Bells, Tails, & Murder

by Kathy Manos Penn

  After a night in her new home, Christie was her old self and spent her time exploring every nook and cranny of the cottage while I drank my coffee. When I stepped outside to check on Dickens, I caught him joyfully rolling on his back in the damp grass.

  “Ready to meet Martha and Dylan?” I called.

  “Donkeys? I get to meet the donkeys? Yes, yes, yes, let’s go,” he barked.

  We’d just latched the garden gate when Peter Davies stopped out front on his bicycle. Peter owned the local garage and kept my London taxi in tip-top shape.

  “This must be the famous Dickens,” he called. “I’d ask to come in to meet Christie, but I’ve got to get back to open the garage.” He waved and cycled on.

  We didn’t have far to go before we saw the two donkeys in the field. I laughed as they spied me with Dickens and jogged to the fence.

  “You two are something else,” I called as I pulled carrots from my pockets. “Meet Dickens. Lucky for you, he doesn’t like carrots.”

  “Hi guys,” barked Dickens as the pair followed us along the fence line. “Leta’s told me all about you.”

  I doled out two more carrots and then turned Dickens towards our cottage, where he romped in the garden as I filled the bird feeders and pulled a few weeds. Pulling weeds was the extent of my gardening expertise. Thank goodness, the cottage came with an idyllic mature garden filled with beautiful plants.

  I knew that sooner or later, I’d have to hire a gardener to ensure it didn’t die a painful death. My brown thumb had been famous in my Atlanta neighborhood, as had my philosophy—visit Pike’s Nursery, buy a plant, stick it in the dirt, and water it. If a flower or a bush required anything beyond that, it was doomed.

  Inside, I washed my hands and pulled out my notes for the book club meeting that evening at the Book Nook. Beatrix Scott, the owner, had asked me to lead this month’s meeting when I’d suggested a book by Charlie Lovett as the September selection.

  I hadn’t read all his books, but I’d read the three literary mysteries whose plots focused on authors and legends of yore. Tonight, we’d be discussing The Bookman’s Tale, a novel about an antiquarian bookseller from North Carolina who moves to England and stumbles across clues to Shakespeare’s identity and possible Shakespeare forgeries. I couldn’t wait.

  Usually, our group indulged in appetizers and beverages and discussed the evening’s selection—what was believable and what wasn’t, what we especially liked or didn’t, and what we’d change if anything. Tonight, we were not only discussing the book but Thom Cook, Beatrix’s assistant, was also providing an overview of the world of book collecting as a tie-in to Charlie Lovett’s main character.

  I ran into my friend Wendy Davies as I was parking outside the Book Nook. Petite, slim, and almost elfin, she wore her platinum blonde hair in a short spiky do. We’d hit it off as soon as we’d met and were regulars at the bookshop and the yoga studio down the street.

  As I was telling Wendy how Dickens and Christie were doing, I saw Alice leaving the shop.

  “Hey there,” I called. “That shepherd’s pie was to die for, and you know I’ll be getting a second meal out of it. Did you do tonight’s food?”

  “Yes, Beatrix asked me to prepare a few things. And, I’m very glad you enjoyed your dinner. How are the pets?” asked Alice.

  “Oh, I was just explaining to Wendy that they’re settling in pretty well. Dickens slightly better than Christie, but that’s typical of cats and dogs, I think.”

  “Ha,” she exclaimed. “My Tigger took almost a week to adjust when we moved here, so Christie’s doing pretty well. Now, I’m off to start baking for Libby’s do tomorrow night. Will you two be there?” she asked me and Wendy.

  “Yes, and Dickens too.” We waved goodbye and went into the bookshop. We were early, and only about five others had arrived. Tommy and Tuppence, the resident cats, were perched on the shelf behind the register, and Beatrix had arranged books by tonight’s author on the counter. I was pretty sure our discussion would result in lots of sales.

  Rhiannon Smith was the last one in the door. She owned the Let It Be yoga studio and had just finished teaching a class. When Beatrix flipped the sign from Open to Closed and locked the door, we had fifteen members present, a good number. In addition to Thom, we had one more man—Gavin Taylor, Libby’s husband. I always wondered why book clubs consisted mostly of women, but that seemed to be the way. Being in the minority never seemed to bother Gavin, though, and he rarely missed a meeting.

  Beatrix kicked off the evening by inviting us to fill our plates while Thom poured wine and tea. The usual suspects—Rhiannon, Wendy, Gavin, Beatrix, and I—were the only ones drinking wine. When Beatrix introduced me, a formality, as we all knew each other, I set my food and wine down and pulled out my notes and my red reading glasses.

  I started with some background on the author and opined that given the rich literary history of Astonbury and the surrounding villages, I saw The Bookman’s Tale as appropriate for our book club. We had an energetic dialogue, and we talked about being avid readers without ever having been collectors. That was a natural lead-in to Thom’s part of the talk.

  I thought he did a lovely job explaining the lure of collecting. He referenced the author’s passion for collecting copies of Alice in Wonderland and explained that some enthusiasts searched only for copies of one particular book while others collected anything written by a particular author—even letters and diaries. Still others collected anything deemed rare.

  His favorite professor at Oxford collected works by J. M. Barrie, the author of Peter Pan. Until then, I hadn’t realized Barrie had written much else.

  When Thom gave us examples of what rare books could go for, I had to interject. “Well, I haunted many a used bookstore in my younger days because I couldn’t support my three-book-a-week habit with full-price books, not because I was searching for rare ones. Imagine if I’d known what to look for! I ‘coulda been a contender, I mean, collector.’”

  Gavin weighed in too. “You know, Libby and I went to estate sales to find books for the bookshelves at the inn. That was ten years ago, and I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit we chose books based on the covers looking old. Who knows? There could be a hidden treasure buried in the midst of all those antique-looking books.”

  By now, everyone was laughing, and we all said we could see why we read books but didn’t collect them. Beatrix brought the talk to a close and reminded us that Rhiannon would be leading the October discussion of Wicked Autumn.

  Rhiannon grinned. “I’m especially enchanted with this book because one of the characters owns a New Age shop and rents space to a yoga teacher. Maybe I should add a shop in my studio.”

  “With crystals and incense?” asked Wendy. “Or maybe yoga pants and tops?”

  While Wendy and Rhiannon chatted, I approached Thom. “I enjoyed your presentation, and I’m curious. Did your professor ever show his collection to his students or did he keep it under wraps?”

  “I think because I spent summers here as Barrie did, he showed me one book, but only one and only once. He wouldn’t even let me hold it, just placed it on his desk and turned the pages,” said Thom.

  “Wow. Which book was it? Or was it a copy of the play, Peter Pan?”

  “No, it was Peter and Wendy, a book published after the play in 1911.”

  “How interesting. I’d love to sit down with you one day and hear more. Thanks again for an engaging talk, Thom.”

  I picked up my notes and waved goodbye to Beatrix and the others. I was eager to get home to Dickens and Christie, change into my nightgown, and read a bit. It didn’t matter how late or early I went to bed, I was a dyed-in-the-wool bookworm and had to read at least a few pages before turning out the light.

  Dickens had only a short walk the next morning as I had work to do. Though I’d retired from my corporate job and moved to England, I’d continued to write weekly newspaper columns for two papers in the States. I loved that my editors allowed me to writ
e about whatever struck my fancy, though the topics no longer included the deer in my Atlanta yard, the local library sale, or the annual arts festival.

  Instead, I wrote about house hunting in the Cotswolds, finding a new yoga studio, meeting Martha and Dylan, and ideas triggered by reading newspaper articles. I’d worried my audience might be turned off by this shift, but I was pleasantly surprised at their reactions. Judging from the emails I received from readers, these columns were as well-received as my earlier ones.

  I edited some drafts and spent another hour at my desk checking emails and Facebook. My computer pinged with a Facebook message, and I saw it was my friend Bev. We’d met as teachers years ago and been friends ever since, and she’d taken care of Dickens and Christie when I’d been house hunting in England.

  She’d sent me a picture of her latest foster dog. “Conway is a mess,” she wrote. “I’m trying to break him of nipping at other dogs when we walk. I wish I had Dickens here to help train him. He’s such a little gentleman.”

  I chuckled at the description of my young man. “I have to agree he’s well-behaved,” I wrote back. “He’s my date to a cocktail party tonight, and your comment makes me think he needs a bowtie. I wish I still had a few of Henry’s, or at least the black one he wore with his tux. Wouldn’t Dickens look dapper in a black bow tie? Or maybe a red one? Against his white fur, either would be perfect.”

  I signed off and considered running out to shop for a bow tie, but I gave in to my lazy side instead. I ate lunch and then stretched out on the couch to read until my eyes got heavy. I considered reading the perfect prelude to napping. Christie did too, so she hopped up on my chest and positioned herself between me and my book.

  Eventually, we both napped, as did Dickens on his bed by the couch. When it was time to get dressed for the party, my two friends followed me upstairs.

  I knew drinks at the inn didn’t require anything fancy, but I didn’t get many chances to dress up, so I pulled out a long-sleeved red dress, black boots, and a necklace of jet and crystal beads. Red was my favorite color, and it complemented my brunette hair and dark brown eyes. I was fond of saying the only colors I needed were black, white, red and purple, and that preference would be obvious to anyone who glanced in my closet.

  Henry, on the other hand, had joked that he was going through the khaki phase of life. It had taken me several years to liven up his look with the addition of coral, yellow, and red shirts instead of white, beige, and the occasional blue.

  The weather seemed mild enough that the food would be served in the garden with the outdoor fireplace going, so I added a patterned wrap to the mix. Dickens and Christie watched as I twirled in front of the mirror.

  “Awww, we haven’t seen you dress up in a while,” said Christie. “You look beautiful.”

  “I agree,” barked Dickens. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Thanks, guys. It’s a party with some of my new friends, and Dickens, you get to be my date. Are you up for another ride in my taxi?”

  Chapter Two

  As we pulled up to the inn, the sun was low in the sky and the hundred-year-old waterwheel on the River Elfe was visible in the background. The Taylors, Libby and Gavin, had bought and refurbished the early 1900s buildings ten years ago, and it was a popular tourist destination. The flour mill had been a going concern from WWI until it ceased operations in the late 1950s, and Libby and Gavin had transformed the adjoining smaller mill building into a guest cottage. The larger building was now the inn proper.

  Paddington greeted us outside the front door and seemed none too pleased to see Dickens. “Who are you?” he meowed. “Leta is my special friend.”

  “Hey, she was my special friend first, so you’d best step aside,” growled Dickens. “And she also has a beautiful cat named Christie. I’d suggest you change your tune if you’d like us all to be friends.”

  “Enough, you two. I have room for lots of friends in my life, so get over it.” With that, I opened the door and called out, “Libby, Gavin, company.”

  I followed the sound of voices through the sitting room out to the garden and found Gavin pouring wine. With his graying goatee and a cloth napkin draped over his arm, he looked the spitting image of a London maître d. The scene was complete when Alice came through the door dressed in a black dress with a white collar. Carrying a silver tray of cheese puffs, she seemed like something out of Downton Abbey.

  “Looks like I’m just in time, and yes, I’d love a glass of red,” I responded to Gavin’s gesture with the bottle. “And, oh my gosh, Alice, the cheese puffs look divine.”

  Wendy and Beatrix were already ensconced in cushioned wrought iron chairs. Wendy’s twin Peter stood with his back to the fire, a beer in his hand. The two had similar facial features and coloring but were otherwise almost complete opposites. Unlike his sister, Peter was tall and lanky with greying blonde hair.

  The group greeted me, but Dickens was clearly the star attraction. Adjectives like adorable, well-behaved, and cute abounded. They couldn’t get over his long lustrous white hair, and he was loving the attention.

  “Leta, we missed you at yoga today,” said Wendy.

  “I know, I know, I’ve gotten a little lazy since Dickens and Christie got here, but I’ll make it Sunday or Monday for sure.”

  I turned to Beatrix and commented, “Now if that isn’t a perfect outfit for you, a skirt with a collage of book covers. That reminds me, I meant to call and ask if the latest Louise Penny novel had arrived.”

  “Not yet, but it should be here soon. How many books have you read this week—your usual two to three?” Beatrix asked. “You’ve even got Wendy beat with your habit.”

  Wendy, blue-rimmed reading glasses perched on her nose, laughed. “The problem for you, Beatrix, is that if Leta and I read the same kinds of books, your sales numbers would plummet. She claims she went through her romance phase in college. Me? I never got over it.”

  “Admit it, though, I’ve introduced you to a few mystery authors you’ve liked. And you enjoyed this month’s book club selection too.”

  Just then, a young couple and an attractive dark-haired man, who looked to be in his fifties, followed Libby outside. “Everyone, let me introduce our guests at the inn this week. We have Dave Prentiss from the States and Ian and Marilyn Vella from Malta.”

  The three shook hands all around as the locals introduced themselves. Ian and Marilyn went straight for Dickens and oohed and aahed at his white fur. Dickens preened as they petted him and then rolled over for belly rubs. “Things are good over here,” he barked.

  “He looks like a Great Pyrenees,” commented Ian, “but he’s so small.”

  Dickens barked, “Who you calling small? I’m the perfect size.”

  “He’s a dwarf Great Pyrenees,” I explained, “so he’s thankfully much smaller than a full-sized Pyr, but that’s the only difference. At forty pounds, he can still be a handful. By the way, he’s quite sensitive about being called small. That’s what the bark meant.” Ian, of course, thought I was joking.

  Dave looked at Wendy and me and expressed his surprise at hearing American accents in the mix. “Are you ladies visiting too?”

  We both responded with a chuckle. Wendy said, “I was born here, and I’ve just returned to live with my mum now that I’ve retired from teaching in North Carolina.”

  “And I’m also fortunate enough to have retired to the Cotswolds. It’s been a dream of mine to live in England, and I’m finally here, complete with my dog and cat, who’ve just arrived from Atlanta.”

  “Now, what brings you to Astonbury?” Wendy inquired. “I hope it’s vacation since there’s so much to see.”

  “Well, as a journalist, I manage to make every trip a combo of work and vacation. And I’m in luck here. Every time I turn around, I hear another great story,” replied Dave.

  “A journalist!” exclaimed Beatrix. “What types of articles do you write?”

  “I started as a reporter on the crime beat after I got
my journalism degree, but I switched to freelancing years ago. Lately, I’ve been focusing on stories for The New York Book Review and occasionally for The Strand—stories about authors, their books, their inspiration, that kind of thing.

  “I was in London doing research for an article on Arthur Conan Doyle when someone mentioned the literary connections to be found in the Cotswolds. Hearing that Doyle, J. M. Barrie, and A. A. Milne all vacationed in this area back in the day was intriguing, so I decided to check it out. Today, when I toured the Stanway House, I heard the story of J. M. Barrie donating a cricket pavilion.”

  “Ah yes,” interjected Peter. “By all accounts, Barrie was an awful player, but what he lacked in talent, he made up for in enthusiasm and the pleasure he took in playing. I’m on the local cricket team, and we still use that pavilion.

  “You know, he even formed a cricket team named the Allahakbarries, and lots of authors like H. G. Wells, Rudyard Kipling, and Arthur Conan Doyle played on it. And I guess if you’re researching Conan Doyle, you already know he formed a cricket team before that—the Authors Cricket Club. Seems those writers were mad for cricket.”

  “You probably don’t play cricket,” said Gavin to Dave, “but if you’re a walker, you can get a good look at the pavilion near the Cotswolds Way, and you’ll see plenty of sheep too.”

  “Funny,” I said, “I have fond memories of seeing Mary Martin in Peter Pan on television but don’t know much more about Barrie. Oops, I guess I just dated myself.”

  “Leta, Peter and I can go you one better,” interjected Wendy. “Not only did we see the play in London as children, but our Gran actually knew J. M. Barrie.”

  “Are you kidding? How?” asked Dave.

  Peter rolled his eyes and replied, “Our gran was a maid at the Stanway House where he and his friends vacationed. She never tired of telling those stories.”

  “Wow, I wish I could hear them. They could turn into a great article. Did she talk about the other authors too?” asked Dave.