He’s getting into the spirit of this detecting thing, I thought. “Okay, but why is it on the floor? Why isn’t it on his desk or in one of his notebooks? We’ve stumbled across a loose page and there’s a key to the safe secreted somewhere. This gets more and more like a treasure hunt by the minute.”
Gemma almost cracked a smile, but not quite. “Great. Just what I need! So, do I call in Constable James to help and tell him to bring a copy of Treasure Island with him?”
Stifling a giggle, I said, “How ’bout the game of Clue?” As I flashed on an image of the board game, I had a sudden more serious thought. “Hold on a sec, I want to check something in the bedroom.” What if Teddy hid something in there?
I got on my hands and knees and lifted the bed skirt to look beneath the bed. Dust bunnies filled the space near the center, as though whoever regularly vacuumed never got beyond the edges. I sat back on my heels and pulled out my phone, switching the flashlight on.
Dave knelt beside me. “What on earth are you doing, Leta? I didn’t see anything else when I retrieved the glasses.”
“I’m not sure. I just want to be sure there’s not something else that could be important. I saw a movie once where someone stuck a treasure map between the bed slats and the boxsprings, and of course, we should check between the mattress and boxsprings too.”
I was as surprised as Dave and Gemma when my hunch paid off. Encased in another of those plastic sleeves was a quote from Hamlet, centered in the middle of the page—the word dreams in all caps.
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what DREAMS may come
Gemma snorted. “Oh, bloody hell. Why on earth would he hide that? It’s not like it’s valuable. I know this is in poor taste, but it’s almost as though he planned to send us on a wild goose chase.”
Looking at me, Dave shrugged his shoulders. “To paraphrase Shakespeare—from the same play—‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ What do you think, Leta?”
I couldn’t help laughing at the exasperated expression on Gemma’s face as I explained, “Hamlet. Both quotes are from Hamlet. Though what the heck any of it means is beyond me.”
When Gemma’s phone rang, she looked relieved. “DI Taylor. Yes, yes, I am. You’re willing to see me today? Sure. I can be there at two. Yes, see you then.” Before she turned back to us, I took the opportunity to snap a photo of the quote.
She hung up and smiled. “Finally, something straightforward. That was Teddy’s solicitor, and he’s prepared to meet with me today. As much fun as I’m having with you two, I think I’m ready to leave the treasure hunt behind for some real police work—seeing the victim’s will.”
Dave patted her on the back. “I understand. It’s been an interesting hour, but I don’t know that we’ve gotten anywhere. Do you? I mean, are you any closer to knowing whether or not the poor man died peacefully in his sleep?”
Looking at me, Gemma sighed. “Not exactly. But, as Leta pointed out, we’ve got to consider everything. When I hear from the coroner, I’ll let you know whether all this is moot—beyond perhaps helping the heir or heirs determine if anything was stolen.”
We left by the kitchen door and Gemma locked up. Dickens and Watson were lounging beneath a shade tree. They seemed to have become friends.
Gemma,” I asked, “who’s taking care of Watson?”
“Blast. I forgot all about the darned cat. Any chance you could take him for a day or two until I talk to the solicitor and possibly the next of kin?”
Dickens barked. “Yes, let’s take Watson with us.”
Even Dave knew that was iffy. “Um, do you think Christie would accept him? No offense, but she can be kind of uppity and downright cranky.”
“Cranky? That’s an understatement. She managed to make friends with Paddington at the inn, but I’m not sure she’d welcome him or Watson at our cottage.”
Gemma threw up her hands. “Guess there’s nothing for it but to take him home to Mum and Dad and hope Paddington takes it in stride. Those two would never forgive me if I called in Animal Control.”
Watson wasn’t buying it. “Why do I have to leave? Can’t Fiona come over?”
Poor guy. This was a lot for him to deal with. Still, I was happy Gemma had a solution, if only a temporary one. If I’d been the last resort, I couldn’t have said no. Time for me and Dave and Dickens to head to the Graham Greene session.
Dave came to an abrupt stop as we exited the garden. “The garbage can. We need to check the garbage can.”
“What? Why?”
Pulling the lid off, he peered inside. “Who knows? It’s just an idea. Look, empty plastic sleeves—two of ‘em.” That brought Gemma running.
“Blimey. Good call, Dave. If the SOCOs didn’t bother to check for the specs beneath the bed, it was a good bet they didn’t check the wheelie bins. Here’s another pair of gloves. Do you mind reaching inside to grab them off the top? We can leave the rest to the SOCOs. I’m not digging through the rubbish, and I don’t expect you to either, but, can you roll the wheelie bin back inside the gate, please? That way, it won’t get picked up before we can get to it.”
Gemma held up her hand and asked us to wait as she jogged to her car. She returned with more evidence bags. Dave hesitated as he handed the plastic to Gemma. “Look, here’s a smashed painting or something—maybe a framed print—but there’s only a corner of the page left. How odd.” He pulled the frame from the bin and studied it more closely. “There’s nothing on this scrap to indicate what it was.”
One look at Dave told me he was dying to examine his find more closely and to return to the binders to study them as well. I may have created a monster.
“Bloody hell. Even more reason for the SOCOs to get back here. Meanwhile, because the frame and these plastic things weren’t in the cottage when they were here, they haven’t been dusted for prints. Depending on what I learn at the solicitor’s office, I may have time to run these over to Quedgeley to SOCO headquarters. And, before you ask, Dave, I’d love to have you go through the binders Monday or Tuesday to give me your take on their contents.”
Crestfallen, Dave looked at us both. “No can do, much as I want to. I leave for Edinburgh tomorrow and expect to be gone all week. Someone like Gilbert or perhaps Beatrix might be able to help.” He looked at me. “Leta, I bet you’d have a valuable perspective too. Regardless, I sure hope I’ll be able to sit and study them when I return. Teddy knew I’d be interested in them because of the book I’m writing.”
All Gemma could offer was to let him know when they might be available, which I thought was very generous of her. No matter that she’d asked for our help in this early stage, all too often, I’d known her to cut me out of the loop as an investigation progressed. It would be interesting to see what happened with this one.
We went our separate ways, and I was more than ready to be distracted by a final session at the literary festival. After that, it would be back to the hotel to pick up our bags for the trip home. With Dave taking off for Edinburgh the next day, I could settle back into my routine of yoga with Rhiannon, lattes at Toby’s Tearoom, and walks with Dickens. Even Nancy Drew needed a break from solving mysteries. Didn’t she?
Chapter Eleven
Monday morning, we were up early. I dropped Dave off in Bourton-on-the-Water to pick up a rental car and drove back to Astonbury for yoga. He planned to be gone most of the week and to adjust his schedule based on what he found at the university.
Christie had made her irritation with us clear when we arrived at my cottage Sunday evening. She wouldn’t speak to us or get in either of our laps. Instead, she voiced her complaints to Dickens, nonstop.
“They were gone two nights, for goodness’ sake! Why didn’t you make them come home? Why should I have to make do with little Timmy from next door while you’re off gallivanting? He never gets my wet food quite right.”
This morning, after her disdainful looks didn’t get the de
sired results, she finally directed her comments to me. “Pfft. The least you can do is get down here and fluff my food.”
“I’ve done that several times, missy.”
“Right! Amazing how quickly you can lose your touch when you’re gone. Try again.”
I turned my back and sipped my coffee until she was slightly more polite. “Okay already, add another dab—please.”
And so it had gone until Dave and I drove off. Now, I tried to calm myself on my purple mat as Rhiannon took us through a restorative class, exactly what I needed after the weekend in Chipping Camden. With Wendy off in Cornwall, there’d been no distracting chatter as I found a spot for my mat. If I’d had to explain to her what had gone on Saturday and Sunday, I would never have succeeded in clearing my mind for class.
Rhiannon approached me as I rolled my mat and pulled my sweatshirt over my head, in preparation for the walk to Toby’s. “The grapevine is working overtime about your Saturday morning discovery. Given that experience, it was good to see you focusing on your breathing. I only noticed your brain racing a few times. I wish I could go with you to the Tearoom, but I have another class this morning. If you’d like to have a late lunch, give me a call.” Leave it to my yoga instructor to allude to the weekend’s happenings without prying.
“Thanks, but I’ve left the day open for puttering around my cottage, catching up on emails, and writing a column about the literary festival. I may have enough information for two columns. Perhaps we can do lunch another day.”
I didn’t linger at Toby’s. After Jenny handed me my vanilla latte and a bag with a lemon scone, I strolled to my car, still feeling pretty relaxed. I’d no sooner unlocked my front door when Christie accosted me. “You owe me a walk. Let’s go see Martha and Dylan.” That was the good thing about having nothing concrete on my schedule. I could take a walk with my furry friends.
I laid Christie’s backpack out and went upstairs to find my walking shoes. When I returned, she’d already positioned herself with her little face poking out, and Dickens was rubbing noses with her.
He barked at his feline companion. “Okay, I admit I missed you some, but I met a cat with green eyes named Watson. If you’d stopped your grousing long enough for me to get a word in edgewise last night, I’d have told you all about him.”
“Just who is Watson? Let’s get this show on the road, and then you can fill me in.”
I sipped my latte as we walked the mile to the pasture, and l listened with half an ear as Dickens regaled Christie with Watson’s story. I’d heard most of this Sunday afternoon but hadn’t paid much attention then either. It was difficult to have a conversation with Dickens when Dave was around—or anyone else, for that matter. The good news was, unlike Christie, Dickens took my distraction in stride.
He chattered about how much Watson liked Fiona, how he sat in her lap as often as he sat in Teddy’s, how she let him out every night, and how he prowled the neighborhood. It’s too bad he wasn’t there when the second visitor put in an appearance, I thought. What I wouldn’t give to know who that was.
“Dickens, I’m thinking aloud here. If the last visitor had a key, it had to be someone Teddy knew and gave a key to . . . unless somehow the person had access to Teddy or Fiona’s key and made a copy. And, who knows? Maybe that someone asked to look at or borrow Teddy’s binders and Teddy said okay. Except he wouldn’t let the binders leave the house when he was planning to show them off to Dave the next morning, would he?”
“Don’t know, Leta. Watson talked a lot about Fiona, and he mentioned Albert came over to drive Teddy several times a week. Also, someone named Pris visited from time to time.”
Christie sniffed. “Well, since I wasn’t invited, I don’t know any of these people, but couldn’t that Fiona girl have given her key to someone?”
Now, that’s a thought. Gemma thinks Fiona and Teddy had a granddaughter-grandfather relationship, but what if Gemma’s wrong?
Dickens continued as though he hadn’t heard Christie. “Beyond that, Watson especially likes the grey-haired lady next door. She sits—or sat—in the garden with Teddy sometimes, and she always brings cat treats.”
The last line got Christie’s attention. “If Timmy would bring cat treats when he takes care of me, that’d be a different story. Hardly any of your friends bring me treats, Leta.”
I reached behind me to rub her nose. “I thought Peter brought treats when he took care of you in December.”
She extended her paw and patted my neck. “Silly girl, that was forever ago.”
“Here come Martha and Dylan.” The two donkeys trotted up and stuck their noses over the wall. I pulled carrots from the side pouch on the backpack and smiled at the familiar chomping sounds. Dickens stood on his hind legs, and Martha leaned down to nuzzle him. Then it was time to turn so Christie could get close. That reminded me that I’d taken a photo of Christie riding on Dave’s back and needed to write a column to go with it.
We strolled home as my mind wandered to which column to tackle first. Chewing the remaining chunk of scone, I wondered about emailing my sisters that Dave and I had found a new acquaintance dead in his bed. Nah, no need. I’ll write to Sophia about the festival, especially about Graham Greene. That will be right up her alley. Anna, not so much, since she’s more into the fantasy genre these days.
The phone rang as I rolled out my chair and Dickens scooted beneath the desk. It was Libby, and I barely had a chance to say hello before she started up. “So, you declined to take this handsome cat home? He and Paddington had a standoff last night before they settled down. Remember when you brought Christie here in her backpack, and she all but ran Paddington out of his own home? Last night’s meeting was much easier.”
Since Libby had gotten the scoop from Gemma, she also wanted to know how I was doing. She’d never met Teddy, but Gavin had described him as jovial and interesting, and he’d been shocked to hear of his death.
I stroked Christie, who was sprawled on my desk. “I know you can appreciate how distressing it was. Not nearly as bad as when you found the dead body on the riverbank, but still awful. If the coroner determines he died of natural causes, it will be much easier to deal with. I don’t suppose Gemma’s told you anything on that count, has she?”
“Nope. She ran in late yesterday afternoon, handed me the cat, and took off. By the time she and Jonas went to Quedgeley and back, it was late. She did tell me she took Jonas—I mean Constable James—so he could hear her read the riot act to the lead SOCO. She wanted Jonas to understand that the officer in charge—that would be my Gemma—must see to it that everyone does their job properly. Plus the ride over and back allowed her to bring him up to speed and brainstorm with him in person.
“She must have gotten up earlier than usual this morning to take her run because I saw her driving off before I had her basket of scones and fruit ready. With this case and handling some of DCI Burton’s caseload, she’s been running full-out since you called her Saturday morning.“
Gemma was fortunate her mom took such good care of her. Living in the guest cottage at the inn, she could always count on a breakfast basket. We wrapped up and I turned my attention to email and Facebook. I saw my editor had shared my latest column about cycling in the Cotswolds and it had garnered lots of comments. There was nothing urgent in my email—there rarely was since I’d retired last year from my corporate career. I responded to the few chatty emails I’d received from family and friends and thought, I need to work on my columns. For some reason, I was procrastinating, and I knew why when my phone rang and it was Gemma. I’d been anticipating her call all morning, without realizing it.
“Hello. Do you have news for me?”
Sometimes I could picture Gemma’s smirk in her voice. “Now, now, Tuppence, I have some news I can share and some that will have to wait. You can’t be privy to everything I know.”
Aaargh. That condescending tone makes me want to strangle her. She only puts me in the know when she needs something from me.
I wasn’t smirking—I was scowling, and I was sure that came across in my reply. “Fine, then. Tell me what you can.”
“First, I met with the solicitor. Nice chap who was eager to help. You don’t often find one who wants to speak with you on a Sunday. When I explained there was some question as to how Teddy died, he understood right off that knowing who stood to benefit was important. You know, cui bono?”
“Yes, it’s Latin for who benefits. Is it some distant relative?”
“I can’t tell you yet, but I expect you’ll find out through the grapevine soon enough. Now, the other thing—”
I cut her off. “Why would I hear anything through the grapevine? I’m not plugged into Chipping Camden gossip.”
Her chuckle irritated me no end. Why even bother to bring it up if she wasn’t going to tell me? “You’ll have to trust me on this. Now, back to the second thing. Apparently, my discussion with the SOCO about his unsatisfactory processing of the scene got back to the coroner and lit a fire under her. When she called, she mentioned wanting to avoid getting on my bad side. Whatever it takes. Anyway, I’m afraid I do have a murder on my hands. Mr. Byrd was smothered.
“The coroner said it was fairly obvious—blue lips and purple splotches in his eyes—even before she did the autopsy.”
“But he looked so peaceful. With his book beneath his hand. Oh my gosh! Did the killer arrange him that way? How awful!”
“I’m sorry to say, the killer probably did, and I wonder whether he went into the bedroom with the intent to kill. Regardless, Mr. Byrd had to have struggled.”
“Was he . . . was he smothered with his pillow?
“We think it was the pillow, yes. Thank goodness I got the SOCOs back over there to go through the bin and do a more thorough walkthrough. Is Dave there? Need to tell him thanks for thinking to look in the wheelie bin.”
“He’s on his way to Edinburgh, remember? Do you think the killer was looking for something? Or came to kill Teddy for another reason entirely?”
Collectors, Cats & Murder Page 11