“Arthur blames himself that he can’t give Charlotte an alibi, since he was off seeing to things and Charlotte was closeted in her office writing one of those books she writes.” Evelyn pulled a monogrammed linen handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose. “Mind you, I wouldn’t be in the least bit disappointed if the wedding didn’t come off. I’m sure Charlotte is a nice gel but one doesn’t know a thing about her background and whether or not she really would make a suitable wife for the Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke.”
She took a breath. “I honestly feared he would have a stroke when he saw that ghastly paper, but then, while Arthur isn’t in the first bloom of youth, he is in excellent shape. The nerve of that newspaper. How dare they?”
* * *
* * *
Twilight had settled over Upper Chumley-on-Stoke by the time Penelope left the Open Book. The skies were clear and blanketed by stars. It was colder than it had been earlier, and a brisk wind was swirling leaves along the gutter like miniature tornadoes.
Penelope had walked to work and was now headed home, hurrying down the sidewalk and pulling her collar closer around her neck.
She had turned her head to look at the display of chocolates—one of her weaknesses—in the Sweet Tooth shop window when she ran smack into a body—a male body judging by its relative size and heft.
“Oh,” Penelope said, flustered. “I’m so sorry. I was thinking and I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“We do have a habit of running into each other, don’t we?” It was Maguire bundled up in a worn sheepskin jacket and tartan wool scarf. “No harm done. I don’t think I’m even bruised.” He smiled. “It’s turning cold. Would you fancy a glass of wine to warm you up?”
“Oh,” Penelope said for the second time. “Yes, why not.” That didn’t sound very enthusiastic so she added, “That would be lovely.”
They were two doors down from the wine bar and Maguire gestured toward it.
“Is the Sour Grapes okay with you?”
“Certainly.”
Maguire opened the door and followed Penelope inside.
The proprietor of the Sour Grapes was the cousin of the man who owned the Book and Bottle and when he’d opened the bar, he had decided it didn’t make sense to compete with the pub but rather to offer something more upscale to appeal to the tourists who flooded Chumley during the nicer weather.
The Sour Grapes had pretentions toward being hip and modern, mixing hanging brass fixtures and sleek furniture with the original beamed ceiling, but since the décor hadn’t been changed for nearly twenty years, it looked more like an aging woman trying to look younger by wearing a miniskirt and crop top. Despite its pretentions, it was really more pub than trendy wine bar.
It was quiet inside with two men with leather briefcases by their sides sitting at the long, granite-topped bar and two smart-looking young women chattering animatedly at one of the tables.
Penelope took off her coat and hung it from a metal hook on the nearby wall. Maguire pulled out Penelope’s chair and she found she was pleased by the chivalrous gesture. Miles usually flung himself into his own seat and left her to fend for herself.
Maguire ordered a lager and Penelope the house red. There was a moment of awkward silence before Maguire began to talk.
“How is the book coming along? You did say you were writing one, right?”
Penelope was pleased that he’d remembered. “Yes. At least I’m trying to,” she said, thinking of the last scene she’d written. She still wasn’t satisfied with it.
“Writers, artists, and musicians have a special place in the heart of an Irishman.” He smiled and thumped his chest with his fist.
A waiter in a black vest, stiffly starched white shirt, and bow tie arrived and slid their drinks in front of them along with a plate of olives.
Maguire gestured toward the dish. “Looks like Chumley is going continental on us.” He took a sip of his lager. “What did you leave behind in the States? Family?”
Expectations? Penelope thought.
Penelope took a deep breath. “My sister lives in Connecticut in a perfect house with her perfect husband. She’s the pretty one,” Penelope said, looking for a laugh.
Maguire obliged. “Isn’t there a proverb about beauty being in the eye of the beholder?” He smiled at her warmly.
Penelope shifted in her chair. She wasn’t used to being the center of attention and she suddenly felt as awkward as a teenager.
“My parents are divorced. My mother is what we call a snowbird in the States. She spends summers in Connecticut and winters in Palm Beach. My father has an apartment in the city—New York City,” Penelope clarified, “and a house in Amagansett along with a blond trophy wife.”
“Is that all? One sister?” He shook his head. “Hard to imagine. I have five siblings—two brothers and three sisters. Your typical big Irish family.” He was quiet for a moment, running his finger around the rim of his glass. “Is there anyone special back home?”
Penelope didn’t try to—and didn’t want to—analyze the look in his eyes.
Was Miles special? Reluctantly she had come to the conclusion that he wasn’t. She’d barely given him a thought since leaving New York. In this case, clearly out of sight, out of mind was more accurate than absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Maguire looked down at his beer as if he’d read her answer in her lack of response.
Penelope didn’t know why, but she didn’t want him to get the wrong impression. That thought made her uncomfortable but she decided to leave analyzing it until later.
Instead, she said, “No, not really. No one all that special.”
Maguire’s face began to light up, but he quickly changed his expression to one of mild interest.
“How are you getting on in England? Finding it quite different, are you?”
“More different than I thought and at the same time, less different,” Penelope said hoping that didn’t make her sound ridiculous. She poked at her cocktail napkin, picking little pieces off and rolling the paper between her fingers. “The languages are distinct despite the fact that we’re all speaking English. I am catching on, though. But people and their feelings and emotions are universal, don’t you think?”
Maguire nodded.
Penelope realized she was becoming more and more relaxed—and it wasn’t because of the wine. It was Maguire’s calm, steady demeanor that was having that effect on her. She’d even stopped jiggling her foot—a nervous habit that always drove Miles crazy—and was feeling at ease.
“What about you?” Penelope said. “Your accent is . . . Irish?”
“Yes. Born and raised in Dromod, a small town—population barely five hundred—in County Leitrim. It’s on the River Shannon in the Border Region of Northern Ireland. County Leitrim has a wee bit of coastline along the Atlantic Ocean.” He chose an olive from the dish and popped it into his mouth. “My parents ran a pub. It’s long, hard work. I wanted something better for myself, so I came to England.”
“Why Upper Chumley-on-Stoke?” Penelope said.
“You go where the job is and where you’re sent.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I started out in Leeds and . . . now I’m here. Quite the change.” He gave a small smile.
Penelope had the feeling there was more of a story behind his transfer than he was willing to admit, but she didn’t want to pry.
“At least you have a murder to solve,” Penelope said. She immediately felt ashamed—a murder wasn’t something to celebrate.
“True,” Maguire said, giving another small smile.
“I didn’t mean—” she began.
Maguire waved a hand. “Of course not.” He smiled, a more genuine smile this time.
Penelope decided that she might as well be in for a penny, in for a pound, as the expression went.
“Have you disc
overed anything new? New leads? New suspects?” She didn’t really expect an answer.
“This case has us running around in circles. They’re talking about bringing in the top guns from London if we don’t come up with a solution soon.” He ran a hand over his face. “At least we’ve been able to clear Worthington himself. That made the governor happy. It’s a bit dicey when it comes to the nobility. Obviously they can’t get away with murder—at least not in this day and age—but they still have to be handled with the proverbial kid gloves.”
“So Worthington has an alibi?” Penelope said as casually as possible.
Maguire took a sip of his lager and licked the foam off his upper lip. He leveled a look at Penelope, one eyebrow raised, then gave a knowing smile.
“Yes, and it checks out, too. He was with his groundskeeper all morning until someone went to get him after the body was found. The coroner puts time of death within an hour of the discovery—lividity was minimal and the blood hadn’t completely congealed.” He looked at Penelope. “I’m sorry. That’s a bit graphic. I forget—I’ve become used to it, I’m afraid.”
Penelope waved a hand and put on a stoic face. “That’s okay. I’m fine.” She forced herself to stop picturing congealing blood, which was a little like the old parlor game of trying not to think of pink elephants after being told not to.
They continued to talk, the conversation moving to less morbid topics, and Penelope was disappointed when she finished her glass of wine and saw that Maguire was draining the last bit of his lager.
“I’ve enjoyed this,” Maguire said, standing up.
“Me, too,” Penelope said.
The stood smiling at each other somewhat awkwardly until Penelope finally began to move toward the door.
* * *
* * *
Penelope had a bit of a lift in her step as she left the Sour Grapes, and she didn’t want to think about the reason for that right away either or it would mean admitting she’d thoroughly enjoyed her conversation with Maguire—he was easygoing and there was a calmness and steadiness about him that was relaxing.
The faint scent of meat roasting combined with pungent and exotic spices wafted on the air as Penelope got closer to her cottage. It was coming from Kebabs and Curries, the takeaway place on the edge of town. Her stomach began to rumble and she decided she would treat herself to a takeout meal.
She studied the menu while she waited in line, finally deciding on the lamb tikka masala. The delicious aromas tantalized her and her mouth was watering as she carried the bag out of the shop.
Mrs. Danvers was not amused when Penelope arrived home. She sniffed disdainfully at the Kebabs and Curries bag and then went to stare pointedly at her own empty dish.
Penelope took her coat off, threw it on a chair, and hastened to open a can of Mrs. Danvers’s favorite cat food—turkey and chicken casserole from an upscale and overpriced brand. She spooned a portion of it into Mrs. Danvers’s dish and stood back.
Mrs. Danvers walked over to her dish, her tail high in the air and swishing back and forth like a metronome. She sniffed the dish, turned around, and looked accusingly at Penelope.
“What?” Penelope said. “It’s your favorite.”
Mrs. Danvers blinked slowly, her tail moving back and forth in a furious rhythm. After staring at Penelope for several more minutes, she got up and stalked off to groom herself in the corner of the kitchen.
Penelope set a place for herself at the kitchen table and dished out her tikka masala. Her thoughts kept returning to her drink with Maguire, ricocheting back and forth between the feelings the meeting had stirred up and the information Maguire had shared.
They now had one less suspect with Worthington out of the running. Poor Charlotte—this would focus more attention on her. Penelope hoped the newspapers wouldn’t renew their vicious attacks. The news cycle was short and with any luck the story of her nude pictures would soon disappear from their pages and be forgotten.
They didn’t appear to be any closer to a solution than they were the day Regina was found murdered in Worthington’s basement. Even the police appeared to be stumped. She wasn’t being much help to poor Charlotte. She thought about the possible suspects that she, Figgy, and Mabel had identified. She would like to know if Daphne had been anywhere near the fest around the time of the murder. The Book and Bottle had had a booth, but Penelope didn’t remember seeing her there. Of course it had been crowded and she had been distracted by thoughts of her upcoming talk.
Daphne had plenty of motives—with Regina out of the way, it wouldn’t take her long to bring Gordon to his knees so to speak with a proposal. Her life at the moment was fairly grim and full of drudgery—working hard behind the bar at the Book and Bottle and spending her free time caring for her disabled sister. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think that she might have decided murder would be a good way out of her situation.
Penelope needed to find out where Daphne had been that day. But how?
She finished her dinner—putting half of it in the refrigerator for another night—and was about to turn on her laptop when her cell phone rang.
She glanced at the caller ID—it was Miles.
“You’re up late,” she said when she answered.
“It’s earlier here. Have you forgotten?” Miles said, sounding testy.
“Of course. You’re right.”
Their conversation continued at a desultory pace until it wound down to a prolonged silence.
Miles finally said, “I miss you.”
Penelope replied with “I miss you, too.”
Detective Maguire suddenly came to mind with his craggy face and blue eyes and Penelope hastily banished the thought saying “I miss you” again, only with a little more fervor this time.
* * *
* * *
Good morning, love,” Gladys said when Penelope walked into the Pig in a Poke. “What can I do for you today?”
She put the book she’d been reading down on the counter—a romance, Penelope thought, judging by the cover where a bare-chested man in knee breeches and tall boots had his arm around a woman with long blond curls and a bouffant gown with a neckline so low she was teetering on the verge of a wardrobe malfunction.
“I thought I’d get one of your Cornish pasties to take to work for my lunch,” Penelope said.
“You won’t be sorry,” Gladys said with a twinkle in her eye.
Penelope glanced at Gladys’s arm. The bruise had now faded to a kaleidoscope of greens and yellows. Gladys must have noticed her looking at it because she hastily pulled down her sleeve so that only the very edge of the bruise showed.
Behind her Bruce grunted as he butterflied a chicken, raising his cleaver over his head and bringing it down with a swift and practiced motion. Suddenly Penelope noticed the smell in the shop—animal blood and raw meat—and her head swam momentarily.
“Are you okay, love?” Gladys said, her brow puckering in concern. “Gone a bit faint, have you?”
“I’m fine.” Penelope smiled reassuringly.
Gladys was busy wrapping the pasty in a glassine sheet. “You’ll want to give this about forty-five minutes in the oven—until it’s good and golden brown. But be careful.” She shook a finger at Penelope. “It will steam when you cut it open. Don’t go burning yourself, now.”
“Bake?” Penelope said.
“Yes, love. You’ll have to pop it into the oven to cook it.”
Penelope felt deflated. “Can’t I just put it in the microwave at the store?”
A horrified look came over Gladys’s face. “A microwave?” she said as if Penelope had suggested some futuristic nuclear device.
“I’ll tell you what. You let me know when you want your lunch, and I’ll pop this in our oven for you, okay? Then you can nip over and pick it up, and it will be all nice and hot.”
“Thanks.” Pe
nelope fished her wallet out of her purse. “Your pasties were such a hit at the fest—I was sorry I didn’t get a chance to try one.”
“That they were.” Gladys beamed.
“I saw the Book and Bottle had a booth at the fest as well. I suppose Daphne was working the counter.”
Gladys frowned. “You know, I don’t remember seeing Daphne there come to think of it.”
“Bruce,” Gladys called over her shoulder. “Did you see that young lass Daphne from the Book and Bottle at the fest?”
“I couldn’t have, could I? I had to keep my head down and serve the customers what with you being taken faint and all,” Bruce grumbled.
Penelope glanced at Bruce, who was scowling at his wife. No wonder Gladys lost herself in romance novels, Penelope thought. She had to escape somehow.
“Perhaps Daphne’s sister had one of her spells,” Gladys said, leaning both hands on the counter. “It wouldn’t be the first time Daphne had to rush Layla to hospital.”
Penelope thanked Gladys and turned to leave.
“Don’t forget to ring me and we’ll have the pasty all nice and ready for you,” Gladys called after her.
Penelope stood on the sidewalk for a moment and then determinedly headed in the direction of the Book and Bottle after ringing Mabel from her cell phone to tell her she’d be a bit late.
There was no reason Daphne’s boss should give her any information, but Penelope figured there was no harm in trying. At the worst, he’d put her down as a snoop and a busybody. Or he’d blame it on her being American—that seemed to be an explanation readily accepted by the residents of Chumley.
The Book and Bottle was closed for business, but Penelope could hear a vacuum running behind the locked door. She rapped on the door several times and then stood back. The vacuum cleaner was switched off and a man opened the door. He had a mop in his hands.
Murder in the Margins Page 17