He called to me. “Leta, come meet Fiona. Couldn’t do without this young lady.”
Looking a bit harried, the blonde pony-tailed Fiona held out her hand. “Nice to meet you. Teddy couldn’t stop talking about you last night when he got back from Astonbury. Sorry to rush off, but I’ve come to get Albert. A little girl climbed up on a display table at Bluebird Books, and it crashed to the floor. We desperately need him to fix it, or at least move it.” She helped Teddy to his feet. “We’ll make a stop by the shop, and then Albert can take you home.”
“Don’t rush me, young lady. I want to say hello to Gilbert.”
Our friend approached as Fiona helped Teddy to his feet. “I say, Teddy, Dave’s talk was informative, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Gilbert. You and he are a wealth of information. I must thank you for your question about that letter this morning. I plan to look through my notes to see when I acquired the document. There was a time I haunted estate sales and flea markets with my wife and came home with treasures like that. Not any longer, though. It’s not the same without her by my side, plus nowadays, it’s too difficult for me to get around. I’m fortunate that Albert’s started doing a bit of book scouting and brings me items to consider from time to time.”
We left the pair chatting and made our way to the door, stopping along the way for Dave to shake hands and answer additional questions. A tall, slim, silver-haired man in the back row stepped forward and introduced himself as Alastair Porter. So many characters here, I thought as I took in his waistcoat with a pocket watch chain peeking from it. Unlike Gilbert, who sported a bowtie with his waistcoat, this gentleman wore a cravat.
“Your presentation was not only entertaining but informative. If you have any spare time while you’re in the area, I think you’d enjoy a visit to my stall at the Bolton Flea Market in Manchester, Alastair’s Archives. We carry a large selection of memorabilia and books related to the Cotswolds authors you mentioned, and we’re open every weekend.”
Dave looked at me. “I’m not sure about our schedule this weekend, but we might be able to make it next week. What do you think, Leta?”
I agreed it might work out, and we accepted his proffered business card. I watched him walk to the front row and speak to Teddy next.
Just then, Gilbert caught up to us. “Almost missed your session, but I made it and found one of the last seats in the back. What an interesting presentation. Well done, old chap.” In keeping with his turn of phrase, he clapped Dave on the back and shook his hand. I can see him now in a tux and a monocle.
As we continued to the outside door, the gentleman in the cravat approached Gilbert and engaged him in conversation. I leaned in to whisper to Dave, “Look at those two. They could compete for the best costume award.”
Dave and I strolled arm in arm down the street. Looking up at him, I smiled. “You know you did a lovely job, right?”
“I hope I did. I felt good, and I didn’t see anyone nod off—good signs I think. I trust you’ll give me some constructive feedback later.” He grinned. “I’d rather you didn’t take the edge off my high right now.”
“I really don’t have anything to say in that regard. I enjoyed every bit, and I think you managed to combine humorous anecdotes and literary gems without drifting into arcane trivia only college professors could appreciate. You made an overwhelming abundance of information entertaining.”
Dave stopped and spoke to Dickens. “Do you think she’s pulling my leg, boy? Is she buttering me up for something?”
Dickens had a difficult time with idioms. He cocked his head and barked, “I didn’t see her touch your leg—not sure about the butter.”
Laughing at Dave, I asked him what Dickens thought.
“He’s not sure, but I’m taking you at your word.”
After a quick stop by our room for me to drop off my purse and reapply my lipstick, we three made our way to the bar. Peter and Wendy were already seated at a large table, and Peter stood and shook Dave’s hand. “Jolly good show! Isn’t that what you expect us Brits to say? But seriously, you were a hit.”
Wendy hugged Dave. “We’ve ordered some champers and nibbles for the table. I expect the others to be here soon.”
I grinned at my friend. “You know, I’ve seen the word ‘champers’ in books, but I’ve never heard anyone use it. Makes me think of Dorothy Sayers’s Peter Wimsey or Margery Allingham’s Albert Campion. And after hearing Gilbert say old chap several times, I’m beginning to feel as though I’ve traveled back in time.”
“You are such a word nerd, Leta. I’m not sure when the term got its start. Did you read those books or only watch the BBC programs?”
“I read every single Sayers book and wished there had been more. As for Albert Campion, I’ve only seen the television series. Maybe I should get Beatrix to order me the books. We could do a few months of Golden Age authors—Sayers, Allingham, Christie, Patricia Wentworth, Josephine Tey—what do you think?”
Peter turned to Dave. “And they’re off! Between Mum’s affection for Agatha Christie and these two and their books, we seldom discuss anything else.”
It was appropriate that Belle and Ellie appeared at that moment. Ellie was a member of our book club too, and we might have embarked on an evening of book talk if Toby, Gavin, Gemma, and Rhiannon hadn’t been close on their heels. Everyone congratulated Dave as they joined us. Beatrix arrived as the bottles of champagne and accompanying flutes were delivered. Soon, we were all holding full glasses, and Toby stood. He’d given toasts at two of my parties, and it seemed he’d come prepared to do the same tonight.
“Dave, to paraphrase Hercule Poirot—my favorite character, by the way—your remarks were, ‘as always, apt, sound, and to the point.’ Cheers!”
As we lifted our glasses, several of us suggested that Toby should have worn his Poirot mustache—or better yet, he should grow one. He’d dressed as the funny little Belgian for my costume party in the fall and acted the part to perfection. What fun-loving friends I have.
Several of us were spending the night, but those who were driving back to Astonbury wanted to order an early dinner. Only Beatrix declined to order an entrée, as she was eating with Teddy that evening. She explained they were longtime friends who’d bonded over their love of books. A decade ago when Teddy decided Chipping Camden needed a bookstore, he’d relied heavily on Beatrix’s expertise in stocking and managing the Book Nook, her shop in Astonbury. Until a year ago, he’d owned and managed Bluebird Books, but his declining health had changed that.
He still oversaw ordering and the scheduling of book signings but left the day-to-day management to Priscilla Price, who’d been his full-time clerk until he promoted her. These days, Priscilla and Fiona and two part-time students manned the shop, so Teddy’s physical presence wasn’t needed.
As Dave and Beatrix discussed what to expect in Teddy’s collection, I leaned across the table to ask Wendy about Brian Burton. We’d met him in December as the Detective Chief Inspector on a local case, and he and Wendy had been dating ever since. They were leaving tomorrow for a week in Cornwall. Though they went out most weekends, this would be their first trip together. “What time are you and Brian heading out?”
Wendy rolled her eyes. “That will depend on how well he’s done today putting his caseload in order. We’d hoped for an early start, but in his last text, he mentioned going into the station in the morning for an hour or two. Sounds as though I could have spent the night here instead of rushing home.”
Gemma overheard us, and she patted Wendy on the shoulder. “The lot of a copper, as I well know. I hope his caseload’s in order, or I may be one of the people who gets pulled in to help out. My plate’s pretty full as it is.”
That exchange prompted Gemma’s dad Gavin to clear his throat and speak up. “Seems a good time to make your announcement, doesn’t it?” he asked.
Blushing, Gemma said, “Go ahead, Dad. I can tell you’re dying to do it.”
Gavin stood and we look
ed at him expectantly. “Please join me in congratulating Gemma on her promotion to Detective Inspector.”
We burst into applause, and Peter called for another bottle of champagne before turning to Gemma. “You’re not leaving us, are you? Please tell us your promotion doesn’t call for a transfer.”
Gemma smiled. “No. I’m happy to say I’ll continue at the station in Stow-on-the-Wold and get to stay in my cottage at the Olde Mill Inn in Astonbury. Mum and Dad will have me around for a while yet.”
I was happy for her. She’d taken a leadership course in December and had hoped it would aid her chances of a promotion. That plus her hard work in solving several high-profile cases had paid off. Gemma and I weren’t friends in the same way Wendy and I were. I’d call our relationship one that could be congenial one moment and uneasy the next.
The difficulty arose when I got involved in what Gemma called snooping. I—along with Wendy and Belle—had somehow gotten tangled up in a few murder investigations, mostly because I had a knack for keen observation. Even Gemma agreed that my presence at a murder scene was invaluable because I saw things others might miss—or, better said, the details at a scene prompted questions for me that others might not ask.
Then there was my tendency to go off on my own and ask those questions. Could I help it if people found it easier to open up to me than to the police? Wendy and Belle said it was because I was a good listener— something about the way I nodded and encouraged people to speak. I was pretty sure Gemma saw it more as me being a busybody. Whatever it was, the three of us had jokingly dubbed ourselves the Little Old Ladies’ Detective Agency. At times, Gemma grudgingly invited our help. At others, she was furious with us for interfering.
It was Belle who proposed a toast this time. “To Gemma, our very own Detective Inspector. May murder and mayhem take a break as you bask in the glory of your well-earned promotion.”
The group broke up after that, with those who were staying the night heading to the elevators—or lifts, as my friends would say—and the rest of the gang moving to their cars. Beatrix, Ellie, Belle, Dave, Dickens, and I all squeezed into one. As the door opened on Beatrix’s floor, she waved goodbye and said she’d catch up with us sometime tomorrow after her evening at Teddy’s.
The first thing I did when we entered our hotel room was kick off my shoes and stand in front of the dresser to remove my jewelry. That prompted two reactions. Dave wrapped his arms around me and nuzzled my neck, and Dickens barked.
“Uh-uh. None of that until you take me out! Did you forget?”
Dave dropped his arms and stepped back. “Why didn’t you say something earlier, little fella?”
Dickens barked louder. “I shouldn’t have to say anything. Leta knows our bedtime routine.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “My fault. I wasn’t thinking. Let me get my shoes on, and I’ll run him downstairs.”
One of the things I loved about Dave was how easygoing he was. “Nah. I’ll take him while you get ready for bed.” He gave a slow smile. “That’s our next stop, right?”
A perfect ending to a perfect day. A girl could get used to this treatment.
Chapter Two
The sun streaming in the window woke me, and when I glanced at the bedside clock, I was surprised to see it was almost nine. I stretched and smiled as I rolled over to find I was by myself in bed. I rolled the other way to say good morning to Dickens, but he was missing too. Dave must have taken him for a walk.
Not that I didn’t love my furry friends, but it was nice to sleep in without Christie walking on my chest and meowing for her morning milk or Dickens letting me know it was time for his visit to the garden. I was washing my face when Dave and Dickens came in the door.
“Ah, Tuppence, you’re awake! Are you ready for your coffee and muffin?” Dave had called me Tuppence ever since my costume party when I’d dressed as the petite Agatha Christie character, and he’d come as her partner, Tommy. I hugged him. “You really are spoiling me, and I love it!”
As I sat in the easy chair and sipped coffee, Dickens licked my free hand. “We saw lots of dogs on our walk, no donkeys, but plenty of dogs. And the lady at the coffee shop gave me a biscuit to eat while Dave read the paper.” Most days, Dickens and I walked to see Martha and Dylan, the donkeys in the pasture near my cottage, and Christie, his feline sister, often accompanied us in my backpack.
Dave pulled his sweater off. “I’m going to take a quick shower. If we want to walk to Teddy’s cottage, we’ll need to leave shortly after ten. Are you good with that? And we’ll take Dickens, of course.”
“Sure. As soon as you’re out of the shower, I’ll swing into action.”
The shops were beginning to open, and the festival-goers were wandering the High Street. As we left the central part of the village, the pedestrian traffic thinned and we found ourselves on a peaceful lane. Here and there, we saw residents sweeping their walkways or watering plants on this sunny morning.
Set back from the street, Teddy’s cottage had a gravel drive and a stone wall on the left with a gate leading to what I took to be his garden. Parked in the drive was an ancient dark green Rolls Royce. We approached the front door and knocked.
When no one answered, Dave tried again to no avail. “Should we try around back? Maybe he hasn’t heard us,” he said.
Dickens barked and ran to the gate in front of the Rolls. “Don’t you hear the cat meowing? It’s coming from the garden.”
I listened for a moment. Dickens was right. Hearing the cat prompted me to suggest that Dave and Dickens try the garden for another door, while I stayed out front in case Teddy was slowly making his way.
Dickens soon returned to tell me the cat was tucked into a corner beneath the shrubs. “He won’t come out, Leta.”
“Could he be afraid of dogs? Let’s see what’s going on with him.” I followed Dickens into the garden and put my hand out to the tabby cat.
He didn’t blink his green eyes, but he nudged my hand and gave a low growl. “Teddy hasn’t let me in this morning. Something’s not right.”
I checked his nametag and saw that, like my animals, he had a literary moniker—Watson. Looking towards the French doors that were cracked open, I assumed Dave had gone inside. Maybe Teddy was in the back of the cottage and didn’t hear us. It wasn’t long before Dave appeared in the doorway—his face ashen.
He came into the garden and pulled me to him before explaining, “Leta, I think . . . I think Teddy’s dead.”
“Dead?” I whispered. “How can that be? Where is he?”
“He’s in bed. Can you come in with me? And I guess we should call 999.”
I accompanied him into the kitchen and to the hallway. Turning to the left, I glimpsed a library through the first door to the right. The next door opened into a large bedroom. Teddy was lying in bed, the covers neatly folded midway up his chest. His left arm lay atop his stomach on a book, the right by his side. I didn’t think there was any doubt he was dead, but I checked for a pulse anyway.
“I already did that, Leta, but I know you want to be sure. He’s cold to the touch, and it’s cold in here.”
I took in the items on the oval bedside table. A slender lamp with a large shade was closest to the bed. Like most of us, I was sure he positioned it nearby so he could easily turn it off when he was ready to go to sleep. Beneath the lamp stood a cordless phone in its cradle and a carafe of water. Beside it was a small glass.
Dave stood with his hand on the mantel, staring into the fireplace. “The fire’s gone out.”
Funny, the things one notices at times like this. I nodded and pulled out my phone. I didn’t call 999. I called Gemma. As I waited for her to answer, Dickens and Watson came into the room. The cat jumped on the bed, meowing plaintively, and Dickens came to my side.
It was the first time I’d heard Gemma answer the phone using her new title, DI Taylor. “Gemma,” I stuttered, “I . . . I need you. Dave and I found Teddy Byrd . . . dead . . . in his cottage.”
I explained who Teddy was and what we were doing at his home, and I added that it looked as though he’d died in his sleep. We both knew I had no way of knowing for sure. Gemma told me to go back out the way I’d come in and to wait for her, that she and Constable James would be right there. And, of course, she admonished me not to touch anything. As if I would.
I told Dave what Gemma said about not touching anything. “I feel like I should make a pot of tea, but I’m afraid I could be disturbing evidence . . . Surely he died from natural causes. He looks like he fell asleep and didn’t wake up, don’t you think?”
Dave shook his head. “I don’t know, Leta. I know he’s in his eighties, but I don’t know much more than that. I mean, he needed help getting around, but I don’t know about his overall health. I can’t believe we found him like this. I feel so helpless. Is this how it feels when you find a dead body?”
I shuddered at the memories. In nearby Stanway, I’d been out for a walk with Dickens when I’d found the body of a friend, and I’d twice been at the scene of accidents where someone died.
“Yes. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times I encounter a scene like this. It’s awful.” I began to shake, and tears streamed down my face. “I’m beginning to feel as though I should never leave my cottage. Here we are attending a literary festival, for goodness’ sake, and we find a new friend dead. We barely knew him, but that doesn’t make it any easier to take.”
I needed to sit down, and I was sure Dave did too, but Gemma had said to go outside. I’d watched too many BBC mysteries where the position of a chair or a robe draped over the foot of a bed helped explain how someone died, so I understood. “Let’s go to the garden and sit on the steps until Gemma gets here.”
As we walked past the library, I glanced in. It looked well-lived in. Continuing through the kitchen to the garden door, I took note of the clean dishes in the dishrack and the teapot on the counter with the sugar dish beside it. Everything in here looked pristine.
Collectors, Cats & Murder Page 2
