Death Drinks Darjeeling (A Helen and Martha Cozy Mystery Book 4)

by Sigrid Vansandt

  Martha sat for an instant and sighed heavily, her shoulders shrugging under the weight of her criminal status. “Wouldn’t my mother be proud, Helen? Somewhere in the South sleeps my sweet, aged Aunt Tilda, completely oblivious to her niece’s fall.”

  Helen, considering Martha’s woebegone tone and hangdog expression, broke out in laughter.

  “Enjoying yourself?” she asked, still chuckling a bit.

  “What?” Martha squawked, looking over at Helen’s bright face with a twinkle about her eyes.

  “Your poor Aunt Tilda is most likely still in Vegas with Harvey Burkus, her newest conquest. Isn’t he the one who likes to ride Harleys and plays on the poker circuit?”

  Martha shrugged noncommittally.

  “Maybe.”

  “And didn’t Tilda run afoul of the law herself last October?” Helen pushed on with a sly grin on her face.

  “Her hairdresser came forward as a witness and explained it wasn’t Tilda’s fault,” Martha said defiantly. “Terri Sue saw the whole thing from her Escalade which was parked across from the Home Depot where the man ran into Aunt Tilda’s car.”

  “Car? You mean Tilda’s Hummer, right? The same one she used to drive up and over the offending gentleman’s garden cart full of his chosen flowering mum plants.”

  “He flipped her off, Helen! You know that’s going to get someone riled up and especially someone like Tilda. Besides, she said it was an accident, her foot slipped and when she meant to hit the brake, she punched the gas instead.”

  “And her finger also inadvertently also reached up and hit the four-wheel drive too,” Helen said, laughing outright now.

  “Well, you sure do know a lot about it, don’t you? Why don’t you tell me how it went? Where’d you get your information anyway?” Martha snipped, her mouth returning to a hard line.

  “Oh, I talked to Tilda myself. She called after it happened and you weren’t home so we had a nice chat. Tilda loved every minute of driving over that man’s garden cart and you loved every minute of smacking those mobsters with your stick. Little acorns don’t fall far from the tree,” Helen said giving Martha a loving pinch on the arm. “Besides, I’d rather have you and Tilda in my back pocket any day.”

  Martha smiled.

  “I love you too.”

  She was quiet for a moment.

  “You know, you may get to see Tilda soon. She’s coming at Christmas. Wants to meet Merriam. I miss home some days, Helen, and Tilda is a very special piece of it. She wants to see Kate and the way things are looking, I half expect Kate and James to make an announcement soon.”

  “Marriage?” Helen asked.

  “Yep, I think so. My daughter has picked a cutie. They’re so sweet together. He’s such a dear to her. Always bringing her little things and walks her to tutorials in the evenings to keep her safe. I’ve met his family, so I’m sure this is going somewhere serious.”

  Helen added. “James was a sweet boy when we met him. He made good eye contact and shook our hands. He was most attentive to Kate.”

  “It’s because of that I’m embarrassed about being a criminal, Helen. Not for me so much, but for Kate.”

  The car was quiet for a minute while both women considered the last truth.

  “Well, I think you need to give your daughter some credit. She loves you and as for me, I'm glad you punched the mobsters and shot the kneecaps out the madman who tried to kill us over the Fabergé eggs. If you hadn’t, we would most likely be dead. I’m not saying you should have a license to hurt indiscriminately, God knows there’s enough people doing that everyday, but sometimes we have to fight back. Once we’re home again, Martha, we’re going to have the fight of our careers.”

  “It’s time we ask for some help. Maybe, Helen, it’s time to trust someone again. Who knows, it may pay off. I’ve been praying the help would come from some quarter of our lives.”

  The sign for the airport loomed up in the distance.

  “There’s our turn. We’ve got an hour and a half till our plane leaves. I want coffee,” Helen pointed out.

  In another hour and with coffee in hand, they were waiting at their departure gate as the plane was beginning to board.

  “We’re on our way,” Martha said as she and Helen moved in the line beginning to form for the stewardess to take their tickets.

  “Let’s keep our fingers crossed Geneva is the place. If it’s not, I hate to think about what might happen to Annalena and Sabine. They could be in terrible danger.”

  Martha shook her head.

  “Have you thought about what we are going to do, if it’s there? She’s not responding to any of our texts. She may be in trouble.”

  “I’ve thought about it. As soon as we have it, if we find it, we’re contacting the authorities. We’ll turn it over to an official in Geneva. We’ll explain to the authorities that Annalena Kirchner is the person responsible for locating the manuscript and that she may be in danger. Hopefully, she will be found.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Martha said with certainty.

  “Let’s hope so,” Helen replied with a hint of dryness.

  “You sound doubtful.”

  “Nothing ever goes as planned. Nothing. Let’s pray for a miracle instead.”

  Chapter 34

  Marsden-Lacey

  Within ten minutes of each other, Alistair Turner and Piers Cousins entered the last known residence in Marsden-Lacey of the infamous George Ryes. The King’s Arms had seen better days. Mrs. Sanders, the owner, liked to tip the bottle and wasn’t a picky hostess regarding her domestic duties. In fact, she was completely lax about them. A thin layer of grime and dust lingered on almost every surface of the place.

  Upon seeing each other, the two men asked in unison, “What are you doing here?” Alistair, not wishing to let on about his involvement with George’s departure, answered, “I’m here to see about rooms… for my friends… who may be visiting… in August.”

  Piers’ eyebrows furrowed. He seemed to be having difficulty with the notion of someone as finicky as Alistair putting friends up in a place like The King’s Arms, but being a gentleman, he quickly removed any subtle traces of shock or confusion at such a notion from his face and said with more feeling, “I see. Well, I’m actually here to see George Ryes.”

  Alistair saw through the surface of Piers’ polished exterior. It was obvious he’d come to have more than words with Ryes, but neither man had time to say anything more, for Mrs. Sanders had already sauntered up from her place in the back and quickly interjected.

  “Ryes is gone. Musta done a runner. I got up this morning and he’d bolted. Didn’t pay 'is fee. I’ll 'ave to get me money from 'is wife, the American lady who runs about with that other American. You know, the red 'eaded one who shot that man last summer. Those Americans! Always running round shooting people. The kind of people we’re getting up 'ere these days. Nothin' but violence and thievery. Don’t know what the world’s a coming to.”

  Alistair and Piers quickly exchanged confused, and as the diatribe wore on, bemused expressions.

  “Any indication of where Ryes went?” Piers asked her.

  “If I had that information, I’d hunt him done meself and get me money from 'im,” Mrs. Sanders said swiveling from one well-padded hip to the other. “What about you gents? Why you looking for ‘im?” she asked watching their faces closely.

  Both men shook their heads in a negative response to her question.

  “I’m here to inquire about rooms for next August,” Alistair quickly replied eliciting not only a dubious facial response from Piers again, but Mrs. Sanders as well. Neither made any attempt to reply to this unusual and surreal idea.

  Instead, Piers pulled out his wallet and asked, “What is owed you, Mrs. Sanders? I’d prefer for you to not ask Mrs. Ryes to pay for this.”

  Mrs. Sanders leaned over the counter, appearing to ignore the possibility of unlikely far-in-the-future monied guests delivered to her by a man as fussy as Alistair Turner, but inst
ead focused her hopes on the very real monied, attractive man in her immediate present who had his wallet out.

  With a smarmy smile, she unabashedly batted her eyes saying, “Well, seeing it’s you, Mr. Cousins, it’ll only be eighty pounds. He stayed two nights.”

  Piers laid out two fifty pound notes on the counter.

  “That is for your trouble, Mrs. Sanders. I would like to count on your discretion that you won’t discuss this with anyone in the village or Mrs. Ryes.” Turning to Alistair, he said, “I must excuse myself, Turner. I’ve got to find George Ryes.”

  Any man would recognize that sort of decisive tone in another man. Alistair hoped for Ryes’ sake, he was already on a plane heading to Florida.

  “I’ll walk out with you,” Alistair said, leaving with Piers through the door and onto the street.

  “Have you some sort of new trouble with Ryes?” he asked once they were out of earshot of Mrs. Sanders.

  Piers nodded. “He’s intending to take Helen’s business from her. She’s not going to get married until he’s been dealt with. I’m going to find him and when I do-”

  Alistair interjected quickly. “Don’t do something you’ll regret. She’ll only hate you for it.”

  He paused, giving Piers a chance to slowly simmer down.

  “Finding him won’t be hard. Johns can help.”

  “Thanks, Alistair, and I’m going by to see him later.”

  As if on cue, Chief Johns’ car came around the corner; Alistair tapped Piers’ shoulder and pointed at the slowly moving vehicle.

  “Who knows, Ryes may have had to leave the country. Stranger things have happened. Could’ve made it up with wife number two. Might’ve missed the bloody heat, mosquitoes and the red tides and is heading back to Florida. Never know with sharks like Ryes. They like to feed where the dining is easy.”

  With a dubious expression, Piers looked over at Alistair’s face. His shoulders relaxed and he let out a short chuckle.

  “You spin a good yarn, Turner. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  Ignoring the last question, Alistair continued on with his theme. “Better grab the man who has access to airline manifests for planes leaving the country,” Alistair said, pointing to Johns’ approaching car.

  Without waiting for Piers’ decision, Alistair turned around and hailed the chief, who pulled alongside the curb. Johns leaned over as he rolled down his window to peer up at the two men standing on the sidewalk.

  “Cousins, Turner, good morning,” he said.

  “Morning Chief,” they responded.

  “Are you coming by my office, Cousins?” Johns asked, his face serious. “He’s not involved in this situation with Martha and Helen in Germany, is he?”

  “He’s definitely the reason Helen may be taking a dangerous risk. May I have a ride?” Piers said.

  “Get in. I’m heading to the constabulary now.”

  Opening the car door and setting himself in the seat beside the chief, Piers asked, “Do you want to come along Alistair?”

  “No, but let me know what you find out. I’m curious now to see what’s happened to our man, Ryes,” Alistair said.

  The two men in the car waved and the car pulled away from the curb. Watching it disappear around the far corner, Alistair considered the situation and as he did so, he looked up into the air and studied the sky overhead.

  Two things were for certain, Mona and Lars Rundstrom had their money and he, Alistair, had his painting. Unless George Ryes was an idiot, and Alistair didn’t think he was, somewhere overhead a jet was carrying Ryes back to the swamps of Florida, an excellent place for any reptile to slip quietly into permanent and necessary obscurity.

  Chapter 35

  Nuremberg, Germany

  The cell phone lying beside Max on the front seat rang. With a quick glance to its face, he realized it was Haimon. Hitting ‘accept’ he said, “Yes.”

  “I’m sending a video of the two women from a talk show. One of them had a social media page and I’ve found their business website. They’ve sent a message to Kirchner that they’re on their way to Switzerland. They don’t have the manuscript. It wasn’t in Czech. They’re catching a morning flight. I’ve checked and the first one is leaving at 9:30. Where are you?”

  “Outside Nuremberg.”

  “Get on a plane and head for Geneva. Intercept them. You know what to do,” Haimon said. “I’ve moved everyone from Kirchner’s house. She sent the two women a message that you were hunting them. I’ve got her phone now. When you have the manuscript, call me. I’ll give you directions to where we are. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Max answered.

  Hitting ‘end’ on the phone’s face, the sun wavered right above the overhead directional autobahn signs. Weary, but determined, he found the road leading to the departure gates of the Nuremberg airport. It was still early enough that if he caught the right flight, he’d beat the two women to Geneva. He would wait for them to disembark from their plane and follow them from there. He needed that manuscript. It was the only way he could have a hope of managing Haimon.

  With a yawn and a stretch, he smiled. This was exactly how fate worked. It handed you an opportunity, but it was up to you to make the most of it.

  Chapter 36

  Marsden-Lacey Constabulary

  Johns sat down at his desk and motioned for Piers to have the seat across from him. Already on his cell phone dialing the UK’s customs number, he reached over and turned on a scent diffuser that rested on a sloppy pile of stacked files. A soft mist puffed from the white, teardrop shaped machine and soon the smell of lavender tickled Piers’ nose. He knew without asking, this was something Martha had inserted into Johns’ world.

  Smiling at the thought of a two-hundred pound man made of solid muscle flipping on his spa-mister in order to bring serenity to his work space, Piers sat back and considered the benefits and annoyances of having women in one’s life. He wasn’t sure into which category the spa mister fit, but as a creeping sense of relaxation slipped over him, he soon chalked it up to the benefits.

  A warm morning sunray filtered through the venetian blinds of the large windows to the left of the chief’s desk. There had always been a pleasant yet plain feeling to Johns’ space. Now, as Piers looked around, there were obvious indications that another influence was at work. A masculine assortment of well-worn furniture, one scraggly, fake ficus tree leaning to one side in a ceramic planter, and a dusty trophy trout mounted to a wooden board with the caption ‘Brown Trout 1996’ were brightened-up with two new decorator pillows positioned on the divan, an area rug with different types of fish woven into the border and a picture on Johns’ desk with him and Martha at last New Year Eve’s party at Healy.

  Piers smiled remembering the fun everyone had that night playing hide and seek in Healy’s old rambling rooms and hallways. The best part was being Helen’s partner. They were ‘lost’ for a very long time. The pleasant reverie was snuffed out with Johns’ words.

  “Yeah, I’ll wait,” he grumbled. Picking up a fishing magazine, Johns tossed it to Piers, a boyish grin illuminating his usual stern expression. “Look at page forty-five. That’s where I’m taking Martha for our first vacation together.”

  Piers flipped the glossy pages till he came to the one Johns wanted him to see. Scotland at its late summer peak of beauty stood as a backdrop to one very happy couple’s successful catch of the day, a substantial brown trout. An idea took hold in his mind. He should take Helen up to Scotland, too.

  “We’re looking for a man who may have gone missing. Loved ones trying to locate him,” Johns said into the phone, stretching the truth.

  Chatter and laughter from the break room trickled up the hallway causing Johns to shake his head grumpily and signal to Piers to shut the door. Dutifully following directions, Piers leaned over and gave the door a shove sending it to its resting spot within the frame. A clanking sound caused him to look back at the door. Like a pendulum, swung a pink sign with two butterflies in fligh
t with the caption:

  “Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.— Lao Tzu”

  He read it twice. His eyes moving in time with the steady back and forth swing of the sign. A slow trickle of understanding filtered into his heart. What he felt for Helen was something he’d never known before. He loved her with his whole being. If anything happened to her because he hadn’t followed his instinct to protect her, he’d be a man without a soul.

  “Yes, I want to know if a man by the name of George Ryes has gone through security within the last eight hours and if so, his destination airport,” Johns was saying. “Happy to wait. Our office was monitoring this individual.”

  Johns tapped another button on his desk’s phone.

  “Hey, Sam? Bring me two cups of tea.” He looked up at Piers. “Sugar? Milk?”

  Piers stared at him blankly.

  “Bring me milk and sugar with it. Did Waters bring in anything this morning?” he asked back into the phone.

  “Sounds good. Two slices and I want the files St. Stephens will be looking over this morning.”

  The cell phone came back to life and Johns turned his attention to it.

  “I’m here. Yeah?” He was quiet for a moment then Johns chuckled softly. “Well, well, well. Orlando, you say? Thank you. Yeah you have a good day, too. Appreciate your help.”

  As he put the phone down, the door opened and Sam Berry, the constabulary’s junior officer, came in lugging a handsomely filled tray full of cake, two scones, butter and a teapot snugly encased in a homemade, knitted cozy.

  “Where you want it, Chief?” he said without ceremony.

  “Here,” Johns pointed to his desk. Turning his attention to Piers, he reached for the teapot. “Not sure why Ryes flew the coop, but he’ll be landing in Orlando soon. What happened, Cousins? Did you run him off?”

  Piers brought his thoughts back to George as he watched the Chief pour their cups of tea. He watched as Johns smiled at the healthy slice of lemon pound cake adorning his own plate and offered Piers the milk. Sam disappeared and returned with the files.