Page 61 of Murder By the Millions

“It does sound iffy,” Vanna said. “I never read a book twice if I can help it.”

I smiled.

“Did the neighbor say how the dog bark sounded?” she asked. “They all have distinctive yips.”

“He imitated it, like a throaty bark.” I wondered if Zach had followed up.

“And the scream, was it high-pitched or guttural, like someone yelling in fear or rage?”

“The witness said it was distant but shrill.” I wriggled with unease.

“As for Iggie …” Vanna tapped the island with a fingernail. “He’s a jerk. He has maligned so many of his competitors and ruined their reputations. He even forced a few out of business.”

“That seems like a better reason for him to be dead than Jason.”

“True. Should we box these?” She gestured to the cooled muffins and scones.

“Good idea.”

I fetched some cardstock boxes, and we folded them into containers. I tended to the scones. Vanna managed the muffins.

“You know …” She attached labels to the boxes she’d filled. “I wouldn’t put it past Iggie to have killed a competitor. I mean, from what I heard, his father’s death was suspicious.”

“The coroner labeled it a natural death.”

“Humph.”

I cringed. Was she right? Had Iggie somehow helped his father along to the next world in order to inherit the business?

Vanna smiled. “I’m starting to like being a member of hashtag Allies, no apostrophe, ClueCrew.”

“Stop.”

“It’s making my little gray cells work. Isn’t that what Hercule Poirot says? I’ve never read Agatha Christie’s books, but I’ve seen a couple of the movies. I particularly like the ones starring Ewan McGregor. He’s dishy. But the mustache, ugh.” She wriggled her nose.

I frowned, wondering how I could entice this woman to read more than cookbooks and chefs’ bios. Maybe having a blind-date-with-a-book event at the shop, where we would wrap books in brown paper so readers wouldn’t know the title or genre of the book they selected, would get her hooked. Somehow I’d make sure she choseMurder on the Orient Express,The Mysterious Affair at Styles,orThe Murder of Roger Ackroyd,so she could get to know the real Poirot.

“Did you know Aunt Marigold, may she rest in peace”— Vanna pressed a hand over her heart—“had a run-in with Iggie years ago? He wanted to buy a bunch of properties on Main Street.”

“He did?”

“Yes. Auntie was firmly against it and went to the town council to protest. Thanks to Finette Fineworthy, who put her foot down—Auntie and Finette collaborated to thwart him— Iggie was forced to set his sights on properties to the east of North Mountain Road, a prospect that didn’t come to fruition, either.”

His relationship with Finette was even more contentious than I’d imagined.Interesting.

Vanna yawned and covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “My, it’s late. I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ll be back first thing to deliver all of these. You did all the heavy lifting tonight.”

I gawked at her, truly surprised by her largesse. Who was she? Why was she making nice? Had going into partnership with me and helping with the literary parties tapped into her deep-seated need to be part of a team? Whatever had instigated the change, I was loving it.

First thing in the morning, Vanna texted she was on the way. I’d barely slipped out of my nightshirt and wriggled into a pair of leggings and a T-shirt before she arrived with a to-go cup in hand.

“Here’s hot coffee. Colombian roast. Medium-bodied, with citrusy acidity and hints of caramel.” She thrust the cup at me and edged past. “I made it in my French press.”

I took a sip and hummed my thanks. “Delicious.”

“Hello, Darcy.” She bent to pet him and stood up. “Are all the deliveries ready to go?”

“They are.”