* * *
* * *
Mrs. Danvers was waiting by the door when Penelope got home. She followed Penelope out to the kitchen where Penelope put her grocery bags on the counter and then bent to give Mrs. Danvers her due. Mrs. Danvers purred softly as Penelope scratched her under the chin.
The cat eventually became bored with Penelope’s ministrations and wandered off to sit under the kitchen table and groom herself.
Penelope unpacked the contents of her grocery bags. She was planning what Figgy referred to as a “fry up” for dinner—fried eggs, fried bread, bangers, bacon, a grilled tomato, and some beans. She had decided to forgo kidneys, which were often part of a fry up. She wasn’t ready to be that adventurous.
She got out a frying pan and started the bacon. She’d fry everything else in the rendered fat.
By the time she finished cooking her dinner, the poor Aga was splattered with grease, but Penelope had a plate of delicious-looking food.
She carried her meal out to the sitting room and flicked on the television. The eggs were perfect—the yolk, when she pierced it, ran satisfactorily, just the way she liked it.
Coronation Street was ending when Penelope’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the number and groaned. It was her editor.
“Hello?”
“Darling, how are you?” Bettina’s voice drawled over the telephone. “Everything awesome across the seas?”
“Yes, thanks. How about you?”
Bettina groaned. “Fine, except I spilled my chai crème Frappuccino all over my new Jason Wu this morning. I don’t know which I minded more—losing my drink or ruining my dress. You know I can’t start my day without my Frappuccino.” She groaned.
Penelope rolled her eyes.
“Enough about me, darling. How is the book coming along?”
“I’m making progress,” Penelope said and for once she was telling the truth.
“Sounds like England was just the shot in the arm you needed. We’ve got Alexis Monroe to do the cover again. And we’ve got buy-in from marketing and sales on the design. I think you were pleased with the results for Lady of the Moors.”
“Yes, I was.” Penelope stretched out her legs and propped them on the coffee table.
“Good. So glad to hear it.” There was a slight pause and Bettina continued. “So we’re on time, then, to meet our deadline?”
Penelope heard the distinct note of fear in her voice.
“Yes,” she said, praying she wouldn’t hit another block.
“Good, good,” Bettina said in sultry tones. “They’ve become positively Simon Legree-ish around here about deadlines. Everyone is walking around scared to death.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“All in a day’s work, right, darling?” Bettina drawled. “I just wanted to give you a ring to see how things were going—and to put my mind at rest. Stress is so bad for one’s skin, you know. I’ll be off now and let you get back to that new bestseller you’re working on.”
Penelope’s spirits sank as she hung up the telephone. The book was coming along but as to its being a bestseller, she had no idea. She told herself not to let the word spook her, but it hung over her like a cloud all evening and when she read over what she’d written earlier, she decided it was terrible and all of it had to go.
* * *
* * *
I’m worried about India,” Penelope said the next morning as she, Mabel, and Figgy were packing up cartons of Charlotte Davenport’s books.
Mabel paused and brushed a wisp of white hair out of her eyes.
“How is she? She did have that spell yesterday. It was quite worrisome.”
“She was fine after a cup of tea.” Penelope smiled. “The English are right—tea cures everything.”
“I told you,” Mabel said, bending over the cartons again.
“It’s not that though. When I went to prepare the tea for her, I noticed that there was very little food in her cupboards.” Penelope pictured the contents of India’s refrigerator. “Actually, there was practically no food at all.”
“Oh, dear,” Mabel said. She paused, her hands on her hips. “That is alarming. I suppose that’s why she felt faint yesterday—she’s not eating enough.”
“She said something about her check coming today. I offered to go grocery shopping for her but she said she would be fine.”
“I noticed at your book group meeting that India had taken several cookies, wrapped them in a napkin, and put them in her purse.” Mabel closed the carton flaps and ran packing tape along the top. “I imagine she was saving them for her tea. It does sound as if poor India is in rather dire financial straits.”
“I thought we might mention something to Worthington.” Penelope picked up one of the cartons. “Perhaps he can do something.”
Mabel frowned. “I don’t know. India is as prickly as a pear about things like that. She might be offended.”
“Or she might starve,” Penelope said a little louder than she intended.
Mabel put a hand on Penelope’s arm. “I understand your concern, but you have to understand people like India. Their pride is worth more than their life.”
There had to be a way to help India without injuring her outsized pride, Penelope thought as she began carrying the cartons out to her car. She would have to think about it.
“Are you sure you can manage?” Mabel said, putting the last carton of books in Penelope’s car.
“No problem,” Penelope said. “I’m sure I can find someone at the other end to help me unload the boxes.”
Charlotte Davenport was speaking at a meeting of the Women’s Institute on romance in Regency times, which would be followed by a signing of her latest book The Fire in My Bosom. The Open Book was providing copies of her novel and Figgy had been hired to cater the event with tea, sandwiches, and pastries.
The talk was being held in a room at the Oakwood School for Girls just outside Chumley. Penelope drove down narrow, winding country lanes past green fields dotted with sheep and cows, until she saw a white sign with a gold crest and the words Oakwood School for Girls in discreet script. She had reached the vast estate that housed the girls’ boarding school. The private drive that led to the school itself was nearly a quarter of a mile long, but at last Penelope could see an imposing stone building in the distance.
The campus was impressive, Penelope thought as she drove past numerous buildings in the Gothic Revival style of architecture. Finally, she pulled into the circular drive that wound around in front of the main building.
Figgy, in her white van with Figgy’s Tea and Catering written on the side, pulled in in back of Penelope.
“This is quite the place, isn’t it?” Penelope said when she and Figgy had gotten out of their respective vehicles.
“It reminds me of Pemberton Hall, where I went to school,” Figgy said.
“Do you suppose we ought to ring?” Penelope said as they approached the main door.
Just then Maribel Northcott, the headmistress, opened the door and stepped outside.
“Welcome to the Oakwood School for Girls.” She nodded toward Figgy’s van and Penelope’s car. “You’ll need some help unloading, I should imagine. I’ll ring for the porter.”
She pulled a cell phone from the pocket of her tweed jacket and punched in some numbers.
“He’ll be down shortly.” She smiled. “Let’s leave it to him, shall we? He’ll get Tommy to help him.”
She led them into an expansive foyer and down a corridor that smelled of must and lemon furniture polish to a room at the end of the hall. The elaborately carved double doors were open and they followed her inside.
“I thought we’d use the Jane Austen room. It should accommodate the event nicely.”
The room was spacious with high ceilings, ornate crown molding, large floor-to-ceiling windows,
and a crystal chandelier. A magnificent Oriental rug, its rich colors glowing like jewels, covered most of the dark wood floor.
Folding chairs had been set up in tidy rows, and two tables with white linen cloths were on either side of the room.
Maribel pointed to them. “I thought we’d set Miss Davenport’s book signing up over there and have refreshments on the other table.” She indicated the table on the other side. “That should keep things from getting too congested.”
An older man in overalls came into the room, pushing a handcart stacked with boxes marked The Open Book. A younger man with red hair followed him in with a trolley stacked with Figgy’s tea things.
“I’ll let you get settled,” Maribel said. “I imagine Miss Davenport should be here shortly. I don’t want to miss her arrival.” She clasped her hands together. “We’ll soon be calling her the Duchess of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke.”
Figgy got busy plugging in her electric teapots and setting out cups and saucers. The porter soon returned with the cart now loaded with trays of tea sandwiches and pastries, which she arranged on the table.
Penelope opened the cartons the porter had stacked for her and began organizing the books. She placed one on a stand at the front of the table and angled it just so. She stood back to regard the effect.
“Penelope,” Charlotte called, striding across the room. “So lovely to see you.” She put her hands on Penelope’s shoulders and gave her an air kiss on both cheeks.
Penelope was enveloped in the scent of her flowery perfume.
She was wearing slim-fitting black pants, a white double-breasted blazer, and black suede high-heeled pumps. Her blond hair was gathered into a casual bun.
By now members of the Women’s Institute were arriving, and soon the room was filled with the rise and fall of feminine voices. Charlotte mingled with the crowd, smiling and shaking hands. The women clustered around her, vying for her attention, in awe of having a near duchess in their midst.
Penelope had to laugh—these were the same women who had probably been aghast when it was announced that Worthington would be marrying an American romance author. She had no doubt that the knives would come out again as soon as Charlotte was gone.
The women began moving toward the chairs, firmly shepherded by Shirley Townsend. Helen Hathaway separated herself from the crowd and made her way toward the lectern at the head of the room.
She took her place and tapped the microphone tentatively.
“Can you hear me?” Her voice boomed around the room. She looked startled and slightly horrified.
“Yes,” the women chorused.
Helen’s voice shook slightly as she welcomed everyone to the meeting of the Women’s Institute. She unfolded a piece of paper and reached for the pair of half-glasses that hung from a chain around her neck. They became intertwined with the button on her cardigan and her strand of yellowing pearls, and everyone shifted in their seats in embarrassment as she attempted to untangle them. Finally she managed to free them and placed them on the end of her nose. She glanced down at the piece of paper and cleared her throat.
“The Women’s Institute is very proud to present bestselling author Charlotte Davenport.” She took off her glasses and let them fall to her chest. She stepped to the side and looked to the left where Charlotte was seated.
Charlotte moved toward the lectern, adjusting her jacket and putting a hand to her hair. Helen resumed her seat, an immense look of relief settling on her face. Charlotte smiled at the crowd. She didn’t have any notes with her but began to speak eloquently and warmly to the audience. It was clear that within five minutes she had them in the palm of her hand.
Penelope was impressed. Writers by and large were introverts, and speaking in front of a crowd was generally not one of their best skills. Penelope had worked on her ability to give presentations, but it still didn’t come naturally to her. Charlotte, on the other hand, was quite impressive—warm and friendly but authoritative at the same time.
Finally, the talk was over and there was the sound of chairs rattling as everyone stood up and headed toward Figgy’s tea table. While the women were enjoying bites of cucumber sandwiches and nibbles of shortbread cookies washed down with cups of Darjeeling, Charlotte got set up for her book signing, retrieving a gold pen from her purse and settling in behind the table.
Penelope wandered among the women, saying hello to Helen who seemed quite cheerful now that her stint as master of ceremonies was over and talking to Shirley about My Brother Michael, which they were reading for Pen’s other book group.
She had her back to a cluster of women gathered around a tall, rather severe-looking brunette who was holding court. Her voice was loud and commanding, and Penelope couldn’t help but overhear the conversation.
“It would be a terrible scandal if it got out,” the woman said in ringing tones. “That’s why it’s been kept under wraps and she’s been allowed to quietly leave.”
“What’s this?” someone said. “I’m afraid I’ve been occupied caring for my mother who fell and broke her hip—poor thing—and haven’t been attending meetings.”
The two women began walking out of the room.
Were they talking about the Women’s Institute? Penelope wanted to hear what they had to say. She began to follow them.
She noticed Helen bearing down on her but pretended not to see her and continued to follow the women out of the room and down the hall where the brunette pushed open the door to the ladies’ room.
Penelope ducked in right behind them. She looked around. There was a long vanity with four armless chairs upholstered in black-and-white striped silk in front of it.
The women each went into a stall and Penelope hovered nearby, straining her ears to listen. She prayed no one else would come into the room because she had no explanation for hovering so close to the stalls.
The brunette’s strident voice came clearly through the closed door. “I don’t see how she thought she could get away with it. With money missing, it was bound to point a finger right at her—she was the treasurer, after all.”
Could they be talking about Nora Blakely?
“As bold as brass,” the other women sniffed.
One of the toilets flushed and any other words were drowned out.
Penelope quickly sat down at the vanity, took out her compact, which was at least ten years old and still contained almost the same amount of powder in it as when she’d bought it, and pretended to powder her nose.
The brunette began talking about her garden—black spots on her prize Queen of Sweden roses—and Penelope got up and quietly left the ladies’ room.
She went back to the Jane Austen room and stopped by Figgy’s tea table, where she helped herself to a curried egg salad sandwich. By now a line had formed in front of Charlotte, and Penelope was glad to see they were selling a lot of books. Mabel would be pleased.
Helen was standing off by herself, sipping a cup of tea. Penelope joined her.
“Lovely event, isn’t it?” Helen said. “It’s such a privilege to meet Charlotte Davenport in person.”
They made general conversation while Penelope tried to think of a way to bring up the topic on her mind—Nora Blakely and her supposed theft.
“I heard Nora Blakely has left the Women’s Institute,” Penelope said as casually as possible.
“Oh, dear. Have people been talking about it?” Helen clutched her eyeglass chain. “It’s a terrible shame. I can’t imagine what drove her to it—stealing money from the WI treasury like that.”
“Was it a great deal of money?”
Helen whispered a sum in Penelope’s ear. “That’s not a fortune, mind you, but it was enough to be noticed.”
Penelope excused herself and walked away. She was so busy thinking that she nearly bumped into a young woman, sending her teacup rattling precariously in its saucer. Penelope apologi
zed and moved on.
The book signing line diminished slowly and people began to leave. Penelope packed up the few books remaining and put the carton by the door.
Figgy was cleaning up as well. “Pen,” she said when Penelope reached her. “Do you want to take some sandwiches for your dinner? I’ll save them for you.”
“Thanks.” Penelope began gathering up some of the teacups for Figgy and putting them in the bins Figgy had brought with her. “I overheard something very interesting,” Penelope said.
“Oh? Something to do with Regina’s murder?”
“Possibly. Apparently money went missing from the Women’s Institute treasury. And Nora Blakely was the treasurer. It seems she was allowed to retire quietly.”
Figgy whistled. “So Regina could have known about it and was blackmailing her? Because even if the Women’s Institute let the matter drop quietly, which I gather they have, Regina could have easily spread the news throughout the entire town.”
“Yes.” Penelope brushed some crumbs off the tablecloth into the palm of her hand and tossed them in the trash can behind the table. “I think that’s quite possible. Likely even.”
Figgy turned to Penelope with a frown. “So Nora killed Regina to keep the story from spreading? Is that what you’re thinking? It’s hard to picture her doing that—she’s so . . . so timid.”
Penelope shrugged. “If I made Nora the villain in a book, I’m pretty sure my editor would shoot it down, but in real life you never know about people, do you?”
THIRTEEN
It looks like we sold a lot of books,” Mabel said, removing the handful of volumes from the box Penelope had carried into the Open Book. “How was Charlotte’s talk?”
“She did a wonderful job. They loved her.”
Mabel laughed. “Unfortunately that doesn’t mean they won’t continue to gossip about her behind her back.”
Murder in the Margins Page 13