Page 53 of Murder By the Millions
“The good-looking man your father and I met at the memorial? I remember him well. What a charmer. Are you two still dating?”
“No. It didn’t work out.” Was Zach holding a grudge about our breakup? Was it even a breakup? After all, we’d dated such a short time.
“Is he the lead investigator? He’d better not be railroading you so he doesn’t appear to be biased in your favor.”
“He’s not.” At least I hoped that didn’t factor into his reasoning. “He’s not one to jump to conclusions, but finding my missing earring at the site is pretty damning.”
“As is the weapon the murderer used. I always hated those artifacts,” Fern said. “Your father was enamored with the idea of having something original to the land hanging in the house.”
“Really?”
“His father was into historical things, although he wasn’t himself. I think your grandfather would have loved to have been an explorer and discovered new worlds. He often visited archaeological digs to get a preview of what scientists were unearthing.”
I hadn’t known my grandfather well. I was four when he died. But I remembered my father telling colorful stories about him.
“You do what you need to, to exonerate yourself,” Fern cautioned. “I presume Tegan will help you. She’s a smart girl.”
“Yes. She’ll help, as will a few others.” I smiled at the notion of Allie’s Clue Crew. “I should get back to work.”
“Keep me in the loop.”
When I ended the call, Darcy leaped onto the desk and mewed. Was he hungry, or was he telling me he, too, was one of my staunch supporters?
I inspected his toenail, which looked a whole heap better, and pulled him into my lap. “Who did it, sir?” I asked. “Who killed Jason Gardner?”
CHAPTER11
“I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”
—Daisy Buchanan in F. Scott Fitzgerald’sThe Great Gatsby
At the end of the day, Vanna begged off helping me bake. She’d scored a gig preparing dinner for the mayor. How could I tell her to pass it up? So rather than go to Dream Cuisine, I went home, preferring to be in a cozy environment while I made the goods for tomorrow’s deliveries and tested a couple of the recipes I wanted to serve at theGatsbyparty.
On my cell phone, I selected a Spotify playlist of 1920s-era music that included jazz, swing, and ragtime and channeled it through the Bluetooth speaker. The bouncy “Maple Leaf Rag” started playing.
I pocketed my cell phone and released Darcy from his carrier. He bounded across the living room. “Hold on, mister. I need to check your surroundings.”
I picked him up, set him in the alcove by the dining table to observe, ordered him to stay put, and strode to the fireplace. He must’ve realized I was serious, because he sat as still as a statue. I got down on my knees and ran my palms across the flooring and the stones of the hearth. I didn’t find anything that might snag his toenails or pads.
I peered at him over my shoulder. “Where did you hurt yourself?”
He mewed, clueless, it seemed.
I bent lower to peer under the armchair. At the same time my cell phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket. Tegan was calling. I answered.
“Help me!” she pleaded.
I scrambled to my feet. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to do an intervention with Mom.”
“Oh, geez.” Relief swept over me. She wasn’t hurt. She hadn’t been mugged on the way home, not that she would be in Bramblewood. Purse snatchings weren’t common. “Is that all?”
“Is that all?” She sounded half hysterical.
“I have to bake.”
“Pretty please? Afterward, I’ll help you.”
