, quelling my disappointment.

"I wondered if you'd like to get something to eat at the Celtic Festival. It's not super cold out. We shouldn't freeze. But if you'd rather not—"

"I'd love to." Though I was tired, I did want to spend time with him, and yes, I hoped I could pick his brain and give him a clue he hadn't thought of. For instance, I hadn't told him about Quinby Canfield accusing Piper of killing Marigold, and I wasn't sure I'd mentioned the historical suspense story I'd found on Marigold's computer. I said, "I'll meet you in front of the rec center in thirty."

I placed Darcy on top of the comforter, did a quick cleanup because I smelled like a baker who had delivered goods and sold books all day—an odd combo, to be sure—and slipped into a sage-green turtleneck and light sweater. Darcy watched me with obvious displeasure. I pulled a similar face and stuck out my tongue. "Feline lesson number two: You may be judgmental but don't gloat."

He trilled something.

I trotted to him and scrubbed him under his chin. "Yes, I know. You are the love of my life, too. You make me feel treasured."

Without budging his body, his tail flipped up and plopped down on the comforter.

"I'll be home soon," I said, and went on foot to the Bramblewood Park and Rec Center.

Like a Renaissance fair, the Celtic Festival would include live music, food and beverages, face painting, arts and crafts, and organized chats to help attendees learn about Celtic history and traditions. As a girl of Irish descent, I'd often wondered if being a Celt was the same as being Irish, but I learned in my teens that wasn't the case. The Celts were a group of people, while Ireland was a nation, not to mention that the Celts once spanned Eastern and Central Europe, but many were wiped out by the Roman Empire, or they conformed to other cultures. The traditionally Celtic nations now included Wales, Scotland, and Ireland, as well as Brittany in France and Catalonia in Spain.

I approached the rec center, an auditorium-sized space where the town often held concerts, and I paused to drink in the festive atmosphere. White tents, open-air booths, and pop-up dining stations were everywhere. Cheerful bagpipe music was droning through speakers. People in colorful folk dance costumes were swirling around a maypole. Attendees were roaming about in traditional kilts and tams or in period costumes, the women's clothing quite similar to dresses worn during the Regency Era.

Seeing all the costumes made me wonder how Lillian was doing with orders for the memorial. Right then, as if I'd conjured her out of thin air, I spotted her near the pop-up Nectar Café chatting with the same twenty-something actress she'd dined with at the Brewery the other night. They were standing near an outdoor heater. Lillian sported a kilt, a puffy-sleeved blouse, knee stockings, and a tam. Her friend was in a lovely blue gown and shawl.

"Lillian, hello!" I called as I approached. I didn't see Zach and decided I'd stay put so he could find me.

Lillian introduced me to her friend Yvonne, who was slim and winsome, with a Cupid's-bow mouth and loose updo that enhanced her cheekbones. Both women were sipping a golden liquid, with cinnamon swizzle sticks poking from their glasses. Cider, I determined.

"Your costumes are gorgeous," I said.

"Thanks," Yvonne replied. She had a slight accent, which I couldn't place. Eastern European was my guess. "I'm going to play Hermia in A Midsummer Night's Dream next month, and I'll wear this."

"I'll have to come see it." I enjoyed Shakespeare's plays, in particular the comedies.

"How are you holding up, Allie?" Lillian asked. "I heard the scuttlebutt. You're now part owner of the bookshop?"

I wondered who'd told her. Not Vanna. She would have been mortified to share that tidbit. Possibly Chloe, without guile.

"Busy lady." Lillian's face grew grim. "Any word on . . . you know . . . Marigold's murder? Have they found who did it?"

"No. I'm meeting Detective Armstrong in a few minutes."

"Oh?" She gave me a sly smirk. "Are you two an item?"

"We're friends," I said flatly. For now. Who knew what the future might hold?

"Are you feeding him theories? Tegan said you and she were batting around ideas."

Aha! Tegan was Lillian's source. We'd have to chat. "No. I'm not feeding him anything, except the occasional cookie."

Lillian laughed and grew serious again. "Tegan mentioned something about Katrina Carlson and Marigold having an argument."

Tegan needs to zip her lips, I mused. Whatever clues we dug up were for the police—and only the police.

"I know Katrina pretty well," Yvonne remarked. "I cannot imagine her arguing with anyone, but if her boyfriend, Upton—I should say her ex-boyfriend—was involved, it is likely." She made a dismissive sound.

"You know him?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. He is a photographer. He takes all the photos for the theater productions. She used to come to the theater to watch him in action."

"Upton has done some work for me, too," Lillian said. "For my website. "

"I do not wonder that Katrina has broken up with him," Yvonne went on. "He is stuck on himself, if that is the term. He thinks he is the next Florin Ghioca."

"Who?" Lillian and I asked in unison.

"A renowned theater photographer in Romania."

"That's a thing?" I asked.

"Indeed," Yvonne said. "Theater photography is quite unique. Ghioca knows everything about how to work with dim lighting, angles, and live action. He also has photography exhibitions and gives master classes. He is brilliant. Upton Scott cannot hold a candle to him."

Yvonne's assertion rang true, making me wonder if Katrina's secret had something to do with her ex. Maybe she'd wronged him or hurt his career, and Marigold found out. Thinking about theater people made me also reflect on Evelyn Evers and her alibi for Saturday morning.

"Say, Yvonne, do you know Evelyn Evers?" I asked.

"Yes, of course!" She beamed and clapped a hand to her chest. "She is the glue that holds the theater together. A marvelous woman. A mentor to many. Why do you ask?"

"She told our friend Tegan"—I motioned between Lillian and myself—"that she was working on set design early Saturday morning."

"We all were. We worked through the night. The production of Annie Get Your Gun goes up next weekend. We were falling behind. I do not sing or I would have auditioned for it."

Well, that settled that. Yvonne's testimony exonerated Evelyn. The young woman had no reason to lie.

A bell chimed, signaling the beginning of a musical session inside the rec center.

Lillian said, "Allie, listen, if there's anything other than the costumes that I can do for the memorial to help Tegan or Noeline or you, you have to tell me."

Gratitude clogged my throat. I croaked out, "Thank you. By the way, how are the costumes going? Are many people getting in the spirit?"

"Honey, you have no clue. So far, there are over fifty who want to dress up to honor her."

"That's great to hear. She would be so pleased."

"Ooh!" Lillian snapped her fingers. "I almost forgot. I'm having a soiree in two weeks. At my house. A dozen people. Will you cater it? They're not fussy, but they're clothing reps that I'd like to impress."

"Allie!" Zach was wending through a knot of silent bagpipers filing out of the hall.

"I'll send you the details," Lillian said, and blew me a kiss.

Yvonne flicked her fingers as a good-bye, and they went inside.

Zach looked as handsome as ever, his cheeks ruddy, his gaze direct and warm, though I could see he'd been concentrating. Hard. His forehead was creased, and the lines between his eyebrows were deep. "You didn't don a costume?" he teased.

"Gee, if only I had a costume at the ready," I said, making a mental note to ask Lillian if I could purchase the sage-green one she was altering for me. "Have you decided whether you're dressing in costume for Marigold's memorial?"

"I'm considering it." He clasped my elbow. "How about a beer?"

"I'd love a tasting of scotch." I saw a vendor across the way and steered Zach in that direction. "I seldom drink hard liquor, but it sounds like a perfect match for tonight's cool weather."

"Why, Miss Darcy, I do declare you're taking my breath away."

"Wrong," I chided. "I'd be Miss Bennet. You'd be Mr . Darcy." I squinted at him as we waited to purchase two tastings of single malt scotch. "I know you're well-read. How did you miss out on Pride and Prejudice ?"

"In high school, if it wasn't required reading, I didn't do it. I was a B student who dreamed of being an A student, but I didn't have the dedication to work harder."

"And now?"

"I'm as hard a worker as anyone you'll meet, and nobody since college has ever asked me my GPA." He grinned and purchased our drinks, which were provided in disposable shot glasses, and then we continued on through the arts-and-crafts booths, browsing various wares, like hand-tooled leather belts and hand-carved pipes. "So tell me why you're enthralled with the story."

"I'd say it's because of the theme of classism."

"Explain."

"The novel suggests that though class determines one's social standing, it's arbitrary and doesn't account for one's behavior."

"I can agree with that."

"Jane Austen emphasized how rules and prejudices influenced people's lives and decisions. For example, Mr. Darcy was disagreeable and awkward in social situations and considered himself above the fray when it came to others not of his class."

"Thus, he was proud."

"Exactly. Therefore, to Elizabeth and her family, the charming Wickham was a better catch. However, in the end, it appeared Darcy was misunderstood."

"How so?"

"He was honest and truthful, he helped Elizabeth's sister out of a prickly situation with no fanfare to himself, and he was intensely amiable when it came to Lizzie, while the duplicitous Wickham turned out to be a cad of the lowest order."

Zach studied his scotch. "I've known a few cads over the years."

That intrigued me. I sipped my drink and said, "I don't know much about you. Care to explain."

"How about over dinner? "

"Yes, please." Was this a date? An official date? I was reluctant to ask.

We passed a booth offering an array of Celtic jewelry. One necklace looked similar to mine. The vendor tried to sell me a matching ring. I declined.

At the pop-up food site named the Pint House, we perused the handwritten menu.

"I'd love shepherd's pie," I said, adding it to the list of foods I intended to make for the memorial. It was a hearty dish that originated in Ireland and the UK, consisting of ground meat, onions, potatoes, and carrots, all baked in a mashed potato crust.

"I'll try the mac-and-cheese pie," Zach said, "and I'll share if you'll give me a bite of yours."

"Done, but I'm warning you, I make a killer mac 'n' cheese, and this one won't compare."

"You'll have to cook me dinner someday."

"When you grill me a steak," I countered.

He purchased our meals and two bottles of water, and we sat at one of the common seating wood-plank tables, alongside a pair of musicians resting from their bagpiping duties. They were holding a private conversation that sounded heated and scooted to the far end of the table.

I took a bite of the pie and swooned. The mashed potato crust was laced with cheddar cheese. "Zach, earlier you said you've known a few cads. Care to explain? Were you married and some loser ran off with your wife?"

"No. Nothing like that. I . . ." His face pinched with a painful memory. He stirred his mac-and-cheese pie with his fork, but didn't eat. He pushed the dish away and leaned forward on his elbows, hands folded on the table. "I was married. You were right on that count, but she passed away fifteen years ago."

"I'm so sorry."

"We met in high school. The day after we graduated, we married. I was eighteen. A year later, she died of COPD complications."

"How awful." I reached over to touch his arm. "Did you know she was sick?"

"Yes. We decided whatever time we had together would be worth it. Six months after her death, I joined the army. As for the cad comment"—his shoulders rose and fell—"my younger sister dated more than her share of losers over the years. With my dad gone, I was in charge of shooing them away. She hated me for that, until she met her current husband. Husband number two." He pulled his arms from beneath my hands and dug into his food. "Carpe diem. Seize the day," he said between bites. "Life is too short to waste a moment of it."

"Your father—"

"Passed when I was sixteen. He was a heavy smoker. I've never lit up in my life."

"And your mother?"

"She rebounded after Dad died and put all her efforts into opening a restaurant. She owns Jukebox Joint."

"No way. I thought she was a farmer."

"Grandpa was the farmer. Mom couldn't wait to leave the nest and forge her own path. When Dad was alive, she managed a couple of restaurants, but she couldn't find the courage to start one of her own."

I'd been to the Joint, as locals called it. It was known for its tasty barbecue. I looked at Zach harder, trying to see the resemblance. Like him, his mother had dark hair and bright eyes, but she was petite and delicate. He must have gotten his strapping physique from his father.

I said, "I've been trying to land the Joint as a customer. The desserts menu is limited."

"I know," he said sheepishly. "She plans to call you soon."

A bard in a Tudor flat cap, brown cape, canvas pants, and ankle-high leather boots jauntily strolled past our table playing a tune on a lute. He wasn't singing, but he was humming in a throaty baritone voice. He tipped his head and winked at me.

"Seems someone has forgotten the words," Zach said, mock-jealousy in his tone.

I laughed. "Don't worry. I don't date anyone who wears a feather in his cap."

Oops. I'd said the forbidden word . . . "date." What was I thinking?

We both grew quiet and ate our meals .

After a long moment, I said, "What more have you unearthed about Graham Wynn? By the way, he has a bandage on his arm. Did Marigold scratch her killer?"

Zach's gaze grew flinty. "You're going there? Really? You want to hear about the investigation? We were having such a good time."

I grinned, but my smile faded quickly, because he wasn't kidding. He was ticked off. His cheek was twitching the same way my father's would when I didn't complete a homework assignment. I held up both hands. "Please don't be mad. I simply wanted to tell you what Tegan dug up on him."

"Why was Tegan looking into him?"

"Because she wants her aunt's killer to be brought to justice as much as I do, and he's on her suspect list. After his neighbor mentioned that he might be into drugs—"

"You never told me that."

No, I didn't, because I hadn't taken the accusation seriously. Years ago, a friend in college had been into drugs, and his eyes were always rheumy, as if he'd checked out. Whenever I'd talked to Graham, his eyes had been clear. On the other hand, if he wasn't doing drugs, but he was selling them . . . Hmm. "Have you questioned Celia Harrigan?" I asked.

"Bates did. Like me, he thinks she's a rumormonger."

Why dismiss her out of hand? I wondered, but let it go.

"FYI, there was no scratch on Graham Wynn's arm," Zach said. "He got a new tattoo. "

Like I'd first surmised. Rats. "What about the people who had keys to the bookshop, you know, security people and such?"

"All cleared. All have alibis."

"Ruling out suspects is important, right?"

"Allie."

"As for Tegan," I said to divert him. "She's an ace researcher. It's the almost librarian in her."

"Almost?"

"She intended to become one, but when she started working at Feast for the Eyes, she fell in love with bookselling and working alongside her aunt. Even so, she never lost the skills she honed in her undergraduate library science studies." I took another bite of my meal and offered Zach a taste. He declined. "If Graham is somehow involved with drugs, does that put him back on your radar?"

"Let's discuss Tegan," he said.

The way he said it made my blood go cold. "Okay."

"You should know she's the one on my radar."

"What?" I squeaked. "Why? You heard Dennell on Tuesday—"

"The delivery guy for Big Mama's Diner didn't see or hear her at Ms. Watkins's apartment."

"But he brought two cups of coffee."

"Which Ms. Watkins could have ordered."

"Tegan doesn't lie."

"Maybe not. Or perhaps you don't know her very well."

"Only all my life!" I retorted, taking umbrage.

Zach grew quiet.

I would not— could not—think Tegan was guilty of murder. The sheer notion made me shudder.

"Cold? Want my jacket?" Zach asked.

"No thanks. I was remembering . . ."

How mad was he going to be if I spilled the beans about me driving through Marigold's neighborhood? Plenty, I decided, but I laid it all out, including the bit about Graham having a smoke on his porch. "He might have seen me, and he might have thought my presence meant I knew something, and he might have come to my place to frighten me."

"That's a heck of a lot of mights, Allie. Why are you taking risks? It's my job to investigate—" He sucked in air. "Wait! Hold on. He came to your place?"

"I'm not sure. Later that night, I heard a clack and thump outside my house, and then my front door flew open. I figured it was the wind and shut and barricaded the door. I did a tour of the house, peeking out windows. I didn't see anyone lurking about. However, in the morning, I saw a muddy footprint on the porch that wasn't mine, and my first thought was that Graham must have spotted me in his neighborhood and followed me home." I waved a hand. "I've tried to dismiss the footprint, telling myself that my gardener left it, but I can't shake the feeling about Graham."

"You think he came to silence you because you were spying on him?"

"I wasn't spying."

Zach worked his tongue inside his cheek. "I could have my team take a look at the print."

"I'm afraid that's a bust, because I obliterated it. Accidentally. Not on purpose," I added quickly. "I didn't notice the print until I was on a ladder fixing a shutter, and seeing the print spooked me, and I tumbled off." My shoulder still smarted, though icing it had been the best course of action.

Zach's nostrils flared. With anger? Frustration? Concern? He collected his barely eaten food, strode to the nearest garbage receptacle, and tossed it in.

I followed and threw away my trash. "Zach, I've been meaning to ask why you sent me a frowning-face emoji when I texted you asking whether the poison that killed Marigold was found in the water bottle taken from the crime scene. "

"Look, Allie"—he whirled around—"I don't want you butting in where you shouldn't. I need you to stand down. You and, most particularly, Tegan." His tone was crisp. Official. "Understood?"

I nodded, but I didn't agree to his terms.

"By the way, you were right," he said.

"About the water being laced with poison?"

"The mac-and-cheese pie wasn't very good." He glanced at his watch. "I'm heading home. Want me to walk you to your place?"

"No, I'm fine on my own. I'd like to catch more of the music."

I watched him walk away, hands shoved into his pockets, and a sinking feeling formed in the pit of my stomach. Would he and I ever date again? If this really had been a date. Was I now persona non grata?

From behind, a woman hollered, "Allie!"

Expecting to see Lillian and Yvonne, I swung around. Vanna, in a faux-fur–collared navy plaid coat, slacks, silk blouse, and high-heeled ankle boots, was storming toward me. Her blue tam looked jaunty over her tresses of long blond hair, but her expression was filled with venom.

What did I do now? Dare to exist?