Knells sat back a bit in his chair. “Why so?”
“She grabbed at her throat and said she couldn’t breathe followed by the convulsions. That’s not a stroke, in my opinion,” Martha said, looking Knells directly in the eyes.
“Perceptive, Mrs. Littleword. She died of poisoning, cyanide poisoning in fact.”
Martha’s face went white. She sat back into the softness of her couch. “Like Mrs. Cuttlebirt,” she whispered.
The cell phone rang beside her. Glancing down, she saw that it was Kate calling.
“Can I take this? It’s my daughter.”
“Of course,” he said. He had a hard time taking his eyes from Martha. She was extremely feminine and, he couldn’t help noticing, well formed.
Martha tapped the phone’s face and said, “Kate? Hi, baby. What’s going on?”
Polly and Knells busied themselves with whatever was available, picking lint from the blanket for Polly and scratching the cat, Vera’s, furry head for Knells.
“No, Kate. That’s fine, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to be there on Wednesday. I can’t wait to see you, too. Santa’s probably got something already here for you,” Martha said teasingly.
Knells and Polly exchanged bemused glances. Polly huddled back down into her warm cocoon with her new best canine friend.
“Bye, baby. I love you. Stay warm, and if the friend you’re bringing home is of the male version, tell him your mother says he’d better be doing a good job of keeping you safe, or I’ll hurt him.”
Polly chuckled and Knells flashed a smile at Martha’s last warning. The call over, Martha put the phone down and sighed.
“I’m worried. Kate’s going to be home in less than six days. If there’s a murderer running around, I need you people,” she looked severely at Knells, “to get on the stick and find out who did it. It’s more dangerous in Marsden-Lacey than Mexico City these days,” Martha fumed.
Knells saw the sincerity on her face and heard it in her voice. He was a good judge of character after years of being a cop, and he knew when someone was putting on.
Martha got up, and in so doing, tripped over his foot causing her to lose her balance. She fell and Knells quickly reached to grab her. The front door opened as Martha fell into Knells’ arms. For a brief moment, he could smell her fresh, clean hair and the soft, warmth of her skin. Chief Johns stood rooted to the spot. Knells released his grip and lifted her easily back into an upright position.
“Sorry, Mrs. Littleword for my feet getting in the way,” he said apologetically.
Martha, standing in the middle of the room on her own two feet, nodded to him and said, “Thanks. No worries.” Turning to Merriam, she asked, “Is everything done? Did they take Mrs. Cuttlebirt away?”
Johns shot a hard look at Knells, then relaxed his tense frame and said in a gentle tone, “Yes, I’m sorry, Martha. I know how you cared for her. They’ll take the body to Leeds for forensics to analyze.” The last statement, he said more to Knells than to Martha.
Knells stood up. “I need to finish these interviews and get back to the station. One of your junior officers has promised to show me a good place to eat for supper.”
“Well, have a seat, young man, and let’s get this over with,” Polly said commandingly.
Somewhat taken aback by her forcefulness, Knells obediently settled himself again in a chair. He took out his notepad and turned to Polly. She didn’t let him ask a question, but instead started with, “I first met Saundra on a cold day. If I’d had my wits about me, I would have known it was to be the beginning of a bitter time for us all. You see…”
JOHNS AND MARTHA SLIPPED AWAY down to the tiny office at the back of the cottage. Once the door was shut, Johns asked tersely, “What was he,” pointing back in the direction of the living room, “doing with you on his lap?”
Martha countered, “Why didn’t you tell me you had a wife?”
“What’s that got to do with you sitting on his lap?”
“She told me yesterday before she…died, that you’d been begging her to take you back?” Martha said, giving him a mindful flick of her hand to his chest.
He grabbed her hand, holding it, causing her to become still in his grasp. Johns let his head drop in a gesture of frustration and confusion. He pulled her to him.
“Martha, please don’t think for one moment that anything, anything that woman may have said to you was true. I’d come to despise her and pity her. There was no love between us, and I intended to give her everything I owned just to be free of her.”
The two of them were quiet for a moment. Martha said softly, “Why didn’t you tell me about being married? It’s a simple question, Merriam. You owe me an answer.”
“From the minute I met you, I knew the kind of woman you were. Last fall, during the Faberge-gypsy craziness, I realized my feelings for you.”
“I understand,” Martha said, nodding with playful cheekiness, “there’ve been others caught in my web of magnetic charm.”
Johns smiled down into her upturned, vivacious face. He finished, “Yes, that’s it exactly, Littleword. I couldn’t resist you, and I couldn’t get my wife to give me a divorce. I didn’t want you to drop me like a hot potato and you would have if you’d known about my being married. It’s not an excuse for not telling you. I know that.”
Martha nodded.
He continued. “So, I’ve been trying to move heaven and hell to get Saundra to agree to a settlement. She finally gave it to me.”
“She was going to give you the divorce?” Martha asked hopefully.
“Yes, for a price.”
“What did she want?”
“The farm,” he answered.
Martha sat down in her desk chair. She didn’t take her eyes off of Johns’ face. He didn’t say anything.
“The farm means so much to you and Polly.”
“No,” he said, his eyes intense with emotion, “it doesn’t mean anything compared to losing you.”
“That’s why they’ve taken you off the case, isn’t it? You’re their number one suspect,” she said pointedly.
“You’re wondering if they have it right?” he asked.
“No. If you wanted to be free, the last thing you would have wanted was to have someone’s death on your hands,” Martha said simply.
Johns took the two steps to where Martha sat in her chair. He pulled her up into his arms and kissed her with a passion he’d never known for any woman before. She was his true other half. She knew him and he wanted only her. Their embrace was halted by a sharp rap on the office door.
“Lana’s leaving. She has to get back to the hotel. Her husband’s supposed to be back from London. Hey! Can you hear me? Are you in there?”
Martha and Johns, still holding each other, laughed softly.
“Okay! Helen,” Martha called. “I’ll be right out. Merriam and I are talking.”
Martha looked up at Johns with a soft expression and said, “You’d better be going.”
“I don’t want to,” he replied.
“Go find who killed your wife and, I promise, you can stay,” she said warmly.
He bent down to kiss her again, and she put a finger over his lips.
“I’m of the belief, Merriam, that when we do things the right way, good things follow. I want the best for you and for me. We’ve got to do this right. Do you understand?”
He nodded. She slipped free from his arms. Opening the office door, they went outside to say goodbye to Lana. Polly and Knells were finishing up.
“Do you still have time to finish with a few questions, Mrs. Littleword?” Knells asked.
“Sure,” she sat down. The questions were much like the ones she’d already answered. Knells wanted to know about her work, what she and Helen were doing in Warwickshire, and reminded her to tell him if she remembered anything in the future. He handed her his card.
When he left, Johns, Polly, and Pepper went with him, leaving Helen and Martha alone.
“Polly has r
eally taken to Pepper,” Helen said crawling back into her chair by the fire.
“I know. She’ll be buying sweaters for him soon.” Martha threw another log on her fire and sat on the sofa. “The quiet feels good, but would you like to get some fresh air?” Martha asked.
“What’s your idea?”
“I’d like to go to St. Elizabeth’s. Feel like a walk? It’s not too far.”
Helen stood up from her seat. “Let’s go. I need to stretch my legs.”
They layered themselves with lots of warm outerwear and pulled on fur-lined boots. The night was calm and full of stars. For a long while, they walked in silence until Helen heard some sniffling coming from Martha.
“Hey, are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m going to miss her, Mrs. Cuttlebirt, I mean.”
There wasn’t much one could say or do, but Helen did what any good friend would; she put her arms around the crying Martha, gave her a firm hug and told her she understood. In between life and death, if one is lucky, there is love and friendship.
Chapter 22
AS HE SAT IN HIS warm car enjoying the heated seats, Ricky Brickstone’s cell phone rang again. It was Melissa. She’d called six times in the last hour. He was tired of her drama, her neediness and most of all, of her. Six calls usually signified something of import, so with a martyred sigh, he tapped the ‘accept’ button on his phone’s face.
“Yes,” he slurred.
“He’s dead,” came the whispered voice on the other end.
“Thank you for letting me know. I loved Mr. Tickles and I appreciate your wonderful care,” Ricky replied.
He hoped the simpleton on the other end would hear the tone of his voice and not go any further in her conversation. Ricky waited for her reply.
“You’re welcome. We hope you’ll come soon to collect his body or we can have it sent to a pet crematorium. It’s, of course, your decision,” Melissa said, her intonation more like a first-year drama student than a believable veterinarian’s assistant.
Internally, Ricky relaxed. Melissa was thick, but to her credit, this time, she’d gotten the gist. Better not to leave the authorities with any evidence to levy against him later. The digital world was full of potential potholes and phones were the best way for someone to slip up and fall into one.
“I’ll wait to see you. When can we expect you?” Melissa asked.
Ricky thought for a moment before answering. A brilliant idea leapt into his mind. He remembered the old lime kiln on Greenwoods’ back acreage.
“Soon. Thank you again.”
He hit ‘end’, leaving Melissa probably staring at her phone in utter disbelief. A chuckle rumbled in his throat at what her expression must have been. Ricky didn’t care. It bought him time. Lord Percy was dead and Melissa wasn’t needed anymore. He could have her help him drag the old man’s body into the kiln and then…no more Melissa. The thought of it made Ricky smile. He was so relieved. Three problems solved. It had been an extremely productive day.
His black sedan slid onto the M1 motorway. He was Greenwoods bound and with good traffic, he’d be there in a couple of hours.
POLLY AND JOHNS STRAGGLED UP to the front door of their family home. It had been an exhausting day. Johns knew his mother tried to do everything in her power not to let anyone pull double duty because of her age, but she was extremely tired and he wanted her to rest. The Bake-Off competition was starting early tomorrow at nine o’clock.
The house was cool inside. No fire had been built that morning and it felt like it. Johns checked the thermostat and upped the temperature to bring some needed warmth to the rooms.
“I’m ready for bed, Merriam,” Polly said. She put her foot on the first riser of the stairs.
“Mum,” her son spoke behind her, making her turn to look him in the face.
“Yes?”
“They’re going to look at us first in this investigation. You do understand? It may get ugly and people will talk behind our backs. Are you going to be okay?”
Johns’ eyes lifted up, his expression unsure, with worry pulling at the laugh lines at the corners. His gaze locked with hers.
“I don’t care what other people say. People always need something to talk about. I didn’t kill her, Merriam,” she said tiredly. “I don’t step on spiders either. Even when I know they’ll try and crawl into bed with me, bite me if given the chance, and leave their eggs to threaten me in the future with their venomous offspring. I still don’t kill them.”
Her expression was quiet, serene in its dispassion. “I put them under a glass and lift them up with a piece of paper and toss them back out into the garden, letting them be preyed on as they prey on others. Nature has a way of taking care of itself.”
Polly smiled at her son. It was the way a mother, without words, tells a child everything is fine. She turned and went into the darkness of the upper floor of the house. He heard her bedroom door click softly shut.
Satisfied she’d be okay, Johns went over to the inglenook fireplace and filled it with wood. He lit it, went to the pantry, and pulled out one of the Hefeweizen beers his mother brewed. Rinsing a glass with cool water, he poured the yeasty beer, making sure the glass was tilted. He swirled the bottle a bit, catching the rest of the yeast in a tiny tornado, and finished pouring the contents into the glass.
The fire was crackling and popping nicely. Johns sat down in his chair and propped his legs up on the hearth fender. He watched the logs catch flame and considered the murder of Saundra.
Since he knew it wasn’t him, it had to be someone who would know how to access or use cyanide. God knows Saundra certainly had people who disliked her, but enough to kill her? What if she was in financial difficulties? She kept an expensive lifestyle. Possibly her money needs had put her in debt to the wrong people. Thugs would have shot her. This murder was done to shut her up quick, but why?
Johns lifted the glass to take a drink. He’d watched the videos sent over by the television crew. There’d been so many people in such a tight area, it would be impossible to see anyone put something in Saundra’s drink. The few people who served at the refreshment table remembered Polly, Martha and Saundra talking. One man even recalled Martha handing Saundra her filled tea mug and overhearing snippets of the conversation, which was in line with what Martha and Polly had stated.
Tiny threads of different statements weaved a tapestry of possibilities in Johns’ mind. Saundra was murdered deliberately; there was no doubt about it, and someone chose the Marsden-Lacey Pudding and Pie Bake-Off for its venue. Public places are much better to kill in, of course, if you want other people to be suspects. Johns thought about the tea mug. How many people had their hands on it? His mind snagged on a statement thread.
Getting up, he put the beer glass in the sink. He took out his phone and called Constable Waters. The mobile rang.
“Marsden-Lacey Constabulary. How may I help you?” came her voice on the other end.
“Waters, would you please send me the statements from the people working the refreshment table?” he asked in his usual perfunctory tone.
There was a cough from Waters and she hesitatingly replied, “Well, Chief, I’ve been told to not share any of the investigative items or papers with you.”
“Why” he barked, “I’m the Chief. Who the hell told you that?”
“Detective Investigator Knells. He says you’re on suspension until further notice.” It was dead quiet for a second. Donna said conspiratorially, “You’ve been banned from the building.”
Johns stared dumbly at the fire roaring in the massive stone fireplace.
“Chief?” Donna asked. “Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
She whispered, “Would you be able to meet me tomorrow at my house? I’ve got the day off, as you know, and I think we should talk. I’ve got the competition until noon. Would one o’clock work?”
“I’ll be there,” he said firmly into the phone. “Waters?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you.”
“Absolutely. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The phone went quiet in his hand and it occurred to him that something in Detective Inspector Knells’ agenda didn’t ring true. He dialed another number.
“Hi Chief Johns,” came a female voice. “You know how I love to work the late shift, don’t you? The morgue can be so invigorating this time of night.”
Chapter 23
FRIDAY MORNING CAME WITH CHEERFUL sunshine and a glorious, clear sky. The first round of the Pudding and Pie Bake-Off was well underway. Señor Agosto was like a happy, bouncing flea jumping from one team’s workstation to the next. He made entertaining statements to the hovering cameras in whispered tones about the difficulty and complexities of creating the perfect piecrust. There had actually been a few ooh’s and ahh’s from the spectator-packed bleachers.
Helen, Martha, Polly and Mr. O’Grady were almost completely done with their traditional meat pie. No one was allowed to put their dishes into the ovens until Agosto called time.
“He’s fearsome,” Martha said, nudging Polly.
“I heard from my best friend, Jane,” Polly whispered, “he’s threatened to throw the pies into the rubbish, if we so much as go over by a single second after he calls time.”
Martha and Polly shifted their eyes over to study the energetic, bantam Spaniard. He was warning Harriet Berry, that their time was almost up. Harriet was flashing daggers at one of her team members, who hurriedly tried to whisk eggs for a wash for the crust.
“When he gets over here,” Helen said softly, so that only the other three at the workstation could hear, “don’t say anything. I’ve been watching, and anyone who tries to kiss-up to him has been given the evil eye. It could hurt our chances.”
Martha opened her mouth to say something, potentially indignant, but both Polly and Helen simultaneously said firmly, “Don’t do it.”
Pudding, Poison & Pie (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 12
