CHAPTER 19
C HAPTER 19
"I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."
—Elizabeth Bennet, in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice
N oeline tried to deter us, but Tegan was adamant about doing reconnaissance. I didn't dissuade her. Something about Graham bugged me, too. His prickly attitude the other day at the bookshop before Quinby accused Piper of murder grated on me. Granted, I'd put him on the spot because of what Celia Harrigan had said, but how could I not press? If I could prove he killed Marigold, Tegan was in the clear.
"I'll drive," Tegan said.
I climbed into her MINI Clubman and strapped on my seat belt. "What exactly do you hope to see when we get there?"
"Not sure. A lurker? A drug lord? A neon sign saying, I'm the killer! We'll pretend we're going to Auntie's. I've got a key. We'll observe his place from the living room."
"Didn't Vanna change the locks for the Realtor?"
Tegan shot me a look. "She'd better not have."
Oh, but she had. There was a lockbox on the door and a FOR SALE sign plugged into the lawn.
"Crud," Tegan muttered under her breath. "If we sit in the car, he'll spot us. I know what we can do." She drove on and parked around the corner. "We'll sneak to the front of my aunt's house and hide in the bushes."
"Tegan—"
"Shh."
We returned on foot. The cool night air nipped my cheeks. I drew my peacoat tighter around my body.
Hugging the side of Marigold's house, Tegan skirted the corner. I trailed her. She ducked into the evergreen bushes in front and pulled me to her. Luckily, they weren't thorny bushes.
An hour passed without incident. No comings. No goings. My fingers grew numb. I said, "Let's leave. I'll buy you a hot cocoa."
"No. You heard Mrs. Harrigan. I want to know what's up." Without giving me a warning, she darted across the street.
"Wait!" I rasped, loath to follow, but I had to. I couldn't let her go off half-cocked.
She flattened herself against the wall of Graham's house and inched along the side until she reached the corner near the rear. I remembered a time when we were girls and Tegan sneaked to a neighborhood at the south end of Bramblewood. She wanted to peek inside the witch's house. The old woman who owned it wasn't a witch, but the woman had straggly hair and bony hands and her Victorian home was gray and shabby, so Tegan often joked that the old crone ate children for breakfast. Tegan had wanted to see what the witch was cooking for supper. She'd hoped it would be Vanna.
"See anything?" I whispered.
"Nothing," she said, peeking past the corner.
I peered around her. Graham's house was laid out like Marigold's, with the kitchen facing the rear yard and a screened-in porch jutting off the kitchen's dining area. The porch was dark. "It's quiet. No loiterers. Case closed. Let's scoot."
"Wait. A light went on. I see a shadow moving inside the room."
"For all you know, Graham is practicing dance moves. C'mon, Tegan, let's skedaddle." I clasped her shoulder. "We're trespassing."
But she didn't heed my advice. She wrestled free and tiptoed toward the porch.
Suddenly a dog snarled. In an instant, a huge, ugly thing barreled through a dog portal, which neither of us had noticed carved into the porch door.
"Tegan, run!" I clutched her elbow and steered her toward the street. When I'd played basketball, we'd had to practice sprints, but we'd never trained by running away from a vicious mutt. I was surprised by how fast I was . . . and how Tegan was keeping pace.
The dog barreled after us, grunting and slavering. To be fair, I couldn't be sure it was slavering, but the foamy sounds it was making led me to believe it was as dangerous as all get-out and eager to taste our blood.
In record time, we reached Tegan's car. She flicked it open with her key fob. We barreled inside and closed the doors.
The dog landed its paws on the driver's-side window. Tegan yelped. I shrieked.
Upon second glance, the dog wasn't as big as I'd imagined. In fact, it most likely weighed forty or fifty pounds, but it was a pit bull, and as a girl I'd had a run-in with a pit bull, the kind of encounter that had left a half-inch scar on the underside of my chin, so I wasn't a fan. I loved golden retrievers and Labradors and, well, any kind that was gentle—"gentle" being the operative word. Don't hate me, pit bull owners.
Tegan pressed the button to start the Clubman and jammed the car into gear. The dog dropped to all fours, squealed its displeasure, and cut around the corner, out of sight.
When we arrived at the Blue Lantern, Tegan's fingers were clutching the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white.
"S-sorry," she said, rubbing her hands to restore circulation. "I will never put you in danger again. "
I patted her shoulder. "Yes, you will. You love living on the edge as long as it doesn't require public speaking."
She grunted.
I gazed sideways at her, fear for my friend simmering within me. "Tegan, I've got to tell you something."
Needless to say, Tegan was upset to hear the diner's delivery guy couldn't support her alibi, but she remained adamant that she'd been with Dennell. She described in detail holding Dennell's hands while she suffered the shakes and dry heaves. I believed her and vowed I would clear her.
Later at home, after double-checking that the doors and windows on my place were closed and locked, I received a special order from Blessed Bean for raspberry-chocolate tarts—the sisters at Perfect Brew had raved about them. Deciding to bake here in the morning, I put together some dough mixtures and refrigerated them. An hour later, I climbed into bed, stared at the darkened ceiling, and rehashed the trek to Graham's house. Was his pit bull a self-starter, or had Graham seen Tegan and me outside and sicced the dog on us? Darcy picked up on my unease and cuddled close to me. His purring helped me drift off to slumberland.
When I roused at five o'clock Saturday morning, I did the reasonable thing and peeked out all the windows. Seeing the coast was clear, I slipped on some leggings, a college sweatshirt, and my UGGs, and stepped outside. Flashlight in hand, I made a tour of the house and breathed easier when I didn't find any suspicious footprints.
I went inside and fed Darcy, then made a slew of scones, cookies, and tarts, using the dough mixtures I'd put together before hitting the sack, and readied them for delivery.
At nine a.m., I changed into my work clothes and drove to Blessed Bean. To my surprise, Zach and his partner, Bates, were outside the café addressing a couple. Upon closer inspection, I realized the man in the denim jumpsuit was Quinby Canfield. His wife Candace, the singer with the shy, reserved voice, was standing by his side. She had huge, round eyes and a dimpled chin. Her coat was a mishmash of tweeds, like a throwback 1960s design. She held a guitar case in one hand and a to-go cup of something in the other. Had Zach stumbled upon Quinby and his wife on a morning coffee run, or had Zach known they would be there? Had he learned Quinby had accused Piper of murder? I'd missed the opportunity to tell him. Was he pressing Quinby as to why he'd say such a thing? Did Quinby have more to offer than he did the other day?
Zach caught sight of me and frowned. I parked on the street, retrieved the order of tarts, and, tray in hand, strode toward him.
"What are you doing here, Allie?" His voice was harsh. Cold. Clad in black, he looked ominous. To ease the tension that had crept into my shoulders and jaw just by being in the same vicinity as him, I imagined a cartoonish rain cloud hovering over his head and soaking him.
"I . . . I'm . . ." I sputtered. "I'm here on business. I'm delivering tarts." I held up the tray.
"Uh-huh," he said, but I could tell he didn't believe me.
"I'm not here to interrupt. ‘It's not personal . . . It's strictly business.' "
"Are you quoting The Godfather ?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. Are you impressed?" I offered a sassy grin.
He didn't react.
"See you." I reached for the door. With my hand on the handle, I said, "Hey, I've been meaning to ask, have you questioned Katrina Carlson? She—"
"Allie!"
Knowing my cheeks were blazing with embarrassment, I hurried inside and let the door swing shut. I didn't look back .
When I completed all my deliveries, I sped to Feast for the Eyes. I had one week until the memorial and needed to finalize the schedule for the event. While on my delivery route, Tegan had texted me to say Dennell and a couple of her friends were going door-to-door in Dennell's neighborhood to see if any of them had seen Tegan entering her home last Saturday morning. Giving her a thumbs-up, I then messaged her with a few of the particulars for the memorial. The tea would start at two. A quarter of an hour later, despite her fear of public speaking, to honor her aunt, Tegan would muster the courage to welcome the attendees. Noeline would say a few words about her sister. Vanna wanted to participate, so Tegan suggested she read a passage or two from Pride and Prejudice, but Tegan would moderate. She didn't want her sister to have an open mic to air grievances.
Now I needed to pin down when I would set up and determine how many servers and cleanup crew I'd need to hire. I also wanted to know who would say the closing words. Perhaps Tegan should invite the pastor from Marigold's church to speak.
When I entered the shop, Lillian was standing by the mystery aisle with Stella Burberry. There were people lingering in all of the other aisles, too, and a few were perusing books in the reading nook. Tegan and Chloe were at the sales counter, assisting customers.
"I brought a few goodies for taste-testing," I said quietly to them as I placed pastry boxes on the desk behind the sales counter. I hadn't brought enough for all the customers.
"Yum," Tegan said. "Exactly what we needed."
"For us, too?" Lillian asked as she and Stella made a beeline for me. Lillian had dolphinlike hearing, I decided. She offered a pretty please smile.
"Sure, okay, but keep it to yourselves." I opened the boxes and motioned to the shortbread cookies, pound cake, and the fresh batch of Maids of Honor. I'd also included some of the raspberry-chocolate tarts. To Tegan, I said, "By the way, I saw the police questioning Quinby Canfield this morning."
She took a piece of pound cake and bit into it. " Ooh, so good and rich. Saw them where?" she asked, nibbling more of her treat.
"Outside Blessed Bean on Mountain Road."
"I love that place." Stella unbuttoned the single button of her tailored jacket and brushed a crumb off her silk blouse. "Quinby's wife sings there."
"Oh?"
"She entertains at three other places, too," Stella added.
I must have been wrong about her being allowed to perform merely because she was a relative. I supposed my hearing could have been off, and the woman's voice was better than I'd remembered. I said, "Didn't you say Quinby was strapped for cash? If they're a two-income family, they should have plenty coming in."
"Folk singers don't make a lot," Stella said. "It's a gig job. Very iffy."
Tegan took a tart and bit into it. "Golly, Allie, your best yet. These will be a hit at the memorial."
"I'm not sure chocolate tarts are appropriate for the time period."
"Really?" she muttered. "Wasn't chocolate brought to Europe in the late 1500s?"
"Yes, but—"
"Back to Zach," she said, cutting me off. "Do you know what he was asking the Canfields?"
"I got the impression he'd stumbled upon them," I said. "Right place, right time."
"No handcuffs involved?" Lillian waved a shortbread cookie as she posed the question.
"No. Quinby isn't a suspect, as far as I know," I said. "He liked Marigold. It's Piper he wants to malign. I guess Zach was asking him why he suspected her."
Tegan said, "Allie spoke to Piper yesterday. She doesn't have an alibi for last Saturday morning."
"Why would she need one?" Stella asked. "There's no way she murdered Marigold. Like I started to say when I was here the other day, when Quinby rudely cut me off"—she sniffed—"I saw her that morning around seven thirty. In her house. With someone."
"She told me she was alone." I recalled how she had reiterated the word "alone," which had sent off alarm bells.
"That doesn't track," Stella said. "She was definitely with someone. And that someone was a man. Piper is no slouch, and the other person was a head taller."
"Could you make out his features?" I asked.
"I only saw shadows through the sheer drapes. They were moving about the room as if they were pacing."
"Why do you think she would she lie about being alone?" I asked.
"Maybe the person she was meeting was married," Tegan suggested.
"Or . . ." Lillian clicked her tongue. "Or it was a student."