She looked around her furtively as if she didn’t want to be seen. She was passing under one of the lights in the car park when Pen realized it was Nora Blakely.
Her movements were peculiar—appearing cautious and almost stealthy. Penelope’s curiosity was piqued. She shut her car door as quietly as possible and followed Nora at a discreet distance.
The smell of curry and exotic spices wafted from the takeaway next door and mingled with the odor of exhaust fumes as cars made their way down the high street.
By the time Pen reached the entrance of the store, Nora had disappeared somewhere inside. Penelope paused as the door whooshed shut behind her. She peered down each of the aisles and finally spotted a figure standing at the very back. She ducked down an aisle and quietly made her way to the rear of the store.
Nora was standing in front of a display of Highland Black Scotch whisky. She hesitated, her hand hovering in the air, then selected a bottle. She looked around her before adding it to her cart. She moved to a shelf of Russian Standard vodka, grabbed a bottle of that, and added it to her cart as well.
As Penelope watched, Nora picked out a bottle of gin and two bottles of wine.
She was turning to go when Penelope approached her.
“Oh!” Nora jumped. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said when she noticed Penelope standing next to her. She smiled anxiously. Her knuckles were white from clutching the handle of her shopping cart and her face was flushed.
She was clearly nervous and it was obvious she wasn’t happy to run into someone she knew.
Penelope thought that made it quite clear—Nora and her husband weren’t planning a party or simply restocking their liquor cabinet. Nora had obviously not given up drinking even though she had been seen going to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
Penelope said good-bye to Nora, who scurried away, obviously relieved to move on, and stood in front of the display of wine scanning the price tags until she found something that would fit her budget. She picked up a bottle with a plain white generic Red Wine label and took it up to the cashier.
The clerk was an older woman with hair dyed an improbably bright red and a friendly smile. Her name tag read Patricia Wright.
“And how are you this evening, love?” she said as she slipped the bottle of wine into a paper bag. “You’re the American lass that’s working at the Open Book. You were at Worthington House when Regina was murdered, weren’t you?”
Penelope nodded.
“What a shame it was,” Patricia continued. “Such a lovely woman—so cultured. She shopped here a lot and even as busy as she was, she always had time for a bit of a natter.” She handed Penelope the bottle of wine. “I suppose her daughter can go ahead with the wedding now that her mother is gone.”
Penelope, who had been only half listening, having been thinking about Nora, perked up her ears. “Daughter?”
“Yes, dear. Victoria, she’s called—after our great queen. Such a disappointment to her poor mother. Insists on calling herself Poppy. Can you imagine?”
“Really?” Penelope was grateful she didn’t need to throw in more than a word or two here and there to keep Patricia talking.
“Yes. Regina had her heart set on her daughter marrying the Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke. She said that Worthington had taken a real interest in her Victoria—asking after her regularly and even speaking to her at last year’s fest. Regina had her hopes up, but then Victoria met this fellow Ronnie and became engaged to him instead. I’m sure he’s a good lad and he’s got a good job and all.” She leaned closer to Penelope. “He works as a plumber and you know how much they charge. Highway robbery, if you ask me. Still, it very nearly broke her mother’s heart.”
“That’s too bad.” Penelope couldn’t imagine why Regina thought there was a chance Worthington would marry her daughter.
Patricia nodded. “I must say it would have been nice if Worthington had taken up with a local lass. It would have been a bit of excitement for all of us.”
“Charlotte is quite nice, actually.”
Patricia’s eyes goggled. “You know her?”
“Well, we’ve met,” Penelope said.
Patricia frowned. “Still.” She puffed out her cheeks. “I suppose Victoria can do what she wants now with no interference. Regina was completely set against the match and wouldn’t even hear of attending the wedding and now she’s dead.” She frowned again. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Patricia swiftly put her hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean anything by that. I shouldn’t have said it. I’ve been watching too many of those murder mysteries on the BBC, I suspect.” She laughed.
Penelope didn’t know what to say. She made a noncommittal noise and finally managed to get away with her bottle of wine. It sounded as if Victoria had been in the same position that Figgy was in now.
But had Victoria actually done something about it?
* * *
* * *
Good morning,” Mabel said. She had a pencil stuck behind one ear and her glasses propped on her head. Her laptop was on the counter and her fingers were hovering over the keys.
Pen took off her coat and hung it on the coat-tree. “Need help with anything?”
“I’m finishing up the Open Book’s monthly newsletter. It feels a bit thin. Do you have any suggestions?”
Penelope peered over Mabel’s shoulder at the computer screen.
“How about something on books that deserve to be read more than once?”
Mabel’s face lit up. “That sounds interesting. Go on.”
“We could create a list and even do a display of the books in the shop. And perhaps we could ask people to respond with their own suggestions. You could print those in the next monthly newsletter.”
Mabel had taken the pencil from behind her ear and was absentmindedly chewing on it.
“I like it,” she said. She tapped the pencil against the desk. “I’d have to include Pride and Prejudice.”
“Definitely,” Pen said. “How about The Stand by Stephen King.”
“I’ll add that,” Mabel said, her fingers flying over the computer keys.
They were finishing their list—they’d agreed to limit the number of books to twenty—when a customer walked in.
“Hello, hello,” the woman said brightly. She was in her fifties and wearing pastel blue slacks with a matching sweatshirt appliqued with gingerbread men sporting pale blue bows.
Mabel did not appear pleased to see her. She put on a smile that looked positively painful.
“Felicity, how lovely to see you.”
“Did you decide?” Felicity said, pushing a tangled curl of gray hair behind her ear. “When shall we do the book signing?” She clapped her hands together. “I’ve wanted to be a real writer since I was at school. And now my name is in print. I can’t tell you what a thrill it is.”
No wonder Mabel looked cornered, Penelope thought.
“Felicity, have I introduced you to the Open Book’s writer in residence? Penelope Parish, this is Felicity Dickens.”
“Like the famous author,” Felicity cooed as she shook Penelope’s hand. She looked at Penelope appraisingly. “So you’re a writer, too?”
“Yes.” Penelope hated talking about herself and particularly hated talking about her writing.
“Where can I get your books?” Felicity tilted her head.
“Here,” Mabel said, rapping on the counter. “Or in any bookstore. Or online.”
“Oh,” Felicity said. “How wonderful.” She tilted her head. “Have I heard of you?”
Mabel was beginning to look exasperated, but before either she or Penelope could answer, Felicity continued.
She turned to Mabel. “You do love my book, don’t you? Have you decided about my book signing? What’s a good day for you? I’m thinking a Saturday because that should draw more p
eople.”
Mabel gave another pained smile. “I haven’t gotten to it yet, I’m afraid. I’ve been run off my feet here in the shop. Can you give me a few more days?”
Felicity was obviously disappointed but did her best to conceal it.
“Of course.” She wagged a finger at Mabel. “But don’t wait too long. You know it’s going to be a wonderful event.” She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a dog-eared planner. “Let me check something though. I did agree to join some women from the Women’s Institute for a class in beekeeping.” She looked up from her notebook. “Speaking of which, isn’t it a shame about Nora Blakely? You do know Nora, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Mabel and Penelope chorused.
“You’d never guess, would you? Of course you never know about people. It’s the quiet ones you have to worry about.”
“I can’t imagine why anyone would worry about Nora Blakely,” Mabel said. “She seemed fine the last time I saw her.”
“Maybe not worry exactly,” Felicity said, smoothing down her sweatshirt. “But you do have to wonder how someone like that got involved with drink. She worked for my husband for years,” Felicity said. “And we got to know her rather well.”
“Alcoholism is a form of illness,” Mabel said.
“Of course.” Felicity said. She turned to Pen. “If you should ever need any legal advice—book contracts or the like—my husband is a solicitor here in Chumley. Dickens and Charles Solicitors, they’re called. Quite fortuitous that he found Robert Charles to be his partner.” Felicity laughed showing large horsey-looking teeth.
Felicity dropped her planner into her purse, snapped it shut, and hung it from the crook of her arm.
“I must be going—so much to do today. Don’t forget about the book signing.” She turned and wagged a finger at Mabel again before going out the door.
Mabel groaned and rolled her eyes. “What a nuisance that woman is.”
* * *
* * *
The bookstore was quiet, so Penelope decided to walk down the street to Francesca and Annabelle’s Boutique. Her sister’s birthday was coming up and she had seen a lovely scarf in the window that she thought Beryl would like.
The sun was out and she stopped for a moment outside the door of the Open Book to feel its warmth on her face. The leaves on the trees were in full color and beginning to turn brown around the edges. The slight chill in the air made her think of autumn back home when they were children—jumping into piles of leaves and shuffling through them as they collected in the gutters, carving pumpkins into grinning jack-o’-lanterns, and drinking warm cider and eating powdered sugar doughnuts.
The door to Pierre’s Restaurant, the Open Book’s nearest neighbor, was propped open and the heady scent of wine, garlic, and herbs drifted out.
Penelope was about to open the door to the boutique when she heard someone call her name. She looked up to see Detective Maguire coming down the sidewalk. He waved to her.
“Good morning,” he said. Once again Penelope noticed the charming lilt to his voice.
“Good morning,” Penelope replied. She hesitated. “Is there anything new in Regina Bosworth’s murder case?” She suspected that Maguire would probably dodge the question.
He smiled. “Things are moving along.”
He didn’t say any more although he seemed inclined to linger. Penelope studied his face. She couldn’t decipher what made him so appealing.
He seemed reluctant to leave but another shopper came along and Penelope had to move out of the way of the door to the boutique. He took that as his cue, said good-bye, and continued on down the sidewalk.
Francesca and Annabelle’s stock could best be described as eclectic. There were the elegant silk scarves Penelope had admired in the window; tie-dyed T-shirts and tops; brightly colored plaid, polka-dotted, and pinstriped rain boots; a selection of sophisticated-looking cocktail dresses; and ordinary sweaters, trousers, and skirts.
A woman came from behind a rack of wool coats and Penelope realized it was Evelyn Maxwell-Lewis.
“Penelope,” Evelyn said in her cultured tones.
She was not in her accustomed jodhpurs but rather dark gray wool trousers and a Shetland sweater. Her hair was in a low ponytail tied with a Hermès scarf.
“How lovely to see you,” Evelyn said. “I enjoyed our writing group the other day.” She tweaked the jacket on the mannequin next to her. “I was quite productive afterward and managed nearly ten pages in my manuscript.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I was telling Charlotte about it last night. She and Arthur had me to dinner. I must say that woman is growing on me. Now, Regina couldn’t abide her. Of course, Regina had the silly notion that she could engineer a match between Arthur and that daughter of hers. The woman had to have been absolutely delusional. Have you seen Victoria?” Evelyn didn’t wait for an answer. “She’s an attractive girl but terribly rough around the edges. Arthur and I had quite a good laugh over it when we went on a shoot together last week.”
Evelyn began going through the coats on the rack. “Regina seemed quite convinced that she could put Charlotte out of the picture. Which makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” She paused with her hand on a bright red belted wool coat and for the first time Penelope noticed a nasty, raised scar on the back of her hand. “Did Regina have something on Charlotte—something so damning that she was convinced it would cause Arthur to break off his engagement? I can’t imagine what that might be. The man is positively besotted.”
Penelope had had the same thought herself but she wasn’t about to admit that to Evelyn.
ELEVEN
I’m starved,” Penelope said, putting the finishing touches on the display of bestsellers in the shop window. “I think I’ll go out and get myself something to eat.”
“Have you tried the Chumley Chippie yet?” Seeing Penelope’s blank expression, Mabel continued. “The local fish-and-chips café across the street between the Knit Wit Shop and Pen and Ink Stationers. I highly recommend it. Their fish is always very fresh.”
“That sounds good, then.” Penelope took her coat from the coat-tree. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks.”
Penelope slipped on her coat, looked out the window—it wasn’t raining so she didn’t need her umbrella—and opened the door.
“Be sure to ask for the haddock,” Mabel called after her. “And if they’ve run out of that, get the pollack or the plaice.”
The Chumley Chippie was totally unpretentious if you ignored the fact that it was housed in a centuries-old medieval building. The wooden sign hanging out front was painted blue and in the shape of a fish. The interior, however, looked slightly more modern—as if it had been built in the nineteen fifties—assuming you could call that modern, which, in a town as old as Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, you probably could.
Inside, there was a long Formica counter edged in metal with several deep fryers sizzling and spitting behind it. An older man in a white jacket with stains down the front and a ring of frizzy white hair around his otherwise bald head stood behind the counter taking orders, shouting them over his shoulder to another fellow who was thin and gawky and had long black hair pulled into a ponytail and contained in a hairnet. Yet another fellow was manning the fryers, lifting baskets full of golden fried fish from the bubbling oil.
Penelope got in line behind a girl with purple hair that was long on top and shaved on the sides. She was studying the menu board hanging over the counter when someone tapped her on the shoulder.
Daphne Potter smiled at her. She was in her barmaid’s uniform with an unbuttoned trench coat thrown over it. There was a small dark stain on the front near her right shoulder and one of the cuffs was frayed. She looked tired—her face drawn and her eyes puffy.
“You’re working at the Open Book, aren’t you?” Daphne said. “I’m Daphne Pot
ter. I’m a barmaid at the Book and Bottle.” Daphne looked down at her feet. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
Penelope shook her head.
“Have the police been around to talk to you? I heard you were there when Regina’s body was found.”
“Yes, Detective Maguire has spoken to me.”
“Oh.” Daphne fiddled with the belt of her coat. “They’ve questioned me and Gordon several times. Poor Gordon—he’s so worried.” She looked at Penelope. “They always suspect the husband, don’t they? They do on those television shows and in the movies.”
“I suppose it’s normal to at least question those closest to the victim.”
Daphne sniffed. “I think they have it in for me, too. Everyone thinks I’m after Gordon’s money, but that’s not true. He’s been very kind to me and my sister. Layla spends most of her time in a wheelchair, you see, and only has me caring for her. I think Gordon feels sorry for me. At least he’s never tried anything on, if you know what I mean.”
He probably also finds you very attractive and enjoys looking at you, Penelope thought, glancing at Daphne’s figure in her skimpy uniform, but she didn’t say that.
“But Gordon said he did hear Worthington arguing with Regina the day of the fest.”
“Did he tell Detective Maguire about it?”
“Yes. Maguire wrote it down on his notepad along with everything else.”
“Do you know what they argued about?”
Just then the girl in front of Penelope moved away and the fellow taking orders stood patiently waiting to hear Penelope’s.
“What will it be?”
“Fish and chips, please,” Penelope said.
“Kind?” The fellow sounded impatient now.
“Oh. Haddock,” Penelope said, remembering what Mabel had told her.
“We’re out.”
“Pollack then, please.”
The fellow called out the order and then turned to Daphne with his eyebrows raised.
Murder in the Margins Page 11