by Cate Dean
“Ian will be taking Rich out soon, but he wanted me to tell you that he needs photos of the shop before you do any clean up.”
“Okay.” She closed her eyes, and the tears she’d been able to control all night finally threatened. “I need to call Spencer,” she whispered.
“I can do it for you.”
“No.” She pushed to her feet, achy and beyond exhausted. “Thank you, but he needs to hear it from me. If you call, he’ll think that I was hurt. I don’t want him to go through that.” Not again.
“I will leave you to it, then.”
“I never said you couldn’t be here when I called. In fact, I’d prefer not to be alone right now.” And the tears leaked into her voice now. Fantastic. She’d be crying all over him in a second.
“I am right here.” He held out his mobile. “Whatever you need, love, I am right here.” She squeezed his hand, her gaze moving past him, to what was left of her shop. Her heart wanted to break all over again.
Instead, she accepted his mobile, sat again, and tapped in Spencer’s number. He wouldn’t be awake yet, but she couldn’t wait; she didn’t want him to hear about the break in from someone else.
“What?” he mumbled, sounding like he was half asleep.
“Spence, it’s Maggie. I’m sorry to call so early.”
“What’s wrong?” Now he sounded awake. “Mags—are you all right?”
“Fine. I’m fine, anyway. The shop, not so much. There was a break in.”
She gave him a quick summary, and heard him curse under his breath through the whole thing. “I’m on my way.”
“Spence, you don’t need—”
“I do need, Maggie. You’re my best friend, I love you, and I’m worried about you. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
He hung up before she could protest again.
“Spencer is on his way?” Martin’s voice brought her head up, and she realized that he looked blurry. “It’s all right, love.” He pulled her to her feet and gathered her in his arms. “Let go of some of that emotion.”
“What happened to the stiff upper lip?”
“I gave it up when I fell for my Yank.”
She let out a choked laugh, then let the tears come.
Twelve
Ian wouldn’t let Maggie touch anything in the shop, and she had to agree—there might be evidence. By eight a.m., everyone in the village knew about the murder, and had been not so inconspicuous as they walked past The Ash Leaf. Repeatedly.
Spencer had taken over out front, keeping anyone who thought they could get a closer look from strolling up to the front window. Maggie had to keep biting back a smile—he was using her broom to chase off lookie loos.
She sat just inside, in the same chair, Martin standing next to her. Ian had sent one of his PCs up to grab some clothes for her and Martin, so they could at least face the day decently dressed. The fact that they were wearing what they wore yesterday—since the PC picked up the first clothes he saw—was bound to send even more gossip through the mill.
Ian distracted her from her thoughts when he walked over to her, careful to avoid the markers left by the crime unit.
“I don’t have any questions for you, Maggie, but I would like you to stay available.”
“Of course.”
Ian turned to Martin. “Both of you.”
Martin nodded. “Will I have to find another home?”
“Afraid so. Just until we clear the scene.”
“Don’t worry,” Maggie said. “You can stay at my house. Plenty of room, and I have an in with the owner.” She smiled up at him, knowing it looked forced. But her offer was genuine. She’d be perfectly happy if Martin stayed. For good.
“Thank you, Maggie. I will only impose as long as necessary.”
Ian waved to one of the PCs. “Take Professor Martin upstairs, so he can collect some of his things. There aren’t restrictions up there.”
The PC nodded, and led Martin through the shop, taking a twisting route that finally led to the hidden staircase. Once they were out of earshot, she sighed, and let her smile fade.
“How bad, Ian?”
“I like you, Maggie. You do get straight to the point.” He scrubbed his face, and she knew he had to be as exhausted as she felt. “Two days, for them to gather evidence. Then I want a day to go over the shop myself. I understand this takes away from your livelihood, but I can’t rush this.”
“I understand.” She stood when Spencer knocked on the window. That was the signal that the tour buses had arrived. “I just hope my potential customers will be as understanding.”
Ian patted her on the shoulder and escaped. She didn’t blame him—tourists often had one chance in villages like this, and not being able to shop where they were promised could have long-term consequences for Maggie. Unless...
She ran out of the shop and stopped Spencer mid pace. “Can you take your van and go over to my house? I want you to gather up anything you think might sell, and bring it back here. I’ll send Martin with the Rover to help you.”
“What are you scheming up in that busy mind, Mags?”
She smiled—a real smile this time. “The sidewalk sale to end all sidewalk sales.”
He burst out laughing, then handed her the broom. “I will fly like the wind.”
He sprinted up the high street, and Maggie watched him for a couple of seconds, before she turned toward The Tea Caddy.
She had a huge favor to ask.
***
It took a sweaty, fast-paced hour, but Maggie turned the cobbled pedestrian street in front of her shop into an outdoor version of The Ash Leaf.
Most of the antiques at home had been marked for the shop, eventually, and the few items she never planned to sell were safely tucked inside her Rover, which Ian had allowed her to park in front of the shop.
It did double duty—blocking the window from any nosy passersby, and gave her a portable point of sale.
The tourists loved it.
Lilliana Green had loaned Maggie two banquet tables from The Tea Caddy, along with her waitress, Shelly. The woman’s bubbly personality and Kool Aid red hair charmed the customers. Since Maggie didn’t have time to price anything, she set up a “pay what you think it’s worth” pricing, and it made for some hilarious bargaining.
Martin joined in after he came back in Spencer’s van with another load. Maggie was happy for the extra help; word had gotten out about her sidewalk sale, and locals were showing up from miles around.
She knew part of it was due to the murder, but she appreciated the support. They may have come for curiosity, but they spent money while they were here—not only with her, but at The Tea Caddy, and other merchants on the high street.
Some of those merchants joined her, pulling out tables, and setting up merchandise or food to appeal to the growing crowds. Even Enid was selling her more tacky wares, surprisingly funny as she hawked her Holmes souvenirs.
The only place nearby that didn’t join in was Green Goddess—instead, they had closed, claiming on the handwritten sign that the owners had left town due to an emergency.
That looked like guilty to Maggie.
She couldn’t get the argument between Rich and Stasia Moody out of her mind. At some point, she needed to tell Ian about it. Just in case. Right now, she could hardly keep up with the purchases.
The tour buses finally rolled out of the village, and the locals started moving on to other parts of the high street. Maggie lowered herself to one of the only chairs she didn’t sell, and let out a tired sigh. Spencer stretched out on the sidewalk, on top of the now empty blanket that had held unbreakable merchandise.
“That was crazy, Mags. Crazy and brilliant.” He flashed her a smile before he closed his eyes and let his head fall back to the small lap pillow. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“The mall where I grew up did them every summer. I loved going from table to table, seeing what was on sale.”
Martin sat on the sidewalk next to her,
his legs propped on a footstool. “It was a genius idea, Maggie. The tourists could not get enough of the bargaining aspect. You gave them an experience they will talk about for years.”
She smiled down at him, then at Spencer. Her smile faded when she thought about the reason for this. Whoever had trashed her shop obviously expected her to give up, maybe run away. They didn’t know her at all.
“I’ll have enough to hit some estate sales tomorrow, if you come with me, Spence.”
“I can do that.”
There were no tour buses tomorrow, and her profits from today were pure profit, since she had pretty much sold her belongings to strangers.
“I would like to tag along,” Martin said.
She looked down at him, surprised. “You would? I didn’t think—”
“I used to go to boot sales, much to my father’s embarrassment. I was always looking for a hidden treasure.”
“A treasure hunt. That always appealed to you, didn’t it?”
He smiled, and took her hand. “Guilty.”
“I’d love to have both of you along. We can divide and conquer.”
Spencer laughed. “That sounds like something Irene would say.”
“It does.” Maggie knew she’d been influenced by her aunt over the years, much more than her cold, demanding parents. “I’ll happily take the comparison.”
“Who’s starving?” Spencer pushed to his feet. “I will fetch, if someone else buys.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Maggie and she laughed.
“Take some money, and bring back plenty. You’re not the only one who missed lunch.”
She watched him pull a couple of notes out of the strong box she had used as a cash register. He winked at her before he took off down the high street.
Whoever had wanted to break her had definitely failed.
Thirteen
Martin headed downstairs, moving quietly so he would not wake Maggie. She had already lost too much sleep recently.
He had arranged to meet Ian Reynolds at the police station, to discuss his findings. It was a conversation he wanted to have out of Maggie’s hearing. She was dealing with enough heartache, after the damage to her shop.
Ian waited for him in the tiny waiting area, a place that still brought back unpleasant memories. This time, Martin was welcomed as a visitor, instead of a murder suspect.
“Professor.” He waved at a familiar windowless room. “If it doesn’t make you uncomfortable, we can talk in the interrogation room.”
“I have no issues with that.”
Ian nodded, and led the way past the high front counter, to the room where Drew had once accused him of murder, sneering as he did so. Martin understood now—Drew had already known that Martin was innocent, since he had been conspiring with the killer.
They sat at a new table, in chairs that proved to be much more comfortable than the old set.
“I wrestled funds to replace a few things,” Ian said. “I claimed internal staff trauma, and played on the guilt factor, since a man they had recommended turned out to be a murderer. All right.” He opened the thick file folder, and turned it to face Martin. “There were several fingerprints on most of the damaged items, which was expected, since it’s a public shop. But Rich Danner’s prints were also on every piece, and since he most likely didn’t shop regularly at The Ash Leaf, I’m going to draw the conclusion that he is behind the vandalism.”
“Before he was killed.” Martin looked at the photos, anger for Maggie’s loss threatening again. He pushed it down, kept his voice calm. “Any thoughts on who?”
Ian sighed. “The letter opener traced back to Patrick Tucker.”
“What?” Martin had not been expecting that. “Are you certain?”
“I wish I wasn’t, Professor. But Tucker’s prints were all over it, and he recognized it when a photo was shown to him. I have him in a holding cell, until his alibi can be confirmed. You saw no one, when you entered the shop?”
Martin shook his head, and ran one hand through his hair. “I guessed that Rich knew how to bypass the alarm. Whoever stabbed him had no idea about the alarm, and set it off when they left.”
“My thoughts as well. Your reaction tells me you didn’t suspect Tucker. Any ideas?”
Martin had several, but he did not want to point fingers. Not until he was certain.
“Not at the moment, but as soon as I do, I will get back to you.”
“The trouble with villages is that people live in each other’s pockets. Sometimes you miss what is directly in front of you.” Ian let out another sigh, looking as exhausted and frustrated as Martin felt. “I will be heading up to London in the morning—just for the day. I have evidence I cannot process here as quickly as I’d like. If you need anything at all, ring me. And please give Maggie my best. She has suffered from this.”
“What about Tucker?”
“He will be free as soon as I hear from the other party he said he was with last night. According to him, they are on their way back to Stratford, and turn their phones off while they are traveling. My receptionist is trying the number every fifteen minutes. I will not railroad him, Professor.”
“I never—sorry.” Martin took off his glasses, and rubbed his gritty eyes. “I trust you, Ian, unlike your predecessor. It’s a difficult time, and I want to be certain Tucker is not forgotten.”
“He won’t be.” Ian stood and held out his hand. “You have my word.”
Martin slipped on his glasses and shook Ian’s hand. “Thank you. I’d best get back, before Maggie finds me gone.”
A tired smile crossed Ian’s face. “She is quite a remarkable woman.”
“Yes, she is.”
“If she happens to be awake, tell her I will have answers for her soon. What we spoke about is confidential, for now.”
“Of course. Thank you, again, for taking the time.”
Martin left the station and headed back to Maggie’s house. He could find his way blindfolded, which was fortunate, since his mind was more than a little fuzzy from lack of sleep.
It explained why he didn’t hear his attacker until they struck.
The force slammed into his back, threw him at the sharp corner of the stone building. He managed to turn, and hit the side of the building with his left shoulder instead of his face. The jolt of pain shot adrenaline through him.
He pushed off the wall and faced his attacker. They were dressed in head to toe black, blending in with the deep shadows, and wearing a hood. Light from the single lamp post flashed off what looked like a knife—and Martin registered what it was.
A letter opener. A sharp letter opener.
The figure lunged forward, swinging the weapon. Martin leapt backward, and the blade missed him by inches. He kicked out while his attacker was unstable. His foot connected with the attacker’s left arm, and they let out a low cry. A low, masculine cry.
“I will know it is you, Theodore, when you have a difficult time moving your left arm tomorrow.” Martin hoped that naming his attacker, even if he was wrong, would throw the man off.
“You should stay out of what isn’t your concern, Professor.” The voice was muffled, so Martin couldn’t positively identify it. But it was male, and he knew he’d left a nasty bruise. “Now you’re about to pay for your snooping.”
He lunged at Martin, the letter opener arcing down. Martin dodged—and moved straight into his attacker’s trap.
The man twisted his arm and drove the silver blade into Martin’s right thigh.
Pain roared through his leg. He hit the pavement as his leg buckled, and forced himself to push up, aware of his attacker moving again. He would not give the bastard his back as a target—
“Hey!” The shout had his attacker retreating, and he spotted the second blade. It had been headed for him. Martin recognized his rescuer—it was Spencer, visible as he passed under one of the decorative street lamps. “Martin—stay still.” Spencer crouched next to him, pulled off the scarf he wore and tied it around Martin’s leg, above
the letter opener.
Martin cursed under his breath, his leg throbbing. “Spencer—”
“Sorry. I need to stop the bleeding. Did you see your attacker?”
“He wore a hood.” Martin swallowed. “I think it was Theodore Moody, but I won’t—swear to it.”
“Okay.” Spencer helped him sit. “I’m taking you to the clinic. No argument—Maggie would skin me alive if I did anything else.”
He had a point.
Spencer was careful, but every movement still drove fresh pain into Martin’s thigh. By the time the clinic came into view, Martin’s leg refused to work at all.
The clinic had a skeleton staff at night, and stayed open twenty four hours. Since there was no hospital nearby, they took care of local emergencies, sending the patient off once they had been stabilized.
Spencer half-carried Martin inside, his leg on fire now. The nurse on duty rushed around the counter, fetching a wheelchair on her way over to them.
“Please help him down,” she said. Spencer carefully lowered him to the wheelchair, and she took over, easing his leg up to one of the foot rests. He wanted to scream as the letter opener shifted. “I have you, Professor Martin.” She smiled at his startled look. “You are something of a local celebrity, after what happened with our former police constable. Let’s get you to a bed, and I will fetch the doctor.”
Martin glanced over his shoulder, wanting to tell Spencer not to call Maggie. He was too late; Spencer was already on his mobile, and from the intensity on his face, Martin knew he was giving Maggie the news.
Perhaps it was better that she knew, sooner rather than later. Explaining his reason for being out and about so late was another dilemma. One he would deal with when he had no other choice.
Fourteen
By the time Maggie got to the clinic, Martin had already been treated.
He lay in the narrow bed, his face pale. A thick bulge was visible under the thin blanket, on his right thigh. The doctor had informed Maggie that if the weapon had penetrated an inch over, he would have bled out.
