by Lane Stone
“She’s here!”
Actually it sounded like Lady Anthea had said, “She’s heah.”
Shelby ran around the counter to hug Buckingham’s co-owner while I called Mason and Joey on the intercom.
“What a difference a few months makes,” I said to Chief Turner. He chuckled and nodded. He knew all about our rocky initial meeting.
Since our partnership agreement had been negotiated and accomplished with emails, our first in-person meeting had been the week of the Pet Parents Appreciation Gala. Between the signing of the contract and that week she had given us lots of support—use of her name, use of the name of her estate, Frithsden, and photographs galore. Her family estate was grand and the gardens were dramatic. Using her guidance we’d achieved our own elegance at Buckingham’s with golf-course-green and burgundy walls and dark wood furniture. She hadn’t stopped there. She’d emailed us regularly and it was what was in those missives that had caused us to dread meeting her.
“Did I tell you about the time she compared me to someone named Bia because of the hours I worked?” I whispered to Chief Turner. “Who would know that Bia was the Greek goddess of force and raw energy without Googling it?”
“Not me,” he said.
“She was the sister of Nike, who we did know, but only as running shoes.”
“Greek mythology, huh?”
“Sometimes Roman, but not just gods and goddesses. She brings up people in operas, famous paintings, composers…” I trailed off when I heard my groomers getting closer.
Mason and Joey ran into the lobby and I waited to see if they would continue their tradition that made Lady Anthea giggle, every time. They stopped in front of her and slowly bowed.
She clapped her hands and laughed. Someone not upper class, someone whose grandmother wasn’t lady-in-waiting to the queen, might have called the guys cheeky. “It’s marvelous to be back here. Now, where is Sue?”
The front doors opened and two men I didn’t know walked in and edged past the group in the middle of the lobby. Both wore black slacks, silk ties, and white shirts starched so stiff I could hardly take my eyes off them. The older man held a leash for a well-behaved Airedale Terrier. The dog was sedate so surely Chief Turner wouldn’t be bothered by him. Shelby started to greet the pair but I told her that I would take care of them.
“Good afternoon,” I said.
They skirted around the laughing, talking group and made their way to me. “We’ll catch up later,” I called to Lady Anthea.
“I want to hear everything,” she said.
John was backing away and had almost made his escape when the older of the two stopped him.
“Chief,” the man said with a nod. He shifted the leash to his left hand, reached out for a handshake. “Good to see you again.” He wore silver aviator eyeglasses on his jowly face. Thinning, white hair had been pressed into service as a comb-over, valiantly fighting the good fight.
He spoke with an accent that was pleasing to the ear and I was simultaneously trying to figure out where he was from and concentrating on keeping my mouth from imitating him. Gwud ta seeee ya agan.
“Likewise, Mr. Fourie,” John said, shaking the man’s wide, square hand and looking slightly bored.
Fourie? Where had I heard that name? He was Mr. Edutainer! I chanced a look over his shoulder at my employees. Or as we liked to say, “Heeeeere’s Mr. Edutaaaaaaainer.” Why had no one told me he was bringing his dog here?
“Please call me Howard. And this is my son, David.” His gravelly voice trailed off at the end of the sentence, as he turned to where he thought his son was standing. No son. Or rather, the son had drifted off to the gift store section of our lobby, and was trying to place a call on his cell phone. He turned his attention to me. After running his eyes up and down as much of me as he could see, he said, “Sweetheart, I’m dropping my dog off for grooming.”
“You’re Mr. Fourie?” I asked.
He nodded and smirked.
“You had a phone call. The nineteen seventies called. They want their sexist language back.”
The father’s mouth dropped open, as did John’s. Mason, Joey, Shelby, and Lady Anthea all sucked in their breath, their eyes wide, as they hungrily waited to see how this would play out, like I had opened a bag of treats in the middle of the puppy play room. I don’t work twelve hours a day to be spoken to like that. Suddenly the son bellowed out a laugh, and the spell was broken.
“I like it,” Mr. Fourie called out. I had no idea what he liked.
“I’m Sue Patrick, one of the owners of Buckingham’s.”
Shelby came around and started clicking the keypad. “We received Ariadne’s—uh, am I pronouncing her name correctly?”
Howard Fourie nodded, yes.
Shelby continued, “We have her vaccination records from your vet in South Africa.” Oh, yeah, South Africa. That was the accent. “She’ll be with our lead groomer today.”
Mason had come up to greet the dog and take the leash. “Well, you’ve come a long way,” he said to the dog.
David Fourie rejoined us. “We’re organizing the anniversary celebration of finding the eighteenth-century artifacts from the shipwreck in Roosevelt Inlet.” The younger man was just as corporate as his father. He had slimmer hips and more narrow shoulders. His hair was black and thick, on the longish end of the spectrum. He looked like he was in his mid-twenties. So why was he talking like a fifty-year-old? Only his small mouth looked like his dad’s, and he spoke like him. I wondered why I had thought the resemblance was stronger when they came in, and then realized it was because they walked with the same gait, that is, confidence bordering on swagger.
“Interesting,” Mason said, so professionally the guy never even suspected the sarcasm loaded into the response. He had one of our leashes lassoed around his shoulder and pulled it off of himself and onto the dog in one fluid motion. “We’ll telephone when we’re done.” He handed David their leash back, which he’d removed.
With that, he, Joey, and Ariadne walked down the hall to the grooming suite. David Fourie’s phone rang and he returned to the side of the lobby.
As he walked away, I heard him say, “Have you secured funding? The city council meets this week.”
Chief Turner and Lady Anthea were standing in front of the reception desk. “Good to see you again,” he said, smiling at Lady Anthea.
She looked down the hallway after Mason and Joey. “With a welcome like that, I now know how Elvis must have felt.”
She laughed and they went on to talk about jet lag, the weather, what Lewes was like in the off-season until her accent attracted Howard Fourie’s attention. He had been listening in and he turned to me. “Who’s that?”
“Let me introduce you.” I moved down to the end of the counter. “Mr. Fourie, this is Lady Anthea Fitzwalter, the co-owner of Buckingham’s.” They shook hands while her title sunk in. What I’d overheard of the son’s phone conversation reminded me of some work needed in our store. I sauntered off to do some critical and urgent shelf restocking.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Lady Anthea said behind me.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” he returned. “You’ve just arrived?”
“Yes, just today,” she said.
“Same as my son.” He nodded in our direction. “Just flew in.”
“I heard Shelby say your dog is named Ariadne. Are you a fellow opera devotee?”
As David’s back was turned I lowered myself behind a display case of life-size inflatable dogs, wishing I hadn’t seen that exasperated look on John’s face. I could have done without the eye roll, too.
The father hadn’t answered Lady Anthea’s simple question. Suddenly what I wasn’t hearing was just as interesting as what I was listening to with David. I didn’t understand the beat the father took to say if he liked opera or not. She could ask me that question any t
ime.
The son spoke again and I brought my attention back to why I was kneeling on the floor in the first place. “We’ll bring any of the more noteworthy items back to South Africa where they belong, anything significant.” There was a pause, then he said, “Sure, including the section of the wine bottle with the logo.”
His voice registered a bit higher than his father’s, but that’s not what had stopped the pretend-straightening of the blow-up Pugs I was doing. The bottom of the wine bottle that was found was from the oldest winery in South Africa and it’s still in operation today.
“It won’t be a problem with these people,” the younger Fourie said. “We’ve collab’d with the city on their little celebration which has greased the way for that.”
Collab’d? What the hell? Ohhhh, they have collaborated with Lewes.
I heard the doors open and close and looked to my side since I’d hate for some conscientious bloodhound to sneak up on me. It was John, and he was leaving.
Back in the open section of the lobby, Lady Anthea rescued the Fourie she was with after his second “ub, ub,” on that tricky opera question. She said, “I’m here to give morning dog trick classes and then an agility class in the afternoon.”
The elder Fourie said, “Hmm.” Before saying to Shelby, “Sign my dog up for this week’s classes. What did you say it was—tricks?”
“A pet parent has to accompany the dog. Someone as busy as you might not have time,” Lady Anthea demurred.
“That won’t be a problem,” Howard said.
At the same time Shelby was saying, “I’m sorry, both morning and afternoon classes are filled to capacity and we have a waiting list.”
I jumped up from the floor. “It’s okay. Arianna, Adriana, Adriadne can have Abby’s spot.”
Chapter 11
Since my cover was blown, I went back to the group at the reception desk.
Howard Fourie nodded, his substitute for thanking me for making room for his dog to be a part of Lady Anthea’s class.
“Sue and Lady Anthea, my son and I are hosting a little dinner at the Gate House restaurant tomorrow evening, and we’d like you to join us,” he said, looking at Lady Anthea, then me, then back again. The way he had puffed up prior to extending the invitation made me think that by little dinner, he meant, big dinner.
I sensed that Lady Anthea was about to turn him down, so I had to act fast. “Sounds fun.” By that I meant the opposite. “We’d love to. Shelby, are you free?”
Fourie, the elder, gulped.
“I really should handle closing tomorrow night,” she said, giving me a look that said, I know what you’re doing and thanks but no thanks.
“I’ve reserved the Gate House for the evening,” said Howard, relieved and wheeling around to leave. “Do you know where that is?”
I nodded. “Yes, it’s very nice.”
David was following his father out and said over his shoulder, “Lewes has more than its fair share of elegant restaurants.”
I was pathetically and illogically thinking better of him after his compliment to my city, as I walked around the desk on the way to my office.
Lady Anthea and Shelby stood like statues, eyes glued to the doors. As soon as the men reached the pavement outside, Lady Anthea began, “I want to hear all about the murder!”
“We have to start with the robbery!” Shelby said.
They followed me back to my office. My cell phone was lit up because I had not one but two texts. I read them while Shelby, starting from the beginning, told Lady Anthea all that had happened since yesterday morning. The first text was from John Turner, who wanted me to go to dinner Wednesday night. Sorry, I have to work late.
I went on to the second text. “Thank goodness!” I yelled.
Both women turned to me. “Rick found his father!”
“I was just getting to Rick’s father’s part in all this,” Shelby said and sat on the sofa.
“He’s taking him to talk to Chief Turner and he wants me to go along.” I looked at the clock on my phone. “They’re meeting in half an hour,” I said, as I typed. “I’m telling him I’ll be there.”
Lady Anthea sat next to Shelby and seemed to relish all the details. While they talked I printed the roster for the Trick and Agility classes. At the end I handed the papers to Lady Anthea. She scanned them and then looked at me, with what one of my mysteries—I believe it was The Green, Green Grass over the Grave—called a gimlet eye. “Now tell me why you added Howard Fourie’s dog to my already full class!”
“I want to keep an eye on those men,” I said. “I think he’s trying to take a very, very old, rare and valuable artifact discovered on Lewes Beach out of the country.” I told them what I had heard David Fourie say.
Lady Anthea clapped her hands. “Very old artifact? How old? Fifteenth century? Sixteenth century?”
“Uh, nooooo,” I said. “The ship sank in 1774.”
“That’s not old,” she said.
“It is to us,” I said, standing up for our country.
“How valuable? And what type of relic is it? A tool or maybe jewelry?”
“Well, see, there’s this winery in South Africa named Groot Constantia Estate and Winery. And a British ship, the Severn, was carrying some wine made there,” I said.
“Lewes has a bottle of wine from the eighteenth century! That is remarkable!” Shelby and I tried to interrupt Lady Anthea but she was getting excited. “Or are you saying the town has a case…”
Finally, Shelby touched her arm. “It’s just the bottom of a wine bottle.”
“What?” Lady Anthea was incredulous. “What makes it rare? Was that all that remained of the ship’s cargo?”
“Uh, not exactly,” Shelby said. “There were about fifty-six thousand pieces. When the US Army Corp of Engineers dredged the bay people starting finding artifacts washed up onto Lewes Beach. There were some buttons, pipes, and buckles for shoes…”
“Lewes has fifty-six thousand pieces in its museum?” she asked, back to being enthralled.
“No, most of it went to the Delaware state archives,” I said.
“To protect the bottom of a bottle you overfilled my training class?” she asked. “The bottom of a wine bottle is not exactly the Temple of Dendur.”
“Plus, I have us going to dinner with a bunch of corporate stiffs,” I admitted. “I’m sharing the pain.”
“Easy now,” Shelby said. “That’s what my husband used to be.” She paused before starting again. “I’d like to make a suggestion. After the dinner, let protecting the artifact go and concentrate on the murder. That’s much more important.”
“Ahhh,” I said. I had just figured out why John had that expression on his face when he saw me eavesdropping on David Fourie. “Chief Turner thinks this will keep me busy and I’ll leave Billy B.’s murder investigation to him.”
“I’m not keen on disagreeing with you, Shelby, but maybe we should investigate what the Fouries are up to, rather than the murder,” Lady Anthea said. “It’s obvious Rick Ziegler’s father is involved. If he’s not the murderer, he might be an accomplice. And Rick might be asking you to help his father get away with a crime.”
I was shaking my head. “I don’t think he killed that man.”
“Because you think Rick’s a great guy?” Shelby asked.
I squirmed since I’d never even met his father, and finally admitted, “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like someone with a son like Rick could be a murderer.”
“I understand that Rick is a free spirit, but your reasoning would hardly stand up in court,” Lady Anthea said. “One scenario is that this Billy B. individual stole the automobile from Mr. Ziegler. Another is that the car owner let Billy B. use his car to come and break in to Buckingham’s. Neither option is pleasant. Have you considered that?”
“I don’t know
enough to consider anything.” I shrugged my shoulders and stood. “I better get going if I’m going to meet Rick at the police station. I’ll know more after I hear what he has to say. I understand if you don’t want to go with me. Would you rather stay here and begin setting up for your class?”
“No, I had better accompany you,” Lady Anthea said, getting up from the sofa.
Shelby said, “Good! Protect her from herself.”
“Protecting Chief Turner from her is what I had in mind,” Lady Anthea said and we promenaded out.
Chapter 12
I had texted Rick that we were on our way and he was waiting for us by the curb, with a grayer and wider version of himself. I knew Rick to be somewhere in his thirties and his father looked to be late-fifty-ish. His hair and stubble were about thirty-seventy black and silver. They turned in tandem to watch us park the Jeep and that’s when I saw just how different the two men were. Rick’s movements were decisive, almost hyper. Whereas his dad seemed to move in molasses.
We got out and they walked to meet us.
When they were closer, Lady Anthea leaned near my shoulder and whispered, “Good Lord, if he was a dog I’d say he had the mange.”
I took in the gray tint to the older man’s complexion. With the image her words had planted in my brain, I doubted I’d ever be able to eat at Mozart’s again. Thank you very much.
“Dad, this is Sue Patrick, a friend of mine,” Rick said. “Thanks for coming,” he added in a whisper. He lowered his eyebrows and seemed to be trying to send me a message. He looked stressed and exasperated. I had never, ever seen Rick in either of those states before. I take that back. When Dayle broke up with him while she was undergoing chemo, he was desperately unhappy.
I held out my hand to shake his father’s. “Mr. Ziegler,” I began, since Rick hadn’t told me his father’s first name, “nice to meet you. This is Lady Anthea, my business partner.” He shook my hand and then hers.
“We don’t often get royalty around here,” he said.
