Collectors, Cats & Murder

by Kathy Manos Penn

  We sat on the top step, and Dave put his arm around me. I leaned in and buried my face in his chest and tried to calm my breathing. “I can’t believe this is happening again. Please let it be that Teddy passed away peacefully in his sleep.”

  Dave kissed the top of my head and murmured, “Shh, Leta. Hopefully, that’s what happened. Gemma will be here soon, and she’ll figure it out.”

  Dickens was sniffing around the flower bed. “I’m checking for other pets, but I don’t smell any. I’d ask Watson, but he’s kind of upset right now.”

  His comment reminded me that Beatrix had been here last night, and I lifted my head to gaze at Dave. “I wonder what time Beatrix left. Maybe she sensed he was unwell. Did you notice how spic and span the kitchen is? I bet Beatrix washed up after dinner. Gemma will want to speak with her about how she left everything.”

  Dave looked at me—I wasn’t sure if it was it in amazement or consternation. “Is this how it starts? You find a dead body, and your brain goes into overdrive? Do Belle and Wendy react the same way?”

  Oh no. Are we going to argue about this again? “Now that you mention it, I’m the only one of us who’s ever seen a dead body—well, except maybe Belle when she was a nurse. But that aside, yes, we three can’t seem to help ourselves. Whatever the circumstances, our brains buzz with questions. Maybe it’s all the mysteries we read or the shows we watch on TV.”

  Dave’s silence set off alarm bells for me. Is he horrified or is there a chance he’s truly trying to understand? Despite the tragic circumstances, I thought I detected the beginning of a smile when he finally spoke. “Does me calling you Tuppence encourage this behavior?”

  He’d been staying at the Olde Mill Inn when I became involved in my first murder investigation and helped to uncover the identity of the killer, but he’d heard about my role in the next two only from a distance. He’d never witnessed me trying to puzzle things out.

  “Only a little,” I said. “You know, Gemma calls me Tuppence too. I expect she’ll invite me to go back inside with her so she can compare her observations to mine. She says I ask good questions—questions that make her see things in a different light.

  We’ve had such a marvelous week except for our argument about just this kind of situation. Does his playful question mean he’s not put off by my curiosity? Or will seeing me in action—up close and personal—lead to another argument?

  Chapter Three

  The previous Saturday

  I awoke to a black cat patting my face. “Christie,” I whispered, ”Are you trying to tell me something?”

  In response, she stretched out on my chest, her pink nose nuzzling my chin. For a moment, I smiled as I thought about my plans for the day—brunch with Ellie in Broadway followed by a shopping foray for a new outfit for Friday night. For a moment, that is, until I remembered that today was the second anniversary of my husband’s death.

  Henry had been a Vietnam veteran. If I still lived in Atlanta, Dickens and I would drive to the Canton Veterans Cemetery to place flowers on the grave. The year before, I purchased an arrangement in the shape of a bicycle to commemorate not only Henry’s favorite leisure activity but also the tragic accident that ended his life. If he had to leave me, I’m glad he died doing something he loved.

  Dickens may not have known what I was thinking, but he sensed my mood. “Smile, Leta. Why so glum?” he barked as he placed his nose on the bed. “Let’s go see the donkeys. They always cheer you up.”

  I scratched his ears and stared into space picturing the red Mercedes convertible that ran Henry off the road on that Saturday bicycle ride. Enough of that. Time to reflect on the good times. That thought propelled me from the bed, and we three headed downstairs to the kitchen, Christie leading the way and Dickens bringing up the rear.

  Hitting the on button for the coffee, I let Dickens out to the garden and poured Christie a tiny puddle of milk. The thermometer outside the window registering just above 0° Celsius, or a bit over 32° Fahrenheit, this April morning told me Dickens would enjoy staying outside in the crisp morning air. I took my mug of coffee to the sitting room and got the fire going before settling on the couch with a blanket and my tablet. As I perused the newspaper online, I glimpsed Dickens sniffing his way around the garden.

  Christie curled up in my lap and stretched one paw beyond the blanket to the pajama top peeking from my fleece robe.

  “What do you think of this plan?” I asked. “I shake off my sad thoughts, enjoy my outing with Ellie, and this afternoon, we look through photos of happy times with Henry.”

  Sassy comments were standard from Christie, but this morning, she was unusually sweet. “That works. Are there plenty of pictures of me in Henry’s lap? You know, he had a comfier lap than you. Funny, he used to say ‘Christie loves me best,’ and I let him believe that. The truth is I loved his lap best.”

  “So, who did you love best, little girl?”

  She purred, “I loved you two equally, but that Dave guy is a different matter.” At least she’d made me chuckle. Christie tolerated Dave, but Dickens adored him.

  “Yes, well, you’ll have to adjust. You know Dave flies in Monday and will be here off and on for several weeks.” He was arriving from New York City, another reason I needed to shake off sad thoughts of Henry. I hadn’t seen Dave since his ten-day visit in late December. We’d met here in the Cotwolds in September when he was researching Arthur Conan Doyle for an article. Discovering that Doyle and other authors had summered in the nearby village of Stanway had led him to book a stay at the Olde Mill Inn, owned by my friends Libby and Gavin.

  A phone call from my friend Peter Davies interrupted my reverie. “How’s my biking partner this morning? Are you still up for a ride to Stow tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, looking forward to it. Today, I’m dressing up for an outing with Ellie—food plus shopping—and tomorrow will be my day for a good workout. Will we have time for breakfast at Huffkin’s?”

  We made it a point to visit the popular brunch spot on our rides. When we first began cycling together, it was our turnaround point, but to increase our mileage, we now cycled beyond Stow to the more rural village of Longborough before turning back for our meal.

  “Oh yes, not another thing on my schedule tomorrow, unless someone shows up with an emergency repair. So, you’re going from a day with the Dowager Countess to a day with the garage mechanic—quite a contrast.” Peter owned the only garage in Astonbury, and the villagers relied on him and also directed visitors his way.

  “Ha! Can’t imagine you dress shopping nor the countess cycling, so I’ve chosen my friends well.” We agreed I’d meet him at his garage for an 8:30 start, and I promised to text when I was on my way.

  A quick shower, makeup, and a blow-dry, and I was almost ready for Ellie’s arrival. I chose a purple heather sweater dress, black tights, and flats for my ensemble to make it easier to try on clothes. I was adding jewelry when my phone rang.

  It was Ellie. “Good morning, dear. I’m leaving and will be there shortly. Is there any chance you can put on a pot of tea so we can chat before we depart?” That seemed an odd request, but I told her it was no problem. Astonbury Manor wasn’t far—just up Schoolhouse Lane between my cottage and the High Street—so she’d be here in no time.

  The rumble of a truck pulling into my driveway surprised me, and I was even more taken aback when I saw Brian Peters climb out of the cab. Now, what’s he doing here? I’d been threatening to hire our local landscaper for months but hadn’t gotten around to it. When he went to the passenger side, I wondered who was with him. Curiouser and curiouser, I thought when I saw Ellie come around the back of the truck. I knew she had something up her sleeve.

  “Ellie,” I called as I approached the truck, “what are you up to?”

  Dickens ran to greet her, and it took her a moment to answer my question. “Oh, just a little something. You admired my copse of goat willows, and I thought it was time you had one for your garden. Brian obliged by pi
cking up a sapling.”

  I was touched. “What a lovely surprise. You shouldn’t have . . . but I’m glad you did. We call them pussy willows in the States, but I’d never seen them growing until I visited your estate. I’ve seen them in flower arrangements, but I’m not sure where I thought they came from.”

  Brian tipped his hat, unloaded the tree, and asked where I wanted him to plant it. I knew just the place. There was a bare spot in the center of the garden near the back wall. Maybe there’d been a shrub or tree in the past, but it was empty when I moved in. He and Ellie agreed it would be perfect and give the goat willow room to grow.

  As he dug the hole, Ellie motioned me to the bed of the truck and pointed to a canvas-wrapped object. “I’ve one more surprise. It’s heavy, so Brian will move it, but you can unwrap it and take a look.”

  Tugging at the canvas, I uncovered a 12” x 12” stone in the gold color the Cotswolds were renowned for. Affixed to it was a bronze plaque inscribed “In Memory of Henry Parker.” I was speechless.

  Ellie gave a sad smile and hugged me. “Two little birdies named Belle and Libby filled me in. My Nigel dying when he was in his nineties isn’t the same as you losing Henry in the prime of his life, but I think the pain is similar. Since Henry’s grave is in the States, I wanted you to have a small remembrance here to honor his place in your life. Now, what do you say to a cup of tea before Brian places the marker?”

  Blinking back the tears brought on by Ellie’s thoughtful gift, I thought, how fortunate I was to have made so many good friends here in Astonbury.

  My usual partner in crime for serious shopping was Wendy, but Ellie had called last week to ask if I planned to buy a new outfit for the literary festival. She and I had grown close in December when I’d helped with the Astonbury Tree Lighting and assisted with the investigation into a tragic accident. Since then, we’d had lunch several times, and continued to see each other at the monthly book club meetings.

  Her asking about a new outfit told me she knew me very well. I didn’t shop as often as I had during my banking career, but old habits die hard. Now, instead of suits and dresses, my wardrobe leaned more toward jeans, leggings, long sweaters, and flowing tops—with the requisite selection of dressier ensembles for parties and events like the literary festival. This should be fun. I’ve never been shopping with a countess before!

  When Brian knocked on the door to say he was ready to put the marker in place, we followed him outside. Ellie had a good eye. We quickly chose the perfect spot—not too far out from the base of the tree, but far enough that it wouldn’t be hidden as the tree grew. I smiled and looked skyward. “See Henry, now you have a place in my garden as well as my heart.”

  Ellie’s gift had succeeded in clearing the clouds from what could have been a difficult day. My heart felt lighter, and I was ready to make the most of an outing with my friend.

  Ellie often drove, but she got a kick out of riding in my refurbished London taxi. It was a sunny day, perfect for taking in the views of honey-colored stone cottages and fences. I was getting used to the weather being cooler here in the Cotswolds than it was in Atlanta this time of year. The hedges and trees were showing new growth, and the landscape was dotted with lily of the valley and tulips. At home, the azaleas would be bursting into bloom and perhaps even the dogwoods. In the Cotswolds, the experts, whoever they are, say the best months for garden tours are June, July, and September; but in my book, every season has its charm.

  We lunched at The Wickham Brasserie, a restaurant I hadn’t visited before. They called themselves a pub, but it was light and airy, unlike many of the pubs I’d been in. As we perused the menu, a tune sprang to mind. “Ellie, have you heard the song ‘The Ladies Who Lunch?’ Most famously sung by Elaine Stritch?”

  Ellie answered immediately. “How could I forget it? Nigel and I heard Pattie Lupone sing it here in London, and I’ve seen Elaine Stritch do it on the telly. Absolutely fabulous.”

  I had an image of the record player I’d owned before the advent of CDs. “I first heard it on Barbara Streisand’s Broadway album and fell in love with it. Whenever I have a leisurely lunch out, it pops into my head.” We chatted about favorite show tunes and then got down to business. For an appetizer, we ordered the Duck Liver & Port Parfait—a fancy name for pâté—and then a salad each for the main course. Keeping it light was a must, as I find it difficult to enjoy trying on clothes when I’m stuffed to the gills.

  As we wandered down the wide main street of Broadway, I remarked as to how easily I’d fallen into a routine of yoga classes, morning walks, visits to Toby’s Tearoom and the Book Nook, and lunches out. “You know how they say retirees fall into two camps—those who are bored and those who are busier than they’ve ever been? Color me happily busy.”

  It was in the second shop that I found the perfect outfit, a black long-sleeved jumpsuit. I was glad they were back in style, or maybe they never went out. I had one in my closet from Chico’s that I’d had for years, but it had short cap sleeves, not right for April in the Cotswolds.

  I could think of several girlfriends who would say “Not another black outfit.” Wendy had pointed out that I had an amazing number of black slacks and skirts. What could I say? They were all just slightly different. My favorite colors were black, white, red, purple, and more recently silver grey. The late addition to the list came about because my brunette bob was greying—or silvering, as Wendy called it.

  When Ellie found a new scarf, we declared the day a success. She glanced at me and smiled. “Don’t you think we need to celebrate? As in a glass of prosecco at the Broadway Hotel on the Green? I do adore the mullioned windows in their bar.”

  “A woman after my own heart. Dessert before shopping makes me uncomfortable and cocktails cloud my judgment, but afterward? Perfect. And we can make a quick stop by the chocolate shop after that. I think chocolate truffles will make an ideal dessert for Monday evening when Dave is here.”

  It had been a full day, and after dropping Ellie at the Manor House, I was ready for a nap—another habit I’d incorporated into retired life. My four-legged friends each greeted me in their own way. Dickens barked hello and wanted a walk. Christie wanted food. I took care of Christie and changed into leggings and a comfy sweatshirt, so I’d be warm enough to sit in the garden and admire the new goat willow and marker. “Dickens, let’s sit outside for a bit and then nap. We can visit Martha and Dylan before dinner, okay?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” he barked. “I need to inspect the new tree.”

  I invited Christie to come out with us. They both sniffed the freshly dug soil beneath the tree and inspected the memorial stone before going their separate ways—Dickens to snuffle around the wall bordering the garden and Christie to walk along the top of it.

  Christie hopped down and came to my chair. “Are we going to look at pictures now? Or do you have to take a nap?”

  I reached down to stroke her nose. “Pictures later. You slept the whole time I was gone, didn’t you?”

  Dickens had a ready answer to that question. “You know she did. That’s all she does.”

  “Right!” Christie meowed. “Like you were awake.”

  Living with these two was like having children. I’d never had any of the two-legged variety, so I wasn’t sure. Henry was in his late forties when we married, and after much back and forth, we agreed that having children wasn’t in the cards. It wasn’t a decision we’d ever regretted.

  Christie may have preferred to look at pictures, but she lost no time curling into a ball on my chest when I laid down on the couch. Dickens lay in front of the fire, snoring softly. The sound of the phone woke me, and I groped for it above my head on the end table. I tried not to yawn as I said hello.

  “Hi, sweetheart. Is that a sleepy voice I detect?” asked Dave.

  “Yes. You caught me in a nap, but I need to get up. I promised Dickens we’d visit Martha and Dylan.” Somehow, it didn’t seem appropriate to tell Dave what I’d promised Christie, even thou
gh I knew he understood my feelings for Henry would always be part of my life.

  “Did you and Ellie have a successful shopping trip?”

  “Oh yes! I have a new outfit for Friday night, and I found two new places we can try for dinner in Broadway. What have you been up to today?”

  “My usual morning routine. A visit to the gym, and a bagel and coffee before coming home to work. I put the finishing touches on my presentation for next week, I think. You know how it goes. I think I’m done and then I have an idea for a better way to say something.”

  I laughed and agreed. I wrote weekly columns for two small papers in the States, and I found that until the moment I sent them off to my editors, I couldn’t keep from tweaking my words. “Have you finished reading The Sherlockian?”

  “Not quite. I plan to do that on the plane. I’m enjoying its focus on Arthur Conan Doyle’s missing diary, and I’m eager to see how it turns out.”

  “I knew you’d like it, and hearing what your friend Gilbert Ward has to say about it will be a treat. Good job thinking to invite him as the speaker for our Thursday night meeting.”

  “I was glad to do it. He’s quite a character and should have plenty of anecdotes to share.” Dave had met Gilbert last year while working on an Arthur Conan Doyle article for the Strand Magazine, and they’d stayed in touch as Dave’s idea for a book took shape.

  My brain had shifted gears to plans for Dave’s visit. “I’ll cook dinner at home Monday night, since you’re sure to be jet-lagged. Any special requests?”

  “You know whatever you choose will be fine. A few quiet days with you are all I need to get the week off to a good start. Will we get to see the gang later in the week or only Thursday at the Book Nook for the book club meeting?”

  Dickens had been studying me as I talked. “Can we go to the pub and see Peter and Gavin?”

  “Your biggest admirer just barked that we should have lunch at the pub and see Peter, maybe Gavin, and a few of the others too. We sometimes meet up on Wednesdays.That means you’ll see at least some folks before Thursday night, plus they’re all planning to be at your talk Friday. Maybe we’ll lay low Monday and Tuesday and begin socializing midweek.”