Berdie smirked. Police station? The cramped bedroom with Goodnight chomping meat pie flashed across her mind.
“None of the calls have been conclusive.” David Exton drew a breath.
“And the motive?” the same voice asked.
“Money was stolen, the amount unknown, but enough to fit under a mattress.”
“Under a mattress?” A chuckling voice spoke the general sentiments. “Hardly worth killing for.”
Indeed, Berdie thought, hardly worth killing for. This lot could teach Albert Goodnight a thing or two.
“Jamie’s a good lad.” Berdie heard herself speak.
Every eye fell to her.
“Hey,” a senior woman amongst the horde barked, “aren’t you Bernadine Elliott? You broke the MergingTec scandal. “
Berdie flushed. She thought of her promise to Hugh. “Must go.”
“You know the murderer?” another asked.
Berdie pushed through.
“Uncovered something?” someone shouted.
Young David Exton interrupted, “She’s the village vicar’s wife.”
Berdie maneuvered her way through and flew out the door.
The pull of that newspaper office was like a small child spying a jar of Christmas sweeties.
“My next stop is the greengrocer. Preparing a church dish for the funeral meal, at this moment that’s my responsibility. Yes.” Berdie looked down High Street to where the Raheems’ store was nestled. “I can’t possibly run into trouble at the greengrocer.”
When Berdie entered the store, the jolly bells on the door clanged loudly. The produce bins were filled with fresh goods, but it seemed business at the store was less than robust. The Raheem family had arrived in town near the same time as the Elliotts. Clergy had a fairly secure built-in acceptance factor. But any small village can be a fishbowl that doesn’t easily welcome new swimmers, and in Aidan Kirkwood, the Raheems were dog paddling.
Mrs. Raheem came out from the back room. “Good morning,” she greeted in a tone that made Berdie wonder if it was good indeed. The woman held a pair of kitchen shears in one hand and a bundle of parsley in the other. Her market pinny covered most of her lively colored sari that floated around her ankles. She was a lovely woman with dark dramatic features—exotic. But today she was anxious and looked as if she hadn’t slept.
“Good morning.” Berdie smiled in return. She had seen Sharday Raheem at church, but she had never before seen her working in the store.
“Can I help you find something?” Mrs. Raheem asked.
“I see just what I want. Those kiwis are lovely. Also, I need fifteen pounds of potatoes.”
Mrs. Raheem put both the shears and parsley in the ample pinny pocket. With great zeal, she flipped open a brown bag and attacked the potatoes, rapidly stuffing them in the sack.
“So you’re minding the store today?” Berdie asked.
“My husband had to go to London this morning and left me here alone to do all the work.” She shoved three more potatoes in the bag. “He couldn’t wait until my sister arrived to help me. No, he had to go today.”
“It must have been something important,” Berdie tried to encourage.
“Business, always business, and soon we won’t have one.” She picked up a potato white with mildew. “You see, no buyers, the food rots.”
Sharday appeared so taken in her displeasure that Berdie was hoping the particular potato would not absently make it into the brown bag. But it did.
“And now the bank calls for us to come. Ten thousand pounds we have to give them or we have no shop. Do they think the money grows on bushes?”
The bells on the door rang out again, and Lillie swept into the store.
“Good morning one and all,” Lillie practically sang, causing Mrs. Raheem to put even more punch in her potato gathering.
“Lillie, you’re cheerful,” Berdie observed.
“I just got three new clients for voice instructions. Relatives are giving singing lessons as Christmas gifts. That seals my winter holiday in Portugal.” Lillie twirled and snapped her fingers.
The storekeeper took the bag prepared for Berdie to the checkout counter. “What does madam want?” Mrs. Raheem queried Lillie with little pleasure.
“Four onions.”
“That’s four pounds. She means four pounds of onions,” Berdie chimed in.
Lillie’s stunned eyes fell upon Berdie who held an index finger to her lips.
“What will I do with four pounds of onions?” Lillie whispered.
Mrs. Raheem set about gathering the vegetables.
“Later,” Berdie whispered back.
“Where’s Mr. Raheem?” Lillie whispered. “At least he’s pleasant.”
Mrs. Raheem gathered, weighed, and brought the onions to the counter in less than a minute.
Both women moved to check out. Lillie’s purchase rang up fine, but Mrs. Raheem had to check the price of kiwis to complete Berdie’s order. The cash drawer was open, and the woman lifted the coin tray to check a price list. Oddly, a sudden scent of lavender wafted over Berdie. She looked to Lillie and back to the cash in the register. Then she saw it—a one-hundred pound note clearly lay on the floor of the cash drawer.
“A special,” Sharday Raheem announced. “Two kiwis for a pound.” She returned the coin tray to its place.
“My.” Berdie could feel herself moving beyond her official church duties. “I couldn’t help but notice. It’s not often a retail business will accept such a large note.
“My husband put it there.” Mrs. Raheem stopped. “Are you spying my money drawer?” The words were clipped, her frown intense.
“No, no. It’s just that I only have a twenty-pound note.” Berdie turned to Lillie for a bit of reinforcement.
But, Lillie’s eyes remained on the cash drawer, mouth agog, and of no help at all.
After payment, Mrs. Raheem slammed the cash drawer shut. The transaction complete, Berdie had to grab her friend’s coat sleeve to move her toward the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Raheem.”
Once outside, both women bustled away from the shop door then halted.
“That was Miriam’s money.” Lillie continued to look dazed.
“It’s a sales cash drawer,” Berdie pointed out.
“Yes, but she said her husband put it there.”
“True. Let’s not jump to conclusions. It could have been given to him.” Berdie glanced across the road and caught sight of The Copper Kettle Tea Shop. She started across the narrow street. “Come on, Lillie.”
“Where are we going?”
“Fresh tea and scones always makes things easier to sort.”
The women trundled across the road with their multiple pounds of veggies. Once inside the shop, they settled on polished wooden chairs at a table just big enough for two. Tea canisters lined the walls, and pretty little painted cupboards held teapots and stacks of cups, plates, and other various tea paraphernalia. It was just recently that The Copper Kettle added four tables with chairs to the shop. Originally, Villette Horn, the owner, only sold tea. Now she sold it, brewed it, and served it accompanied by fresh baked goods and simple fare.
By virtue of its cramped space, The Copper Kettle could be a hotbed of gossip. But at this moment, Berdie and Lillie were the only customers present.
“Tell me, Lillie,” Berdie said, “did Miriam often disperse one-hundred-pound notes around the village?”
“Never,” Lillie retorted. “And how often do you pay for a purchase at the greengrocer with hundred-pound notes?”
“What’s your pleasure?” Villette Horn grinned and pointed to the slate board on the wall where the offerings for the day were chalked in. Short-clipped, caramel-colored hair contrasted with her long jaw. “I say, the cranberry scones are going well.”
“Oh yes, two of those.” Berdie looked to Lillie who agreed.
“And we’ll split a pot of Yorkshire Gold,” Lillie added.
Villette set to caring for her guests.
&nbs
p; “The conversation at the party...” Berdie searched her memory. “Miriam scorned Mr. Raheem when he suggested she calm down.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Hardly a cause to murder someone.”
“After she was so rude to him, he offered to take her home. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?” Lillie scrunched her nose.
Berdie gave a slight nod. “But there’s something else. We watched him leave with Miriam and Natty. That means he was likely the last person to see Miriam alive.”
Villette returned to the table with the ordered goods. The two scones smelled of sweet oranges and pungent cranberry, but something was amiss, another odor.
“I smell onions!” She wiggled her nose, and did a double sniff.
“We’ve been to the greengrocer,” was all Berdie said.
“Well, I hope no one else comes in. It’s an unseemly odor for my tearoom,” Villette spouted and returned to her work.
Lillie gave Berdie’s foot a nudge. “What am I going to do with all those onions?”
Berdie slathered her warm scone in fresh butter. “Mrs. Raheem was telling me about their money woes before you entered the store. The large onion purchase was an act of mercy.”
“Merciful with my money.” Lillie swirled the cream in her tea. “And what money woes for the Raheems would that be then?” She took a bite of scone.
“The bank requires ten thousand pounds, or the Raheems are in danger of losing the store. Mrs. Raheem was quite concerned about it,” Berdie whispered a bit dramatically.
Lillie swallowed the scone in one gulp. With a quick gesture, she brought the teacup to her lips and washed the bread down. She took a breath. “Would Raheem murder for money?”
“Quietly dear.” Berdie’s caution was barely audible.
Lillie leaned forward.
“Money, or the need for it, has been known to turn man into beast.”
Lillie abruptly sat up. Mrs. Horn was again at the table.
“Everything canna, quite all right and more?” she asked.
“Quite delicious.” Berdie suspected the woman had other motives for being at the table.
“Horrible stuff this, with Miss Livingston and all.” Villette ran a hand cross her pinny, then stood in silence.
Berdie’s suspicions proved true.
“Natty Bell’s son came for her,” Villette continued. “She’ll live with him through to spring. Poor Natty. And to think the murderer lived right under our nose.” She lifted the lid of the teapot and glanced in. “True, Jamie Donovan hasn’t been among us long.” She returned the lid to the pot. “But, oh my, and a customer pointed this out when she was here this morning. How can Ivy Butz live with the fact that her husband took in a killer?”
“Mrs. Horn, if you don’t mind.” Berdie set her teacup down firmly. “It sounds like Jamie Donovan has been tried and convicted in the court of The Copper Kettle.”
Villette’s tight lips revealed she was not pleased with Berdie’s stark evaluation. “I say!”
“Really,” Berdie reasoned, “wouldn’t you agree all this is a bit premature?”
The hostess arched over the teapot. “You go see that poor, sleepless Ivy Butz with the tear-stained face. You ask our Ivy if it’s premature.” The woman left the table.
When two more customers arrived, Berdie and Lillie finished their teatime quickly, especially when Mrs. Horn obtusely sniffed.
Berdie walked home, bags of produce in her arms.
Upon opening the back kitchen door, Berdie ran headlong into Hugh, who was leaving. Both yelped as potatoes spewed everywhere. Their surprise turned into easy laughter as they gathered the errant veggies.
“I’m sorry, love,” Hugh offered.
“So when and where does your flight depart?” Berdie teased.
Hugh put the produce on the kitchen counter. “I’m glad you’re home, Berdie. Edsel just called. His family is in a state. Will you come with me to tend them?”
“You needn’t ask twice,” she said, and both of them were out the door.
5
Getting to the Butz household was a quick jaunt. Hugh informed Berdie on the way over that Edsel was in distress concerning both his wife and daughter, Lucy, who were not coping well with the death of Miss Livingston or the accusation of Jamie Donovan as a murderer. And apparently, there were preexisting problems as well.
It was obvious when arriving at the Butz’s home that though the central portion of the house was built over sixty years ago, rooms and sections had been added on since then. Edsel, in his work overalls, was waiting for Berdie and Hugh. He opened the front door before Hugh could even lift the knocker.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Edsel greeted. He ushered them into the hall that clamored with the sound of distant voices of children. When he pointed the way to the drawing room, one couldn’t help but notice the two suitcases, full to the bulging, that austerely sat near the door. Berdie wearily gave a sideward glance to her husband, who acknowledged her with an arched eyebrow.
At the bottom of a small staircase, Edsel belted out like a trumpet, “Ivy, the vicar’s here.”
Berdie and Hugh followed Edsel into the newly added drawing room where there were two chairs, taken by Hugh and Berdie, and a sofa where Edsel planted himself. The only other object in the room was a small commode table where a rather stark Christmas cactus was desperately trying to bloom. There was nothing about this drawing room with its freshly painted bare walls that really drew one in. It rather shouted, Go away!
Edsel’s forehead wrinkled. “She had to have a drawing room, you know. Well, here ‘tis,” he said awkwardly. “Now she wants a wine cellar. And here’s me that only drinks the fizzy pops with the young ‘uns.”
Ivy bustled into the drawing room with their youngest child, two-year-old pajama-clad Duncan in one hand and a very large handkerchief in the other. Ivy’s face was swollen with crying, her mousy brown hair pulled back and tied.
“Edsel seems to think you can help us,” were Ivy’s first words spoken, and that to the floor. When she finally brought herself to look at Berdie, her eyes welled up with moisture. Edsel stood and helped his wife settle into the sofa.
“Martha, come get your brother.” Ivy’s roar made Edsel’s trumpeting sound timid. “I hate fussing in front of the children.”
Edsel returned to his seat.
Ten-year-old Martha entered the room. Her twin brother, Milton, close behind.
“Say hello to the Elliotts,” Edsel instructed.
“Hello,” Martha squeaked and wrestled Duncan from her mother’s ample arms.
“Are you going to get Lucy to come out of her room?” Milton asked Berdie.
“Don’t give Duncan any of your peanut butter,” Ivy cautioned “You know how it bloats him.”
“It gives him stink bombs,” Milton announced to Hugh.
With the baby between them, the twins waddled Duncan off on his pudgy little toddler legs.
“There’s a problem with Lucy?” Hugh questioned.
Ivy burst into tears. “There’s problems from London to Lincolnshire.” She wiped her eyes and nose with the large handkerchief. “Which one you want first?”
Edsel scowled. “Lucy locked herself in her room last evening, and she refuses to come out. We’ve tried to reason with her. Lila, our second, who hibernates with her planetary charts—she fancies herself an astronomer, you know—even she gave it a go, but our Lucy’s a stubborn one. And Lucy’s not eaten.”
“It’s all because of that Jamie Donovan.” Ivy’s cheeks turned an angry shade of red. “If he hadn’t gone after her—”
“He didn’t go after her, Ivy Butz.” Edsel looked at Hugh. “Jamie cared for my girl, but not in that way.”
Ivy’s nose glowed like a holly berry. “Then why’s she mad for him?”
“Why is any fifteen-year-old girl gone mad over a handsome young man?”
Berdie could see this going in circles for hours. Then she thought of how tenderly Hugh
had gotten their daughter, Clare, through some rough spots when she was a teen. “Let Hugh take a go at getting Lucy to see sense,” Berdie offered. “He was adept with our daughter, Clare.”
Edsel was on his feet. “I’ll take you to her,” he offered Hugh.
“Mind you, I was Clare’s father, but I’ll see what I can do to help.”
Edsel already had a look of relief about him, and with that, both men ventured forward.
“I wish that troublesome Jamie Donovan had never stepped foot in this house, this village for that matter. I’ve had to keep my little hinnies home from school, all the talk that Jamie’s a”—she paused and dabbed at her eyes—“a killer.” The distraught woman buried her face in the handkerchief.
Berdie moved to the sofa and put her arm around Ivy’s shoulders. “We don’t know that Jamie perpetrated the crime.” Berdie tried to bring comfort.
Ivy lifted her head. “Don’t we?” She was sharp. “Goodnight had Edsel identify the murder weapon.” Her jaw tightened. “And wasn’t it the very screwdriver Edsel had given Jamie as an early Christmas gift. ‘Well done, Jamie’—can you imagine—is carved into the black onyx handle with Jamie’s hire date inscribed on the shaft. One of a kind, it is.”
Berdie thought back to when she saw the tool beside Miriam Livingston’s body. She had noted the unique black onyx but hadn’t noticed inscriptions. “Jamie’s tool may have been used, but unless something puts him at the crime scene—”
Ivy interrupted. “Oh, he was there.” Ivy was resolute. “The Turners, Mr. Clark, Widow Sheridan, all that lot who live on Westwood Drive. Ask them. They all heard the awful grinding screech from that old work lorry Jamie drives. When it comes to a stop those blasted brakes raise the dead.” Ivy took a breath. “Mr. Clark says he saw a short man with dark hair.”
“It was Jamie?” Berdie asked.
“Well of course it was him.” Ivy was irritated. “He’s done a runner, hasn’t he? Sure sign of guilt. And you heard what he said to Miriam at the party. ‘You’ll get yours,’ he said.”
Berdie placed her hand on Ivy’s arm. “Those were youthful words from a slighted twenty-three-year-old.”
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