I put my backpack on and waved bye to Libby. Christie slept all the way home. I had visions of the two cats running nonstop up and down the stairs, under and over beds in every room, and finally collapsing.
Dickens and I had expected to be regaled with stories about playtime with Paddington, but Christie hardly stirred when I placed her on the dog bed in front of the fireplace. Though she had several cat beds, she preferred her brother’s beds. I was lighting the fire when I remembered I hadn’t called Sparkle. So much for a leisurely day, I thought, as I wondered whether I could squeeze in a late tea or possibly dinner with the girl.
My call clicked over to voicemail and I left a message. “Just checking in to see how you’re doing. This has to be an awful time for you, and I wanted you to know I’m here if you need someone to talk to.”
I’d barely hung up when she called me back. “Hi, Leta, how good to hear from you. To be honest, I’m not doing all that well. It’s hard being here and not in Totnes with my friends.”
“I have some idea of how you feel. I lost my husband a couple of years ago, and I don’t know what I would have done without my friends to lean on. Would it help to visit over coffee in the morning? It won’t be the same as sitting down with a good friend, but it may help to talk about it.”
“Gosh, Leta. I’m sorry to hear about your husband. How awful for you. Yes, I’d love to get together. Summer’s lined up several mother-daughter duos for fairy hair for Wednesday afternoon, but I’m free until then. Do you want to meet in Cheltenham?”
I thought for a moment. The Ladies Detective Agency needed to be on the road by eleven at the latest, and I could more easily make that if Sparkle would come to Astonbury instead. She was fine with that, and we agreed to meet at Toby’s at 9 am.
I was putting the kettle on when someone knocked on the door. It was a nice surprise to see Timmy and Deborah from next door.
“Hi there,” I said. “You’re just in time for a cup of tea.”
Timmy darted in the door and ran to the sitting room, and Deborah nodded. “That would be lovely. I wanted to show you the photos I took Saturday at the Fête. You all were so cute. I’m going to frame one of the Peter Pan group to hang in John’s dental office.”
Timmy ran back in followed by Dickens. “What’s wrong with Christie? I made sure not to ring the bell, you know. She rolled over when I touched her, but she didn’t get up. Is she okay?”
That assessment made me laugh. Timmy had learned not to use the bell on the front of my schoolhouse if he wanted to see Christie. When he rang it, she bolted and wouldn’t come out until long after he’d left.
“Timmy, she’s tuckered out because she visited Paddington today.”
That led to his examining the backpack and turning it every which way. He looked at me and grinned. “Leta, if I put Christie in the backpack, could I take her for show and tell one day?”
Deborah jumped in before I could. “Timmy, Christie can’t go out without Leta. Besides, I think she might be scared of the kids in your playgroup. You know she doesn’t much care for noise.”
Timmy was undaunted. “Okay, can I wear my Michael footy pajamas instead and carry the teddy bear?”
I’d never been in the UK on Halloween, and I wondered what the protocol was. Did kids wear costumes to playgroup or school on Halloween day or wait until the evening when they went out to trick or treat? In the States, I thought it was a mix of the two.
“Timmy,” said Deborah, “you can wear your outfit on Halloween day and then again when we take you around the neighborhood that afternoon. Not before then. And that’s still a few weeks away.”
I couldn’t tell whether Timmy had given up or was distracted, but he turned to Dickens and said, “Let’s get a book,” and dashed into my office. Deborah and I chuckled at the sound of Timmy asking Dickens which book he wanted to read and Dickens barking in response. Before long, we heard Timmy reading aloud from The Cat in the Hat, one of his favorites.
Their departure gave us a few minutes to sip our tea and peruse the photos. Deborah was right—they were great. I asked her to send them to me so I could share a few with my sisters and Dave and possibly send one to my editor.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon thinking through what Gemma’d told me about the autopsy, the wallet, and the truck. Then I pondered what we’d discovered at the caravan. A fair number of clues, but none that combined to shine a light on a single killer. I was feeling at a loss when Peter called. “Hi, Leta, fancy dinner at the Ploughman tonight?”
“Now Peter, are you inviting me because you want company or because you’ve not yet spoken with Phil?” I asked.
“Couldn’t it be both?”
He had me there. “Guess it could be. The answer is yes, then. What time will you finish up at the garage?”
“It’s been a slow day, so I should be able to make it by seven. Does that suit you and Dickens?”
“I’ll have to check my boy’s calendar but I believe he’s available. Too bad I can’t bring Christie in her new backpack. I’ll tell you about that over a pint.”
I drove to the pub. In the daylight, Dickens and I might have walked the three miles there, but not in the dark. The parking lot wasn’t too crowded, and we had our choice of tables inside. Dickens didn’t hesitate. He trotted to the dog bed closest to the fireplace, turned around several times, and stretched out. I had to settle for a table.
Peter wasn’t far behind us. He gave me a peck on the cheek as he shrugged off his coat. “Your usual cider or a glass of wine?” he asked.
I chose red wine. Funny how Peter and I’d grown to be close friends in the last month. He’d been helpful and neighborly before, but shy. These small displays of affection were new and warmed my heart. It was nice to have a male friend with no strings attached.
I studied the menu, which changed nightly at the Ploughman, and I noticed Peter was taking his time at the bar. Hopefully, he was getting the scoop about Max the Magnificent. I couldn’t help but smile as I thought of Peter doing detective work. Would he get as big a kick from it as his mother did?
Phil gestured toward me with a bottle of red and grinned. Leaving his pint on the bar, Peter brought my glass over and explained that Phil had a treat for Dickens. Was this part of his sleuthing technique?
I sipped my wine as I watched the scene. “Dickens, Peter’s taking his time. Maybe that means he’s getting good information about Saturday night. Either that or they’re talking sports.”
Dickens looked up groggily. “Huh? I’d almost dozed off. Can this wait until the drive home?”
My boy was never one to miss a walk, a snack, or a snooze. He’d have a tough choice to make when Peter came back, but I knew he’d rouse himself long enough to grab a treat.
My phone rang and I was tickled to see it was Dave. “Hi there,” I answered.
“How’s my favorite detective doing?” he asked. “I can’t wait to hear why I had to get the news about another murder in the village from Belle rather than you.”
“Um, Belle called you?”
“No, I called her to let her know I’d finished the Peter Pan article, since she figures in it so prominently. I wanted her to be prepared in case the paparazzi showed up on her doorstep in Astonbury.”
“You’re joking about the paparazzi, right?”
“I think so, but you never know. The fact that she and her mother knew J.M. Barrie might bring out a few of ’em. So, tell me what’s going on. Belle was talking so fast about magic and murder, I couldn’t make sense of it.”
I could imagine Belle’s excitement making it difficult for Dave to understand her and keep up. I was giving him an abbreviated version of the tale as Peter returned to the table and nudged Dickens with a treat. When I mouthed that it was Dave, Peter reached for the phone.
“Hi, mate,” he said. “Not trying to steal my dinner date, are you? Uh-huh, the Ploughman, where else? I’ll let you have her back; just wanted to say hello.”
Dave ha
d become acquainted with most of my friends when he was here but was especially fond of the Davies family. When Peter handed me the phone, I assured Dave I wouldn’t leave him hanging and would get back to him with the rest of the story before I went to bed.
Peter looked amused. “Boy, do I have some juicy tidbits for you.”
“For a man who was hesitant to get involved, you sure are enjoying yourself. And let’s not forget you were aghast at the idea of me, your mother, and your sister asking questions.”
“Yeah, but that was before I knew how exciting it could be to discover clues. What Phil has to say muddies the waters.”
“How so?”
“For starters, Max was in here causing trouble Friday night before the Fête. Seems Barb met him in Totnes this summer.”
“Barb? I was wondering how she knew him. What was she doing there?”
“It was a holiday on the coast with her flatmates. Met him at the magic shop when they were shopping on High Street. He suggested they meet at the pub, and well, you know what happens on holiday, right?”
“Is this like ‘girls just wanna have fun’ or something similar? Like what happens in Totnes stays in Totnes?”
“Pretty much. Anyway, he spoke to her Friday when she was setting up scarecrows and then he came here Friday night. He suggested more of the same and wasn’t taking no for an answer. Followed her outside on her break and tried to persuade her, I guess you’d say.”
“No, if he tried to force himself on her, I’d say something much worse than that. Did he?”
Peter smiled a satisfied smile. “Looked like it, but he didn’t get anywhere because Barb surprised him with her karate moves. According to Phil, Barb walloped him good.”
“What time was this?”
“Hold on, I’ll ask.”
Dickens had perked up as Peter and I talked. I was discovering that my boy loved playing Detective Dickens. “So someone beat him up? I told you there was something off about that guy.”
I nodded yes as I thought about what I’d heard so far. He’d asked Sparkle to dinner and he’d visited the pub the same night. Max sure got around. Good grief. I had more and more questions.
Peter came back, looking proud of himself. “It was late, after nine. But you interrupted my story. There’s more. You saw Max Saturday night when Phil grabbed him at the bar, right? What set Phil off was the git saying something rude about having a threesome with Trixie and Sparkle. He told Max the Magnificent to get lost and stay lost.”
“I figured he’d said something disgusting. I never thought to ask Trixie what it was, though. Good for Phil for setting him straight.”
Peter wasn’t done, though. “I’ve got one last bit you’ll find interesting. You found out Trixie left first Saturday evening and Sparkle stayed on. Well, before either of ’em left, Phil went outside for a smoke and saw Max coming down the path from the inn. Says he smelled like he’d been drinking, acted like it too. Told Phil he wanted to see his girls.
“That was the last straw for Phil. He told him no way, grabbed him by the collar and tossed him on the path. The idiot got up and took a swing at Phil. That’s when Phil punched him in the nose.”
Well, that explained the bloody nose. And Barb fending him off with whatever kind of karate move Friday night accounted for the bruising on his ribs. Wonder if she kicked him? Imagining her kicking him in the ribs made me smile. Was there no end to the guy’s stupidity?
“Peter, let’s lay out the Saturday night timeline. Phil gives him a bloody nose, and after that Max grabs Jill in the inn parking lot. Jill knees him and maybe he stumbles to the river, where Trixie finds him hanging over the bank and a bottle by his side. So he must have gotten a bottle from his truck if he didn’t get a drink from Phil.”
“He was hanging over the riverbank? I thought Libby found him lying on his back Sunday morning.”
I paused. I’d forgotten Peter wasn’t privy to the information Gemma and I had uncovered. I gave him the highlights.
Peter put his chin in his hand. “Those poor girls.”
“Anyway, where was I? Oh, the timeline. The bottle of whiskey. Maybe he was drowning his sorrows. Then, Sparkle finds him in the same spot. She says he was still passed out when she left him. Who saw him next? We don’t know, but our list of people who had reason to want him gone or dead keeps growing. That’s good news for Trixie, but I don’t envy Gemma trying to fit these puzzle pieces together to figure out who the heck killed him.”
Peter groaned. “Is this how it goes? You get information, which is kinda fun, but then it doesn’t get you any closer to identifying the killer? And what happens if you’ve been talking to the killer? What happens next?”
“Well, last time we had a body in Astonbury, I talked to the killer. And you know how that turned out.”
“Bloody hell, I do. And you were lucky to get out alive. I knew there was a reason I didn’t want my three favorite ladies investigating this murder. You and Mum and Wendy have to be careful. Who’s gonna look out for you when you start asking questions in Totnes?”
I smiled sheepishly. “Dickens?”
“Not funny, Leta. Can I at least get you or Wendy to check in with me nightly so I know you’re okay?”
It was time to stop joking. “Yes, we’ll do that, Peter. And if you don’t hear from us, which is highly unlikely, but if you don’t, then you can go to Gemma and tell her what you heard last. Well, after you at least try to reach us yourself. Now, I’ll get the next round and we can order dinner. I’m starved.”
I couldn’t help myself when I got to the bar. I wanted to be sure we’d gotten all we could from Phil. “Phil, I appreciate the information you shared with Peter. You know, the police are looking at Trixie as a prime suspect for Max’s murder, and any little piece of information we can give them could help her. I mean, can you picture Trixie killing her husband, even if he was a rotter?”
Phil snorted. “No way. Unless she’s a hell of an actress, I can’t see her harming a fly. I’d be a better bet as a suspect if I were one to hold a grudge, but in this business, you can’t let plonkers like Max get to you. You handle ’em and pour the next drink.”
“What about Barb? Is she as nonchalant about men like Max as you are? Sounds like he was pretty nasty.”
“Yeah, he was, but our Barb can take care of herself. It was her dad made her take karate lessons before he’d let her work in a pub. Smart guy, though she’s never had to use her skills here—until Max, that is. Have you heard the story of how she got back at one of our drunk customers who smacked her on the backside?”
“No, but I bet it’s a good one.”
“She brought him a shot on the house—spiked with tabasco sauce. You should have seen him when he tossed it back. She offered him a glass of water after that, but he wouldn’t touch it. Our Barb has her ways.”
Phil poured a pint for another customer and turned back to me. “If you ask me, Leta, based on two nights of dealing with the guy, there could be any number of people who had it in for him. But, even with the Fête on Saturday, there weren’t many strangers in here over the weekend—mostly the couples staying at The Olde Mill Inn. Not likely any of them knew Max the Magnificent.”
“Well in the interest of jogging people’s memories, do you think Barb would talk to me? Could be she recalls Max bothering another girl or saw someone else outside when she was defending herself.”
“She might. I don’t keep up with her schedule, but she’s here most nights.”
“Thanks, Phil. I mean it. I have to believe that piecing all this together will lead us to the real killer. Now, if I can have another round for Peter and me, I’ll get out of your hair.”
The Tuesday menu at the Ploughman was all about fall flavors. For me, it turned out to be a butternut squash night, beginning with spiced butternut squash soup followed by lamb with lentils, butternut squash, chestnut mushrooms, and red wine jus. Peter went for the sirloin steak, and we split a serving of sticky date pudding.
“No way, Dickens,” I chided. “You’ve had your taste and you don’t get to lick the plates here.”
As I drove home, bits and pieces of information from the day swirled through my brain. Good thing I’d have Wendy and Belle to help me sort everything out on our drive in the morning. Soon, we’d need to get things down on paper to keep it all straight.
In the kitchen, I fed Dickens a small amount of dog food and gave Christie her dab of wet food. Amazingly, Christie cleaned her dish. Usually, she took a tiny bite and walked away. By the time she returned, as often as not, Dickens would have cleaned her dish.
Christie looked at me. “Have you gotten any more pictures? Anything I can look at to help push this investigation along?”
I pulled out my phone. “Sure have, little girl. Let me upload these to the computer, and you can look them over.”
Christie sat in my lap, front paws on the desk, while I loaded the photos. She meowed her approval once the slideshow started. Only then did I call Dave.
He was all ears, and he was concerned. “I’m so sorry Libby had to go through this. Like you said, at least it wasn’t someone she knew from the village. And judging by what you’ve said about his behavior with Trixie and then at the bar, dare I say he may have had it coming?”
“Maybe. Though I don’t suppose being a jerk means you deserve to be killed. Still, it’s a never-ending story. Bad news keeps cropping up about this guy. Oh wow, an image just came to mind. Remember the character Pig Pen in the Charlie Brown comics? With that dirty cloud surrounding him? I picture Max with a nasty aura like that. He seemed to spread insult and injury wherever he went.”
Dickens chose this moment to complain about his rations. “Leta, don’t you think I need another serving? I mean, we have a big day tomorrow, and I need to be well fortified.”
Pumpkins, Paws and Murder (A Dickens & Christie mystery Book 2) Page 11