A Debt Is Finally Paid (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 2)

by Sigrid Vansandt

  Richards leaned down and rubbed the cat’s head between its ears and gave it a friendly tummy rub. The cat purred and accepted the human’s act of fealty with the true grace and dignity of a feline. Once satiated, it rolled back to its sitting position, wrapped its tail around its front paws, hunkered down and with a contented yawn, shut its eyes. It assumed a statuesque serenity like the sphinx of old Egypt.

  “He’s not going to give us any answers. Should we leave a note?” Richards asked.

  “You take the side around the garage and I’ll check over here.” Johns pointed toward the pretty bay window to his left.

  The two men met again in the front after they’d finished circling the house.

  “Nothing,” Johns said in a frustrated tone. “Where would he be? Maybe we should talk to a neighbor.”

  “Perhaps he’s on vacation. Helen Ryes said he was retired. I’ll do a background check on him. There may be a wife, kids or a few mates,” Richards offered. “If you don’t mind, Chief, I need to make a few more phone calls. My supervisor wants a full report.”

  “Good idea. You get on that and let’s get back to Marsden-Lacey. I need to meet the Rossar-mescros and tuck them into the safe house for the night.”

  Johns sighed as he opened his car door and sat down in the driver’s seat.

  “What is it?” Richards asked.

  “I’ve got my work cut out for me. There are currently thirteen family members of the Rossar-mescro clan and that’s not counting the two-year-old baby girl. Every one of them loaded up into a house with only four bedrooms. We need to solve these two murders fast, Richards. Those Romani will get bored after about twelve hours in lockdown.”

  “Where’s the house, Chief?”

  “An old farm not far from the village. Lots of room outside but not much inside.”

  Detective Richards was again nibbling on his leftover peri-peri chicken. “You didn’t eat much, Chief. Why?”

  “I’m saving it for later. Since I’ve got to move all the Rossar-mescros tonight, I may not get supper. Supposed to be at a dinner party tonight, but probably won’t make it.” He put the bag in the back seat and continued, “If I do though, I’ll see Helen Ryes this evening. She may have some information on Albright. Probably should bring her along anyway when we talk with him.”

  Johns was thoughtful for a moment. “Isn’t there some sort of saying about ‘rest’ and the ‘wicked?’” he asked as the car pulled onto the M62 highway heading west.

  “No rest for the wicked. That’s the saying, Chief,” Richards said, finishing his last bite of chicken. “But surely you don’t mean us. We’re the good guys, remember?”

  Johns didn’t say anything. He focused only on the road in front of him all the way back to Marsden-Lacey.

  Chapter 22

  THE BLACK AGA STOVE WAS doing a fine job of warming Polly’s cozy country kitchen. There was a slight dusting of cornmeal on the old harvest table, on Martha’s nose, and on the honey-colored flagstone floor directly beneath her. Martha was busy mixing up the batter for hushpuppies while Polly chopped and diced a colorful mix of peppers, onions and celery. A wonderful smell from a frying pan sautéing the vegetables along with garlic, cayenne, oregano, paprika and of course butter, heaps of it, filled the room with an aroma so mouthwatering that Amos hovered and whined until sausage tidbits were finally tossed to the floor.

  “What about a nip of wine in that pan?” Polly asked Martha as she added some more green peppers.

  “Oh we’ll add it, but in just a minute. We’ve got to get our priorities straight, first.”

  Martha took one of the bottles of Pinot Grigio they’d purchased earlier, opened it and filled two ample-sized wine glasses, one for her and one for Polly. Raising her glass to her hostess, they lightly clinked them together.

  Martha toasted, smiling broadly at Polly. “Here’s to the meal and here’s to the wine. May the first be delicious and the second sublime.”

  “Here, here!” Polly raised her glass to Martha. “I’ve got one for you now: may friendship, like wine, improve as time advances.”

  This camaraderie building continued for some time between the two chefs and they were well into their second copious glass each and feeling the effects, when a knock came on the front door.

  Remembering the earlier threat of invasion, Polly swung around and announced in a slow slur, “Better get my pistol. You follow up with the shotgun, Martha.”

  “I’m right behind you,” Martha said, searching around for their weaponry.

  Michael, who heard the knock, came into the kitchen from the family room. “No, you’re not and the both of you stay put in here. I’ll get the door.”

  “Stand back, young man. Where’s my gun?” Polly demanded. “I’ve got a right to protect my property!”

  Taken off guard for a minute by the scrappiness and possible tipsiness of his commanding officer’s mother, Michael hesitated momentarily about how to handle the situation. Polly, who was only about five feet tall and weighed twenty or so pounds more than her current age of seventy-two, took advantage of his uncertainty and with a quick kick to the back of Michael’s knee, sent him stumbling off-balance. Tossing a handful of flour into his eyes, she rolled him onto his side and with her foot shoved him under the long table. Martha happily watched the events unfold with a sappy smile on her face.

  The constable’s stunned immobility gave Polly time enough to spy the guns on the top shelf of the side board.

  “Get those guns, Martha, and let’s see who dares to knock at my door.”

  Martha grabbed the shotgun, and smiling a bit crookedly, tossed it two-handed to Polly, who, with surprising dexterity, caught it and tucked it under her arm. Like two tipsy banditos, they staggered to the front door leaning slightly to one side.

  Once at the door, Martha tried to see over her compatriot’s head to see out the peephole, but found it difficult because Polly’s hair, much like her son’s, liked to stick straight up in places. Puffing wine-imbued air over the top of her short friend’s spiky-grey head in order to see, Martha got tickled and started to giggle.

  “Who’s out there?” Polly asked feeling an infectious twinge of hilarity taking hold of her from Martha’s goofy giggling.

  “It’s us, Helen and Piers. Are you okay? You sound…hysterical,” Helen said from the other side of the door.

  More snorting and tittering came from the inside. Some clanking, rattling of the door chain and some thumping indicated Martha and Polly were either dropping things or just having difficulty maneuvering the hallway. On their part, Martha and Polly were happily laughing and exchanging comments like, “not by the hair of my chinny chin chin” until they finally lapsed into snickering and all out guffawing while slipping to the floor up against the door.

  “What is going on in there?” Helen demanded.

  Finally, after a few minutes, the lock moved efficiently and the door opened to reveal a flour-covered, irritated Sergeant Michael Endicott.

  “Come in, please,” he said with a nod toward the bench seat in the entryway’s alcove. He pointed to the two smiling rowdies. “They may need to drink some strong coffee, if you get my drift?”

  Helen hauled Martha to her feet. “Come on, you. Time for something warm to drink and a cookie or two.”

  Piers assisted Polly and soon both female gunslingers were nibbling on toast, cookies and drinking coffee. As Martha and Polly simmered down, Helen went over to the stove where a nice tendril of steam lightly emitted from the sizable, cast iron stew pot.

  “So, how’s the cooking going?” she asked, lifting the lid on the jambalaya. “Oh, this smells wonderful, Martha. Where did you find the Louisiana style andouille sausage?”

  Sipping on a second cup of coffee, Martha said, “You wouldn’t believe what Mr. Murdock has stuffed into that market of his. I told him what I needed and he obviously has a huge crush on Polly, because he scampered off to the back, rummaged around and returned to the front with that sausage all bun
dled up nicely. No cost of course.”

  Martha winked knowingly at Polly who rolled her eyes in response.

  “That old devil had the temerity to wheedle himself into dinner tonight,” Polly said while pulling red pottery plates from a cabinet. “What was I to do? He used the andouille as a means of entry into my company. Wily, he is, as the day is long.”

  No one dared to comment on the obvious affection Polly harbored for the party interloper because everyone knew if she didn’t want him at dinner, she would have tossed the sausage back in his face at the grocery and left the premises in a state of offended annoyance. Instead, she’d cocked an eyebrow and gave him a smile that would melt butter. Mr. Murdock eagerly promised to bring his best bottle of Champagne to the festivities.

  “I’d better get going and lay the table,” Polly said. “Girls, let’s put those Waterford wine glasses out. That’ll gussy the table up. Help me take them from the cupboard.”

  So, with many hands to bring the party preparations and the dinner together, it was to be an evening to remember. All that was needed was for the guests to arrive, merrymaking to begin, and the wolves to stay away from the door.

  Chapter 23

  PERIGRINE AND ALISTAIR ALONG WITH Comstock, their schnauzer, were finishing their preparations for the night’s entertainment. Presentation was everything. Not that Comstock was attending the dinner party, but he would be staying at a sitter that evening.

  Alistair put a traditional camel plaid with white, black and red argyle sweater on the all-black ten pound schnauzer. Later, the sweater would be removed because the dandy dog would be hot from the rough-housing and fetching games with the sitter’s children.

  “Isn’t he the man-about-town tonight?” Perigrine said as Comstock came rattling down the wooden stairs to what they called their sitting room.

  “He does turn out well when he’s been brushed.”

  “Did you put hair product on him?” Perigrine asked, noting Comstock’s spiky-gelled head.

  “Yes, and a dash of cologne. A dachshund will be in attendance at the sitter’s tonight. Wants to be his best,” Alistair said while adjusting the crate full of things they were bringing to Polly’s.

  “So, you’re packed and so am I.”

  “You have our clothes, shoes and lights? All the equipment working?”

  “I do. Comstock can stay the night at the sitter’s?” Perigrine asked.

  Alistair put the leash on the dog. “All settled. We’re ready.”

  The three highly groomed gentlemen left through the back door of the garden shop and walked along the back alleyway toward the constabulary. There, standing in an awkward group, were about fifteen people of varying ages with the most unusual collection of bags, baskets and crates heaped full of household items and clothing.

  “That’s the Rossar-mescro clan,” Perigrine said quietly under his breath to Alistair.

  “Better see what our Romani guests are doing. This could be in our favor,” Alistair returned.

  They walked up to Stephan who they recognized as the man who first spoke with Johns after arriving in the village. Comstock broke the ice with a hello yap which enticed the children to scurry around him and acknowledge his excellent taste in outerwear.

  “Good evening, Mr. Rossar-mescro. How are you?” Perigrine asked.

  “Not so well. We’re waiting for Chief Johns to return. He’s putting us in a safe place until the killer of my daughter is found,” Stephan said.

  Both P. and Al were silent for a moment. Alistair said, “So sorry to hear of her death. Do you know where you are going to be staying?”

  “No, no. We wait here, but our boats are locked and safe. It’s critical my family is kept out of harm. My nephew is inside telling the police we’re here.”

  “Mr. Rossar-mescro, I think you should all be inside. They wouldn’t want you out here in the open,” Perigrine said in a gentle manner.

  The Romani man’s face tightened in concern. “Yes, you’re right.”

  Turning to his kin, he said in a loud voice, “Everyone, pick up your things and follow me.”

  It was a ragtag bunch of people, including Perigrine, Alistair and Comstock, who piled into the Marsden-Lacey Constabulary. Children, a baby, two dogs, a smattering of adults and at least three teenagers. With their personal belongings in tow, they made themselves comfortable in the seating the small reception area provided.

  Donna came around to talk with them. Cool and collected as always, she immediately took things in hand.

  “Hello, Mr. Rossar-mescro. I’m glad you brought your family inside. We’ll be taking you by bus tonight to our safe house. It shouldn’t be more than another twenty minutes till we leave, so about six o’clock. Chief Johns is on his way back from Nottingham and wants to accompany you and get your family settled. Make yourself as comfortable as possible.”

  While Donna was busy taking names and directing traffic, Perigrine perused and flipped through the accumulated paper mess on the reception desk trying to make neat the never ending tide of faxes, files and sticky notes. Donna noted his helpfulness with a smile then the boys floated unobtrusively out of the constabulary and continued on their walk to drop off Comstock. They were quiet for a small distance.

  “Better call it an early night after dinner. We need to get on those boats as soon as possible,” Perigrine said. “By the way, I had an opportunity to see an interesting fax lying on the floor back there.”

  “Really?”

  “The murder weapon that killed Laura Rossar-mescro may have shown up in London at an antiques dealer. Interesting note attached in that it was sold by a woman, very thin, brunette.”

  Alistair scratched his temple in a gesture of consideration of the information.

  “The odd thing is the woman signed her name Helen Ryes, but the statement from the dealer says she had nothing particularly that stood out about her other than her perfume. He thought it reminded him of a strong perfume he’d smelled before, something like cotton candy. Helen wears Chanel.”

  “Oh, damn, Perigrine. We’d better check it out. Call the antique dealer tonight.”

  “Will do, but if it’s who we think it is, I want you to do the talking, okay?”

  “Fine, it’s done.” Alistair was quiet for a moment. He adjusted his bow tie with one hand. “The Rossar-mescro’s boats will be watched over by constables from now on. Let’s stroll down to where they’re tied up tonight. Best to know the layout.”

  In a short ten minutes, the boys found themselves staring at three quiet canal boats tethered to bollards not more than thirty feet from The Traveller’s Inn. No lights other than those from the inn and one flickering street lamp illuminated the surroundings. Standing in the shadows allowing Comstock to serve as their excuse for being out meandering about the village in the dark, Alistair and Perigrine discreetly watched the three boats for signs of life.

  After ten minutes with nothing moving but the occasional frog scuttling across the water along the banks, they turned to go, thinking the boats were truly abandoned.

  “Good evening Comstock!” came a fairly loud voice from the other side of a low wall which served as a fence of sorts for The Traveller’s Inn’s outdoor pub area.

  “Oh, and you two as well, Mr. Clark and Mr. Turner,” Constable Cross said leaning over the wall with a thermos in his hand smiling congenially.

  “Why good evening to you, Constable,” returned Perigrine. “A slight chill tonight, don’t you think? Have anything of consequence in your thermos?”

  “Sir, I’m on duty.” Cross held up the thermos saying, “Nothing more than strong black tea in here. Waiting on my relief to arrive, then I can go home to dinner. How’s Comstock tonight?”

  Constable Cross adored the small schnauzer and the feeling was mutual. Normally, Cross was his sitter, but when Perigrine called, Cross mentioned he would be busy this evening.

  “Round the clock, huh? They’re working you fellows too hard Constable,” Alistair said.
/>   “Nah. It’s good to have a job. What’s that they say about rest and the wicked?” Cross asked.

  The two older men exchanged subdued glances.

  “I think it goes something like ‘no rest for the wicked,’” Perigrine said softly.

  “Peace,” Alistair interjected.

  “Peace?” Perigrine echoed.

  Alistair nodded. “The saying actually goes ‘no peace for the wicked.’ Profoundly different meaning wouldn’t you say?”

  All three men mused on the adage quietly and waving good night, Alistair and Perigrine walked on down the dark village street.

  “Better make that call, P.,” Alistair said. “If it’s who we think it is that delivered the murder weapon to the antique dealer, she’s involved with some truly ruthless people.”

  “Didn’t you just say it was ‘no peace for the wicked’?” Perigrine said snippily. “She’s a big girl. She’ll get what she deserves if she’s mixed up in all this.”

  “Perhaps, but you don’t want to see her hurt. You love her. It would kill you.”

  Perigrine’s only response was a grunt pregnant with annoyance. They continued their walk to the sitter’s house in moody silence. Only Comstock maintained his earlier bright enthusiasm for the evening ahead.

  Chapter 24

  AFTER DROPPING OFF RICHARDS AT his temporary lodgings, Johns managed to round up the Rossar-mescro clan onto the rented bus. It was no small feat to transport an entire family and their things, but after a quick word of caution to Stephan and another to the constable who would be staying with them, Johns was finally free to head home to his own farm where the dinner guests were already enjoying themselves with cocktails.

  “You’re home!” Polly called out when she saw her son emerge from the low lights of the entry hallway. Everyone turned and welcomed Johns with happy smiles and greetings.

  “I’m so glad you made it, dear, and it’s only seven-thirty,” Polly said, coming up close to her son and dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you see who’s over there?” She pointed to an older man who was dapper right down to the small carnation in his button hole.