CHAPTER 6

C HAPTER 6

"If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark."

—Charlotte Lucas, in Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice

"Z ach, that piece of jewelry is worth a lot of money. A long-lost lover gave it to her."

I explained that the lover, the man she was supposed to marry, had been a bibliophile, like Marigold. He died before they could wed and was the reason she was independently wealthy. Sadly, like his father and his uncle, he had a weak heart. None lived past the age of twenty-five. In preparation for their nuptials, however, he rewrote his will and bequeathed her his sizable estate.

"So," I continued, "why wouldn't the thief "—I stressed the word—"steal the necklace?"

Zach didn't answer or even give me the satisfaction of a grunt.

"Okay, okay," I said. "I won't badger you. Thank you for revealing what you could. I'll talk to you soon."

I ended the call, finished baking, packed up my goods, cleaned the kitchen, and headed home. Darcy was waiting for me at the door, his tail upright and curled, as if he, too, had lots of questions and needed answers. I cradled him in my arms and stroked his chin as fresh tears trickled down my cheeks. I wanted justice for Marigold, but I would be useless if I didn't sleep.

The next morning, I awoke to the jangle of my cell phone. Darcy, lying at the foot of my bed, complained with a yowl. No wonder. It was Sunday. I didn't have any baking on the schedule, and I didn't have deliveries to make. I shushed him and answered.

"Allie," Tegan said, her voice carrying sharply through the speaker. "Come to the shop now. We need to talk."

"It's early."

"Please."

"Put on a pot of coffee. I need caffeine."

In a matter of minutes, I fed the cat, packed a half-dozen scones in a Dream Cuisine pastry box, threw on a pair of jeans, a navy sweater, ankle boots, and peacoat, and drove to the shop. After parking on the street, I swathed my lips with gloss and lightly dusted my cheeks with rouge. Tegan wouldn't care if I donned makeup, but in case I ran into a client or bookshop customer, I wanted to look my best.

Tentatively I approached Feast for the Eyes, treats in hand. The CLOSED sign faced out, but the door was unlocked. I reached for the knob. At the same time, the bells from the nearby Congregational church pealed. The sound jolted me. I shimmied off the tension and entered. The aroma of coffee wafted to me.

"Tegan!" I yelled.

She emerged from the storage room beyond the sales counter, her hair swooped sloppily into a clip, messy tendrils cupping her cheeks. Even her makeup looked slapdash. The thigh-length sweater she'd thrown on over leggings—the sweater's design was a defeated anime woman—appeared three sizes too big. The cuffs hung way past her fingertips. It must have been an impulse buy. Whenever she fell into a funk, she bought something new.

"Chloe's in the stockroom," Tegan said. "She'll bring out coffee when it's brewed."

I wrinkled my nose.

"Don't worry," she said. "I made it." Though Tegan couldn't cook, she could make a good pot of coffee. Chloe scorched it. She looped her hand around my elbow and drew me to the sales counter. "I'll get to those," she said, referring to the books that were stacked willy-nilly on the counter. How well she knew me. My first instinct was to organize them. "For now, I simply wanted them off the floor. There was dust—fingerprint dust, I'm pretty sure—on a lot of them, so they'll need to be cleaned."

"I can help, if you like."

"No. I'll do it. I—" She plucked at the sleeves of the sweater. "The file cabinets in the office were hanging open. I suppose the police went through all of the records for our customers. One might be a suspect."

"That would make sense."

A small moan escaped her lips. She lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle another. I'd never seen her look so fragile. I wanted to hug her but worried she'd crumble.

"Do you know what your mother wants to do with the shop?" I asked.

"We haven't spoken about it. She was crushed last night and went to bed with a migraine." Idly she lifted the Bramblewood Art District coffee-table book from the pile on the counter and set it down. "How am I going to come in, day after day, and stand here, right where my aunt died, and sell books?"

The notion made me squirrely, too. I moved to the other side of the counter, where I would normally wait to make a purchase, and put the pastry box down. Then I perched on one of the two ladder-back chairs .

"This was Auntie's baby," Tegan went on. "She was the glue that held it all together. She did the heavy lifting."

I opened the seal on the box and flipped the lid. "She would want you to press on."

"But what if I'm terrible at it? What if it all unravels?" Tegan removed a scone and called, "Chloe, bring napkins when you come!"

"What did you need to talk to me about?" I asked. "It sounded urgent."

"I really like your idea of having a memorial tea for Auntie. She would be so pleased."

I gawked at her. "That's it? You couldn't have said as much over the phone? I'd hoped the police had given you some news. Perhaps a hint as to the killer's identity."

"No. Nothing. I . . . I needed to see your cheery face."

I was pretty sure my face wasn't remotely cheery. I mustered a weak smile.

"Did I hear you say we're having a memorial tea?" Chloe asked, putting a tray prepared with three cups of coffee on the counter. "That's a good idea. Tea is so soothing." Though her fitted dress was chic, black was not a good color for her. Retro styles in shades of red were her usual go-to choices. "Cream and one sugar for you, Allie."

"Thanks."

Tegan placed her scone on a napkin and pushed it aside. "Allie suggested we make the tea a tribute to my aunt by focusing it on Pride and Prejudice. We'll serve foods from the Regency Era, like pies and tarts and assorted scones. Allie will cater it."

"Will you serve white soup?" Chloe asked.

"Yes." I'd never made white soup, but I'd always wanted to try. "I think I'll pass on making Scotch collops." They were akin to veal scallopini and too heavy for an afternoon tea. "Poached salmon might be a better fit. "

Tegan's eyes brimmed with tears. "We'd like everyone to dress in costume. We're going to ask Lillian to facilitate that."

Chloe said, "I can just imagine the gown your aunt would have worn. All lace and ribbons. And she'd have pinned on that gorgeous brooch. The one with all the diamonds." She fluttered her fingers. "Super glitzy."

"I briefly mentioned the idea to Mom last night," Tegan said. "She'll send out invitations. Auntie had tons of friends. They'll all want to come. Money is no object."

The notion of money made me wonder again about who would be the executor of Marigold's estate. It also made me recall Zach saying her wallet was empty. She'd loathed using a credit card. She'd invariably had cash on hand. How much had she been carrying? When had she last withdrawn money from the bank? Would there be an accounting, so the police might guess how much had been stolen? I paused as a new thought occurred to me. What if Marigold had filled the Private and Confidential envelope with the shop's weekly earnings with the intention of going to the bank to deposit it, but the thief—the killer—stole it?

I explained my theory about the wallet and envelope to Tegan and Chloe.

Tegan said, "The week's take was not in the envelope. I made the deposit Friday, after Auntie's fainting spell. Do you know what was in the envelope, Chloe?"

"Nope. I saw it on the counter the night before she—" She choked back a gasp.

"Died." I gave her a supportive look. "We're going to have to get used to saying the word."

Chloe bobbed her head. "I didn't think to ask her what was in it." She looked heartsick that she hadn't. "What if it was a secret dossier?"

Tegan scoffed. "Are you suggesting Auntie worked for the government? "

"No. But what if—"

"You read too many spy novels."

Chloe hitched a shoulder. "What's not to love about Jason Bourne?"

"His lack of a memory, for one," Tegan quipped. "Although I'd like to lose all my memories of my soon-to-be ex."

"Your what?" Chloe squealed.

Tegan filled her in. "As for what Auntie had in her wallet, I don't have a clue."

"It's probably not vital to the investigation," I said.

Chloe disappeared and returned with three fresh copies of Pride and Prejudice, as well as the CliffsNotes versions. "These might help you plan for the memorial." Marigold had stocked a lot of guides because students at UNC Asheville, as well as Bramblewood Junior College, often needed help organizing their thoughts. "What do you think about putting quotes from the book around the shop for the memorial? They could be decoration."

"Good idea," Tegan said. "We could also download photos from the television series starring Colin Firth."

At the same time, Chloe and I whispered, "Colin Firth." When he was young, he had been drop-dead gorgeous. He was still a handsome man.

"By the way," Tegan continued, "I scoured my house last night for the letter Vanna claims she saw. There was nothing anywhere. Not in new mail. Not in old mail. I even went through my recycling bin, in case I accidentally tossed it, but nada. Zilch. And Auntie didn't send me any kind of email, so . . ." She wrapped her arms around her torso. "If the police find the letter, will it incriminate me?"

"No," I stated, as if I was an authority. "You didn't know about the inheritance."

"And I have an alibi," she stated.

I threw her the side eye. "Which you won't elaborate on. "

She frowned but stayed mum.

"Let's contact the estate attorney," I said. "Do you know who it is?"

"Mom is handling that."

"Okay. In the meantime—"

"Who killed Marigold?" Chloe cried.

"Vanna!" Tegan blurted.

I frowned. "Your sister did not kill your aunt."

"Of course not. Believing Auntie didn't want her to inherit the bookshop, she'd have done everything to keep her alive so she could sweet-talk her into changing her mind. No, you misunderstood me." Tegan propped an elbow on the sales counter. "I'm going to ask Vanna to help with the memorial. Maybe that will earn me some Brownie points with her."

"Good luck with that," I murmured.

"You're right. She hates me." She wrinkled her nose. "She's always been my enemy. Mom told me stories about how Vanna reacted when I showed up six years after she was born. She was always saying, ‘Baby, be gone.' ‘Baby, go away.' ‘I hate baby.' "

"No," Chloe said.

"Yes."

Tegan had told me the story years ago, adding she intended to put the memories behind her. She'd failed. I took a sip of coffee.

"I mean, c'mon," Tegan went on, "was it my fault that Mom and Dad had sex?"

I spit out the coffee. Luckily, it didn't hit any of the books. I would hate to have marred a book with spewed liquid. Or any liquid, for that matter. I was dedicated to the beauty of books. I'd never even dog-eared a page. "You want to make nice and woo her?"

"Woo-woo." Chloe twirled fingers by her ears. "Marigold always said Vanna was a little nutty. "

We all laughed. Good old Marigold, ever present in our thoughts.

"Time to get serious," Tegan said.

"Call your sister," I suggested.

"Are you crazy? She'll rip me to shreds when I tell her you're the caterer. I'll text." Tegan pulled her cell phone from her pocket, typed a message, and pressed Send. She stared at the phone. "No response."

"Maybe she's serving a hoity-toity brunch for the mayor," Chloe said.

"Or I could be wrong about her innocence, and the police are questioning her a second time," Tegan said conspiratorially. "By the way, have you talked to Detective Armstrong, Allie?"

"Briefly." I told her how the police were considering this a robbery gone wrong.

"No way." Chloe sniffed.

"I don't buy it, either," I said.

"Oh, Tegan," Chloe continued, "I almost forgot to tell you. Piper stopped by earlier, before you arrived. She wanted consoling. She's a sensitive soul, isn't she? She was sobbing as if Marigold was her best friend and asked to see where she died. It was sort of macabre."

Tegan said, "It's understandable. She worked with Marigold on charitable projects."

The front door opened and Noeline slogged in. Her face was pinched, her eyes swollen from crying. She crossed to where we were, shrugged out of her coat, slung it on the other ladder-back chair, and slumped onto the seat. The ends of the bow on her black silk blouse wafted as she did. She pulled her black skirt down over her knees.

I stewed for a moment. Tegan and Chloe had dressed in black, as well. Should I have donned a black shirt with my black jeans, or was it okay to wear navy when mourning?

"Mom." Tegan hurried to her. "Where are you off to? "

"Church. You left so early, I was hoping I'd find you here. Do you want to go with me?"

"Where's Rick?" Tegan asked.

"He has a business meeting."

On a Sunday? I wondered, but silenced my suspicious mind. Hospitals operated 24/7. Their financial gurus probably kept the same hours.

"Yes, I'll go with you," Tegan said. "We can say a prayer for Auntie. Chloe, will you hold down the fort and start cleaning the books? Keep the Closed sign in place. We're not open today, out of respect."

Chloe saluted.

"I'll stick around and help with the books," I said.

"Thanks." Tegan threw her arms around me. "I appreciate you more than you know."

A minute after Noeline left with Tegan, Lillian opened the front door while rapping on the frame. "May I come in?"

"We're closed," Chloe said.

"Yes, I know, but I saw you milling about. I'm not here to purchase anything."

"Lock the door after you," Chloe said.

Lillian did and removed her trench coat, revealing a sparkly sweater dress. She never wore casual clothes to work. She claimed she had to present a vibrant image to her customers. "I can't believe Marigold's gone." She draped her coat over one arm and ambled toward the sales counter, dragging a fingertip fondly over the books on the endcaps as she went.

"Neither can we." Chloe's voice cracked.

"The police stuck around all day yesterday," Lillian said. "They were in and out of the bookshop. Wandering in the alley. Doors opening and slamming. They must have put out twenty of those yellow thingies that mark evidence."

Had they found anything worth preserving? Or did they tag everything so they could later rule out stuff that was inconsequential ? Other than what I read in books or saw on film, I had no idea what the police did. Would Zach educate me?

"People were pausing to peer inside the shop all day, too," Lillian went on. "The police tape kept them off the sidewalk, but they stopped and gawked." She hung her coat on a ladder-back chair, as Noeline had. " Ooh, Allie, did you bring the scones?"

"Help yourself."

She selected one, took a bite, and let out a delighted sigh.

Chloe hitched her chin and mouthed, Ask her.

"Lillian," I said, "we'd like to have a memorial tea for Marigold featuring her favorite book."

"Pride and Prejudice," Lillian chimed. "What a great idea. I can't tell you how many times she and I discussed that story."

I told her about the menu that was cycling through my head, which would include soup, tarts, salmon, and tea sandwiches.

She said, "You absolutely have to serve trifle."

"Of course. We're also thinking that everyone who wants to do so should dress in costume for the occasion. Would you—"

"Provide them?" She clasped her hands as if in prayer. "Yes. I'm totally on board. Marigold would be so pleased to be honored in that fashion. The community theater will be more than happy to help us out, too. She was, after all, the foundation's chair."

I'd gone to the theater with Marigold and Tegan a few times. Marigold would light up whenever she was around actors. When asked if she had a secret ambition to perform onstage, she dismissed the notion. Actors, she said, are fearless. I, on the other hand, quake at leading a book club. That was baloney . She had been as intrepid as they come, but she'd never boasted.

"By the way," Lillian said around a mouthful of scone, "one of my regular customers came in late yesterday for a fitting. Celia Harrigan. Do you know her? I don't think she's much of a reader. She lives on Marigold's street in a yellow Craftsman with white trim. Anyway, Celia saw someone in a hoodie sneaking around Graham Wynn's house a week ago Saturday, during the day. She wasn't sure if it was a man or a woman. The reason I mention it is because she said the person was acting sketchy, and she wondered if, in view of what happened to Marigold, the person might have been staking out Marigold's house, since, you know, she lived across the street from Graham."

"That's a leap," I said.

"Perhaps." She polished off her scone. "You know about Marigold's jewelry collection, don't you?"

Marigold was wealthy, but she'd never lavished herself with gifts or spent her wealth on cruises. However, she'd loved antique jewelry. Invariably, she would wear her prized diamond necklace, but over the years she'd invested in rings and bracelets and brooches. At dinner parties, she would show off her jewelry, like the Bulgari serpent bracelet she'd found at an estate sale or a Georgian-style trembling floral brooch—the one Chloe had referred to earlier—which featured over a hundred hand-cut diamonds. As far as I knew, Marigold stored all of her jewelry in a safety-deposit box at the bank, not at home. I thought of what Celia Harrigan told Lillian. What if the lurker had actually been Graham in disguise, and he was spying on Marigold? What if he had been keeping watch, waiting for a time when she might go to the bank to retrieve her jewelry? And what if he saw her slip a valuable piece into the envelope marked Private and Confidential ?