CHAPTER 3

C HAPTER 3

"Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can."

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

S eething, I returned to my house, and over the course of the next few hours, with jazz music blasting, I baked dozens of cookies, made batches of fudge, and piped fifty custards into pretty floral tasting cups. Throughout, I dwelled on Vanna. Was it possible she'd discovered, earlier than at the bookshop, that Marigold had offered me the gig? Did she sabotage Dream Cuisine by bringing in ants? Each time I mulled over the possibility, I convinced myself I was wrong. Vanna wasn't vindictive, just snappish.

On the other hand, the French poet Anatole France said, "It is well for the heart to be na?ve and the mind not to be."

Somebody rapped on the front door and pushed it open. Quickly I grabbed a spatula, as if that would be a good weapon, and raced through the Plexiglas door.

"Hello? Anybody home?" Zach Armstrong poked his head into the house, with a twinkle in his eye, a lock of his lustrous brown hair dangling on his forehead, and a wicked grin that carved a long dimple down the right side of his handsome face.

I lowered the spatula, bellowed to my artificially intelligent virtual assistant to stop the music, and tucked a loose hair beneath my headband. How did I look? Did I have flour on my face or on my Martha Stewart doesn't live here apron?

"Are you going to make me beg?" Zach asked.

"For what?"

"I caught a whiff of cookies as I was getting in an afternoon run." Zach stepped inside. At thirty-four, he looked lean and virile in his snug-fitting tracksuit. "You know I'm a cookie hound."

"Actually, no, I didn't know that. We've had coffee at Ragamuffin Coffeehouse, let me see, two times? Each time you ate a scone." Ragamuffin was one of my best clients. They requested scones with regularity. They were also the chief buyer of my cream cheese muffins.

"Nah. No way. Scones are for sissies."

"Take that back." I aimed the spatula at him.

Zack raised both hands. At six-foot-four, he dwarfed me. Prior to being recently sworn in as the crime investigative detective for the Bramblewood Police Department, he had served in the army. His stint had helped pay for the criminal justice degree he earned in college.

"What are you making?" He padded to me as if heavy footsteps might damage my creations.

"Sugar cookies."

"Yum."

Darcy sprinted from the llama to Zach and circled his ankles. The cat's tail twitched with curiosity. Zach bent to pet him, giving him a good stroke beneath his chin. Satisfied that he'd dominated the human, Darcy sprang onto the llama's head and resumed his nap. On Zach's and my first date, which wasn't really a date—he'd stopped by to say he was going for coffee; did I want to come?—Zach revealed he was an animal person. He'd had a menagerie growing up: cats, dogs, turtles, rabbits. His mother, who had been raised on a farm, couldn't say no to any of them .

I pushed open the door to the kitchen. "Come with me."

He did.

The door swung shut. I washed my hands, as I always did, and asked Zach to do the same. Then I grabbed an undecorated cookie and offered it to him. "Here you go. How's it going, Mr. Detective?"

"Good." He ate the cookie in two bites and asked for another.

"I can only spare a few."

"A few will have to do." He leaned against the counter and crossed one ankle over the other. "Gee, you look pretty today."

"Pfft."

"Your cheeks are glowing."

"Because it's hot in here." Not because I was lusting after this man. Uh-uh, not that.

"Hey, I heard there's going to be a concert tomorrow night in Asheville. A sing-along. Want to go?"

"I'm pretty booked up."

"It's right after your party at Feast for the Eyes. If I help you clean up the dishes . . ."

Feast for the Eyes was where he and I had met. I'd seen him around town before, but he'd come across as aloof. Not disdainful aloof. Simply reserved aloof, as if weighing his responses. At the bookshop, we hadn't exchanged names or telephone numbers until the day when each of us was browsing the self-help section. He'd been looking for a book to explore his inner child. I'd been searching for a book for Fern. No, it wasn't a spiteful gift. When not reading about quantum physics or obscure concepts like the Fibonacci sequence, my mother devoured self-help whatever. Over chatter about whether The Self-Love Experiment might be good for her, Zach admitted that he also liked reading thrillers, and I said I enjoyed traditional mysteries, as well as the classics like Jane Eyre and The Great Gatsby. Standing at the checkout register, he happened to mention that he could barbecue a mean steak. He hadn't invited me over yet to test the veracity of that claim.

I heard the front door to my house open. Seconds later, Tegan appeared outside the kitchen door, a shopping bag in each hand. I allowed her to enter.

"Auntie booted me out of the shop again. She's fine. She thought you might need extra supplies. Oh—" She caught sight of Zach. "Well, hello there."

He smiled. "Hi."

Tegan tilted her head and snapped her fingers. "Gee, you look familiar. Are you a movie star?"

"Ha-ha! Yeah, I get that a lot, Tegan. Allie . . ." He tattooed the counter. "I should be going."

"Not on my account," Tegan said.

"Absolutely not. I could chat with you all day." He winked at her, the flirt. "No, I've got to meet with the chief of police."

I didn't know Zach well enough to guess whether he aspired to becoming the chief one day, but I'd bet he'd be good at it.

"See you after tomorrow's tea, Allie. Remember, I'll dry." He swiped one more cookie and strolled out of the kitchen, chuckling.

"He'll dry?" Tegan placed her bags on the floor as the front door clacked shut. "Explain."

"He'll dry dishes after the tea."

" Ooh-la-la. I'd say, my sweet friend, that he is clearly smitten with you."

"Get out. He's a guy friend."

Tegan smirked. "You and your ‘guy' friends." She mimed quotation marks. "Do you know how many of them wanted to make an honest woman of you?"

"None."

"All." She thwacked her chest with her palm. "I was the shoulder they cried on."

"Get out of here. "

"No lie." She crossed her heart. "But this one. Zach? You have the hots for him. He's a keeper."

I glanced toward the door, thinking he truly might be. He was direct yet warm, authoritative yet conversational, but ever since my breakup with my fiancé, I'd been gun-shy on relationships, so I wasn't pressing for more with Zach. Yet. I pushed thoughts of him aside and said, "Enough about me. Let's discuss your jerk of a husband."

"Uh-uh. I don't want to talk about him." She washed and dried her hands. "I'm too worried about Aunt Marigold."

"She's fine."

"She was mumbling something about her neighbor yesterday. She wishes he'd get his act together."

"That says a lot about her. She cares."

"She seems concerned about something else, too. Sales have been down."

"That's true for every business in early spring. Let it go. She'll get her much-needed rest, and all will be right with the world in the morning."

While I tootled around the kitchen, decorating cookies and packing them into white pastry boxes with sage-green labels—sage green was my signature color—Tegan perched on the stool by the island and, to distract herself, chatted about the theater foundation people coming to the tea. She was keen on what each liked to read. Mrs. So and So preferred romance. Mr. So and So relished sports and nonfiction. In college, after giving up on becoming a computer geek because she'd fallen in love with literature, Tegan considered becoming a librarian. She earned her undergraduate degree in library arts, but when she started working for her aunt at Feast for the Eyes, on a temporary basis until she found a librarian position, she fell in love with book selling and scrapped the career as a librarian.

When I was cleaning up, Tegan said, "How about I treat you to a burger and a beer at the Brewery? "

"Sounds good." The Brewery was one of my favorite haunts. Tegan's and her aunt's, too. Like many restaurants in Bramblewood, it served craft beer, as well as cider, and it had an extensive burger list, as well as hearty mountain food, like potatoes verde drenched in chile verde sauce and cotija cheese. Drinking food, I called it. "You don't have to ask me twice." I checked Darcy's food bowl—he'd eaten every bite—made sure his water was fresh, and off we went. "Shall we invite your aunt?"

"Yes." Tegan texted her and received an instant response. She showed it to me. "She wrote, ‘Not up to it. Next time.' "

"Staying home is smart," I said. "She has to be sharp for the fund-raising event tomorrow."

Whenever Tegan and I went to the Brewery, we liked to belly up to the bar. Not only did it have six comfortable swivel chairs, but Katrina Carlson, the main bartender, was good to people of the female persuasion. Pretty and freckly, with long curls that she tied off her face, she had a curvy body, a full-bodied laugh, and a saucy sense of humor. All the waitstaff wore crisp white shirts tucked into black pants. However, each was allowed to wear one piece of jewelry. Katrina always chose bracelets. On a previous visit, I'd admired a thick silver bangle studded with fake gems. She said she couldn't resist buying it when she'd seen it in the window at Fair Exchange, the pawnshop on Holly Street. It was a one-of-a-kind beauty.

"What'll it be?" Katrina asked, slipping a cocktail napkin onto the bar in front of each of us. Tonight's bracelet, one I hadn't seen before, made a jangling sound. "Spruce Goose? Buzz Lightbeer? Audrey Hopburn?"

Behind the bar, a dozen taps were affixed to the wall. Like a flight of wines, the variety of beers went from dark to light, left to right. Most had ridiculously silly names.

As much as I wanted to eat something super salty, I knew I'd regret it in the morning, seeing as I had to be up bright and early. I shrugged out of my coat, slung it over the back of the swivel chair, ordered a simple burger and Oly's pale ale—Oliver "Oly" Olsen was the owner of the Brewery and the craftsman. He didn't show up often. When he did, he made sure he said hello to everyone. Tegan requested a cheeseburger and an Ugly Pig, which was a dark ale with an edge.

While we waited, I spun in my chair to see if I recognized anyone. The place wasn't big. There were only three rectangular bar-style tables fitted with stools, each sitting eight, and two more for diners who liked to stand, but the noise was loud. High ceilings plus stone floors amplified the acoustics. A couple of TVs hanging on poles attached to the rafters were broadcasting basketball games. I caught sight of Lillian, who was seated with a twenty-something actress I recognized from a theater production I'd attended. I waved and Lillian responded in kind. The petite blond waitress named Wallis was tending to them.

"Where's your aunt?" Katrina asked Tegan as she set our beers on the counter.

"She's under the weather. She'll join us next time."

"That's too bad. I was hoping to pick her brain about what I should read next."

Because she worked nights, Katrina didn't attend book club events, but I'd seen her name on numerous stacks of sold books at the bookshop. She had a penchant for historical romance and the occasional mystery.

"New jewelry?" I asked, nodding to the bracelet.

"You like?" Katrina lifted her wrist. "They're charms shaped like cocktails. Isn't it adorbs? Sounds like bells, right?" She wiggled her arm.

"Adorbs," I repeated. To be honest, the constant clink-clink would drive me nuts, but it was noisy enough in the bar that most customers wouldn't notice.

"Your burgers will be up soon. Enjoy." She moved to another customer .

Tegan swiveled to face me and toasted her glass to mine. She sipped and sighed. Not with contentment.

"Want to talk about Winston now?" I asked, her husband's name tasting vile on my tongue. "I'm all ears." How many nights had Tegan and I spent chatting until the wee hours about boys, school, parents, and our dreams? She knew all my secrets, and I was pretty sure I was hip to all of hers. Winston's infidelity sure had come as a surprise, though.

"No," Tegan said. "I was thinking about Auntie again. She was so . . . so . . . fragile."

"Dehydration can make a person fuzzy."

"Yesterday she was frowning like she was working through some idea she couldn't form into words. And the other day, Mom asked her what was wrong, but Auntie wouldn't say and told her not to mother her." Tegan laughed. "That's like calling the kettle black. Vanna heard us talking and barged in, demanding what was up. Man, she's a bull in a china shop."

I listened attentively, even though I'd heard it all before. She and her half sister had never gotten along. Perhaps it was the six years between them. Possibly it was because Vanna hadn't taken after Noeline's side of the family. I didn't know much about Vanna's father. He'd died in a climbing accident, leaving Noeline a widow at twenty-nine. But my guess was, female members of the Harding clan had similarly irritable personalities.

We stopped talking about family and directed our attention to books. She'd recently read a new bestseller but didn't think highly of it, saying the heroine dwelled on her problems nonstop and the story never went anyplace. I told her about a mystery I'd read, but I refused to reveal the ending, promising if she checked it out, we could compare notes.

Two hours later, after a delicious meal, we went back to my place. By ten, Tegan was yawning so deeply that I worried she wouldn't be able to drive to the B&B. I offered her the guest room. She agreed and texted her mother so Noeline wouldn't worry.

Around three a.m., I heard her pacing and muttering to herself. Clearly, she had to see a professional about her marriage. I would broach the delicate subject over a cup of coffee.

At six thirty a.m., careful not to wake my pal, I stowed the trays with all my baked goods on a rolling cart. I telephoned Marigold and told her I was running on time. Sounding breathy, she said she was already at the shop and looked forward to seeing me soon.

At eight, I knocked on the guest bedroom door, knowing Tegan would want to change before heading to the bookshop. I was surprised to find her gone. When had she slipped out? Why hadn't she left me a note? Deciding she'd driven to the B&B, after all, I texted her but got no response. I tried not to worry. I understood how a breakup could disturb one's sleep. I'd see her at the bookshop soon enough.

At nine, I threw a raincoat on over my white shirt and skinny black jeans and, after filling my van with the goodies, drove to Feast for the Eyes. When I arrived, I wasn't surprised to see a huge knot of people lining up outside. Being a tourist town, Bramblewood lured plenty of visitors, as well as locals, who enjoyed reading on a hike, at their mountain retreats, or at one of the many coffee shops or cafés. But I was surprised that the front door wasn't propped open. Maybe it was because the temperature was a brisk forty-two degrees. At the head of the line, I spotted Noeline and her new friend, Rick. Why hadn't they entered? Was Marigold running behind?

I parked in a space not far from the shop and opened the van's rear door. I lowered the trolley to street level, locked up the van, and pushed the cart to the shop. I set the footbrake and weaved through the throng to Noeline. She was wearing a camel-hair coat, tan boots, and matching purse. A red dress peeked from beneath the hem of the coat. Rick' s hair was mussed and his striped shirt, jacket, and trousers were rumpled, as if he'd thrown on his clothes in a hurry. Oho! Had he and Noeline been, um, messing around this morning and lost track of time?

Stop, Allie. Not your business.

"What's going on?" I asked Noeline. "Why isn't the shop open?"

"Marigold must be running late. Tegan too. I've tried calling them, but neither is answering. I'm worried. We all are."

Rick knocked on the shop's door. "Marigold! Hello! Are you in there?"

"Will you stop doing that?" Noeline snapped. "It's plain to see no one's inside."

"I saw Marigold leave her house this morning around six," Graham Wynn said. He was Marigold's neighbor, a forty-year-old, baby-cheeked man, with thinning hair, sad eyes, and a partiality for clerical fiction. That preference surprised me, I was ashamed to say, seeing as he owned GamePlay, a store that sold video games, collectibles, and comic books. Not that a game-loving guy couldn't enjoy religious-themed stories, but it didn't seem a natural fit. At one of our book club meetings, Graham shared that he fancied himself as a preacher in another life. "She was climbing into her car to come here and had forgotten her coat," he went on. "I reminded her to fetch it."

"She should have reminded you, " Piper Lowry teased. Dark-haired and willowy, she was a popular junior-college teacher and a do-gooder who volunteered at the Y, the blood bank, the theater foundation, and the hospital. Primarily, she read historical fiction, but she also perused mysteries. We had often found ourselves browsing the same aisle at the shop.

"Yeah, no coat. What an idiot, right?" Graham cupped his hands and blew into them. His sweater sleeves slithered up his forearms, revealing a wealth of tattoos on his right arm and a wide bandage on his left. New ink, I decided. Why hadn't he put on a jacket or gloves? Hadn't he consulted a weather app? "I didn't want to be late."

"Please tell me winter is not going to return." Piper stamped her feet and tightened the belt of her coat. "I really love springtime."

Many in the group agreed about the temperature. Had they forgotten that a month ago it was at least ten degrees cooler?

"When did you arrive?" I asked a woman I didn't recognize to my right. She was carrying a map of the town and a couple of tourist brochures.

"Five minutes ago."

Piper said, "I got here a few minutes before that." Though she wasn't a beauty, she had a ballerina's grace. I asked her once if she'd danced, and she said she'd hoped to, but her parents had forbidden it. "When did you get here, Graham?" She turned and fluttered her thick eyelashes to great effect.

"Right before you," he said, blushing.

Noeline eyed me. "My sister is never late."

I said, "When I spoke to her earlier, she said she was already here. That was around six thirty."

The stockroom light was on, but the rest of the shop was dark. The sales counter was empty of the stacks of books that were piled on it yesterday. The rolling ladder was repositioned at the end of the left aisle, nearest the window.

Noeline sighed. "You don't think she's had another fainting spell, do you, Allie?"

A frisson of concern skittered down my spine. Was Marigold's condition something worse than dehydration?

"Oh, if only I had my keys," Noeline said. "I left them at home. I didn't think—" She poked Rick's arm. "Can you pick the lock?"

He laughed uncomfortably. "I'm skillful, sweetness, but that's one talent I lack. "

"You said you're a whiz at all things technical."

" ‘Technical' is the operative word."

If only Marigold had given me a key to the shop. I'd suggested it once, saying that way I could set up earlier for teas and she could sleep in, but she'd pooh-poohed the idea.

"Do you know where Tegan is, Allie?" Noeline asked.

"She wasn't at the B and B this morning?"

"No. She texted me last night to say she was staying with you." Her face paled. "I hope she didn't go home. What if she got into a fight with Winston?"

"You know about the problem with their marriage?"

"Yes."

I rested a hand on her arm. "I'm sure she's just running late, thinking her aunt has this covered."

"Except she doesn't."

"Everything's going to be fine," I said, though a twinge of worry for my pal nipped me in the gut. Tegan always responded to texts in a timely manner. So, why hadn't she this morning? Was she all right?

"Everyone, move away from the door, please." Chloe Kang, the twenty-something junior clerk at the shop, who possessed the vim of the Energizer Bunny, beat a path through the crowd while waving her key chain. Her almond-shaped eyes sparkled with joy. The outfit she had on—plaid poncho, red dress, and Sherlock Holmes–style hat—made her look like a character on a Nancy Drew book cover. "Where's Marigold?"

"We don't know," Noeline said.

Chloe cupped her hands and peered through the window. "This reminds me of The Secret of the— "

"Not now, Chloe," Noeline snapped.

Chloe could rattle off tidbits about every novel she'd ever read. She'd never held a job that wasn't in a bookstore or library .

"Open up," Noeline demanded. "We're freezing."

"Here we go." Chloe, always chipper, inserted her key into the lock, twisted, and pushed the door open. She switched on a single light. "Give me a sec. I'll make it brighter." She bustled toward the panel of light switches at the rear of the store, rounded the sales counter, and screamed.