I hit send and switched into high gear so I wouldn’t be late for my morning shift at the inn. The forecast was for rain, so I decided to forgo a morning walk. Dickens hopped into the car, I latched his harness, and I drove to the Olde Mill. It appeared most of the guests had checked out, as only Dave’s rental car was in the gravel drive.
Gavin was coming out of the conservatory with dirty wine glasses. “I’m herding dishes,” he said. “This morning, they seem to be scattered all over the inn, and I want to get them into the dishwasher.”
“Gavin, why don’t you let me do that,” I asked. “I’ll do the rooms like I did the other day, and then I’ll police the premises for all the glasses, cups, and whatever. That way you can work in the office, visit the co-op for groceries, and do everything else on your list. Dickens and I are now on duty.”
At that, Gavin set down the dishes and gave me a huge hug. “You’ve got it. The boss has already given me a list for the co-op, so I’ll go there before it gets crowded. Maybe we three—oh excuse me, Dickens we four—can have a cup of tea when I get back.”
Dickens wondered aloud where Paddington was and said he should be included in tea too, and I stuck my head in the laundry room to alert Libby that Dickens and I were on the job. She was ironing napkins and tablecloths—a thankless job, in my opinion. Henry used to say I had clothes I’d never wear if it weren’t for him doing the ironing, and he was right. I attributed my intense dislike and avoidance of ironing to the fact I’d had to iron sheets when I was a little girl. I still grimaced at the memory.
“Everyone checked out except Dave?” I asked Libby.
“Yes, but he plans to check out soon. He’s decided to visit the coast and maybe return here for a few nights next week. That means all the linens need changing. You’re a lifesaver.”
Dave coming back after his trip was news to me. I wonder whether I’ll see him then, I thought. Maybe I can cook for him. Oh stop, I said to myself. Dickens and I got to work, and the pile of linens in the hallway grew. Like he had last time, Paddington darted up the stairs and dove in. Dickens joined him and soon they were tussling and barking and meowing. Just like kids in a pile of leaves.
I took a load of glasses to the kitchen and returned with a stack of fresh towels from the linen closet. When I got to the Yellow Room, I knocked and said, “Maid service.”
He appeared distracted as he opened the door, a pair of glasses perched atop his head. “Oh,” he said, “I’m not sure who I was expecting, but it sure wasn’t my dinner date from last night.”
I grinned. “You just never know where I’ll turn up. Libby tells me you’re checking out today, so I’ll come back later to get your room ready for the next guests.”
“How is it you always show up when it’s in my brain to ask you out? Can you squeeze me in next Sunday or is your dance card full?” There was a twinkle in his eyes as he said that.
I had to admit I was quite tickled at a second invitation. “Hmmm, I’ll find someone to bump so I can arrange a spot for you,” I joked. “Dinner sounds great. Let’s make it my treat this time.”
“Well, we’ll work that out next week,” he said. “Unfortunately, right now, I’m kind of in a rush to get on the road. Can I just gather up the wet towels to give you and leave it at that?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you when you get back. Meanwhile, I wish you the best with your research.”
I headed downstairs with the last load of dirty linens and towels, Paddington and Dickens on my heels. “You two are going to be disappointed if you think I’m creating a new pile for you to play in.”
I went through the downstairs gathering dirty dishes. Along the way, I found two empty wine bottles, and Paddington found a champagne cork beneath a couch in the conservatory. My last stop was the sitting room. The hearth looked in need of sweeping, so I retrieved the broom and dustpan from the broom closet.
Paddington and Dickens seemed to be having a conversation by the bookcase, but I couldn’t quite make it out. “What are you two going on about?” I asked.
“This,” said Paddington as he stood on his hind legs and reached for the second shelf from the bottom. He used his paw to lever a book from the shelf, and it fell to the floor with a thud. “It doesn’t belong here.”
Dickens said, “He claims he knows all the books on the bookcase. I’m not sure I believe him.”
“Well, let’s see what we have here,” I said, kneeling on the oriental rug in front of the bookcase. My mouth dropped open as I picked up the book. It had a faded green cloth cover, and I saw the title Peter and Wendy in gold lettering on the front. Carefully, I opened the book and read “For Mary, who was my savior on many a dreadful night. May you and Belle enjoy my story.” It was signed by J. M. Barrie. I sat back cross-legged, all thoughts of cleaning gone from my mind. Here it was—Belle’s copy of Peter and Wendy—and it was signed by the author. How did it get to the inn?
Paddington nudged my elbow and meowed, “Alice put it here. I thought she would come back to get it, but she never did.”
“When was that, Paddington?”
“The day of the party, Leta,” Paddington mewed.
It had been published in London in 1911. I turned the pages gingerly, afraid I might tear the delicate paper in a book that was over a hundred years old. As I continued, a thin sheet of paper slid out. Across the top was the salutation “Dearest Mary” and the signature at the bottom read “Uncle Jim.” Oh my gosh, I thought, this is one of the letters to Gran. I scanned it and realized it must have accompanied the book.
Dearest Mary,
I realize little Belle won’t be able to read this book for some time, but when she’s a bit older, I hope you’ll read it to her. I think she’ll enjoy the story it tells.
Much Love,
Uncle Jim
I oh-so-carefully returned the letter to the book, told Dickens to stay, and grabbed my rain jacket from the hook at the front door. I wrapped the book in my jacket and quickly went to my car and placed the bundle in the boot. Something told me it didn’t belong in plain sight on one of the seats.
I almost ran into Dave as he was coming out the front door with his suitcase and computer bag. “Off to the coast,” he said.
I still needed to straighten the sitting room, so I went back and finished sweeping the hearth and corralling dishes. Dickens kept asking me what was going on, but I told him he’d hear it all later. When the dishwasher was full, I added detergent and switched it on. I grabbed clean linens and ran upstairs to change the sheets and towels in Dave’s room.
As I passed through the kitchen on the way to the laundry room, I found Gavin unloading groceries. “Hi,” I said. “I think everything is shipshape, so Dickens and I are heading out.”
I sat in my car and thought about what to do next. First, I needed to call Wendy to let her know I’d stumbled across the book, but then what? Should we talk to Gemma? Would this be an important clue in her investigation, or was I on the wrong track? Or maybe we should speak with Beatrix, who was knowledgeable about rare books and had been one of Alice’s victims. Perhaps she could shed some light on the situation.
Of course, I had to figure out a way to explain how I knew Alice had taken it. I couldn’t come out and say Paddington had seen Alice put it on the bookshelf and had told me about it. Then again, Alice taking it was the only logical explanation for the book winding up at the Inn. It wasn’t like Libby or Gavin ever visited Sunshine Cottage.
I rang Wendy. “Oh my gosh,” I said when she answered the phone. “I’ve found your mum’s copy of Peter and Wendy.”
“What? How? Where was it?” Wendy gasped.
“It was at the Inn mixed in with the other books on the bookshelf. Remember Gavin telling us he and Libby had shopped estate sales for old books? Um, if it hadn’t been sticking out slightly, I never would have noticed it.”
“Oh my goodness,” said Wendy. “Why? Who put it there?”
“Could it have
been Alice? No way Libby or Gavin have anything to do with this. And Alice was here just about every day. And get this—there’s a letter tucked in the book, a letter from Uncle Jim!”
“That . . . that can’t be,” stuttered Wendy. “That means Alice found Mum’s letters. I mean, it’s not like they’re hidden, but it would take a lot of nerve to go through a box of someone’s personal letters. Who does something like that?”
“Listen, it may be a good idea to speak with Beatrix about this. She knows rare books and can tell us what your mum’s book could be worth. She might even know who Alice would have contacted if she was thinking of selling it. You know she didn’t take it just for the heck of it. She had to be planning to make money on it. What do you think?”
“Do you really think we need to involve anyone else?”
“Yes, because we still don’t know who killed Alice—or why. Figuring this out could be the clue we’re missing,” I replied. “Can you meet me at the Book Nook in an hour?”
“OK, I’ll be there,” she said.
Way too much going on, I thought, but we can’t stop now. I ran by my cottage for a protein bar to keep me going. Christie sensed something was up, but when she asked, Dickens got snippy.
“Never you mind, Christie,” he barked. “We’ll fill you in when we have all our ducks in a row.”
“Don’t you get huffy with me,” hissed Christie. “Ducks in a row. Do you even know what that means?”
I apologized to Christie for Dickens’s behavior and told her we were in a hurry, that I’d explain everything later. She was howling in indignation as I locked the door.
Chapter Ten
Wendy and I arrived at the Book Nook at almost the same time. It must have been obvious to Beatrix that something was up, because she came around the counter and asked, “What’s wrong?”
For the moment, there were no customers in the shop, so I took the lead and tried to explain about the book. I’d transferred it to a padded computer bag and wrapped it in tissue paper when I stopped by my cottage, and now I slowly revealed it.
Wendy said, “To me, it’s just a book Mum read to us when we were kids. I can’t imagine it has anything to do with Alice’s death.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Beatrix. “First, you two somehow pieced together that Alice was taking things from the three of us and possibly others when she cleaned our homes. I know that’s true because she took things from me, and you told me, Leta, that she took your Frog Prince figurine—”
“And one of my Frog Prince books,” I interjected.
Wendy piped up, “And once we realized she’d nicked items from Leta, I started inventorying Mum’s stuff. Mum’s Tigger figurine is missing from her Winnie-the-Pooh collection. Then, I couldn’t find Mum’s Peter and Wendy book anywhere, but I kept thinking it would turn up. She used to keep it with her Winnie-the-Pooh books in the bookcase in the sitting room, and I couldn’t fathom why she would’ve moved it.”
Beatrix picked up the story. “And now you’ve found Belle’s book? At the inn, of all places? Surely, you don’t think Libby and Gavin have something to do with this, do you?”
“No,” Wendy and I said in unison.
“Think about it, Beatrix,” I reasoned. “If you wanted to ensure no one found an especially valuable old book, what better hiding place for it than in with a bunch of other old books?”
“I am thinking,” she retorted. “I just can’t wrap my brain around the idea that Alice was that well informed about books. But then again, she’d recently been reading up on J. M. Barrie.”
The bell over the front door tinkled, and three women wandered in loaded down with shopping bags from several shops on High Street.
“You two stay put,” Beatrix whispered before greeting her customers.
I looked at Wendy. “Are we going to tell her about the letter?” I whispered.
“I’m beyond thinking clearly about this,” moaned Wendy. “But the letter seems more personal to me, and I don’t think we should tell anyone else until we’ve run it by Mum.”
After Beatrix’s customers left with several books about the area, she rejoined us. “Believe it or not, I managed to think about all this while I listened to those women dither about spending money on books. Books are probably the most practical purchase they’ve made all day. Of course, I’m biased.”
Wendy asked, “And what ideas did you come up with?”
“First I’m going to look online for what signed copies of Peter and Wendy have gone for lately. Let’s see where that leads us.”
It probably would have taken me and Wendy hours to find the right websites, but in less than fifteen minutes, Beatrix had discovered that a signed first edition of the British printing had gone for $8,000 USD in the States and that there was a first edition on offer but not signed.
“Good grief,” exclaimed Wendy. “That’s unbelievable. Thinking back to what Thom explained to us at Book Club the other night, I suppose that copy was in much better condition than Mum’s, but still. What if Mum’s copy were worth even half that?”
“Ladies,” murmured Beatrix, “Thom will be in shortly. I think we should run this by him. He’s not an expert on rare books, per se, but he did study under an Oxford professor who, by all accounts, is pretty obsessed with all things having to do with J. M. Barrie. I bet Thom can do some digging for us and find out whether there’s been chatter about this book among collectors.”
I hesitated. This situation was fast becoming bigger than a breadbox, and I wasn’t at all sure how to proceed. I was certain we’d uncovered clues Gemma was unaware of, but even if we went to her with them, how long would it be before she could or would follow up? Before I could answer, Wendy spoke up.
“Let’s do it!” she said. “It’s been four days since Leta found Alice’s body, and we haven’t heard word one about progress towards finding her killer. I think we’re on the right path.”
“OK, then,” I said. “What say we grab a bite at Toby’s and come back when Thom is due in. What time is that, Beatrix?”
“Come back around two. He’ll be here until closing, so we should be able to grab a few minutes to huddle at some point.”
Wendy and I walked across the street to the Tearoom. We agreed we owed ourselves something sinful as a snack with our tea. She chose a fudge brownie, and I went for the Manchester tart. What could be better than a pastry shell spread with raspberry jam, topped with custard filling, sprinkled with coconut flakes, and garnished with a maraschino cherry?
It was becoming the norm for me to have a stressful morning and start feeling exhausted when the adrenaline wore off. I told Wendy I might have to get ice cream next to restore my energy, but she knew me better than that. That was another thing we had in common—we were both short and vigilant about watching our calories.
We saw Thom walk into the Bookshop and gulped our tea so we could get back across the street and get started. We still had our sense of humor and joked we’d have to wrap this up quickly before our sugar highs wore off and we collapsed in a sleepy heap.
I’d thought about how to explain our involvement to Thom. I didn’t want him to think we were two crazy little old ladies with too much time on our hands. Little we might be, but crazy and old we weren’t.
“Thom,” I said, “I know I said I wanted to speak further with you about rare books, but that was just out of curiosity. Believe it or not, Wendy and I have a real situation to run by you.”
He looked intrigued. “I’m all ears, ladies.”
“Okay. Before we get to what happened this morning to bring us here, let me give you the short version of what’s been going on since I found Alice’s body. That day, when Wendy and I realized Alice’s cat was likely on its own, we rushed over to her flat and found that someone had ‘tossed the place,’ as they say in the crime books.
“We realized she’d been stealing from us, her clients, and that led Wendy to discover that one of her mum’s books was missing. This morning, I stumbl
ed across that book hidden in an unlikely spot. That’s why we’re here at the Book Nook. Beatrix did some research but thought you’d be a better resource for us. You told us at Book Club you’d studied under a professor who was a collector of Barrie’s works. Well, that’s what we’ve got.” I wasn’t at all sure what I’d said made any sense, but Thom seemed to be following me.
I brought out the book and opened it to reveal the inscription. Thom’s face lit up, and I took that to mean this was a great find. Though the book was worn, he explained, the inscription changed the game.
“My professor would know its general value, if you will, but he might also know of a collector who would be interested above all others.”
“Whoa, wait a minute,” said Wendy. “We don’t want to sell it. We’re hoping that determining its value might be confirmation that Alice could have been involved in a larger rare book scheme, a scheme that led to her murder. Please don’t give the wrong impression to your professor.”
“Thom,” I asked, “will your professor want to help if the book’s not for sale?”
“He’s a scholar first,” said Thom. “He’ll be interested in this for its historic value and the possibility that Belle and her family might someday want to donate or sell it to Oxford for their collection. Believe it or not, despite Barrie’s affiliation with the Cotswolds, Oxford has very little in the way of Barrie manuscripts and books.”
“If you’ll leave the book with me, I can photograph it and send him the images,” said Thom.
“Heck,” said Wendy, “Leta and I are going to Oxford on Thursday. We could make an appointment and show it to him.”
“He has a pretty busy schedule, so I don’t think you’d be able to get in,” said Thom.
“In that case,” said Wendy, “I’ll just take it home. No offense, Thom, but now I’ve got it back, I don’t want to let it out of my sight. Can you take just a few photos and see what you can find out from him?”
Bells, Tails, & Murder Page 12