Collectors, Cats & Murder

by Kathy Manos Penn

  I thought for a moment. “I’m pretty sure one of his novels was required reading when I was an undergraduate, but I can’t recall what it was. I saw some of the movies made from his books like The Third Man with Orson Welles and The Quiet Man with Alec Guinness. I wonder if the talk will cover what brought him to Chipping Camden. Could be interesting.”

  Probably because I was ignoring him nudging my leg, Dickens moved to Dave. It had been at least five minutes since Dave had offered him a strip of meat. “See, Leta,” he said, “what’s not to like about Dave? Christie’s crazy.”

  Dave chuckled. “He just said I was a great guy, right? He’s such a pushover.”

  “Right! And I can’t wait to see how long it takes Christie to choose your lap over mine. You look like you’re having a sinking spell. Are you ready to head to my cottage so you can put your feet up, maybe take a nap?”

  He thought that was a good plan. Apparently, Dickens did too, because both of them were sound asleep before I pulled out of the parking lot. Neither one stirred until I turned off the ignition in the driveway. We left Dickens in the garden, and Dave carried his bags upstairs, saying he was going to take a quick shower and be right down. As I put the kettle on the stovetop for tea and lit the fire in the sitting room, I wondered where Christie was.

  Dickens came to the door and barked. I’d forgotten he was outside. “Sorry, boy. Did we forget you?”

  “I think you did. Where’s Dave? Where’s Christie? Can I have a snack?”

  “One thing at a time. Dave should be down soon, and Christie hasn’t put in an appearance yet. As for a snack, you know better. Two meals a day, and anything you can sneak from your sister’s dish. That’s all you get—that and the handouts you get from all my friends.”

  He seemed torn between following me to the sitting room with my cup of tea and going in search of Dave. When I sat down on the couch, I realized I was tuckered out. It had been a busy morning, and I’d slept fitfully the night before. A nap wouldn’t be half bad. I was just about asleep when Christie leaped into my lap.

  “And where have you been, Miss Priss?” I asked her. “Beneath my bed, in a basket, on Dickens’s dog bed in the office? Which spot have you been in?”

  “Never you mind. How about some food?” Why is it my animals are always starving?

  I moved her out of my lap and went to the kitchen to open a new can of food for the princess. Per our routine, I put a small dab in her dish. She took a few bites, sat back, and looked at me. I moved the food into the center of the dish, and she took another taste. Another look, another stir, and another bite. Today, I was quick enough on the uptake that she didn’t have to utter indignant demands.

  Realizing it was only me and Christie in the kitchen, I assumed Dickens had wandered upstairs to see Dave. Either Dave’s checking his emails or he’s fallen asleep, I thought. I climbed the stairs and found Dickens lying in front of my nightstand and Dave sound asleep on the bed. He didn’t stir when I brushed his hair off his forehead. I could make the pastitsio or I could take a nap. It was an easy decision. I lay down beside Dave and snuggled against him, pulling a fleece throw over the both of us before draping my arm over his back. I smiled when his hand found mine.

  When I awoke thirty minutes later, he hadn’t stirred. I quietly rolled over and got out of bed. Downstairs, I started the pastitsio, sauteeing onions and garlic and browning the ground beef before mixing in the cinnamon. After adding the tomato sauce, I let the ingredients simmer while I grated the romano cheese and boiled the pasta. Next, I prepared the bechamel sauce. When everything was ready, I layered it all in the casserole dish. All I had to do was pop it in the oven an hour before we were ready to eat.

  The aroma of the meat sauce must have wafted upstairs, because a yawning man soon appeared in the kitchen with a dog at his heels. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep that long. I’ll never get to sleep tonight.”

  “Maybe a walk after dinner will help, or we could go now. The sun won’t set until around 8:15, and Martha and Dylan will be happy to see us any time.”

  Dickens ran to the door. “Now. I want to go now.”

  Dave stretched his arms overhead.“Hmmm. I think Dickens is ready to go. Let me grab my jacket.”

  I covered the casserole in foil before going to the mudroom—or boot room, as the Brits call it—for my coat and a hat. The temperature had only reached the fifties today and was already dropping, though sometimes in April, it could be warmer. Now, which hat will it be? I chose the new black cloche I’d gotten to replace the one I’d lost in the River Elfe in December.

  Christie appeared in the mudroom as I was grabbing Dickens’s leash. “I want to go. And I want to ride on Dave’s back.”

  Now, that surprised me. I often put Christie in my backpack for our walks, but her wanting to ride with Dave was a first. “My, my. What brought that on?”

  “Think about it, Leta. He’s taller than you and his back is broader. I bet I’ll be able to see more and have a comfier ride.” Whatever the reason, this was a move in the right direction. Maybe she liked Dave better than she let on. I placed her backpack on the floor so she could crawl in and position herself.

  When Dave walked in, I explained that Christie had requested he be the official cat carrier. Like everyone else, he thought I was joking whenever I said ‘Christie or Dickens said.’ I helped him with the backpack, attached Dickens’s leash, grabbed some carrots, and we were off.

  We agreed it felt good to take a brisk walk. Martha and Dylan trotted to the fence when they saw us coming. It was hard to tell who had trained whom, but we had our routine down pat. Dickens stood on his hind legs and the donkeys leaned their heads down in greeting.

  I laughed as Christie meowed and placed her front paws on Dave’s shoulders. “Me, me. Come see me.”

  “Dave, remember how I turn my back to the donkeys so Christie can get closer?”

  “Sure, let me try that.” I grabbed my phone to get a picture. He turned and leaned in, and I snapped a shot of Christie touching a donkey nose.

  “Look,” I said as I showed him the shot. “This will be perfect to use in a “Parker’s Pen” column about the donkeys. I haven’t written about them in a while, and my readers seem to love hearing about them.”

  I contemplated going the additional mile to the Olde Mill Inn to see Gavin and Libby, but a four-mile round trip seemed too much after a busy day. I wrapped my arm around Dave’s. “What do you say to a roaring fire and a glass of red wine?”

  “Perfect. Can I help with dinner after I get the fire going?”

  “You can open the wine, but that’s all that needs doing. I’ll pop the pastitsio in the oven and prepare the salad right before I take it out. I picked up chocolate truffles in Broadway, so dessert will be easy. We’ll have a relaxing evening.”

  “Sounds great. And I forgot I have something for you. I’ll be right back to open the wine.” I wondered what it could be as he moved toward the staircase.

  He handed me a brown paper bag when he returned. “This is a practical gift, so no fancy wrapping paper.”

  “Practical? What on earth . . . canisters, key chains. What are these?”

  Dave explained that since pepper spray wasn’t legal in the UK, he’d researched personal protection devices. “Seeing as how you’re prone to putting yourself in dangerous situations, I did a bit of research and found this stuff. The spray will at least blind someone temporarily, though it isn’t pepper spray, and it will mark them with one of your favorite colors—purple. It stays visible for forty-eight hours, so there’s a chance the police can find them.”

  “And you got me two? And what are these other things?”

  “I got two sprays, thinking you could put one on your keychain or in a pocket when you walk and another in the car. The others are alarms. Stand back and I’ll show you.” He pressed a button and the tiny gizmo emitted an ear-piercing sound, sending Dickens and Christie running from the room. “I got you five of these.”


  “Five?”

  “I wasn’t taking any chances. You can hook them to the zippers on your raincoat, your parka, your windbreaker, your purse, wherever. Plus put one on your keychain and in your bicycle bag. If you want more, I’ll go online and order them while I’m here.”

  I was flabbergasted and touched. “You put a lot of thought into this. Thank you.” I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him tight. He kissed the top of my head and murmured something about how precious I was to him.

  Funny how a practical gift can sometimes say “I love you” more powerfully than chocolates or a bouquet. I smiled as I handed him the corkscrew and pointed to the glass-fronted cabinet holding the wine glasses.

  I rang Wendy as he poured. “What do you say to Tuesday in Broadway for dinner? Depending on how our morning goes, Dave and I may climb the Tower and explore the village before we meet you and Brian.”

  “Oh! I’m so glad it’s worked out. Let’s do the Broadway Hotel, say seven? I’ll make reservations.”

  That decided, I accepted the glass of wine Dave handed me, and we clinked a quiet toast. Earlier, I’d loaded the CD player with George Winston CDs, and his piano music played softly in the background. I lit the candles on the mantel and smiled. The setting for a quiet, romantic evening was complete. When Dave patted the cushion next to him and stretched his arm across the top of the couch, I settled into his embrace. Did Tommy and Tuppence ever have it this good?

  Chapter Five

  Up before Dave, I padded downstairs and followed my routine with Christie’s milk and Dickens’s morning visit to the garden. I took my cup of coffee and my tablet to the sitting room and caught up on emails and games of Words with Friends. My sister Anna was trouncing me despite my having played a 50-point word the day before. She’d also sent an email asking how the reunion with Dave had gone.

  I wrote a brief response and copied my sister Sophia and my friend Bev, letting them know all was well—more than well. Expect limited correspondence from me, I typed, until Dave leaves for Edinburgh next week. He and I had discussed my joining him but decided it would be better for us to visit together another time when he wouldn’t be tucked away studying the J.M. Barrie collection at the university. That and the abundance of Arthur Conan Doyle material would keep him too busy to enjoy the city with me.

  After that, I poured a second cup of coffee and started breakfast. I’d learned during Dave’s December visit that the best way to alleviate his jet lag was for me to cook for him. Just as the aroma of pastitsio had brought him downstairs the day before, the smell of bacon frying did the trick this morning. Once again, a yawning man appeared in my kitchen. I hadn’t realized that both Christie and Dickens had returned upstairs until they appeared behind him. So much for Christie not liking Dave.

  “Bacon! You do know the way to a man’s heart.”

  Not wanting to be left out, Dickens chimed in. “Me too. Do I get bacon?”

  I laughed at both of them. “I think Dickens agrees with you. Now, how’d you sleep?”

  “Amazingly well given my jet lag. Breakfast and a walk may get me completely on track.” He bent to touch his toes. “Tell me more about climbing the Broadway Tower. Knowing you, you’ve got the day’s agenda all planned.”

  He knew me too well. I liked to have a plan, but Broadway was close enough we could return another day to see any sights we missed. “Not exactly. We have options. I think climbing the Tower and doing a bit of the Cotswold Way while we’re there could be a good replacement for your daily gym routine. It could be we choose to come back by here before dinner instead of exploring the village. We can play it by ear.”

  His head cocked, Dickens was listening attentively. “The Cotswold Way? You’re taking me, right?”

  Reaching down to scratch Dickens’s ears, Dave asked, “Does he want to go out?”

  Christie meowed the answer. “Silly man, he wants to go on your adventure.”

  By now I was grinning. “No. He heard Cotswold Way and wants to go. We’ve been on parts of the footpath, and the ramblers with their dogs plus the sheep here and there—let’s just say it’s heaven for him.”

  “Sound like a plan is taking shape. Breakfast, the Tower, a walk on the trail, and then we’ll see about lunch. And I like the idea of coming back by here before dinner.“

  The bacon, scrambled eggs, and cheese grits I served got us off to a good start. I’d introduced Dave to grits on his last visit, and he was hooked. Two showers, comfy clothes and shoes, and we were on our way. If we were lucky, the day would remain clear and sunny so Dave would have the best views from the top of the Tower.

  As I drove, I gave him the short version of the history of Broadway Tower. “Each level of the tower has plaques and displays with lots of detail, but here’s some of what I can recall. It was built as a folly in 1798, I think it was, for the Earl of Coventry.” I chuckled. “That seems such a uniquely British thing to me. I wonder how many follies dot the landscape across the country. Could make for an entertaining research project, but I digress.”

  “But you never digress! I see your musings as a way to keep your audience on its toes.”

  “Ha! Wendy says most of my digressions stem from my word nerd tendencies. I hear a word, my brain wanders off, and sometimes, I need help finding my way back. Anyway, to continue the tale, the story goes that the Countess of Coventry wanted to know if their estate was visible from some other estate in Worcestshire. Can you imagine that as a reason to build what’s known as the Highest Little Castle in the Cotswolds?”

  “Seems like a centuries-old example of ‘more money than sense,’ if you ask me.”

  “I’d have to agree, though I get a kick out of the turrets, the balconies, and the gargoyles. I wonder whether the Countess enjoyed it as much as today’s visitors do. One of the bits of history I find most intriguing is that a baronet acquired the Tower in the 1800s and installed a printing press and a collection of manuscripts and printed books—over sixty thousand—if you can believe it. I can’t recall his name.”

  Dave turned to me. “Wouldn’t it be fascinating to know what he collected? I mean, was it something in particular or was he simply interested in preserving a variety of documents? Let’s be sure to find out his name while we’re there so I can look him up.”

  “You know, ever since I read The Bookman’s Tale for Beatrix’s book club last year, I’ve been intrigued by what makes someone become a collector.The book was fiction, but the author collected copies of Alice in Wonderland. I learned some folks are like him, chasing rare copies of a single work. Others collect anything by a given author, and some collect anything rare.”

  Dave mused aloud. “And lo and behold, a rare book was discovered in the tiny village of Astonbury. Funny how things turn out, isn’t it? And now, look at me. I’ll never be a collector of letters or books. I see myself as a collector of facts and anecdotes that can be turned into an engaging tale—an article or, hopefully before long, a book. That those tales of late have focused on J.M. Barrie has been an interesting turn of events for me.”

  I tilted my head and cut my eyes his way. “And aren’t I lucky that your passion for collecting keeps bringing you this way?”

  Leaning over to give me a peck on the cheek, Dave replied, “Don’t fool yourself. It’s my passion for Dickens . . . and his owner.“

  I slugged him in the chest. “Ha! You silver-tongued devil. Wait ’til I tell Christie it’s not her you’re interested in.”

  Hearing Dave’s comment and mine, Dickens barked. “Don’t know why he’d want to see the silly cat. If he only knew the way she talks about him, he wouldn’t have anything to do with her.” I caught his eye in the rearview mirror and nodded in agreement.

  As we pulled into the parking lot, I told Dave he’d have to learn the rest of the story on the tour. The wind was picking up as we approached the Tower, and I was glad I’d grabbed my fleece headband. It would be cold up top.

  Stopping on each level to read the history, I jotted
down notes as Dave studied the displays. This is another good topic for a column, maybe two. I was hard-pressed to drag Dave away from the level that detailed the Tower’s part in the two World Wars. It was put to use during both as a lookout tower for the Royal Observers Corp, and, in 1943, a British bomber had crashed into Beacon Hill, less than a quarter-mile from the Tower.

  At the top, we gazed in awe at the green countryside. With the sun shining, it was a better view than I’d had on any of my previous visits. I was pretty sure Dickens thought it was his best visit ever because the wind was blowing so hard. He held his nose up, taking in the scents coming his way, and barked in delight.

  Dave made a great windscreen as I stood with my back against him. He leaned down and said, “Thanks for this, Leta. It’s right up my alley.”

  I suggested on the way down that we lunch at Morris & Brown, the shop and café located in a converted stone barn in the park, before setting out to walk the Cotswold Way. Over lunch, Dave looked up the name of the collector who’d housed his books in the tower—Sir Thomas Phillips—and it was difficult to pull him away from his phone. When I finally got his attention, we discussed how far to walk on the footpath and decided seven miles to Broadway was too much. Snowshill was said to be halfway, so we could stop there for a coffee and return to the car.

  Dickens served as our tour guide along the way. “Red deer! Look at the red deer! Sheep, Leta, sheep. I want to meet that little brown dog.”

  Dave enjoyed Dickens’s interactions with the dogs along the way. “He’s a very sociable dog. Some of these others are kind of standoffish, but not Dickens.”