Paws and Effect

by Scarlett English

  The waiter wasn’t even looking at me, so in desperation, knowing I was now down to seven minutes, I got up and went to the bar. There was a barman presumably filling orders and two wait staff and a barback, who just seemed to be standing around with their thumbs up their ass, or ‘arse’ as Ella would say. There was another guy who didn’t look at me—so I took no notice of him.

  “Sorry, but is there any chance of getting our check?” I was even apologizing now like a proper Brit. “It’s just we have to make the start. Kind of like the Olympics, except with no blocks.”

  Maybe I had inhaled Ella’s champagne? My jokes were abysmal. The man—teenager, really—at the register lifted his face to look at me, and the sheer panic in his eyes pinged every one of my cop senses. If I’d still had my Glock 22, I’d be reaching for it. I tried to glance around to see if something was wrong and noticed the stiff posture of the guy standing to my left, the one who wouldn’t meet my gaze.

  “I can’t believe I’m actually in London,” I gushed. “The wife’s been wanting to make the trip for the longest time, and I told her—Ella, I said, if you’re gonna do England you have to do the whole deal.” My accent was by this time as unsophisticated as I could make it.

  I wasn’t even sure the waiter understood my exaggerated drawl—but that wasn’t the point. To appear as a clueless—and harmless—tourist was. I clocked the slight relaxation of the guy beside me wearing the tux, who still wasn’t meeting my eye.

  Five seconds later, I had him spread eagled on the ground. He never knew what had hit him.

  I had taken a chance I was reading all the body language right, but in the end it paid off. The English cops had been grateful—I think. I had everything wrapped up for them when they rushed in fifteen minutes late for the party. I even had the so-called gunman’s confession. He actually had a dinner knife in his pocket, trying to pretend it was a gun, and it was all just intimidation. His girlfriend was on drugs, and he had a baby on the way. I listed all the crimes and punishments I could think of—a few for dealing that he didn’t know about—to scare the living daylights out of him, and I hoped it worked.

  They didn’t hold the show for us though, which I thought was downright rude, considering I’d saved all their scrawny English necks—but what could you do?

  The ballet was still awful. And watching just the second half didn’t make it much better. Just shorter.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Ian said much later, when we were all sitting in the bar after the show.

  “Oh I can,” Anna gushed. “It’s so like Garrett.”

  She wasn’t sitting next to me; unfortunately, she was next to Ella, which might have been worse. I’m not sure how, but anything’s possible. She never stopped complaining. Everything was wrong. From the lukewarm water, which you didn’t get ice for unless you asked for it, to the lack of plugs in all the bathrooms and the necessity of finding converters for American plugs—fancy that! Really, how was a person supposed to dry their hair? Ella got increasingly quiet, and I got increasingly embarrassed.

  To be fair, so did Ian and the rest of my friends. After making it clear to Anna I was content where I was, I was ashamed to say I escaped to the bathroom. It seemed safer. As soon as I came back, I would make the excuse to leave. Between the guy who was about to rob the place and finding out Anna was the one who comped our tickets, the night was a bust anyway.

  I was so ready to go home.

  Chapter Seven

  Petronella

  On the following Monday, we were busy, with Henry having to go around to the farms to do some routine testing for Bovine TB, required by the Animal and Plant Health Agency, or the APHA. Our practice was a veterinary delivery partner for the agency, and at this time of year, we were usually busy, with Henry on the farms and me mostly seeing patients at the clinic.

  Late in the morning, Mrs. Ford came back in with her Abyssian cat, Sophia, who suffered from stomach issues. I had told her repeatedly that the poor thing wasn’t being fed properly, but it seemed to go in one ear and out the other, with little effect. When I came in the examining room today, Sophia resembled a sausage with four little legs at each corner.

  “Poor Sophia has had a touch of diarrhea again, I’m afraid, Dr. K.”

  “I see. Did you cut down on the sweets and rich food she’s been eating?”

  “Well, it’s very hard, you see. She begs me so. And she just refused to eat that nasty dry food you insisted I buy for her. Turned her nose up at it. Then she wouldn’t eat at all for days. Days, Dr. K. I just had to tempt her appetite. And those little cream cakes are her favorites. She gobbled them right down, but then she threw them back up a little while later.”

  I gave Sophia an examination and tried to be stern with her owner.

  “There’s nothing seriously wrong that I can see, but tell me about her day, Mrs. Ford. Does she exercise?”

  “Whatever do you mean, dear? She’s a cat, you know,” she pointed out helpfully.

  “Yes, but does she play with toys? Climb on cat trees, that kind of thing?”

  “No. She likes to lie on my bed during the day. Sometimes, she moves to the window to lie in the sun.”

  “She really needs some exercise, Mrs. Ford. Since she stays indoors all the time, maybe you might invest in a small cat tree? Or get someone to put up some shelves she could climb on? Cats love to climb and they do it for fun, as well as to survey their territory. It’s an instinct they have.”

  “Well, if you think she’d like one, then…”

  “Yes, I think she’d love it. You can buy her some balls to chase too. And some teaser toys to play with. But you’re still going to have to watch her diet. No more cream cakes. And a minimum of cat treats.” Sophia let out a sudden, loud meow and stood up, looking around.

  “You have to spell it, dear. T-r-e-a-t-s. She gets terribly excited otherwise.”

  “I see. Well, if you avoid giving her so many of the, um, t-r-e-a-t-s, she’ll eventually eat her food, but you must wait her out. She can be stubborn.”

  “Don’t I know it? All right, I’ll try,” she said, putting Sophia back in her carrier and going to the door. She opened it and stood in the doorway.

  “Come along, darling,” she crooned to her pet. “No more v-e-t visits today.” She glanced up at me apologetically. “It’s nothing personal, Petronella. Sophia always speaks highly of you, but she does hate that word, and I’m afraid she won’t abide it being said in her presence. Bad associations, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Ta for now, dear. I’ll try what you said and get her a cat tree to climb. We’ll let you know if it helps.”

  She left then, and I permitted myself a tiny sigh as I turned back to the room, but a soft laugh at the door startled me, and I whirled around to find Garrett, looking very sharp in his dark police uniform, lounging in my doorway, a big grin on his face.

  “What does she mean by ‘bad associations?’ What in the world have you done to traumatize that poor little cat?”

  “Oh very funny, Sergeant. But if every time you saw me, I was holding you down to give you an injection, or sticking a thermometer up your bum, you’d hate to see me coming too.”

  “Maybe so…but would you still bring me coffee?”

  I rolled my eyes at him, and he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “I was hoping you’d have a moment to talk before your next patient.”

  “Of course. Is there a problem?”

  “I didn’t know if you heard or not. But Roger’s family—his brother, that is, has filed a civil suit against Maisie as well.”

  “Oh, no. What’s wrong with him? How can he possibly think Maisie is guilty of anything?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “The same way Wainwright does, I suppose. Not to mention it’s fueling his lawsuit. He can’t come after the pub through her, though, can he?”

  “No. Maisie doesn’t own any of it.”

  “That’s good then.”

  “S
he doesn’t have much of anything, really. Just her old car.”

  “Yes, but unfortunately, they can claim future earnings and a possible future inheritance too.”

  “But that’s awful!”

  “Only if they win a wrongful death lawsuit, and that’s a big if at this point. Don’t worry about it. I just wanted to make sure you knew before you went over there at lunchtime. I know you eat lunch at the pub a lot.”

  “Yes, I was planning on going over later to check on Maisie. This is really going to upset her.”

  “Wainwright is still investigating. Tom said they found that journal of Roger’s, where he noted all of his ‘accidents.’”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Don’t worry. A good solicitor can shoot most of that down easily enough. It was based on just some fairly wild conjecture on Roger’s part, after all. Tom said he understood Wainwright talked to Roger’s brother. He told them there was a rift in the family over a will.”

  “He did?”

  “That’s what I understand. He could hardly hide it, since they’ve already been to court.”

  “Oh yes, I remember Maisie saying something about that. Their father’s will left a large inheritance to both of them equally. Roger says its unfair, because Nigel left and shirked his responsibilities. I think I heard Maisie say Roger cared for his dad some in his last illness too. Anyway, they went to court to settle things. Apparently, there was a lot of bad blood between them.”

  “I see. Well, there may be a lead somewhere in all of that.”

  “Ooh, do you think the brother killed Roger to get him out of the way? So he could inherit everything?”

  “I do not,” Garrett said firmly, pressing his lips together the way he did whenever I said something he disapproved of. “They were letting the courts decide, not having a duel at dawn. You really read way too many mystery novels, Ella.”

  “Still, it’s interesting, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head and turned to go, dropping a kiss on my forehead. “I have to get back to work. I’ll see you at dinner tonight.” He left before I could tell him he wouldn’t actually be seeing me that evening, because I had to meet my friend Geoffrey Bonner to see a movie in Newbury.

  I sighed. No use dissembling--it was actually a date. I had promised to go see the mystery film with him when it first came out, months ago, though I had a feeling that the news wouldn’t make Garrett overly happy.

  Geoff and I had agreed to meet after work today and go directly over to Newbury to save a little time. We were going to the earlier showing, at six, so we could get back home at a reasonable hour. Geoffrey had stopped by Pendlebury’s and bought a couple of sandwiches to eat along the way, since there wouldn’t be time for dinner beforehand. As I got in the car, he passed me over a cheese, lettuce and tomato sandwich and a soft drink.

  “Thank you, Geoffrey. You’re so thoughtful.”

  “I try to be,” he said, preening a little and even fluttering his eyelashes at me. I winced at the idea of what Garrett would say if he’d seen it. Ruthlessly, I banished the disloyal thought and took a bite of my sandwich. It was delicious, and I was starving, and I refused to think of Garrett O’Leary when I was on a date with someone else. Because I never got a chance to take lunch after all that day, I made short work of the sandwich.

  A farmer named William Macauley’s dog Prissy was hit by a car near lunchtime, when it got out of the house where his wife kept the Chihuahua and into the busy road outside. So by the time I’d finished surgery to repair the poor pup’s broken leg, and see him safely in recovery, it was almost time for Geoffrey to pick me up for the movie. I thought briefly of telling him I was too tired, but I’d already put him off once before, and I knew he was really wanting to see this film. The truth was, I did too. I left Katie to arrange for the young lad who sat with our overnight patients, and I took off to see the movie.

  It was a mystery story and some of my favorite actors were in it, so I really enjoyed it too and the time flew by because of the fascinating plot. When we walked outside, it was just a bit after eight-thirty. And there in front of us lighting a cigarette by the curb, was Nigel, Roger Battersley’s brother.

  He was a tall man, maybe six-two or three, with dark hair and eyes. He had a perpetually angry and somewhat defiant look, as if life had dealt him a bad hand, and he’d just decided he wasn’t going to take it anymore. To my surprise, Geoffrey hailed him almost at once.

  “Nigel, how are you? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

  He turned and squinted at us through his cigarette smoke. “Oh, Geoffrey. Hello there. I might have known I’d see you at a movie like this one.”

  “You know how much I love a good murder mystery. Petronella does too. Oh Pet, I’m sorry. This is Nigel Battersley. We used to work together at the pharmacy. Nigel, this is Petronella Ford.”

  He extended his hand, but his eyes were surprisingly cold when they met mine. “We’ve met, I believe. You’re a friend of Maisie Wickham, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am,” I said, maybe a bit too aggressively. I had taken a dislike to this man that first night at the hospital and time had not softened my regard. I was ready for him to make some remark about her, but he said nothing. He just looked at me and took another drag off his cigarette.

  “I’m sorry about your brother, Nigel. Such a shocking thing.”

  “Yes,” he replied coldly.

  “Has there been any news about the person who hit him?”

  He took a long, hard look at me and raised one corner of his mouth. “Why, Maisie Wickham killed him. Surely you’ve heard? She’s been arrested for his murder.”

  I made a noise of outrage and replied hotly. “Maisie did no such thing. She would never hurt anyone, and anyone who knew anything about her would attest to that. And besides, she’s out on bail, because the court knows she’s no risk to the public.”

  “I realize you must like mysteries, Ms. Ford. You just came out of one, after all. But real life is different from fiction. In real life, the one who is most likely the perpetrator, actually often turns out to be the perpetrator.”

  “Murderers usually require a motive, Mr. Battersley. And Maisie had no axe to grind with Roger Battersley. Too bad you can’t say the same.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing in particular. Just making an observation. However, I understand you and Roger were in the middle of a nasty court battle over a will. But then, that’s none of my business.”

  “You’re right about that at least.” He gave me a furious look and flicked his cigarette butt toward the curb. “You have a nice evening, Geoffrey.” He glared at me before gritting out, “Ms. Ford.”

  He turned then and walked away, leaving me seething with anger as I watched him go. It was just past nine when Geoffrey dropped me at my car and almost nine-thirty by the time I stopped in to check my patient, little Prissy, to make sure she was resting comfortably and then made my way home. As I pulled in the driveway, I could hear Sherlock barking inside. I opened the door and he shot out, dancing around on the moonlit lawn as he expressed how very glad he was to see me. Pawdry, who had come to the door along with him, arched and then strolled back inside, clearly expressing her disdain for my late return.

  I stood in the doorway for a few minutes, letting Sherlock relieve himself and release a little of his energy, and then I called softly to him to come inside. As I closed the door behind us, I thought I saw the twitch of a curtain next door, and though I wanted to tell Garrett all about seeing Nigel Battersley and our little confrontation, I decided it could wait until morning.

  Chapter Eight

  Garrett

  Apparently public holidays in the UK are called Bank Holidays. Nan told me because it was the day all banks were closed traditionally, no trading, and therefore followed that all other businesses were closed. The August bank holiday was always the last Monday in August. It didn’t make much difference to me as I was working in the morning until Roberta took
over, and I only mention it because it had been the subject of much debate between Nan and Ella.

  Well, not the bank holiday itself, but the Adlebury Women’s Institute Bake Off. Like the TV show, except this was far more cut-throat. Nan and Ella had been in the kitchen for nearly three days solid, perfecting Ella’s mom’s pork pie recipe.

  I’d had pork pie once at the pub. Apparently you had to eat it with mushy peas which frankly looked disgusting but tasted good, and mint sauce which looked okay but tasted nasty. It was one of those weird Brit foods like Black puddings, Scotch eggs, and bubble and squeak.

  Although I still wasn’t convinced Ella wasn’t pulling my leg with that last one.

  Roberta was on duty because I had worked all weekend, and having established they didn’t do anything like a bonny baby contest, I was expecting the day to be a good one. I’d had to judge the last baby contest and probably ruined Anglo-American relations for good. Ella had said it was a wonder there hadn’t been a diplomatic incident.

  Maisie was out on bail and determined everyone carry on as normal. Tom had promised me he would let me know if there was anything new, but it put me in a bad position, because I wouldn’t be able to say anything to Ella and if Wainwright found out Tom had told me anything it would cause trouble for him.

  Ella and Nan had left early because they were setting things up at the village hall. They even had a large tent set up because apparently people enjoyed their afternoon tea, especially when it wasn’t spoiled by the British weather.