“What is it they say about people like him? He never meets a stranger. That’s my boy. He gives everyone—dogs, cats, and people—the benefit of the doubt. You’d have to really rub him the wrong way for him to dislike you. Okay, here’s an example of my wandering brain. It occurs to me that I’m the same way. But boy, when you do rub me the wrong way, there’s often no coming back from it.”
“Thanks for the warning! Why is that, do you think?”
I knew why but had to think how to phrase it. “I tend to believe the best about people and to take them at their word. Too many times, that’s come back to bite me. My sister Anna says I’ve always been naïve and too trusting, and she’s probably right. I was certainly that way about a few of the men I dated before I married.”
Dave gave me a sideways glance. “On the other hand . . . you went to the other extreme about me and saw me as a villain, if only briefly.”
I blushed. Thinking about how badly I’d misjudged him never failed to embarrass me, and Dave liked to tease me about it. “As they say on TV, I formed an opinion based on circumstantial evidence. My bad.” That earned me a grin.
Dave motioned to a bench on the side of the footpath, and we sat with Dickens at our feet. “On a serious note, Leta, would you agree your trusting nature has gotten you in trouble in these investigations you’ve been involved in? You and the Little Old Ladies’ Detective Agency?”
Hmm. That’s a good question, but where is he going with this? “Well, yes and no. Yes, I was guilty of ignoring my misgivings in the first two cases. This last time, though, I was right to give the benefit of the doubt to the person who was arrested. And I was right about who the murderer was, only I was almost too late.”
Taking my hands in his, Dave sighed. “Leta, I worry about you. I worry that you take too many chances, too many risks. You joke about the Little Old Ladies, but I worry that one of you—most likely you—is going to get seriously hurt. I mean, you’ve already been seriously hurt—in my opinion—and I don’t think you can disagree with that.”
I was speechless.
“Maybe it’s not my place, maybe you’ll think I’m out of line, but may I ask that you think twice before getting involved again in something like a murder case? Hopefully, it’s a moot point. Hopefully, there’ll be nothing to tempt you, but when I think about losing you . . . it’s . . . it’s too much to bear.”
Tears came to my eyes as different emotions washed over me. I was indignant at the suggestion my poor judgment had gotten me in trouble, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from defending myself. But then his next sentence, his worry about losing me . . . that took my breath away.
He was right that I’d been hurt. I’d been taken to the emergency room in October and threatened with a return trip in December.
He used his thumb to brush the tears from my face. “Why are you crying? Have I hurt your feelings? Are you angry with me?”
Why am I crying? How can I explain it? “This will sound corny, but I’m overwhelmed by how much you care about me. I know you love me. I don’t doubt you love me, but I had no idea how much you worried about me. This kind of takes things to a whole new level.”
“That tells me I haven’t done a good enough job of getting through to you, of explaining how much you mean to me. Dang it! That’s the problem with being on different continents.”
I smiled through the tears. “Perhaps deep down, I already knew. Perhaps I was scared to believe it in case I was wrong. I mean, the whole ‘I love you’ thing is pretty recent.”
“Uh-huh, but what about the other part, what about you placing yourself in harm’s way?”
“Okay, you’ll have to bear with me. This isn’t going to be particularly articulate because you’re making me think, and I’m feeling my way. Why have I gotten involved, not once, but three times? I think it may be that I like to help, to feel needed, and these situations allow me to use the tools in my tool chest—my attention to detail and my listening skills. Maybe retiring early left a hole in my life, and I’ve found something more fulfilling than helping with the Fall Fête or filling voile bags for the Astonbury Tree Trimming. I’m not sure.
“Yes, calling ourselves the Little Old Ladies’ Detective Agency was a bit of a joke, but I think we’re darned good at ferreting out information. And I sincerely hope there’s no need for us going forward, but . . . but if there is, I want to feel free to step in.” I could feel my face growing hot. “Why do I feel as though you’re expecting me to ask permission?”
Dave drew back and stood up. “That’s not what I said at all. I just want you to consider how dangerous your pastime has turned out to be.”
I sprung from the bench. “Pastime? Pastime? Like a hobby?”
He blew out his breath and walked a few paces. When he returned, he said, “Look, if you rode motorcycles and had accident after accident, I’d say the same thing. If you were a runner and insisted on running country roads after dark, I’d worry every time you went out. And, no I don’t expect you to ask permission. I wouldn’t ask you to give up something that means so much to you, but until just now, did you even know how important it was to you? I sure didn’t.”
I plopped down and rummaged in my pocket for a tissue. I blew my nose and looked up at him as he waited for an answer. “No, I guess I didn’t. Even in December, when Wendy suggested we get involved, I pushed back, but then Gemma asked for our help, and I dove in. I haven’t given much if any thought to why I get involved, but now that I have, I think it’s because I enjoy solving the puzzle and I’m good at it. I don’t know . . . I’m rambling. Why are we arguing about this?”
It was his turn to plop down. “I’m not sure. This is new territory for us, and this is our first argument. I sure didn’t plan it this way. I didn’t plan it at all. I mean, I wanted you to know my concerns and how much I worry, and I tried to think how best to broach the topic, but argue? Not what I intended.”
“I’m sorry. It just hit all my hot buttons. I love you, and I love that you love me enough to worry about me. Boy, that was eloquent.” I looked down at Dickens, who, sensing my distress, had his head in my lap. “Truce?”
Dave tilted my chin up. “Truce. Good to have that first argument behind us, isn’t it?”
I nodded, except I wasn’t sure it was behind us.
Chapter Six
“Wow. You two had a full day. You climbed Broadway Tower and did a seven-mile walk. Are you sore?” exclaimed Wendy. We were studying our menus and sipping prosecco at The Broadway Hotel.
Dave grimaced. “I certainly used different muscles than I use at the gym, and I walk everywhere in New York, but not all at once. If we keep this up, I may have to try regular walks in Central Park when I get home.”
“I’m not sore yet. I think the longer walks I take with Dickens and the biking I do with your brother are paying off. Brian, I know Wendy’s climbed the Tower. Have you done that yet since you moved to the Cotswolds?” Brian had transferred from his station in Birmingham to be closer to his elderly mother in the village of Coleford and now worked out of the Stroud station.
“Not yet. You know I’m a runner, so I’d do it more for the history than the exercise. Maybe Wendy and I can tackle it one day after we get back from our trip to Cornwall.”
I laughed. “Well, you’ll get your exercise climbing to Tintagel. It’ll be easier for you than for Wendy, only because some of the steps are so high. Honestly, Wendy, it was all I could do to get my short legs up a few of them. And you’re shorter than I am.”
My friend was only five feet tall, but every inch was packed with energy and enthusiasm. I’d commented more than once that she was the poster child for perky with her short, spiky, platinum blonde hair and petite frame.
Brian added. “She may be right, love. It may be more than you should tackle.”
My eyes widened at that statement, and I felt Dave put his hand on my leg. I wasn’t going to leap across the table and choke Brian, but I was tempted. No worries, though. Wend
y was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
“More than I should tackle?! What on earth are you going on about? Of course I’m climbing to the ruins, and I’ll be doing it under my own steam, thank you very much!” I could tell she was exasperated, and I wondered, not for the first time, how often he talked down to her.
Brian murmurred something about not wanting her to overdo it, and Dave tactfully changed the subject. “So Wendy, is Belle excited about Friday night at the literary festival? Is she ready for a bit of the limelight?”
“Oh, yes. She had to have a new dress for the occasion, in her favorite cornflower blue.”
Like her twins, Belle had blue eyes, and I smiled at the memory of the pale blue wool hat she’d bought when we visited Dartmouth in October. “A blue dress with her white hair and blue eyes—she’ll look smashing.“
Our server approached to see if we were ready to order. Wendy and I went for seafood, and our dates chose the chargrilled beef fillets. When I suggested to Wendy that we share a bottle of sauvignon blanc, I half expected Brian to say something snarky. Wendy winked at me and eagerly agreed. As the designated driver of my taxi, Dave ordered a single glass of red. Brian stuck with water after finishing his glass of prosecco.
My fish was cooked to perfection. “You know, this meal along with details about the shops and Broadway’s history could make for a great column. Wendy, I may need your help to do a bit more research.”
She chuckled. “It will be a burden, but we can plan a day of lunch and shopping if you insist.”
Dave used a stage whisper. “Are you in the market for a second research assistant? One to study the history of the village while you two tour it?”
Brian offered to take the lead on investigating the chocolate shop, and our conversation continued in that light-hearted vein. Overall, it turned out to be a more pleasant evening than I’d anticipated. I need to try harder with Brian, I thought, but he sure doesn’t make it easy.
Wednesday, Dave and I agreed we’d have a light breakfast in anticipation of a big lunch at the Ploughman. He and Dickens were playing fetch in the garden when I called him in for cheese grits. Dickens was the first one in the door.
“Hey, Dickens,” Dave called, “save some for me.”
When he’d finished licking Christie’s bowl, Dickens looked at Dave. “Now, I’m ready for grits.”
Everyone got fed, including Christie. She strolled in looking for more cat food despite having left her earlier portion behind for her brother. She meowed plaintively as though I’d neglected her. “Why is my dish empty?”
“Whoa. Didn’t you just feed her?” asked Dave.
“Ha! You think that matters? If the princess had her way, I’d stand here adding dabs of wet food to her dish, fluffing it nonstop until she deigned to finish it. And even then, she might walk away or sit back snootily.”
Dickens put his paws on Dave’s lap and barked. “I like it when she walks away. More for me.”
It didn’t bother Dickens at all that Dave interpreted his bark as a request to lick his grits bowl. My boy got to clean both our bowls, and then Dave washed them for good measure. We carried our mugs of coffee to the sitting room and settled in to read our emails.
“Leta, I’ve got an email from Gilbert, inviting us for drinks after the book club meeting tomorrow night. He’s thinking of the Ploughman. Will that work?”
“Sure. We may even have a late evening snack, since I’m planning a light meal for our dinner.” I was looking forward to Gilbert’s talk at the Book Nook. I didn’t know what direction his presentation would take, but anything about the world of Arthur Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes was sure to be an entertaining addition to our discussion of The Sherlockian.
Christie sauntered the length of the couch and leaped onto the arm next to Dave. She gave him the once-over, studying his face, before zeroing in on his lap. Apparently he passed muster, because she slowly descended from the arm of the couch onto his legs. She lay in his lap, stretching her paws toward his face. Soon, she was kneading and purring.
From his position in front of the fireplace, Dickens barked. “Will you look at her? She makes out she doesn’t like him, but she has no problem hanging all over him. Cats!”
Dave grinned. “She slept by my knees last night. Does this mean she likes me?”
“For the moment. Sometimes, I feel as though I serve at her pleasure and could be replaced in a heartbeat—particularly when I fail to feed her fast enough. Her attention to you could be part of an elaborate plot to put me in my place.”
“Aw, come on. Look at her sweet face. How can you say that?” He looked down at her and stroked her head. “Tell her, Christie, you like me, right?”
Christie meowed, “Oh, puh-leeze, get over yourself. You just have a comfy lap, roomier than Leta’s.”
We continued our intermittent banter as Dave caught up on the news and I played Words with Friends. I’d overtaken Anna in our game but didn’t expect my lead to last. I was much more evenly matched with my other opponents.
My phone rang, and I saw it was Wendy. “Good morning, Leta. Have you checked today’s post on the Astonbury Aha!, with the photo of Dave and Mum? There’s a lovely article about Dave speaking in Chipping Camden this Friday.”
“Oh! Thanks for the alert. I’ll have to find it and show him. Will you and Belle be at the Ploughman for lunch?”
“Yes, Mum wouldn’t miss it. She claims she’s miffed Dave’s been here since Monday and hasn’t come to see her. Her sense of humor is priceless, you know.”
Dave was tickled he’d made the local online news and said he’d be sure to make a fuss over Belle at lunch. The two of them had become great friends since the fall.
“If we’re going to walk to the pub for lunch rather than drive, we need to finish up here and get dressed. It’s three miles. Are you up for it after yesterday?”
“Sounds like a plan, but who’s going to hold Christie? Is this when she decides she’s peeved with me? The moment I move her from my lap?”
I chuckled. “You’re beginning to understand. She may or may not forgive you.”
Armed with carrots, we set out on our walk, allowing plenty of time to visit with the donkeys on the way. It wasn’t as windy today, but the sky was overcast. We’d been lucky to have clear skies for our visit to the Broadway Tower the day before.
We arrived at the pub a few minutes past noon, and I spied Belle’s head of white hair at a table in the middle of the room. Her twins were seated on either side of her, with a chair left empty between Wendy and her mum. Dickens jogged to Belle’s side, and she leaned down to kiss his head. Both my animals adored Belle.
Wendy sprang up and pointed to the empty seat. “Dave, this is for you. Mum insists.”
After the men shook hands, Dave knelt to hug Belle and give her a peck on the cheek. “Miss me, sweetie? And are you ready for your star turn Friday?”
Belle patted him on the cheek. “I feel as though I have my very own agent. Have you booked us any more engagements? Perhaps in London?”
With their heads together, the two caught up. I sat on the other side of Peter, and we were soon joined by Beatrix and Rhiannon. They explained Toby couldn’t make it this week, but we’d see him Friday. When Libby and Gavin arrived, our favorite server Barb was on their heels.
Several of us ordered Astonbury Ale, a product of our local brewery, and I reminded Dave how much he’d liked it when he was here last. When Barb shared the day’s specials, I was tempted by the lamb burger but knowing we’d be finishing the leftover pastitsio tonight, I opted for the crab salad. I laughed as Peter ordered the bacon and beef burger. The man was a burger-eating machine.
Dickens moved to lie at Peter’s feet. “Can’t wait for my bit of burger.” Peter was incorrigible when it came to sneaking food to Dickens, no matter my attempts to convince him to stop.
Orders placed, our usual lively conversation ensued. Gavin brought us up to date on the Cotswolds Lions across the riv
er from the inn. Matthew Coates, the Earl of Stow, had added another fifty head of the distinctive sheep to his herd at the estate and had just hired a stockwoman to oversee them. Lambing had started in January, and the last set of youngsters had been born in late March. The sweater I’d given Dave for Christmas was knit from wool from the herd.
Beatrix was sitting on my left side, and I asked if she was ready for the book club meeting Thursday. Typically, a club member volunteered to lead our discussion, but for the April meeting, Beatrix had chosen to take that role. With the Chipping Camden Literary Festival kicking off tonight and stretching through Sunday afternoon, she’d invited a few festival visitors to attend, and was excited that Dave had arranged for Gilbert Ward to present. It would be good PR for the Book Nook.
“I’m only disappointed my friend Teddy Byrd can’t make it,” she said. “A young man who does odd jobs for his bookshop often functions as his driver because of his mobility issues, but everyone at the shop is swamped this week. I wish I could think of some way to get him here.”
I thought his name sounded familiar. “Is this your friend who owns Bluebird Books? In Chipping Camden?"
“Yes, and he's eager to hear our book club discussion. He drives some, but he’s had such difficulty walking this last year, even with his cane, he has to be selective about where he goes. Finding a place to park in Astonbury and walking to the Book Nook would wear him out.”
Having overheard our conversation, Peter offered a suggestion. “If someone could get him to Astonbury, I could take him home. Mum doesn’t usually go to your meetings, but she wants to attend this one to hear this Gilbert fella speak. Since Wendy has plans with Brian afterward, she asked me to pick Mum up when it’s over. Mum and I could easily run your friend home, Beatrix. And you know, I’ll pull right up front to get Mum, since she has the same difficulty with walking very far.”
Collectors, Cats & Murder Page 6
