CHAPTER 22

C HAPTER 22

"Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed.But pride—where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation."

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

"A gain?" Chloe asked.

"We went there Friday night," Tegan replied, and focused on me. "Remember Graham's neighbor Celia Harrigan said she saw someone? It wasn't at night. It was during the day. We were wrong to case his place in the dark. Let's go prepared this time. We'll pick up some dog treats and a leash."

"Dog treats and a leash?" Chloe echoed, clearly confused.

Tegan didn't wait for me to dissuade her. She swanned through the stockroom and out the exit.

I said to Chloe, "We'll be back soon."

Like we did Friday night, we parked around the corner from Marigold's house. However, in the light of day and the sun directly overhead, it was impossible to hide in the bushes in front of her place. Instead, Tegan suggested we act like we were waiting for the Realtor to appear. She stood next to the FOR SALE sign and regarded her watch. An actress she was not, but Graham didn't step onto his porch to check us out, and his dog didn't attack us, so the validity of her playacting wasn't in question .

"There's Celia Harrigan's house," Tegan said. "Down the street. The yellow-and-white Craftsman."

The woman was standing at the opening on her porch, holding binoculars to her eyes. She caught sight of us and disappeared inside.

"There's nothing like having nosey neighbors," Tegan said, adding, "Hey!" She hitched her chin in the direction of Graham's house. "Who's that pulling up?"

A black Kia Sportage parked in front of Graham's place. Seconds later, a linebacker-sized person in a dark brown anorak exited. Face obscured by the hood, the person—I presumed by the sheer size it was a man—strode to the rear of Graham's house.

"He's dressed a tad warmly for spring, don't you think?" Tegan asked. "Let's follow."

"No way." I grabbed her elbow. "Are you—"

"Look. There's another car coming," Tegan rasped.

An old blue Chevy Tahoe parked behind the Kia. A figure in a sweatshirt hoodie and jogging pants exited, a cell phone pressed to his or her ear. It was hard to tell which sex this one was. The slimness and height could lean either way, and the boots were generic. Whoever it was followed the same path as the previous visitor.

Tegan said, "Celia Harrigan told us the person she saw was wearing a hoodie."

The recent visitor could be the person, but so could a thousand other people who were out for a stroll in Bramblewood on this fine day.

Within a minute, a third person arrived in a silver Mercedes E-class sedan. A fourth in a green BMW SUV. They, too, rounded Graham's house.

"We've got to follow and see what they're up to," Tegan urged .

"Pal, c'mon. For all we know, these people are going to a prayer meeting."

"You think? Then why are they doing everything they can to hide their faces?"

"They parked their cars right in front of the house." I jutted a hand.

"We should call the police."

"And tell them what? Graham has guests who enter through the back entrance? That proves nothing. His front door could be busted," I suggested.

"What if Celia Harrigan is right and Graham is dealing drugs?"

Rowf! Grr!

The pit bull charged around the corner of the house and barreled across the street, teeth bared. My adrenaline spiked.

Tegan clenched my arm and anchored me to my spot. "Don't. Move." She cooed, "Here, doggy. Treats. C'mon. Treats." She pulled the recently purchased bag from her pocket, plucked a peanut butter bone from it, and held it out.

The dog snarled and ran faster, ready to pounce.

Tegan waggled the treat. "I have more, sweet doggy. Sweet, sweet doggy. Treat." She wiggled it furiously.

The dog came to a halt, visibly perplexed that we weren't hightailing it to our car like we had on Friday. Sniffing suspiciously, he slinked toward Tegan. Deciding that whatever she was offering wasn't poison, he snarfed it down. Tegan had a second treat at the ready. While the dog chewed, she hooked the leash onto the loop of his leather collar.

"Who's a good boy?" she said. "You are. Yes, you are."

"Omigosh! Your volunteer work at the veterinarian's office during junior high really paid off," I said, astonished.

Growing up, she'd wanted a dog, but her mother said if she needed one so badly, she had to donate her time at the vet for one full year. After twelve months of cleaning up poop and vomit, Tegan had been pretty much cured from ever wanting a pet full-time, but she'd loved hanging out with them and teaching them tricks. I, on the other hand, had helped out at a birds-of-prey sanctuary feeding owls and raptors because at the time, I was reading fantasy fiction and had become enamored with creatures with wings.

Tegan scratched the dog's ears. "Let's go for a walk." She began to guide him to Graham's.

"What are you doing?" I said, panic surging in my gut.

"Bringing him to his owner. Graham will reward us for rescuing his prized mutt. But before we ring the doorbell, let's take a peek through a window and catch him and his guests unaware."

"No."

Of course, she didn't listen to me. She continued on, moseying toward the rear of the house. We neared the screened-in porch, and the dog let out a high-pitched yelp.

"Traitor," Tegan mumbled.

In a flash, Graham rushed out the door. The person in the hoodie trailed him, but stopped short of exiting. "What the heck are you doing here?" Graham demanded.

"Your dog got loose," Tegan said. "I'm being a Good Sam—"

"He's free to roam." He snatched the leash from Tegan.

"Oh, gee," she said, vamping. "We thought as vicious as he is—"

"He's not vicious," Graham spat. "He's ardent."

Ardent? Honestly? I scowled. The dog was a brute, except when bribed with a treat.

"I repeat, what are you doing here?" Graham asked, his voice gruff.

"Graham, relax," the person in the hoodie said.

I'd heard the soft female voice before. It was Quinby's folk song–singing wife, Candace. She stared at Tegan and me with big, round eyes. Scared eyes, actually. Had we caught Graham in the act of dealing drugs? Was Candace a user or a distributor for Graham? Or was I, like Tegan, blowing things out of proportion? Perhaps Graham invited her to his house to discuss an employment opportunity, like singing at GamePlay.

Get real, Allie. Singing at a game store? And what about the other guests? Are they all gamers?

"Mrs. Canfield," I said, "what are you doing here?"

"You know m-me?"

"I'd have thought you'd be performing somewhere today. Sundays are big coffeehouse days."

"Yes, well, I'm taking the day off." She tugged at the strings of her hoodie.

The linebacker-sized visitor cut around her and barged outside. "What the heck is going on? Are we finishing this deal or not, Graham?"

"Told you," Tegan whispered. "It's drugs."

"I've got pocket aces, man," the guy said, "so you're not getting away with folding the hand on account of your dog running amok."

Deal? Pocket aces? I tamped down a giggle. "Are you hosting a private poker game, Graham?"

" ‘Private' is the key word. Leave. " He made a shooing motion with his hand. The pit bull growled.

Tegan pulled a treat from her pocket and held it out to the dog, who snatched it before Graham could tell him no.

"Are you participating, Mrs. Canfield?" I asked.

She stepped outside. "Yes, but you can't tell my husband."

Why not? Did she have a gambling addiction? Was she losing regularly, thus draining the family coffers of much-needed cash?

"Celia Harrigan told you, didn't she?" Graham stated.

"Not about the poker game." I didn't repeat her theory that he might be a drug dealer. "But she did mention someone stealing to the rear of your house a week ago. She was concerned. "

"Ha!"

"Do you host other games?"

"Yes," the other poker player answered before Graham could respond. "Mornings only. No nights." He stared accusingly at his host, as if he would prefer evening games.

"As you very well know, mornings are more convenient for me," Graham said sharply. "That way I can open GamePlay at eleven a.m.. And mornings give you, and others like you, the ability to keep your penchant for cards a secret. Nobody pays attention."

Except Celia Harrigan, I thought.

"As for Sundays," Graham went on, "you're lucky I have a game at all, seeing as it's a holy day."

I wondered if having private games was against state law, but decided not to pursue that angle. Celia Harrigan could take up the cause if she so desired. I eyed both of Graham's guests. "Mrs. Canfield, were you playing poker here a week ago yesterday—"

"Early Saturday morning," Tegan said to clarify.

Candace Canfield's eyes widened. "How could you possibly know that? Have you been spying on me?"

"No," I said. "Celia Harrigan gave a description of the person she saw. Gray hoodie, hiking boots. Like the items you're wearing. What time did the game end?"

"Eight thirty."

Given the timeframe, I doubted Graham could've managed to kill Marigold and elude being spotted by the crowd that was gathering in front of the building.

When Tegan and I returned to the shop, I told her I had to go home and bake. She advised me that Lillian was stopping by for costume fittings later in the afternoon and suggested I return. I said I would show up close to four, and I'd bring the fixings for tea .

Darcy stirred in his spot in the bay window as I breezed into the house. He hadn't polished off the kibble I left out for him to nibble on. His breakfast tuna must have filled him up.

"Hello, handsome, miss me?"

He made a sound that I deciphered to mean, More than you could possibly know. At least, that was how I preferred to interpret it.

I nuzzled his nose, entered the kitchen, closed the Plexiglas door, washed my hands, and pulled out the items I needed to make a sample trifle, which would be a perfect addition for our tea and a good taste-testing experiment for the memorial. Yes, a trifle should chill at least six hours in the refrigerator, but today, I'd make an exception. On a whim, I decided to put together a second one. I could bring it to the book club tomorrow night.

The idea made me think of Zach, which once again triggered memories of Marigold's murder.

"Darcy," I said, "who killed my friend?"

The cat pounced onto the barrel of the llama, his ears perked, but his expression was puzzled.

"Yeah," I mumbled. "I feel the same way. Piper Lowry is out and so is Graham Wynn. That leaves Katrina Carlson." I liked Katrina. I didn't want her to be guilty. But her alibi of being with a friend who might or might not corroborate her whereabouts nagged at me. Was it possible she was stalling for time while figuring out a discreet way to get out of Dodge?

If only I knew who was on Zach's radar, but he was definitely keeping me at bay. No text messages. No invitations to go hiking. I liked him, but I was slightly miffed. I mean, what was so wrong with me wanting to help him solve the crime? Sure, I understood why the police wouldn't want an amateur sleuth sticking her nose where it didn't belong, but Marigold was my friend and Tegan's aunt. I cared. Shoot me.

"Trifle," I muttered .

I needed to keep focused if I wanted to make the dessert correctly. It wasn't hard to construct, especially once the pound cake was baked—let's hear it for planning ahead—but the stirred custard could be tricky and could curdle if one wasn't careful.

First I prepared a bowl of ice water and set it aside. This was crucial. Next, in a saucepan, I whisked together the egg yolks, milk, and sugar, and turned on the burner to medium. Stirring continuously, I watched as the mixture simmered to the desired texture. Once it was cooked, I removed it from the heat, added the vanilla, and put the pan in the ice water, again swirling the mixture constantly. When the custard was sufficiently cooled, I poured it into a bowl and covered it with plastic wrap. This would prevent a skin from forming on top. I placed the bowl in the refrigerator, then checked on the strawberry freezer jam, which I would use when assembling the trifle. Freezer jam was exactly what it sounded like—jam that did well in the freezer and could be used at any time to enhance a dish. It was runnier than typical jam. I often added a roomtemperature dollop to a warm scone.

For the next two hours, I decided to make mini tarts, using a lemon curd filling that I would top with fresh fruit. I always had frozen mini tart crusts, in their tart tins, ready to go. Once a week, I made lemon curd that I jarred and preserved.

I slid the tarts into the preheated oven and rinsed the raspberries, blueberries, and strawberries.

Minutes later, the timer pinged. I removed the crusts from the oven and slid the pans, one by one, into the countertop multi-tiered rack to cool. One pan tipped and the tart tin slipped off, causing the tarts to spill out and crumble.

"Drat." I needed an assistant. I was going too fast. "Slow down, Allie."

Darcy mewed his agreement.

"Hush." I cleaned up the mess and wondered if I'd ever be able to expand my business. I could ask someone like Chloe to assist. She had free time on her hands. But she wasn't a baker, by any stretch of the imagination. I mean, get real. She burned coffee. Maybe I could put feelers out to some of the bakers at cafés and restaurants around town. They'd have to be subtle feelers, like a clandestine business card palmed off after a delivery. I didn't want anyone to get fired for taking a second job.

On the other hand, I didn't need to expand. I managed what clientele I had, and I would be working in the bookshop and earning an income from my portion of the partnership that would cover expenses. Or would it? Did Feast for the Eyes make money? I hadn't thought to ask Tegan. What if Marigold had covered the shop's losses with her own funds, meaning I would be working simply for the fun of it?

Another timer jangled. The custard was ready, and the remaining tart shells were cool. I assembled one of the trifles in a pretty glass bowl by drizzling the inch-square pound cake pieces with triple sec, topping the cake with custard, adding a layer of freezer jam, and then repeating the process. I whisked the cream and stored it in two containers, one of which I'd take with me so I could decorate the trifle with it right before serving. Then I assembled the tarts.

At ten to four I arrived at Feast for the Eyes, and Tegan helped me take the tarts and trifle, plus the assortment of teas, teacups, and plates I'd brought, into the conference room. She had draped the table with a white tablecloth and added pretty napkins.

Lillian was already there in the stockroom, hanging the dresses Chloe, Tegan, and I had selected. She looked primed for the tea in an ankle-length blue floret dress with lovely blue bows. "Here's your hat, Allie," she said, handing me the sage-green bonnet I'd tried on.

Tegan locked the shop's front door, flipped over the OUT TO LUNCH sign, and returned to the stockroom to change. "That will give us a little privacy," she said, and giggled nervously.

"What's wrong?" I asked .

"Are we . . ." She ran her lip between her teeth. "Are we dishonoring Auntie's memory by having too much fun?"

I clasped her elbow gently. "Your aunt would be so proud of you for handling the tragedy with aplomb. I remember her telling me about losing the love of her life. She scraped herself off the floor and put one foot in front of another. ‘Life,' she said, ‘never promises us anything. We have to make of it what we can.' "

Tegan threw her arms around me. "You're so right." Tears pooled in her eyes.

When we were all dressed in our costumes—Chloe in a red Empire dress with back buttons, and Tegan in a dusky blue dress festooned with cream-colored flowers—the four of us convened at the table.

Just as I was serving the trifle, the door to the conference room flew open.

"Tegan!" Winston Potts barged in, his face flush with rage. Sweat dripped down the sides. "How dare you consult an attorney!"

Tegan popped out of her chair. "Don't you ‘how dare' me! How dare you let yourself in with the spare key? Don't Closed signs matter to you? And more importantly, how dare you have an affair? How dare you make me feel like garbage? Why, Mr. Wickham, you disgust me."

Her soon-to-be ex-husband stammered, "W-Wick—"

"You are the one who sullied our marriage," Tegan continued. "You are the soul who is at fault. I shall not be blamed, and I shall not be dissuaded from my resolve."

I gaped at her. Had she referred to her husband as Mr. Wickham? Had she actually used the words "shall" and "sullied"? Was she roleplaying, or was she channeling Elizabeth Bennet? Whatever was going on was working because Winston's mouth opened, but no words came out. He yanked on the lapels of his too-tight jacket. He hadn't put on weight. It had been an ego purchase, for sure, and would never fit him .

Finally he found his voice and croaked, "I love you." He dropped to one knee and pressed his hands together in a pleading gesture.

"I don't care," she said.

"We can work this out."

"No, sir, we cannot. You forsook me. You broke up this. " She wagged a finger between the two of them. "You drove me away. You cannot beg forgiveness. Give me that key and take your leave." With that, she lifted her teacup and, pinky extended, took a sip.

Winston scrambled to his feet and puffed out his cheeks. He reminded me of a blowfish I'd seen on an aquarium visit. An ugly, mad blowfish. "Now you listen here—"

"Key," Tegan demanded.

He fished it from his pocket.

"Winston." I stepped between him and Tegan and took the key from him. "Stupidity isn't a crime. You're free to go. And don't come back unless you want the cops to intervene."