Murder in the Margins

by Margaret Loudon

  “What about your apartment?” Penelope said.

  “It just needed a good airing out,” Figgy said. “Derek let me stay at his place.”

  “Apparently the fire damage was minimal—I heard it was caused by a grease fire in the kitchen that briefly got out of control—and Pierre’s should reopen soon. I noticed they posted a sign in the window,” Penelope said.

  Meanwhile, Mabel had joined them.

  “That was quite the miracle we saw last night,” she said dryly. “Poor disabled Layla Potter rising from her wheelchair and walking out of the restaurant!”

  “Running, actually,” Figgy said. “She couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

  “That’s certainly put paid to her claim of being disabled,” Mabel said.

  “Oi! Where is everyone?” Gladys came around the corner, her hair frizzing around her head in a halo and her face its customary red. “Thank goodness the rain seems to have stopped for the moment. It was coming down cats and dogs earlier.” She plopped into a chair with a sigh. “Bruce is none too pleased at having to handle the shop by himself, although it was empty when I left. He’ll be grumbling all afternoon when I get back.”

  “Yoo-hoo,” a voice called out and India appeared.

  Laurence Brimble was right behind her. “Cheerio,” he said, smoothing his mustache with his index finger.

  They were taking seats when Violet Thatcher rushed in, unbuttoning her coat as she walked.

  “What frightful weather,” she said as she sat down, her skeletal hands resting on the arms of the chair. “And of course Robert would need the car. Reverend Paine over in St. Ann’s parish is on vacation and Robert has been filling in for him while doing his own job as well. He had an appointment to counsel a couple about to be married. I do hope his work doesn’t go unappreciated.”

  “It looks as if this is it,” Penelope said a few moments later when everyone was settled.

  India leaned toward Brimble. “How are you enjoying retirement, Laurence? It’s been a year now, hasn’t it? Everything going well?”

  Brimble smoothed his mustache again. Penelope suspected he did it when he was nervous.

  “Yes, quite. Splendid, actually. Although I do miss the chaps in the office. But there are compensations.” He gave a small smile and glanced around. “This book group for instance.”

  “Where did you work?” Penelope said, realizing that it would be better to allow some conversation at the beginning of the meeting rather than during the discussion, which inevitably happened.

  “Bosworth’s Uniforms,” Brimble said. “I was in the accounting department.”

  “That’s Gordon Bosworth’s business,” India said. “Didn’t Layla Potter work there?”

  “Ah, yes,” Brimble said, clearing his throat and settling back in his chair as if he had a long and complicated story to tell. “Quite a tragedy. It cost the company a lot of money, I can tell you that.”

  “I remember that,” Violet said. “Robert has offered up prayers for the poor thing every Sunday since.”

  “What happened?” Penelope said.

  “An accident with some of the machinery,” Brimble said. “I don’t know the details, but Miss Potter claimed to be permanently disabled. The HSE found the factory to be at fault—something to do with defective equipment.” Brimble cleared his throat. “Of course, Gordon Bosworth is an honorable man. I happen to know he’s done right by Miss Potter, taking money out of his own pocket to pay for her care above and beyond what the company’s insurance paid her.”

  Penelope’s ears perked up. “You say Miss Potter claimed to be disabled?”

  Brimble looked slightly alarmed. “We were not able to prove anything,” he said. “But the company’s director of safety never did find anything amiss with the machinery.” He lowered his voice. “Frankly, I think the fault lay with Miss Potter. A coworker said he smelled alcohol on her breath that morning.”

  Penelope was about to tell him about the previous evening and Layla’s bolting from her wheelchair, but Mabel caught her eye and shook her head.

  Penelope decided it was time to get the book discussion underway. She cleared her throat.

  “Let’s talk about Rebecca. Why do you think the author chose not to reveal the name of the main character and what effect did that create?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Oh, there you are,” Mabel said later that afternoon when she found Penelope kneeling on the floor next to a bookshelf she was rearranging. She smiled. “There’s a woman here who would like you to sign her copy of Lady of the Moors.”

  Penelope felt her face color. She still wasn’t used to having people ask her to sign books. Perhaps when her second book came out—and hopefully it would—she would feel a little less like an imposter.

  Penelope followed Mabel to the front of the store where a woman was waiting, clutching a copy of Lady of the Moors to her chest. She was wearing a bright yellow raincoat, matching floppy-brimmed rain hat, and yellow rubber boots with ducks on them.

  “You’re Penelope Parish?” she said with a slight note of disbelief in her voice.

  Penelope wished she’d taken more time with her hair that morning and had chosen her outfit more carefully. But writers were meant to look slightly eccentric, weren’t they?

  “I’d love it if you would sign this,” the woman gushed, handing Penelope the book and a pen.

  “Certainly. I’d be glad to.”

  Penelope took the book over to the front counter and opened it to the title page. She signed it with a flourish and drew a line under her name.

  “Thank you so much,” the woman said as she slipped the book into her shopping bag. “Wait till I tell Hazel I got you to sign my book. She just loved it, too.”

  The woman stood grinning at Penelope for several seconds before finally turning to leave. Penelope breathed a sigh of relief.

  The shop had been busy earlier, but traffic had slowed as the afternoon wore on. Mabel was flipping through a catalogue so Penelope thought she would try to get some writing done.

  As she was heading back to her writing room she noticed someone sitting at a table with a stack of books in front of her. Penelope paused when she realized it was Daphne.

  Daphne was wearing a pair of jeans, a cable-knit sweater, and had a scarf tied loosely around her neck. Her hair was in a loose bun and she wasn’t wearing her usual makeup. Penelope was surprised to see she looked much younger.

  Daphne sniffed and pressed a balled-up tissue to her eyes. She’d been crying and her nose and eyes were red.

  Penelope decided she would bring her a mug of tea. Figgy’s kettle was always at the ready. Penelope poured two mugs, added a good dose of sugar, and carried them over to the table where Daphne was sitting.

  “I thought you might be able to use a cup of tea,” Penelope said, putting the mug in front of Daphne. “It’s that sort of day.”

  Daphne looked up, surprised.

  “Thank you,” she said, then burst into tears.

  “Go on, drink your tea,” Penelope said. “It’s supposed to cure everything.”

  Daphne gave a wan smile but she picked up the mug and took a sip.

  “Thanks,” she said again.

  Penelope looked at the stack of books by Daphne’s elbow and was surprised to see that they were all business books. What had prompted Daphne to choose those?

  “Is something wrong?” Penelope said after a few moments. “Anything I can do?”

  Daphne laughed. “Everything’s wrong.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “I don’t know where to begin.” Daphne stared morosely into her tea. “I didn’t know about Layla, honest.” She gripped the mug so tightly her knuckles turned white. “All this time I’ve wasted taking care of her . . .” She buried her face in her hands.

>   Finally Daphne looked up. “And now Gordon is furious with me. He won’t believe that I didn’t know Layla was faking her disability to get money from him. He thinks I was in on it. And that I’ve only been . . . kind to him in order to get at his money.

  “But that’s not true,” Daphne cried. “I care for Gordon.” She smiled. “Okay, not in exactly the way he’d like, I admit. But I felt sorry for him. His wife was so critical and so cold. He couldn’t even be comfortable in his own home.”

  Penelope nodded and took a sip of her tea.

  “I know people thought I wanted to marry him. That if Regina was dead it would clear the way for me. But believe me, that was never my intention.” She smiled briefly. “I happen to be seeing someone as a matter of fact.” She quickly picked up her mug of tea and held it to her face as if she wanted to hide behind it.

  “That’s great,” Penelope said.

  Daphne frowned. “The police have been around again. Detective Maguire was very kind—but he still asked me a lot of questions that made it obvious I was a suspect in Regina’s murder.”

  “Everything should be fine if you have an alibi . . .” Penelope said.

  “I’m afraid I threw a spanner in the works the first time he interviewed me. I lied and told him I had taken my sister to hospital that day. I could hardly turn around now and admit the truth.”

  “I think it would be the best if you did tell him the truth,” Penelope said. “I don’t think they will hold it against you. And it would clear your name. I assume you were somewhere else?”

  “Yes.” Daphne ducked her head. “I didn’t want to tell anyone in case I would jinx it.” She ran her finger around the rim of her mug. “I was in Chelmsford for the day.” She gave Penelope an earnest look. “You’re going to think I’ve gone mad, but I had this plan. Believe it or not, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wearing a ridiculous skimpy uniform and working as a barmaid.”

  Penelope smiled.

  “I was meeting up with a woman who owns a small consignment shop in Chelmsford. She sells upscale women’s clothing and accessories. The shop is darling. All done in that shabby-chic style.” Daphne got a dreamy look in her eyes. “The owner’s mother is quite elderly and recently fell and broke her hip. The woman—her name is Amanda—is going home to Wales to care for her mother and is selling the shop.” Daphne blushed slightly. “I wanted to buy it from her. Gordon offered to help me out with a loan.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Daphne hastened to add. “But I used to work in a shop like that in my teens. I even got promoted to assistant manager, so I do know a little bit about it.”

  “Is that why you’re looking at those books?” Penelope gestured toward the stack of volumes by Daphne’s elbow.

  Daphne nodded. “Obviously with Gordon mad at me, I’m going to have to go to the bank for a loan.” She tapped the pile of books. “So I’ll have to write a business plan.” She frowned. “Of course, it’s a long shot that the bank will lend me money, but I won’t know till I try, will I?” She lifted her chin.

  “That’s true,” Penelope said. She thought back to when she’d applied for the writer-in-residence position at the Open Book. She’d done it as a bit of a lark never suspecting she’d actually be chosen.

  Daphne shut the book she’d been thumbing through. “I think I’ll go speak to Detective Maguire. I’m not going to be able to rest until I do.” She picked up the book.

  “You found something?” Penelope said, indicating the volume in Daphne’s hand.

  Daphne held it up. The title was How to Write a Business Plan in Ten Easy Steps. “It’s perfect,” she said.

  “Good luck,” Penelope called after her as Daphne headed toward the front counter.

  * * *

  * * *

  Mabel had left the Open Book early for a dental appointment so Penelope manned the front desk for the last hour. They had one customer who had come in looking for Charlotte Davenport’s The Fire in My Bosom. Penelope found the book for her and noticed that it was their second-to-last copy. She made a mental note to tell Mabel to order some more.

  “It’s quite a thrill having the author right here in town,” the woman said as she got out her wallet. “And marrying our dear duke no less.”

  Penelope mumbled something appropriate.

  The woman’s eyes clouded. “I dabble in astrology a bit and it doesn’t look auspicious for a match between a Libra and a Capricorn. Libras can be too sensitive for a domineering Capricorn. But it does seem as if Miss Davenport and the duke are an exception.” She beamed. “I am sure they will be deliriously happy.” She clapped her hands together. “And then there will be the excitement of little Worthingtons to look forward to.”

  Penelope smiled and handed the woman her book.

  She was the last customer of the day. Penelope closed out the register and straightened the store, putting away books that had been left out on tables and repositioning chairs that had been moved around.

  “I’m off,” Figgy yelled. She had already turned off the lights in the tearoom. “I’m picking up some kebabs and Derek is coming over for dinner.”

  “Good night,” Penelope said. “Have fun.”

  A hush fell over the shop with Figgy’s departure. Penelope stood for a moment and savored the silence. She inhaled the scent of books that mingled with the faint aromas of tea leaves and vanilla coming from Figgy’s tea shop. She felt a sense of contentment wash over her that she hadn’t felt in a very long time. For once she wasn’t stressing about trying to live up to someone else’s expectations. Obviously, taking the writer-in-residence position, no matter how crazy her friends had thought it was, had been the right decision.

  Penelope was locking the front door to the shop when she noticed a man had stopped on the sidewalk and was taking pictures of the façade of the Open Book. He was wearing a rather shabby tan raincoat, had a spot on his tie, and was quite desperately in need of a haircut.

  He approached Penelope. “Do you work here?”

  “Yes, I do. But I’m sorry, we’re closed.”

  The man ran a hand through his thick thatch of sandy hair. “That’s fine. I don’t want to come in.” He held out his hand. “I’m Noah Spencer. I’m a producer with the BBC—a show called Resurrected—Unsolved Crimes Then and Now. Have you heard of it?”

  Penelope nodded. “Yes, but I have to admit I haven’t seen it.”

  He smiled. “That’s okay. Actually, I’ve got a favor to ask of you.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, can I buy you a glass of wine? I saw a place nearby—Sour Grapes I think it’s called.”

  “Why not?”

  Penelope walked beside him as they headed down the street. He wasn’t tall—perhaps three or four inches shorter than Penelope—and she judged him to be in his forties. He told her a bit about the show he was producing.

  “One of our customers told me about it. She’s a huge fan.”

  Noah smiled and held the door to the Sour Grapes open for Penelope.

  The bar was beginning to fill up with commuters who had just gotten off the train from London and were looking to unwind before going home, as well as office workers who worked locally in lawyers’, stockbrokers’, and estate agents’ offices.

  A small table in the corner was free, a young couple having just finished their drinks and gotten up.

  “Here we go,” Noah said, holding out a chair for Penelope.

  By now Penelope was quite curious as to what this was all about. India had said that the BBC was sending a reporter to Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, but Penelope hadn’t expected to actually run into one.

  “We’re investigating a cold case from nineteen eighty-one,” Noah said after they had placed their order. “Have you heard about it?”

  “Very little,” Penelope said, reaching for the glass of wine the waiter had set on the table. She tried to rememb
er what India had told them. “It was up north somewhere, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Northampton. A fire that killed a young maid and burned Hadleigh House to the ground. They lost some priceless paintings and antiques, but fortunately the family was out when it happened—except for the fourteen-year-old daughter. She managed to escape. At the time, it was suspected that the daughter had set the fire. She was known for being willful and prone to violent outbursts. But she disappeared from view and the parents became reclusive—moving to the Isle of Jura off the coast of Scotland. Whether the girl went with them or not, no one ever knew.”

  “So what brings you to Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, then?”

  Noah fingered the edge of his coaster. “We had an anonymous tip that the daughter was here—in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke—living under an assumed name.” He gave a wry smile. “Not much to go on, I know. But I’ve been tasked with trying to track her down as well as find some locations where we can shoot and capture the essence of the town.”

  Penelope was confused.

  “What does this have to do with the Open Book, though?”

  “We’d like to set up shop in front of your store. The façade is marvelously picturesque with its traditional half-timbering and gabled roof and exactly the sort of thing we’re looking for. It would mean taking over a bit of the sidewalk and possibly delaying people who want to come into or out of the shop. I can assure you we’d do our best not to make complete nuisances of ourselves.”

  “Oh,” Penelope said. “I’m afraid you’re talking to the wrong person. The owner, Mabel Morris, is the one you would have to ask.”

  Noah appeared momentarily disappointed but then smiled.

  “All is not lost. This has been most enjoyable.” He swallowed the last of his glass of pinot noir. “Can you tell me how I can get in touch with this Mabel Morris? Will she be on hand in the shop tomorrow?”