“Now, that was a good lead, Leta. I got plenty more detail. Barb was working, and she admitted to having a fling with Max in Totnes and thinking she’d never see him again. She wasn’t happy to see him on her home turf and definitely wasn’t up for a repeat. Her story explains the bruising on Max’s torso that came prior to Saturday. And I was able to solve one more mystery.”
“Oh! And what’s that?”
“Brian, Barb’s cousin, is the brown jacket man. He’s the gardener for The Olde Mill Inn and quite a few country estates around the area. He was at the pub drinking with his mates, and as soon as I saw him, it clicked. You know him, right, Leta?”
“I don’t think I do, but maybe I should. I could use a gardener for my cottage.”
“You’d probably recognize him if you saw him. Anyway, it hit me that Barb was his cousin and she probably told him about the episode with Max on Friday night. It fit that he’d be riled about it, so I asked him about Saturday afternoon. He had no problem admitting he’d told Max in no uncertain terms never to come near his cousin again.”
Wendy laughed and said, “Even though Barb did a good job of taking care of Max herself.”
“Right,” I said, “but some macho posturing for reinforcement couldn’t hurt.”
Gemma sighed. “We see a lot of that in the pubs around here.”
I thought again about the Friday evening altercation. “It’s a wonder Max could work the Fête, though he didn’t appear any worse for the wear. No one said he winced when Brian poked him or when he pushed Sparkle or Prudence’s face in the water.”
The words Sparkle or Prudence got Gemma’s attention. “What do you mean ‘Prudence’? Has the girl got a twin?”
“A twin,” Wendy said. “Now, that’d be one for the books, wouldn’t it? A mystery book or BBC show. No, Sparkle doesn’t have a twin—it’s just that her real name is Prudence.”
Gemma cleared her throat. “I might use another name too if Mum had named me Prudence or Patience or the like. Doesn’t it mean to be careful and disciplined? And then people would call you a prude, right? Yuck. But never mind that. What exactly did you find out?”
It was my turn. “Remember I said how surprised you’d be at what people would tell Belle? Well, she got the story from one of Sparkle’s flatmates who works at the Blue Hair Studio in Totnes. Sparkle—or Prudence, as she’s known there, works in the same place. Belle had herself a wash and set yesterday and came away with all kinds of news.”
“Blimey. What else?”
Wendy continued. “We heard Mum’s story after Leta and I visited the local pub and heard that a girl named Prudence had been carrying on with Max off and on for quite some time, as in before Max ever married Trixie. Can you believe it? You know, it’s occurred to us Sparkle’s a bit inconsistent when she talks about how long she’s dated Max.”
Gemma was in an amazingly good mood today and surprised me when she said, “Is this where I’m supposed to say ‘the plot thickens’?”
I’d saved the best for last. “Yes, and there’s more. This blew us away. Prudence sent Tina, her flatmate and co-worker, several texts on the day of the Fête—with photos. No big deal, shots of Max doing tricks and such until the final text—a photo of Max lying on his back at the river. And, let me pull up the caption she texted. Here it is. ‘Started the day sober and wound up dead drunk as usual. Looks a right fool, doesn’t he?’”
“Bloody hell. You’re sending me all that, right? Surely he’s alive in the photo. I mean, how stupid can the girl be?”
“Our exact thoughts,” I said. “It’s hard to be sure, but I’d bet he was fine when that photo was taken. Guess it proves Sparkle was there, but we already knew that. Of course, there’s no apple in his mouth. I suppose she could have taken the pic and then finished the job. That idea seems ridiculous when I say it out loud, though. Why even put yourself at the scene?”
“You’re right,” said Gemma. “The picture doesn’t prove anything, and the idea of her killing him after that seems far-fetched. Still, anything’s possible.
“On this end, I’m still checking alibis for Barb and Brian and Phil. So far, not one of the people we’ve identified with a motive has a decent alibi, but I’m not through yet.”
Wendy sat forward. “Gemma, I know you found a laptop in Max’s caravan. Anything useful on it?”
“Not a thing. I was hoping it would have an email saying ‘I’m the killer. Come find me here,’ but no such luck.”
We all chuckled at that comment. If only.
“Based on his search history, looks like he mostly used it to find magic tricks and watch how-to videos. And, as Leta probably told you, he had tons of photos of Trixie.
“As for the little red book, not much joy from it either—notes on magic tricks mixed in with scribbled sums and dates. Small sums, at that, so if he was selling drugs, I think he was small-time. Could be the notes were for dates and payments for magic shows, but the amounts are too all over the board for that.”
“Well, at least you’ve made me feel better, Gemma,” I said. “I was feeling pretty low after Wendy and I captured every little thing we knew about this case and still couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. The more we learn, the cloudier it becomes.”
“Yes, that’s the way it is more often than not, but what you’ve uncovered so far has helped push things along. Just don’t you two get cocky and go getting yourselves in trouble. It’s early days yet.”
“We won’t,” said Wendy, “because we’re taking today off. Going shopping and visiting Greenway before we drive home tomorrow. Wouldn’t it be lovely if we arrived in Astonbury to the news that you’d had a break in the case—or better yet, arrested the killer?”
“Lovely for all of us, I’d say,” responded Gemma. “Time for me to chat with Constable James and see where he is on both the alibis and the drug angle. It’s a long shot, but we could find something that says Max was a major player in the drug world. Doubtful, though. Do call if you stumble across anything else, and don’t forget to forward me the texts from Sparkle or Prudence or whatever name she’s using today.”
Chapter Eleven
I dropped Belle and Wendy in front of the Community Bookshop on Higher Street and parked across from the ferry dock. I was a born shopper, but this morning I preferred to get our ferry tickets and relax on a bench by the water while Dickens explored. Wendy had promised to text me if she found anything she knew I couldn’t live without. And if Belle needed a lift down to the dock, I’d get a text about that too. We wanted her to save her energy for touring.
What the heck, I thought. Perhaps I can get Wendy’s landlady Carol on the line and be done with that. The phone was answered on the second ring.
When I explained who I was, Carol responded enthusiastically. “I’ve been hoping you’d call. My entire family loves Trixie, and we want to do anything we can to help.”
“Well, really I’m looking for background about Trixie and Max, anything that would paint a picture of them and their relationship. Did Trixie move out before they married or after?”
“Oh! They lived here for a few months after the wedding, but I had to ask them to leave. I hated to do it, but Max and his friends weren’t people I wanted around my children. Trixie understood.”
“I had no idea they’d lived there as a couple. So his friends were trouble?”
“Not to speak ill of the dead, but Max was no prize on his own, and when his friends were over, he was worse. He denied it, but I know they were smoking more than cigarettes in my garden, and I think they were into drugs. Saw some money exchanging hands a few times. There was no way I was allowing that on my property.”
There was that phrase again, “Not to speak ill of the dead.” Was there no end to the bad news about him? “Had you met Max before?”
“Yes, but it was like he had a split personality. He was a delight when they were dating—bringing flowers, doing card tricks for the kids, an absolute prince. Then it was as though a switch w
as thrown, or he had an evil twin.”
“Oh my goodness, poor Trixie.”
“Yes, if you know her at all, you know she’s a sweetheart. Didn’t deserve to be treated that way.”
“What way?” I prompted.
“I guess you’d call it verbal abuse. If he’d spoken to me that way, he’d have been out on his ear, but I think Trixie was in shock. I can’t imagine he didn’t show some signs before the wedding, but I never saw any. Like I said, could have been his evil twin.
“I was proud of her, though, when she left him and moved back here. The few times he came around, she stood up for herself. Got right in his face and told him to get lost. That was a Trixie I’d not seen before.”
I was wishing I’d taken Belle’s advice and left my detective work for later. Her story was more of the same, except for the drug angle. Yes, I’d found a small amount of pot and pills in the caravan, but possession was not the same as selling. Not that Gemma had turned up anything about drugs in the background check. Had he been lucky or was he so small-time he wasn’t on the radar of the local authorities?
I thanked Carol and assured her we were doing everything we could to help Trixie. Before I rang off, she asked about Trixie’s health. “Please tell me she’s got her asthma under control. I worry about her,” she said.
“Well, I know she had an attack earlier this week, but I think she’s okay now. Did she have them often when she lived with you?”
“She had two, and they were after Max moved in. Could have been the friends smoking that aggravated it. And the worst was the day she tripped at work and sprained her ankle. Max was good about wrapping it and waiting on her, but after he gave her something for the pain, she had a severe attack. So bad, we had to ring 999.”
“Omigosh. I don’t know much about asthma. I wouldn’t think Advil or such would be harmful.”
“I’m not sure what it was, but I know she has to be careful with headache medicine that the rest of us take like candy. Anyway, I’m sure her aunt is looking out for her. And it sounds like you are too. Thanks for calling, and please tell Trixie we miss her.”
How depressing. I was having a roller coaster day. Disheartened about not being any closer to identifying Max’s killer, then up because Gemma was encouraged by the information we’d unearthed, now down again after hearing Carol’s tale. I could only hope the ferry ride and Greenway tour would cheer me up.
At least Dickens was having a ball. He’d taken to chasing the flocks of birds that landed on the bank of the river. He didn’t seem bothered that he’d chase them off only to see them return. It was a new game. When he saw me put the phone down, he dashed over, panting.
“Is our ferry here yet? Are the birds going too? How ’bout Belle and Wendy?”
As I was chuckling at his excitement, I spotted my companions approaching. I didn’t see a shopping bag, but Belle was sporting a new blue-grey hat. “We have created a monster,” I said. “A new hairstyle, makeup, and a new hat. What next?”
“Have to look my best to visit Dame Agatha’s home,” said Belle with a smile. “And here comes the ferry. I’m rather excited about this, as I’ve been reading her books since before you two were born.”
“And don’t forget, Mum, we adore all the Hercule Poirot stories on the BBC—the ones starring David Suchet. I think we’ve watched them all and more than once.”
That reminded me of the costume party I’d thrown in September when Toby had come as the famous detective. He’d had the devil of a time keeping his curled mustache straight as the evening progressed.
“Well, we may not encounter the Belgian detective, but we’ve got our very own Miss Marple, right Belle? And I think the original would be envious of your new hat.”
We joined the crowd queuing for the ferry and were able to get seats inside. I took Dickens up top as the crew cast off. This was his first time on a boat of any kind. He’d been timid about the metal gangplank but once aboard seemed right at home. Standing on the top deck, he faced into the wind as we powered toward Greenway. He was a sight to behold with his ears and his long white fur blowing in the strong wind. I, on the other hand, was tugging my red beret over my ears and snugging my wool scarf beneath my chin.
The ferry captain entertained us with facts about the river and waved at the students from the Royal Naval College conducting man overboard exercises. It took me a moment to realize they were practicing with dummies dressed in orange. Not far from Greenway, the captain pointed out a small boathouse whose stone pillars had originally formed the foundation of Sir Walter Raleigh’s house.
When we arrived at the Greenway quay, Belle and Wendy found seats in the sun. They would wait for the quay car to take them to the top, while Dickens and I climbed the steep path to the house. We planned to meet outside the Barn Café.
Dickens pranced along taking in the sights. The climb didn’t faze him, but I was winded long before we arrived up top.
Dickens cocked his head at me. “Leta, are you panting?”
“Why yes, I am. All those walks to see Martha and Dylan didn’t prepare me for this terrain.”
“Does that mean we’ll start walking hills when we get home? And take Christie with us in your new backpack?”
“Yes, we will. Maybe a picnic lunch too.”
Greenway welcomed dogs with tether rings and water bowls available in the courtyard, and I was happy to leave Dickens there while I got coffee in the café. Without the wind from the river chilling me to the bone, I was able to remove my coat and scarf while we waited for our companions. When they joined us, we agreed they’d tour the first floor while Dickens and I took in the garden and made our way to the boathouse. I’d about decided to forgo seeing the house again so I could concentrate on the grounds.
Because Henry and I had only toured the house, I was eager to walk the path to the Dart Estuary and see the Boathouse, the scene of the crime in Christie’s novel Deadman’s Folly. I had heard that the garden, the boathouse, and the main house were easily recognizable in the book as those at Greenway. How appropriate that the TV movie starring David Suchet as Poirot was filmed here. I wished I’d had time to read the book before this trip. I’d be sure to do that when I got home.
The winding path and the views were breathtaking, and I could imagine Agatha Christie with family and friends whiling away the summer playing croquet and meandering the many pathways. When Dickens and I returned to the courtyard at the house, we found Belle relaxing with a pastry.
Dickens barked a greeting, and Belle gave him a nibble. “Enjoyed that no end, but I sent Wendy along to the second floor on her own. She promised to take pictures.”
“I was afraid the stairs would be too much. When you’re rested, would you like to visit the gift shop with me? I’m in search of Christie paraphernalia.”
“That would be grand, luv. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“As a matter of fact, I have in mind something from the Detection Club. I stumbled across an article about the group and was fascinated. A handful of London-based mystery writers formed the club in 1930, and Agatha Christie was a founding member, along with Dorothy Sayers. Gotta love the fact that two women were there at the start. New members had to be invited and had to be voted in. Then they had to swear an oath. Just a sec. I have a screenshot of it on my phone.”
Do you promise that your detectives shall well and truly detect the crimes presented to them using those wits which it may please you to bestow upon them and not placing reliance on nor making use of Divine Revelation, Feminine Intuition, Mumbo Jumbo, Jiggery-Pokery, Coincidence, or Act of God?”
Belle read it aloud and exclaimed, “Oooh, I like that. I detest books where they take me for a fool, where there’s no way the detective could possibly have solved the crime based on what I’ve read or the murderer isn’t even in the book until near the end—kind of sprung on me. I feel cheated when that happens.”
“Exactly. This club felt the same way, so they adopted “The Ten Comman
dments of Detective Fiction,” a list of rules for mystery writers to follow. I think it was the very first rule that said the criminal had to be introduced at the beginning of the book. I’d love a framed print of the rules, and this seems the perfect place to find something like that.”
I could tell Dickens wanted to loll in the sun, so I found him a water bowl and hooked him to another tether. Belle and I spent a pleasant thirty minutes shopping. They didn’t have the Ten Commandments, but the clerk found a small version of the oath framed in gold. I could think of several places in my cottage where it would fit. I purchased two, thinking I’d give one to Beatrix for her shop.
I hadn’t forgotten about a gift for my prissy black cat, but I couldn’t find anything I thought she’d care for. Plenty of bookmarks with black cats, but she didn’t need one of those. She chose to mark her place by chewing the corner of a page in the book. She also chewed the corners of newspapers, magazines, and notebooks anywhere she found them.
Wendy greeted us when we emerged from the gift shop. Dickens was lying by her feet with a little girl rubbing his belly and a toddler lying with her head on his rump. The mum was snapping photos of her children and my adorable dog.
Belle laughed. “We often charge for pics.”
The mum smiled and wanted to know all about what kind of dog Dickens was. When she heard the typical 140-pound size of a Great Pyrenees, she groaned. “Not happening, but this one has a lovely temperament. Come along, girls. Your father will be wondering where we’ve gotten to.”
Though we’d snacked on coffees and pastries, we were ready to sit down to a real lunch. Wendy and Belle hailed the quay car, and Dickens and I took the downhill path. It was much quicker going down than it had been coming up. We’d planned to take the ferry back to Dartmouth, but Wendy suggested we take the shorter ferry ride across the river to Dittisham. From the Greenway quay, the colorful buildings on the village’s Manor Street looked inviting, especially the pink Ferry Boat Inn.
Pumpkins, Paws and Murder (A Dickens & Christie mystery Book 2) Page 17
