Pumpkins, Paws and Murder (A Dickens & Christie mystery Book 2)

by Kathy Manos Penn

  “But he still got to work here at the shop?” asked Belle.

  “Dad knew I could take care of myself, and Max was good with the shop customers. It’s not easy to find a clerk who can do a few magic tricks. Pulling a bouquet from your sleeve or a coin from behind a child’s ear is a great way to make merchandise fly off the shelves. And he was awfully good with children. He was a big hit at birthday parties and school events.”

  “I see,” I said. “Do you also know his wife Trixie?”

  “For sure,” said Chrys. “I met her at Sharpham Hall. I was teaching weekly magic classes, and she was taking that papermaking course. It was me who introduced her to Max. Big mistake that was.”

  This was the easy part of sleuthing. An inquiring look, a tilt of the head, and a pregnant pause worked wonders for getting folks to talk.

  “Trixie was a sweetheart, and I think Max saw her as a challenge. Not his usual kind of girl. He flat-out wooed her, and in the end, he fell hard for her. Don’t think he expected that. And she for him, until it was too late.”

  “Huh?” asked Wendy. “Too late?”

  “Well, yes,” Chrys explained. “He kept up a good façade as Mr. Charming. No yelling, no cursing, even cut way back on his drinking. He spent every dime he had, which wasn’t much, taking her up and down the river on picnics and visits to castles here and there. Heck, he even tried to read the few books she recommended to him. That was a stretch.”

  Wendy worked the pregnant pause. “And . . .”

  “Well, once they married, it wasn’t long before his true colors surfaced, was it? Beats me how he thought she’d stay ‘in love’ with him when he went back to his old ways. Can’t tell you how many times she called me crying, and with good reason.”

  I blanched. It was an awful story, and I hadn’t yet heard any details. “How bad were his old ways, Chrys?”

  “Out all night drinking, sleeping around, bar brawls, dragging Trixie out of the bookshop to yell at her. Guess he thought he was being good not to yell right in the middle of the shop. But you’ve got to give Trixie credit. She wised up pretty quick. Waited the twelve months needed to file for divorce and did it the next day.”

  “Trixie told me she thought he cheated on her when he traveled, but did he do it here in Totnes too?” I asked.

  “Not while Trixie was still living with him. Before that, he was notorious for one-night stands. With his good looks, he seemed to have his pick of the locals and young female tourists. Had one local girl he always went back to until he met Trixie. Then, when Trixie filed for divorce, he started up with that one again. Don’t know why she’d take him back after he dumped her. I mean, he didn’t treat her that well even before he fell for Trixie.”

  “What a piece of work,” said Wendy.

  “Chrys,” I said. “Back in Astonbury, the police are looking at Trixie, since they always look at the spouse first in a murder. Anything you can tell us about Max or Trixie that might help her out?”

  “Huh? How could they even consider her a suspect? Most of us here think of her as an angel. Sweet as they come. Book-smart, but not too savvy about men or life. If it had happened in Totnes, the police’d have a whole list of suspects—every girl he’s mistreated, their brothers and boyfriends, and all the men from his bar fights. There are girls he didn’t sleep with but said he did. A total git he was.”

  Wendy looked at Chrys. “Who’s the girl who stuck with him through all that and then took him back again? Talk about not bright about men!”

  “Name’s Prudence, lives around—”

  A deep voice boomed from the back of the shop. “Chrystal! Need your help, girl.”

  “Oi, that’s my dad. He’ll soon be telling me I’ve spent too long gossiping. May I ring up the magic kit for you? And the top hat too?”

  I wasn’t sure Dickens needed a top hat, but I bought it anyway. “By the way,” I said as Chrys rang me up, “Which pub did Max hang out in? Could be good for some local color.”

  “Um, it’s the Whistling Pig. A little off the beaten path, but not too far.”

  Belle bought the magic kit, and we agreed we could give it to Timmy. We’d gleaned a bit of new information, but nothing earth-shattering, except the name Prudence. It’d probably be easy to follow that lead at the bookshop or the pub. Still, no matter the enemies he’d made in Totnes, I couldn’t see why someone would follow Max to Astonbury to do him in. On the other hand, a smart killer could have realized that doing the deed out of town would throw the authorities off the scent.

  Our next stop was the Totnes Bookshop. We were walking downhill on High Street, but the incline was steep, so Wendy kept tight hold of Belle’s elbow.

  When Belle saw the display in the bookshop window, she lit up. “Goodness, girls, there’ll be no getting us out of here. Look at the cats.”

  She was right. The display was all about cats. Not only were there two plump cats dozing with their paws in the air, but there were also cat books. Centered in the window was a poster for the play Cats with T. S. Eliot’s Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats in front of it. I spied Cleveland Amory’s The Cat Who Came for Christmas next to an Edward Gorey calendar with the image of Seventeen Cats on the Front Steps of 82 Maple Street as the cover.

  At least we had no problem breaking the ice. We oohed and aahed over the cat treasures. Then we found Trixie’s cards. There were bundles of six in the notecard section and more elaborate individual cards for sale on the counter near the register. She was just beginning to build a similar collection at Beatrix’s shop, and the selection here in Totnes was much larger. That was our entrée.

  “Oh my, these look like the cards we saw in Astonbury,” I exclaimed.

  Immediately, the clerk broke into a smile. “That’s where the artist moved. Did you see them in the Book Nook there?”

  “Yes, but only the single cards. I wonder whether we’ll get the notecards too?”

  “Those take a bit of time to produce, and the artist committed to keeping us well-stocked for the upcoming holidays. Could be a while before she can keep up with the demand in both shops,” replied the clerk.

  It was time for my fellow sleuths to pick up the conversation. “Oh, Leta, this is Trixie’s work. You know, Beatrix’s niece?” said Wendy.

  In a somber tone, Belle interjected, “Oh, the poor girl whose husband turned up dead after the Fête in Astonbury? How awful.”

  “We were all so sorry to hear about that,” said the clerk. “I’m Suzanne, the manager here. Trixie used to work for me in addition to supplying me with her beautiful cards. We hated to see her go, and we miss her, but I know it was best for her to leave.”

  “Really?” I said.

  Suzanne hesitated. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but the husband was why she left. She was trying to divorce him, and he wouldn’t accept it. I’m sure she was better off far away from him. It’s strange that he died in the town where she moved.”

  The expression “not to speak ill of the dead” seemed a common refrain in reference to Max, and I was beginning to think this wouldn’t be the last time we’d hear it. At the other extreme, we hadn’t yet heard anything negative about Trixie. The story was a bit like Beauty and the Beast, except this beast stayed a beast.

  None of this was especially good news for Trixie. The more we heard about what a caveman Max had been and how he’d mistreated his wife, the more the police would believe she had good reason to kill him. Admittedly, my limited knowledge of police investigations came from books and TV where the spouse or significant other was always the primary suspect. Unless Gemma deviated from that pattern, Trixie would remain at the top of the list.

  I continued to browse while Wendy chatted with Suzanne. She told much the same story we’d gotten from Chrystal. Max belittled Trixie, and he berated her in public. And Trixie was a saint and a talented artist.

  I thought we’d picked up as much information as we could, so I took my two items to the counter. The Edward Gorey calendar was a must-have, an
d I’d spied a book titled This Cat Does Not Love You. It was billed as a cat’s-eye view of the world that would reveal the meaning of your cat’s “looks, twitches, and loving gestures.” It looked to be a hilarious read Christie and I could enjoy together. Knowing my girl, she’d want to write the authors to let them know what cats really thought.

  After Belle and Wendy made their purchases, we asked Suzanne to suggest a place for lunch, and she recommended Pie Street. We’d passed the café on our way to her shop, so we retraced our steps and sat down to savory pies. Belle went for the steak and ale pie, and Wendy and I tried the chicken with ham and leeks. It was a satisfying lunch for a chilly day.

  A tiny space with tables packed close together, the restaurant wasn’t conducive to strategizing next steps. Instead, we played the tourist card and asked for suggestions. First, we inquired as to which pub the locals frequented. That elicited two votes for The Whistling Pig, so not only was it Max’s hangout, but we could likely find regulars there who knew him.

  Next, I went to the counter to pay for our lunch and asked the grey-haired woman at the register if she knew anything about the Blue Hair Studio. There couldn’t be that many hair salons in Totnes, and I could tell from her hairstyle she visited somewhere weekly for a wash and set. I couldn’t believe my luck when she said the Blue Hair Studio was where she went and that Priscilla, the girl Sparkle had recommended, was her hairdresser too.

  We huddled outside the shop to discuss how best to spend the afternoon. Wendy and I were sure Belle would want a nap, so we offered to schedule her appointment for the next day, take her to the hotel to rest, and then drive back to Totnes.

  Belle surprised us. “Time’s a-wastin’, girls, and I can nap at home. Let’s see if I can get an appointment at the Blue Hair for today.”

  Wendy grinned at her mum and pulled out her phone. In no time, she had Belle set up for a wash and set. I left them outside Pie Street and came back with the car.

  On the short drive, Belle explained her game plan. “No worries, girls. I’ll use my fairy hair as an opening to inquire about Sparkle, and I’ll get the scoop. You know how women love to gossip.”

  I could hardly keep a straight face when I saw the exterior of the salon. In my mind, something called the Blue Hair had to be an old-fashioned beauty parlor that catered to . . . well, blue hairs. Was I ever wrong.

  It was a modern shop decorated in shades of blue and silver. A few of the hairdressers had blue hair, but not what I’d envisioned. Several had short spiky hair, much like Wendy’s style, but with blue streaks. One hairdresser had dyed all his hair blue.

  I giggled as I whispered to Wendy. “Do you think the blue hair is a marketing concept?”

  “Not sure,” she replied, “but let’s hope Mum doesn’t go for color. I think the fairy hair she got on Saturday is enough for now.”

  The receptionist inquired as to whether Belle might want a manicure too. We knew that would give us more time at the pub, so we encouraged her to go for it. And the salon also offered wine and bubbly.

  Before she left us to put on her smock, Belle turned to Wendy. “Dear, you and Leta enjoy yourselves. Since my salon visit is your treat to me, I’m going to make the most of it. You never know; I may even get a pedicure.”

  We both laughed and gave her a hug.

  “In the States,” I said to Wendy, “we’d call your mum a pistol.”

  “That she is. You know she meant it when she said we’d energized her. She didn’t get out all that much until I moved back from North Carolina, and now with you around, she’s having even more fun. She gets quite the kick from accessing her inner Miss Marple. Let’s hope her innocent little old lady act pays off today.”

  We were still laughing as we entered the address of the Whistling Pig into my GPS. “Now, don’t let me drink more than a pint, Wendy. I need to be fit to drive, and there’s something about drinking during the day. It seems to get to me more. You, on the other hand, can drink to your heart’s content.”

  “You mean it’s my job to drink? It will be a burden, but I’m willing to take one for the team.”

  That’s what I loved about hanging out with Wendy. We were always laughing. It had been a huge leap of faith for me to move to Astonbury and leave my sisters and friends behind, and I felt fortunate to have found a new best friend.

  The GPS directions took us straight to the Whistling Pig without any sudden detours onto narrow dirt lanes. It was those unwelcome surprises that made me distrust GPS, and England seemed to have an abundance of narrow bumpy lanes lined with tall hedgerows.

  Midafternoon, the pub was quiet with only a few patrons scattered at tables. I took a seat at a scarred wooden table by the window and Dickens found a sunny spot to lie in, while Wendy went to the bar for two pints. Her order was filled quickly, but she sipped her beer and chatted with the bartender for a bit before coming to our table. I considered that a good sign.

  She was grinning. “I’m getting good at this sleuthing thing. Told him I’d met someone from Totnes at our Fête and gotten the name of this place. Naturally, he asked who that someone was. I said, ‘That’s the sad bit. It was Max the Magnificent, and he had some kind of accident that weekend.’ He’d heard folks saying Max had died and asked if I knew anything more about it.”

  I took a small sip, knowing I had to make my pint last. “And what did you tell him?”

  “Oh, I told him he seemed a nice enough guy when he was doing his magic act, but he’d gotten out of hand several times that day, that he’d accosted his wife, and been booted from our local pub. That didn’t surprise him. Said Max was regularly booted from this one.”

  “My, my. Do continue.”

  “Our bartender’s a chatty guy. Do you think most bartenders are? Anyway, I’ve adopted your nod and smile technique, and it paid off. He was full of information. Max drank too much and was mouthy and aggressive. It was a rare week he didn’t tick someone off, either coming on too strong with a girl or getting in another guy’s face. Most of the regulars ignored his behavior but a few put him in his place—physically.”

  “I think we saw all of that in Astonbury. Does ‘physically’ mean someone punched him?”

  “That or strong-armed him out the door. Apparently, the bar patrons know better than to start a fight inside, though one of the barmaids slapped him a time or two when he fondled her. He seemed to take the slaps in stride, almost as though it was part of the game.”

  “Good grief. Did this guy have any redeeming characteristics at all?”

  “Not that I can tell. The barmaid’s boyfriend beat Max up proper the last time he got handsy with her. That was about a month ago. Next, I’m going to ask if he ever came in with Trixie or Sparkle. Fancy a bag of crisps?”

  I laughed as Wendy went to the bar. We didn’t need anything to eat after our pies, but sacrifices had to be made. Getting the crisps took ten minutes, and I was anticipating plenty more gossip.

  Wendy flounced back to our table. “Oh, this gets better all the time,” she said. “Turns out he never brought Trixie in, but he did meet up with a girl named Prudence—been meeting up with her off and on for a few years. Seems the two had a volatile relationship. They had a few loud rows in here, but always made up.”

  “A few years?!”

  “Yep. When I told him I knew Trixie’s aunt and thought they’d been married for eighteen months or so, he laughed. I could tell he was having fun educating me on the history of Max the Magnificent. He gave me a timeline. Max and Prudence were an item—if you can call it that—for a year or more, though Max never gave up his one-night stands with the tourists. Word was that when Trixie came along, he dumped Prudence but picked back up with her as soon as Trixie left him. They’ve been at it ever since.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake. I need a new word. ‘Jerk’ doesn’t do it anymore.”

  That comment cracked Wendy up. “We have plenty of words that will work--git, prat, rotter, pillock, plonker, tosser. Try one. You’ll feel better.�
�

  She was right. I needed to up my language game. I’d learned to refer to a sweater as a jumper and a vest as a waistcoat, but not much beyond that. Learning insults would be way more fun.

  “Okay,” I said, “the tosser left a trail of aggrieved women wherever he went. How’s that? Am I getting the hang of the insults?”

  “Yup, that’s a good start.”

  “And, now we know he dated, if you can call it that, not only Sparkle but some girl named Prudence. I wonder if our bartender will be as chatty with me, ’cause we need to get more info about this Prudence girl. Are you ready for another round?”

  Wendy reminded me it was her job to drink, so I went to the bar and asked for a second pint for her and diet coke for myself. That earned me a smirk from the bartender. Fortunately, my choice of drink didn’t lessen his willingness to tell me more about Max’s girlfriend.

  “Prudence?” he asked. “Name’s Prudence Potter. She lives near the Blue Hair Studio where she works.”

  Now, that was interesting. She worked at the same place as Sparkle. It seemed that Totnes was not only a tourist town but also a small town like Astonbury where the locals knew everything about everyone. When I asked about Sparkle, though, my theory was blown. He’d never heard of her. So, where did Sparkle and Max hang out when they were together, if not The Whistling Pig? Was Max smart enough to take his regular girls to two different places?

  Wendy and I puzzled over that while she enjoyed her drink. Dickens stretched and rolled over to expose his tummy.

  “You know what that position means, right?” I asked Wendy.

  She chuckled and reached down to rub his belly. “And how’s Detective Dickens doing? Have you stumbled across any clues we’ve missed?”

  He raised his paw to let her know to continue the belly rub but didn’t bark a word. I took that to mean he’d been listening but didn’t have anything to add.

  “I’m not rushing you, but when you’re done with your drink, do you think we have time to run by the caravan park before we pick up your mum? I’d love to hear what the manager thinks about Max, the dearly departed tenant.”