Written on the Wind

by Cate Dean

  ***

  Patrick Tucker lived in a small cottage at the base of the hill leading up to the castle. Maggie had to look his address up online, and felt oddly guilty for doing so—never mind showing up without warning, or an invitation.

  But no one had seen him since the murder, and Maggie was worried about him. It didn’t help that his continued absence made him look suspicious. She refused to believe for one second that he had anything to do with Arthur Cragmoor’s death.

  After a few deep breaths, she walked up the charming brick pathway, through a small but spectacular garden, and stopped in front of the arched, painted door. The rich green looked beautiful against the brilliant flowers, and the warm brick of the cottage wall.

  “And you’re stalling, Maggie.”

  She took another deep breath, and knocked on the door.

  Mr. Tucker opened it, his grey tonsure even more wild than usual, and his rich brown eyes wide, vulnerable without his thick glasses.

  “Maggie. What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see if you were all right. I’ve been worried about you, since—ˮ

  “There was no need, but seeing as you are already here, please, come in.” He stepped back, and she walked inside. “I’ve got tea on. This way.”

  She got a glimpse of a tidy lounge before he walked down a short hall and into the kitchen. A farmhouse table stood in the middle of the square room, with painted white cabinets on three sides, and windows on the fourth wall looking out to another incredible garden.

  “This is lovely, Mr. Tucker.”

  “Please, sit. And I told you to call me Patrick.” He lowered himself to the chair closest to the stove, and Maggie watched him, worried about how slowly he moved.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes.” He waved her off. “Still a bit sore from—well, what happened.”

  “Do you remember what happened?” She asked in a quiet voice, ready to take it back if he was offended.

  “Unfortunately, I do. Though I doubt anyone would believe me. I seem to be the prime suspect in my oldest friend’s murder.”

  “You were friends with Arthur Cragmoor?”

  “We started as business associates. I bought books for him, since he loathed crowds of any sort. We slowly became friends, when he understood that he could trust me. We were in the middle of a—transaction, when a figure in a black mask burst out of the back room of my shop and attacked us.” He closed his eyes, his hands clasped tightly together. “I had just been showing Arthur the letter opener you so kindly gifted to me, which made it an easy, convenient weapon for the intruder.”

  “Did you—no, you don’t have to tell me.”

  “No, Maggie. It is time I told someone. Ian Reynolds already knows this, though he is skeptical. After hearing my story, I would be, as well, if I had not been there.” He sighed, and stood when the electric teakettle clicked off. “Is Earl Grey agreeable?”

  “That’s my favorite.”

  “Mine as well.” He attempted smile as he lowered a silver teaball into the teapot and poured the water. “Now, where was I? Yes, the killer appearing. This person picked up the letter opener and threatened Arthur, mumbling something I couldn’t hear. When Arthur denied them, they stabbed him, without warning.”

  He carried the teapot and two cups over, and set them down before he sat, staring at the table. Maggie could imagine the thoughts going through his mind—along with the guilt that he had survived.

  “Ian told me that they found Arthur’s skin under your fingernails,” she said, her voice quiet. “Do you remember how it got there?”

  He nodded. “When Arthur collapsed, I grabbed his arm, but he slipped away from me—ˮ He cleared his throat, and continued. “I must have shouted, because the intruder turned to me, and swung their fist at me. I tried to duck, and ended up hitting the back of my head against my own desk. The next I knew, Ian was leaning over me, checking to see if I had a pulse.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Maggie took his hand, and he gripped it like a lifeline. “You know about the break in?”

  “I had nothing to do with that. I’ve barely been able to walk around my own home without stumbling.”

  “Why didn’t you phone someone?”

  “And who would I have phoned?”

  “Me,” she said.

  Patrick closed his eyes, squeezing her hand. “You are a kind and generous young woman, Maggie Mulgrew. I did not expect such, considering you were Irene’s.”

  Maggie smiled. She had stopped being indignant about Aunt Irene’s gruff behavior years ago. “She did have an abrasive way about her.”

  “She protected you like an angry lioness. All of us were wary when you decided to take over the shop, worried that we would have a younger replacement moving in. No offense, my dear girl.”

  “I get it. I’m just glad I disappointed all of you on that count. I did come for another reason.” She opened her bag and pulled out the damask wrapped book. “You told me you had found out more about the author of this when you brought it back to me, but you found the letter opener, and I figured it could wait.”

  He sighed, and touched the top of the book. “I will tell you what I can, but I have made promises, and I will not break them.”

  “Of course.” She set the book on the table.

  “I was handling two of the companion books for Arthur.” He touched the damask. “This is part of a set of four, owned by his family. Arthur had given the third to me, that night. Was the note in this book?”

  Maggie stared at him, and finally nodded. She pulled the note out of her bag. Martin had sealed it in one of his archival protector sheets, to keep oil from damaging the page.

  “How did you know?” she whispered.

  “Arthur confided in me.” Patrick sighed, and used a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. “There is a great deal of money attached to these books. They are proof of inheritance, along with other requirements. Arthur did not want them to fall into the wrong hands.”

  “So he came to you.” She looked at the book, sitting on the table between them. “I thought that book might have been in the box by mistake. But when I tried to return it, Arthur acted oddly, then practically threw me out.”

  Patrick touched her hand. “Who else was there, Maggie?”

  “Rich—oh, no.” Her eyes widened. “Rich knows I have the book, and he’s related to Arthur—ˮ

  “Richard is one of the reasons Arthur came to me. The boy is dangerous enough with his trust fund. Having access to the family money would give him power Arthur did not want him near.”

  Pieces were starting to click into place. “Whoever killed Arthur that night didn’t find the books you had, did they? That’s why they went back to the bookshop.”

  Patrick nodded. “They will not find them. I was arranging to sell them to a trusted, neutral third party, with the understanding that they were to be sold back to me, when I made the request. After Arthur’s—death,” he cleared his throat, and continued. “I decided to hide the volumes I had, instead of going through with the sale. I did not want to put an innocent person in danger.”

  “Who was buying the books, Patrick?”

  He stared at the table for so long that Maggie decided he wasn’t going to tell her. Then he spoke, his quiet voice apologetic.

  “Professor Martin.”

  Eleven

  Martin opened the door of his flat to a furious Maggie.

  She stomped past him, stopping in the middle of the living room before she spun, her blue eyes flashing.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He closed the door, and tucked his hands in his pockets. “I would be happy to, if I knew what we were talking about.”

  “The books!” She stalked forward and jabbed her finger against his chest. “You knew what that book was the second you opened it. It was one of four. You were buying the other three, from Arthur Cragmoor!”

  Everything clicked with her words. “First off, I never saw the
books. I was contacted by a third party, who wished to remain anonymous, about holding three books for a client. I have a reputation, Maggie, and people tend to trust me because of it. The book you bought, it is one of the four?”

  She nodded, deflated, and he waited for her to make the first move.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was so shocked when Patrick Tucker told me, I didn’t think.”

  “Tucker was the third party?” Maggie nodded. “The attack on him, and Arthur Cragmoor, it was over these books.”

  She nodded again, and told him about her conversation with Tucker. Martin led her to the sofa and sat with her, his arm around her slumped shoulders. He hated seeing her so defeated; the Maggie he loved always faced the world with her chin up, ready to fight back if necessary.

  Her voice was tired when she spoke again.

  “Anyone related to Arthur Cragmoor will be after those books, Martin. Patrick hid the three he has, but whoever killed Arthur knows that Patrick has them, somewhere. We have to tell Ian. I know Patrick wants to keep this a deep, dark secret, but maybe if everyone knows about the books, and their history, the killer will be less likely to...” Her voice faded, and she sighed, leaning against him. “Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but if the books become public knowledge, the killer might slink away.”

  “Or simply wait until interest dies down. If I understood my email conversation—and I had to do my fair share of reading between the lines—then there is a great deal of money involved. Money will lead people to do stupid things, Maggie. A great deal of money just raises the level of stupidity.” He pulled away, and closed both hands over her shoulders. “I want you to stay out of this, do you understand? We will give your book to Tucker, have him hide it away with the others. I don’t want you anywhere near the book, or the people after it.”

  “Martin—ˮ

  “They’ve already shown the lengths they will go to. I will not have you in their path—ˮ

  “I already gave the book to Patrick.” She smiled at him. A pale version of her smile, but a smile. “I came to the same conclusion. If you remember, I did try to give the book back, without success.” She swallowed. “Rich won’t leave me alone, not until he’s sure I don’t have the book.”

  “He will not come near you again, Maggie. I promise. I will mention him when I talk to Ian.”

  “Okay.” She let out a tired sigh. “I don’t want any more to do with this.”

  He gathered her into his arms, relief sweeping through him. If he lost Maggie, he wasn’t certain he would survive it. The thought should have terrified him, but he had never felt so grounded before, so welcomed. She had become his life, his family. His home.

  “Will you stay?”

  She tightened her grip on him. “You don’t ever have to ask, Martin. Thank you, for putting up with my temper.”

  “I’ve been smacked with much worse, love. Dilettantes are rampant in archaeology, and I’ve been sponsored by my share.”

  She eased back, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “If I sponsor you, can I call the shots?”

  “I will gladly take orders from you during the day.” He swept her up and she let out a startled laugh. “As long as I can be the boss at night.”

  “I can pretty much guarantee that will be part of the agreement.”

  He smiled, and carried her into the bedroom.

  The call to Ian Reynolds could wait until morning. With the books safely tucked away, and Reynolds already on alert, there was little the killer could do for now.

  ***

  The alarm jolted them awake.

  Maggie slipped out of bed before Martin could stop her, and snatched up the phone as it rang. She raised her voice, so she could be heard over the alarm.

  “This is Maggie Mulgrew, passcode AntiqueLoverUS. I’m in the flat over the shop.”

  “The local authorities have been alerted, Miss Mulgrew. Please remain where you are.”

  “Thank you.” She hung up, and turned to Martin. He stood right behind her, the heavy iron candlestick from the dresser in his hand. “The alarm should go off—ˮ The shriek cut off, and she stopped shouting over it. “Ian’s on his way. I need to see if there’s any damage. The alarm will have chased off any potential thief.”

  “Fine.” He handed over her robe. “I am going down first.” The look on his face told Maggie not to argue.

  She nodded, and let him lead the way through the flat. Her heart pounded as they headed down the narrow staircase. She had insurance on the shop, but so much of her stock was irreplaceable, and it would take weeks to find new items if anything had been damaged—

  Stop it. Wait until you actually see what set off the alarm.

  She took a deep breath, and watched Martin ease open the door.

  “Go get us shoes, Maggie.”

  “What—” She tried to push past him, and he blocked the doorway. “Martin—”

  “There is broken glass.” He brushed sleep tangled hair off her face, his touch gentle. That told Maggie it must be bad. “Go and get some shoes, love.”

  She bolted up the stairs and grabbed the first pair of Martin’s shoes she saw, taking precious time to shove her feet into her half boots before she ran back down the stairs. Martin took the shoes she thrust at him, and she fought to keep her patience while he took the time to slip them on.

  “Martin—please, I need to see the damage.”

  “Let me go and turn the lights on first. Stay here, Maggie.”

  She sighed, and nodded, knowing he wouldn’t let her take another step until she agreed. After he moved out to the shop, she got her first glimpse, and her heart sank. Even without lights, she could see broken glass, and pieces of what looked like a bookshelf, highlighted by the glow coming in from the street.

  Now she wasn’t all that sure she wanted him to turn on the lights.

  Just as she had the thought, they flickered on. It was worse than she feared.

  Pieces of what had once been lovely decorative items were scattered across the wood floor, and the area rugs. The gouges in her floor told her that they had been thrown there, with the petulant rage of a child having a temper tantrum.

  She found the same damage in the main part of the shop—only here, some of the smaller furniture pieces had been thrown, along with decorative pieces. Her stock insurance wouldn’t even begin to cover the full cost of replacement.

  “I am so sorry, Maggie.” Martin stood next to the mahogany counter, and she flinched, expecting to find chunks taken out of the gorgeous wood. But it was intact; whoever violated her shop reserved their fury for the floor. “Do you have an inventory?”

  “I—yes.” She picked her way through the mess. The fact that they had heard nothing upstairs told her just how good the soundproofing was that she had paid through the nose to have installed. “I’ll get it.”

  She was too numb to be angry yet, or cry—she wasn’t sure which emotion would happen first, but she was glad Martin would be here when that happened. Her inventory was in the back room, and part of her was afraid to go back there. She had even more stock, and a cement floor that would cause maximum damage.

  With a deep breath, she stepped through the doorway—and clapped one hand over her mouth.

  A body was sprawled in the middle of the floor.

  “Maggie?” Martin touched her shoulder, and his grip tightened. “Stay here.”

  He moved past her, careful to avoid the blood around the body, and leaned over to check for a pulse. She already knew the intruder was dead; a silver letter opened stuck out of his chest. Whoever it was wore a hood, so identification would have to wait until Ian—

  Pounding on the back door announced his arrival.

  Martin skirted the body, and headed for the back door, unlocking the heavy deadbolt. Ian stood in the alley, wearing civilian clothes, his hair tousled.

  “I heard you had a break in.” He sighed after Martin moved aside, revealing the body. “That is more than a break in.” He stepped inside and crouche
d next to the sprawled figure. “I thought moving to a village would mean more petty crimes, and less murder. I should have known better, with a name like Holmestead.”

  Maggie watched him visually examine the body, finally pulling on gloves to remove the hood. All of them reacted when he revealed the victim.

  It was Rich Danner.

  ***

  Fingerprint analysis proved that Rich had caused all the damage in the shop.

  Maggie knew why, and what he hadn’t found. She wasn’t sure she wanted to tell Ian yet. It was her idea to spread the word about the books, but that was when she thought Rich had been behind Arthur’s death.

  Now, with him dead, she had lost the suspect topping her list. Especially after Ian had informed her that the bruises on Rich’s face were caused by a fist.

  Theodore was next on her list, but the Cragmoor family had been part of this county’s history for hundreds of years. Anyone with even a slight tie would be a suspect—especially if the inheritance was part of the family lore.

  By the time Ian and his team finished, the sun was coming up. Maggie sat in a chair near the front door of the shop, staring out the window. She would have to phone Spencer, tell him not to come in early. They wouldn’t be opening today. Or for a while.

  Aside from being a crime scene, her shop was a complete disaster. Not only would she have to replenish stock, she would also need to bring in someone to repair and refinish the floors. She could ask Henry Manning for his help. Their local handyman had mostly recovered his business after being a suspect in Angus Fitch’s murder, but she knew he could always use more work.

  She felt a presence behind her, and knew it was Martin before he laid his hand on her shoulder.

  “All right, love?”

  She let out a sigh, and leaned back, until her head rested against him. “I will be. I’m just glad no one else was hurt.”

  She had done more than one late night inventory here, alone, or spent long hours rearranging a section of the shop. She could have been down here—or Martin, scouting for a book to read from her small customer library, grabbing some water from the back room fridge. The one in the flat was so small, she knew he raided the one downstairs on a regular basis.