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

by Kathy Manos Penn

  “The ironing is doing in my back, and I’m getting desperate. The girl I had Friday and Saturday was a disaster, so I’ve renewed my ad in several Cotswolds papers and online with the Astonbury Aha. If I don’t get a response soon, I may have to advertise further afield. Now tell me how Peter is.”

  “Holding his own and improving. The doctors don’t think he’ll have any long-term issues, and he may be able to go home as early as today, but he’ll need home help to come in for a while. Isn’t it strange? When I thought of him needing meals, the first thing that came to mind was ‘Call Alice.’ Life changes in an instant, doesn’t it?”

  Libby shook her head and looked near tears. She’d taken Alice’s death hard, and Peter’s accident only added to her fragile state.

  I gave an encouraging smile and grabbed garbage bags to take upstairs. Dickens, Paddington, and I fell quickly into our routine, as in I worked and they played.

  As usual, I saved Dave’s room for last. I thought I heard a muffled phone conversation before Dave hollered, “Just a minute.” He looked tired and a bit frazzled this morning. Behind him, I could see papers spread on the bed.

  “Hi there,” I said. “Hope you had a productive trip to the coast. I’ve brought you fresh towels, and I’m happy to straighten up your room if it won’t disturb you. Unlike in the finest hotels, you cannot request this maid come back later.”

  “Darn, I hate to ask this again, but can I give you the wet towels in exchange for clean ones? I’m in the middle of something.”

  “No worries,” I said. I took the towels and headed downstairs to drop them off and tidy the common areas. I hoped Paddington wasn’t getting ready to spring any more surprises on me, like Belle’s book. I wasn’t sure I could take much more.

  Leaving the conservatory, I encountered Dave rushing downstairs with his briefcase. “Off to sight-see?” I asked.

  “I wish. The internet connection here is slow as molasses and I’ve got to make this deadline. I’m headed to Toby’s Tearoom. I know their internet is fast and reliable.” He climbed in his car and took off in a hurry, throwing gravel as he left.

  I realized Dave’s room was now unoccupied, so I decided to give it a once over. It would only take a minute to empty the trash and gather any stray dishes.

  “Boy,” said Dickens as we walked in Dave’s room. “His room’s awfully messy this time.”

  And he was right. Dave had only been back one night, but the room was pretty much a wreck, with an overflowing trash can plus papers still spread out on the unmade bed. I thought I could pull the sheets and comforter up without disturbing the papers too much. As I went to lay the papers back out, I glimpsed something strangely familiar—one of Mary’s letters, only it was a copy, not an original.

  A copy? I thought. How would Dave get a copy of a letter Belle kept in a box at Sunshine Cottage? When I picked it up, I realized it was a copy of the one I’d found in the book downstairs on my last visit, and on the back was a message in blue ink. I read it aloud as Dickens looked at me.

  Are you interested? Will sell this letter and others for 500 each. AJ

  I looked more closely at the papers on the bed and saw a second handwritten note, not on an old letter, but on Inn stationery.

  I’ve done my research. Not many Peter & Wendys around, and I’ve got something even better. What would a collector give for a book that’s never been seen before? AJ

  “Oh!” I said to Dickens. “This is from Alice. My gut was right. This is all about books . . . and letters. Libby must have a copier in the office. I need to make a copy quick.” I ran downstairs and found the copier and, with my hands shaking, made two copies and ran back upstairs to replace the original where I’d found it.

  Where exactly was it on the bed? I thought. Dave can’t know I’ve seen this. I decided the best approach was to stack all the papers together in the center of the bed. On a piece of Inn stationery, I wrote him a note saying I hoped he’d made his deadline and that his clean room would make him smile. I signed it “The Dickens and Leta Maid Service.” Surely, that would allay any suspicion he might have that I’d been snooping.

  Dickens was talking a mile a minute as we went downstairs. “Leta, we’ve got to tell Gemma. This is scary. I thought Dave was a good guy. Didn’t you?”

  “It just goes to show what a poor judge of character I am,” I said. “And, apparently, you’re not much better.”

  Let’s go see if Gemma’s still at home.”

  No such luck. I knocked and even looked around back on her patio, but there was no sign of her. I dialed her cell phone, but it went to voicemail. My message was a terse “We need to talk—again.” I looked at Dickens and said, “I guess there’s nothing for it but to head home and try to sort through this mess on my own.”

  “Yes, let’s go,” he barked. “Though, I need to remind you you’re not all by yourself. You have Detective Dickens and Christie at your service.”

  Breathe, I said to myself as I unlocked my kitchen door. Christie wrapped herself around my ankles, threatening to trip me before I could get to the kitchen table. “Knock it off,” I yelled.

  “Whoa, what’s up with you,” Christie hissed.

  “She’s scared, that’s what’s up,” barked Dickens. “Give her a break.”

  Dickens nudged Christie into the sitting room and brought her up to speed. Of course, even he didn’t have all the details yet. I couldn’t decide whether to involve Wendy or not. She had enough on her mind with worrying about her twin. She might even be bringing him home today. Looks like Dickens and Christie are going to be my sounding board for now, I thought.

  I put the kettle on and looked at them. “What do you think? It looks as though Dave is involved in this, doesn’t it?”

  “I told you I didn’t care for him,” meowed Christie.

  “But I liked him,” said Dickens.

  I had tears in my eyes. “And so did I. I thought he was genuinely interested in me. But I guess it was all about the books and what I might know . . .”

  I made a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table with my chin in my hands. Christie jumped into my lap and meowed, “Are you sure? I don’t like him, but do you think he’s the killer?”

  “I don’t know,” I wailed. “Whether he’s a killer or somehow involved in the scheme, he hasn’t been honest with me. And what about the note about the Edgar Allan Poe book? Is he the buyer or the finder for some rich collector? And he should’ve told me he knew Alice.”

  I grabbed my cell phone and dialed his number. It went to voicemail, and I hung up. I drank some tea and tried to collect my thoughts. Dave knew Wendy and I had been going to Oxford, and he’d learned all he needed to know about Belle’s books and letters that day at Sunshine Cottage. He must’ve thought Belle would be by herself.

  And where was he when Peter was run off the road? He said he was going to the coast, but did he? I didn’t want to believe I’d been on a date with a killer, but the evidence all pointed that way.

  When my phone rang, I was hoping it was Gemma, but it was Dave. He must have seen my number as a missed call on his phone. Oh hell, I thought, just do it. When I said hello, he seemed a bit irritated.

  “Hi, did you call me? Is something up?”

  “Um, no—I mean yes, I was calling to cancel on you for dinner. Something’s come up.”

  Dave didn’t respond right away. “Are you alright? You sound a little funny.”

  “I’m fine,” I snapped. “I have a conflict, that’s all.”

  “Okay . . . well, I’m still trying to make my deadline, so I’ll call you later, alright?”

  “Sure, if you want to. Bye,” I said as I hung up. Oh, for goodness’ sake, I could have handled that better, but at least it was over and done with. Now I needed to talk to Gemma and tell her what I’d seen and what I thought.

  Why hadn’t I texted her the copies of the notes I’d found in Dave’s room? I rooted through my purse for the copies I’d made and scrolled through the photos
on my phone for the earlier note about the $600,000 paid for the Poe book and the picture of the Rare Finds book.

  I texted it all to Gemma with a message, “We need to talk.”

  I didn’t hear from Gemma but instead received a text from Wendy. Peter was checking out of the hospital today, and she and Belle were taking him to his flat above the garage. My first thought was I needed to swing into action and organize his meals.

  I sent an email to the group explaining the American custom of providing meals when a friend was in need and asking them to sign up for lunch and dinner slots starting Tuesday. A week of meals would probably do it. I volunteered for Monday, so I made a grocery list and drove to Sainsbury’s. Perhaps shopping and cooking would take my mind off murder and mayhem.

  I bought the ingredients for chicken salad, Greek salad, and baked ziti, and since desserts weren’t my forte, I picked up some fresh-baked cookies. Back home, I spent the afternoon cooking. It was a good thing nothing I was making required carefully measured ingredients, as my mind kept wandering to what I’d seen in Dave’s room and what it meant.

  I could pretty much make a Bolognese sauce in my sleep, so the baked ziti came together without a hitch. With enough for two batches, I put one in the freezer, thinking I might invite friends for dinner one evening. I’d popped the chicken in the oven as soon as I came home, so while it cooled, I chopped celery, onion, and fresh basil for chicken salad. I’d prepare the Greek salad fresh at Peter’s Monday evening.

  Gemma rang as I was washing dishes. “Okay, I don’t have time for a wild goose chase, so can you please explain to me what you think those notes mean? I can see some are from Alice, but where’d you find them?”

  “Oops, guess I left out a few details,” I said. “They were in Dave Prentiss’s room at the inn, the journalist. I think he was in league with Alice somehow. Maybe he met her at the cricket pavilion; maybe he broke into Sunshine Cottage; maybe he ran Peter off the road.”

  “Whoa, Leta, those are a lot of maybes. Why are you suddenly pointing the finger at him when he wasn’t even on our radar? What else do you know about him?”

  I told her the little I knew about Dave’s background and explained that his being a journalist who freelanced for literary magazines was a big red flag in my mind. Who better to understand the ins and outs of rare books? And who better to be able to connect with potential buyers?

  “There you go again grasping at straws. We can’t just make up suspects out of the blue, you know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Gemma? You asked me to ring you with any little thing I uncovered, and this is big. I think Dave had a motive and you can find out whether he had the opportunity. And, for your information, I consider him such a strong suspect, I canceled the date I had with him for tonight.”

  “What? You think he’s a murderer and you accepted another date with him? Given what you think you’ve discovered?” she asked.

  “That was before I found the notes,” I yelled. “I got scared, so I called it off.”

  “Well, thank goodness for that. How about staying put tonight so I don’t have to worry about you? I’m trying to arrange a guard for Peter’s home and don’t have the manpower available to be chasing after you. So no more snooping, you hear me?”

  “Oh, I hear you alright. If this is the thanks I get, I won’t be bringing you anything else. I’m tired of being treated like I’m some kind of idiot.” And with that, I hung up. If I’d had an old-fashioned landline, I’d have slammed down the phone for good measure.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I meant what I’d told Gemma. I was scared. I was lonely, and I was feeling sorry for myself. Not a good combination. I put together a plate of fruit and cheese for dinner, poured a glass of wine, and tried playing Words with Friends. I found I was making too many amateur moves and blamed my distracted state. I’m a tad competitive, so playing poorly just wouldn’t do.

  I tried reading my Louise Penny book but kept having to read the same paragraph over and over. In a typical week, I would have already finished it and started a new novel, but then, this had not by any means been a typical week.

  I moved to my office and tried writing a column about my trip to Oxford with Wendy. It just wouldn’t flow. Finally, I turned to the TV and found a rerun of Agatha Christie’s Poirot. I’d seen it so many times my lack of focus didn’t keep me from enjoying it.

  Christie jumped in my lap and meowed, “I always love seeing stories by the lady I’m named for.” I rubbed her head distractedly and she purred in contentment.

  Dickens couldn’t seem to settle down. “Out you go,” I said. “Check the corners and be sure they’re clear.” Of course, he wasn’t content with corner checking tonight; he had to bark.

  “Give it a rest, Dickens,” I yelled out the door.

  “How would you know there’s a couple out here taking a stroll if I didn’t alert you?” he barked.

  “And I need to know that because . . . ?” Clearly, I was out of sorts.

  “That’s it,” I said as I grabbed a second glass of wine. “I’m going to take a nice long bubble bath and see if that relaxes me. Anybody coming with me?”

  My two companions followed me up the stairs. Christie stretched out on my bed, and Dickens chose the bathmat. I lit some lavender candles and doused the lights. After thirty minutes of adding hot water as the tub cooled, I felt myself getting drowsy. Okay, I’ve turned myself into a prune. Time to see if I’m calm enough to drop off to sleep. I chose my favorite worn flannel nightgown and crawled into bed.

  I must have fallen asleep because something startled me awake. I felt as though I’d been out for hours and thought maybe the sound was part of my dream. Was it the glass wind chimes tinkling, the ones on my screened porch? No, I had a porch and windchimes in Atlanta, not here. Could it be glass breaking? Then I heard a faint click. My first thought was my mischievous cat was on the kitchen counter, forbidden territory for her, but a glance told me she was at the foot of the bed. My bedside clock showed 10 pm. I hadn’t been asleep long.

  Then Dickens stood up and growled. He barked his alert bark and bolted downstairs, and I heard a voice trying to calm him down. “It’s just me, boy, you know me. Shhh, don’t want to wake the neighbors, do we?”

  Wake the neighbors? What about me? Who’s in my house? I crept out of bed to the top of the stairs. I could see a dim glow coming from my office and thought at first it was the bookcase lights I always left on, but there was a moving light too, like a flashlight.

  I heard Dickens bark, “It’s late; why are you here?” Not that whoever it was could understand him.

  The voice said, “Here’s a treat. Now, will you shut up?” And Dickens did—briefly.

  I returned to my bedroom in search of my cell phone. That’s when the floor creaked, and just like in all the suspense stories, I realized my phone wasn’t there. Must be downstairs. In Atlanta, Henry had always kept a baseball bat beneath the bed for this kind of situation. He’d never had to use it, but here in England, I’d placed a cricket bat beneath my side of the bed just in case. I reached for it and was quite proud that I wasn’t yet in panic mode.

  Dickens resumed barking. “Hide, Leta, hide.”

  I heard a yelp and thud and knew my dog had been backhanded. I grabbed the cricket bat and ran down the stairs. “Leave Dickens alone! Get out of my house! The police are on the way!”

  Dickens was whimpering, and I was sure I was going to see Dave in my office with him. I had my cricket bat at the ready to prevent him from hurting Dickens any more. But it wasn’t Dave. It was Thom Cook. “What are you doing in my house? What have you done to Dickens?”

  “Bloody hell, Leta, what are you doing here?” he yelled. “I thought you were out on a date.”

  “Well, I’m not, and what are you doing here?”

  Thom’s eyes darted from me to Dickens and back. “Calm down. I’ve come for the books and letters. Just give them to me and I’ll leave.”

  My mind was
putting it all together. It had been Thom all along. It wasn’t Dave in cahoots with Alice; it was Thom. All for books?

  “Right,” I said as I brandished the cricket bat. He stepped towards me. “Don’t come any closer,” I yelled. “If I give you what you came for, you’ll just leave?” I didn’t believe that, but I had to keep him talking. “It was you who killed Alice.”

  He looked angry. “It was an accident, the silly cow. We were partners. She’d found out about Belle’s books and letters by chatting her up, and she mentioned them to me. She thought they were worth a good bit but didn’t have the connections to sell them. Nothing beyond some used bookstores that would never pay top dollar.

  “So we came up with a plan. She’d lift ’em, I’d find buyers, and we’d split the proceeds. I was able to sell a few letters, and she seemed happy with the arrangement. She was meant to bring the Peter and Wendy book to the party at the inn. That was going to be our first big score. She knew I had a buyer, and I had some upfront money for her, but she rang me that day to say she wanted twice what we’d agreed on. Can you believe that?

  “We had to hash it out, and that was too risky to do at the Inn. We agreed to meet at the cricket pavilion so no one would see us, and she told me not to bother to come without the money.”

  “So, what happened? What went wrong?”

  He was getting angrier as he told the story. “She had no intention of giving me the book that night even though I’d come up with the extra money. I could afford to pay her more because I’d been keeping the lion’s share of the payments. But she’d decided she could find buyers on her own, and make big money, without a middleman. If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have known how to sell the books in the first place, and now she was trying to cut me out. No way.”