Collectors, Cats & Murder

by Kathy Manos Penn

  “Um, I blame the delay on Dave and Gilbert. I tried to tell them we needed to call her.”

  I wasn’t sure how to interpret the expression on Wendy’s face. Indignation, maybe? “Tried to tell them? What does that mean?”

  That’s when I told her Gilbert insisted on checking with the collector crowd but seemed to have gone AWOL, and that Dave didn’t seem concerned.

  “So, that’s what you meant about Dave’s hearing problem. And you haven’t heard from Gilbert this morning?”

  “Not unless he’s called Dave while I’ve been gone. I think I’ll have to risk making Dave angry and give Gemma a call when I get back. I don’t think Gilbert being incommunicado means anything’s wrong. It’s just that he’s put me in an uncomfortable position.”

  Wendy sighed and put her chin in her hands. “I can’t believe I missed all this. A literary mystery, for goodness’ sake. Did you hang sheets of paper on the wall as you mapped out suspects and clues? The way you and I usually do?”

  I laughed. “Not quite, but we were pretty methodical, weren’t we Belle?”

  “Yes, we were. We made sure to capture the details of the missing documents and the names of the people we saw as suspects.”

  “Your mum’s right. There wasn’t much to write down. It wasn’t until yesterday in Manchester that the pieces flew together. It happened so quickly, there was no need to map it out. Now, let me get back home. Speaking with you two has made it all the more clear that I need to call Gemma, and then I need to prepare the picnic lunch to take to Peter’s cricket match. You ladies are going, right?”

  “Oh yes, we try never to miss a match, though I often have to run Mum home before the match is done. Six hours is a long time for her to sit anywhere, especially if it’s too warm or too cool. Today looks to be a warm one.”

  I passed Dave, Dickens, and Christie on the road as I drove home and was in the kitchen when they came in. Dickens ran into the room barking. “Donkeys, you missed the donkeys.”

  From Christie I got a snub, and from Dave a huge hug. “Did you solve Wendy’s romantic woes?”

  “Well, that remains to be seen. She thinks the romance is over, but Brian isn’t convinced. I didn’t let on that I agree with every complaint she has about the man, in case they kiss and make up.”

  “You’re a wise woman, Leta Parker.”

  “So wise that the next thing I’m going to do is call Gemma. Have you heard from Gilbert yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. He met up with friends last night in Chipping Camden and over-imbibed, as he describes it. He sounded a bit worse for the wear this morning.” He laughed. “I had a vivid image of him clutching his head or lying in bed with a cold rag on his forehead as we talked.

  “Anyway, the upshot is there does seem to be a miasma—another Gilbert term—of uncertainty around Alastair. It’s only developed over the last five or six years. Gilbert spoke with several fellow collectors and found that two of them had gone back to Alastair with their purchases, demanding a refund. One with an autographed Graham Greene book, another with an alleged Virginia Woolf letter. In both cases, there were questions about the authenticity of the items.”

  As we talked, I pulled tuna from the pantry and mayonnaise and celery from the fridge. “Is that typical in the business?”

  “Not according to Gilbert, but he did say Alastair was a gentleman in both instances. He apologized for not vetting his sources more thoroughly and issued full refunds.”

  “Okay then. Let me make the tuna salad, and I’ll call Gemma. I trust our friend has no further objections to involving the police?”

  That got a laugh. “I think he might have, but he’s in no condition to pursue any leads, so we’re released to proceed.”

  I told Dave that Gilbert would never make it as one of my Little Old Ladies. We were made of stronger stuff—or at a minimum, we didn’t overindulge and find ourselves under the weather when time was of the essence.

  I put Dave to work cutting the crusts from the bread in preparation for making finger sandwiches, and I rang Gemma. It was a toss-up as to whether I’d get a positive response or a dressing-down.

  She sounded chipper. “Hallo, Tuppence. What is it today? Do you have a fresh lead you can’t wait to share, or do you want something from me?”

  So far so good. “If you’ve time to hear me out, I’d like to tell you a story. It will be worth your while.”

  “Right. I can’t wait. Are you still on the trail of rare and hitherto unknown documents? Or do you have a more down-to-earth scenario?” Typical Gemma, she had to get in a subtle dig.

  I put her on speakerphone so Dave could chime in. He nodded as I described how we’d ascertained which documents were missing and enlisted the help of him and Gilbert to help us understand why they might have been taken. When I explained they were forgeries, Gemma balked.

  “Forgeries? Okay, if you say so, but why would someone break in to steal forgeries when there was a treasure trove of valuable books and documents there?”

  Dave took over. “Gemma, we wondered the same thing, and thought at a bare minimum, we should to go the source of the fakes. And that’s what we did.”

  Gemma groaned. “Do I even want to know what that means?”

  Dave told her about the index in the burgundy ledger, our trip to Manchester, and the playacting he and Gilbert engaged in.

  If anything, the groaning got louder. “Bloody hell, please tell me you didn’t make a scene.”

  She might prefer a scene over what we have to tell her next.

  When I laid out how we’d arrived at the Porters being the forgery team, she guffawed.”More harebrained notions! If you were convinced you were on the right track, you’d have called me sooner. Gilbert has a nose and you have a hunch? You see watercolors leading to forgery? Is that what I’m hearing?”

  “See?” I mouthed to Dave. I just knew she was rolling her eyes, but I plowed ahead. “Before I tell you who we think’s responsible for the break-in and the murder, tell me, do you have a theory of the case? Do you already know the motive for the break-in and the killing of Teddy Byrd?”

  I got the response she’d give the media if they asked. “You know we’re pursuing all possible leads.”

  My voice rose. “Right. Well, can I at least get you to plug the names Alastair and Albert Porter into your database to see if either one has a record? Let’s assume there’s a team that produces the forgeries—husband and wife or mother and son or all three. I doubt this is their first illegal venture. I don’t think someone wakes up in their mid-fifties and turns to a life of crime, do you?”

  “White-collar crime, maybe . . .” Her voice grew faint and I could tell she was talking to someone in the background. “Sorry, my boss is here, back from his vacation in Cornwall. If I get a chance, I’ll try to ring you later.”

  I looked at Dave. “Ugh, getting Gemma to cooperate is iffy at the best of times, but having Brian back on the scene makes it even trickier. I’m going to take a chance and ring Constable James. He’s the one who’d be searching the database for Gemma anyway.”

  When I reached him, I learned he didn’t start his shift until noon, but he promised to check on the Porters for me. I could tell he was intrigued by the conclusions Dave and I had drawn and was eager to help.

  Hanging up, I commented, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” which got a screech from Christie.

  Dave chuckled and picked her up. “She didn’t mean it, girl.”

  It’s time to take a day off from sleuthing and turn our attention to cricket.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I’d learned how fickle the weather in the UK could be, so I dressed accordingly. Though the day had begun to warm up, there was no telling how long the pleasant temperature would last. I chose a pair of lightweight ankle-length jeans, my red Sperry topsiders, a red tank top, and a hip-length crisp white linen top. I could roll the sleeves up or down and layer on a windbreaker as need be. I surveyed my straw hats a
nd chose one with a broad brim. Heaven forbid I get any sun on my face.

  Dave watched, fascinated, as I laid my ensemble out on the bed. “For you, half the pleasure of an excursion is the outfit, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. Now, we only need to pack the picnic basket and we’ll be ready.” With tuna sandwiches, cheese and crackers, fruit, and biscuits—as I was learning to call cookies—we were set. We took my taxi, Dave driving, and Dickens in the backseat. It was a twenty-minute trip to Stanway and the nearly 100-year-old cricket pavilion where Peter’s team was playing.

  Dave reminded me of the structure’s history as it figured prominently in the book he was writing about J.M. Barrie. After spending summers at Stanway House during the 1920s, the author had the pavilion built for the village.

  Visiting the rustic building located adjacent to the Cotswold Way was not something I did very often. Though I tried, I could never approach it without remembering the dead body Dickens and I had stumbled across behind the building.

  Today, I smiled at the sight of friends setting up deck chairs and small picnic tables. Wendy and Belle waved as we approached and motioned to the spot they’d saved for us. I saw Peter in the distance with his teammates. They’d dubbed themselves the As in honor of Barrie’s team and his gift of the pavilion. In this day and age, using Allahakbarries, the original name, was deemed politically incorrect.

  We were soon joined by Ellie and her son and daughter-in-law, Matthew and Sarah. As he did for so many local events, Matthew had brought a pony keg of Astonbury Ale to share with the small crowd.

  Dave helped him set it up on a table and tap it in time for the match at eleven. He returned to our chairs with cups for both of us. “Though I can’t follow this game as well as I do baseball, I still enjoy it. What a glorious day!”

  The conversation among the spectators was chock-full of cricket terms, not all of which I understood—bowled, stumped, googly, leg-side, and more. Like Dave, I mainly enjoyed the time outdoors with friends. Dickens was having a good day too. When he wasn’t visiting our friends and getting handouts, he followed the shade, seeking cool patches of grass.

  By two, I was closing my eyes behind my sunglasses. I thought no one had noticed until Dave leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Engrossed in the game, are you?”

  I opened one eye. “Oh yes, I can’t wait to rehash the action with Peter and tell him how impressed I am with his cricket prowess.”

  A shadow fell across me, and I glanced up to see Wendy. “As predicted, it’s time I took Mum home. It’s unseasonably warm today, and she’s about done in.”

  Dave stood. “Wendy, I know you follow the game more closely than either me or Leta. Why don’t we take Belle home so you can stay and see the rest of the match?”

  “Oh! That would be marvelous. You’ve made my day, Dave.”

  Gathering our chairs and the picnic basket, we packed the car before returning for Dickens and Belle. At Sunshine Cottage, I helped her inside and poured her a cold drink. She was more than ready for her afternoon nap, and I was looking forward to the same thing at my home.

  When we passed the Ploughman Pub, I suggested we either have dinner there later or get takeaway. Cooking wasn’t in my plan for the evening. We saw two cyclists turning into the Olde Mill Inn and a couple feeding the donkeys. Crossing the stone bridge over the River Elfe just down from my cottage, I noticed a motorbike on the verge and pictured someone taking advantage of the sunny day to do a spot of fishing. Everyone was out enjoying the good weather.

  I yawned. “Let’s leave the chairs in the car and tend to them later. I’ll get Dickens unlatched while you grab the picnic basket.”

  Dave called over his shoulder as he opened the door to the mudroom. “Uh-oh, I think we went off without locking the door.”

  Huh, I guess when I handed the car keys to Dave, I forgot. I shooed Dickens to the garden and followed Dave to the kitchen. I saw him place the basket on the counter and jerk toward my office. “Who’s that?”

  He moved past the stairway, calling, “Who’s there? What are you doing?”

  Plowing into Dave’s back, I grasped his jacket and caught sight of Christie crouched on the back of the easy chair to the left of the doorway.

  With the burgundy ledger in his hands, Alastair stood on the opposite side of the room in front of the picture window overlooking the garden. Teddy’s three binders were peeking from a leather knapsack on top of my desk. “Stop right there!” He glanced nervously at the two of us.

  Dave tried to block me from moving any further into the room, but I squirmed past him and cried, “What are you doing? Why are you here?”

  He clutched the burgundy ledger to his chest. “Why aren’t you at the cricket match?”

  Pushing me behind him, Dave took a step forward. “Alastair, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but this is a mistake.” He sounded so reasonable.

  “I’m protecting my family, my livelihood, that’s what I’m doing. You, with your snooping around . . . ”

  Dave inched toward him. “What are you talking about, Alastair? We visited your stall. Leta bought some artwork—”

  “Don’t come any closer!” In one quick movement, he dropped the ledger, grabbed the cane propped against my desk, raised it in the air, and pulled a sword from it. Teddy’s cane! “Now, back up, both of you . . . slowly.”

  Dave held his right hand in front of him with his left hand behind his back gripping my arm. As we backed from the office, I was aware of Dickens barking outside. When my hips pressed against the kitchen counter, I groped for a weapon. The wooden block with the knives was too far away. The picnic basket was useless. And then I felt it.

  Ducking around Dave’s right side, I aimed the canister at Alastair’s face and sprayed three short purple bursts. He screamed and jerked back just as Christie launched herself from the chair to his chest. The cane flew from his hand as Dave barreled into him and they fell to the office floor, where Alastair alternated between attempting to pry Christie from his neck and trying to defend against Dave’s frontal attack.

  Grabbing the sword cane with one hand, I found my phone with the other and dialed 999. As I spoke to the operator, I stood with the cane at the ready, but Dave and Christie had the situation well in hand. Alastair’s face was bloody, swollen, and purple, and he now lay motionless on the floor. Dave stood near the chair—Christie’s launching pad—well enough away from Alastair to avoid any sudden moves. Christie was backed against the bookcase, hissing and spitting, and I glimpsed Dickens outside hurling himself against the window.

  Handing Dave the sword, I sank into the easy chair as tears sprang to my eyes. He knelt beside the chair and took my hands. “It’s over. It’s okay now.”

  “I felt so helpless. All I could see was him running you through with the sword.”

  “Shh, shh. I bet that thing is dull as a butter knife.” Half pushing and half lifting, he put me in his lap, where I leaned my face into his shoulder. I had no idea what he was murmuring. I only knew it was comforting. That’s how Constable James found us when he flew in the house, followed by Dickens. He’d been just up the road between Bourton-on-the-Water and Astonbury when the call came in.

  When our dazed and subdued intruder was handcuffed and propped against the bookcase, Dickens stood on his legs and growled in his face. “You better not have hurt them.”

  Christie leaped to the floor and nudged her canine brother. “Where were you? I could have used some help.” Dickens told her the story of being stuck outside, frantic to get in. Poor fella.

  From cricket to crime. So much for a day off.

  The next several hours were tedious, nerve-wracking, and draining. I thought the afternoon would never end. Officials paraded in and out of my cottage, as Dave and I sat stunned in the sitting room. Tending to Alastair, the paramedics decided he didn’t require a trip to the hospital. They cleaned Dave’s bloody and bruised knuckles and bandaged his hands.

  Gemma arrived and called
in a third officer to assist with transferring the prisoner plus the Scene of Crime Officers to ensure that she got all the evidence she needed to throw the book at our intruder, at least for breaking into my cottage. If I never again saw a white-clad SOCO, it would be too soon.

  In his semi-conscious state, Alastair had babbled briefly to Constable James but clammed up when Gemma arrived. He’d said enough for her to apply for a warrant and dispatch officers to Alastair’s Attic to search for evidence, interview Bonnie, and possibly make another arrest or two.

  It was my neighbor Deborah Watson who comforted us with cups of brandy-laced tea—the British cure for whatever ails you. She’d seen the hubbub outside my cottage and come running. Meanwhile, Dickens wandered from room to room, alternating between comforting me and seeking attention from all the visitors. Christie had retreated to goodness knows where.

  The next person I saw was decidedly less comforting. Gemma had interviewed me first, and now it was Dave’s turn to meet with her in the kitchen. That meant I was alone in the sitting room when DCI Burton arrived. Tears pricked my eyes when he sat next to me on the couch and grabbed my hands.

  He shook his head and spoke softly. “Leta, are you okay? I understand you weren’t attacked, but I’m sure finding an intruder had to be harrowing.”

  When I mumbled Dave and I were alright, he released my hands and gave me his handkerchief before rising from the couch and moving to the fireplace. His tone shifted as though he’d flipped a switch from nice to nasty. “You realize you may have jeopardized this entire case, don’t you? That once again, your meddling has gotten in the way?”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I scrambled off the couch and put my hands on my hips, prepared to do battle. “Your case? What case? If it weren’t for me and Dave and my friends, you wouldn’t have a case!”

  In response, he thundered, “My people were on the way to getting there in the right way—methodically—the way good police work happens. Not in a slapdash, reckless manner.”