CHAPTER 4

C HAPTER 4

"Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly."

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

"M arigold has fallen again!" Chloe cried.

I cut around the other patrons and spotted Marigold lying faceup on the floor. My breath snagged. Blood had pooled beneath her head. Her face was blue. But that was all I could see of her. The rest was buried beneath a pile of coffee-table books, cookbooks, and hardcover fiction. I bent to clear them.

"Oh, my!" Noeline whimpered.

I glanced over my shoulder at her. The knuckles of her right hand were pressed to her lips. Though my insides were chugging with adrenaline, I shouted like a trained paramedic, "Everyone, back up! You too, Noeline." I started pushing books off Marigold. "Give us room. Chloe, call 911."

"On it," Chloe said.

"Marigold! It's me, Allie." I cleared the top half of her and saw she was clutching Pride and Prejudice in her arms. "Marigold! Wake up." There was no rise and fall beneath her V-neck sweater. I pressed my fingers above the chain of her pendant to detect a pulse on her neck, but there wasn't one. Not even a faint one. "She's . . ." My throat clogged with emotion. "She's dead."

Noeline wailed and began clawing at the remaining books. "Help me get her out from under these. Sis! Wake up! "

"Stop." I rested a hand on her shoulder. "Don't. The police will need to photograph the scene."

"The police?"

"Looks like an accident to me," Rick said.

I glowered at him. "Are you kidding? She did not pull all of these tomes on top of herself."

"All I meant was—"

"Maybe she tripped," Noeline said, cutting Rick off. "Or she had another spell."

"That doesn't explain the pile of books," I argued.

Noeline said, "Teetering, she reached for the edge of the counter." She mimed the action. "The books toppled."

"And she smothered," someone said from behind her.

I doubted lack of oxygen killed Marigold. Her mouth and nose had remained uncovered. I noticed a small bruise no bigger than a quarter on her neck, not far from her right ear, and supposed the heft of the books might have knocked her to the floor and nicked her, making her bang her head. Death by blunt force trauma.

Brushing Marigold's bangs off her face, I eyed the novel in her hands. Had someone startled her as she was opening the shop? Had she hoped to fend off whoever it was, as Elizabeth Bennet would, with biting remarks? Was the book her shield? I didn't see her cell phone anywhere, but a legal-looking envelope, the kind with lace ties to secure it, lay facedown near her shoulder. Pinching the upper-left corner, I flipped it over. The front read: Private and Confidential. I peeked inside. Empty. Had Marigold intended to insert something into it, or had her assailant—I was almost certain she'd been attacked—taken the contents?

"Let's clear the space," I said, rising to my feet. Like a restaurant manager, a caterer needed to be in command. I could use my big voice when necessary. "Rick, would you lead everyone out of the store?" He interacted with teams of people at a hospital. He'd have the ability to oversee a concerned crowd. "Everyone, please remain outside. The police might want to question you." Who knew what anyone would remember? Hints to clues, as I'd absorbed over the course of reading mysteries, came from many directions and multiple sources. "Graham, you saw Marigold at six, so I'm sure the police will want to talk to you, too. Stick around."

Rick squeezed Noeline's shoulder, whispered, "I'm so sorry," and he dutifully led the charge outside.

Noeline mewled. I looped an arm around her shoulder as I scanned the shop. The front door had been locked. Did Marigold let her killer inside, or had the killer sneaked in through the stockroom door?

"Mom!" Tegan yelled as she burst into the shop, struggling with Rick, who was trying to hold her at bay. "Let. Me. Go." She wrenched free and cut across the carpet. "What's going on? Why are the books on the—" She gagged. "Is that Auntie?"

I blocked her. "Tegan, your aunt is dead."

"Dead?"

"Don't move. This is a crime scene."

"A crime—" Like her mother, Tegan choked back a sob.

Noeline said, "Maybe she was dehydrated and passed out and hit her head."

"I doubt that's what happened," I responded. "Not after the scare she had yesterday." An empty bottle of water stood on the sales counter. An untouched cup of tea sat beside it, as well as stacks of books that hadn't tumbled to the floor. The pegboard behind the desk, which held the shop's computer, was neat and tidy, nothing askew. The screen of the computer swirled with a screensaver of magical books. The wall clock with the phrase So many books, so little time was correct as to the hour. "I think she was murdered."

Tegan gasped. "Why would anyone kill Auntie?" She was wearing the same clothes she'd been wearing last night, meaning she hadn't gone home to change between when she'd left my place and now. So where had she been? "Auntie was beloved by all. A stellar member of the community. She didn't have an evil bone in her body. It makes no sense."

I'd read enough murder mysteries to know that in the end the murder did make sense, but at first it was hard to piece the clues together. "You need to cancel the tea, Tegan." My pulse was racing, yet I sounded as calm as a seasoned detective. How was that possible? "Alert the attendees."

Tegan started toward the sales counter. I held her at bay. "Don't use the shop's phone. That's out of bounds. Go over by the window. Use your cell."

"I don't have the complete list of attendees."

"I do," Chloe said, and flashed her mobile at Tegan. Tears were pooling in the young woman's eyes.

I felt them brimming in mine and willed them to stay put. I needed to keep my wits about me.

"Marigold sent it to me last night," Chloe added.

Why would Marigold have done that? Did she have a premonition of her demise? Why not send it to Tegan, too?

I said, "Chloe, share your info with Tegan." I regarded Marigold again. Where was her purse? Most likely, she'd stowed it and her phone in the office.

A siren bleated outside. A fire truck double-parked in front of the shop. A pair of burly emergency medical technicians leaped from it and raced inside.

"The owner," I said to them, pointing. "She's dead. Her name is Marigold Markel. Age seventy."

One knelt to inspect her; the other was already communicating with the police. Within minutes, a squad car pulled up behind the fire truck. Seconds later, Zach Armstrong strode into the shop clad in jeans, white turtleneck, and smoke-gray jacket. Bramblewood detectives weren't required to wear uniforms. His partner, Detective Brendan Bates, who was as tall as an NBA player, gave off a jazz-club vibe with his tight Afro, neatly trimmed goatee, and black-on-black outfit. Like Zach, Bates was a reader. I'd met him last year at a book club featuring noir fiction. That book club was the reason for my newfound appreciation for Dashiell Hammett, Ross Macdonald, and Raymond Chandler.

Zach and Bates crossed to the EMTs, who provided a quick update. Then Bates started taking photos with his cell phone to document the crime scene, and Zack returned to me.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"It was our turn in the rotation. Are you okay?" His voice was gentle but firm. "Ever seen a dead body before?"

"Mm-hmm." I'd never forget the day I stumbled across the chef at the Eatery after he'd suffered a heart attack. His skin had been gray, his eyes as blank as buttons.

"What do you think happened here?" Zach asked.

I explained my theory of Marigold being startled by an intruder. I added that the front door was locked when we all arrived, which was unusual, since she had been expecting a crowd. "No one had a key until Chloe"—I pointed her out—"arrived and unlocked the door and went to turn on the lights." I indicated the panel of switches. "She saw Marigold and screamed. I took over at that point." A shiver coursed through me. "I couldn't detect a pulse, and with the blood pooling under her head . . ." My voice cracked. "I think there was a struggle and someone pushed her. I noted a small bruise on the right side of her neck." My finger rose to my own neck automatically.

"Or she could've suffered a heart attack, stumbled, toppled the books herself, and one of them struck her," Zach proposed.

Most of the books were in the same state as when I'd pushed them off Marigold, although the EMTs had tossed a few to one side, causing them to splay open. Seeing them like that, their spines cracked, made my head hurt.

"She's clutching a copy of Pride and Prejudice, " I stated .

"Do you think that's significant?" Zach asked.

"It was her favorite book, but it seems an odd one to use for protection."

"If she was trying to protect herself," he countered.

"There were plenty of other books to choose from." I motioned to the ones on the floor. "Large coffee-table books, for example." One, a thick tome about the history of costumes in theater, held a sticker with Lillian's name on it. She often boned up on theater-related nonfiction. The latest Lee Child thriller had been tagged with Zach's name. A bundle of YA books tied with rattan held a Post-it note that read: Piper.

"Armstrong," Bates called over his shoulder. "Take a look." He was on one knee and pointing to Marigold's neck.

In the flurry, I hadn't realized a uniformed female officer had arrived. She'd placed a large canvas carryall on the floor and was marking items with yellow crime-scene cones.

Zach left me, hitched his jeans up a tad, and crouched beside Bates. He glanced over his shoulder at me and returned his focus to Marigold's neck. Was he inspecting the bruise? Now would he agree with me that she'd struggled with the killer?

Zach said something to Bates, who rose to his feet to make a call on his cell phone. Bates asked someone a question. He listened. Then he shook his head at Zach, who grumbled and crossed to me.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"The traffic cameras aren't working in this area. The storm last week damaged them."

Meaning the police wouldn't be able to review footage to see if anyone came or went from the bookshop between six thirty a.m., when I'd last spoken to Marigold, and when she died. Swell.

"You should check the stockroom door," I said, being proactive. "If it's unlocked— "

"We will."

"You can't leave through the rear without securing the deadbolt," I added. "It's a safeguard Marigold put in place. She didn't want to accidentally lock herself out. There could be fingerprints on the knob."

He didn't respond.

"Have you found her keys?" I asked.

A smile tugged the corners of his mouth and quickly vanished. "When would I have had time to search?"

"Right, of course. I'm a dolt. An idiot." I was blathering. I hated to blather. Out of nowhere, it dawned on me that our date for the sing-along in Asheville—if he'd intended it to be an official date—would need to be postponed, and I wanted to kick myself for having such a selfish, aimless thought. "I'm not thinking straight," I said, and apologized. Tears stung my eyes. My heart ached as though cinched with metal bands.

"Do you have a key to the shop?" he asked.

"No. I'm not an employee. Tegan and Chloe have them."

Noeline had joined Tegan in a huddle. She was saying something that seemed to be unnerving my pal. Tegan was shaking her head in denial.

"Allie?" Zach said softly to make me refocus.

"Noeline has keys, too. She mentioned that she left them at home."

"Noeline?"

"Noeline Merriweather, Marigold's younger sister." I motioned to her. "She's part owner of the bookshop and runs the Blue Lantern bed-and-breakfast."

"In Montford."

"That's the one."

Zach shifted his weight and pulled a notepad and pen from his hip pocket. "Tell me about the others who were waiting to enter when you arrived."

"Do you think the murderer might be one of them? "

His face gave away nothing.

But taking that as a maybe, I proceeded to explain who Rick O'Sheedy was, before moving on to Piper Lowry, Graham Wynn, and the other few patrons of the shop that I recognized from book clubs. I described each one by height and clothing. Zach took in the crowd on the sidewalk, as if memorizing names and faces.

"There are a few tourists, too," I added.

"Got it."

"By the way, Graham is Marigold's neighbor," I said. "He saw her at six this morning. Outside her house. I spoke to her around six thirty. She was already here. What if the killer . . ."

Zach tapped the nib of his pen on his notepad. "Uh-uh. Do not speculate. You are not a trained detective. I don't care how many murder mysteries you've read or watched."

"How about all the real crime podcasts I've listened to?" I asked, and instantly regretted the sassy quip. "I don't see Marigold's things. Her purse. Her phone. I suppose they could be in the office, or the killer might have stolen them. And that envelope marked ‘Private and Confidential' . . ." Bates had left it in place. A yellow cone stood beside it. "It's empty."

"You touched it?"

"Um, one corner."

"Okay. In the future, don't touch anything at a crime scene."

In the future, I would not see another crime scene.

"Would you please ask Marigold's sister to talk with me?" he asked.

I crossed to her. "Noeline, Detective Armstrong would like to speak with you."

Mascara-stained tears streaked her cheeks. With a wadded tissue in her fist, she slinked to him. He asked a question. She responded. He asked another. She fished in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She opened it with her fingerprint and handed it to him. He scrolled through something, messages I supposed, and gave it back.

Tegan sidled to me. "What's he doing?"

"Checking your mother's communications with Marigold is my guess."

"I can't believe Auntie was . . . was . . . murdered," Tegan sputtered.

The word "murdered" stuck in my throat. Why kill Marigold? Why end the life of one of the nicest people in the world? Was this a random attack, or was the killer someone Marigold knew? Both possibilities made me shudder. "Tegan, were you able to contact all of today's attendees?"

"Yes. They are beyond upset. A few asked what would happen to the bookstore. I said I didn't know. I imagine Auntie left her estate to my mother. Do you think she'll keep it open? The B and B is requiring all her energy."

"We'll see. Was that what you and your mom were talking about? You seemed concerned."

"No. She was telling me where she was this morning. It was odd, like she wanted to prove that she didn't do this, as if I'd think she could have. Ever. "

"Suspects blurt alibis all the time. They get jittery, and the weirdest things pop out of their mouths."

"She said she was at the B and B."

"Of course, she was. She serves breakfast. She greets the guests."

"Right. So there will be plenty of people to confirm that."

"Maybe she was telling you her alibi because, in truth, she wanted to know where you were." I waited a beat for her to offer an answer. When she didn't, I said, "So, where were you? Why didn't you return my text earlier?"

Tegan folded her arms across her chest. "I—"

The door to the shop flew open and Vanna stormed inside, the tails of her white-checked scarf flying behind her. Rick chased her, unable to prevent her from advancing.

"What the heck!" Vanna shrieked. A hurricane couldn't have entered with less subtlety. "You did this!" She rushed at Tegan. "You!"

Tegan's cheeks burned pink. "What are you talking about?"

"If Auntie's been murdered, like everyone outside is saying"—Vanna thrust an arm in the direction of the crowd—"then you killed her. You! "

All sound ceased in the shop. Zach and Bates pivoted and stared in our direction.

I wrapped an arm around my friend and said to her vicious half sister, "Stop it this instant. What has gotten into you?"

"They're saying Auntie is dead," Vanna wailed. "She was murdered."

"It's true," I said. At least, the dead part. Not necessarily the murdered part .

"Then Tegan killed her." Vanna's voice could have cut ice. Honestly, at times I marveled that she had been born with any of Noeline's genteel genes.

"I did not kill Auntie, Vanna." Tegan wrenched free of me and balled her hands into fists. "Take it back."

Zach strode to us. "What's going on, ladies?"

"My aunt left her portion of the bookstore to my half sister," Vanna blurted. "That's motive. Tegan, where were you this morning?"

"How dare you!" Tegan squawked.

I glowered at Vanna. She truly believed Tegan was capable of murder? She wasn't just jabbering?

"Where were you?" Vanna repeated, smugly smoothing the front of her silk dress.

"Auntie did not leave the shop to me," Tegan said, avoiding answering the question. "Where did you hear such a thing?"

"I . . ." Vanna faltered, but recovered and raised her chin. "I saw a letter Auntie wrote. It was on her desk at home when I visited the other day. It wasn't there this morning."

"Why did you go to her house this morning?" I asked.

"I saw her after she closed the shop last night. Her car was sputtering like a sick dog. I thought she might need a ride today."

I narrowed my gaze. "What were you doing hanging around here after closing?"

"If you must know, I had an appointment nearby. The Bramblewood Inn was asking about my services." The inn was located around the corner, on Mountain Road. "I decided to stretch my legs before going home. I swung through the alley and saw Auntie in her car."

An alley ran behind the shops on the north side of Main Street to make deliveries easier and keep the thoroughfare free of overly large trucks. "Anyway, Auntie wasn't home when I arrived this morning at eight."

"No," I said, "she was at the shop already. So, why did you go into her house?"

"I needed to use the loo," Vanna continued. "That's when I noticed the letter was gone. She must've mailed it or something."

I scoffed.

"What did the letter say?" Zach asked.

"That Tegan, a great lover of books, would be a fine bookshop owner, one that Auntie would entrust with her life's work." Vanna whirled on Tegan. "You saw the letter. I know you did."

"I did not." Tegan eyed Zach. "I swear I didn't." She glowered at her sister. "Why are you here, anyway?"

"I saw a crowd out front." Vanna harrumphed. "If only Auntie had hired me to do the catering for the tea, instead of Allie, she wouldn't have died, because I would have been here at the crack of dawn, and no killer would have been able to get past me."

"But she didn't hire you," Tegan said acidly. "Do you know why? Because she didn't like your food. Oh, sure, you've got a fine reputation, and you've got clients, but your food is too frou-frou. Auntie didn't like it, and that's why she hired Allie. My friend makes down-to-earth, good-tasting food that sticks to your ribs, and cookies that taste like cookies, not flowers."

Zach cleared his throat "Ladies, if you don't mind, I'd like to speak to each of you individually."

Vanna huffed. "Fine."

"Fine," Tegan said.

"Let's start with you, Tegan," he said, gently guiding her toward the rear of the store. "Tell me your whereabouts for this morning."

Tegan gasped. "You don't think . . . You can't think . . ." She glanced over her shoulder at me, and her eyes told the story. She'd balked when Vanna had demanded her alibi, because it was as flimsy as wet cardboard.