Bells, Tails, & Murder

by Kathy Manos Penn

  “Wait until you hear my idea for the invitations,” I said. “Picture white card stock with the pen and ink Edward Gorey characters from the opening scene of Masterpiece Mystery.”

  “Oh,” said Belle, “I’ve got a great idea for some simple decorations. Let’s get some Edward Gorey notecards, and I’ll create decoupaged coasters. We can ask Beatrix to bring Agatha Christie books to place throughout your cottage.”

  Brainstorming with these two was a treat. “I can showcase my Nancy Drew books too,” I added.

  “I’ve got it,” proclaimed Wendy. “I’ll be Agatha Raisin. She’s blonde and retired and lives in a small village. Perfect.”

  Belle sighed and smiled at the same time. “I guess there’s nothing for it but for me to be Miss Marple, right? I may need a frumpy hat from a thrift shop, and I’ll have to bring a bag of knitting.”

  “This is the perfect excuse to go shopping,” said Wendy. “Who will you be, Leta?”

  “I’m debating whether to come as Tuppence from the Agatha Christie tales or as Harriet Vane, Peter Wimsey’s wife. Both were brunettes. Either way, I think we need to shop vintage dress shops. I’m picturing something ankle-length and clingy in velvet and a long string of pearls to wrap around my neck and tie in a knot. One of those elegant cigarette holders too.”

  “I’m sure we’ll both need fascinators to complement our dresses, don’t you think?” asked Wendy. “Like the ones we admired in Oxford?”

  “Sounds as though our last stop will be the Mad Hatter,” I responded.

  “So, will you have the affair catered?” asked Wendy.

  “Not a chance,” I said. “I have the menu all planned. Kalamata olives and chunks of feta cheese plus pita bread and hummus for appetizers. Then we’ll sit down to Greek salad followed by pastitsio as the main course. Coffee with baklava will round out the evening. It’s by no means a Downton Abbey menu, but I feel sure everyone will enjoy it.”

  “Yummy,” exclaimed Belle. “If it’s all as tasty as your Greek salad, I’ll be in heaven.”

  It had been over two years since I’d thrown a party, so I was a bit frantic over getting the details right. I visited the farmer’s market for fresh romaine lettuce, tomatoes, and green onions, the cheese shop for feta, and Sainsbury’s for olives, hummus, pita bread, and the pastitsio ingredients. Olive oil and red wine vinegar were always in my pantry. Friday, I set the table and set out coasters and Nancy Drew books. Beatrix had promised to come thirty minutes early on Saturday with the Agatha Christie collection.

  Doing all that ahead of time freed me up Saturday to prepare the pans of pastitsio so they’d be ready to pop in the oven as the appetizers were being served. Lettuce and onions went into a big bowl in the fridge, chopped tomatoes and olives in another. I would toss everything together with herbs and oil and vinegar right before dinner was served.

  I’d hired Toby’s barista Jenny and her sister Jill, Libby’s new housekeeper, to pass the appetizers and pour wine. Dressed in black skirts and crisp white blouses, they came an hour ahead of the guests to help me with any last-minute things I might have forgotten. Mostly they were there early in case anyone showed up while I was upstairs getting dressed.

  I was quite pleased with my dress. Wendy and I’d had a ball visiting shops all over the Cotswolds before finally finding what I’d envisioned. It looked like something Lady Mary might have worn in Downton Abbey except for the slightly risqué plunging neckline. I could picture Lord Grantham putting his foot down and Lady Grantham calming him.

  The burgundy velvet dress draped beautifully, and the gleaming pearl necklace and cuff bracelet completed the 1920s look, but it was the fascinator that was the pièce de résistance. Crystal sequins sparkled on the tiny velvet headpiece, which was topped with a one black peacock feather and a short net veil. I had to laugh when I thought of tossing the salad in my outfit. Heaven forbid I splatter it with olive oil.

  “Leta, this is even better than your red dress. Stunning, you look stunning,” meowed Christie. “Not sure about that thing on your head, though. Looks like a cat toy to me.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said. “That’s why it’s been tucked away in a box in the top of my closet. Only Agatha Christie’s Tuppence can pull off this look, not Christie the cat. But I do have something special for you too.”

  “Me? Is it a toy? Or a treat?”

  I could tell she didn’t know what to think when I pulled out a tiny rhinestone collar, but she sat patiently while I exchanged it for her usual red elastic one. She hopped up on the dressing table to admire herself. “Ooh la la, I look like a diva.”

  Dickens looked askance at his sister. “Please tell me you’re not dressing me in something prissy like that.”

  “Now, Dickens, I have a gentleman’s ensemble for you—a black bowtie and satin vest to set off your white fur.” I’d had quite a time finding his outfit. The bowtie wasn’t so hard, but the vests had been sized for smaller dogs. It was my friend Bev who finally found one online in Dickens’s size. I couldn’t wait for her to see the photos.

  “Okay, you two, ready to head downstairs? Beatrix is probably already here, and the rest of our guests will be close behind her.”

  Too bad only Jenny, Jill, and Beatrix were there to appreciate our entrance as I glided down the stairs followed by my well-dressed companions. Still, they gave us a round of applause. Beatrix had chosen to come as forensic archaeologist Dr. Ruth Galloway from the Elly Griffiths mysteries. Dressed in a white lab coat, she had what appeared to be a femur in one pocket and a skeletal hand reaching out of another.

  Jenny uncorked several bottles of wine, and Jill arranged appetizers on a silver tray. I reminded them not to set any food on the side tables in the sitting room or even the kitchen table lest Dickens help himself. Beatrix and I were sipping wine as Jenny opened the door to more guests.

  Belle made her grand entrance as Miss Marple, complete with knitting needles so we had a third Christie character, and as promised, Wendy came as Agatha Raisin in a beaded turquoise sheath that set off her blue eyes and blonde hair. Her fascinator featured clear crystals and a peacock feather with the blue middle. Peter, dressed in a tux, had me stumped until he put on his monocle. “It’s Lord Peter Wimsey, isn’t it?” I cried.

  “At your service, madame,” he replied as he began ferrying coats to my office.

  We all hooted as Gemma, Libby, and Gavin arrived. Gemma had smudges of flour on her cheeks and was brandishing a rolling pin. The logo on her white apron and her chef’s hat said The Cookie Jar, and I knew immediately she was Hannah Swensen, amateur sleuth and owner of the fictional bakery in Minnesota. She was followed by Libby, dressed as Hannah’s big gold cat Moishe.

  “Is that Libby?” asked Dickens. “She looks a bit like Paddington.”

  “I’m not sure who she’s supposed to be,” meowed Christie, “But I want to play with that tail.”

  Behind the cat was Gavin in a rumpled raincoat with a cigar in his mouth. “Columbo,” we all shouted.

  Next was Toby dressed in a tux with a bit of extra padding—well, lots of extra padding—to give him the round shape of Hercule Poirot. His hair was slicked back and he was sporting a curled black mustache.

  It took us all a moment to recognize Deborah. We knew right away she was Sherlock Holmes, given her deerstalker hat and pipe, but she’d added a large nose that made her almost unrecognizable—until, that is, we saw her husband John in a tweed three-piece suit with a stethoscope hanging around his neck. Ah yes, it was only fitting for John Watson, our village dentist, to come dressed as Dr. Watson.

  Bringing up the rear was Rhiannon in a plaid skirt and green twinset, a strand of pearls around her neck, and her hair tinted strawberry blonde. It was Belle who piped up, “Lo and behold, it’s Nancy Drew!”

  Christie had retreated to the bookshelf in the sitting room to hold court and was getting plenty of compliments on her sparkly collar. Dickens wasn’t retreating anywhere. He was saying hello to each and
every guest in the hopes he’d score a belly rub or a snack. So far, he seemed to be doing well on both counts. I put the pastitsio in the oven and kicked off the main event.

  As we three had agreed, Gemma, Wendy, and I gathered in front of the fireplace and quieted the crowd. “Welcome one and all,” Gemma started. “We’re gathered here tonight to celebrate the end of what we hope was Astonbury’s first and last crime spree. It’s time for our lives to get back to normal, but before that can happen, we need to lay to rest the rumors and wild imaginings that have been circulating.”

  “First,” I said, “No dragons were slain.”

  “Second,” said Wendy, “No spells were cast.”

  “Third,” concluded Gemma, “We couldn’t have done it without all of you. Now, I’m not sure we can sum this up as well as Hercule Poirot would, but we’ll give it our best shot. Toby, we may have to call on you for help us since you’ve dressed the part.” Toby stood and took a bow.

  It was my turn. “By now, everyone knows Dickens and I found Alice’s body at the cricket pavilion and that it was Thom Cook who accidentally killed her. Yes, it was an accident. They’d had a falling out over a moneymaking scheme to steal and sell rare books. And I emphasize accident because I choose to believe that Thom didn’t set out to harm anyone, but once he killed Alice, it seems his inner demons got the better of him.”

  Continued Wendy, “You may not know that Miss Marple over there, along with Tuppence and I, went to Alice’s flat to see to her cat. I’m not sure Gemma believes us, but that’s really why we went—except we discovered her place had been ransacked and couldn’t help but look for clues.”

  Miss Marple giggled and Gemma rolled her eyes. “And that’s when we three amateur sleuths started our own investigation,” I said. “We discovered Alice had been stealing from clients, even blackmailing a few. What led to her death, though, was her plan to get her hands on Belle’s valuable books and letters from Uncle Jim—or, as most of us know him, J. M. Barrie.”

  Wendy picked up the story. “What we didn’t know until it was almost too late was she’d hooked up with Thom to find buyers for the books—buyers who would pay unbelievable amounts for my mum’s childhood treasures.”

  “Turns out,” Gemma added, “the two knew each other from Manchester, where Thom bought used books from Alice’s flea market stall—at first to read, but later to sell as a means to help with his Oxford expenses, and to help him fit in with his peers who were better off than he was. He was the perfect middleman for the Peter Pan scheme, as I think of it, and even had a professor who was a Barrie expert.”

  “I hate to admit he bamboozled me and Wendy with his nice guy, ‘let me help’ attitude when we approached him to do some research,” I said.

  “Heck, he bamboozled me,” interjected Beatrix. “He was one of the most knowledgeable assistants I ever had at the Book Nook. I still can’t believe what he was up to.”

  “And what he was up to,” said Wendy, “was getting Mum’s books and letters at any cost. That’s why he broke into our cottage, thinking Mum was on her own. He might have gotten away with it, too, if Peter hadn’t been staying over.”

  “Even at that point,” said Belle, “I don’t think he planned to hurt me or anyone else. He was in over his head by the time Peter chased him out.”

  “Uh-huh, you all are being awfully forgiving of the lad, but I’m the one he ran off the road,” said Peter. “And I’m thinking he’d have come back to finish off the job because he couldn’t be sure I hadn’t figured out who he was.”

  “Yes, I mentioned that to him when I found him in my cottage looking for the books and letters I’d so naively shown him. How was I to know it was Thom who killed Alice and tried to kill you?” I shuddered at the memory of our confrontation.

  Gemma piped up. “None of us knew, but we might have gotten there sooner if someone hadn’t gone off the rails thinking she’d found the ‘real’ killer. Tuppence, I’m talking about you.”

  And in walked Tommy, Tuppence’s sleuthing partner in the Tommy and Tuppence mysteries. It was Dave, looking dashing in a tux, a jaunty white silk scarf, and a top hat. “Ah, yes, dear Tuppence, you did send Gemma off on a wild goose chase. Would you care to explain to your friends how you came to believe I was evil personified? That I’d been the one to kill Alice and go after Peter?” He chuckled as he swept off his hat and bowed in front of me.

  “You devil,” I cried, “You told me you couldn’t possibly make it back from New York.” He’d returned home, where he was putting the finishing touches on his article about Belle’s Barrie collection, including the only copy of The Family at Sunshine Cottage. Belle had given him exclusive rights to the story.

  “Got to keep you on your toes, dear Tuppence.”

  “Enough,” I said. “The short version is I found notes in Dave’s room at the Inn, notes from Alice, trying to get him to buy Belle’s books, and I jumped to the wrong conclusion and never saw that it was Thom all along. But all’s well that ends well, right?”

  “Right,” said Deborah, “let’s just gloss over the part where Thom broke in here and you were almost the third victim.”

  “Or the part where Christie and I saved you,” barked Dickens. By now my four-legged protectors were standing by my side. I reached down to pick up Christie and then grabbed a glass of champagne as Jenny came through with a tray of glasses for all.

  “I’d like to propose a toast or two or three,” I said. “First, here’s to Dickens, my little hero dog, who brought down my assailant and in a stroke of genius rang the school bell to bring Deborah and John to my rescue.”

  “What do you mean ‘little dog’?” barked Dickens as my friends marveled at his ingenuity. “I was big enough to grab that bell pull, wasn’t I? Christie is little. I’m not.”

  “Second, thank you, Christie, for jumping in to claw the culprit and inflict maximum damage.”

  Christie preened and meowed and tried to sip my champagne.

  “And here’s to Gemma,” said Wendy. “Thank you for listening to our ideas and putting them together with what you found through good old-fashioned police work.”

  I had to interrupt. “Though you do have a habit of rolling your eyes!”

  “Setting that aside,” continued Wendy. “Justice was done because of you.”

  With both hands on her cane, Belle stood and said, “Jenny, we need more champagne, please. I’d like to say a few words.”

  Sweet Belle. The matriarch of our group had been through a lot the past few weeks. “Leta, you’ve praised everyone involved in apprehending Thom, even Dickens and Christie, but what about you?

  “You deserve the lion’s share of the credit for solving these crimes—Alice’s murder, the break-in at Sunshine Cottage, and the attempted murder of my son. Without you, Thom would have made off with my books and sooner or later come after my Peter again. You put a stop to all that.” She raised her glass and said, “Here’s to Leta.”

  I was blushing beet red and trying to deflect attention from myself by moving toward the kitchen to make the salad when Libby stopped me.

  “Just a moment, please,” she said. “I too would like to say a few words. All of us once knew Alice as the generous, kindhearted, thoughtful woman who never failed to bring a basket of home-baked sweets when she cleaned our homes. We’ve learned she had another side, a dishonest side, but as Gemma said of Thom, I’d prefer to believe Alice’s demons got the better of her. I’d like to raise a glass to the Alice I knew and loved. No matter her flaws, she was a friend.”

  The group took a moment to digest what Libby had said, and slowly, one by one, they stood and raised their glasses, until everyone uttered the words, “Here’s to Alice.”

  By that time, we’d all had way too much champagne on empty stomachs. Jenny, Jill, and I plated salads and pastitsio and filled wine glasses. When we sat down to dinner, it was Toby who raised his glass and spoke as Poirot. “Mes amis, if happiness is to be found in an evening with good friends and
good food, we are fortunate, non? Cheers!”

  Please take a minute…

  Dear Reader,

  Writers put their heart and soul into every book. Nothing makes it more worth it than reader reviews. Yes, authors appreciate reviews that provide them helpful insights.

  If you enjoyed this book, Kathy would love it if you could find the time to leave a good honest review. Because after everything is said and done, authors write to bring enjoyment to their readers.

  Thank you, Dickens

  Greek Salad Recipe

  My sisters and I learned to make this salad by watching our father. We never measure the ingredients, but these approximations will do the trick.

  Servings: 4

  Ingredients:

  Salad

  2 heads of Romaine lettuce rinsed, dried, and torn into bite-size pieces

  1 large farm fresh tomato cut in bite-size pieces or grape or cherry tomatoes halved

  1 bunch of green onions (scallions) thinly sliced, mostly the white part

  1/2 cup pitted Kalamata olives

  4 oz. crumbled Feta cheese, preferably goat or sheep’s milk Feta (Note: Pre-crumbled is not as tasty but will do in a pinch.)

  Dressing

  Approximately ¼ cup of extra-virgin olive oil

  Approximately 2 TBs red wine vinegar

  Garlic salt, oregano, salt, pepper to taste

  Optional: Juice of ½ lemon for a citrus kick

  Directions

  In a large salad bowl, toss all the salad ingredients together.

  Gradually add the dressing ingredients directly to the salad and toss to taste as you go.

  Tips

  Start small. Add more oil, vinegar, and herbs to taste.

  Three heads of romaine lettuce will easily feed ten.