“It certainly was. And I’m so sorry it happened on my property.”
“I hope for the sake of the poor lady’s familia that you are looking into this, Fay. Sergeant Jones is one of our best friends, but…” He raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“Let’s just say I’ve been having some conversations with people. Like right now, I’m having a conversation with you. Can you tell me if Bertha Maidstone come in here to collect a takeaway pizza last night?”
“Mrs. Saville’s housekeeper? Yes, she did.”
“What time was that? As near as you can remember.”
“I know it was quite late because Luigi wanted to close. He was on duty last night, but I sat here keeping him company. It must have been about nine-thirty when she came in to collect her pie. She said she’d had a late lunch at the fair and was only feeling hungry then.”
“Interesting. It was just a few minutes after that that someone shot Mrs. Saville.”
“Aha! Then it was certamente not Bertha who pulled the trigger. Truly, she could not have been in two places at once.”
“That’s what I think too. Tell me about her employer. Did she come in here much?”
“Now and then. She was a signora for the pasta rather than the pizza. Ravioli con funghi was her favorite.”
“Did you happen to see her with a gentleman in the last few weeks?”
“It’s funny you should say that. We didn’t see her with anyone, but we noticed that her last few orders were for two people. The ravioli con funghi and a pizza. The pizza was definitely not for Bertha. When the two of them had takeaways, it was always separately. Luigi and I wondered who Mrs. Saville’s mysterious companion might be. When Joe delivered the order, only Mrs. Saville came to the door. He didn’t see anyone else. But he did notice that she barely opened the door a crack. Just wide enough to hand him the money and take her order. It was as though she didn’t want him to see who was inside with her.”
Chapter 6
Fay walked home at sunset. The old stone house glowed golden as the last rays of the sun struck it at an angle. She was ready for an early night. The shock of Mrs. Saville’s death had taken more of a toll on her than she realized.
As she walked up the driveway, Pen appeared out of the gloom to greet her.
“I moved them kittens out of your office and into the bedroom like you asked,” he said. “I moved all their baskets and scratching posts and what-not as well. It’s the biggest room in the house, so they’ll have more space now.”
“Thanks, Pen. That’s very kind of you. I just hope they don’t keep me awake all night bouncing around the room.”
“Your nan always used to keep the kittens in her bedroom for the last month before she homed them. Slept like a baby, she did.”
“Then I’m sure I’ll be fine. I just wish I could give them some outside time. They need to get used to the yard.”
“Your nan always used the Garden of Remembrance for that,” Pen told her.
“Hmm.” The more Fay thought about this suggestion, the more she liked it. “It’s completely walled in, isn’t it?”
“Aye.”
“That’s a brilliant idea. I’ll take them out there tomorrow morning. Thanks, Pen.”
“You’re very welcome.” He held up the tray he was carrying. “I’m on my way back to the kitchen to pop my plates in the dishwasher. It’s fried chicken for dinner tonight, so you should get yourself some before it’s all cleaned out. That Morwen is a fine cook – a very fine cook indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my TV show is starting soon, and I don’t want to miss it.”
Pen hurried off to the kitchen while Fay followed at a more leisurely pace. She found Morwen in the kitchen making herself a last cup of tea before heading upstairs. The kitchen smelled deliciously of fried chicken. Fay hadn’t realized how hungry she was until that moment. It was only six-thirty, but she had discovered that the islanders liked to have their last meal of the day early. Many of them called it ‘tea’, which Fay had found confusing at first. She would have called it an early dinner or supper.
Whatever you wanted to call it, it certainly smelled good. Fay took a plate and helped herself to fried chicken and potato salad.
“This looks great, Mor. Colonel Sanders had better watch out. I think your secret recipe beats his.”
“It did turn out rather well. It’s not exactly a secret recipe though, because I got it from a YouTube cooking channel that specializes in down-home southern cooking.”
“If it tastes as good as it smells, you have a winner. I got the things you wanted from the market.” Fay unpacked her shopping bag and loaded the items into the fridge.
“Thanks. How did you get on with Bertha?”
“She’s okay. I haven’t made up my mind about her yet. I can see why the villagers find her odd, but I think that has to do with her appearance and natural shyness.”
“She’s not shy.”
“But I think she is. She hides it under a grumpy manner, and she’s awkward around people.”
Morwen shook her head. “All those years of haggling with farmers about the last half-penny, and it turns out that Mrs. Saville was loaded all along. I could hardly believe it when I heard.”
“Some of the biggest misers have lots of money. There seems to be no correlation between the amount of money you have and how generous you are with it. The whole island seems to have been taken by surprise to find out that Mrs. Saville was wealthy.”
“Maybe Mrs. Saville and Bertha were both misers,” suggested Morwen. “A match made in heaven.”
“Maybe. I wanted to ask you something else. Who do we know who is on the Rotary Club? Someone who attends meetings regularly and notices what’s going on?”
“The Rotary Club? I’m not sure. They invited me to be a member once, but I’m not much of a joiner and I don’t have the time. Oh, you should speak to Doc Dyer. He’s been a member for ages. You’re friendly with him, aren’t you?”
“Sure. He’s a sweetie. I’ll speak to him tomorrow. Goodnight, Mor.”
“Goodnight, Fay.”
Fay went upstairs to eat in her bedroom where a mob of tiny kittens did their best to persuade her to part with her fried chicken.
The next morning, she kept finding excuses to go into the breakfast room, hoping to speak to the victim’s daughter again. But Candice Saville-Wareham was not in a talkative mood.
She ate her breakfast in silence, frowning heavily and rebuffing Fay’s attempts to start a conversation. Something had put her in a bad mood. Fay gave it one last try.
“Will your husband be joining you on Bluebell Island?”
Candice snorted so loudly that she spilled her Earl Grey.
“He most certainly will not! This is none of his business. If and when I get any money out of this, it will belong to me, not to him. He has his job. He can earn a good salary until the day he retires. If there’s any money to be had, it will come to me.”
“Why do you say if and when? You must be your mother’s only heir. She didn’t really leave her money to the local cats’ home, did she?”
Fay expected Candice to laugh and disclaim, or at least to crack a smile. Instead, she looked gloomier than ever.
“There are two problems,” she said, counting them off on her fingers. “First of all, there isn’t as much money as everyone thought. My mother was spending money like water over the last few months and no one knows on what. Secondly, I was right about that Bertha woman being a bad influence. My mother went and left her money. That woman must have been manipulating her somehow. Who leaves money to a servant? Mum was going funny in her old age and that woman took advantage. My lawyer is already investigating whether we can have that part of the will overturned due to a lack of mental capacity.”
Fay’s sympathetic expression didn’t waver. During her career in law enforcement, she had come across several relatives who tried to prove in court that a deceased person had been mentally unfit just because they didn’t leave their money
exactly according to that relative’s liking. Such lawsuits were seldom successful.
Sometimes, if the angry relative had enough money to tie the courts up in red tape for years, a settlement would be reached. Fay was prepared to bet that Candice did not have that kind of money behind her.
“It sounds difficult,” she said.
Candice stared into her tea. “I’m going to fight it. This is not what I planned – not at all.”
“What did you plan?” asked Fay.
Candice looked up in surprise. It was as though she had forgotten that Fay was still there. “Oh, don’t listen to me. I’m talking nonsense because I’m upset. Don’t pay any attention to me.”
She shifted in her seat so that she was facing away from Fay. Fay took the hint and moved on.
When breakfast was over, Fay went upstairs to her bedroom where the kittens were galloping around in a fit of post-breakfast exuberance. She stood on a chair and reached into the top of her closet to take down one of her grandmother’s cat carriers.
Smudge and Olive disappeared under the bed immediately, suspecting a visit to the vet. The kittens weren’t old enough to associate the carrier with car trips, so they came running up to sniff it all over. Fay scooped them inside and zipped up the flap.
“It’s nothing bad, babies,” she said as a chorus of tiny squeals started up. “We’re going outside to have an adventure.”
Smudge and Olive popped out from under the bed as soon as they realized that Fay was absconding with their foster babies. They followed her all the way down the stairs and into the garden, apparently trying to trip her up and force her to give back the kittens.
With some fancy footwork, Fay got into the garden without mishap. To reach the Garden of Remembrance, she had to walk past the rose garden, past the lily garden, and down the wide stone steps that led to the lower terrace.
If she kept going down another flight of stairs, she would have arrived at Lower Field where the spring fair was held. Strangely enough, the field looked smaller now that it was empty. On Sunday when it had played host to a fun-fair, a beer tent, pony rides, a petting zoo, a food market, and all the many colorful stalls of the fair, it had seemed bigger.
Fay reluctantly acknowledged the cleverness of the person who had shot Mrs. Saville. She had been killed in front of hundreds of people and no one had seen a thing. The list of suspects was endless. Virtually the whole village had been at the fair that night. Not to mention a couple of hundred tourists. The police would have their work cut out for them trying to solve this one. Whether they wanted it or not, Fay would help them. They might never know about her involvement, but she couldn’t bring herself to stay out of it.
She was at the entrance to the Garden of Remembrance. She had always wondered why the bars of the gate were so close together – barely an inch apart. Now she realized that it was to keep kittens in. If this was where her grandmother had taught kittens about the great outdoors, she would have made sure they were safe.
Fay unlocked the gate and let herself in. She clicked it shut behind her. Smudge and Olive followed her in, keeping an anxious eye on the cat carrier.
What are you doing? they seemed to be saying. Give us back our babies.
“Don’t worry, ladies. You’ll be reunited soon.”
Fay set the carrier down and unzipped the flap. Then she watched in dismay as the kittens disappeared in different directions all at once.
Chapter 7
“Okay, don’t panic. Don’t panic.”
Fay’s head swiveled in all directions as tiny kitten tails disappeared under bushes and behind rocks. She checked that the gate was locked, and that there were no gaps in the walls. Then she tried to relax. Just because she couldn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t there. The earth couldn’t have swallowed them up, however much she might picture them tunneling their way out of the garden like rabbits.
She kept her eyes on Smudge and Olive. The adult cats were like beacons telling her where the kittens were.
A bush rustled, and Freddie burst out, chasing a butterfly. As soon as his paws left the path and touched grass he skidded to a halt and froze.
What is this strange prickly stuff? he seemed to be saying. He sniffed it and dabbed at it with his paw. Then the butterfly caught his attention again and he took a few more prancing steps onto the grass. As soon as he realized what he was doing, he shook each paw out individually.
The others emerged from the bushes. Their reactions to the grass were the same – dab, shake, sniff suspiciously, dab again. It took them a while to feel brave enough to walk across the lawn. Fay couldn’t decide what they reminded her of most – Michael Jackson moon-walking on stage, or inexperienced fire-walkers who were dubious about the wisdom of walking barefoot across hot coals.
The new sights and smells entranced them. They squeezed their eyes shut and sniffed the air, their ears twitching left and right to catch the cheeping of the birds and the chirring of the insects.
Fay sank onto a stone bench to watch them play.
The Garden of Remembrance had been built by one of her great-great-grandfathers to commemorate the men of Penrose House who had fallen in battle. Fay remembered her grandmother showing her an old stone monument dedicated to a pair of Penrose brothers who had died in the Crimean War. That was the oldest monument in the garden. Her grandmother had shown it to her when she was a child spending her summer vacations on Bluebell Island.
There was a monument to the Boer War and a much larger one to the First World War. There were only a handful of actual graves in the garden, and they all dated from the First and Second World Wars. For the rest, there were stones dotted here and there with names and dates on them to remember the fallen.
It was a peaceful and beautiful place. The joy of the kittens hopping about contrasted with the sadness of the headstones. The garden was wearing its spring wardrobe of daffodils, bluebells, primulas, and cowslips. Olive and Smudge played with the kittens or just sat and watched as they burned off their youthful energy.
It took nearly an hour before the kittens slowed down and began to yawn. A bank of clouds swept across the sun and a light drizzle started up. Fay scooped the babies into the cat carrier and took them inside. She deposited them in her bedroom where they curled up in a basket with Smudge and Olive for a well-earned nap. It had been lovely watching them play outside and they had enjoyed it. Fay made up her mind to give them some outside time every day from now on.
She checked the time. It was eleven o’clock. Doc Dyer would be in the middle of his morning consultations. She wouldn’t see him until after five.
But perhaps he would respond to a text.
Fay: Morning, Doc. Morwen tells me you’re a member of the Rotary Club. Were you there when Mrs. Saville attended her first meeting? I’ve heard rumors that she might have met someone that night - someone she started a relationship with. Do you have any idea who it could have been?
She didn’t expect a reply right away. He probably wouldn’t look at his phone while he was consulting. She went to the kitchen to bake a batch of brownies for tea. It was only when she was pulling these out of the oven that the reply arrived.
Doc Dyer: I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention. I hesitate to speak ill of the dead, but I never found Mrs. Saville particularly likeable. There’s a Rotary Club meeting tonight, though. You can come along as my guest and see if you can figure out who Mrs. Saville’s mystery suitor might have been.
Fay sent a message accepting the invitation. She had a feeling it would be a fruitful lead.
After lunch, she walked down to the village to see what she could find out about the murder weapon.
She knew she would have to speak to Lady Chadwick eventually, but she was hoping to put that off. Lady Chadwick combined an imperious manner with some strange ideas about how the world worked. This made it difficult to have a conversation with her. She might have been the legal owner of the gun that killed Mrs. Saville, but Fay was more interested in talking t
o the people who had borrowed it for the night of the fair.
This meant paying a visit to the Playhouse Theater – the island’s local center of performing arts. It was also the headquarters of the local amateur dramatic society who called themselves the Bluebell Players. They were the ones who had presented the Little Red Riding Hood pantomime on the day of the fair. The gun had been officially in their care.
The theater was on the High Street, sandwiched between the Royal Hotel and the town hall. It was an attractive, neoclassical building with Doric columns at the front and a Grecian pediment above. Fay had been to a couple of productions performed at the Playhouse and had been impressed by the high standard of their performances. Considering how small the island was and the fact that half the cast were usually members of the local high school, they did a pretty good job.
The person Fay wanted to speak to was the theatrical director, Raymond Garver. He was a larger-than-life character. In England he was known as a luvvie. Fay hadn’t understood the term the first time she’d heard it, so Morwen explained that people in show business in England were often referred to as luvvies because they called everyone ‘love’ or ‘lovey’, often to conceal the fact that they didn’t remember your name.
Fay was pleased to find the door to the playhouse standing open, although the lights were off, and the box office was deserted. The only sign of life was the sound of muffled voices coming from inside the theatre. She tried the doors that led to the stalls, but they were locked.
As she listened, trying to trace the voices to their source, Fay noticed the tone of the voices getting louder and angrier.
Were they rehearsing for a play or was this a real argument?
Following the noise, she walked past the restrooms and down a long corridor that ran along the side of the theatre towards the stage. The voices were getting louder, and not just because the people were shouting at each other. She was getting closer to the source.
The Cat's Paw Cozy Mysteries Page 36