“Are you kidding me?” Gemma shouted.
“Um, no,” I replied. “And Gavin, I mean your dad, says you think Peter was deliberately run off the road, and that makes me think the two incidents are connected. In fact, Belle wondered the same. And I know I sound like some silly mystery book, but the phrase ‘another crime scene’ popped to mind, and I thought you needed to know.”
“Yes, you do sound like a something out of Midsomer Murders, but your assumption makes sense, or at least needs to be taken into consideration. I’m about to wrap up here, so I’ll head to Sunshine Cottage. Any chance you can meet me there?”
I hesitated. “Sure. I’ll leave Wendy here with your dad and Belle.” Why did Gemma want to see me? Did she suspect me of something? Had she gotten wind of my meddling?
Chapter Eleven
In the car alone without the distraction of looking after Wendy and her mum, thoughts of Henry and his bicycle accident overwhelmed me. Peter’s accident had dredged it all up, and big fat tears rolled down my cheeks. I was in danger of falling apart and decided a quick stop by my cottage to get Dickens would help me hold it together.
Dickens was happy to see me and didn’t understand why I was in such a hurry. “What’s up? Aren’t you going upstairs to say hello to Christie? Oh, you’re taking me on a ride?”
On the way, I broke it to Dickens that his friend Peter was in the hospital. I told him I’d explain everything when he, Christie, and I were all together.
Gemma was leaning on her car talking on the phone when we pulled up, so I let Dickens out of the car and told him to stay close, that Gemma and I had work to do. She quickly wrapped up her call and greeted me. “I was calming Mum down,” she said. “She’s worried sick about Peter and Wendy and Belle.”
“I can only imagine,” I said. I’ve only known everyone for a few months, but they’ve all been friends for years. And on top of Alice, it’s just too much.”
“That’s why I asked you to meet me. A murder and attempted murder in the space of a week in the small village of Astonbury can’t be a coincidence. Before I go any further, let me be clear that I’ve been furious at your meddling, but—”
“I know, I know. I’m so sorry—”
“Let me finish,” interrupted Gemma. “I said I’ve been furious, but as more and more information came to light because of you, I began to get over it. That’s right,” she said with a half-smile. “First Toby came to see me. Then it was Peter, and yesterday Beatrix showed up. And every one of them said it was you who encouraged them to share what they knew.”
“Yes, that’s true,” I said hesitantly. “Was what they had to say helpful to the investigation?”
“I’ll say. Some of it was corroboration of things we suspected; some of it was altogether new information. I’d really like to know how you pieced it all together. Actually, maybe I don’t. Just how long were you at Alice’s flat before I arrived with Constable James?” she asked.
Whoa boy, I thought. “Not that long. Long enough to take photos with my phone, and to dig Tigger out from beneath the bed. That’s all.”
“And long enough to touch a vital piece of evidence, right?” she pointed out.
“If you mean the purse with the notepad in it, I guess you’re right.”
“So, if I set aside the fact that you along with Wendy and possibly Belle knowingly disturbed a crime scene, I can’t help but be grateful for your pushing the investigation along. Let me be clear, though, I don’t approve, and I’m telling you now, don’t get any ideas about making this a habit.”
I felt the way I had when I’d been caught reading in the dark as a child, possibly my worst transgression—until, that is, I snuck makeup to school to apply in the girls’ restroom. I’d been forbidden to wear makeup and thought my mom was being utterly unfair.
“Now, that I’ve gotten that out of the way,” said Gemma, “I’d like your help here in the cottage. You’ve been here before, and I’m counting on you to help me see what’s out of place or suspicious. Okay?”
Phew, I thought. I’d half been waiting for the ax to fall, but it seemed I was off the hook. “Sure,” I replied. “Based on what Belle told me, I guess all we need to check is the sitting room.”
Tigger was curled up in Belle’s chair and looked at us warily. “What now?” he meowed.
“Oh, Tigger,” I murmured. “This mess is déjà vu, isn’t it? But at least you’re not wedged up under the bed scared to death.”
“This time, the man tried to be quiet so no slamming around, no cursing. I think it was the same person.” Tigger told me.
That was good information. Seeing books pulled from the bookcase and lying open on the floor reminded me of the scene at Alice’s flat, but this mess was minimal in comparison. “Think it was the same person who broke into Alice’s?” I asked Gemma.
“Could be, but it’s certainly not as big a shambles. Could be Peter interrupted whoever it was before they could get too far.”
“This makes me wonder whether someone was not only looking for Belle’s book but also looking for a photo or a piece of paper or a pamphlet, something that would fit between the pages of a book. Oh no!”
“What?” asked Gemma.
“The letter in the book completely slipped my mind,” I cried.
“What letter in what book?”
“Sorry. It’s hard to keep it all straight. Inside the book I found was a letter from Barrie to Wendy’s gran. So maybe whoever was here was also looking for letters.”
“Are you purposely talking in riddles, Leta? What book?” Gemma asked again.
“Peter and Wendy. Wendy discovered Belle’s copy was missing, and I stumbled across it at the inn. We heard all about collectors the other night at book club, how they want not only books but also correspondence and manuscripts. What do you think?”
“Bloody hell, you think this has to do with a talk at book club? Are you kidding me? Would that be worth killing someone for?”
“Gemma, my gut tells me it’s all tied to Belle, her book, and maybe more. Why do we keep finding books pulled from bookcases if these break-ins don’t have anything to do with books? Is it too far-fetched to think we’re dealing with a deranged collector?”
Gemma looked at me in astonishment. “Of course, it’s too far-fetched, Leta. Let’s be practical.”
“Well, we’re talking about a lot of money. But look. I’m curious now. See this footstool by the corner cupboard? It’s usually by Belle’s easy chair. I’m thinking someone was about to use it to reach the top shelf of the cabinet. Let me see what’s up there.” I stood on the stool and reached up, but at 5’2”, I was too short to reach the top.
“Here, let me do it,” said Gemma. She reached and brought down a wooden box decoupaged with pastel flowers. “It’s only a box of letters, nothing else up there.”
“Those must be Mary’s letters,” I said. “Belle mentioned she had tied them with a lace ribbon and stored them in a box. Could Peter have interrupted the intruder before they could climb on the stool to get them?”
Gemma again looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. “So now it’s letters? Someone would break in for letters? Why on earth would anyone do that?”
In my brain, bits of information were falling into place, like puzzle pieces. Sunshine Cottage had been given to Gran by Uncle Jim, and Belle had said the treasured letters were from him. All this week, I’d been hearing random facts and anecdotes about J. M. Barrie—his visits to Stanway House, his donation of the cricket pavilion, a newly discovered play, and the gifts he’d given Belle. Were these latest incidents somehow connected to the famous author of Peter Pan?
I was beginning to feel defensive and just a little irritated. “I don’t know,” I retorted. “I’m still trying to piece it together.” I didn’t have it all worked out in my head and Gemma sure wasn’t buying the book idea. Why was that any less believable than killing over knickknacks?
I tried again. “Another thing I haven’t had a chance
to tell you is that Wendy not only discovered the book was missing but also that quite a few other things were too. She planned to go through the letters next to see if they’d been disturbed. Given what you told me about Alice’s flea market background, I thought at first she was supplementing her income by selling knickknacks, and beyond that, blackmailing her clients. Is it possible she had moved onto something bigger?”
“Like what? Books? You can’t be serious.” Gemma scoffed.
I tried to stay calm even though she was speaking to me like I was a crazy person. “But what if we’re talking rare books? I read that an Edgar Allan Poe book sold for $600,000 USD. That’s what I meant by a lot of money. Could someone be looking for something rare by J. M. Barrie or one of the other authors who summered with him at Stanway House?”
“Leta, I have no idea. Let’s leave it and finish doing what we came to do. Can you tell if anything is missing?”
Well, that’s that, I thought. She won’t even consider me being on the right track. I’d had about all I could take. “Fine, just fine. I can’t see anything obvious missing. We’ll have to wait until Belle or Wendy can look through the letters.”
“You’re not going to let it go, are you?” Gemma asked in exasperation. “We’ll ask them, but for now, how about you go home and organize your thoughts—maybe you’ll come up with something beyond books. But do not, and I repeat do not, go out and start asking questions. One person is dead, and one is seriously injured. You need to be careful.”
Now she was not only irritating me but also scaring me. I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d talk to anyway. Except Wendy and Belle, and we knew they were both innocent.
“I’ll take another look at the suspects I have for Alice’s murder to see whether they could in any way be in the frame for the break-in or the attack on Peter,” continued Gemma. “Even though my gut tells me that most of them are in the clear for Alice’s death, I need to consider the timeline and the evidence for all three incidents now.”
“And then we’ll compare notes?” I asked. I desperately wanted to know who she suspected but was afraid she’d shoot me there and then if I asked.
“Yes. Call me tomorrow so we can put our heads together,” she asked. “Frankly, if I don’t make headway fast, CID is going to swoop in and take over. It may already be too late. Once today’s attack makes its way up the chain of command, I may be removed from the case and be out of the loop.”
“Oh no,” I said. “Maybe we haven’t gotten all that far, but we’ve likely made as much headway as anyone could. I’ll ring you tomorrow, then. I plan to be at home or at the hospital the rest of today.”
I stopped by home long enough to take a shower and grab something to eat. I stood with my hip against the counter waiting for the coffee to brew. I surely needed coffee too. I was munching on a protein bar when I noticed the note on the kitchen table, and I teared up when I realized Peter had written it. As I read the note aloud, Dickens laughed, and Christie was, of course, indignant.
Leta,
Your bicycle is propped against the wall just inside the garage door. I think I’ve put the seat back in the proper position for you in case you want to take it for a practice spin. If not, maybe we can take a ride together next week. What do you think about putting Christie in the basket? HA!”
I was hesitant to tell them the details of what had happened to Peter, and when I finally did, they were visibly upset. Dickens paced the kitchen while I ate, and the fur on Christie’s back stood up.
“He’s a very nice man,” said Christie. “He poured my milk just the right way this morning and let me sit in his lap before he took Dickens out. Why would anyone want to hurt him?”
“And, he took me to see Martha and Dylan—twice!” barked Dickens. “They like him too. Can I go see him, please?”
“Sorry, boy, they won’t let you in the hospital, but if I get to see Peter, I’ll tell him you asked about him. Now, you two, I hate to leave you on your own again, but I need to see how Wendy and Belle are doing.”
Christie piped up, “Leta, I can’t help but think all this has something to do with what happened to Alice. Since we can’t go with you, maybe I can look at the photos again to see if we missed anything. I’m worried, and I want to help.”
I wasn’t sure there was anything more to see, but if Christie wanted to help, it couldn’t hurt. I turned on my computer and once again set up the slideshow of photos, and Detective Christie leaped up and settled on the desk. I rubbed her sleek black head and kissed her goodbye on her nose before turning to Dickens to scratch his ears.
Not much had changed in the waiting room at the hospital. Gemma had come and gone and gotten the story of the break-in from Belle. She’d confirmed that the tire tracks on the soft dirt on the shoulder, or verge as the Brits called it, told the story of a deliberate hit-and-run. As bad as Peter’s injuries were, he was lucky he’d been wearing his helmet.
Once I arrived, Gavin went home to help Libby, and I reminded him I’d be there the next day to prep the rooms for the weekend guests arriving Friday evening. Wendy looked dreadful and had little to say. Belle remained calm, but I could tell the waiting and the worry were taking their toll. I was reflecting on the scene at Sunshine Cottage when I thought of a way to distract them both from the current circumstances.
“Belle,” I said, “I noticed your smile earlier when you mentioned your toybox. Was that another gift from Uncle Jim?”
Belle’s face lit up. “Yes,” she said. “He was the most amazing little man. It wouldn’t do for me to have a plain wooden box for my toys. He had to bring me one with the inscription ‘Belle’s Toybox’ in gilt lettering. I filled it with stuffed animals and wooden blocks and a baby doll, and it played a major role in the stories he told me.”
“It sounds as though you remember the stories, Belle. I’d love to hear one.”
“Oh, there were quite a few, Leta, but the ones I remember best are those he put in the book he wrote for me. I knew I was in for a treat whenever mum said, ‘Let’s read The Family at Sunshine Cottage.’”
I squealed, “He wrote a book for you?”
“Why yes, dear, and he also had a friend draw some lovely pictures to go in it.” I could tell Belle didn’t think this was anything special, but even Wendy perked up at this point.
“Mum, are you talking about the storybook you used to read to Peter and me when we were small?” she asked. “I always thought it was a book Gran had found for you at a shop. It wasn’t?”
“Oh no, sweetheart. I think Uncle Jim had it specially bound and printed up for me. I don’t recall all the details, but every once in a while, Uncle Jim would send Mum a letter with a story in it. It seems after he accumulated several, he decided they should be in a book. He knew I adored the Winnie-the-Pooh books he’d given me and wanted my stories to be in a book too. Instead of The House at Pooh Corner, my book was The Family at Sunshine Cottage.”
Anyone who passed the waiting room right then would have seen two grown women with their mouths hanging open. I think Wendy and I were equally amazed, and we could tell Belle was puzzled by our expressions.
“Mum,” said Wendy, “are you telling me that you have a book of stories written by J. M. Barrie, a book written especially for you?”
“Why yes, Wendy. I read it to you and Peter any number of times, though you two were never quite as enchanted with it as I was. I adored it and still do. The stories are about me and Tinker and Gran and my magic toybox.”
“Um, Mum,” said Wendy, “where do you keep the book now?”
“In the toybox in Peter’s old room. It’s not in bad shape, considering. Once you and Peter outgrew it, I wrapped it in tissue paper and stored it with my favorite toys. Silly me—I had hoped I’d someday have grandchildren to read it to, but that didn’t come to pass.”
Belle teared up as she uttered the last sentence, and Wendy moved to the couch to put her arms around her mother. Just then, the doctor came to the doorway. I couldn�
��t tell from his expression whether he was the bearer of good news or bad.
“Mrs. Davies, your son has regained consciousness, but he’s understandably disoriented. He’s resting comfortably and we’ll move him to a room as soon as we have one available.”
Wendy burst into tears, and it was Belle’s turn to comfort her. I breathed a sigh of relief and sat there not knowing what to do. I wondered whether I could take them both home to freshen up.
After some back and forth, we agreed I’d run them home, and Wendy would drive them back to Cheltenham later. I was glad Sunshine Cottage wasn’t in awful shape from the break-in because I didn’t think either mother or daughter could take much more stress.
I helped Belle from the car as Wendy grabbed her suitcase. I purposely settled Belle in the kitchen and put the kettle on while Wendy took her bag upstairs to her bedroom. Tigger must have understood I was trying to keep his mistress from seeing the sitting room because he appeared in the kitchen and jumped to Belle’s lap.
Wendy came down the stairs and walked into the sitting room, and we heard her shout, “It’s not too bad, nothing like Alice’s place.” She continued talking, perhaps to herself, but neither of us could make out her words.
“Here we go, tea and biscuits,” I said as she sat down at the kitchen table. “After we’ve all had a cup, I can help you straighten up, but maybe I should ask Gemma before we do that?” Then I reconsidered. Gemma hadn’t said that Wendy and Belle couldn't touch anything, so why miss this opportunity to find fresh clues? “Nah, never mind,” I said.
Belle, Wendy, and I took turns studying the room from the doorway to see whether anything leaped out at us, but nothing did, except for the footstool and the box of letters sitting on it. I explained that Gemma had taken it down from the top shelf. Then we entered the room and looked at the books on the floor to see if there was anything significant in the titles. Again, nothing. I offered to put the books back on the shelves while Wendy looked at the box of letters.
Bells, Tails, & Murder: (A Dickens & Christie Mystery) Page 14