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

by Kathy Manos Penn

  “Why not involve Trixie?” Belle suggested. “I see clearing Trixie as our number one job, and if we solve the murder too, that’s a bonus. If we kill two birds with one stone . . . uh-oh, poor choice of words . . . but if we do, all the better. So, let’s put Trixie in the picture and have her call her landlady. Heck, she can contact her old employer at the bookshop too.”

  I liked the landlady idea but wasn’t sure about the bookshop. “Let’s take it a step at a time. Pursue the landlady angle with Trixie, but approach the bookshop without an introduction. We’re more likely to get an unfiltered opinion from Trixie’s employer if she doesn’t know what we’re up to. We can spend all kinds of time in a bookshop and chat up the folks who work there. We might even mention we’re from Astonbury and see if anyone makes the connection to Trixie moving there.”

  “I love it when a plan comes together,” said Wendy. “As for the magic shop, we can wander in and tell them we got their name from Max before his unfortunate demise. Mum, do you think you can spin a yarn about wanting to get your great-grandson a starter magic kit?”

  “As in my fictional great-grandson, dear?” said Belle. “Since neither of my children has seen fit to bless me with grandchildren, I can’t very well have a great-grandson.”

  “You know, as soon as those words were out of my mouth, I knew it was a mistake,” Wendy said with a sigh. “Since I’m now a little old lady, I think I’m in the clear. As for my twin, unless he suddenly develops a way with the ladies and marries someone much younger, fictional offspring are all we’ve got.”

  I tried not to laugh. If my mother were listening, she’d be chiming in with, “I feel your pain; I never got any grandchildren, and I had three daughters.” I don’t think she’d ever forgiven me and my sisters for that omission. We’d provided her with plenty of four-legged grandchildren but none of the two-legged variety. Heck, my sister Anna never failed to have a houseful of five to six cats plus a dog or two.

  “Enough of this, ladies. Are we good with the magic shop plan? What about the hair salon where Sparkle does fairy hair? I don’t know what excuse to use for talking to them. We don’t need fairy hair, and I’m not trusting my hair to a different hairdresser for a trim.”

  “Me either,” said Wendy. “Mum, how ’bout I treat you to a wash and set? That’s not too risky, and I’m sure you’d enjoy it. Think of all the gossip you’d pick up. Should be pretty easy to steer the conversation to Max’s death and to Sparkle. Those ladies would eat it up.”

  Belle rubbed her hands together in glee. “Oh, you’re so right, dear. I can tell them Sparkle did my hair and more. This will be fun.”

  Little old ladies, indeed! We amateur sleuths were on a roll. “I think it will be, Belle. And maybe someone at the magic shop can tell us which pub Max frequented. Who knows what else we’ll uncover? And, oh, we can stop by the Totnes caravan park and figure out a reason to chat them up.”

  As we tossed ideas back and forth, I realized I hadn’t gotten around to sharing any of Phil’s information with Gemma. It had been too late for me to get into it with her last night, and I hadn’t thought of it again until just now. I grabbed my phone and found Gemma’s number.

  What did it say about me that I had a Detective Sergeant’s number programmed into my phone? How my life had changed since I’d left Atlanta.

  As I waited for Gemma to pick up, I said, “Hope you ladies don’t mind hearing this story again, but I promised to keep Gemma in the loop, and now I have the information Peter gathered plus what I heard from Sparkle.”

  When I got her voicemail, I explained I was on the road but had new information about Max that I thought she’d find useful. Hopefully, she’d call back soon.

  This spur-of-the-moment trip may have sprung from a need to support Trixie, but we didn’t intend to spend the whole time working. We decided the afternoon in Dartmouth would be playtime. Belle wanted to rest once we checked in. Wendy, Dickens, and I would check out the Dartmouth shops and see about tickets for the ferry to Agatha Christie’s summer home for later in the week.

  Belle’s face lit up when she saw the view from her room. “Oh my. I can’t believe the sun sparkling on the river. Almost makes me want to skip my nap so I can enjoy the scenery. We don’t often get days like this in October.”

  Wendy and I left her in the room with a pot of tea and knew she’d soon be napping. It may have been sunny, but it was still chilly along the river, so we bundled up for our walk to town. I was glad I’d brought along my red wool beret and a warm scarf, and Dickens was in heaven with the brisk breeze ruffling his heavy coat.

  Dogs and their owners filled the brick-paved walkway, and we exchanged greetings with pet parents as we strolled. Wherever I took Dickens, I could count on hearing “How cute! What kind of dog is he?” Most folks recognized him as a Great Pyrenees, but his diminutive size threw them. I explained he was a dwarf Pyr and that in the not so distant past, breeders had culled or hidden these small dogs, seeing them as imperfect.

  People like me, however, were happy to have a forty to sixty-pound version of the gentle giants who often weighed as much as 140 pounds. Dickens had the personality and temperament of his larger brethren. He was just relatively tiny.

  Our first stop was the Dartmouth Community Bookshop on Higher Street. It had replaced the famous Harbour Bookshop started by Christopher Robin Milne in the fifties. When his shop closed in 2011, the town rallied to keep it going in a new location as a community co-operative.

  “Wendy,” I said, “can you imagine meeting the real Christopher Robin? That would have been a treat.”

  She nodded in agreement as she explored the section of the shop labeled Pooh Corner.

  Dickens was enchanted with the stuffed animals there. “Oh, that bear is just the right size for me, Leta. Let’s take him home.”

  I grabbed him just before he picked up the bear in his mouth. “Uh-uh. You have plenty of toys at home, young man.”

  The shopkeeper laughed. “Like having a two-legged child, isn’t it? Are you sure you don’t want the Pooh bear?”

  “It’s beautiful,” I replied, “but too nice for Dickens to carry around and drool on. Our next stop will be the pub across the street, and we’ll get him a treat there.”

  Wendy looked out the window. “You mean we’re visiting the Cherub Inn, the pub you told me about? Surely, it’s almost time for a pint.”

  “Just about. You’re going to adore this place. It dates from 1380 and is the oldest building in Dartmouth. It still has several old ship’s timbers from when it was built as a merchant’s house. Have you read any books by Kate Ellis? They’re set in a fictionalized version of Dartmouth, and she features the pub but with a different name.”

  Wendy turned to the woman behind the counter. “Do you have her books? I’d like to start with the first one if you have it.”

  The clerk was happy to oblige and added The Merchant’s House to Wendy’s stack of books. I’d discovered the author on my first visit to Dartmouth and was working my way through her mystery series.

  My sister Sophia was a Pooh fan, so much so she’d named her North Carolina mountain cottage “Winnie’s Place,” and I’d already selected some Pooh prints and postcards to send her when I noticed The Natural World of Winnie the Pooh: A walk through the forest that inspired the Hundred Acre Wood. When I read the mention of Poohsticks Bridge on the back cover, I knew I had to get it for her. I was simply incapable of walking out of a bookshop empty-handed.

  We forced ourselves to leave, knowing full well we didn’t have time to spend hours browsing. In moments, we were at the door to the Cherub Inn, where we took two steps down to another world. The bookshop had been light and bright. The pub was dark with a fire in the wood-burning stove. We found seats against the wall beneath the window, and Wendy went to the bar for two pints.

  As she was bringing our drinks to the table, the bartender called to me, “Would the pup like a snack?”

  Dickens barked and darted to the bar. �
�How’d you know? I’m famished.”

  “Blimey, I think he understood me,” said the bartender.

  I chuckled and joked. “I’m sure you understood his response. Please give him one. He never turns down a snack.”

  We girls sipped our cider and chatted about books. “Wendy, you know there’s another bookshop in town, but I’m afraid if we wander in there, we won’t see anything else this afternoon.”

  Wendy grinned. “You know that’s a good bet. Let’s meander and see what else strikes our fancy, and we need to investigate the ferry to Greenway. Maybe for Friday?”

  “Good idea. And before we head to the hotel, let’s stop in at least one fudge shop. You know how your mother likes fudge.”

  We finished our pints and started up Higher Street. The mix of shops and homes along the way all looked down on the harbor. We mused about which ones we’d live in if we moved to the coast. Some had doors opening directly onto the sidewalk; others had iron gates with small gardens beyond and the homes set farther back from the street.

  As it began to get dark, we made a quick stop in a fudge shop and then returned to the quay for ferry information. Finding we could easily get tickets on the day of our excursion, we decided to wait. By now, the trees along the river were lit with white lights, making for an enchanting stroll to our hotel for our dinner reservations.

  We grabbed mugs of hot cocoa in the lobby and agreed to meet in the dining room at seven. The walk and the sea air had relaxed me to the point where a short nap seemed in order. It was possible the midafternoon pint at the Cherub had also been a contributing factor. Pulling the down comforter to my chin, I closed my eyes and was asleep in an instant.

  It was a good thing the phone rang around six or I might have slept through dinner. It was Gemma.

  “Hi there, Detective Parker. Have you cracked the case for me?”

  I couldn’t tell from her tone whether she was being humorous or sarcastic, so I took the high road. “Not quite, but I have some new information. Peter and I had dinner at the Ploughman last night and heard some interesting things about Max’s visit there on Friday and more about Saturday night too. I think your suspect list may be growing.”

  I shared Barb’s story—the Totnes fling and the Friday night encounter with Max. Gemma didn’t know anything about that, nor did she know about Max’s attempted return to the pub later on Saturday. My assumption was since she’d witnessed Max’s abrupt departure herself, she hadn’t thought to look beyond that.

  “And I don’t know why I keep forgetting this, but Sparkle saw something interesting at the Fête,” I said.

  Gemma laughed. “Aha. So you did speak to Sparkle.”

  “Yes, at Toby’s this morning. Heard about how she and Max met in school. Not much news except she saw a man in a brown jacket poking his finger in Max’s chest, like they were arguing. As you’d expect, she had no idea who he was. She described him as taller than Max and more sturdily built, brown hair, and wearing what sounded like one of those Barbour jackets.”

  “A Barbour jacket like half the men in Astonbury wear?” she asked.

  “That thought did cross my mind. Those jackets are like a uniform over here.”

  “Gee, guess I’ll have dinner at the Ploughman tonight, talk to Phil and maybe Barb, and assess every man in a brown jacket while I’m at it,” she said. “Much as I hate to admit it, Leta, you have an amazing ability to dig up information.”

  “Yup, we little old ladies have our ways, except, in this case, you could say it was a little old man who dug up most of the info, since it was Peter who had the conversation with Phil.”

  Gemma laughed. “I got under your skin with that comment, didn’t I? It’s so easy to get you going, Leta. You’ve got to learn to take a joke. Didn’t people ever tease you in the States?”

  She’d nailed it. I’d been overly sensitive my entire life and had never taken teasing well. I wondered if I was too old to adjust. Food for thought. But not tonight.

  In the River Restaurant that evening, we started with a bottle of white wine. Dinner was heavenly. I’d never tasted hake until I’d visited Dartmouth with Henry. This evening, the tasty white fish was pan-fried and served with buttered new potatoes. Wendy had the sole and Belle the seafood bouillabaisse.

  I sighed with contentment as I contemplated the lights on the river and watched the ferry go to and fro on its five-minute journey from Dartmouth to Kingswear on the opposite shore, sometimes with only one car aboard. I explained to Wendy and Belle that this small ferry was also called a floating bridge and was pulled across the river by cables. It was amazing the bits of trivia I’d retained from my previous visit.

  Belle brought our evening to an end by raising her glass. “Ladies, here’s to a successful day of sleuthing in Totnes. May the little old ladies rock.”

  I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my wine. “Belle, where on earth did you get that expression?”

  “Leta, I may be little, and I may be old, but I can still pick up new things from the telly.”

  I loved Belle’s enthusiasm. We agreed to meet at eight thirty for breakfast, and I fetched Dickens from my room for a quick walk to the ferry and back.

  “Don’t forget to call Peter,” barked Dickens as we approached the hotel entrance.

  “What a good boy you are. I’d completely forgotten.”

  I texted Peter that we were fine and our investigation would begin in earnest in Totnes on Thursday. By the time I readied myself for bed and read a few pages, I was once again fading, and it was lights out by ten. Leads, we need leads, I thought as I drifted off.

  Chapter Nine

  Trixie called as I was headed to breakfast, and she seemed to be in good spirits, considering. “Leta, Sparkle and Summer invited me to join them at their fairy hair luncheons this week and next. I’m trying to work out my schedule with Aunt Beatrix so I can make at least one. Tomorrow it’s the Knitwits of Chipping Camden. They knit blankets and caps for newborns at the hospital in Cheltenham. Sparkle says they’re mostly bluehairs, but you’d be surprised how much they like fairy hair. Who knew?”

  “Well, Belle likes her new do, and she’s close to ninety. Guess it livens things up for them.”

  “Next week, it’s the Twitchy Stitchers in Northleach. They’re cross-stitchers who meet at the church. What a hoot.”

  Interesting that Sparkle, Summer, and Trixie were spending time together. I wasn’t sure what to think about that, but I was glad to hear Trixie had some fun activities lined up, and I promised to give her a call when I was back in Astonbury.

  Before hanging up, I asked Trixie about stopping by to see her former landlady. She was appreciative and said she’d ring her right away to let her know we’d be in touch.

  Thursday was a typically dreary October day, so we chose to drive to Totnes rather than take the ferry. Knowing that working our way uphill on High Street wouldn’t work for Belle, I dropped her and Wendy halfway up the street at the White Rabbit and went in search of parking. I finally found a car park about fifteen minutes later and hustled to meet up with mother and daughter.

  Arriving at the magic shop, I peered in the window to see Belle sitting in a chair chatting with the clerk, her cane propped against the counter, and Wendy browsing. I was greeted effusively when Dickens and I entered to the tinkling of the shop bell.

  “This must be the dog you told me about,” said the petite brunette clerk, who was dressed in a colorful velvet jester’s costume. “I think you’re right, and he’d look grand in a top hat.”

  “A top hat?” I said. “He already has a bowtie and a satin vest—or waistcoat, as you Brits call it.”

  “That’s what we’re thinking,” said Belle. “He needs a top hat to complete his ensemble for the upcoming holidays.”

  “Next, you’ll tell me my boy’s going to learn magic tricks.”

  The clerk laughed. “Not sure about that,” she said. “I do teach tricks to humans, but I haven’t yet had a canine client. By the way, m
y name is Chrystal, Chrys for short.”

  “Chrys has been showing Mum magic sets suitable for Peter’s youngest grandson Michael,” said Wendy.

  Right, I’d need to keep that story straight. “How nice. Do the sets come with a hat and wand too? With some kind of false bottom for hiding scarves and rabbits?”

  Chrys smiled. “Ye of little faith. False bottom indeed.”

  Wendy became appropriately somber before uttering her next line. “Leta, we told Chrys we’d met Max and how much the crowd enjoyed his show Saturday. We were all so shocked by his death.”

  “Yes,” added Belle. “Chrys told us she actually taught Max many of his tricks.”

  “Really?” I said. “Was he still in training?”

  “Oh, Max was good; don’t get me wrong. He’d mastered the basic hocus pocus, but Dad and I’d been trying to teach him some new things to add to his act. Dad owns the shop, you see, and he’s awfully good.”

  “Wow, it’d be a treat to see him,” I said. “So, are you the sorcerer’s apprentice or are you as good as your dad?”

  Chrys grinned. “Dad would be the first to say I’ve long since graduated from apprentice to sorcerer. Not to brag, but I’m topnotch. That’s why I’m always the first invited to perform at the theater and at black-tie affairs. It irked Max no end that he was second choice around here. Bet that’s why he jumped at the chance to work the Astonbury Fête.”

  “Jealous, was he?” asked Wendy.

  “Not to speak ill of the dead, but that he was. And he could be nasty about it.”

  Belle looked appropriately horrified. “Nasty? How so?”

  “He thought I didn’t know, but this is a small town. When he worked a party I couldn’t make, he’d tell the client he’d taught me, not the other way around. He even implied that I’d stolen some of his tricks.”