by Fiona Grace
“I guess staring at them all night won’t get me any answers,” Lacey said with a sigh as her eyes roved over all the precious gems.
She’d called Percy Johnson, her Mayfair dealer, regarding auctioning them, and he’d agreed to help her properly appraise all the items through a video call. She was so excited about it all, she wished the call was happening tonight, but she couldn’t exactly demand time from an elderly man, so she’d have to be patient.
Chester whined in response to her words. She looked over at him and patted his head. “You just want your walkies, huh?”
His eyes sparked with understanding and he began to wag his tail eagerly. Lacey couldn’t help but chuckle.
“All right, all right. I’ll stop staring at it all and lock this stuff away.”
She collected all the boxes and placed them in the safe. Then she checked the back door was securely locked, and headed back out through the front store onto the street, closing and shuttering everything up behind her.
The lights were still on in Taryn’s boutique, but Tom’s patisserie was in darkness. Lacey had a vague recollection about him playing badminton on Thursdays.
She headed toward her car. But then she heard Chester growl.
She turned back. He was standing by the store where she’d been a moment earlier, looking at the shutters and growling.
With a frown, Lacey hurried back to him.
“What’s wrong, Chester?” she asked.
He barked, loudly, insistently. Lacey heard a sound coming from inside the store. A loud crash. The sound of breaking glass.
“If that’s Taryn kicking over my trash cans again…” Lacey said aloud, her eyes flicking over to the brightly lit boutique, “then she’s messed with me one time too many.”
She fumbled to unlock the shutters and heaved them up. Then she unlocked the door and hurried inside, Chester racing past her barking all the while.
As she hurried into the auction room, Lacey felt sharp wind blow into her face. Glass littered the floor, catching on the moonlight.
She gasped as she saw the back door standing several inches open, the wood splintered as if someone had used a crowbar to force it open. This wasn’t Taryn… surely not!
Suddenly, there was movement. A masked figure sprung up from behind the safe and went streaking across the room toward the back door. It was like something from a horror movie and Lacey felt herself freeze on the spot. But Chester leapt into action. He moved in a blur, charging at the figure.
“Careful!” Lacey cried.
The stranger might be armed. The last thing she wanted was her dog getting hurt.
But Chester ignored her cries.
He leapt, jaws exposed, and latched onto their ankle. Lacey heard the assailant cry out, their deep voice indicating they were most definitely male.
He began to shake his leg, trying to get Chester off. Lacey saw something long and metal flash in the moonlight. A crowbar. He was going to strike her dog!
“Chester!” Lacey bellowed, her voice no longer frantic but commanding.
This time, the dog obeyed. He released the man’s leg from his jaws.
The man staggered back, the arm holding the crowbar flopping to his side. Then he scurried out through the broken door.
“Stay!” Lacey commanded Chester, since the dog looked like he was about to take chase. “It’s not worth it. Just let them go.”
Lacey felt her chest sink. So the hounding had begun. Only the mob wasn’t carrying pitchforks, they were armed with crowbars.
*
Lacey saw the flashing blue lights from all the way at the other end of the long high street. The harsh, bright lights looked so wrong on the quaint historic street, beneath the pretty gingham bunting. This witch hunt against her was certainly ruining any sense of idyll.
As the police car approached, Lacey waved her arms over her head to flag it down, and it pulled to a halt against the curb. The driver’s door opened and DCI Beth Lewis emerged from the vehicle. From the passenger door, rising up slowly and nonchalantly like nothing ever roused him, was the bulky frame of Superintendent Turner.
He turned and fixed his gaze on Lacey. Her chest sank.
She’d called the police to report the break-in—first incorrectly dialing 911 in her confused, panicked state, before remembering it was 999 in the UK—and had been expecting them to send over their usual on-the-clock staff. Instead, the two detectives had come themselves. Way to make it obvious they suspected Lacey was fabricating the whole thing. They already thought she was a murderer so faking a burglary at her own store wouldn’t take too much of a leap of imagination.
“Miss Bishop,” Superintendent Turner said flatly, bobbing his head once down then back up.
“Good evening,” Lacey said, rubbing her forearms from the chill of the evening and the superintendent’s frosty tone.
“You called about a break-in?” he asked, with about as much emotion as someone reading the TV listings.
She nodded.
“What’s been stolen?” Superintendent Turner asked.
“Nothing,” Lacey told him. “I was working late. I’d literally just locked up when I heard them breaking in through the back door. They must’ve been waiting for me to leave. I hurried back in and interrupted them before they were able to take anything. If that was why they were breaking in in the first place. A lot of people around here are out for me since they incorrectly think I’m a criminal now, thanks to you guys.”
The superintendent ignored her jab. His eyes were roving from the metal shutters Lacey had now fully raised up, to the double glazed storefront windows and door.
“You were able to hear a break-in at the back of the store through double glazing and thick metal?” Superintendent Turner stated flatly.
Lacey’s jaw tightened. “Chester heard it.” She gestured down to her trusty companion sitting obediently at her feet. “He started barking and alerted me.”
Superintendent Turner’s expressionless gaze fell to Chester. “The dog?” He sounded nonplussed. “The dog saved the day?”
“Yes. The dog,” Lacey replied tersely. “He’s very smart.”
“And do you think Lassie would be able to identify the perp out of a lineup?” Superintendent Turner returned in a dry, sarcastic manner. He didn’t even smile at his own joke.
Lacey’s arms tightened even more against her chest. She chose not to rise to him. “Would you like to come in?”
DCI Lewis answered, her eyes darting from the superintendent to Lacey as if a little uncomfortable with the atmosphere. “Yes, we’d better. Can you show us where they gained entry?”
She was the more diplomatic of the two. Lacey wouldn’t go as far as to say she liked the woman, but she liked her a whole lot more than Superintendent Turner.
Lacey led the two detectives through the main store and into the auction room where the wind was making the back door bang against the frame, its lock having been broken by the crowbar. Shards of glass from the window littered the floor.
“So the door was jimmied open,” Superintendent Turner said, looking at the splintered wooden frame. “But they also broke the window?”
“I assume the window broke from the force of the door swinging open and hitting against the wall,” Lacey countered.
“Oh, you assume that, do you?” Superintendent Turner said, dispassionately.
DCI Lewis interjected. “You said you interrupted the assailant. Did you get a visual on them?”
“Just his silhouette. He was hiding behind the safe.” She gestured toward it.
“He?” DCI Lewis said.
Lacey nodded. “Chester bit him. He shouted out. It was definitely a man.”
“I’ll call the hospital to see if anyone’s admitted themselves with a dog bite,” DCI Lewis said.
Superintendent Turner nodded in affirmation.
“You’re lucky you’re in the UK,” the man told Lacey. “You’d get sued for the medical costs if your dog bit someone in the US,
wouldn’t you? Litigation Nation and all that.”
He was trying to rattle her. Lacey wasn’t going to let him.
“So he sprung up from behind here,” Superintendent Turner said, knocking his knuckles against the top of the steel safe. “Was he targeting it?”
“Maybe,” Lacey said. “He was holding a crowbar so there’s a chance he was going to try and get inside.”
“What’s kept in here?”
“Jewelry,” Lacey said.
“Is that typical in an antiques store? To keep jewelry in a safe?”
“It’s standard practice in any store to keep small valuables in a safe.”
“Right. But what I’m getting at is that this was targeted. For some reason, your store was chosen. Maybe what’s inside this safe is the reason.”
Lacey really didn’t want to divulge the truth. Surely it would make her look super suspicious. But holding back information from the police was the worst of two bad options.
“They’re Iris Archer’s jewels,” Lacey said tensely. “Her valet has tasked me with valuing them and auctioning them.”
“Is that so?” the superintendent said, his tone staying as flat as always.
DCI Beth Lewis stepped back over to them. “I’ve put an alert out to the hospitals to ring us if anyone admits themselves to A&E with a dog bite. What have we found here?”
“Ms. Bishop was just informing me that she has a safe stuffed full of a murdered woman’s jewelry.”
DCI Lewis’s eyes darted to Lacey.
“I was explaining that I’m auctioning them,” Lacey said, knowing she must look extremely suspicious right about now. “The valet inherited the estate in Iris’s will but her children are trying to get their hands on anything of value. He asked me to take them for safekeeping until they can be auctioned and the money given to charity as per Iris’s wishes. I have the legal paperwork to prove it, signed off by a lawyer.”
“As the auctioneer you get commission, right?” DCI Lewis asked, completely ignoring the comment about the paperwork. “A percentage from the sale?”
She was correct—not that Nigel and she had discussed the exact fee yet—and Lacey was aware of how black and white it must seem to them—she may not have stolen the jewels from Iris’s estate, but she was going to be profiting off them anyway.
“The valet knows they’re here,” Superintendent Turner said. “Maybe he was the one who broke in.”
Lacey shook her head. “Nigel? No way. If it was anyone linked to the estate it would’ve been one of her kids. Well, sons, since the burglar was a male.”
“You sound pretty chummy with the valet if you’re on first-name terms with him. Maybe you two cooked this whole thing up together. Commission from the jewels. Extra money from an insurance scam. The lawyer could be in on it as well. It won’t be the first time we’ve dealt with a crooked lawyer, believe you me.”
Lacey frowned, growing more furious by the second. “Maybe you should check his leg for teeth marks? Check the sons’ legs too, while you’re at it.”
“Oh, don’t worry, we will,” Superintendent Turner said. “Any more suggestions for how I should do my job?”
Even DCI Lewis bristled at the comment. “I think we have enough information now to be getting on with,” she said, shutting her notepad in a gesture of finality. She handed a card to Lacey. “This is the number of the service we recommend for securing properties after break-ins. They’re pretty quick.”
“Thank you,” Lacey said, grateful that at least one of the detectives didn’t have it in for her.
They headed back into the main store.
“A bit of advice,” Superintendent Turner said to Lacey as he strode toward the exit. “Don’t sell the jewels anytime soon. They might well be evidence, in the break-in, and in Iris’s murder.”
“If they might be evidence, you should probably get a warrant to take them in for safekeeping,” Lacey replied. She was suddenly worried about the fact her fingerprints were all over the plastic cases containing the gems, and that they were probably perfectly preserved thanks to the acrylic surface.
“Look,” the man said, gruffly, reminding Lacey of the way he’d snapped at her over the phone. “You don’t need me to tell you how bad it would look if you hold an auction right now. In the eyes of the public, I mean.”
“You mean the public you’re allowing to believe I may be a criminal?”
He stepped closer, in a threatening manner that took Lacey by surprise. Chester growled.
“I’ll get a court injunction to stop you,” he said between his teeth.
“That won’t be necessary.”
He backed away. “I’m glad to hear it.”
They left the store, DCI Lewis flashing Lacey an apologetic expression. Superintendent Turner didn’t look back.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Knock knock.”
Lacey glanced up from the store counter to see Tom standing in the doorway, holding his wicker basket. The smell of fresh croissants wafted into the store, making Lacey’s salivary glands react immediately, which was a relief; the stress of everything had massively impacted on her appetite.
“What are you doing here?” she asked Tom, her mood automatically lifting at the sight of him. She was having another customer-less day. Not even the Chester-petters were coming in anymore.
“I wanted to see how you were,” Tom said, coming over and placing his basket on the counter. “After the break-in.”
Lacey sighed. “Does nothing stay private in this town?”
“I’m afraid not,” Tom said. He bit his lip and handed Lacey a piece of paper about the size of the page of a novel. “This had been posted through the patisserie’s letterbox when I opened up this morning. Every store on the high street will have had one delivered, too.”
Frowning with curiosity, Lacey turned her gaze down to the flier he’d handed her. The local Wilfordshire police crest was printed in the top righthand corner, dark blue against the glossy white paper. There was a yellow-and-black-striped banner with the words WARNING printed in bold red.
Lacey’s stomach dropped.
“There has been a BURGLARY in your area,” she read aloud. “PLEASE be vigilant. PROTECT your property by following these simple steps.” Lacey crumpled the paper up without even reading the bullet point list that followed and snapped her gaze back up to meet Tom’s. “What the heck? This is practically advertising me as a troublemaker! How can the police do this?”
Tom gave her a sympathetic look. “It’s standard practice over here. Obviously, the victim is supposed to remain anonymous but it took me about five seconds to figure out it was your store that was targeted. I’m sorry. Hopefully this will help a bit.”
He produced a teapot from the basket and set it down in front of her. Steam coiled from its spout.
Despite her morose mood, Lacey couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of it.
“Does it have liquor in?” she quipped.
Tom produced two porcelain mugs from his basket and began to pour. “No, it’s your classic English Breakfast, but I promise you it’ll relax you just as well as alcohol. Better even. No hangover.”
He smirked playfully, then reached back into his basket. Out next came a large plate piled with all manner of croissants and Danishes, the whole thing wrapped in plastic wrap—or cling film, as Lacey had discovered it was called over here—like some kind of Christmas parcel. Tom unwrapped the mini-mountain of pastries, placed one on a delicate china plate, and slid it across the counter to Lacey. The comfortingly familiar smell of Tom’s special pastry wafted into her nostrils.
“You’re right,” she said. “This is exactly what I need.” She’d only managed to force down a banana that morning, which could hardly count as breakfast.
But Tom wasn’t done yet. From the basket he began to produce miniature glass jar after miniature glass jar of homemade preserves: strawberry jam, apricot jam, blackberry jam, cherry jam, gooseberry jam…
“I wasn’t
sure what flavor jam you like best,” Tom explained, after noticing Lacey’s amused expression. “So I brought one of everything.”
“I’m not sure either,” Lacey said with a chuckle, selecting the apricot because she liked its vibrant orange color the best.
“So what happened?” Tom asked as he slathered a croissant with strawberry jam. “Last night?”
Lacey shook her head, feeling exhausted and overwhelmed by everything that had been going on. She didn’t really want to go into it. But then she reminded herself it was Tom sitting in front of her, and not her mother. He handled difficult situations with calm reassurance, rather than panicked outbursts.
“I’d just closed up for the evening,” Lacey explained. “Chester heard something, so I turned back and heard the glass smash. Someone had bashed in the back door with a crowbar. Chester bit them as they tried to run.”
“That’s terrifying,” Tom said sympathetically. “Do you think it was the same person who left you threatening voicemails?”
Lacey paused. She had indeed been thinking someone was out to get her—no one knew what items specifically were in her storeroom. But on second thought, the van Nigel had delivered the jewels in had been far from inconspicuous, especially when one of the items they’d wheeled out had been a six-foot tall, 180-pound antique gold harp, when there’d been a lawyer present. Far from a local thief witnessing the delivery and deciding to try their luck, the break-in could’ve been for Iris’s belongings.
She repeated the moment in her mind when she’d disturbed the intruder. They’d leapt up from behind the safe, which was the opposite end of the room from the back door through which they’d entered. That meant they’d crossed the entire room, passing other obviously valuable items, to go straight for the safe.
“They were looking for something,” Lacey said as it dawned on her. “Something specific. If it was a random thief, they would’ve taken the items closer to the door. And if the attack was against me, they would’ve damaged something. They had a crowbar, after all, and there were plenty of fragile things around to break. I think it was someone who knew that it was Iris’s items.”
