A Fatal Footnote

by Margaret Loudon

  Figgy began to pick up their used cups and saucers and stack them on the tea tray. She was whistling as she did it.

  Pen looked at her curiously. “You seem rather chipper for a change. Have you and Derek definitely decided to elope? Is that what has you in such a good mood?”

  Figgy turned around, her dark eyes sparkling. She shook her head.

  “No. I’ll show you.”

  She disappeared into the tea shop and came back with a large white box.

  “Derek brought me this today.” She took the top off the box, rustled around in the tissue paper, and pulled out the contents.

  Penelope caught a flash of vivid red fabric as Figgy lifted some garments from the box and spread them out on an empty chair.

  Penelope and Mabel gasped.

  “It’s . . . it’s beautiful,” Penelope said.

  It was a long red pleated skirt covered in intricate gold embroidery and a short top also adorned with exquisite needlework.

  Figgy held the skirt up to her waist. “This is a lehnga. It’s what a Pakistani bride wears for her wedding.” She held up the top. “And this is a choli. Mrs. Kahn wore it for her wedding and she thought I might like to wear it for mine. She gave it to Derek to give to me.”

  “I guess they liked you after all,” Mabel said somewhat dryly.

  Figgy gave a sheepish grin. “I guess so. I was worried for nothing. They’re just very quiet people like Derek said.”

  “It’s lovely,” Penelope said with a broad smile. “Somehow I couldn’t picture you in a traditional long white wedding gown and veil, but that,” she said, pointing to the outfit in Figgy’s hand, “that’s absolutely perfect.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Thank heavens you’re okay,” Beryl said when Figgy dropped her off at the cottage. “You could have been killed.”

  That realization had been sinking in for Penelope ever since she’d been rescued by that constable. Every time she thought about it, it gave her the chills.

  Mrs. Danvers came out of the kitchen and sashayed over to Penelope, her long tail swishing back and forth as she walked. She wove in and out between Penelope’s legs and purred loudly as if to say that she, too, was glad that Penelope was safe.

  “I’ve managed to get a fire going,” Beryl said as she took Penelope’s coat and hung it up. “Although I don’t know how long it’s going to last. Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll bring you a cup of tea?”

  Penelope sank onto the sofa gratefully and tried to stifle the groan that rose to her lips. It felt as if every bone in her body was sore. She held her hands out to the fire—the warmth felt heavenly. The tension that was tight in every muscle began to drain away and even the persistent headache that had been hammering at her skull had started to retreat.

  “Here you go,” Beryl said, bustling into the room with a cup of tea and a plate with cheese and crackers artfully arranged on it.

  Penelope looked up at her sister and had a sudden realization. “You’re all dressed up. Are you going out or did you just get in?”

  Beryl fiddled with the ends of her hair and gave a coy smile. “Going out actually.” She frowned. “Assuming you’ll be okay? I won’t be long.”

  Pen smiled up at her. “I’ll be fine.”

  Beryl cleared her throat. “I met someone and . . . he’s taking me for a drink at that wine bar down the street.”

  “What about Magnus? You’re not even divorced yet.”

  “I can’t afford to let the grass grow under my feet at my age.” Beryl shook her finger at Penelope. “And neither can you, I might add. Besides, it’s only a drink. It might come to nothing.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Penelope dozed for a bit, and when she woke decided she would take her plate out to the kitchen but when she stood up, she realized she was still a bit woozy.

  After a few minutes she managed to get up and make her way to the kitchen. Mrs. Danvers walked alongside her as if sensing her unsteadiness. Penelope put the dish in the sink and decided it would be best if she retreated to the couch again.

  She’d barely sat down when the doorbell rang. Figgy or Mabel come to check on her?

  Penelope made her slow, unsteady way to the door and pulled it open.

  At first all she saw was a large bouquet of flowers, but then she realized it was Maguire holding them out to her.

  “I came to make sure you’re okay,” he said, handing her the flowers. “I hope you like them. The only place I could get a bouquet at this hour was at Tesco.”

  “Thank you. Come in.” Penelope’s head spun a bit and she decided she had better sit down. “Sorry,” she said as she took a seat. “I’m still feeling a bit wobbly.”

  “Can I get you anything?” Maguire said with a look of concern.

  “I’m fine, thanks. But there’s some white wine in the fridge if you’d like some.”

  “I’ll get these flowers in some water as well.” Maguire disappeared into the kitchen and Penelope leaned back against the cushions, her eyes closed.

  She heard cupboard doors opening and closing and soon Maguire reappeared with a glass of wine. He sat down next to Penelope on the sofa and put the glass on the coffee table.

  “You gave me quite a scare,” he said. “I didn’t know what to think when I got that call from Constable Percy. And then when I found out what had actually happened, I nearly went crazy.”

  “Did you catch them? Ivy, Floyd, and Jemima, I mean?”

  Maguire nodded. “We rounded up Ivy and Floyd quite easily. They were arrogant enough to go back to Worthington House.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “They probably thought you wouldn’t believe me.”

  Maguire laughed. “Constable Percy certainly didn’t. But then he didn’t know the backstory.” He took a sip of his wine. “Lady Jemima Dougal was another matter, of course. Her husband protested vigorously to her being interviewed at Worthington House, let alone taken in to the station for questioning. We had to wait for their solicitor to arrive and he put up quite a fuss as you can imagine. But he can fuss all he wants—his client isn’t going to escape justice.”

  “What about DCI Donovan? Did you break the news to her yet?”

  A wicked smile played around Maguire’s lips. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “I was surprised, to be honest with you. She was very professional. She congratulated me on solving the case and said she’d be glad to get back to London now that this was all over.” Maguire ran his finger down the condensation on his wineglass. “As a matter of fact, she admitted that I probably hadn’t needed her help in the first place.”

  “You know what I’ve been wondering about?” Penelope said, tucking her feet under her on the couch. “How did Floyd get my car started when there wasn’t a key in the ignition? You can’t take the key out without having to turn the car off.”

  Maguire laughed. “Haven’t you ever heard of that handy little trick known as hot-wiring?” He pursed his lips. “Although it isn’t that easy in newer cars with all their computerized safety systems. They make it a lot harder for today’s crooks to steal a car. Your MINI is fairly old, so perhaps it didn’t have one of those systems in place. Of course, he could have broken the key off in the lock. That’s been done before, too. The garage should be able to tell us.”

  Maguire put his glass down on the table and put his arm around Penelope. She leaned her head against his shoulder and snuggled in with a sigh of contentment.

  Maguire traced Penelope’s face with his finger. “There’s one thing that’s been on my mind,” he said quietly.

  Penelope turned so she could look at him. “What’s that?” His blue eyes were troubled.

  “I’ve hesitated to ask because I’m not sure I want to know the answer.” He took a deep breath, his
expression pained. “How long will you be staying in England?”

  Penelope felt a warm rush of affection. She smiled at him. “As long as I want.”

  Don’t miss Penelope’s next adventure in

  PERIL ON THE PAGE

  Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!

  Penelope Parish loved her position as writer-in-residence at the Open Book bookstore in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, England. She never knew what to expect. One thing she certainly hadn’t imagined when she’d crossed the Atlantic and set foot on these shores was to be involved in a murder. So far she’d been involved in two. But that was all behind her now, and she could focus on writing her next novel and helping Mabel Morris, the owner of the Open Book.

  At least that’s what she told herself.

  Today they were getting ready for a book launch at the shop. Stepping into the Open Book was like stepping back in time with its low ceiling crisscrossed with wooden beams and the large diamond-paned front window. It was located on Upper Chumley-on-Stoke’s high street, where the storefronts were the original Tudor and all the shops had hand-carved wooden signs hanging out front.

  The book launch had been Penelope’s idea and she had her fingers crossed that it would go off without a hitch. Mabel had been a bit skeptical at first about Penelope’s unusual idea for the launch, but had finally come around and was now as enthusiastic as Penelope was about the event.

  Odile Fontaine, an art teacher at the Oakwood School for Girls just outside of Chumley, had written a fun how-to guide called You Can Paint and the book launch was being combined with a wine and paint party.

  The event had stirred up considerable interest and a photographer for the Chumley Chronicle (the weekly newspaper) had phoned to say she planned to attend and take pictures.

  Odile was a member of Penelope’s fiction writing group and had introduced her to Maribel Northcott, the headmistress of the Oakwood School for Girls. Maribel had in turn invited Penelope to conduct a seminar for the students there. Penelope was quite pleased that her master’s degree in Gothic literature was finally being put to good use.

  Of course that same degree had driven her to write Lady of the Moors, which, much to her surprise, had become a bestseller, so perhaps the money on her education had been well spent after all, in spite of what her mother was always saying. It was the writer’s block that she’d been stricken with while working on her second book that had pushed her to apply for the writer-in-residence position at the Open Book, hoping that a change of scenery would spur some creativity.

  Life in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, a medieval town about an hour from London, had worked its magic and Penelope’s second book, The Woman in the Fog, was due to be published at any moment.

  Pen was arranging a stack of Odile’s books on a display table when Mabel approached her.

  Mabel ran a hand through the fluffy white hair that made her look more like a grandmother than the former MI6 analyst she’d been.

  “I’ve cleared a space for the easels to be set up,” she said. She frowned. “They are bringing the easels, right?”

  “Yes. Odile is taking care of everything—the easels, paints, aprons for the participants and the wine.” Pen looked toward the bookshop’s tearoom, which was run by Lady Fiona Innes-Goldthorpe or Figgy as she was more familiarly known.

  “Figgy is providing some desserts—cakes and cookies, that sort of thing.”

  Mabel nodded. “Good. Best to have something to soak up the wine.” She looked around. “It appears as if everything is in order then,” she said, giving a relieved smile.

  The bell over the front door tinkled and Odile Fontaine, the subject of that evening’s book launch, swept in. She was a fairly tall woman, although not as tall as Penelope’s nearly six feet, and big-boned, with a purple beret perched on top of her head of long curly red hair threaded with strands of gray. She removed her cape with a dramatic flourish sending it swirling in an arc around her that nearly toppled the sign on one of the display tables.

  She was wearing a bloodred skirt that flowed around her ankles with a purple tunic over it and a necklace of large mustard yellow beads that looked hand-carved.

  Penelope took the cape from her and hung it on the coat stand near the front door.

  Odile had brought an almost palpable sense of excitement into the store with her as well as a whiff of cold air. It was mid-October and the Michaelmas term was underway at the Oakwood School. The leaves on the trees were turning color and the residents of Chum, as the town was affectionately known, were digging out their cozy sweaters and boiled wool jackets.

  Odile swept over to Penelope and greeted her with an air kiss on each cheek.

  “Have you read my manuscript yet?” she said. An armload of silver bracelets jingled as she straightened one of her books on the display table. “I’m hoping to send it off to a publisher soon.”

  Not content to just publish a book on painting, Odile had taken up fiction as well and had penned a six-hundred-page contemporary romance. Penelope silently groaned. She’d been meaning to get to it and had actually read a few pages, but it was such a slog that she’d given up and had spent the time wondering how she could persuade Odile to stick to painting instead.

  The door opened again sending a chilly breeze through the shop that ruffled the pages of the flyers sitting out on the front counter. A young man stuck his head into the store.

  Odile glided over to him, her long fluid skirt swishing about her legs.

  “I’ve got the gear,” the young man said. “Where do you want it?”

  Penelope hastened to join them. She glanced out the window and saw a large van with the Oakwood School crest on the side double-parked in front of the Open Book.

  “There’s a another entrance behind the shop,” she said, and directed the young man to an alley that ran alongside the Open Book and led to a back door that opened into the storage room.

  “Cheers.” The young man gave a salute, turned around and hopped into the driver’s seat of the van just as the driver of the car behind him began to lean on his horn.

  “That’s Grady Evans,” Odile said, as the van pulled away. “He takes care of the grounds at the school and does odd jobs for Rodney, who is in charge of maintenance. I asked him to cart my supplies over here for me.”

  The door opened again and a gentleman walked in. He had thick gray hair brushed back from his forehead in a wave and round tortoiseshell glasses. He was wearing a tweed coat with a velvet collar and leather gloves, which he pulled off as he walked toward Odile and Penelope.

  Odile smiled and put her hand on the man’s arm.

  “Penelope, this is Quentin Barnes, my significant other, as the young people say.” She smiled up at Quentin. “He teaches history at the Oakwood School.” She turned to Quentin. “Quentin, this is Penelope Parish. This event was her brilliant idea.”

  Pen crossed her fingers. She hoped her idea would turn out to be brilliant.

  “Will you be doing a painting?” Penelope said to Quentin.

  “Heavens, no. I’m just here for moral support and to say good-bye.” He gave Odile a peck on the cheek and glanced at his watch. “Unfortunately I can’t stay long. I have a conference in Bristol that starts early tomorrow morning so I’m heading out tonight.” He turned to Odile. “I’ll be at the Bristol Harbor Hotel if you need to reach me.”

  “Well, I hope you can stay for a bit. I’ve got some of that wine you fancy.” Odile took his arm and led him over to the display table where her books were piled up, waiting to be signed.

  A few minutes later Pen heard Grady knock on the back door and ran to open it.

  Grady sidled through the door with several easels tucked under his arms.

  He was tall and sinewy with dark brown hair left long enough to flop onto his forehead. He was wearing faded and worn jeans, a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and work
boots. Penelope could see goose bumps on his arms.

  “You must be freezing without a coat,” she said.

  Grady shrugged. “I left my jacket in the van. I’m okay.” He nodded at the easels he was holding. “Where do you want these?”

  “We’ve cleared a space at the front of the store,” Penelope said.

  “Right-o.”

  Penelope led him toward the area where she and Mabel had decided to hold the event. They’d shoved some display tables out of the way to create a large enough space for the painting party.

  “Why don’t you lean them against that table over there?” Odile pointed to a spot. “You can help me set them up after you bring everything in.”

  Grady nodded. “I’ll go get the rest of the gear.” He loped off through the store toward the back entrance.

  Moments later he came back with a handcart piled with cardboard boxes.

  “Let’s have those over there,” Odile said, pointing to a spot off to the side. “Now we can begin to set up the easels.”

  Grady, who had briefly paused and was leaning against one of the display tables, reluctantly shoved off and began placing the easels according to Odile’s instructions.

  “What do you have here?” Mabel wandered over and peered into one of the open cartons.

  “Paints, palettes, aprons.” Odile ticked them off on her fingers. “And that last one there is the wine.” She whirled around to face Penelope. “Do we have glasses?”

  “Yes, no problem.”

  “Hello!” Figgy called as she wheeled a tea cart over to them, its wheels rattling as she pushed it across the floor.

  Her short dark hair was gelled into spikes and looked as if she’d run her hands through it haphazardly, and she was wearing one of her vintage thrift store finds—a flowered peasant dress with an empire waist—a style that had been popular in the nineteen-seventies. She’d paired it with black ankle boots and large hoop earrings.