CHAPTER 9

C HAPTER 9

"There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me."

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

O n the way back to Dream Cuisine, Tegan and I discussed what we'd discovered. Not much, truthfully. Was Graham Wynn taking or dealing drugs? If so, what kind? Anxiety meds to keep him calm, or more serious drugs that had made him a slacker in his business? Did Marigold find out about the drugs? Did she threaten to turn him in? If that was the case, why didn't he kill her at home? Did he worry that the police would suspect her neighbors? What if, instead, he followed her to the shop that morning and killed her after I spoke to her, and then he mingled with the crowd, hoping his presence might be considered proof that he was innocent?

Tegan pulled in front of my kitchen. Her lip was quivering. "Auntie didn't deserve to . . ." She hiccupped.

I rested a hand on her shoulder. "Breathe, pal. We're going to figure this out."

"Will you tell Zach what we've dug up?"

"You bet. Go to work. Occupy your mind. And tonight, binge-watch musicals with your mother. You two love musicals. Find that one starring Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron. "

"An American in Paris."

"Yes! I'll see you tomorrow at ten."

She swiveled in her seat and threw her arms around me. "Thank you."

When I entered the kitchen, the aroma in the place was incredible. I did love the scent of cloves, and when mixed with fresh herbs, divine. I turned off the slow cooker, removed the veal chops and chicken from the pot, and set them on a cutting board fitted with a juice groove. When they'd cooled for ten minutes, I cut away the meat from the bones, shredded it, and stored it in a glass food container.

An hour later, when the temperature of the stock had reduced enough, I covered the pot, arranged it on a trivet in the refrigerator, made three dozen scones and two dozen muffins—Tuesday's orders were minimal—and headed home.

When I walked in, Darcy was on his cat-scratching llama station. He gave me an annoyed look as if to say, Where the heck have you been?

I stroked him under the chin. "Life got in the way."

He heaved a sigh and twitched his tail, signaling he was ready for our game of Pounce.

"Uh-uh," I warned. "No."

He trilled, Please?

"Okay, one time." I took the mouselike catnip toy off the llama, threw it beneath the living-room couch, and stared at my cat. I held his gaze for a full ten seconds before lifting my chin and nodding abruptly.

Responding to the command, Darcy flew off the llama and tackled the toy. Prey conquered, he leaped to the top of the llama and dropped it proudly at his feet.

"Good boy! My turn for a little exercise."

I took a late-afternoon run and felt revitalized.

An hour later, after showering and changing into my comfy pajamas, I fed Darcy his favorite tuna and decided it was time to feed myself. I'd skipped breakfast and lunch, but I wasn't very hungry, so I threw together a batch of my go-to comfort food, mac 'n' cheese. Using three to five cheeses made the difference. Then, taking my advice to Tegan, I carried my dinner to the living room, nestled on the couch, and switched on the TV. I couldn't find An American in Paris, but I spotted Singin' in the Rain in the On Demand list and clicked on it. Humming along with Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds, I ate a bowlful of my cheesy goodness. By eleven p.m., I felt like I'd been knocked in the head with a sledgehammer and crawled into bed.

Tuesday morning, following my deliveries, I went to Dream Cuisine to finish up the white soup. I added breadcrumbs and fresh herbs bundled in cheesecloth to the pot of refrigerated veal stock, set the soup on the stove to simmer, and decided to test out a recipe for the traditional English tart Maids of Honor, which consisted of a puff pastry shell filled with sweetened cheese curds, but I'd use locally-sourced strawberry jam in my rendition.

While the pastries baked, I tasted the white soup. It was nice and savory. Hurrah! I switched off the heat and let it cool and retreated to the office to throw on the black slacks, smoky-gray silk sweater, and black short-cropped jacket, which I'd brought along. I figured if I was going to meet an attorney, I should dress appropriately.

When the pastries had cooled, I boxed them up, covered the soup pot, and arranged it on a trivet in the refrigerator, freshened my makeup, and drove to Feast for the Eyes.

Noeline Merriweather was waiting outside the shop when I arrived. I bussed her cheek. She'd been crying. How I wished I could comfort her better, but I was feeling forlorn, too.

"Why are you standing here?" I asked. "Didn't you remember to bring your keys today? "

"I did, but . . ." She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. "I didn't want to go in alone."

"Tegan and Chloe aren't here yet?"

She shook her head, removed a key chain from her purse, and unlocked the front door.

I went in first. There was definitely an emotional gloom in the shop. I placed the box of pastries on the sales counter, flipped on the lights, and kicked on the heater. I went to the audio system, as Marigold had been inclined to do, and queued up some classical music. The lyrical strains of Bach's Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, "Prélude," started playing through speakers mounted above the desk. It was a beautiful rendition. Yo-Yo Ma's notes were pure, his dynamics exquisite.

Tegan, clad in a thigh-length black sweater over black jeans and boots, rushed in a few minutes later. "Mom, you're early!"

"You know me," Noeline said. "I hate to be late."

"Like Allie." Tegan gave her mother a hug. The two stood that way for a long time before releasing one another.

"Nice getup, pal," I said. Give her a cowboy hat and a gun in a holster, and she could have been the villain in a shoot-out.

"You should talk. You look like you work for a mortician." The instant the words flew out of her mouth, she gagged. "Oh, oh, oh. I'm so sorry. I'm a horrible human being."

"Gallows humor," I said. "It's to be expected."

"Where's Chloe?" Noeline asked as Tegan tossed her purse under the sales counter.

Tegan checked her watch. "She usually arrives closer to ten." Store hours were ten to six. "Are those treats, Allie?" She motioned to the box of pastries.

"Maids of Honor."

"Yum." She helped herself to one and cooed her approval. "Best ever. Auntie would be as pleased as punch." She offered one to Noeline, but her mother declined.

Vanna swept into the shop next. "What are you doing here, Allie?" she demanded, her imperious attitude intact. She adjusted the fake zebra tote, which was wedged beneath her arm. It clashed with her leopard-skin dress and rhinoceros-studded belt, unless, of course, she was going for the full-on, tasteless-tourist, African-safari look. The way she was glowering at me made me flash on the snake, Kaa, in The Jungle Book. That character had scared the bejesus out of me when I'd read the story, and I would never forget its sibilant, silky voice in the Disney movie version. I'd had nightmares for days.

"I'm moral support," I said.

"You're not welcome."

"I invited her, Vanna. Cool your jets," Tegan said, displaying more backbone than usual.

You go, girl.

"Please, everyone." Noeline sighed. "Let's be civil."

Chloe bustled into the shop at five to ten and said she'd make coffee. Tegan winced but didn't argue. Beneath her overcoat, Chloe was wearing another black dress as formfitting as the one she'd worn on Sunday. At least, she'd donned her signature red boots and a red-themed silk scarf to add a pop of color.

At exactly ten, Mr. Tannenbaum, a thin sixty-something man in a pin-striped, three-piece suit, strode through the front door. He introduced himself. Tegan informed him that I would be sitting in. He didn't quibble.

"Where shall we meet?" he asked.

"In the conference room," Tegan said.

It was hardly a conference room. No bigger than eight feet by eight feet, it was the space where Marigold would bring buyers interested in viewing rare books and first editions. Those books were kept in the office in a polyurethane-painted wood case lined with acid-free paper. The temperature in the office was a steady sixty-five degrees, and a dehumidifier kept the room free of moisture .

"This way," Tegan said, leading everyone through the archway into the stockroom.

The space had the delicious aroma of hardcover and paperback books and held the promise of adventure. Unopened boxes were stacked on top of one another and lined one wall. New books, as well as remainders—books that would revert to publishers because they didn't sell—filled two floor-to-ceiling shelves. A beverage station, small table with two chairs, refrigerator, and microwave abutted the remaining wall. Marigold's office was to the right. The conference room lay to the left.

Tegan pushed the door open and let everyone file in first. In the center of the room was a blond oak table surrounded by six chairs.

"Please sit," Tannenbaum instructed, taking a chair. He set his briefcase on the table, popped it open, and pulled a folder from it. Then he leaned forward on his elbows, fingers interlaced. "Now, then, I'm sorry about the loss of your sister," he addressed Noeline, "and your aunt," he said to Tegan and Vanna. "She was a lovely woman and will be greatly missed. I remember many times coming to this bookshop and discussing what I should read next. She certainly had her opinions." His smile was genuinely warm, and I could see why he was good at his profession. It couldn't be easy drawing up wills, finalizing trusts for people, and conveying the news to those who'd lost loved ones.

"To the business at hand," he went on, opening the folder. "I'll start at the top. It's all straightforward. First of all, Marigold leaves her house to Vanna and Tegan."

"Her house?" Tegan said almost reverently. "But Mom—"

"Sweetheart, these are your aunt's wishes," Noeline said. "Go on, Mr. Tannenbaum."

"If neither of you want to buy the home from the other, it will be sold at fair market value, and the proceeds split evenly."

Next he outlined the division of the personal property. Marigold stated that Noeline had everything she'd ever need, so the furniture, books, and household items would be divided equally between Vanna and Tegan.

Chloe traipsed in, pushing a food cart that held a pot of coffee, mugs, condiments, napkins, glasses filled with ice water, and the Maids of Honor, which she'd arrayed on a plate. She positioned the cart against the far wall. "If you need anything else—"

"Leave." Vanna flicked her fingers.

Chloe glowered at her but politely closed the door as she exited.

I proceeded to pour coffee, taking requests for sugar and cream. Tegan passed them around and set the plate of pastries in the middle of the table.

Vanna said, "What do you think you're doing? Take these away. We don't want to get jam on any of the documents."

Tegan threw her the evil eye as she bussed the goodies back to the cart.

"Now, to the matter of her savings accounts and jewelry," Tannenbaum went on.

"About her jewelry," I said, wondering again if Marigold might have been carrying a piece in the empty envelope. "Did she store it all—"

"Hush, Allie!" Vanna ordered. "No one gave you permission to talk."

"Darling, please," Noeline said.

"Don't ‘darling' me, Mother. Someone's got to take control here or things could get out of hand."

Noeline drew in a sharp breath. Tegan moaned. I gritted my teeth.

"Proceed," Vanna said to Tannenbaum.

Before he could, the door to the room opened, and Zach stepped inside. "Good morning." He looked more formal than I'd ever seen him, in a blazer, shirt, and slacks .

"Detective Armstrong," Noeline said, "do you know Mr. Tannenbaum?"

"We've met," Zach said. "I'm sorry to meet you again under these circumstances." He made eye contact with each of us. I couldn't decide if he was pleased to see me or not. His expression was unreadable.

Maybe he tracked me down to talk about my water bottle theory, I thought hopefully, but quickly revised the notion. No one but the people present knew I was here.

"What brings you in, Detective?" Noeline asked.

"I was summoned."

"By whom?" Noeline arched an eyebrow.

"By your daughter Vanna." Zach pulled a white envelope from the inside of his jacket pocket. "She left this letter on my desk, with a note that I'd find her here and to come at once."

"What's in the letter?" Noeline asked, her voice crackling with tension.

"As your elder daughter intimated the other day, it is a letter from Marigold to your younger daughter stating that she will inherit a portion of the bookstore."

"No way!" Tegan's eyelashes flickered. "I never received any such letter."

"Oh, but you did," Vanna said with a bite. "Because I found it at your house between your trash bin and your desk."

"What were you doing rooting around my things?"

"I didn't believe you when you said Auntie never sent you the letter. I saw it with my own two eyes in her home office. And it was stamped. I knew she must have sent it, and, voilà, she did."

"I . . . I . . ." Tegan sputtered. "You planted it."

"I did no such thing."

"You must have. You're a . . . a . . ."

"Tegan, chill." I reached over and patted my pal's arm. "Take a breath." I regarded her half sister. "Vanna, was the letter opened or was it sealed?" She didn't respond. "Is it possible it fell to the floor and Tegan never saw it?"

Vanna squirmed.

Zach cocked his head. "Ms. Harding, did you open this without your sister's permission?"

"I knew what it was," Vanna said in her defense.

Noeline clicked her tongue in disapproval.

"This is nuts," Tegan said. "I did not kill Auntie to inherit the bookshop. Detective"—she pushed away from the table and scrambled to her feet—"I'm telling the truth. I never read that letter. Never even saw it. And Auntie never said anything to me. Ever. "

Vanna scoffed.

Tannenbaum said, "Shall I continue?"

"Yes," Noeline said.

"No!" Tegan shouted. "I want to know when you broke into my house, Vanna."

"Hello?" Chloe pushed the door open, knocking as she did. "I hate to intrude, but, Tegan, you have a visitor."

"Who?" she asked rather sharply, and immediately blanched. "Sorry, Chloe."

"That's okay. It's—"

"It's me." A frizzy-haired redheaded woman with tired eyes peeped past Chloe. "You asked me to meet you at noon." She had a haunting whiskey voice. "But I have to get to work, and I wondered if you could—" She stopped short, suddenly realizing the room was occupied. Her cheeks blazed with embarrassment. "Oh, gosh. I'll . . ." She hooked her thumb over her shoulder. The sleeve of her green sweater slid up her arm revealing multiple bangles. "I'll wait out here."

"No, Dennell, wait," Tegan said. "Detective, could my friend and I speak with you privately?"

"Now?" Vanna asked. "We're in a meeting."

"Dennell is my alibi for Saturday morning," Tegan said .

"Let's hear it." Vanna folded her arms.

"What she has to say is private and not to be shared with a room full of strangers." Tegan eyed Zach. "Please, Detective. Allie, you come, too. It'll take three minutes. No more."

Tegan ushered Dennell into the stockroom. Zach and I followed.

Standing there, I eyed the knob and deadbolt on the exit door and noted, as I'd remembered, that two keys would have been required to enter from the alley. Did everyone who had keys to the shop have the two, or only a copy of the one to the front door? Was that relevant?

"This is what went down," Tegan said. "Dennell Watkins and her partner make high-end arty jewelry. They sell it online."

Zach stared at Dennell. She began chewing the thumbnail on her left hand. Her other fingers looked raw from similar attacks.

"Her business partner can be very prickly," Tegan went on. "They used to be best friends, but things have gotten sticky. It's not easy to run a business."

I eagle-eyed Tegan, mentally urging her to get to the point, or Vanna was going to blow a gasket.

"Dennell's partner has accused her of stealing from the company coffers," Tegan continued.

"I h-haven't stolen a dime," Dennell rasped. "I'm just not good with numbers. Balancing books is tricky for me. I make mistakes, so there are lots of erasures, and . . ." She cleared her throat, sounding as if she might choke.

I fetched her a paper cup of water. She thanked me and drank the liquid greedily.

"The reason I was with her that morning . . ." Tegan began to explain. "The reason I've kept quiet about it—"

"I'm an alcoholic," Dennell blurted. "Last week, I made a real mess of the books, so I decided Tuesday night to go cold turkey. No more booze ever. By Friday night, I was having the DTs."

"Delirium tremens," Tegan said.

Dennell nodded. "I was shaking and icy cold, but sweating, and I was really confused. I texted Tegan after midnight—"

"At three," Tegan cut in.

"That I needed help. Someone I could trust."

"I went right over," Tegan continued, "because if her partner finds out, she'll end the partnership, like that." She snapped her fingers. "She's an extremely religious person and inserted a temperance and noncompete clause in their partnership contract. She will get the business outright if she finds out Dennell breached it. Dennell could lose everything. That's why I kept quiet."

"I'm planning to ask her to buy me out," Dennell said, "but if she can end our deal without paying me a nickel . . ." She spread her hands. "She's miserly enough to do something like that. Religious or not, to her, money is everything. I was a fool to go into business with her."

"Detective Armstrong," Tegan said, "I contacted Dennell this morning saying we had to talk after the appointment with Mr. Tannenbaum. I wanted to convince her to meet with you. But then, you showed up and she arrived early, so . . " Tegan rotated a hand. "It's Kismet, right?"

Zach studied Dennell and Tegan. "How do you two know each other?"

Tegan smiled. "Dennell likes any kind of mystery or romantic suspense where jewels are involved. I've been advising her for a couple of years about what she should read. We became friends."

"Good friends," Dennell said.

I'd never spent time with Dennell, and didn't know the extent of their friendship, but Tegan didn't know all my friends, either. Wasn't life funny that way? You could hang out with people, could know them since kindergarten, and, yet, unless you purposely made an effort to introduce one friend to another, they might never meet.

"Is there anyone who saw the two of you together?" Zach asked.

Dennell said, "A delivery guy for Big Mama's Diner brought over really strong coffee and glazed donuts. I had a craving for sugar." Big Mama's was one of my clients. The cream cheese–filled coffee cakes I sold them were one of their biggest draws. I didn't sell them donuts because, one, I didn't make them, and two, the diner created their own, using an in-house machine. "He might have seen Tegan."

Tegan shook her head. "I'm not so sure. I was in the bathroom at the time. But he might have heard the toilet flush."

"I'll need the guy's name," Zach said to Dennell.

"He's the really skinny one with spiky hair." She gestured to hers, a tad erratically, and quickly tucked her hands under her armpits. "He's twenty or twenty-one, I think."

After a long moment, Zach said, "I hope you'll seek treatment. My ex–brother-in-law is an alcoholic. He's been sober ten years and continues to go to AA meetings."

Ex–brother-in-law? Did that mean the brother of an ex-wife or the husband of a sister? How little I knew about Zach, but wanted to know more.

"I agree," Dennell said. "I'm hoping I can do it as an outpatient."

"I have a contact for you." Zach pulled out his cell phone and texted the information to Tegan. Her mobile pinged. "Get help, and you"—he aimed a finger at Tegan—"work things out with your sister."