Bells, Tails, & Murder: (A Dickens & Christie Mystery)

by Kathy Manos Penn

  “No,” I said. “By the way, did you find a computer or a cell phone anywhere?”

  “You’re a curious one, aren’t you?” said Gemma. “But, no, we didn’t find either, which just makes this whole case more complex. I have to think that whoever ransacked her flat took her computer and phone, but why?”

  Libby was close to sobbing. “I can’t fathom all this. Do I need to check to see what may be missing from the Olde Mill?”

  “Yes, Mum, sooner or later, but it’s not urgent. And you too, Leta. There could be more missing from your cottage, and I guess since Belle and Wendy were with you when you rescued Tigger, you might as well suggest the same to them. There may be a more sinister aspect to all this, but I’ve already shared more than I should with you two, so let’s leave it at that. Thanks for the tea, Mum. Gotta run.”

  “Libby,” I said, “it’s time Dickens and I headed home. I’m happy to return later this week to change linens again if that helps. Dickens and Paddington put on quite a show for me this morning. Maybe I can get a repeat performance.”

  “Let me check the schedule, and I’ll let you know what might be the best day. I think the lot that’s checking into the inn today are only staying two nights, and then I’ll get a new batch of guests Friday night.”

  I was fastening Dickens’s harness in the back seat when Dave Prentiss drove up. He greeted me and said he’d forgotten something in his haste to set off after breakfast.

  “I’m glad I’ve run into you,” he said. “I was going to ask Libby for your phone number so I could invite you to dinner.”

  “Me?” I exclaimed, somewhat unartfully. I could have kicked myself for reacting as though no one would want to take me out. Honestly, an invitation from Toby and now one from an almost-stranger in the same week . . . I was floored, even if Toby was a friend with an ulterior motive for the dinner.

  “Yes, you,” Dave responded with a chuckle. “Don’t act so surprised. Two Americans in the Cotswolds seems like a grand opportunity to get better acquainted. I’d love to hear more about how you decided to relocate here and what your experience has been. Who knows? It could even turn into a travel article—one featuring an attractive brunette and her sidekick, Dickens the dog. Would Tuesday evening suit?”

  “Sounds delightful,” I said. “Let me warn you, though, if you write an article, you’ll have to mention Christie too, or there’ll be hell to pay. She’s quite the sensitive little thing.”

  “And Christie is . . . ?”

  “My black cat. I’m betting you know who my four-legged companions are named for, right?”

  Dave frowned and paused before his face broke into a smile. “Charles Dickens and Agatha Christie, of course!”

  “Got it in one,” I said.

  “It’s a date, then. I’ll get some suggestions from Gavin as to a good place for dinner, and I’ll pick you up at six. That way, I can meet Christie. If I’m going to write about her, I’ll need some background.”

  Dickens and I stopped to see Martha and Dylan on our walk home. As I rubbed Dylan’s nose, I heard the jingle of a bicycle bell and looked up to see Peter stopping on the grass. “What a glorious morning for a ride,” he said. “I rode over to the Broadway Tower, and the views are gorgeous today.”

  “I bet. I’ve only climbed it once, back when Henry and I visited. He was taken with its World War Two history, especially the story of the British bomber that crashed nearby during a training mission. Maybe Dickens and I will take the car one day and do another bit of the Cotswolds Way.”

  “Maybe one of these days, I’ll manage to get you on your bicycle, and we can visit it that way, though we’ll have to leave Dickens behind for that,” said Peter.

  “I know, I know, I keep threatening to ride again. I see you on your bicycle so many mornings and ask myself when I’m going to get up the courage, but it hasn’t happened yet. I wonder if getting my bicycle tuned up would give me the push I need,” I said.

  “That could do it,” Peter replied. “Your bicycle shined up, ready to roll, and parked up front in the garage instead of tucked away out of sight. How ’bout I come by and pick it up and take it to the bicycle shop in Bourton-on-the-Water?”

  I hesitated. “That might be too much pressure for me, but what the heck? If you’re free this evening, why don’t you come by for dinner and you can get it then? Nothing fancy, but I’ll throw something together. What do you think?”

  “You’re on. Don’t you know a confirmed bachelor never turns down an offer of food?”

  Dickens looked at me as Peter rode off. “Confirmed bachelor, but we suspect Alice was his girlfriend? What’s he trying to hide, Leta?”

  “Perhaps we’ll find out tonight, Dickens. Now, what shall we make for dinner? The usual Greek salad. Just like at home, everyone wants me to make my salad, but what else? Maybe some simple baked chicken.”

  We popped into the kitchen to get the car keys and drove to the grocery. Dickens reminded me we also needed cat and dog treats and more carrots, and I had a yearning for cheese grits after telling Toby about them, so I picked up some cheddar cheese too.

  I was ready to sit a while when we got back to the cottage, but as I was putting away the groceries, Christie strolled into the kitchen. “I found two interesting things in your photos before I took my nap,” she meowed.

  “Right,” barked Dickens. “How much time did you spend studying the slideshow versus napping?”

  “Enough to discover one of Leta’s Frog Prince fairytale books in one of the bedroom pics,” she said. “The one with the mustard-gold cover.”

  “Seriously?” I said. “What on earth would trigger an interest in the Frog Prince? Maybe she’s just a thief, plain and simple, though the things she took from me aren’t especially valuable. And, of course, a simple thief wouldn’t have been blackmailing Toby.”

  “Do you want me to show you what else I found?” asked Christie as she hopped up on my desk.

  Christie stared at the computer until a photo of the bedroom came up. “There,” she meowed, pointing her paw at a tiny black and white photo visible on a side table in the corner of the screen. “It’s an old photo and looks like a little girl with a short mustached man. They both have big smiles.”

  I zoomed in so I could see it more clearly. It was in a tarnished gold metal frame like we used to get at Woolworth’s when I was a child. I couldn’t be sure, but the man looked like the photos I’d seen of J. M. Barrie. Could the little girl be Belle when she was young? I would have to show this to Belle and Wendy. That reminded me—I wondered whether Wendy had been able to determine if anything was missing from their cottage. I’d give her a call after Peter left. That way, we could compare notes from our day.

  “Blimey,” Peter said as he pushed back from the table. “I think I could eat one of your salads every day. They’re that good.”

  “Why, thank you. When I was growing up, my dad fixed one for every Sunday dinner. It was a staple at our house, much like scones are around here. I have ice cream for dessert—no cookies or tarts, though. Goodness, how I miss Alice and her baking.”

  “Yes, she was the best with sweets, that’s for sure,” said Peter. “It’s only been two days, and I already miss seeing her come up the drive with her cloth-covered basket filled with whatever she’d decided to bake that week.”

  “How often did she clean for you, Peter?” I asked.

  “Twice a week, a few hours in my flat and a few in my office. My flat didn’t get all that messy, but it always looked better after she’d been . . . aw, give me a sec,” he said as he wiped his eyes on the napkin. “Now, my office at the garage was another thing entirely. I can hear her now fussing at the greasy fingerprints everywhere.” And then big tears rolled down his face.

  “Oh gosh, Peter, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s just that . . . she was more than a housekeeper to me, Leta. I don’t think many people knew, and for sure Wendy and Mum didn’t, but we’d been seeing each other for
about six months, and we’d just broken up. She was going down a path I couldn’t deal with, and I couldn’t get her to listen to reason.”

  “What do you mean, Peter?”

  “I knew I should have spoken to Gemma, but I couldn’t face it.”

  “What? Well, maybe you should go to Gemma now, whatever it is,” I said.

  Peter didn’t seem to hear me as he stumbled on. “It took me a while to see she was pinching the odd thing here and there, and I was shocked. We weren’t often at her place, so I didn’t notice at first—until the night I saw a funny little teapot in her kitchen. It was an Alice in Wonderland teapot, and it looked strangely familiar. When I commented on it, she said, ‘Oh that; it was at the book shop.’ I waited for her to say she’d bought it, but instead she said, ‘I fancied it, so I took it.’”

  “Just like that?” I exclaimed.

  “Yes. She said she took things from time to time, and she either sold them to a flea market friend she had in Manchester or she pawned them. Or she’d send them on to her aunt in Manchester. She was in a nursing home, and a little something here and there cheered her up.”

  This all lined up with what Gemma had told me.

  Peter looked miserable. “I couldn’t believe what she was telling me. And the worst part was she didn’t see any real harm in it. She only took from people who had more than they needed, she said.”

  “Well, I have to admit when I went to her flat to see to Tigger, I saw one of my figurines,” I said. “And yes, perhaps in her book I have more than I need, but that little crystal Frog Prince was given to me by Henry and it means a lot to me. Could be she thought it would cheer up her aunt, but still.”

  “Could be,” he said. “She never had much money and was always worried about fixing her car or paying the rent, and she seemed to think it was okay to make ends meet by helping herself to what others had.”

  “I wonder how much of it was the thrill of getting away with something?” I said. “I’ve heard that’s why some people shoplift. But the way you explain it, I guess this was more a case of Alice feeling she was in need and that her clients weren’t. I wonder whether it bothered her at all to steal from us—people she knew and liked. Well, at least I felt like she liked us.”

  “I don’t know, Leta. I guess it could’ve been a combination of needing money plus getting a kick out of putting one over on folks. I really cared about her, and I wanted to help her. I thought if I could get her on her feet financially, she might stop. And she did stop for a bit when I gave her that used car.”

  “You gave her the car?”

  “Um, yes. I’d gotten it for a song as I sometimes do from customers who are upgrading, and I thought if she didn’t have to worry about the constant repairs on the old one, she could catch up on her bills. She was surprised and grateful, but it wasn’t long before she was back at it. I knew because I saw a small Peter Rabbit piggy bank in her bedroom. It looked suspiciously like the one Mum had given me when I was a boy—the one I’d left in my bedroom when I moved out. That’s when we had our first real row.”

  “Gosh, Peter, she stole from your mum? And here you were, doing everything you could to help her. Short of turning her in, that is.”

  “I guess I should’ve, because it didn’t stop there. We had an even bigger row when I figured out she was blackmailing Toby. Blackmail, can you believe it? She told me he was the only one, but I couldn’t believe her anymore.”

  “Did she say what she was blackmailing Toby about?” I asked.

  “That was the worst of it. She said he was having an affair with Rhiannon. No way I believed that, but there was no convincing Alice of anything once she’d made up her mind. I guess the fact Toby paid her means she was right and I was wrong, but somehow I still don’t believe it.”

  By now I was just nodding as Peter poured out his story. I suspected he’d never told anyone about all this and was relieved to get it off his chest. I pointed to the tea kettle and he nodded yes. Christie, sensing his distress, climbed into his lap, and he seemed to take some comfort from stroking her.

  “Fool that I was, I offered to pay her rent for a month or two if she’d stop. She seemed genuinely contrite and touched and said she’d think about it. I should have known better.”

  “Why, Peter?” I asked. “What happened?”

  “The last time she cleaned my office, she told me she could make do without the rent money, that she’d soon be quitting the blackmail altogether as she had a new scheme to get all the money she needed. She was right chuffed. That was it for me, and I told her I was at my rope’s end, that I wouldn’t stand for her doing anything else illegal.

  “She laughed at me! I couldn’t believe she laughed at me. She told me straight I had no say in what she did or didn’t do. She called me a fool and a few other choice things and walked out. I’d never felt so humiliated in my life.”

  “Oh, Peter,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I tried to talk to her at the party, but she made a point of ignoring me. I just can’t believe she’s dead,” he said. “And I can’t help but think it had something to do with this latest moneymaking scheme, or maybe she was blackmailing lots of folks. Who knows?”

  “You know you need to go to Gemma, right?” I said.

  “I know, I know. But don’t they always suspect the husband or boyfriend in the movies? I’m that afraid Gemma will think I had something to do with her death, and I’m not sure I won’t be in trouble because I knew about the knickknacks she took and then the blackmail and didn’t speak up. What’s the wording they use? ‘Accomplice after the fact?’”

  “Yes, I think that’s right, and I can see why you’re hesitant. They’re bound to ask you about an alibi for the night Alice died too.” He had good reason to be worried, and I wasn’t sure what to tell him. Deep in thought, I poured us both more tea.

  Staring into his cup, Peter said, “Thank you for listening. Somehow, I couldn’t tell Wendy or Mum. They’d think me a complete idiot; well, I guess I am, actually. I’ve never been any good with girls. I was always awkward and shy, but somehow I could talk to Alice. Guess I was just plain naïve. What a fool.”

  “Umm, Peter,” I said, “You know I’m good friends with Wendy. Do I need to keep this conversation a secret?”

  “In some ways, it’d make it easier if you told her about my relationship with Alice. Then by the time I speak with her, she’ll be over her shock. She might only call me an idiot once or twice instead of going on and on.” He smiled as he said the last bit and stood up.

  “Anyway, let’s at least get your bicycle on the back of my car. Maybe something good will come out of my unloading on you, and we’ll get you back on your bike before long.”

  After Peter loaded up my bicycle, I took Dickens for a quick walk, hoping the exercise would clear my mind. No such luck. My brain was packed way too full with distressing information. It reminded me of the old adage from the few years I worked in Human Resources: “Once you’ve heard the two sides of the story, you’ll find the truth somewhere in the middle.”

  Except now, I felt like I was hearing several sides of Alice’s story, and I couldn’t figure out the truth or what any of it had to do with her death at the cricket pavilion. I even shushed Dickens because I couldn’t deal with his questions.

  Peter seemed like such a soft-hearted guy, but people aren’t always what they seem. Could he have killed Alice in a rage over their breakup or at being humiliated at giving her a car and realizing how he’d been taken advantage of? He hadn’t responded when I mentioned an alibi, and since he lived at home, I’m sure he wouldn’t have one. I didn’t want to believe the man I’d eaten dinner with alone at my cottage could be a killer.

  When we returned to the cottage, both Christie and Dickens wanted to rehash the dinner conversation and grumbled when I nixed that idea. Emotionally exhausted, I couldn’t even face a phone call with Wendy. Instead, before trudging upstairs with my book, I shot off a short email inviting her to come ov
er for lunch to compare notes. Tomorrow would be soon enough to find out what she’d discovered in her snooping.

  Chapter Eight

  I woke up early with the niggling thought that I’d missed something vital in the photos of Alice’s flat. Still in my robe and slippers, I sat down at my desk with my first cup of coffee. It wasn’t until the caffeine kicked in that I thought to study the pics of the notebook pages.

  “That’s it,” I said to the four-legged sleuths who’d joined me. “Each client has a page, but not all clients are alike.”

  Christie hopped on the desk and positioned herself smack dab in front of the computer screen and meowed indignantly when I nudged her aside. Not wanting to miss out, Dickens placed his paws on my desk chair, craning his neck to see what I was talking about.

  “Look, for most clients, like me, Wendy, Gavin and Libby, for example, the notes are pretty straightforward—our rates and our regular days plus an occasional mention of lunch or dinner and a charge for that. Alice has only prepared one meal for me so far but quite often cooks light meals for Belle and Wendy and others. And I bet ‘party’ on the page for Gavin and Libby means the times she prepared snacks at the Inn like the other night.”

  “That seems innocent enough, Leta,” meowed Christie.

  “Yes, it does, until you look at other pages like Toby’s,” I pointed out. Beneath his rate and days are additional lines of dates and amounts like £100, £50, £75, etc. Those must be the amounts she demanded to keep quiet about Rhiannon. And the checkmarks after the amounts must mean Alice received her payment.”

  “But Toby said there was nothing going on between him and Rhiannon,” barked Dickens.

  “Doesn’t matter. As long as Alice was threatening to tell Cynthia the two were having an affair and to show her some kind of evidence to that effect, Toby was going to pay. And, uh-oh, the information on Beatrix’s page is similar; only the amounts are different. What could Alice have had on Beatrix?”