“And me? Why me?” I asked. “I even tried to console her by sharing my experience when Henry died. She seemed so sad and sorry that Max was gone. She had me convinced she was grieving.”
Gemma tried to explain. “I think she was grieving. She was furious with him, and could be she killed him in a moment of blind rage. Maybe she wished she hadn’t. Still, I think, in her mind, she was justified. She even blamed Trixie for that. If not for Trixie, she told me, none of this would have happened.”
I still didn’t get it. “Okay, I can see her blaming Trixie in her twisted mind, but what did I do? Sure, I asked questions, but I wasn’t anywhere near figuring out she’d killed Max.”
Gemma shook her head. “Well, Tuppence, you seemed too close for comfort, at least in Sparkle’s estimation. You and your sidekicks asked lots of questions in Totnes, and she was worried about what you’d uncovered. She didn’t hear anything worrisome from you Saturday night and was hoping you hadn’t put two and two together. “
“And we hadn’t,” Wendy piped up. “We were as confused as ever.”
“Yes, but Trixie surviving her asthma attack and then spending the night with Leta had Sparkle worried. She’d been cozying up to Trixie to keep an eye on her and maybe find a way to pin Max’s murder on her. To no avail, mind you. But she’d spent enough time with Trixie, she was afraid Leta would hear something that would make her more suspicious.”
I sighed. “I admit, I wondered if Sparkle was somehow connected to the oxy, but it wasn’t a fully-formed thought. I might have gotten there eventually—if she hadn’t tried to kill me first.”
Belle was deep in thought. “We weren’t the only ones asking about Sparkle and Trixie and Max, though. Peter questioned Phil, which led you to question Barb. The field was crowded with suspects.”
Gemma was always patient with Belle. “Yes, Miss Marple, it was. We traveled down plenty of blind alleys, as they say. But as you know, we had to check every possibility. We had the Totnes police trying to figure out if there was a drug angle because we found drugs and cash in Max’s caravan. But drugs had nothing to do with his death.”
I was getting angry about Sparkle. “If she only knew how hard we tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she had two names, we said, but that’s not a big deal. Maybe she had a sick sense of humor—like taking a picture of her boyfriend passed out—but that wouldn’t make her a murderer.”
Wendy spluttered. “We had an inkling she had a temper, based on what the caravan manager in Totnes said about her. Even then, we weren’t absolutely positive she was the girl who ranted and raved at the door to the caravan. Taken all together, I still don’t see anything that would have said she was a cold-blooded killer.”
Gemma tried to explain. “I’d say she’s unstable. I suspect if we could access juvenile records, we’d learn there had been early signs. It’s also likely that moving from home to home in foster care would have made it difficult to detect a pattern. But we’ll never know.
“We’ve now matched her fingerprints to the apple in Max’s mouth. We’ll likely match her DNA to that from the apple core too. And while she didn’t quite admit to strangling Max when she spoke with you, Leta, it was pretty close. No one thing says she’s the killer, but all the pieces together form a pretty convincing case for Max’s murder.”
Belle looked up from stroking Christie’s head. “Can you prove she tried to kill Trixie?”
“If we can get prints from Trixie’s pill case, we may be able to do something about that attempt. I’m betting those oxy pills are from the same batch we found in Max’s caravan, meaning she had access to them.”
Trixie was standing in the doorway with tears running down her face. She’d been sitting quietly in the kitchen listening to our conversation. “What about Leta? Can you prove she tried to kill her?”
“No doubt there. We have the video documenting the attack, at least the verbal part. We have the weapon with her fingerprints on it. Means, motive, and opportunity—we’ve got it all.”
I was exhausted from listening to this horrendous tale. I’d read enough detective stories to know Sparkle wasn’t a homicidal maniac. She didn’t kill for pleasure. In her mind, she killed for good reason.
I thought back to Lust, Love, Loathing, and Lucre. She loved Max, and he’d betrayed her—guess that was the love motive. She attempted to kill Trixie because she blamed her for taking Max—could be love for Max or loathing of Trixie or both. She tried to kill me because I was a threat. That could be purely practical, though I’d seen hate and loathing in her eyes.
“Ladies,” I asked, “would you indulge me for a moment? Can you help me understand what we missed? Was it obvious the whole time it was Sparkle, or was it always clear as mud?”
Gemma grimaced. “It wasn’t obvious. We had a killer who lied directly or by omission, and we had no way of knowing that. With her fingerprints, we would have gotten closer, but without her confession, I’m not sure we would have put it together. I hate to say that, but I’m being honest. Plus, I think some of the other suspects were as plausible.”
Gemma looked at the piece of paper on the window. “You really did lay it all out. It reminds me of our board at the station where we pin photos and write notes. I may have to read one of those Maisie Dobbs books.”
We all looked at the notes. It was easy to see the missing piece. We’d had it all except for the truth about Sparkle’s final actions on the riverbank.
She didn’t take a picture and leave him that way. She told Gemma she’d sat for a while with Max’s head in her lap, just as she’d told me. He might still be alive if he hadn’t looked up and called her Trixie. That was surely the nail in his coffin. She strangled him—with his red scarf.
“Oh my God,” I said. “When did she put the apple in his mouth? Before or after she killed him?
“She didn’t say,” Gemma answered. “But the two sets of bite marks on the apple make it seem like it may have popped out—now that’s a ghastly image—and she jammed it back in.”
“How cold-blooded,” I cried.
“And the hat,” Belle said. “It was Sparkle who took Max’s top hat. And she was wearing it yesterday.”
“Yes,” said Gemma. “His name was stitched inside. She must have snatched it and the cane after she left him lying dead on the riverbank.”
Wendy couldn’t get over Sparkle’s lying. “Well, she lied to us. Think of the things she lied about. She wouldn’t have dated Max if she’d known he was still a married man. Hogwash! She took up with him as soon as Trixie moved out. Said at first she’d only dated Max for months when really it had been for years. Without the lies, we’d have figured it out right away.”
Gemma and I laughed at the same time. Then Belle joined in.
“What?” asked Wendy. “What did I say that’s so funny?”
“’Without the lies.’ Killers always lie, don’t they?” I said. “At least on TV.”
“And in books,” said Belle.
Gemma looked amused. “And in real life, ladies.”
Like the sleuths in Agatha Christie’s books, we’d come across plenty of clues, a few pointing to the killer, others leading us in the wrong direction. But, unlike the fictional detectives, we’d never figured it out. We hadn’t wrapped up the case in a neat package. We’d been duped by the killer. It was small consolation that the police had been similarly fooled.
Wendy had the final word. “The good news, to quote Shakespeare, is that ‘In the end, the truth will out.’ And so it has.”
Psst… Please take a minute.
Dear Reader,
Writers put their heart and soul into every book. Nothing makes it more worth it than reader reviews. Yes, authors appreciate reviews that provide them helpful insights.
If you enjoyed this book, Kathy would love it if you could find the time to leave a good honest review. Because after everything is said and done, authors write to bring enjoyment to their readers.
Thank you, Dicken
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Spanakopita Recipe
Recipe
Yield: 12 3x3 pieces
Ingredients
10 ounces frozen spinach, thawed and squeezed dry
2 large eggs
1 ¼ cups crumbled feta (6 ounces—sheep’s milk feta preferred)
1 cup finely chopped onion
2 tablespoons minced garlic
Kosher salt and black pepper
½ cup grated Parmesan (2 ounces)
½ cup chopped parsley
½ cup/115 grams unsalted butter (1 stick), melted
8 sheets frozen phyllo dough, thawed and halved crosswise
Optional ingredients to taste
1/3 cup fresh basil, chopped
1/3 cup fresh dill, chopped
1/4 cup fresh oregano, chopped
zest of 1 lemon
PREPARATION
In a medium bowl, combine the spinach, eggs, olive oil, feta, parmesan, basil, dill, oregano, lemon zest, garlic, crushed red pepper flakes, and a pinch each of salt and pepper.
Heat oven to 375 degrees. Lightly grease a 9-by-13-inch pan (2 inches deep) with butter. Lay one half sheet of phyllo dough in baking dish. Using a pastry brush, brush dough with butter. Repeat 7 more times to form crust. Spread spinach mixture evenly over crust. Brush one half sheet of phyllo dough with butter and lay on top of filling, butter side up. Repeat with remaining 7 sheets of dough. Using a serrated knife, lightly score top layer of dough into squares (this will make it easier to cut once baked). Bake until crust is lightly golden and filling is heated through, 50 to 60 minutes. Serve warm.
Tips
Can be served as a side dish, an appetizer, or a main course.
Parker’s Pen: Christie’s Perspective on Black Cats
Columnist Leta Parker is out shopping for Halloween candy, so her cat is filling in for her.
I’m happy to be a beautiful black cat who is loved and pampered. But what about those poor black cats who don’t have homes, who are shunned because people are foolishly afraid of them? How did black cats get such a bad rap? The answer requires a brief history lesson.
We cats started hanging around humans 10,000 years ago, when you first started growing food instead of hunting it. We were observant—still are—and noticed rodents wherever corn and wheat were stored. Rodents meant a meal. Soon enough, we grew to like people and vice-versa.
Most everyone knows that the Egyptians worshipped cats. They realized that we made fine pets but still had minds of our own. Doesn’t that sound like the cats you know? I mean, do we come when called?
The Egyptians also worshipped gods and goddesses that were part human and part cat. The goddess of violence and fertility, Bastet, was one of those combos, and one of her favorite colors was black. Don’t ask me how you combine violence and fertility. Humans come up with the strangest ideas, but Bastet is why black cats were seen as special. Note, I said special, not bad luck or evil.
Perhaps it was this pagan affinity for cats that caused medieval Christians to distrust us. Distrust is too mild a word. Heck, they accused us of participating in orgies with the devil. From then on, it got worse for cats, especially black ones. We were all described as favorites of the devil and of witches, and you know what happened to the witches, don’t you?
Years later, cats were better appreciated, with intelligent people like Charles Dickens and Mark Twain holding us in high regard. Having a few admirers still didn’t do away with most people’s fear of cats, black ones in particular, and Edgar Allan Poe’s horror story “The Black Cat” didn’t help matters. I mean, honestly—he described a dead black cat driving some poor human mad, and people believed him.
Even today, black cats remain unpopular. Because we’re the least likely of all cats to be adopted from shelters, October 27 is Black Cat Day in the UK. Similarly, August 17 is Black Cat Appreciation Day in the US. Both days are promoted in an effort to get more of us adopted.
I guess superstitions die hard, and just as people avoid walking under ladders or living on the thirteenth floor, some also avoid black cats. Seeing black cats as Halloween decorations along with witches and monsters like Dracula and Frankenstein likely reinforces this aversion.
There’s never been any proof to support these wrong-headed beliefs about black cats, but then, when have humans ever needed proof? My friend Leta, of course, has never believed any of this hooey. As a child, she had a stunning black cat named Sheba and loved her dearly. Just because she went on to own a white cat and two calicos doesn’t mean she thinks there’s anything wrong with black ones.
The fact is all cats are magnificent creatures, and black cats are exceptionally striking. And me? I’m also highly intelligent and have come up with a marketing slogan to help my brethren—A black cat for every lap. I implore you to run out and adopt a black cat today!
Now, I know one lucky kitty who’s worn out from too much thinking. Time for me to head to Leta’s lap for a recovery snooze.
Christie Parker lives in the Cotswolds with her canine brother Dickens and columnist Leta Parker.
Acknowledgments
This journey began when Lisa Frederickson suggested I write a cozy mystery. Never in my wildest dreams would that idea have occurred to me. And so it began. When I balked, she pushed. When I faltered, she encouraged. When I encountered writer’s block, she offered ideas.
Book one in the Dickens & Christie mystery series would not have happened without her, and here I am with book two under my belt and book three underway. She has stayed with me the whole way—coaching and cajoling. I owe her so very much.
The next debt of gratitude is owed to my marvelous critique group, a band of ready, willing, and able women who stepped up to read one or both books in the series in draft form. Their feedback and suggestions made both books infinitely better.
Many thanks to these well-read ladies who critiqued the books under tight deadlines: Beth Bush Bangs, Jeannie Chambers, Linda Jordan Genovese, Lucy Molinaro, Audrey Moran, Jan Slimming, and Katie Wills. I’m not sure they realized they'd signed on for life.
Of course, I have to thank my husband for giving me the freedom to write and write and write. When I finally retired, I know he envisioned me having lots of leisure time and being more available. It didn’t quite turn out that way, but he’s happily coming along for the ride. He keeps saying he can’t wait to see me on The Today Show. I just humor him.
Though Banjo and Puddin’ receive daily thanks—in the form of treats and belly rubs—let me officially say thank you to my four-legged muses. They not only keep me company in my office but also provide nonstop inspiration for the personalities of Dickens and Christie. There really is a drawer in my desk with kitty treats, and Banjo really does lie beneath my desk gently snoring.
Finally, the journey continues because of you—my readers. Words cannot express the joy I get from hearing that you related to one of my characters or recognized your pets in the antics of Dickens and Christie. As readers, you have innumerable choices, and I thank you for choosing to read my books.
About the Author
Kathy at her desk when she was four years old.
Picture me sitting serenely at my desk surrounded by my four-legged office assistants. The dog warms my feet, and the cat provides the purr-fict background music. I sip hot tea, sift through handwritten notes, and place fingers on the keyboard as thoughts take shape. Such is the joy of writing.
As a child, I took a book everywhere—to family dinners, to doctor’s offices, and of course to bed. Years later, a newspaper article inspired me to put pen to paper and submit my thoughts—my words—to the editor. Before I knew it, I was writing weekly columns and blogs. Then came a book co-written with my dog. (What? Doesn’t everyone do that?)
Now I’m living a dream I never knew I had—writing cozy animal mysteries featuring a dog and cat who talk to their owner. If a dog can write a book, surely animals can communicate. Naturally, my office assistants help with the dialogue. And, yes, they are angling
to be listed as co-authors.
By the way, if you can’t find me, I’m traveling in the UK doing research for my next mystery—don’t judge.
—Kathy
www.KathyManosPenn.com
Also by Kathy Manos Penn
Just in case you haven’t already had the pleasure of
reading the first book in the
Dickens & Christie Mystery Series,
here is your chance to get a copy.
Available in paperback also at regular price.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B084X6546S
Book Three ~ Whiskers, Wreaths & Murder (Nov 2020)
Pumpkins, Paws and Murder (A Dickens & Christie mystery Book 2) Page 22
