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

by Shéa MacLeod

  “I was wondering if I could reserve your services for tomorrow,” I said through gritted teeth as we lurched over yet another pothole. “I want to visit the fletcher. Er, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Sure thing, Miss Martin. What time shall I collect you?”

  “Would nine be too early?”

  “Not in the least, miss.”

  The truck lurched to a stop in front of Endmere’s front door. Dust rose in a cloud, coating everything.

  “Here you are,” Old Tom said cheerfully. “Let me come ‘round.”

  “Oh, no, I can manage,” I assured him, pushing open the heavy door. I stared at the long drop and my delicate shoes. “Well, maybe not.”

  Before Old Tom could exit the truck, a zippy little black Triumph Roadster pulled up behind us and Alexander Malburn stepped out. He was looking devilishly handsome as always, his hair perfectly oiled and coiffed, his white shirt under his dark suit setting off his tanned skin perfectly. He strode rapidly to my door and gave a little bow, holding out his hand.

  “My lady.”

  I laughed and accepted his help before turning around to thank Tom. Once Tippy was safely on the ground, the green truck sped away, and Alex and I strolled to the front door.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” he said, eyes perusing my figure in the snug blue dress. It was clear he appreciated what he saw. “I had to pop ‘round to the chemist for some headache powders for Lil.” He patted his jacket pocket.

  “I thought I’d drop by for a visit,” I said. Funny how, despite how ridiculously handsome he was, I wasn’t at all moved by his attention. It was like chatting with one of my cousins. He didn’t give me those odd flutters Jack did.

  “Have you come to investigate us?” he teased as the door swung open before he could ring the bell.

  Johnson stood on the threshold, eyeing us with disapproval. “Miss Martin. Mr. Malburn. The rest of the guests are on the terrace. Cocktails are being served.” He shut the door on our heels and spun to stride stiffly into the depths of the house, leaving us to find our own way to the veranda.

  Tippy’s nails made little clicking sounds on the marble floor. I was surprised Penny hadn’t appeared to take him. She always seemed to know when he was there.

  Alex shook his head. “I swear that man was born with a stick up his—”

  “Toni!” I cried, catching sight of my friend.

  Toni paused halfway down the stairs. Her lush figure was shown off in a red wiggle dress. She tossed her dark hair, a smile curving red-painted lips. “Sugar! I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Nor did I,” I said, greeting her with appropriate cheek kisses. It was still a strange custom to me, but I managed to not look like a total idiot. “But I need to have a word with one of your guests.”

  Her brow went up. “Do tell.” She leaned down to give Tippy a scratch, revealing acres of plump bosom.

  I glanced at Alex who gave me a knowing smile. “I’ll just take the powders to Lil.”

  As he strode off, I turned back to Toni. “I was taking Tippy for a walk in the village when Jerry Miles nearly ran over us with his car.”

  Her perfectly lined eyes widened. “Surely it was an accident.”

  “I don’t think so. He actually sped up when he saw us.”

  “And you’re sure it was him?”

  “Not a hundred percent,” I admitted. “But it was definitely his car.”

  She bit her lip. “Oh, dear. I would hate to think... well, come on out. He’s with the rest of them. We’re having cocktails.”

  “So I heard. More Pink Ladies?”

  “Oh, no, darling. Sidecars. I do love a sidecar, don’t you?”

  I didn’t answer since she didn’t seem to need one. Besides which, I’d never had a sidecar. I had the vague impression that cognac was involved, but that was about it.

  Out on the terrace, Sir Ruben had made himself at home fixing drinks. Today’s ensemble was a peacock blue smoking jacket and gold-embroidered Jaipur slippers. He gave us a little wave. “Hullo, darlings! You must try these.”

  Toni and I took the proffered cocktail glasses, while Tippy turned his attention to Penny who was taking a tray of hors d’oeuvres around to the guests. She let out a delighted squeal, and I let him run to her.

  Jerry Miles was at one end of the long dining table that had been set up, lounging back in his seat, cocktail in one hand and cigarette in the other. He completely ignored me, instead watching Penny with an interest that made my skin crawl. He’d better not try and cozy up to my friend. The man was a womanizer and possibly a murderer. Not to mention he’d tried to kill me and Tippy. No sir. I was not having it.

  I set down my glass marched straight over to him and planted myself in his line of sight. “I demand an explanation.” I said it loud enough that it brought all conversation to a halt.

  Lady Olivander gasped while Lord Olivander shouted, “What’d she say?”

  Jerry looked me over coolly. He didn’t give on at all that he found my confrontation uncomfortable. “Whatever are you talking about, ducks?” His tone was amused, which I found annoying.

  “This afternoon. In the village. You tried to run me down with your car.”

  Everyone else gasped, but Jerry let out a bark of laughter. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would never risk damaging my car.”

  “You really are a gem, Jerry,” Toni said dryly as she sank into a nearby seat and sipped elegantly at her cocktail.

  “Broken bones can mend. Damaged vehicles can’t.”

  “Damaged vehicles can be fixed,” I countered. “The dead can’t rise again. Is that what you wanted? Me, dead?”

  All eyes were fixed on Jerry. Even Tippy’s and Penny’s.

  “Don’t be absurd. I don’t care a whit about you. Besides, I never left the manor today. Whoever you saw, it wasn’t me.”

  I eyed him, unsure if he was telling the truth or not. “It was your car.”

  He snorted. “Couldn’t have been.”

  “It was a brand new, bright red, drophead coupe. I’m not familiar with the make or model.”

  “Sunbeam-Talbot,” Toni supplied.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said, remembering the emblem on the side of the vehicle.

  He bolted straight upright. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not.”

  He jumped from his seat, dropping both cocktail glass and cigarette before charging off in the direction of the garage bellowing for Marks, the chauffeur. Almost as one, the entire company got up and followed. The only ones who didn’t were the elderly Lord and Lady Olivander, the former of which kept shouting, “What the devil is going on?”

  Halfway to the garage, we met up with Marks who’d obviously heard Jerry yelling. He doffed his cap and spoke to Toni. “Is something amiss, my lady?”

  “I’ll say,” Jerry blustered. “Somebody was driving my car this afternoon, and it wasn’t me.”

  “That’s impossible, sir,” Marks said. “I’ve been in the garage all day working on the Bentley. No one has taken any cars out.”

  “I saw it,” I said. “It was definitely Jerry’s car. No one else around here drives a red coupe like that.”

  Marks scratched under his head. “I suppose it could have gone while I was up at the house for my lunch. Cook wouldn’t let me bring the dishes out here, so I ate inside.”

  Jerry stormed toward the garage, the rest of us trailing behind. Toni was looking amused, Marks worried.

  “Sorry, my lady, but I didn’t think anything would happen to it. Who would take a car right out of the garage?”

  “Don’t you worry about it, Marks. We’ll get to the bottom of it. In any case, it’s not your fault,” she soothed.

  That didn’t reassure Marks. His face was beat red, and he twisted his cap in his hands over and over. Guilt or anger? Could go either way, it was impossible to tell.

  As a group, we marched to the garage, trailing along like so many peacocks on parade. Sir Ruben was still holding his cocktail gla
ss, occasionally sipping from it like we were at a garden party. Lil had pulled a fancy painted hand fan out of who-knows-where and was vigorously fanning herself while carrying on a never-ending conversation with no one in particular.

  “I do think this place is cursed. This is the second time—the second—that things have gone dreadfully awry. Well, I didn’t do it last time, and I didn’t do it this time.”

  She was, of course, referring to the spring’s adventures when I’d been on the tail of a thief and ended up stumbling across a dead body. Poor Lil had been accused of the crime. I could understand her trepidation.

  “I couldn’t have tried to run you over, Sugar,” she continued. “I don’t know how to drive.”

  Which I thought was a pity. All women should know how to drive. My dad had taught me as soon as I could reach the pedals. It took some doing to crank the steering wheel, and I’d nearly taken out Mrs. Hardy’s rose bushes, but I’d gotten the hang of it. And cars were much easier to drive nowadays. Frankly, there was no excuse for an independent woman not to drive, although there are plenty of men who would argue with me and likely a few women, too. Still, I figured if Princess Elizabeth could do it, why couldn’t the rest of us?

  At last we made it to the garage, and Marks flung open the door, revealing Jerry’s little red number. It sat, innocently gleaming as if freshly polished.

  “There, you see. It’s parked exactly as it should be. It hasn’t been out of this garage since I arrived,” Jerry said snippily.

  Not one to accept what a person said simply because he said it, I marched around to the front of the car and laid my hand on the hood—or bonnet, I suppose I should say. “Still warm.”

  “What’s that mean?” Lil said.

  “Means someone’s driven it, doll. Recently, too,” Sir Ruben drawled in an amused voice. “Looks like you’ve been caught out, Miles.”

  Jerry’s face turned an interesting shade of puce. If ladies hadn’t been present, I’m sure he would have used some blue language. As it was, he merely stormed off without a word.

  “Do you suppose he’s telling the truth about not being the one driving?” Toni murmured.

  “Hard to say.” I turned to Marks. “The only time you were away was at dinner?”

  “Yes, Miss. Gone no more’n thirty minutes.”

  “And what time was that?”

  He scratched his chin. “Went up there ‘bout four forty-five.”

  Which meant he’d have had to be back by a quarter after. If he was telling the truth. Yet it had been four thirty when the car had nearly hit me. “Are you sure about the time?”

  He pulled out a pocket watch. “Yes, Miss. This old thing is more reliable than the sun.”

  I doubted that but didn’t say so. “And you’re sure the car was here when you left?”

  “Well, I didn’t check of course, but it was here this morning and, like I said, I never left the garage ‘cept to get my dinner.”

  I strolled around the car, eyeing it closely. Maybe it had been an identical car? But no. This was definitely the car. No one else in the village could possibly afford a brand-new car like this. I laid my hand on the hood and sure enough, it was warm. I sighed. It was a conundrum. Marks was so certain, but someone somehow had gotten this car out of the garage and nearly run me over with it.

  “How did he do it?” I muttered aloud.

  “Never mind, darling,” Toni soothed. “You’ll figure it out. Come on up to the house for another sidecar. It’ll take your mind off things.”

  “But I don’t want to take my mind off things,” I protested. “I need to figure out what happened.”

  “And the best way to do that is to simply forget everything and enjoy yourself. The rest will come to you,” she said with maddeningly illogical logic.

  I allowed myself to be pulled toward the house, but the rest of the evening my thoughts were on a little red car and my own near-death experience.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I woke unusually early for me. I am not, nor have I ever been, a morning person. More than ever, I wished desperately for a cup of coffee, but such things weren’t to be had in the little village of Meres Reach. I’d likely have to go to London for that.

  I put the kettle on, let Tippy out the back door for his morning constitutional, and was just getting a cup out of the cupboard when there came a knock at the door. I scowled. It was just past eight. Far too early for anyone to be calling, and Old Tom wasn’t expected until nine.

  Jack stood at the threshold looking far too chipper for this hour. He swept his hat off, revealing mussed blond curls which I had the sudden urge to run my fingers through. Instead I snapped, “What are you doing here?”

  He eyed my chenille robe. “I have news. Let a fellow in?”

  I sighed. “Might as well. I just put the kettle on.”

  “Marvelous.”

  I padded to the kitchen, Jack hot on my heels. The kettle was boiling, so I got another cup down, dropped in a tea bag, and poured us both a cup. “You might as well know, Jerry Miles tried to kill me last night. Now, what’s the news?”

  “What the devil?” he all but shouted. “Sugar!” There was a lot of sputtering.

  “Stop fussing. I’m fine.” I quickly told him about nearly getting hit by Jerry’s car, and Jerry’s claim he wasn’t the one driving, plus the chauffeur’s claim the car had never left the garage. “It obviously had, but it’s a mystery.”

  One of the chairs creaked as Jack took a seat, placing his hat on the table. “Maybe we should tell my uncle. This is getting dangerous.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m fine. Everything is under control.” At least I hoped it was. “Now, your news?”

  He grimaced. “First off, my uncle rang me back about Dicky Winstead. He’s off the hook. Definitely still in Brazil.”

  I sighed. “Well, that’s disappointing.”

  “You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” he chuckled. “And you heard about Peter Winstead stealing Jerry Miles’s fiancé?”

  “Of course.” I placed one of the cups in front of him then went rummaging in the fridge for milk.

  “I’ve found her.”

  I turned around so fast I almost bashed my skull in on the fridge frame. “Isn’t she in France?”

  He grinned. “That’s what I thought, but no. She’s not.”

  “Wait!” I held my hand up. “I need tea before I can process this.” I thumped the milk on the table. “And maybe something to eat. I think I have crumpets.”

  Sure enough, there were crumpets in the bread box. I didn’t bother to toast them, but simply slathered on a bit of butter and placed them in reach so he could help himself. After sinking into the other chair, I took a fortifying sip of tea. “Go on.”

  “Right. Juliette Devereaux did indeed return to France after the kerfuffle with Peter and Jerry. However, she returned to England six months later.” He flipped open a notebook. “She lives not far from Covent Garden and works in a women’s clothing boutique on Oxford Street.”

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  He shook his head. “I was thinking you’d want to do that in person. Fancy a trip to London?”

  “Absolutely, but first I’ve got a date with a fletcher.”

  Chapter 7

  Penny’s uncle lived in a ramshackle cottage. It was crammed into a narrow meadow that was somehow wedged between the promontory on which Endmere perched and a lush, forested area which Old Tom informed me was referred to as “Meres Wood.”

  “He’ll be out back in his workshop,” Old Tom said. “I’ll wait here.”

  “Thank you.” I climbed from the truck, leaving Tippy snoozing in the seat next to Old Tom, and picked my way through the overgrown weeds that made up Mr. Fletcher’s yard.

  Sure enough, at the back of the house was a wobbly building that looked like it might have once been a stable but was now clearly meant for the crafting of bows and arrows. A large man with a shock of red hair and an enormous beard was neatly whit
tling at a bit of wood. Next to him sat a barrel filled with arrows with fletching in various bright colors. None matched the one found at Endmere.

  “Mr. Fletcher?” I called out.

  He jerked—startled—and glanced up. A frown creased his heavy brow. He looked nothing like Penny.

  “I’m Sugar Martin. Your niece Penny’s friend.”

  The frown cleared. “Any friend o’ Penny’s is a friend o’ mine. How can I help, miss?”

  “I was wondering... are you familiar with a fletching that’s yellow tipped with orange?”

  He leaned back and stroked his beard. “Well, there’s a yellow tipped in green, but don’t suppose that helps you.”

  “No, afraid not.”

  “And there’s a solid orange, but that ain’t right.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  He scratched his head. “I do all the fletching ‘round these parts. You’re sure about the colors?”

  “Yes. Quite sure.”

  “Well, then, weren’t of my doing,” he assured me. “And not from these parts.”

  Which meant the killer wasn’t local and had brought his own arrows. The plot was turning thicker than pea soup.

  TIPPY SEEMED EVEN MORE excited than I was to climb onto the afternoon train to London. As it pulled out of the station with a lurch and a chug, he jumped up onto the seat—actually, it was more of an undignified scramble—and placed his paws on the windowsill. Pressing his nose to the glass pane, he stared out giving a soft, eager “woof” now and then.

  “He sure loves trains,” Jack said. I’d rung him after Old Tom dropped Tippy and me at the station.

  “I think my aunt must have taken him with her a lot,” I said, giving Tippy a scratch behind the ears. He did have such soft fur. “Sometimes I think he doesn’t realize he’s a dog.”

  Jack laughed. “Oh, I think he does. He just considers himself superior to us.”

  “No doubt about that. So what did you find out about Juliette?”

  “Not much other than what I told you and what’s in the papers,” he admitted. “We’ll have to get what we can from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.” He picked up the paper he’d brought with him, effectively ending the conversation.