Pumpkins, Paws and Murder (A Dickens & Christie mystery Book 2)

by Kathy Manos Penn

  “Working in a bookshop sounds like heaven to me, but I’m afraid I’d spend every dime I have on books. I’m sure your aunt has told you I almost singlehandedly keep her in business—along with Wendy, that is.”

  “Ha! That she has. Well, I’ll be holding down the fort here tomorrow while Aunt Beatrix sets up her booth of used books at the inn, but I hope to see you Saturday for the big event. Bye now.”

  Wendy hustled me out the door. “Good grief, I can’t believe Gavin said that about a dead body. I know he didn’t mean to be insensitive, but still.”

  “This too shall pass,” I said. “We managed to enjoy reading a book with a body in it, and eventually we may be able to watch murder mysteries on TV again. I doubt we’ll ever joke about finding dead bodies, but we’ll get through this.”

  I was up bright and early the next day to make the morning yoga class. I followed my routine of pouring a tiny puddle of milk for Christie, tossing Dickens a treat as he ran to the garden, and brewing coffee.

  For once, Christie seemed satisfied with the appearance of her milk and quickly lapped it up. “You’re moving awfully fast today, Leta. What’s up?”

  “I need to take your brother for a quick walk, get to yoga, and then over to the inn. No time to dilly-dally.”

  Dickens wandered in from the garden in time to hear the word walk. “Did you say walk? I’m ready.”

  He was disappointed we didn’t make it as far as the donkeys, but he got over it when I explained I’d be taking him to the inn after yoga. In the kitchen, I grabbed a protein bar and my yoga mat and was off.

  The yoga studio was located in a building that had been a school in the early 1900s and had served over one hundred students in its heyday. Fifty years ago, when a larger school had been built in Cheltenham, this one had been broken up into flats and businesses.

  Rhiannon had an end unit. When you entered the building, a door to the right opened to her flat, and a staircase directly ahead led to the second-floor studio. Rhiannon chose to make her home on the lower level so she could access the small rear garden from her kitchen. The large sitting room which fronted High Street contained a fireplace as well as wall carvings and niches left from the original structure.

  I greeted the other students who were laying out their mats and gathering blocks and blankets for class. Every session was different, and I never knew which part of my body would ache the most when class ended. Those who thought of yoga as little more than stretching had no idea how intense a good class could be.

  “Lordy, I’m going to be sore after this class, Rhiannon,” I said. “I’m already feeling it . . . in a good way, of course.”

  Rhiannon chuckled. She offered an array of classes at her Let It Be yoga studio, and this early class was tougher than the one I usually attended. “Are you ready for a scone and a cup of tea or your usual coffee? One of these days, we’ll get you hooked on tea.”

  “Yes, I am,” I responded. “I like a cup of tea in the afternoon, but it’s coffee all the way until lunch. I’ll walk with you to grab a cup, but I’ve got to get a move on.” Together, we walked to Toby’s Tearoom further up on High Street, and Rhiannon found a seat as I ordered. In a reversal of Rhiannon’s floor plan, Toby had his residence above the tearoom.

  This morning, Toby was behind the counter while Jenny was busy baking. The shop was quiet, and he had time to chat. “You ladies look like you could use a cuppa—especially you, Leta,” he said. “Did Rhiannon work you hard?”

  “Yes,” I groaned. “But I know I needed it. Make mine a large to-go cup, please. I’ll need the caffeine boost to help Beatrix set up her booth.”

  “Sure thing. By the way, my scarecrow costume’s ready to go. Jenny brought her glue gun and pinking shears to work yesterday and between customers, she added the finishing touches. She said I needed all the help I could get.”

  “You’re cracking me up, Toby. Of course, you needed help, and who better than young Jenny, only a few years out of school? She and Jill have probably been pulling together costumes for years. Can’t wait to see her handiwork. Oh! I almost forgot. I need to send an email reminding everyone to wear long underwear under their costumes. October can be pretty chilly.”

  I grabbed my cup, waved goodbye, and hurried to my car. I made a quick stop by the farmer’s market for some pumpkins for my front walk and made it home in no time. Dickens yelped in excitement as I opened the door to my black London taxi and fastened him into his harness. I’d loved my red SUV in Atlanta but had grown quite attached to my new ride. Thank goodness Peter had alerted me to the fact that I could purchase a refurbished cab.

  Beatrix was unloading boxes of books when I pulled up to the inn, and other vendors and volunteers were setting up booths in a large semicircle under Gavin’s watchful eye. The annual Fête was one of his favorite events.

  Dickens bounded out of the car and went in search of his pal Paddington, the Burmese cat who reigned supreme at the inn. I stood back and admired the colorful booths, some with flags flying from their tops, others with cobwebs and black cats decorating their awnings.

  Phil Porter and Barb Peters, who worked at the Ploughman Pub, were planting the scarecrow garden in a circle around the tall rowan tree in the center of the courtyard. Its bright yellow leaves provided a picturesque backdrop for the colorful scarecrows, and a miniature white picket fence would be the finishing touch. The scarecrow creators had each paid a fee to enter the Scarecrow Contest to be judged by Gavin and Toby. The prize? Dinner for two at the Ploughman.

  Barb waved me over. “Leta, what do you think? Can you believe the variety we have?”

  “I think the selection is amazing. How will Gavin and Toby ever decide the winner?”

  Barb laughed. “I wonder the same thing. Glad all I have to do is help stand ’em up.”

  Phil was staring at the sign he was about to attach to the fence. “Crikey,” he said, “I think I misspelled the word sponsored. When am I going to find time to fix that?”

  Sure enough, the sign read “Sponsered by the Ploughman.”

  Barb chuckled. “Tell you what. If you’ll give me an hour off tomorrow afternoon, I’ll paint a new sign and bring it over in the morning.”

  Further back, Summer and Sparkle were setting up their fairy hair booth next to Beatrix. I’d found Summer in nearby Cheltenham but hadn’t met her business partner before. According to Summer, Sparkle lived in Totnes, and the two met up for festivals. They were walking advertisements for their trade. Summer‘s blonde bob was woven through with sparkly pumpkin and bronze silk threads, and she reminded me of an autumn elf in her olive green suede jacket and jeans. Sparkle had gone with a vamp look with her sleek shoulder-length ebony hair sporting purple threads. Black leggings and a long, belted V-neck black sweater completed the outfit. She resembled a voluptuous witch.

  I planned to get fairy hair the next day. I’d discovered the fun look in the States on a visit to Black Mountain in North Carolina and loved the effect, though Henry’d said he felt like he was married to a hippie. He’d always been a tad more conservative than I was.

  I waved at Beatrix. “Shall I grab more boxes or set up your tables?”

  “I’m almost done with the unloading, so if you can set up the tables and start arranging the books by genre, that would be great. I’ve got a sign and some spooky decorations too.”

  “Okay. Do you have plenty of Halloween and autumn themed books? They’re sure to be a hit.”

  “Oh yes, I made a special trip to the Manchester flea market to stock up. And I snagged three copies of Agatha Christie’s Hallowe’en Party with Hercule Poirot. I don’t care that the critics said it wasn’t one of her best. Anything by Dame Agatha is good by me.”

  I chuckled. “Well, I know a black cat who would agree with that. Halloween is Christie’s season, you know.”

  “And,” added Beatrix, “I have Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, and Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Oh, you’ll love th
is! Have you read any of the laugh-out-loud reviews of Dracula? The ones written by young adults who grew up with the Twilight series? They complain that the book is boring and written in flowery language that’s difficult to understand. They have no idea Count Dracula was the beginning of vampire fiction. Imagine!”

  “That’s hilarious. I never taught Dracula, but I did assign Frankenstein to my tenth graders, and they loved it. Of course, I only taught a few years, and that was over thirty years ago. Who knows what they’d think today? We’ll have to ask Wendy, since she just retired from teaching last year.”

  I spread black and orange cloths on the tables and went to work arranging books, but I was hard-pressed to accomplish much because I kept stopping to thumb through the merchandise.

  Summer saw me and came over to chat. “Hey there, I’m looking forward to doing your hair tomorrow. Are you going with pumpkin?”

  “Oh no, that’s not my color at all, but those pumpkin and bronze strands look smashing in your hair. Perfect for this time of year. My favorite color is red, so I think I’ll go for silver with a few red strands. Might as well highlight the natural silver that’s beginning to appear in my brunette locks. If I’m lucky, I’ll sparkle all the way to Christmas.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Sparkle gesturing to Summer. “Look who’s here. It’s Max.”

  Sparkle was grinning. “Max? I didn’t know you’d be here. Thought you were working at the magic shop this weekend.”

  The young man dressed in black jeans, a black tee-shirt, and a black leather jacket was the spitting image of Johnny Depp with his dark good looks and slim build, but it was more the actor’s bad boy look than it was his role as the lover in Chocolat or the charming playwright in Neverland.

  He looked surprised to see Sparkle. “Didn’t expect to see you either. Didn’t you tell me you were booked in Burford?”

  “That’s next weekend. Leave it to you get it confused.”

  “Just caught me off guard. I’m a last-minute fill-in for the local guy who broke his wrist. Can’t do magic tricks with your wrist in a cast. They needed a magician, and here I am. My caravan’s parked in Bourton-on-the Water. Where are you staying?”

  “I’ll be at Summer’s place in Cheltenham.”

  “Well, want to have dinner tonight in Bourton?”

  Sparkle looked at Summer. “We don’t have plans, do we?”

  “Nope, you go on. You know me. I like to have an early night before these all-day events,” replied Summer.

  I lost track of their conversation and continued sorting books. When Beatrix walked up with the last load, she was huffing and puffing. “Phew, I forget how hard it is to haul books, but I’m done now.”

  “What do you think of the booth? I think we need a few miniature pumpkins for the table, don’t you?” I asked.

  “I’ve a box of those around here somewhere,” she said before glancing over at the Fairy Hair booth. “Is that who I think it is?”

  “If you mean Summer and Sparkle, yes. Have you met them before?”

  “No, I mean that sleazy-looking guy in black. Only met him once, but if I’m not mistaken, that’s Trixie’s lout of a husband, all the way from Totnes. What’s he doing here?”

  I turned to look at him again. “He’s not my type—I prefer the Sean Connery and Tom Selleck look—but I wouldn’t describe him as sleazy. Do you think Trixie knows he’s here?”

  Beatrix thought for a moment. “I don’t think so, but I’ll be sure to ask her before I send her over tomorrow. That’s all she needs—an encounter with her worthless soon-to-be ex. Though it’d be an opportunity to press him again to sign the divorce papers, something he’s been putting off for months.”

  “Is he just irresponsible or is there some reason he doesn’t want to sign?”

  “Who knows? If he doesn’t sign by the end of the month, she’ll either have to endure two years of separation to be rid of him or refile on grounds of unreasonable behavior and do it soon. I’m sure he’s been verbally abusive, possibly even physically, either one of which fits the bill.

  “She just wants out. I’m happy to have her at my place, but she wants to be on her own to start a new life. She doesn’t want to be tangled up with him for two more years.”

  I was processing this whole divorce thing. “Wow, sounds way more complex than it is in the States.”

  Dickens ran up with Paddington close behind. “Leta, we’re having great fun. Jill let us play in the pile of dirty linens and now we’re going to see the scarecrows.”

  Paddington took off, meowing, “Bet I can climb to the top of one before you can.”

  Uh-oh, it was time to keep an eye on those two. The scarecrow garden wouldn’t last long if Paddington treated the crops as cat trees. I ran after them, yelling “Come back here, you two!”

  I got to the garden in time to peel Paddington from the librarian scarecrow before the frisky feline could knock the poor lady’s glasses off. I was laughing at his antics when I saw Max walk up to Barb.

  “Don’t I know you?” he asked. “Barb? What are you doing here?”

  Barb seemed taken aback. “I could ask you the same thing. I live in Astonbury. What are you doing here—all the way from Totnes?”

  He was explaining how he’d come to be in Astonbury for the weekend when I heard someone call my name.

  George Evans needed help with a tent pole, and I ran over to lend a hand. “Phew,” he said. “The whole thing almost came down. Can you take a minute to look over my new brochures and tell me what you think? I’m hoping some of the tourists will sign up for driving tours. It’s the perfect time of the year, and since I’m short a bicycle guide at the moment, I need to beef up the driving side.”

  “Sure, George. You know Henry and I enjoyed your tour and told all our friends to look you up if they ever made it to the Cotswolds. Didn’t my sister Sophia hire you when she visited?”

  “Oh yes, she did, she and her husband Jeremy. Even though he’s a Brit, I think he learned lots he didn’t know about the area. They seemed especially taken with Stow-on-the-Wold and St. Edwards Church. Apparently, your sister is a Tolkien fan.”

  That made sense. Ever since Sophia read The Hobbit as a child, she’d been enamored of Tolkien. I remembered now that I’d told her about the church and its fairytale back door flanked by two yew trees, a sight thought to have inspired Tolkien’s design for the entrance to Moria. That would have been right up her alley.

  I looked at George’s flyers and suggested he put some in Beatrix’s booth and in the sitting room in the inn.

  George nodded. “I’ll do that. I didn’t print all that many because I may have to change up part of the tour, and that would mean revising the brochures. Remember, you and Henry toured Astonbury Manor?”

  “Oh yes, it was an amazing place. As I recall, it’s only open to the public part of the year, right?”

  “Yes, and now that the Earl has passed away, no one knows for sure what the situation will be. Rumor has it some American offspring may have inherited.”

  That sounded like a juicy bit of local gossip. With the estate located just across the river from the inn, I figured Libby and Gavin would know what was going on. Plus they were friends with Lady Stow and the late Earl, so I suggested to George that he ask them what they knew.

  Regardless, speaking with George made me think my editors in the States might be interested in a column about George and his tours. That thought reminded me I needed to edit next week’s column and start a new one, so I grabbed a flyer and called Dickens.

  He barked as he ran up. “We don’t have to go home, do we? I haven’t visited the river yet, and there’s way more to see.”

  I rubbed his head and scratched his ears. “Sorry, boy, no way I’m letting you get wet and dirty today when you have a starring role at the Fête tomorrow. Let’s go.”

  Judging from the plaintive meowing that greeted us before I could unlock my cottage door, Christie wanted lunch. “For goodness’ sake
, where have you been? I’m starving.”

  “What? You couldn’t eat the dry food I left you?” I responded as I obediently gave her a dab of wet food.

  She licked it up and ran into my office as though she knew I needed to get to work. After a salad for lunch, Dickens and I joined her. He wriggled into position beneath the desk where I could rub his belly with my feet, and after knocking a few unnecessary items off the desktop, Christie curled up in the file drawer. All was right in the world.

  I’m a “work before play” kind of girl, so first I edited my “Parker’s Pen” column for the following week and sent it off to the two papers I wrote for in the States. Then I started one about the Astonbury Fête. I’d add more detail to it on Sunday after the festivities were over. When I'd had a demanding corporate job, my columns had been a welcome break from the more serious writing I did for work. Even though I’d retired, I couldn’t imagine life without writing and was pleased to find my readers had taken to my dispatches from England.

  With work done, I emailed my sisters Anna and Sophia. I knew Sophia would get a kick out of George remembering her and Anna would laugh at the story about the Dracula reviews. Anna was a Twilight fan, but that didn’t stop her from appreciating good literature. They’d both get a kick out of Paddington climbing the librarian scarecrow. With five cats of her own, Anna would especially enjoy that tale.

  Time for an afternoon cup of tea and a few games of Words with Friends. I was addicted to the online word game and played regularly. I saw that my 95-year-old opponent from North Carolina had played her turn on the five games we had going. I’d never met Martha, but when she read in one of my columns that I liked WWF, she contacted me to see if we could play. She was one sharp gal, and we were pretty evenly matched.

  I added a log to the fireplace in the sitting room and pulled out my new book. Beatrix had discovered I’d never read Agatha Christie’s Tommy & Tuppence mysteries, and she’d pointed out The Secret Adversary, the first book in the series. The story began just after WWI, and I was eager to get into it.