A Grave Gala (Sugar Martin Vintage Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

by Shéa MacLeod

  “Please say you are,” Lil interjected over the rim of her teacup. “I loathe that man.”

  And for good reason. He’d arrested her for murder when she’d been totally innocent. It would sour a person. But I wasn’t here for that. “Afraid not. I’m just checking on Toni. Is she up?”

  “In her room,” Lil said, slathering butter and marmalade on a thick slice of bread. “Won’t come out.”

  “Ever the drama queen,” drawled the man in the smoking jacket.

  Lil sniffed at him. “Don’t be a prat, Ruben. She’s had a shock.”

  So this was Sir Ruben. I’d never met him, but I’d seen his name on a list during a previous investigation. He’d had several items stolen during various house parties. I knew some had been found and returned, but I wasn’t sure if all of them had been. Based on his appearance, I doubted he missed them. According to Jack, Sir Ruben was rich as Croesus with far less taste. Personally, I liked his style.

  After chatting for a little longer with Lil, I entered the house where Penny appeared out of nowhere to take Tippy. The minute he saw her, he wagged his tail so hard I was afraid he might dislocate it. I swear, she was his favorite person. Maybe the only person he actually liked. Myself included.

  “Did she drag you up here, you poor thing?” she crooned, giving him a scratch. “Come with me, and I’ll give you a treat.” To me she said, “Still on for Tuesday?”

  “Of course.” I grinned. “Can’t wait.”

  Penny had promised to teach me how to make proper British scones. I was never the cook my mother was, but I’m not bad in the kitchen. I figured fresh scones would be a way to win over my neighbors and other stand-offish villagers. Mrs. Johnson, the post mistress, had been the one to suggest it. She’d even told me that Penny was particularly skillful with scones. And so the plan had been hatched.

  While Tippy toddled off with Penny, I made my way upstairs to Toni’s room. I rapped softly but didn’t wait for an answer before entering.

  Toni sat in a cozy armchair next to the open window. Her dark hair hung in loose waves to her shoulders, and she wore a pair of pale blue cotton man-tailored pajamas over which a matching bed jacket hung open. One bare foot was braced on the windowsill. A teacup with pink flowers painted on it sat on the table, next to it a matching teapot, still steaming. Voices drifted up from below, but I couldn’t make them out.

  “There you are,” she said as if she’d just been sitting there waiting for me.

  “How are you doing?” She’d been awfully calm through this whole business. Which had me worried. I half expected her to have a mental breakdown any minute.

  She gave me a lopsided grin. “I feel terrible about poor Pete. He was a dear. Always game for anything.” She sighed and stared morosely out the window.

  “Eavesdropping?”

  She laughed. “You never know what you’ll hear.”

  I winced. “I met Sir Ruben. Sort of.”

  She slid me a glance. “Don’t worry. He’s said worse. To my face.”

  I took a seat in the other armchair. “Why do you put up with him?”

  “Because he’s mad fun. Why else?” She pointed at the pot. “You want some? I can ring Johnson to bring up another cup.”

  I shook my head. I still hadn’t quite gotten used to the taste of tea, although I drank it every morning out of sheer desperation.

  “No one seems that upset about Pete’s death,” I said.

  She shrugged. “I guess because no one particularly liked him.”

  “Is this about the whole fiancé stealing thing?”

  “Pretty much.”

  I leaned back. “Tell me about it.”

  “Not much to tell. Jerry Miles met this French girl, Mathilde, while racing in Monaco a couple years ago. He was mad for her. Gave her a ring, brought her back to England, set her up in a swell little cottage. The minute his back was turned, she hopped in bed with Pete.”

  I winced. “Ouch.”

  “Indeed. Jerry wasn’t thrilled, as you can imagine. Called the whole thing off. I think Mathilde thought Peter would marry her and she’d get a title and everything, but Peter wasn’t the marrying type.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Went back to France. Lyon, I think. I don’t remember. In any case, Jerry threatened to kill Peter. Peter laughed in his face. The two of them got into a blazing row. Fists flying. Very exciting.”

  Not exactly what I would consider exciting. “Where was Jerry during your dance?”

  “I’ve no idea. You’d have to ask him.” She sighed and took a sip of tea. “What a mess. I really should call Pete’s father.”

  “That would be nice of you,” I said a little lamely. “Speaking of, Alex said Peter has a younger brother.”

  Toni eyed me. “You sly minx. You are going to show Cobblepot up!”

  “I was just curious,” I protested. “I can’t get involved.”

  “Why not? You’re a detective now.”

  That was a bit of an exaggeration. I was an investigator, sort of. I went undercover, collected information, then passed it on to my boss, Mr. Woodward. I didn’t actually solve anything. Well, not usually. “Because at any minute, Mr. Woodward could call me off to some lordly manor to pose as a garden gnome.”

  She burst out laughing. “Very well. Then I shall hire you.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “It’ll be perfect. I’ll call old Woodward and tell him I want you investigating Pete’s death. He’ll have to do it.”

  “Uh—”

  “Leave it to me. You are officially hired.”

  And that, as they say, was that. There was no arguing with Toni when she got an idea in her head.

  “Okey-dokey,” I said. “Now tell me about Pete’s younger brother. Was he at the party?”

  “Dicky? No. He wasn’t invited. He’s what you Americans might call a putz. Absolute worthless dissolute idiot. Drinks too much. Gambles too much. No doubt once he inherits, he’ll burn through the family fortune in a fortnight.”

  “But would he kill his brother to get it?” I pressed.

  She eyed me thoughtfully. “I would have said no, but—”

  “But?” I urged.

  “You never can tell what a person will do when money’s involved.”

  “Then I’d better question him. Do you have his address?”

  “Well, that’d be difficult, darling. He’s in Brazil.”

  I gaped at her. “You just inferred he might be involved in the murder!”

  “I said no such thing, darling. How could he have done? He’s been in Rio—or was it Sao Paulo?—for months.”

  I held back a groan and made a mental note to have Jack check on Dicky’s alibi. I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily, Brazil or not.

  ON THE WAY HOME, I decided to poke around the garden near the veranda where the archer had likely stood. See if I could find anything. Probably the police had already hauled off the murder weapon and any other evidence they’d found, but you never knew. They might have missed something.

  When I went to collect Tippy from the kitchen, Penny was all aflutter. “Please let me come with you. I don’t want to be pressed into peeling potatoes again.” She threw a dirty look at the chef’s ample backside.

  Apparently, the one former employee Toni had gotten rid of was Lord Chasterly’s French chef when he’d made some snide remark about working for a woman. Which was ridiculous as Toni had informed me that all household cooks ultimately reported to the lady of the house regardless of who paid their wages. So she’d hired Mrs. Baker, a solid English woman and distant cousin of Mrs. Johnson, whose figure and name could attest to her wizardry in the kitchen. I had certainly approved of her canapes the previous evening before everything had gone to Hell in a proverbial handbasket.

  Before sneaking out, Penny filched a couple cookies from right under Mrs. Baker’s nose, and the three of us—Tippy included—scuttled outside. Penny handed me one while taking a big bite of the o
ther.

  “This is delicious!” I said, taking a large bite of buttery, gingery cookies. “What is it?”

  “Gingernut biscuit. Aren’t they marvelous?”

  Of course. Biscuit. I never could get used to biscuits being cookies instead of fluffy things meant solely for the delivery of either butter and jam or sausage gravy.

  She gave Tippy a bite, and he went into ecstasy. You’d think I never fed him.

  “Did the police mention they’d found any clues?” I asked as we made our way through the kitchen garden overflowing with herbs, root vegetables, and squashes, down a narrow brick path until we neared the pond stocked with goldfish.

  “Not that I heard,” she said around a mouthful. “In fact, Cobblepot was right put out they didn’t find the bow.”

  That wasn’t a surprise. After all, any self-respecting murderer would have taken it with them. Although I’d been hoping that, if the killer was a guest at the party, they’d hidden it to retrieve it later. Which would have left us a chance at finding it. “They didn’t find the actual weapon?”

  She shook her head, her bright red hair blending into a background of red and gold leaves. Toni didn’t make her wear her mobcap. Said it was old fashioned and an insult to her sense of style.

  “Just the arrow,” Penny said, brushing crumbs from her uniform.

  The killer had probably taken the bow with him. Or her. I wasn’t sure what kind of strength would be required to use it. I didn’t have a lot of experience with bows and arrows. If it had been a crossbow, I was betting anyone could have done it, but the thing that killed Peter had definitely belonged to a regular bow, complete with feathers on it.

  “Do you know much about archery?” I asked.

  “A bit. My uncle is a fletcher.”

  “A what?” That was a new term for me.

  “He makes arrows. The feathers on the end of an arrow are called fletching. So... fletcher.” She grinned at me. “That’s my family name, see? Fletcher. I come from a long line of ‘em.”

  I was suddenly embarrassed I hadn’t known that about Penny. We were friends, after all, but we only called each other by our first names. I’d never thought to ask her last. What a terrible friend I was.

  “Don’t feel bad.” She slid me a sly look as if she knew exactly what I was thinking. “I hate it anyway. I used to tell people at school my real name was Chasterly, but that I had to hide my identity. I always thought Chasterly was a better name than Fletcher.”

  “Guess you learned your lesson there,” I said dryly.

  She laughed. “I guess. Rather be the niece of a simple fletcher than an axe-murderer.”

  “It wasn’t an axe,” I reminded her as Tippy toddled off to sniff around the bushes.

  She ignored me. “What is himself up to now?”

  “You know how he is. Does what he wants. Tippy, come here!”

  Tippy ignored me, disappearing behind a tree. A moment later he let out a woof.

  Penny and I exchanged glances before hurrying after him. He was half buried in a shrub beneath one of the large oaks surrounding Toni’s garden. His tail wagged with excitement and he made little happy growling sounds in his throat.

  Ignoring her pristine uniform, Penny dropped on all fours and crawled in after him. “What have you found, boy?”

  But for once, Tippy wasn’t interested in Penny. Backing out of the bush, he made a beeline straight for me and dropped whatever he’d found on the ground in front of me. I leaned down and picked it up.

  It was the broken shaft of an arrow. The fletching on the end perfectly matched the arrow I remembered protruding from Pete’s chest. “This belonged to the killer.”

  Penny popped out of the shrubbery, brushing off twigs and bits of leaf. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. These feathers are red with green tips, just like the one that killed Lord Winstead.”

  “Ghastly.” Although her tone and expression were more excited than horrified. “Do you suppose he lost it? The killer I mean?”

  “Or threw it away. Either way, he probably figured no one would find it inside that prickly bush.” Obviously, the cops hadn’t looked too hard. Probably didn’t want to get scratched up.

  “Didn’t count on Tippy,” she said proudly.

  Tippy preened.

  “No, they didn’t.” I stepped around the bush to the tree and glanced up at the house. I’d a perfect view straight to the veranda. But would someone see me?

  “Penny, why don’t you go stand up there and see if you can see me.”

  “Sure thing.” She jogged off, Tippy hot on her heels. She dashed up the stairs and stood almost on the same spot where Peter Winstead had danced his last dance. Ignoring the stares of the guests, she shouted, “I can see you, but only just.”

  I could see her perfectly. Which meant the killer had also had a clear shot at Pete. Had they known that beforehand and chosen this spot? Or had they simply lucked out? “Okay, thanks!”

  She hurried back, Tippy along with her. He flopped at my feet and promptly fell asleep.

  “What does it mean?” Penny asked.

  I bit my lower lip. “I’m not sure. You said you could just see me?”

  “Yes. Your body was mostly hidden by the bush, but I could see your head easy enough. And your dress is a bright color, so I could see that.”

  I was wearing red. Not a usual color for me, but it was one of the dresses Mr. Woodward had provided for an undercover job, and I was fond of it. However, if a person was wearing dark clothing...

  “Imagine it’s dark out and the lights are in your face,” I said.

  Penny closed her eyes. “Got it. Go on.”

  I hadn’t expected her to play along so thoroughly. “Now imagine I’m dressed in black. Maybe even wearing something to darken my face...”

  She opened her eyes on a gasp. “I’d have never seen you.”

  I nodded. “As I thought. But how would the killer clean up and return to the party?”

  “If he was even at the party,” she pointed out.

  “We’re on a promontory,” I reminded her. “Sneaking onto the property would be difficult.”

  “True,” she admitted. “There is a back way up, but it’s scary as anything and most people don’t know about it. Only the locals.” Her expression brightened. “Maybe he wore a balaclava!”

  “What’s that?” It was another term I’d never heard before.

  “Um, a wool thing. Like a knit hat, but it covers your whole face. Only leaves your eyes showing.”

  “Oh! We call that a ski mask,” I said. “Yes, that could have worked. Then he pulls it off, fixes his hair, returns to the party. Assuming that it was a man. It could have been a woman.”

  “Could have been,” she agreed, “but I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “Based on the distance from here to the veranda, the killer would have needed to use a longbow.”

  “So?” I knew absolutely nothing about bows of any sort.

  “Well, a longbow takes quite a lot of muscle to use. And some top skills to hit a mark at that distance.”

  I eyed the veranda, then the broken arrow bit. “So the killer was a man.”

  “More than likely. And one who’s had a lot of experience shooting.”

  “Who amongst our guests would meet that description?” I mused.

  “Well, any of them could have the experience,” she admitted. “Archery is a real sport with the upper classes. Sure, they like to hunt with guns, too, but they love any sort of sport. Nearly all the big houses have archery ranges.”

  “Blast. I’d hoped it would narrow things down.” I turned the arrow over. “Alright, what about strength? You said it would take a lot?”

  “Sure. Serious muscle for that shot.”

  “Which guests could have that sort of strength?”

  She twirled a long strand of ginger hair around her finger in thought. “Well... Lord Winstead, of course, but he couldn’t have shot himself.”

>   “No,” I said drily. “Probably not.”

  “Mr. Malburn maybe.” She sounded hesitant. “He’s awfully slim, but he’s got nice shoulders, so he could probably manage, but he was on the veranda dancing, wasn’t he? Lord Olivander is far too old. And Sir Ruben is a bit... well, I don’t think he spends much time on archery ranges.”

  Which ruled out all the men save one.

  Jerry Miles, the race car driver. Jerry Miles who was tall and fit and muscular.

  Jerry Miles who no doubt had the strength to pull a longbow and shoot a man through the heart.

  Chapter 5

  I was in the midst of wiping Tippy’s muddy paws—much to his disgust—when my aunt’s Bakelite telephone rang. It took me a moment to realize that’s what it was. Unlike American phones which make a brrring brrring sound, English ones make a harsher brrr wrrr sound. You wouldn’t think that phones in different countries would sound different, but they do. I suppose phones have regional accents, just like people. Strange, I know. I still jump half out of my skin when I hear one.

  Leaving Tippy to his own devices, I dashed through the living room, dodging my aunt’s overlarge antique furniture. Arriving in the kitchen at last, I scooped up the receiver, panting from my sudden exertion. “Hello?”

  “Miss Martin, is that you? Are you quite alright?” It was Mr. Woodward, my employer.

  “Yes, Mr. Woodward. Perfectly fine. I just got back from Endmere.”

  “Ah, yes, I’ve had a call from Lady Netherford. Seems there’s been a bit of a kerfuffle.”

  “You could say that,” I said dryly. “There’s been a murder.”

  His heavy sigh crackled down the line. “Not another one.”

  Just that spring, an author had been killed by a blow to the head with a poker. It had been an attempt to frame him for several robberies. Yours truly solved the crime and uncovered the criminals. I may have had a little help.

  “Afraid so,” I said apologetically. Although I didn’t know why I was apologizing. I wasn’t the one who killed poor Peter. I gave Mr. Woodward a quick rundown of what I knew so far. Which wasn’t much.

  “Jack was there?” He sounded surprised.