Bells, Tails, & Murder

by Kathy Manos Penn

  Wendy laughed. “No, just endless stories about Barrie. Too bad you couldn’t have heard Gran talk about him. She said he had awful insomnia and kept the other guests awake. They were grateful when she took to sitting up with him and listening to his stories. That let everyone else off the hook, and the two of them became friends in the process.”

  “If that’s the case, I bet there’s plenty of Peter Pan memorabilia at your mom’s house,” commented Dave.

  “All I remember is the Disney book with the colorful illustrations. I think I liked the movie even better than the play. If there’s anything else, I don’t recall seeing it. What do you think, Peter?”

  Peter thought for a moment. “I think she has another book written by Barrie, but that’s about it. What I know for sure is she still has her ancient Winnie-the-Pooh books from when she was a girl. They’re on the bookshelf in the sitting room, right next to the mysteries she gets from Beatrix.”

  “I bet we all had copies of Winnie-the-Pooh, right?” asked Gavin as he poured more wine.

  “Uh-oh,” I responded. “I hope that’s not a prerequisite for being friends with you guys. I have to admit my younger sisters loved Winnie-the-Pooh—my sister Sophia even named her two cats Pooh and Piglet—but somehow I never read the A. A. Milne stories. On the other hand, I have read lots of the Sherlock Holmes stories and most of the modern variations. I’m addicted to mysteries, especially British mysteries. Does that count?”

  Before Gavin could respond, Rhiannon, Thom, and Toby White wandered into the garden, and another round of introductions ensued. Alice nodded a greeting to the trio as she passed a tray of veggies with spinach dip.

  “Thank goodness you three are here,” said Libby. “This was fast turning into a book club meeting.”

  “Toby, is Cynthia coming later?” asked Wendy.

  “No, she usually wraps up work on Thursday or Friday at the latest, but not this week. She has some important clients to entertain over the weekend.” Toby owned the Tearoom in the village, and his wife Cynthia was a partner in an interior design firm in London. She only spent weekends at home in Astonbury.

  The couple seemed to take their long-distance living arrangement in stride, and I assumed it was much like when I’d traveled for my career. Most weeks, I’d leave for the airport on Monday mornings and come home exhausted Thursday or Friday night, but Henry and I made it work.

  “I assured him all we single women would look after him,” said Rhiannon with a laugh. She was dressed in a flowing green and rust ensemble that suited her tall yoga-toned body and long wavy blonde hair. She reminded me of the singer Stevie Nicks, only taller.

  “Honestly, Rhiannon,” I said, “When I look at you in that ensemble, I think wood nymph, and I mean that as a compliment. I could never pull off those colors.”

  “Oh stop,” said Rhiannon. “You look stunning tonight; red is your color.”

  Toby had to chime in. “What? No comments about my jeans and corduroy shirt and how they complement my graying hair?”

  That prompted the men to joke about each other’s attire for a second or two, and then the conversation turned to plans for the next day. Thom, with the day off from the Book Nook, was leading a group of Americans on a bicycle tour. Henry and I had met Thom on our Cotswolds trip when he’s taken the two of us on a tour. He’d been a knowledgeable guide and taken good care of us. I’d never forgotten his comical comment that I was like a tortoise on the uphills, slow and steady.

  What I wouldn’t give to be sharing that memory with Henry now. I was sure he’d be laughing.

  Dave was headed to Bourton-on-the-Water, and Marilyn was excited about visiting Blenheim Palace on the way to stay in Oxford. “I’m a Churchill fan,” she explained, “and I want to see the exhibit at Blenheim and the War Room in London too.”

  “She also wants to tour the Bodleian Library in Oxford,” Ian said, “which I may let her do on her own. I’m sure there’s a pub I can visit while she gets her library fix.”

  Wendy and I chimed in at the same time to say we had tickets to tour the library the following week. We had plans to drive over, do the tour, take in a play, and spend the night. “Of course, Leta and I think you’ve made a great choice, Marilyn,” said Wendy. “She and I were both English majors and think it’s a must-see. Can you imagine the treasures it holds?”

  Catching a glimpse of Dickens’s tail disappearing into the inn, I chased after him to be sure he wasn’t headed to the kitchen. He would be like a kid in a candy store if he found hors d'oeuvres on the kitchen table. He wasn’t tall enough to counter surf, but he was adept at jumping onto a kitchen chair to reach the table.

  I passed Alice in the hall, another tray of goodies in hand. “Alice, I thought the food at book club was delicious, but you’ve outdone yourself tonight.”

  She grinned and shook her red curls. “Why thank you. You know I love to cook, and I’d watch those cooking shows all day long if I could. You can tell that from my shape, can’t you?”

  We both laughed. She nodded in the direction she’d come from and told me to hurry before Dickens discovered the tray of cheese and crackers she’d just set out.

  I caught up to him in the kitchen with his nose held high in the air. He looked as though he were trying to decide which delicacy to sample first, and I was just in time to intercept him as he placed his front paws on the nearest chair. “No way, you little Dickens,” I said as I grabbed his collar.

  Thom had followed me to the kitchen to get a beer, and he chuckled at the sight of Dickens caught in the act. “Dickens, you’ll have to be stealthier if you’re going to score any snacks.”

  The two of us chatted about his years at Oxford where he’d read English, and I asked him how it felt to have graduated.

  “It’s great to be out, but I’m a bit at loose ends. As you can imagine, I’m pretty heavily in debt so I feel like I need to find a full-time job, but doing what?”

  “Sounds like the stories I hear back home,” I said. “I owed money when I graduated, but nothing like what I hear about today. For me, getting a teaching job was my top priority.”

  “I love books, so reading English at Oxford was for sure the right thing for me, but I don’t think I want to teach. For now, I can’t decide whether to look for some kind of full-time job or to keep on working for Beatrix at the bookshop and leading tours for my uncle George. Maybe I should view this year as a break—a chance to stick with work I enjoy while I decide what I want to do long-term.”

  “Could be taking a year to clear your mind will lead to a better decision. Going right to work as I did and then taking night classes to get a Masters was no walk in the park. I wonder whether I’d have done things differently if I’d had some time to think.”

  “I’m trying to save as much as I can so I’ll have the option to pursue an advanced degree if I want to. Immersing myself in literature again would be awesome, but the social environment? Not so much.”

  “What was the issue with the social part?” I asked.

  “I grew up poor and lived in council housing in Manchester. I know I was lucky to go to Oxford, but I never really fit in with the toffs who’d gone to the best schools. That part? Feeling left out and being made fun of? Not good.

  “What’s good for now is Uncle George letting me live rent-free in the flat over his shop and making good tips leading tours. I enjoy chatting with the tourists too,” he said.

  “I’m not sure I realized George Evans was your uncle. Maybe I knew and I’ve forgotten. We took a driving tour with him the same year we cycled with you. It was with George that I learned about the authors who summered at the Stanway House. Between the two of you, Henry and I learned a lot.”

  “Yes, Uncle George has always been keen on history, and spending summers with him, I couldn’t help but learn plenty. Every summer, Mum made sure I escaped Manchester, as she put it, to breathe the country air. With Dad disabled and on the dole, money was tight, so summers with Uncle George were a blessing.�
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  “Is your mum on her own now?” I asked.

  “Yes, Dad passed away before I went to Oxford,” said Thom. “Uncle George keeps trying to get her to move here, but she says Manchester’s her home. She’s that attached to her council flat and her neighbors, I guess.”

  We continued our conversation as we returned to the garden with my rogue dog. Everyone had a laugh about Dickens’s failed attempt to scarf people food while breathing a sigh of relief that the nibbles were safe. The wine flowed freely, and the lively conversation continued.

  The party began to wrap up as those who had to start early the next day made moves towards the gravel drive where the cars were parked. Toby had to open the Tearoom, Rhiannon had an early morning class, and Peter would be up early to ride his bike before he opened the garage.

  Just then, Gemma arrived, still in her dark navy suit and crisp white blouse. Libby gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek and introduced her to Dave and Marilyn and Ian. “Sit awhile, luv, and tell us about your day. Is all well in the kingdom, all ne'er-do-wells and criminal masterminds apprehended and locked away?”

  Gemma was Detective Sergeant at the Stow-on-the-Wold police station and lived in the guest house in the back corner of the garden. She’d only recently transferred back home from the Thames Valley force.

  Gemma laughed. “Not quite, Mum, but good enough. Did you lot leave me any of Alice’s cheese puffs or cucumber sandwiches? And, Dad, a glass of wine wouldn’t be half bad.”

  She asked after Wendy’s mother. “How’s Belle doing? She must be happy to have you at home.”

  “Oh yes,” replied Wendy, “although Alice has taken excellent care of her the last year or so, keeping the house straight and cooking a few meals. She even found time to take Mum to the library.”

  The mention of Belle seemed to give Dave an idea. “Wendy, do you think your mum would let me come by to speak with her about her memories of your Gran and her stories about Stanway House and J. M. Barrie?”

  “I can’t think of anything she’d enjoy more than reminiscing about Gran. Let’s plan on Sunday,” said Wendy. “Leta, you might enjoy the stories too, and I know Mum wants to meet Dickens.”

  “That would be great,” I replied. “I always enjoy time with your mum, and I can’t believe I haven’t heard the Gran stories yet. As for Dickens, as long as someone rubs his belly, he’s in.”

  Dickens barked and looked at me. “Belly rub? Did I hear belly rub?”

  I laughed and commented, “Gee, you’d think he understood me.”

  Christie was talkative the next morning. She was quite set in her ways and had me well trained. She expected a small puddle of milk in her bowl first thing every morning. I was allowed to start the coffee, but then I had to turn my attention to milk duty.

  If something about her dish of milk wasn’t to her liking, she’d sit and stare at me until I somehow changed it. For some reason, she refused to provide direction. She clearly thought her indignant looks were sufficient.

  This morning, she deigned to drink her milk right off, allowing me to sip my first cup of coffee in peace and read the Saturday edition of the Wall Street Journal. I considered a leisurely read of the weekend paper one of life’s great pleasures, right up there with afternoon naps.

  Dickens looked at me expectantly as I opened the door to the garden. It was part of our routine that I’d toss him a treat as he ran outside. When he returned, he’d gulp water and eat a bit of dry food while he waited for me to glance at the paper and play a few games of Words with Friends. Some mornings, that activity took only thirty minutes. Saturdays it stretched to an hour or so. Fortunately for me, Dickens was a patient soul.

  When I returned to the kitchen dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt and grabbed my ball cap and the leash, he knew the game was afoot. I called, “Dickens, shake a leg, you lazy thing! After hearing Peter mention the Cotswolds Way and the cricket pavilion, I’ve decided we’ll take our walk there today. You used to get a kick from seeing the goats at home; now, you’ll get to see sheep.”

  “Sheep? Sheep? Oh boy, let’s go,” he barked.

  Christie stretched out full length in a sunspot on the kitchen floor and gave a big yawn. “You know I have no interest in a walk, but when do I at least get to investigate our garden?”

  “A few more days, Christie,” I said. “I want to be sure you’re acclimated and not likely to take off and get lost. Dickens and I’ll be back in a few hours for lunch.”

  In the car, Dickens shared his impressions of the friends he’d met the night before. “I wish that couple from Malta wasn’t leaving today. They have a dog at home, so they were expert at belly rubs. And I bet you didn’t notice Peter sneaking me a few crackers. We need to see him more often. Rhiannon tried giving me a celery stick—yuck.”

  “You know, Dickens, I don’t judge my friends by how well they choose snacks for you. What did you think of Beatrix and Wendy?”

  “I especially like Wendy ’cause she’s so tiny. I can’t believe you found a friend even shorter than you are.”

  I laughed. “As sensitive as you are about being called small, I can’t believe you just made a short comment.” I think he harbored a secret wish to be a full-sized Pyr, though Henry and I had chosen him because he wasn’t.

  “Yeah, but you’re not bothered by being short. It’s not like I joked about your nose.”

  Ah, he had me there. When I was a child, my sister Sophia had commented that my nose was big, like my father’s, and I’d been sensitive about it ever since. Heaven forbid anyone were to take a photo of me in profile.

  “So, am I wrong?” he continued. “Or is Beatrix not used to dogs?”

  “You’re right, Beatrix has two cats at the Book Nook. She doesn’t dislike dogs; she’s just not around them all that much.”

  “Speaking of cats, Paddington and I came to an understanding that he can be your special friend when you visit the Inn, as long as he understands he’s not ‘top cat.’ That honor belongs to Christie.”

  “It’s sweet that you’re looking out for your feline sister, Dickens. Keep going. I want to hear your perspective on the others.”

  “Well, Dave was a bit standoffish with me, but he was awfully friendly with you and Wendy. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a thing for you.”

  “You’re too funny. I bet Dave’s at least five to ten years younger than me.”

  “So what if you’re in your fifties, Leta? You look younger, and I think you’re beautiful.”

  I laughed at my sweet boy. He hadn’t used that dreaded phrase, ‘young for your age,’ nor mentioned my hair beginning to turn grey. “Thank you. Well, you’re on a roll. What about Rhiannon and Toby and Thom?”

  “Ha!” he barked. “Rhiannon is maybe a little too airy-fairy for me, but Toby seemed nice enough, if a bit preoccupied. Now, Gavin and Libby are my kind of people, even if they only have a cat. And I’d like to spend more time with Gemma too.”

  “Thom?”

  “Nice young man. He said I should be stealthy, so I’d like some tips on how to do that.”

  “Uh-uh, I don’t think so. You get away with filching enough treats as it is. And Alice? Did she slip you a snack too?”

  “Not only did she give me a cheese puff, but she also told me she’d bring me home-baked dog treats next time she cleans our cottage.”

  Processing all that, I slowed as I saw the cricket pavilion. A light morning mist was rising above the grass, and I could see sheep in the distance. It was hard to believe this brown wooden building had been built close to a hundred years ago and was still in regular use. I pulled to the side of the road where I could access the Cotswolds Way. There was another car parked up ahead, and it looked like Alice’s, which was odd because no one had ever mistaken Alice for a walker.

  Dickens started barking nonstop and was barely free of his seatbelt before he took off towards the cricket pavilion. “It’s bad, it’s bad,” he barked.

  That’s his alert bark
, I thought. Something’s wrong. I jogged after him as he disappeared behind the building. His barking got more frantic as he darted in front of the wooden structure and then raced behind it again.

  Rounding the corner of the pavilion, I saw the scene in flashes—Dickens licking an outstretched hand, a black dress, a white collar, red curly hair, a person sprawled facedown in the grass. Oh, no, no, I thought. Don’t let that be what I think it is. A body? Please, not a body. Oh my God, can it be Alice?

  I called Dickens to my side and coaxed him to sit before I moved closer. I’d watched enough BBC murder mysteries to know I shouldn’t disturb the scene, but I had to check for a pulse. I pressed my fingers to her wrist. Her skin was cold, and I couldn’t find a pulse.

  Take a breath, calm down, what do you do now? I thought. My first inclination was to call Libby in the hope that Gemma was still at home. I stood staring at the body as I dialed the inn. “Libby, Libby, Libby,” I gasped. “Please tell me Gemma’s there.”

  “Leta? What’s wrong? You sound frantic. And, yes, she’s here. This is her day off. She was on her way out for a run.”

  When Gemma came to the phone, I sobbed out the story. Gemma told me to go back to my car and wait. As she was handing the phone back to her mum, I heard her say, “She was crying so she was hard to understand, but she’s found a body by the cricket pavilion and she thinks it’s Alice. Oh, hell, I shouldn’t have told you that. It’ll be all over Astonbury before I crank the car.”

  Chapter Three

  I tried to do what Gemma had told me, but Dickens wouldn’t budge. “We can’t leave her alone,” he growled as he trotted over to the nearest large mushroom-shaped stone. I recalled reading that these stone supports were used for granaries but for some reason had been part of the design for the cricket pavilion.

  Why on earth did that bit of trivia pop into my mind? I wondered. I noticed Dickens was now sniffing around the stone. “What is it, Dickens?”