Bells, Tails, & Murder

by Kathy Manos Penn

  “Pretty much,” I said. “Other than helping Libby clean the inn in the morning and going out to dinner tomorrow night, I plan to be on the home front. That reminds me, I need to come up with a place for dinner. Any suggestions? Perhaps somewhere in Chipping Camden or Bourton-on-the Water, and might any of them have live music? I’m sure you have to advise the tourists from time to time.”

  Thom offered several recommendations, and I thanked him for his help in that arena as I saw him to his car. We agreed he’d call or text me when he had news but that we probably wouldn’t connect again until midweek. At least I’d put some things in motion, and I had plenty to share with Gemma even without an update from Thom.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was getting on towards dinner time. I took Dickens for a quick walk and decided on cheese grits for dinner. I’d been craving them since I’d told Toby about them. That conversation seemed like it had taken places ages ago when it had been only last week.

  Making grits isn’t very involved, so I ate dinner and washed the dishes in no time. I planned to read a while, but first I wandered into the office to check my emails and catch up on the latest news online.

  Anna had sent me photos of her newest kittens, Crunch and Munch. Crunch was a tiny thing and was black like Christie. Munch was a handsome longhaired gray tabby. Brothers, they were being fostered together when she found them online.

  The photos of the two kittens snoozing on her desk or perched on her shoulder were adorable. In her email, she promised to send videos of them playing on the cat tree next. When I was still in the States, Anna was forever trying to get me to adopt another cat . . . or two. She was never convinced that Dickens and Christie were all the family I needed.

  Christie’s reaction to the pics of Crunch and Munch was predictable. “So cute when they’re sleeping, but you know the rest of the time, they’re way too rambunctious for my taste. We don’t want any of that behavior around here.”

  “Christie,” I said with a laugh, “I’m not planning to get any kittens, but I might one day. And you still chase Dickens’s balls around the house on occasion and zoom up and down the stairs when the mood strikes, so don’t act as though you’re Miss Sophistication.”

  Next, I wrote Anna and Sophia about my long walk with Dickens and the news that I had a second date scheduled with Dave. Keeping the update lighthearted almost made me forget all the distressing things going on.

  I lit a fire in the sitting room and put my feet up. I was more than ready to relax with my mystery novel. And I did relax and read a chapter or two before the events of the past week intruded. I can’t just sit here; I’ve got to do something to move this investigation along, I thought.

  I looked at Dickens and Christie. “What can I do on my own? What haven’t I done yet? I could go through Belle’s copy of Peter and Wendy to see if there’s anything remarkable in it, like scribbles in the margins from Barrie.” Yeah, right, I thought. Doubtful. On the other hand, looking through it and reading the story might tell me something. What, I wasn’t sure.

  Christie meowed, “Well, Detectives Dickens and Christie are here to offer support while you read if that’s what you need. Are we working in the office or in the sitting room? Say the word, and we’ll be there.”

  I chose to remain on the comfy couch in front of the fire. The storyline in Peter and Wendy was similar to the play and yet different. I didn’t care for the illustrations as much as I did the ones in The Family at Sunshine Cottage, but they suited the story in a way the whimsical ones in the other book wouldn’t have. Beatrix had told me this book was darker than the play, and she was right.

  “Oh my gosh,” I said as I turned a page, “it’s another letter.”

  Dickens and Christie both looked up from where they were stretched out in front of the fire, and Christie stretched and leaped to the back of the couch to peer over my shoulder. The thin paper crackled in my hand as I studied it.

  The writing was faded, but I could see that this short letter was addressed only to Mary.

  Dearest Mary,

  Please read this tea party tale to little Belle. It seems when I think of her, stories spring to mind. Ask her who else we should invite to the tea party, and I’ll add more guests to the story.

  Much love,

  Uncle Jim

  The letter ended there, but where was the tea party tale? Now I was eager to flip through the book, but I forced myself to turn the pages slowly. Sure enough, several pages later, there was another piece of parchment entitled “The Tea Party.” It was about Belle and Tinker and a hedgehog.

  As I read it aloud, Christie piped up, “There needs to be a cat. You mentioned a dog and some creature I’ve never heard of—a hedge what? A cat would be way cuter.”

  I was in awe as I read the tea party tale. This must be how The Family at Sunshine Cottage took shape. Barrie started by sending sweet stories to Mary to read to Belle. I had an image in my mind of Uncle Jim dipping a quill pen into an inkwell, a blank sheet of paper on his desk, and a smile on his face as he began a story for Belle.

  And later, he collected the stories into a book. Just one book.

  I needed to compare this handwritten tale with the one printed in the book I’d hidden safely away in my bedroom. But first, I thought, I wonder whether there are more letters tucked between the pages of Peter and Wendy.

  And there was . . . one last letter.

  Dearest Mary,

  Here it is, finished at long last. I’m smiling as I picture you reading this book to little Belle. I hope she’s as pleased with the illustrations as I am. I believe Mr. Shepard captured her blonde curls perfectly and did little Tinker justice too. You must let me know what you think of his portrait of you, sweet Mary.

  I will eagerly await word that you’ve received this special gift for Belle. I can hardly wait to hear of her reaction to the stories she inspired.

  Much love,

  Uncle Jim

  Oh my goodness. Thom was right. The illustrations were by Ernest H. Shepard. What an enchanting story. All it lacked was an element of magic, a character like Tinker Bell flying in Belle’s bedroom window one night to place the book on the toybox. It was hard to believe Uncle Jim not only wrote a book for Belle but also went so far as to have it illustrated by the same man who’d done the Pooh books.

  But it wasn’t a fairy tale. It was all very real. And, if my supposition was right, Alice had snuck the very real letters and one book out of Sunshine Cottage, and she had to be the person who hid the book in plain sight at the inn. And if she had this letter, then she had to know Belle had another rare book somewhere.

  To what end? Money. It had to be about money and the new scheme Peter had mentioned. Had she been meeting a buyer at the cricket pavilion?

  I needed to add these latest discoveries to my handwritten notes. In fact, I thought, typing it all up might lead to some new ahas, so Dickens, Christie, and I trooped into my office. Christie leaped to a shelf on the built-in bookcase. Her pose, stretched out on the white shelf with the decorative red backing with one paw hanging over the edge, would make a beautiful book cover for a murder mystery. “Did you purposely choose the shelf that holds my Nancy Drew books?” I asked her.

  “I see it as a perfect spot for Detective Christie, don’t you?” she meowed.

  “You’re not dissing my perfectly good dog bed, are you?” growled Dickens. “My role as Leta’s protector requires me to be as close as I can to Leta—not posing for a pretty picture.”

  The two traded light-hearted barbs for a bit before settling down. It was certainly helpful that they had a sense of humor no matter the circumstances. They just might keep me sane.

  I typed up my notes, printed them out, and called Gemma. “Gemma,” I said when she answered, “may I stop by tomorrow morning before I begin helping your mum? I’ve learned a lot the last two days, and I’d really like to bounce it all off of you, and hear anything you think you can tell me.”

  “Absolutely,” she
said. “Sorry I wasn’t available earlier today, but we’re slammed at the station even without this case. I usually run at six AM, so I should ready by 7:30. Does that suit you?”

  “That’s fine,” I responded. “See you then.”

  It was another bright sunny morning, so Dickens and I walked, feeding Martha and Dylan on the way, of course. I made a mental note that I was about out of carrots.

  Gemma greeted us at the door of the guest house, and I could smell coffee brewing. “Come on in. How about a cup of coffee?”

  “Sounds good,” I said as Dickens started exploring. “Are you alright with Dickens checking out your home?”

  “Is he trustworthy?” she asked with a chuckle. “Not going to chew on anything, is he?”

  “No, not hardly. He’s long since grown out of the puppy chewing phase. The behavior I can’t break him of is barking, but that’s only irritating. not destructive.” I pulled out my notes. “Are you ready to compare findings?”

  “Sure thing. Let me say upfront that while I’ve been able to clear some suspects of involvement, I don’t feel any closer to solving this thing. I hope you’ve got something I can use.”

  Right. I’d already given her what I thought was a good lead—rare books—but she’d chosen to dismiss that idea out of hand. I handed her a copy of what I’d compiled the night before, and we began talking through it.

  “Okay,” I started, “we know Alice stole from her clients and blackmailed them. She dated Peter but they broke up. It’s from Peter we know she sold some of what she stole, and she had some new moneymaking scheme.”

  “And we know she had flea market connections from her days in Manchester,” added Gemma. “That way, she could probably get some money for whatever she stole.”

  “We know she went to the cricket pavilion Friday night and met someone there because that someone took her keys and later broke into her house and ransacked it. I don’t think they found what they were looking for, do you?”

  “No, I don’t think so, unless all they wanted were her phone and computer. Both were missing. Keep going. It’s good to review.”

  “You told me she was arrested in Manchester for stealing from her clients, but never charged. Things like my figurine. That still irks me, darn it. And we don’t have proof, but I’d say we know she took Belle’s copy of Peter and Wendy, and at least three of the Uncle Jim letters. I’d also say we know she hid that book at the inn, unless you suspect your parents.”

  Gemma chuckled at that. “Right, my parents the master criminals.”

  “And their daughter a Detective Sergeant! I now know from Thom Cook that Belle’s book and her letters from Uncle Jim, aka J. M. Barrie, are pretty darned valuable, which makes me all but positive Alice’s moneymaking scheme had something to do with rare books. Speaking of being irked, your reaction the other day to my idea about books really bothered me.”

  Gemma didn’t respond to my last comment beyond rolling her eyes. “And we both know someone broke into Sunshine Cottage and Peter scared them off. That someone, I can’t help but think, was the same person who ran Peter off the road the next day.”

  “And, as my husband used to say, ‘it just gets curiouser and curiouser.’ Belle has yet another valuable book, likely worth way more than the first one. I still can’t believe she has in her possession possibly the only copy of The Family as Sunshine Cottage. Is this all as unbelievable to you as it is to me? Oh right, of course it is because you think the book angle is ridiculous.”

  “Wait a minute. A second book? But no one’s stolen it, have they? I mean, I grew up hearing about Wendy’s gran and Barrie and the cottage. Why is it all suddenly such a big deal?” asked Gemma.

  It wasn’t my style to yell at someone, but I was getting close. “Gemma, can’t you just consider that these books are valuable, way more valuable than a knickknack here and there? And that Alice’s scheme could have been about making thousands of pounds from selling rare books?”

  Gemma grinned. “Could make a great movie.”

  I was beginning to fume. “Okay, sure. When I start thinking about who the other person at the cricket pavilion could be, it sounds straight out of Hollywood, but my gut tells me it’s plausible. Was it a buyer? Or was it a middleman? Or was it someone Alice was blackmailing and nothing at all to do with books? No matter which scenario I settle on, I always come back to thinking it’s all about money.”

  “You know, Leta, now you’ve got a good idea of what we police wrestle with day in and day out. Not much is clear-cut. Okay, my turn. For starters, I’ve cleared the suspects I’d identified. Toby, Rhiannon, Beatrix—they don’t all have hard and fast alibis for the night of Alice’s murder, but close enough.

  “It’s the same thing for the break-in. Peter was high on my list as the angry, humiliated ex-boyfriend, but he’s obviously in the clear because he was at Sunshine Cottage that night with his mum, and he sure didn’t stage his own accident. The other three were home alone the night of Alice’s murder and the night of the break-in, but are in the clear for Peter’s accident. Toby was opening his shop, and we’ve verified Rhiannon and Beatrix were both online at the time.”

  She paused. “Unless, of course, there were three people involved here . . . Could Peter, Alice, and a third person have been involved in something, maybe having to do with the garage?”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. “And what, you think Peter killed Alice, and someone else attacked him? That can’t be right.”

  “How can you be so sure? Stranger things have happened,” retorted Gemma.

  I crossed my arms. “I just know Peter can’t have been involved in any of this. He’s too good a person. Have you had a chance to consider the rare book angle at all? I mean, I don’t even know how you’d follow up on that—”

  “Oh, but I have, even though I consider it a stretch.” Gemma interjected. “Surprised you, haven’t I? I’ve put out feelers with used bookstores and rare book dealers in the Cotswolds and in Manchester. I called a friend from my Thames Valley days and asked her to see what she could find out in Oxford. Seems like Oxford would be a hotbed of book dealers, don’t you think?”

  I was excited. “What’d you find out?”

  “Nothing, not a thing. No one’s been looking for J. M. Barrie books, and no one’s been offering any for sale. So, even with your discovery of what you say is a second rare and valuable book, there’s nothing going on in the book world about all this. That makes coming up with a different scenario all the more critical, except I don’t have one—a different scenario, that is.”

  “Then don’t discount mine, Gemma.”

  I could tell she was losing patience. “You’d do well to remember who’s in charge of this investigation, Leta,” she warned.

  I reminded myself I’d catch more flies with honey and tried to dial down my irritation. “Tell me you’re kidding, and you’ve really got more angles you’re following, or you’ve come up with an entirely different theory of the case.”

  Gemma groaned. “Much as I hate to say it, your book angle, as far-fetched as it is, is the only theory we have. I just can’t get anywhere with it. Tell me more about this Sunshine Cottage book and what you’ve been getting from Thom Cook. How did he get involved with all this?”

  I backtracked to the book club discussion about rare books and then the conversation Wendy and I’d had with Thom about the first book and my subsequent conversations. She was intrigued by his inquiries.

  “So, he’s got a professor who could be some help,” she said. “I bet he’s making inquiries online, which would go much farther afield than any feelers I’m putting out locally . . . but I don’t have the resources for that. Bloody hell, now we’re picturing Alice finding an online buyer for a stolen book. Can you see her doing that?”

  “No, I can’t,” I said, “What else are you looking at? What about the car that hit Peter? Do the police do all that stuff I see on TV, like making casts of tire tracks and finding paint flecks on Peter’s bicycle?�
��

  Gemma laughed. “You really do watch too much telly, Leta. The tire tracks showed us the car ran off the road onto the verge and back but didn’t tell us much beyond that. Peter’s bike is mangled more from crashing through the trees than anything else, so no forensic evidence, as you’d say. Nothing at Sunshine Cottage either.”

  By now, Dickens was sound asleep beneath the kitchen table, snoring as usual. If only I could fall asleep and forget about all this or better yet, wake up to Gemma having solved the case.

  “Well, hell’s bells,” I muttered. “Where does that leave us?”

  “Let’s see what Thom comes up with, okay? Ring me with any little thing he uncovers for you, and I’ll see if one of my computer whizzes wants to do me a favor with some online research.”

  Dickens woke up when I pushed my chair back from the table. “Then I guess I might as well do something productive like helping your mum and dad. I’ll be sure to ring you if I come up with anything else, and I hope you’ll do the same.”

  Several of the weekend guests were Londoners and had left right after breakfast, and the two couples who were flying out were packing up to head to Heathrow as Dickens and I arrived. I checked with Libby to find out where to start, and she told me she’d cleaned the Yellow Room herself on Saturday afternoon because Dave had called to ask if he could check back in late that evening instead of Sunday. She was happy to have him as once the weekend crowd checked out Sunday, no other guests were due until Tuesday afternoon.

  “I guess it’s nice to have a paying customer,” I said, “But it might have been nice to have a day where you didn’t have to prepare breakfast, right?”

  “You know, Gavin and I are accustomed to eating a big breakfast and not having another meal until dinner, so I’m cooking anyway. Another person or two is really not a bother. What is a bother right now is trying to find someone to clean the inn,” she said. “I mean, I appreciate your help, but this can’t go on.