by Cate Dean
That pinpointed his wound. Maggie set down the screwdriver, took off her scarf, and pressed it to the slit she could see now in his tweed waistcoat. One of the letter openers from her desk was on the floor, and Maggie understood.
It was her turn to be framed.
There was no blood on the letter opener yet, which told her that Patrick’s attacker was still here somewhere. Without blood, Maggie wouldn’t be implicated.
She also saw the green pen, next to Patrick’s hand. Her heart threatened to pound out of her chest.
“Hold still,” she whispered, slipping her mobile out of her bag. “I’m going to phone—”
“Put your mobile down, Maggie.” The familiar, angry voice froze Maggie. She lifted her head, not surprised when she saw who stepped out of the shadows created by the shelves.
Stasia Moody.
Seventeen
Exhausted, Martin made his way along the high street, hampered by his crutches.
Three days was not enough time for his leg to heal, and he did not expect it to be, but at least it should have healed enough to put some weight on it. Not the case.
It had been his idea to make his own way to the small, but well-stocked library next to the museum. He found nothing that he did not already know, so he thanked the patient librarian and limped out of the building. He thought he would be able to maneuver back up the sloping high street with no issues, and he was learning, painfully, that he was not quite up to the challenge yet.
He was about to stop and ring Maggie when a familiar figure waved at him.
“Hi, Professor!” It was Shelly, the bouncy waitress from The Tea Caddy. She ran over to him from the other side of the pedestrian street. “Are you okay? You look a little wrung out.”
“I am, actually. I believe I should sit.”
Shelly already had her arm around him before he finished, helping him over to one of the benches that lined the high street. This one sat under a tree, and the cool shade was welcome.
“Stay right there, Professor. I’m getting you something to drink.” She jogged over to the newsagent, chatting up the young man as she bought a bottle of water. By the time she returned, Martin was more than ready for the cold water. “Drink it slow, now. You look a little overheated, and I don’t want you getting sick.”
“Are you a health professional?”
She blushed, but gave him a smile. “I was a dance instructor in the US. I know overexertion when I see it. Relax, sip that water, and you’ll be good as new in no time.”
“Thank you, Shelly.”
“Glad I could help.”
Martin took another sip, studying her. He knew, from Lilliana, that Shelly was a social person, and most likely heard more than she thought. It was worth a try.
“Shelly, would you mind if I asked you a question?”
“Not at all.” She smiled at him, and he found her company appealing. She was so enthusiastic it made him feel older than his years, but he had always felt that way, even as a student. “Ask away.”
“Have you heard anything about the Cragmoors?”
Her smile faded. “Yeah. Poor Arthur. He came into The Tea Caddy at least twice a week, for Lilliana’s blueberry scones. I could tell he was a private person, but I like to chat, so I tried every time he came in. After a few visits, he started talking back. I felt sorry for him, with his money-grubbing relatives.”
Martin sat up. “Did he happen to mention any of his relatives?”
“You don’t know?” She pointed past him, and Martin turned his head to see what she pointed at. When he realized where he sat on the high street—and what he sat across from—he was grateful for the bench under him. Green Goddess stood on the other side of the street. “Stasia Moody is Arthur’s niece.”
Stasia did not attack him—but he knew, from Gina’s idle chatter, that Theodore had been a polo player at university.
“Help me up.”
“Professor?”
“I need to get back to—” Maggie. He needed to get to Maggie.
“Tell me where,” Shelly said, helping him to his feet. “I’m going with you.”
He looked at her. “There is no need—”
“We can stand here and waste time arguing, or you can point the way, Professor.” She crossed her arms. “Your choice.”
Martin knew better than to argue with a woman once her mind was made up.
“The Ash Leaf,” he said. “Take me to The Ash Leaf.”
Eighteen
Stasia waved the knife in her hand.
“Put the mobile down, Maggie, or I will finish the old man.”
“I’m setting it down.” Maggie kept her voice calm, her movements slow. Stasia looked even more frantic than she had the last time Maggie saw her. The knife in Stasia’s hand was already bloody, and Maggie didn’t want to add more—either hers or Patrick’s. “Tell me what you want, Stasia.”
“The book!” Her furious shout bounced off the walls. “I know you have it. That superstitious fool tried to get rid of it by burying it in the bottom of a box of trash for the church sale.” She raised the knife. “The money belongs to me! Do you understand? It is mine!”
Maggie stilled, waiting for Stasia to rush her. Part of her knife throwing education involved evading knives, but she always remembered her instructor’s most popular words of wisdom—you work with knives, you’re going to get cut.
Stasia did rush Maggie, but instead of stabbing out with the knife, she grabbed Maggie’s arm, yanking her to her feet. “Get the book. Now.”
“I don’t have it.” She let out a gasp when Stasia dug her fingers in. “I gave it to Patrick, after he told me the story behind the books. I didn’t want it near me.”
“You’re lying.” Stasia slammed her against the wall. Maggie flinched—at the impact, and the sound of breaking glass when the photo of Aunt Irene jumped off the wall and hit the floor. “You know about the inheritance, and you want it for yourself.”
Maggie stared up at the woman. “I don’t have a horse in this race, Stasia.”
“You top the list!” Stasia pressed the knife to Maggie’s throat, and for a terrified second, Maggie thought she might use it. But Stasia let her go and paced, muttering. “Why the crazy old man chose you is beyond my understanding. A Yank, with a questionable tie to the family.”
Things were starting to make sense.
“Why did Theodore sell your books?” Maggie blurted out the question. It halted Stasia’s frantic pacing.
“Theo knew how important they were, the short-sighted idiot. He thought he was helping, trying to save the bloody café—and he went and sold my books to the last person I wanted to have them. My crazy Uncle Arthur.”
Maggie sucked in her breath, and finally understood Stasia’s obsession. “You’re related to Arthur?”
“Catch up, Maggie. You should know this already—your aunt must have revealed all the juicy details about our dear, departed, wealthy ancestor.”
“She died before she told me.” Though there had been something Aunt Irene wanted to talk to her about, during their next visit. Unfortunately, her aunt had passed away before Maggie finished making plans for that visit. “I had no idea, Stasia.”
For a second, Maggie thought she saw regret in the other woman’s eyes. Anger flared before she could be sure.
“I spent years tracking the first two books down, and I learned a few months ago that Arthur had the other two. But when I sent Rich to that run-down pile of a manor to take back what belongs to me, the old man had already gotten rid of them. It was fate that sent you to the manor at the same time, with one of the books. If you hadn’t been so stubborn, if that narrow-minded fool,” she waved at Patrick, “hadn’t insisted on giving his loyalty to the wrong Cragmoor, I would already have what I needed. I would already be out of this backward, nosy village.”
Maggie played a hunch. “Why did you send Theodore after Martin?”
“To persuade you to give up the book!” She stalked over to Maggi
e. “Theo was supposed to threaten him, not try and impale him. I thought it would scare you into handing the book over to me. Then I could—”
“Break into Patrick’s bookshop again?”
Stasia’s nostrils flared. “I followed Arthur to the bookshop that night, and overheard them talking about their plan to sell the books to a third party—one I wouldn’t be able to track. I had to act before I lost the chance.” She leaned in, and the knife made an appearance, pressing against Maggie’s throat again. “But before I could start searching for the books, you and your bloody noble showed up, poking your noses in where you didn’t belong.”
Maggie froze when Stasia tapped the edge of the knife against the tip of her nose. Her knees threatened to buckle after Stasia let her go and started pacing again.
“You killed Rich, didn’t you?” Maggie whispered.
“He was determined to ruin everything. Spouting off in public about the books was bad enough, but when he tried to find the books behind my back—” Her fingers flexed on the handle of the knife. “It was time for him to learn a lesson. He tried to fight me, and I was forced to defend myself.” She stalked back to Maggie, and pulled up the sleeve of her black hoodie. Ugly scratches marked her forearm. “It was self-defense! Stop judging me—”
“I wasn’t—”
Stasia slapped her, so hard her head smacked the wall.
“Leave her alone.” Patrick’s breathless voice spun Stasia around, and gave Maggie time to recover.
“Stay out of this, old man. If not for you, and your meddling, I would have the books already, and be free of the drudgery of running that ridiculous excuse for a...”
Stasia’s voice faded as Maggie felt a chill brush her skin—right before the ghost slipped through the door between the back room and the shop. Cold air touched her face, and Stasia turned, the fury replaced by fear. She must have felt its presence, but Maggie wasn’t sure the other woman could see her ghost.
My ghost—who shows up when I need help the most.
Not that a ghost could do much.
But if Stasia could see her—that might be enough.
“Stasia.” Maggie braced herself for more violence, but Stasia just glared at her. “Even if I am on some list, I don’t want the money.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Stasia started pacing again, her free hand clenching and unclenching. Maggie knew she was running out of time.
She took advantage, waving at the ghost before she pointed at Stasia. The ghost shook her head, and disappointment threatened to crush Maggie.
She pushed through it. If Stasia couldn’t see the ghost, Maggie would just have to find another distraction. Her gaze landed on the door leading out to the shop.
Keep her talking.
If she could do that, keep moving toward the door, she might be able to escape. She would just have to reach the door to the street and start screaming.
She started inching along the wall, and Stasia halted, obviously catching the movement.
“The money belongs to me,” Stasia said. “I earned it.”
“I have enough of my own money.” Not exactly true, but it sounded good. “And my aunt left me everything, free and clear.”
“The money is mine.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. Now, please, let me get some help for Patrick.” She slid a little more, arm’s length from the door now. “You can go, just let me phone—”
“No calls!” Stasia lunged forward and trapped Maggie against the wall. “I took care of Arthur, even when he did not deserve the care. I earned every pound of that money! You will not take it from me—” She cut herself off, her eyes wide. Maggie knew that look. Stasia could see the ghost. “No—you’re dead, and no longer have any control over my life! I escaped you—I escaped you!”
Maggie dropped to the floor as Stasia attacked the ghost. She crawled over to Patrick, checking to make sure he was still breathing. He opened his eyes, his hand pressing the scarf against his wound.
She touched his hand, before she picked up the screwdriver and pushed to her feet. Stasia was still slashing at the ghost, who ducked every blow, amusement on her face.
“Why won’t you die?” Stasia let out a high-pitched shriek and dove at the ghost. Maggie flinched when she kept going, through the ghost, slamming into the wall behind her. The ghost moved, forcing Stasia to turn, her back to Maggie.
Stasia lunged at the ghost again. “Why won’t you die, Mother, and leave me to live my own life?”
Maggie swallowed, flipped the screwdriver in her hand, and stepped behind Stasia. She braced herself and swung the handle of the screwdriver at the back of Stasia’s head.
The woman lurched forward, then spun. Maggie stumbled back, afraid she hadn’t hit hard enough.
“You—how dare you—” Two steps into her advance, Stasia’s eyes rolled back and she dropped to the floor.
“Maggie!”
Martin’s shout echoed through the shop. The door flew open, and he appeared, one crutch raised like a weapon. He froze when he spotted Stasia, almost at his feet.
“Can you phone Ian for me?” Maggie leaned against the wall, her legs threatening to buckle. “I don’t think I’ll be able to—”
“I’ve got you, love.” He moved faster than she expected, dropping his crutch to catch her around the waist. “Tucker—”
“Here,” Patrick said, his voice distracted. He was staring at the ghost. “Is that—Anthea Cragmoor, as I live and breathe.”
The ghost turned, and curtsied to him. She glided over to Maggie, and raised her hand, brushing it over Maggie’s throbbing cheek. Maggie gasped at the cool tingling.
“Is that who you are?” she whispered. “Anthea?” The ghost nodded, her hands clasped at her waist. “Did you—did you write the note I found?” The ghost nodded again, anger flashing in her blue eyes. She started to look more solid, details becoming clearer. Maggie stared at her right hand, at the ruby ring on her middle finger.
The same ring Maggie had in her jewelry box. It had been part of her inheritance.
Martin must have called Ian while she was talking to the ghost, because he appeared at the open back door, two PCs behind him. Anthea disappeared before he saw her.
Ian pointed to Stasia’s huddled figure. “Take her into custody.” He crouched next to Patrick, and laid one hand on his shoulder. “Aid is right behind me, Mr. Tucker.”
Maggie waited until Stasia had been led out before she moved to Patrick. “I can stay with him, Ian.”
“You all right, Maggie?” The concern in his voice threatened to break her shaky calm, but she nodded. She needed to be occupied, so she didn’t think about how close she and Patrick had come to being the next victims. “I want you checked out, as well. No argument.”
“She will come along quietly,” Martin said. Normally, she wouldn’t have let him get away with talking for her, but right now, she was happy to let him take the lead. Delayed reaction had hit her, and she wasn’t all that sure she could walk to the clinic, never mind make any decisions.
Two nurses from the clinic arrived in the ambulance, and hustled Patrick away. Maggie breathed easier, knowing he’d be taken care of. The amount of blood he left behind told her that he had downplayed his injury.
Ian directed one of the PCs to follow them to the clinic, and turned to Maggie, helping her stand. “You are next,” he said. “I need time to process your back room. Again.” His smile was brief, but it eased Maggie’s fear that he blamed her. “You did well, Maggie, protecting yourself and Mr. Tucker against a woman who has most likely killed at least once.”
“Thank you, Ian.”
He nodded, and handed her over to Martin. “Take her to the clinic, then home once they release her. Any questions can wait until tomorrow.”
They shook hands, and Martin picked up his discarded crutch. He reached out, gently cradling her cheek. She had a feeling it was already bruising. “Can you walk, love, or should I ring Spencer?” He soun
ded frustrated that he couldn’t take care of her on his own.
“I can walk.” She brushed at the sweat sliding down his face. “How about you?”
He smiled. “The sweat is from climbing the high street with crutches, trying to reach you.”
“How did you know?”
“Shelly. I will explain later.” He gestured to the back door, and Maggie led the way. With the head of the local police department in her shop, she wasn’t going to worry about having her door open. “You also have some explaining to do.” He held up his hand when she stopped, turning to face him. “I am not blaming you, Maggie, so stop glaring at me. I was referring to your ghost. I take it that she helped you subdue Stasia?”
“Yeah. I almost had heart failure when she appeared. Stasia completely freaked out when she saw her. From what I could understand, Anthea looks like her mother.”
“That must have been unsettling.”
“No kidding.”
Martin managed to distract her until they reached the clinic, but once she stepped inside, what happened finally caught up with her and her knees buckled. He dropped his crutches and caught her, balancing on his good leg.
A nurse rushed forward to relieve him, wrapping her arm around Maggie’s waist.
“You must be the heroine who protected Mr. Tucker. Ian Reynolds rang to tell me that you were on your way. Slowly now, love, there’s no need to rush. That bed will still be waiting for you.”
Her quiet voice calmed Maggie, and the gentle, caring touch made her feel safe. She realized she had not felt safe since the day that cursed book appeared. Patrick Tucker had some questions to answer. If he knew about Anthea, then he knew about the books—and Maggie’s connection to them.
The killer may have been caught, but the mystery wasn’t finished.
Nineteen
Maggie spent the night at the clinic, for observation. When she was finally released, Spencer and Martin waited for her near the front counter.
“Mags.” Spencer strode forward and wrapped his arms around her. Carefully, like he expected her to break.
