CHAPTER 17

C HAPTER 17

"We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him."

—Mr. Bennet, in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice

C ool breath ballooned between Vanna's bright red lips. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Are you trying to steal one of my clients?"

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

"You're a sly one, Allie Catt. I know what you did regarding my aunt. You cozied up to her and made her trust you. That's why she gave you a quarter of the—"

"Stop, Vanna!" I held up my hand like a righteous Cher in Clueless might , Clueless being the movie reboot of Emma. "Why don't you like me? Ever since I met you, you've been mean to me. Is it because Tegan is my friend and not yours?"

"She's my sister."

"But not your friend. The two of you have never been warm to one another and that makes you mad, doesn't it? In fact, it makes you jealous of anyone who is her friend."

"Get real."

"She could use your support right now. She really misses your aunt."

"So do I." Her lower lip pushed forward.

"Then start acting respectful. Of me. Of Tegan." My friend was not guilty. Not, not, not. "And vis-à-vis your clients, I will never poach them. You've got your style of catering and I have mine. Never the twain shall meet. Now, feed your own ego. I'm busy."

"Allie, be assured I've got my eye on you."

"Ouch! That must hurt." I mimed plucking it off me. "Would you like it back?"

She bristled.

"FYI, if you're willing to help, Vanna, we could use some eyes on a certain someone who lives across the street from your aunt."

"Who?"

"Graham Wynn. Since you're going to be around there with the Realtor, take notes . . . if you know how to write."

I didn't wait for her response and hurried away from the festival. The thought of listening to cheery music with Vanna anywhere in the vicinity was turning my stomach sour, not to mention I was kicking myself for hurling such a petty response. Yes, I liked to be witty, but not cruel.

In bed, I struggled to sleep, not because I was rehashing my encounter with Vanna—I'd apologize the next time I saw her—but because I was wondering how I could have handled the conversation with Zach better. Needless to say, I couldn't come up with an answer. He didn't want me prying. I didn't want a murderer to go free.

When I awoke at five a.m., Darcy growled at me. Positioned by my feet, he was plainly not pleased with my nightlong nonstop movement.

"Go to sleep," I muttered. "I'm not going to Dream Cuisine. I'm going to cook here. You can be a lazybones, if you want."

After dressing in sweats, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and my comfy UGG slippers, I prepared Darcy's meal, set it by the dining table, reentered the kitchen, and closed the Plexiglas door. I donned an apron and queued up Taylor Swift's "A Place in This World." By the time she reached the second verse, I was singing along full blast, which helped eliminate the tension in my shoulders.

Shortbread cookies were fairly easy to make. Some I would deliver to customers. Others were tests for Tegan's approval, because I'd be serving them at the memorial. I began organizing ingredients on the counter, and my cell phone pinged. It was my mother, paying no mind as to what time it was in the US. Granted, she knew I kept baker's hours, but texting someone at the crack of dawn was rude.

Fern: Checking in. Your father says hello. Any progress on the case?

I bit back a smile. The case, meaning the investigation?

Me: The police aren't sharing.

I didn't want to go into detail about Zach shutting me down. I was still shivering from his icy good-bye.

Fern: See? I was right. Are you looking into it?

Me: In my own way.

Fern: Be dogged, cookie. That's the single most effective way to accomplish anything. Ta-ta.

Ta-ta, meaning so long, I am busy-busy. Where was she now, anyway? South Africa? India? Bali? Or still in Timbuktu? I didn't reply.

While mixing the butter and sugar in a stand mixer, I wondered how dogged I could be without losing Zach as a friend. Not very, I determined, but I wouldn't let up. Marigold deserved justice, and Tegan was once again on his radar. I reviewed my conversation with him and realized I hadn't mentioned Quinby's accusation to him. Did he consider Piper a suspect? Of course not. Why would he? She'd had no obvious beef with Marigold, and all I had to offer was hearsay from a disgruntled father of a student. On the other hand, Lillian claimed Piper could be secretive. She'd seen Piper embracing a young man. And Chloe said Piper came into the shop and asked to see the spot where Marigold died.

Curiosity was one thing. Morbid curiosity was another.

I switched off the mixer and sifted flour and salt into a separate bowl, reflecting as I did that Zach hadn't given me a chance to ask whether he'd had a conversation with Katrina or discovered why Marigold had wanted to hire Oly Olsen as an investigator. Had she wanted Oly to search for the missing ring? Or to dig up some dirt on a competitor? Or to suss out juicy or damaging information about someone on the community theater foundation board?

Darcy put his nose to the Plexiglas door.

" Oho! Now I can be of service to you, sir?" I teased. "Fine. Are you still hungry?"

Silly question. Of course, he was.

I scooped tuna into his bowl, then returned to the kitchen, washed my hands, and continued with my baking. I added the flour blend to the butter mixture, while musing that piecing together clues of an investigation was akin to baking. You had to add ingredients gingerly, and you couldn't try to speed up the process or you could spoil the whole thing.

My stomach grumbled. I turned out the dough onto a piece of parchment paper, which I'd dusted with flour, pressed it into a flat round, wrapped it in plastic, placed it in the refrigerator to chill, set my black cat–themed kitchen timer to thirty minutes, and pulled out items to make myself breakfast.

First I brewed a pot of coffee. I liked it strong, almost twice as strong as anyone I knew. I poured myself a cup—I'd have two—and drank it as I made a batch of scrambled eggs and a slice of toast. The aroma of bread browning reminded me that I had an order for twelve extra-long loaves of sourdough bread to be delivered to Big Mama's Diner a week from Saturday—the same day as the memorial. The diner was offering free slices of hero sandwiches to the donors of a fund-raiser that would honor the firemen of Bramblewood. I peeked in on the sourdough starter, which I stored in a glassware mason jar in the fridge. I kept another at Dream Cuisine. This one had the right color and consistency.

Sitting at the kitchen counter, I dug into my meal and reviewed messages on my phone. I'd received a couple of new orders for tomorrow. No last-minute ones for today, thank heavens. I saw a message from Tegan to call her, and out of the blue, a memory of Marigold came to me. Tegan and I, both twelve, were sitting in Marigold's backyard, drinking iced tea and dining on sugar cookies, while boning up for a book report that Tegan and I had to give in tandem. The book was Murder on the Orient Express. Marigold urged us to think about the clues and the suspects' motives. She wouldn't feed us any of the answers. By the end of our session, we knew for certain which motives were correct. To drive the point home, Marigold said mysteries were life lessons. Paying attention to clues and attributing motives would help us solve problems throughout our lives.

The memory made me refocus on her murder. Tegan did not kill her, but I was not going to loop my friend in on Zach's recent reveal. She didn't need the stress.

Therefore, I was on my own. Who were the suspects? So far, all I had come up with were Graham, Katrina, and Piper. I didn't like Vanna as a person, but I was certain she hadn't killed her aunt, and Evelyn Evers had a solid alibi.

"Hmm," I said to Darcy, who was staring intently through the door at me, "like Tegan, I might need to do a deep dive on the three on my list."

He mewed disdainfully.

"Can you come up with a better idea?"

His tail swished the air.

"Yeah. Didn't think so. "

I dialed Tegan. When she didn't answer, I left a message, and then preheated the oven and moved to my laptop computer, which I kept on the island in the kitchen. I opened the lid and brought it to life. I perched on a stool, created a new Word document, and typed in the basics Tegan had discovered about Graham Wynn: GamePlay, his place of business, his parking ticket record, no father, his mother was a nurse, he liked to gamble, he had an altercation in college, he had never been married. I added what I knew about him: gamer, reader of clerical fiction, smoker, argued with Marigold. I'd bet dimes to dollars that the argument was not about the way he trimmed his hedges. I doubted it was about his home's color scheme, either. Had they argued about his drug use? What else might give him motive for murder?

I launched the Internet and typed Graham's name into the search engine bar. I added GamePlay plus owner . Myriad links and images materialized. Two links led to articles. One about GamePlay's opening day ten years ago. Another about the set-to Graham had in college. I clicked on the article and read what Tegan must have seen—Graham giving the specifics about how he was raised, which made him spend lots of time playing video games. There were dozens of photographs included with the article of teens, as well as adults, primarily of the male persuasion, eager to enter the store. Each customer was holding a golden ticket, like the ones tendered in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Graham, who must have been about thirty at the time, looked as gleeful as Willy Wonka himself.

The second article told the story of Graham and another boy going at it with fists. Graham, being a hothead, had started the fight, but the other boy did not press charges. Why had they fought? Had the boy teased Graham for his fresh-faced looks? I re-read the notes I'd written regarding Tegan's search and paused at the mention of Graham's mother. A nurse might have known tetrahydrozoline was poisonous. Had she clued Graham in before she died?

I focused on Katrina Carlson. A single article emerged. The Brewery had featured her in one of its public-relations profiles for its waitstaff. The article claimed Katrina was one of the most popular bartenders the Brewery had ever had, adding that she delighted in listening to people's stories, which I already knew. What I didn't know was that she'd always wanted to become a therapist, but she hadn't finished college. When asked why, she said her mother had suffered from mental issues and had needed Katrina's round-the-clock care. Though Katrina had no website or major social media presence, there were pictures of her at the Brewery and others of her and her ex-boyfriend, Upton Scott, a scruffy-looking heartbreaker, at a theater production. One photograph showed her at a party held at Feast for the Eyes for historical-romance aficionados. Marigold had loved posting snapshots of get-togethers. I zoomed in on some of the pictures and noticed Katrina was wearing a bracelet I hadn't seen her wear. Like Marigold, she adored her bling, though I doubted any would claim the price tag of Marigold's pieces. What did she and Marigold argue about? What secret was she hiding?

The timer jangled. I needed to roll out the dough. I stood up and stretched my arms and hands before setting to work. I preferred using two pieces of parchment paper when rolling out dough, one below and one on top. That way, dough didn't stick to the rolling pin. In a matter of minutes, I shaped the dough to the half-inch thickness I preferred. Using a smooth-edged shortbread cookie cutter, I cut out twenty-four cookies, rolling the scraps of dough once more and cutting those into shapes to make the tasting batch. Rolling scraps didn't harm the flavor of the dough, but sometimes the cookies wound up firmer . For my purposes with Tegan, I simply wanted her to approve the taste. For the memorial, as for my clients, I'd make sure the texture was perfect. I arranged the cookies on the cookie sheet and placed the sheet in the preheated oven.

After resetting the timer for eighteen minutes, I went to my computer and typed Piper Lowry's name in the browser's search line. Why had she wanted to see the crime scene at the bookshop? Was she the killer and worried she'd left a clue?

She was quite active on social media. I assumed that was because she was a teacher and wanted to stay up-to-date with her students' activities. Most of her posts were on Facebook, with photographs of school events, like plays and track meets. Was she an athlete? I didn't see any pictures of her in running gear. She owned a gray-haired cat, which she obviously treasured. Two-thirds of her images were of her kissing that cat. There were a few snapshots of her with her arms around what I presumed were students—both boys and girls. None of the students seemed perturbed or uneasy. Piper also shared images of books she'd read. Many were from the Golden Age of Detective Fiction. There were a few books that, based on the cover art, I would peg as YA novels. I hadn't read them. She'd posted a few images of books about dance, but I wasn't familiar with any of them, except Dance to the Piper , written by Agnes de Mille, the famous choreographer. Had Piper read that one because her name was cited in the title or because she'd once aspired to be a ballerina?

I searched the links for interviews that might shed light on her personality and found one written by another teacher who wanted Piper to share her tricks of the trade. In the Q&A, Piper said that her mother, an English teacher, had given her invaluable advice over the years, and her father, an elementary-school principal—not hers, fortunately, she'd added glibly—had been one of the kindest men in the world and always had something positive to tell a student. I gathered from the use of the past tense that both parents were deceased. She had two sisters, who became teachers. It was in the family blood. She'd been married once, but she and her ex, also a teacher, parted amicably. She had no children. In view of everything I'd read, I couldn't wrap my head around Piper being a killer, but as Dennell said at dinner the other night, Nice people kill. Piper would be alert to students misusing drugs. She might know which over-the-counter items were deadly.

Darcy meowed. He was gazing at me with such seriousness.

Was he tapping into my mind and questioning my reasoning? Was he trying to tell me there was someone I'd overlooked? To be honest, I felt as stumped as I had when reading And Then There Were None. There had been lots of suspects, but not one had a clear-cut motive to kill.

Think outside the box, readers, Marigold would urge us at book club discussions.

"Okay," I muttered, as if she was in the room with me.

Was it possible Marigold's murder was, as Zach theorized, a robbery gone wrong?

Katrina didn't finish college because her mother needed round-the-clock care, but perhaps funds had been the real issue. If Graham's business was suffering, he, too, could use an influx of money. What about Piper? Was she flush or in need?

Hercule Poirot claimed, "In conversation, points arise! If a human being converses much, it is impossible for him to avoid the truth."

"That's it!" I said. "I need to get these suspects to talk to me, but how?"

Darcy rose on his hind legs and batted the door with one raised paw. Was he giving me a high five in agreement?

Out of the blue, I remembered Marigold advising Tegan and me, after our friend's mother died in a tragic accident, to reach out to our friend, adding, No one needs to mourn alone. I could call Katrina and sympathize with her about losing Marigold in hopes of getting her to chat, but the ploy hadn't worked on Graham when we'd conversed at the bookshop. Quite the contrary.

Deciding Katrina, given her work schedule, probably slept in until noon, I opted to call Piper again, to bat around theories as she'd suggested before she'd cut me off last time. I hadn't memorized her number, so I opened the file Tegan had sent me with the shop's customers' emails and phone numbers, found her contact, and dialed.

Her phone rang three times before she answered. "Hello?" She sounded breathy.

"Hi, Piper, it's Allie Catt."

"Oh, Allie," she said, her tone instantly sorrowful. "I've been meaning to call you back, but I've been so busy. I haven't come up with any theories as to who might have killed Marigold, if that's why you're calling. It just doesn't make sense."

"Actually, I was calling to console you," I fibbed. "Chloe said you swung by the shop Sunday. You seemed grief-stricken." It felt too bold to mention that she'd wanted to see the crime scene. "I wish I could've given you a hug." I nearly choked on the word "hug , " remembering how Lillian had seen Piper embracing a younger man. "How are you holding up?"

"Like you, I miss Marigold something fierce. She was so wonderful. Her leadership on the theater foundation board was remarkable. I wish . . ." She sniffed. "I wish I'd come to the shop earlier Saturday morning, instead of staying home to grade papers. If I had, maybe . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"We all wish we could have saved her."

She exhaled softly, but didn't add anything more.

"Were you home alone that morning?" I asked, and silently berated myself, knowing Hercule Poirot would have clicked his tongue at my lack of finesse. But how else could I coax out the answer ?

After a long moment, Piper said, "Yes, I was alone. I'm not married."

Did she think I cared if she spent the night with a boyfriend?

"Alone," she repeated, to drive home the point.

That was when I knew she was hiding something.