“I’m sorry to hear that, Toby,” I said. “Not just for you but for Astonbury as well. It seems such a vital part of the community. I suppose you’ve considered other options like refinancing?”
“Oh, I’ve been running all kinds of scenarios through my head, and for a time, Cynthia was willing to indulge me. I approached Rhiannon about becoming a partner. I know she seems like a space cadet at times, but she’s a savvy businesswoman. We spent a while running the numbers, but in the end, we couldn’t make it work.
“Believe it or not, I even toyed with the idea of approaching you as an investor, but before I could, Cynthia hit me with a double whammy. First, she said our marriage had been in a death spiral for a while, and before I could absorb that, she said she wanted to sell the tearoom outright so she could invest the money in her business. And she owns half of Toby’s Tearoom so where does that leave me?”
I was trying to figure out why Toby was confiding in me. I was a customer, and we saw each other at social functions, but this seemed a bit like TMI for him to be sharing with me. Then again, before I retired, my co-workers had always brought me their problems.
“As if that wasn’t enough,” Toby blurted out, “Alice started blackmailing me.”
“What?” I cried. “Blackmailing you over what?”
“It’s complicated. Bloody hell, I hate to speak ill of the dead, but somehow Alice got it into her head that Rhiannon and I were more than potential business partners. She texted a photo of me and Rhiannon and threatened to send it to Cynthia if I didn’t pay up. When I told her the photo was innocent, she claimed she had something more incriminating than the photo, but I couldn’t imagine what it was. So I came up with the money.”
“You mean you paid her?” I asked.
“Of course, I paid her. I’m not explaining myself well, I know. She’s in and out of our flat above the tearoom all the time. She’d seen the draft divorce papers on Cynthia’s desk and knew, probably before I did, that Cynthia was getting ready to file. As my wife so kindly put it when she finally showed me the papers, ‘our marriage is dead.’ I was already going to be fighting for my livelihood, and if Alice had something Cynthia could use in the divorce, I could lose everything.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“A few months. Rhiannon tried to help out, but really she didn’t have to. She had nothing to lose. Oh, I mean I guess she had a bit of reputational risk—being painted as the scarlet woman, but in this day and age, what does that matter? It’s all about me losing everything, and I didn’t even do anything!” he cried.
“OK, so I’ve got to ask, Toby, why are you telling me all this?”
“Well, because I know you found Alice’s body at the cricket pavilion, and Rhiannon tells me you went to Alice’s flat too. I was wondering whether you saw anything in either place that could get me in trouble with the police?”
”What? Like what?”
“I don’t know, do I?” he shouted.
Patrons at nearby tables looked at us as Toby’s voice rose. Dickens left the dog bed, moved to my side, and growled. I could see Toby trying to get himself under control. “The photo is nothing,” he whispered, “but I don’t know what the ‘other thing’ is. If Rhiannon and I are innocent, what could Alice possibly have?”
By now, my mind was operating on two separate tracks. First, I was thinking, what on earth have I gotten myself tangled up in? No way I’m smart enough to figure any of this out. At the same time, a lightbulb had gone off and I now knew what Rhiannon was so worried about.
I figured the more incriminating something Alice had referred to was the strange note I’d seen, but for some reason, I didn’t want to tell Toby about that. Based on what he’d said, I could see it as an innocent message about he and Rhiannon—the White Knight and the White Witch—discussing going into business.
I stuck with the photo. “Yes, I saw the photo of you and Rhiannon, and you’re right, it looked fairly innocent, but I can’t think of anything else.” I wasn’t exactly lying, as I couldn’t be positive what the note meant. “I think you should be prepared, though, for Gemma to come see you. She may want to know about the photo. And, Toby—” I groaned. “All my mystery book plots are swirling in my brain now. You know the police always look at motive and opportunity, so Gemma will be looking for your alibi.”
“Like I have an alibi,” he said. “When Cynthia’s in London, I sleep alone. I don’t even have a dog or cat to vouch for me. I better hope Gemma makes fast work of finding the real culprit so she doesn’t focus her energy on me.”
With all that in the open, we finally got around to ordering. Without fail, the food at the Ploughman was amazingly good. I ordered the fish special and Toby went with a burger. I could see Dickens eyeing the burger and warned Toby not to give him anything.
I was trying to resist Toby’s pleas for us to split a dessert when Thom stopped by our table to say hello and pet Dickens.
“I see Dickens is making the rounds,” said Thom. “What does he think of the Ploughman?”
I laughed and said, “He can’t believe all the dog beds, and I’m pretty sure he approves. Did you finish hanging cobwebs for Beatrix?”
Thom chuckled. “Beatrix won’t be done decorating until Halloween is over. There’s no telling what she’ll come up with next. She was looking online at skeletons when I left.”
Toby asked, “Are you here for dinner?”
“No, just meeting a mate for a pint,” he replied. “And I’d recommend the brownies if you two are going for dessert,” he said as he moved to the bar.
That cinched it. Toby had to get the brownies, and I couldn’t resist eating my share. I’d need to take an extra-long walk tomorrow to make up for that indulgence.
We agreed we’d stay in touch, not difficult since I visited the tearoom several mornings a week, and Toby drove me and Dickens home. I could tell Dickens was chomping at the bit to tell me what he thought, but I hushed him until we were inside the cottage.
“What do you think, Leta? Do you think he had something to do with Alice’s death?” Dickens barked.
“My gut tells me he didn’t, but he certainly has a motive,” I said. “It’s easier to believe he had something to do with it if I imagine the scene as an accident. No way Toby could deliberately kill someone. I just don’t know.”
“I’d have to agree that he lacks the killer instinct. I can't imagine him hurting anyone. He’s not like the villains on the shows you watch—just plain evil.”
“Ah, Dickens, something tells me that in real life, it’s not that obvious.”
Toby’s emotionally charged outpouring had exhausted me, but I wanted to call Libby before I turned in. She answered the phone sounding harried, and I dove right in. “Libby, how would you like some help getting the guest rooms in shape? You must be at your wits’ end without Alice.”
I could tell Libby had started crying. “I’m sorry, just hearing her name . . . it’s too much. And I can’t believe you found her.”
“It’s OK, Libby. We’re all upset. But hey, let me help. It’s hard enough for you to do all the work on top of being upset.”
“Oh, Leta, it’s kind of you to offer, but I can’t let you do that. I can’t have you scrubbing floors or doing the laundry.”
“Don’t be silly. How ’bout I make beds and straighten the rooms? Someone has to change out the used towels for fresh ones, empty trash cans, and collect dishes from nightstands. I can do that while you do the heavy lifting, so to speak.”
“Oh my, you’re a lifesaver. I’m saying ‘yes’ before you change your mind. Can you come tomorrow morning after breakfast? All but Dave Prentiss are checking out, and it would be a big help if you could straighten his room and strip the other beds.”
And so it was that Dickens and I got to snoop around the Inn Monday morning.
Chapter Seven
I was rinsing the breakfast dishes the next day when Christie flopped and rolled on the kitchen floor. That was Hen
ry’s term for the way she stretched out full length, exposing her cute tummy, and whenever she did, neither of us could resist rubbing her belly. Funny how both my animals were into belly rubs.
“And how are you doing this morning, little girl?” I asked.
“Very well, thank you. I’m liking our new digs better and better, and I think I’m over my jet lag,” she replied.
“Leta, can you believe her?” asked Dickens. “She’s claiming jet lag when she’s been sleeping eighteen hours a day as long as I’ve known her.”
Christie yawned and made a pronouncement. “Whatever. Now that I’m well-rested, I have an idea about how I can help you two with this detective business. Leta, if you set the photos up so I can see them on your computer, I can take a look. You know, we felines are not only highly intelligent, we also have extraordinary eyesight. You ladies may have missed something, and if it’s at all visible, I’m bound to find it.”
Even Dickens thought that was a grand idea, so I put the photos in slideshow mode. I chuckled as Christie stood on her hind legs in my desk chair, paws perched on the desk, eyes intent on the monitor. A different perspective can’t hurt, I thought.
Dickens hadn’t had a good long walk in several days and I’d told myself the night before I needed to walk off the brownies, so I decided to walk the two miles to and from the Inn to help Libby, and to feed Martha and Dylan on the way back. There was a chill in the air, so I put on my ball cap, a jacket, and gloves, grabbed the leash, and off we went.
Gavin greeted me as I came up the drive. “Morning. Do you have any idea how ecstatic you’ve made my wife? She’s actually smiling for the first time in days.”
“Happy to help,” I said. “We’re all of us missing Alice, but you two also have a business to run.” I chuckled as I added, “I can’t bake scones and tarts, but with a little direction, I can function quite well as unskilled labor.”
Libby threw her arms around me and gave Dickens a hug too when we walked in the kitchen. “Do you mind if I set you to work first? And then we can have tea when the guestrooms are straight and the linens are in the washer.”
With six rooms and a suite, I had my work cut out for me. I first tackled the rooms of the folks who’d already checked out, knowing they’d need a more thorough cleaning than Dave’s room. Libby said he was out for the day, so I knew I could save his room for last without inconveniencing him. It was kind of mindless work, giving me a chance to mull over what I’d heard the past few days. It was hard to believe it was just over forty-eight hours since I’d found Alice’s body.
Paddington greeted us as we made our way to the Green Room. “Hi, Leta. Hi, Dickens. Things are topsy-turvy around here. Gavin’s been running around like a madman doing the indoor and outdoor chores, and Libby bursts into tears at the drop of a hat.”
“I can only imagine,” I said. “I’ve done a bit of crying myself. You must miss Alice terribly since she was here every day.”
Dickens piped up, “She was nice to me at the party, and she promised me treats. Did she make cat treats too?”
“Yes,” meowed Paddington. “And hers were much better than the ones in the box from Sainsbury's. I followed her from room to room as she worked, and I loved diving in the linens when she took them off the beds. It was always a party when Alice was around.”
I had a huge pile of sheets and towels piled in the hallway and two bags of garbage all ready to go downstairs when I finally made it to Dave’s room. The six rooms were named for colors—green, rose, blue, white, yellow, and lavender—and Dave was in the Yellow Room overlooking the roof of the conservatory.
His room was fairly tidy, with the wet towels folded and hung over the towel bar and his clothes put away rather than strewn around the room. His laptop was on the dressing table with a notebook and file folders, and I smiled at the thought of him writing at the feminine doily-covered table, his briefcase propped beside the lace-covered stool.
On the bedside table sat the copy of Peter and Wendy Beatrix had mentioned, a biography of A. A. Milne, and a book I’d never heard of, Rare Books Uncovered: True Stories of Fantastic Finds. Given that he freelanced for The New York Review of Books and The Strand, I supposed it made sense he’d have an interest in rare books. I wondered whether he was a collector.
As I straightened the pile on the dressing table, I noticed a sticky note I couldn’t help but glance at. The words “Poe book, one of 50 copies, sold for $600,000” and “Winnie-the-Pooh signed first edition--$6500” were scribbled on it. Hmmm, I thought, he is into rare books. Fascinating. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and snapped a photo.
Good grief, I thought, what made me snap a pic of that? I’m turning into a regular Nancy Drew. I shooed Dickens out of the room and added the wet towels to the pile in the hallway. Paddington took that opportunity to poke his head out from the middle of the sheets and meow, prompting Dickens to bark and dive into the pile with him. “Paddington, you funny thing,” I said. “Have you missed me?”
“But of course, Leta,” he replied. “You’re the only human who’s ever been able to understand me. Libby and Gavin try, but they can’t manage it. I suffer endless questions like ‘What does my Paddington want today?’ when I’ve been perfectly clear that I want milk or wet food or a head scratch,” he grumbled. “But they do love me and treat me well, so I make allowances for their shortcomings.”
After depositing the linens in the laundry room, I found Libby in the kitchen making a grocery list. “Give me a minute,” she said. “I’ve got to get Gavin off to the store so I have the ingredients for finger sandwiches for the guests arriving this afternoon. And we’ll have to make do with store-bought scones for tomorrow’s breakfast. Without Alice, I’ll have to find someone else to make them on a regular basis.” She teared up at the thought of Alice, and I gave her a quick hug and went to sit in the sun in the conservatory. Even after several months, I still wanted to call it a sunroom as we did in the States.
Libby came in with two cups of tea and said Gemma would be joining us for a quick cup before going to work. I wondered whether Gemma had gotten over her irritation with me. If so, maybe she’d give me an update on the investigation.
“Morning, all,” said Gemma as she gave Dickens a scratch behind his ears. “Leta, are you recovering from your experience at the cricket pavilion?”
“Thank you for asking. Yes, I am,” I replied. “I keep trying to tell myself Alice had some kind of accident so I won’t be scared, but—”
Gemma interrupted me. “No, it wasn’t an accident, or at least she didn’t trip on her own, we don’t think. Someone else was there with her, and, as you know, someone was at her flat.”
“Um, yes, I hope our worry over the cat didn’t mess up anything for you. I do have a request, though. I noticed one of my Frog Prince figurines in Alice’s bedroom, and I was afraid to take it and disturb the crime scene, as they say on TV. Is there any way I’ll be able to get it back?”
“Eventually, yes,” replied Gemma. “I think there are quite a few things that will need to be returned to their rightful owners if we can figure out what belongs to who.”
Libby’s mouth fell open. “What are you on about? You were in Alice’s flat? And you saw something of yours? Clearly, I’ve been out of the loop.”
“Yes and yes. Funny, in all the disarray, I had a feeling some things didn’t belong, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why,” I said. “Just the odd item here and there maybe. By the way, have you been able to locate Alice’s family?”
“We’ve found she had an elderly aunt in a Manchester nursing home. She seems to be the only family Alice had, and we’ve established Alice moved here from Manchester.”
“Oh. It always amazes me how the police figure these things out. I guess nothing much stays hidden in this day and age. I wonder what brought Alice to the Cotswolds.”
Libby piped up. “Well, I could have told you she was from Manchester. She told me when I hired her that she wanted a change and
didn’t have any ties there. Funny, she didn’t mention her aunt. She kept seeing the Cotswolds on the telly as an ideal place to live, so she packed up and moved.”
“Mum, you checked her references, right?” asked Gemma.
“Of course. What do you take me for? They were all part-time jobs. She’d worked at a bakery, which must be why she was a genius at scones, and she’d had the odd housekeeping job here and there. Glowing, those references were all glowing,” said Libby. “And she had a booth at a flea market too.”
“No offense, Mum,” soothed Gemma. “It’s just that she’d been arrested in Manchester though never charged.”
“What?” spluttered Libby. “Arrested for what?”
“Nicking the odd item here and there from homes where she worked as a housekeeper. It seemed to be mostly books and bric-a-brac, occasionally a silver piece. In the end, there wasn’t enough evidence to proceed with charging her, especially as none of her clients wanted to press charges. It was suspected she was selling the things she pinched at her flea market stall.”
Libby was speechless. I, on the other hand, was eager to get as much information as I could from Gemma. “That story fits with her having my figurine and whatever else you found in her flat. So, it seems she was more than a simple kleptomaniac and she was looking to make money off what she took?”
“Yes, the flea market angle makes it seem that way. First, we’ve got to speak with her clients to see what they may be missing from their homes or businesses; then we’ll try to match that list with what’s in her flat. It’s a slow process, and at the moment we’re most concerned with evidence that can help identify her killer. I can’t see missing bric-a-brac leading to murder, can you?”
Bells, Tails, & Murder Page 8