Written on the Wind

by Cate Dean

  She cursed under her breath, swearing to cause damage to whoever had done this, and moved to the bed.

  Martin opened his eyes. “Maggie,” he whispered. He sounded drugged, which was a good thing. His leg must hurt like the devil. “You did not need—”

  “Stop right there.” She braced her hands on the bed rail and leaned over it. “When it comes to you, I will always need.”

  He swallowed. “Thank you.”

  She freed one hand to cradle his cheek. He was a little feverish, but nothing scary. “Get some rest. As soon as you can leave, I’ll take you home.” She wanted to kiss him, but he was already closing his eyes, and he looked beyond exhausted. Instead, she brushed his forehead, not surprised that his skin was damp.

  After a final look, she eased her hand away and walked out of the room, straight into Spencer’s waiting embrace.

  “He’s going to be fine, Mags.”

  “I know,” she whispered. She held on to him for another minute, and let out a sigh before she let go. “Thank you, for taking care of him. What were you doing out so late?”

  To her surprise, he blushed. “I was, um, on a date.”

  “Spencer—I’m thrilled for you. Do I know her?”

  “I don’t want to say, until, you know.”

  “It works out or crashes and burns?”

  He laughed. “You do have a way with words, Maggie Mulgrew. But, yeah—I’d like to give it a bit more time before I share.”

  “Did Martin tell you why he was out? I expected him to be in the other bedroom, asleep. He was up late, doing some last minute planning for the estate sale assault, and didn’t want to disturb me.”

  “He didn’t say. Mags,” his quiet voice warned her. “He was coming from the direction of the police station. It’s the only other place open on the high street this time of night.”

  She closed her eyes, and leaned her head against Spencer’s shoulder. Martin worried about her, she knew that, but she hated when anyone tried to take care of her, without asking her if she wanted to be taken care of.

  After rubbing her back for a few minutes, Spencer led her over to the line of chairs in the waiting area, and sat next to her, taking her hand.

  She started talking before he could defend Martin. “You don’t need to try and explain things for him. I have a feeling I know already. I’m just glad you showed up when you did.” She asked the question that had been clawing at her since Spencer first called. “Did you see who attacked him?”

  Spencer lowered his voice so only Maggie could hear. “Martin said he thought it was Theodore Moody. But he couldn’t say yes, not absolutely, that it was him.” Disappointment threatened to crush her. “The coward wore a hood, and bolted the second he saw me. Your professor is so tall, I couldn’t gauge their height.” He smiled as he said it, but the smile was forced. “He would have been worse off if I had not been there. His attacker was moving in on him, with another blade.”

  The weapon had been a letter opener, which seemed to be a theme with these crimes. From what Spencer saw, a second letter opener had been about to come into play. Or a knife. Maggie shuddered, and Spencer draped his arm across her shoulders. She hated that Martin had been hurt at all, but it could have been so much worse.

  She just started to doze when the nurse came out to tell them that Martin could be released. Spencer squeezed her shoulders before he stood.

  “I’ll fetch my van. The old man will need a ride.”

  “Thanks.”

  When she turned back toward the waiting area, the nurse was pushing Martin out in a wheelchair, his injured leg stretched out. “Here we are,” she said. “You have a way to take him home?”

  “My friend is bringing his van around.”

  “Excellent.” She took Martin’s pulse, and checked his forehead as she continued. “He has some painkillers in his goody bag, along with some ointment and a few rolls of bandage to get you started. His bandages need to be changed twice a day, and the doctor would like to see him back here in a week. Sooner if there is any sign of infection, or the stitches tear.” She moved to a supply closet, and returned with a pair of crutches. “He is to use the crutches at all times, and keep the weight off his leg.”

  “I’ll make sure he does. Thank you.” Maggie took the plastic handle bag, and the crutches, then looked at Martin. “Did you want to wait outside?”

  “If I am free to go, yes.” He glanced at the nurse, and she nodded, giving Maggie control of the wheelchair before she headed back to the counter. Maggie juggled the crutches, and managed to free her hands enough to push him outside. “Thank you for coming to get me, Maggie.”

  “I already told you that I will, always. Did you see your attacker?”

  He shook his head. “I was too busy dodging the bloody letter opener.”

  “So you saw it. And the second one?” Her heart pounded when she asked.

  “It was also a letter opener. Maggie—I was meeting with Ian Reynolds, about the break in, and Rich’s murder.”

  “I know.” He blinked at her, obviously surprised. “We’re going to talk about that, after you get some rest. Here comes Spencer.”

  His arrival kept her from saying more, but she had much more to say. It was time that Professor Pembroke Martin learned that she could take care of herself.

  ***

  Martin used the crutches to make his way out of the bedroom, not surprised that he had slept through a good part of the day. Late afternoon sun streaked the wood floors, lending warmth to what could have been a cold, forbidding Victorian. He had a feeling it was when Irene Mulgrew had reigned.

  But Maggie’s vibrant personality suffused every room, and Martin enjoyed roaming through the house, finding new treasures. Today, the shelves and tables were all but empty, cleared out for her innovative sale. Her resilience always surprised him, but he knew it shouldn’t, after learning about her upbringing.

  He had a feeling their talk would center around his need to protect her, whether she wanted it or not.

  Maggie was in the large kitchen, stirring a pot of what smelled like chicken soup. She must have heard him, because she turned around, dropping the wooden spoon on the counter before she rushed over to him.

  “Sit.” She paced him while he swung over to the scarred farmhouse table, and helped him sit, leaning the crutches against the wall. It was a guarantee that he wouldn’t be leaving until she was ready for him to go. She poured him a glass of water, and set it next to his hand. “Did you want tea?”

  “That would be perfect, thank you.” He watched her move back to the stove, her bare feet whispering across the worn oak floor. “Is the chicken soup for my benefit?”

  “It was a good excuse to make one of my favorite recipes.” She grinned at him over her shoulder, and he fell deeper.

  Her rich, wild red hair hung loose, cloaking her shoulders and falling down her back. Martin had always loved her hair, and how little she did to tame it. Like Maggie, it was vibrant, and alive.

  She brought a porcelain teapot over to the table, along with two matching cups, pouring his tea for him. He touched her hand after she set his cup on the table.

  “Maggie, I want you to know that I don’t think you are unable to take care of yourself. Ian Reynolds had questions, and I knew I could answer them. I simply—”

  “Wanted to make things easier for me.” With a sigh, she lowered herself to the chair next to his. He considered that a good sign; if she was angry, she would have put the table between them. “I get that. But I spent my life with parents who wanted to make things easier for me. It was for things I didn’t want, but I still resented them poking their noses into every part of my life.”

  “I did not—”

  “Martin.” She cradled his cheek, and he closed his eyes briefly. How could this woman affect him so much? Every day he spent with her, she became more important to him. “I understand why you did it, and I thank you for taking that off my shoulders. Just ask next time, okay?”

 
“Okay.”

  She smiled, and kissed him. “Okay, Professor. Hungry?” His stomach grumbled, answering for him. “I’ll take that as a yes. One bowl of chicken soup, with fresh baked bread, coming up.”

  This time his stomach growled, and her laughter echoed through the kitchen.

  Martin never wanted to leave.

  Fifteen

  A day of combing out-of-the-way junk shops and estate sales renewed Maggie.

  She was exhausted at the end of it, but she had enough stock to replenish a good portion of her shop, and boxes of decorative items she scored in a last minute stop at a sale that was in the process of closing, and desperate to get rid of things. They would be perfect for her next sidewalk sale.

  Spencer sat in the driver’s seat of the Rover, one hand on the steering wheel, the other arm draped over the open window. He was relaxed, because he was driving, and not her. That had been the deal, and she was happy to agree. It gave her time to study the countryside she was usually too busy to see, being focused on staying on the opposite side of the road. The correct side, Spencer would say.

  Martin lounged in the back seat, on the part that wasn’t filled with purchases, his injured leg stretched out. He had spent most of the day in the car, venturing out when the ground was flat, or the destination close. Maggie could tell by his face that he was in pain again.

  Time to go home.

  Spencer glanced over at her. “Did you want to stop for supper, or do takeaway?”

  “Takeaway.” She lowered her voice, knowing the wind pouring in the window would help cover her next words. “Martin needs to rest.”

  “Martin is fine.” Martin leaned forward, flinching when his leg shifted. “All right, not fine, but perfectly able to sit up and eat. I would enjoy a meal out, if you are not tired.”

  “If you’re up for it, old man,” Spencer grinned at him in the rearview mirror, “I have the perfect spot.”

  Maggie punched his arm. “Spence—ˮ

  Martin smiled back at Spencer, a challenge in his voice. “The old man is up for it.”

  It took all of Maggie’s control not to roll her eyes. Men and their constant need to compete. She let them banter back and forth, and enjoyed the view out her window.

  The sun was setting when Spencer pulled into the small parking lot next to a thatched roof pub Maggie had driven past at least a dozen times, wanting to stop, but never having time.

  “You mentioned this place,” Spencer said. “A few times.”

  “It’s the perfect end to the day.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for remembering.”

  “That is what best friends do.” The faint blush on his cheeks told her he was pleased, and a little embarrassed. “Come on, old man.” Spencer climbed out of the Rover and moved to the back door. “Let’s get you up and out.”

  There were no steps up to the age darkened oak door. Spencer held it open for both of them, then made his way through the tables to the bar, pointing at her and Martin as he talked to the man behind the bar.

  “I hardly need special attention,” Martin muttered.

  “Spence wants to do it for you.”

  “For you, Maggie.”

  She rubbed his arm and smiled up at him. “Spencer only gives nicknames to people he really likes.”

  “I am not that much older.”

  Maggie moved to face him, and stood on tiptoe, using the wall next to her for balance. “I know that, Professor.” She smiled as she kissed him, not caring who saw them.

  When she pulled away, he looked a little dazed. “You are a constant surprise, Miss Mulgrew.”

  “I hope so.”

  Spencer joined them, his grin telling Maggie he’d seen the kiss. “There’s a table in the back. Private enough for us to talk about—things, and easy for you to get to.”

  He led the way to a rectangular table, tucked in the back corner, and close to the toilets, just in case. Martin lowered himself to the chair next to the wall and stretched out his leg. Maggie sat next to him, and Spencer took the chair opposite her, giving Martin’s leg plenty of room.

  Spencer wrote down their orders and went back to the bar to place them. Maggie took the opportunity to look around, and take in the atmosphere.

  The black oak beams, the scarred and creaky plank floor, and the wood paneled walls gave the pub a cozy feel. All the tables and chairs were of the same heavy oak, and the brick fireplace in the middle of the pub created a homey warmth that Maggie appreciated. Even in summer, the wind off the Channel could be crisp.

  Spencer came back with their drinks, sat in his chair, and leaned forward. “I have my theories, but I want to hear yours. It’s time to spill Mags, because I know you have a list of potential suspects.”

  She sighed. “Rich topped that list, until I found him in my back room. Martin,” she turned to him, and he studied her, like he knew what she was about to ask. “Do you really think it was Theodore who attacked you?”

  “I couldn’t swear to it, Maggie, but yes, I think it was him. Even if I had not heard his voice, I would have known my attacker was a man. A woman would not have had the strength to drive a letter opener into my leg.”

  He said it without flinching, but Maggie flinched for him.

  “I thought the same,” Spencer said. “When I was running at you. Shoulders were too broad for a woman, and he ran differently. Like an athlete—long strides.”

  “That narrows it down, a little,” Maggie said. She propped her head in her hand, and studied Spencer. “How many athletes do you know in Holmestead who might be related to Arthur Cragmoor?”

  He frowned at her. “Why would they have to be related?”

  She realized that she’d never shared Patrick’s information with Spencer. So much had happened the last few days, and it got buried. After a quick summary, Spencer took a sip of his Guinness, leaned back in his chair, and studied her.

  “That changes the game, Maggie. And it includes you now.”

  Shock left her speechless for a minute. “Why?” she whispered.

  “Irene never told you, but she was married to Arthur Cragmoor.”

  ***

  Maggie felt numb through the meal, and barely tasted any of what was probably a delicious bowl of vegetable soup.

  Aunt Irene, married to that man. Oh, Maggie knew she had been married once, but Aunt Irene had always called it the biggest mistake of her youth. As a kid, Maggie didn’t understand, but she did now, especially after meeting the old man.

  Arthur might have been different when Aunt Irene met him, or charmed her into marrying him. Either way, Maggie had just become part of the equation—and someone else may know of her connection to Arthur, however slim. It would explain the violence in her shop. Not finding the book should have angered Rich, but the rage involved in vandalizing her shop so thoroughly told Maggie that Rich must have known, and was taking it out on her belongings.

  Whoever killed him was probably eliminating the competition—and she didn’t believe for one second that killer was Patrick Tucker. Anyone could have taken his letter openers, while he was unconscious, after the first murder.

  It was time to start doing a little genealogy research.

  “—with us, Mags?” Spencer’s voice snapped her head up. “I know that look. You have an idea.”

  “I do.” She turned to Martin. “How good are you at genealogy?”

  Sixteen

  Maggie headed back to her shop, after spending a much-needed hour relaxing at the café down at the bottom of the high street.

  Ian had finally given the shop back to her, after clearing it as a crime scene.

  Patrick Tucker had been released, even with the alibi Ian told her had been shaky, at best. According to his autopsy, Rich had fought his killer. Patrick didn’t have a scratch on him, never mind that he wouldn’t be able to overpower someone as strong as Rich.

  Maggie was glad he had been cleared, and made a mental note to visit him. The bookshop had opened yesterday for the fi
rst time since Arthur’s murder, and it finally felt like the village was starting to get back to something resembling normal.

  She had spent the afternoon cleaning—not only the vandalism, but what was left by those gathering evidence. Once she was happy with the cleanup, she started making lists. A list of damaged items, for insurance purposes, and a list of what else she needed to replace those items. Her shopping trip had put a good-sized dent in the list. By the time she stopped for a break, she was happy with her progress.

  It would take less time than she thought to get The Ash Leaf up and running again—and with the success of her sidewalk sales, she had the funds to keep replenishing her lost merchandise. Stock insurance would give her even more, once her claim processed.

  For the first time since her shop was vandalized, she felt good.

  The walk back to the shop left her invigorated, and she headed around to the back door, pulled out her keys, ready to tackle the inventory back there...

  Her mind stalled when she saw that the lock on the door was broken.

  She stepped back, her heart pounding, and reached for her mobile. The anguished moan halted her.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  She pulled the screwdriver from the shop out of her bag. It wasn’t balanced, and would be a tough throw if it came to that, but at least she had something pointy that she could use to threaten whoever might have broken in.

  Moving slowly, and as quietly as she could, she eased the door open. Light from the small lamp next to the door slipped over the hunched figure.

  Maggie glanced around before she crouched next to her unexpected guest. Up close, she saw the wild grey hair, and the broken thick-lensed glasses next to long, graceful fingers curled in a shaking fist.

  “Patrick—” She moved the screwdriver to her left hand, and gently turned Patrick over, gasping when she saw the blood soaking his waistcoat. “Where are you hurt?”

  “It does not matter,” he whispered. “You must—go. Maggie, she will hurt you—” He let out a raw cry and pressed one hand to his left side, just under his ribs.