“No, actually I’d prefer tea.”
He nodded. I thought I had pleased him. “Do you take sugar or lemon?”
“Just a touch of milk, please.” I sank into a love seat, feeling the down cushions give way beneath me, and watched him pour the tea into a delicately flowered porcelain cup, put it on a wafer-thin saucer, and hand it me.
“So many Americans only drink coffee,” he said, watching me with admiration.
“You get a lot of Americans?”
“I’m just about full up with them this week,” he said. “Two retired ladies from Nebraska, Betty and Barb. They are rather hard to tell apart as they often dress alike. I think of them as the Tweedles.”
“As in Through the Looking-Glass.”
He nodded. “Exactly. Then there’s an older gentleman with his new bride, Howard and Annette Worth, from Connecticut. They met when he was convalescing from a slight heart attack, not an unusual story, wealthy older man falls in love with his shy young nurse.”
“I think I’ve read that story recently,” I couldn’t help but say.
He smiled and continued, “Both couples are here for a horticultural event, the Chelsea Flower Show. They come every year, although this is only the second year for Howard’s new wife. I’m not sure she’s into flowers. There’s no love lost between the Tweedles and Annette. I think they’re horridly disappointed that Howard married her. They always thought his first love was flowers.”
“Oh, I’d like to hear about that show.”
“Oh, you’ll hear plenty. Then there’ll be Francine, a French entrepreneur. Not at all interested in flowers. She sells lovely linens for a living. She’s here on business.” Caldwell paused and looked at me. “What do you plan to do while you are in London?”
“Find a good way to murder someone.” The words pushed out on their own, surprising me with how calm I sounded as I said them.
Caldwell, bless his heart, didn’t look too shocked. Instead he leaned back and tapped the tips of his fingers together. “How interesting. I’d love to hear more. Would you care to join me for a curry tonight and then on to a pub?”
“Jolly good,” I said.
SIX
Vindaloo Curry
Waiting in the front entry, Caldwell looked very British and quite dapper in a tweed jacket with a brown scarf tied around his neck. I felt a little more comfortable when I looked down and saw he was wearing jeans.
“How was your walk?” he asked.
I didn’t want to confess that it wasn’t much of a walk. I had managed to go all of three blocks, found a little tea shop, and plunked down and read a book, every once in a while glancing up to see if I was still really in England. “Fine. I’m starving.”
“Do you like curries?”
“I love curries.” The few times I had tasted them. I would have said I loved anything he had offered. I thought of Dave’s reaction to Indian food the one time I had persuaded him to try it. He had taken a large mouthful of vindaloo and almost spat it out. “Are you sure you don’t have anything else to do?” I asked Caldwell.
“It’s my pleasure,” he said calmly and helped me on with my brand-new, bought-for-the-trip, Burberry raincoat.
“Is this part of the deal?”
“I beg your pardon?” he said mildly.
“You know, part of the bed-and-breakfast deal. A single woman and you feel compelled to take her out? You know, entertain her?”
“Not at all. Many a woman I have let wander her way through the corridors of London on her own. I’m intrigued by your desire to murder someone, having been there myself, and wouldn’t mind some company at the pub. Plus, I’m starving.”
“I’m ravenous,” I said. A curry sounded divine and very imperialistically English.
Just then a tall white-haired man and a small dark-haired woman burst through the front door, shaking rain off themselves and their umbrella.
“Cats and dogs,” the man said. He was handsome in a rather dissolute way, good posture, piercing blue eyes, but loose joints and a blowsy manner.
“A downpour,” the small woman agreed. She would have been lovely had she not been so hunched over and scurrying. She had wonderful hair, but her eyes were small and looked down as if watching for mice.
Caldwell introduced us. “Karen, this is Howard and Annette Worth. They arrived yesterday. This is a new guest, Karen Nash, from America also. Sorry about the pouring rain.”
“Good for the flowers, bad for the show,” Howard muttered as he took off his raincoat and managed to shower us all with water.
Annette took the coat from him and hung it on the coatrack. Even though she was his wife, she was still acting as his aide. He strode past us all and then turned and asked, “Is there a fire going in the parlor?”
“Turn it on, if you wish,” Caldwell said.
“Annette,” Mr. Worth summoned, “please attend to that.”
Annette peeled off her coat in a rush, then scooted past him down the hall.
“I’m off for dinner,” Caldwell said.
Mr. Worth gave me a look as if I were a wilted flower specimen. “I see. Tomorrow’s the big day. The show starts. We’ll be up and out rather early.”
“I’ll have breakfast ready for you at six-thirty,” Caldwell assured him.
“That should do.” And without another word, Mr. Worth strode down the hall as if he owned the place.
The rain had eased up when we stepped outside. Caldwell had brought one big “brolly,” as he called it. The two of us squeezed under it and walked the three blocks to his favorite Indian restaurant. He took my arm through his, I hoped a wonderful custom in England.
I fell in love with the restaurant as soon as we walked in. The smell of cumin and coriander hung thick in the air. Sitar music wafted through the room, as exotic as the smells. The walls were covered with red flocked wallpaper, which gave the place an odd elegance. The lights above the tables seemed at first to be made of the most intricate of metalwork, casting a delicate, perforated light on the walls, but when I looked at them more closely I saw that they were actually two colanders fastened together with a lightbulb in the middle. How ingenious, I thought.
“So, you like Indian food?” Caldwell asked, as we were seated by a thin, dark, and handsome man in a white shirt.
“I think so.”
“You’re not sure.”
“The little I’ve eaten, I’ve liked. But I’m from Minnesota. We eat meat loaf and hot dish.”
“Hot dish? What, might I ask, does that consist of?”
“That depends on what you have in the fridge—some form of starch, a smattering of meat, and almost always a can of mushroom soup. It’s not haute cuisine, but rib-sticking good. We call it comfort food.”
“Like Lancashire hot pot. Sounds very British.” He opened up the menu. “Would you like me to order?”
“Yes, please,” I said. “But let me have a look too.”
Together we ordered twice as much as we could eat. I was starving and he was generous with our order. A chicken tikka, a lamb vindaloo, raita, dal, naan, lassi . . . Everything Caldwell ordered sounded good. Soon the waiter started bringing piles of food in small bowls of green sauce and red sauce and onions and nuts, then large plates of lamb swimming in a dark sauce, accompanied by mounds of rice.
We ate and talked a little. I had to eat a lot of rice to counteract the spiciness, but I loved the taste of it all.
Finally Caldwell pushed his plate back, looked at me, and asked the very American question, “What do you do for a living?”
The word librarian pushed itself into the middle of my mouth, but I wouldn’t let it come out. I was enjoying not being defined by my profession.
“Well, I’m slightly undercover,” I said.
“My, that sounds interesting.”
“But I guess I can tell you.”
He leaned forward. “Let me guess.”
“Really?”
“I’m getting quite good at this. Whenever I
have guests, I try to suss out what their occupations are, and I’m often right on the mark.”
“Okay, what do I do?”
“Someone who loves books, who’s undercover, doing research, I presume. I’m guessing you’re a writer.”
I was immensely flattered. So pleased, in fact, that I didn’t refute it. He was so proud of himself that I hated to dissuade him. Then words popped out of my mouth that surprised me. “You got it. I’m a writer.”
He leaned back and nodded. “It’s the way you look around. You seem to be studying everything.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes. You have an air about you. How you notice things. The questions you ask. What do you write?”
I didn’t have to think twice. There was only one kind of writer that I would ever want to be. “I write mysteries.”
“Of course,” he said, nodding his head. “Thus your need to find a way to murder someone.”
“I’m doing research.”
“Yes, I see.”
“I’m working on a new mystery—it involves a crime of passion, a vengeful woman.” I was continuing to be amazed by how easily these lies were coming to me. It was as if my life was a story and I was simply rewriting it.
“Tell me more.”
My own life opened like a book. With the oddest sense of remove, I started to recount it to Caldwell. “This woman has been planning a trip to England for a long time with the man in her life, and on the eve of their departure, he tells her that he doesn’t love her anymore, that he’s seeing someone else. Of course the woman is brokenhearted, but quickly feelings of revenge overtake her and she decides to figure out a way to kill him that is so cunning that she won’t get caught. She makes it look like the new girlfriend killed him. For his money.” I stopped, surprised by where my imagination had taken me.
His eyes twinkled. “Sounds fascinating. So your heroine is also the murderer? That’s a different spin.”
“I’m still working that all out. Not sure if she’ll go through with it.” I needed to change the subject. “Now it’s my turn to ask questions. Do you run this bed-and-breakfast all by yourself?”
“Yes, my partner left me several years ago, ran off with someone. No warning and it was all dumped in my lap.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Why ever would I joke about a serious subject like that?” He smiled while he was saying this and I wondered if the smile was genuine. I didn’t know him well enough to tell, but everything about him seemed honest.
“How awful. I know how you feel.” I quickly took a sip of tea so no more words could come out of my mouth. I didn’t want to talk about Dave. I asked the obvious next question. “Who was your partner?”
He laughed. “Oh, I guess I shouldn’t use that word with you Americans. You think it means a homosexual arrangement. No, in my case, for better or for worse, and mostly worse, it was with a woman. The bad news is she left me the B and B, but the good news is she did really leave it to me—I am now unofficially the owner.”
“You’ve done a nice job of keeping the place up.”
“Thank you. I know the rooms aren’t as grand as some people like—no swags, no chintz, no twee figurines—but that way it’s easier to keep clean.”
“Except for the books,” I teased him.
The bill arrived and I tried to grab it, but Caldwell was quicker.
“Please let me treat you,” I said.
“Not in a million years. I expect to learn a lot more about murder from you.”
SEVEN
Twad and Tweed
My first big mistake was not figuring out the way the Brits drink in a pub.
At the Cock and Bull we ran into some friends of Caldwell’s, two older gentlemen, who introduced themselves as Twad and Tweed. They were both tall, with full heads of silver-gray hair. They occasionally watched cricket with Caldwell on Sunday afternoons. Within moments of greeting us, Tweed was taking orders for a round.
Caldwell suggested I might like to have a shandy instead of the beer.
“A shandy?” I asked. “Is that a kind of beer?”
“Beer and lemonade. Women tend to like it.”
“Real lemonade?” I cringed.
Twad nudged Caldwell and said, “That’s right. The Yanks call it Seven-Up.”
“Worse yet,” I said. “Plain beer sounds good to me. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Pints all around?” Tweed asked.
Again Caldwell tried to protect me. “How about a half-pint for you?”
“No, if everyone’s having a pint, I will too.”
The Indian food had been spicy and salty, and I found that I was terrifically thirsty. My pint came, looking more like a pitcher of dark beer to me, and I drank half of it very quickly.
“You like that then?” Twad asked.
“Like what when?” I said back.
“The ale?”
“Brilliant,” I said, because I had been practicing saying brilliant all month long. I could say it with a pretty good accent, I thought, with a soft, slight roll to the r.
I wasn’t the only one who had gulped the pint down in a quick hurry. Twad and Tweed weren’t far behind. When we came to the bottoms of our glasses, Twad declared it was his round and went back up to the bar.
While he was gone, I took the time to glance around the room, which was as I had always imagined an English pub being, except smaller and dingier. The ceiling was low and the room was dark, as if people had been smoking in it for a few centuries, which they probably had. The dark alcoves and odd nooks gave one the sense that intriguing conversations were taking place.
“How old is this pub?” I asked Caldwell.
“Fairly recent really, I’d say. Maybe early eighteen hundreds.”
I nodded as if I drank in two-hundred-year-old pubs all the time. When Twad handed me my next pint, I proposed a toast. “To the old country and the new country, coming together.”
We clanked our pints together and drank to amity across the waves.
“What brings you to London?” Twad asked me.
Caldwell raised his eyes slightly as he waited for me to answer.
“Doing some research,” I said.
“You must go to the Victoria and Albert,” Tweed effused.
“I was planning on it. I hear they have an excellent collection of swords.” Which was true—I had heard that from a friend who did ironwork in his spare time when he wasn’t cataloguing children’s books at the Kerlan Collection.
“You’re interested in swords?” Twad gave me a look and stretched his eyebrows up to the top of his head.
“As much as I’m interested in any weapons of destruction.”
They all looked at me to see if I was serious. Caldwell gave out a hoot of a laugh and the two older gentlemen twittered along with him.
Twad said, “You Americans and your weapons of mass destruction. Liable to get us all killed.”
We all laughed again.
I had never been much of a beer drinker, preferring a light chardonnay with dinner, but there was something about standing up in a pub with three English blokes that made the libation taste as good as any I had ever had. I had nearly finished my second pint without any trouble.
As Caldwell went off for the third round for all of us, Twad and Tweed started discussing a cricket game and I looked around the room.
A blond-haired man was standing next to me, nursing a glass of red wine by himself. While his face was somber, his eyes lit up when I turned his way. He nodded and said, “Cheers,” lifting his wineglass.
I lifted my almost-empty pint glass. “Thanks. I guess I should say cheers too. Or, as we say, here’s mud in your eye.”
“Why, you’re an American,” he said, and laughed. “I love your accent. I went to New York once. Great city.”
“Yes, it is. But London is wonderful,” I gushed, which was unlike me, but at the moment it felt wonderful.
“Can be sometimes,” he murm
ured. “I’m Guy, by the way.”
“I’m Karen. I just got here today—to London, I mean.”
“On your own?” he asked.
With that question, what Dave had done to me came crashing down. “I wasn’t supposed to be. A friend was going to come too, but then something came up. Actually, he called the day we were going to leave. And he told me he didn’t want to be with me anymore. How could he do that?” What had gotten into me? Perhaps it was the ale making me speak so openly to a stranger.
“He did treat you badly,” Guy said, with such gentleness in his voice that it took my breath away.
The thought of Dave’s voice on the phone, telling me it was over between us, which I had been pushing into the far back reaches of my mind, came flooding forward, my feelings of grief and anger mixing together dangerously. The two pints of beer had unleashed the torrent.
I leaned forward and whispered, “Nothing has turned out how I expected—all because of Dave.” I hated to say it out loud.
“What did he do?”
I took a deep breath. “We’d been going out for four years. He’s a plumber with his own business. Does very well and now he’s doing even better since I gave him the idea for a new kind of toilet.”
“How does one make money with a toilet?” Guy asked.
“It’s hard to explain, but toilets are like mousetraps: People are always looking for a better one,” I said, not wanting to get into the scatological details. “Anyway, we’ve been planning this trip for over six months, I was so looking forward to it. I thought maybe even he might give me a ring and everything, and then, right as we are leaving, really, yesterday, he dumps me.”
“That’s a shame. And you such a nice woman.”
“I think so. Most of the time.” My head felt abuzz from the beer and the still very raw emotions.
He shook his head and looked straight into my eyes. “I know how you feel. Happened to me once, it did. Not a pleasant thing. And me ready to pop the question too.”
“What did you do?”
He took my question seriously. “I went crazy for a while, thought of getting even in some horrible way, but in my line of work one has to be careful.”
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