Chapter 13
I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.
—Nick Carraway in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby
Around half past ten, I needed a snack. “Does anybody want something from Ragamuffin?”
Noeline had hurried off without leaving the goodies she’d brought in, and I was craving a raspberry scone. The sugar influx wouldn’t be good for my overall sagging energy, but I didn’t care.
“Cinnamon bun,” Tegan requested.
“Ditto,” Chloe chimed.
I grabbed my purse, told Darcy to sit tight, and left. As I drew near to my favorite coffeehouse, I saw Zach exiting the shop, a to-go bag in hand. He veered left.
I kicked up my pace and shouted, “Hey, Zach, wait up!”
He caught sight of me, and his brow puckered with a peeved expression.
“It’s a beautiful morning,” I said when I caught up to him.
He forced his face to go neutral. “It is.”
“Listen, about me being at the history museum …”
“You have every right to visit our town’s establishments.” He started to pivot.
I tapped his arm. “Hold up. How is the investigation going?”
He swiveled back, the peeved look replanted on his face. “Allie, look, I can’t talk about it.”
“Because I’m a suspect?”
“I can’t talk about it,” he repeated like a robot on auto- repeat.
“Would you at least tell me whether you consider Patrick Hardwick a suspect?”
He didn’t answer.
“What about Ignatius Luckenbill?”
“Ignatius Luckenbill is dead.”
“I meant Junior, and you know it. Iggie the second. Is he on your radar?” When he didn’t respond, I continued. “I heard him say to Finette if anybody was going to develop the historic properties Jason was bargaining for, it would be him.”
“I’ll bet lots of developers have said something similar.”
“According to Noeline and Vanna, Iggie has a bad reputation for maligning his competitors.”
“It is not against the law to malign another person as long as no action occurs. You’ve heard of freedom of speech. Nor is it against the law to crow about one’s intentions.”
His curt responses were getting under my skin, but I pressed on. “Did you ask about his alibi for Monday night?”
“I knew it.”
“He has an alibi?”
“No.” He sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to help yourself. You’d poke into things and come up with theories, like you did last time.”
“Last time, my best friend was your main suspect. This time, I am.”
“As a matter of fact, you are. You’ve got means, motive, and opportunity, and there was evidence of a struggle.”
With my missing earring to show for it, I thought miserably.
“Look, if you want to arrest me, arrest me.” Brazenly, I jutted out my arms, wrists together.
When he didn’t latch cuffs on them, I breathed easier.
“I’m not going to sit idle and let you do all the investigating when my neck is on the line.
I told you, as a caterer and baker, I’m attuned to details.
If I come across a clue, I’ll share it.”
“Allie …” He scrubbed one side of his head with his fingertips, clearly reluctant to say more.
“Go on. Something is eating at you. Speak. I’m tough. I can take it.” I folded my arms, waiting.
He shifted feet and switched the to-go bag to his other hand.
“It’s the kiss, right?” I blurted. “You’re upset we kissed. Well, I’m equally disturbed. We shouldn’t have done it. I wish we hadn’t. We had a good friendship going. But now you can’t even talk to me or look me in the eyes. I’m sorry. I’m to blame. I was too forward. I—”
“Stop.” He rested a fingertip on my lips and, probably realizing how intimate an act it was, quickly lowered it. “When this investigation is over—”
“When you find the real killer, who is not me.”
“When that happens, we’ll talk. Until then—” He squinted one eye. It wasn’t a wink. It was a warning. “Let me do my job.”
I entered Ragamuffin in a foul mood. Did Zach really think I was a killer? He couldn’t. No way. If only I hadn’t mentioned the darned kiss!
When I reached the front of the line, I shook off my unease and ordered a latte with an extra pump of caffeine, treats for Tegan and Chloe, and a chocolate scone for me. After the tussle with Zach, a raspberry one didn’t hold the same allure.
As I was paying, the ponytailed barista said, “Allie, I was about to call you. If you have time, the boss said we could use two dozen lemon cheesecake bars pronto. Like three hours from now. Can you do it? The Potter’s Palette next door wants to have them on hand for this afternoon’s art party for adults. ”
“They could’ve ordered directly from me.”
“Yes, but the boss didn’t clue them in. She said we might as well make a profit.”
I laughed at her candor.
“Besides, we’re providing all the beverages for the affair.”
I agreed to help out and took our treats back to Feast for the Eyes.
After explaining to Tegan that I had a rush order, I hoofed it to Dream Cuisine.
It took me less than ninety minutes to bake, cool, and slice the lemon bars.
I dusted them with powdered sugar, stowed them in a container, and delivered them to Ragamuffin, slightly out of breath.
When the barista received them, she said, “Next time, bring us more business cards.”
I smirked. “Will you really hand them out?”
“You bet. But not to anyone who needs a same-day order. They have to go through us. Deal?”
“Deal.”
On my way out, I caught sight of the young woman I’d seen outside Jason’s house Monday night, the one who said she’d heard a woman scream, the one I’d dubbed Pinkie, because she’d reminded me of my favorite stuffed bunny.
Today she was in a pink light-weave sweater over white jeans and was chatting with none other than Lillian’s grandmother Magda, who was dressed to impress.
I wished I could drape a scarf the way she had, but I’d look foolish.
The scarf—it was a blue floral Hermès, if I wasn’t mistaken, one I’d seen in an ad in a recent edition of Elle magazine—was stunning.
I drew near. “Hello, Magda.”
“Well, I’ll be!” she cried. “If it isn’t Allie Catt.”
“It’s you!” Pinkie said, startled.
“It’s me,” I replied. “Do you know me?”
“Allie’s a caterer,” Magda said.
“No.” Pinkie shook her head.
“Yes,” Magda countered.
“No, I mean, this is the person who found the body.” Pinkie shot a hand in my direction.
“She’s also part owner of Feast for the Eyes,” Magda added. “I was telling Pearl—”
“That’s me,” said Pinkie, aka Pearl.
“I was telling Pearl she must start reading more.” Magda regarded her young friend.
“I’m a devoted romance reader. Heat meter one, thank you very much.
” Heat meter one in the romance world meant a gentle, Hallmark-style encounter.
No bodice ripping. “But I’ll read anything, truth be told, except nonfiction. ”
“I like paranormal romance,” Pearl said. “Especially with sexy vampires.”
“Oh, you.” Magda giggled.
Pearl chuckled but quickly sobered. “Allie, I was talking to Magda about the murder. What is this world coming to?”
Magda said, “And I was about to tell you I knew Jason Gardner.”
“You did?” Pearl’s eyes widened.
“He was a boy.” Briefly, she recapped how her daughter— Lillian’s mother—used to babysit him.
I studied Magda and Pearl, trying to figure out why they were friendly, considering their age difference.
Pearl said, “He seemed sad to me and my mom. Whenever we walked our dog Moose, we often saw Mr. Gardner lingering in his gardens, mumbling to himself as he inspected the roses and flower beds, as if it all had to be perfect, but for what?”
Delilah, I guessed.
“Allie,” Magda said, “I’m so sorry it was you who found him. It’s morbid to ask, but what was it like seeing a dead body?”
I felt my cheeks warm. “He wasn’t dead when I arrived.
He died seconds later.” A pang cut through me as I pictured him struggling for his last breath.
I wouldn’t describe the scene to the women.
Not because Zach wouldn’t want me to, but because it had been gruesome.
“Pardon my asking, Pearl, but you said the scream you heard that night was distant but shrill.”
“Uh-huh. Like something you’d hear in a horror movie.”
Magda tapped her arm. “Like how Shelley Duvall screamed in The Shining or Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween?”
“More like Jenna Ortega in the Scream movies or Sadie Sink in Stranger Things.” Pearl shot her hands wide and mimed screaming.
Magda shivered. “You poor dear.”
The poor dear had been Jason, but I didn’t feel the need to point out the obvious. “Are you sure it was a woman?”
She bobbed her head.
“Could it have been a scene in a movie playing on TV at a neighbor’s house?”
“I suppose.”
“And who heard a dog bark?” I asked.
“Mr. Smith, but how he heard anything is beyond me. The old coot is as deaf as a post.” She covered her mouth.
Her cheeks blazed hot. She lowered her hand.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t call him an old coot.
Not nice. But you know who I mean,” she said to Magda.
“He’s the guy with the sort of bald head who plays bingo on Fridays at the church. The loud one.”
“You’re the loud one,” Magda teased. She said to me, “Pearl is the caller at the bingo games, Allie. You should hear her bellow out the letters.”
Aha. That explained their connection.
Pearl tilted her head. “You know, Mr. Smith might be lying. He doesn’t like dogs. In particular Moose.”
Before returning to the bookshop, I swung by town hall, which was located on East Main, beyond the Bramblewood Park and Rec Center. Patrick said he and Jason had bumped into each other there Monday morning and had reconciled. Would anyone in the vicinity remember their meeting?
Town hall was an imposing building with classic columns and a grand facade.
A circular drive surrounded an impressive three-tiered fountain featuring four winged leonine creatures that had the heads and wings of eagles known as griffins.
According to town hall’s history, the founders had chosen the griffins because they symbolized prosperity, bravery, and wisdom.