by Jane Willan
She stopped short. How did the person know the sisters were at breakfast? Or that the dog was in the artist’s studio at the top of the dovecote? Or that the dovecote had been turned into a studio space? Only if he had been spying on the abbey for quite some time. Sister Agatha shivered. Or if he or she was a member of the abbey. No. Impossible.
Taking out Sister Callwen’s tape measure, she walked back to the edge of the road and measured the tire track, noting its exact width and depth, and jotted down the information in her notebook. She would measure the tires of the abbey’s aging minivan and make a comparison, but even at a glance one could see this was a smaller tire. She went out onto Church Lane and stood in the middle of the road in front of the abbey gate. An old stone wall ran along the gravel road from the entrance of the abbey all the way down the steep hill to the village, less than a mile away. Across the patchwork of fields were the rooftops of the shops, the spire of St. Anselm’s, and, at the edge of the village, Pryderi Castle. Sister Agatha shook her head. We don’t build things like that anymore, she thought. More’s the pity.
That was when she noticed the flecks of blue paint along the stone wall closest to the gate. Removing the toothbrush from her pocket, she brushed as many of the flakes as she could get, which was only a few, into a plastic bag. Most of them stuck to the old toothbrush so she tossed that into the bag as well. Tire treads and blue paint. Did the perpetrator swerve out of the drive after doing his dastardly deed, peel out and therefore leave tracks in the frozen dirt, and in his haste to get away sideswipe the stone fence? Stuffing the baggie and tools back into her pockets, she walked briskly back down the drive and nearly plowed into Lucy and Vincent van Gogh. The tiny dog was fearlessly facing the wind and seemed quite happy to be out and about. But then who wouldn’t be, dressed in tartan plaid?
“He looks quite sporting,” Sister Agatha said, smiling at Lucy who had scooped up the little dog in her arms, as she seemed often to do.
“Did you see the boxes?” Lucy asked her, an edge in her voice. Without waiting for an answer, Lucy gestured ahead. “Come with me.” She hurried along as Sister Agatha followed her past the cheese barn to the attached stable at the back where Bartimaeus was kept and Ben had his workshop. She swung the door open and pointed. In the corner next to Ben’s workbench was a stack of crates identical to the one the little dog had been trapped in. “They’re his. Ben’s. Sister Gwenydd gets kitchen supplies in them. She said Ben keeps them and uses them out here.” And as if perhaps Sister Agatha still didn’t get it, Lucy turned to her and said, “He did it. He nailed Vincent into the box and dumped him.” And Sister Agatha had to admit, romance novels or not, it didn’t look good for Ben.
Chapter Six
Sister Agatha slid into the back booth at the Buttered Crust Tea Shop. She liked Friday mornings at the tea shop. There was the usual commotion, noise, and clinking of teacups, all of which somehow increased her productivity and allowed her to get some work done on her novel. Wednesday morning was her morning to write, to get away from the abbey to the back booth of the Buttered Crust where she could really focus—and have all the tea and Welsh cakes she wanted. She usually combined it with a trip to the public library to check on something for the Abbey library or the post office or at Lettuce-Eat-Vegan for Sister Gwenydd. Today she was picking up an interlibrary loan book for Sister Harriet—Graphic or Manga: Everything You Need to Know. Sister Harriet was working on the Sunday school curriculum using graphic novels for young adults. Sister Agatha wasn’t sure, but she thought the topic was bible stories with a scary twist. God knew there were plenty of those.
She opened her computer and stared at the latest activity of her protagonist detective, Bates Melanchthon. He had most recently cracked the case of a double homicide and was in the process of tying things up. The problem was she had read over her story late last night and found a glaring clue that she had overlooked and that would unfortunately prove the murderer’s innocence. She poured a cup of tea from the teapot on the table. Oh well, she thought, making a few notes on the napkin next to her, there is no murder out there that a good cup of Welsh Brew couldn’t solve. Just as she began to type, Father Selwyn slid into the booth.
“I thought I would find you here,” he said. He looked up and called out to Keenan, the young waiter, “A pot of Glengettie please, Keenan. With a cranberry scone.”
“Always good to see you, Father,” Sister Agatha said, smiling.
“The muse treating you well today?” he asked.
“Not bad. I’m kind of in the weeds. Morning mass go OK?”
“Awesome. As always.”
“Big crowd?” Early mass at St. Anselm’s wasn’t known for its record attendance. Especially on a wintry morning.
“Sister. Where two or three are gathered … You know what our Lord said.”
“In other words, no one?" She took a sip of tea and went back to typing.
“Actually, two. And interestingly, Tiffany’s brother was there. Kendrick Geddings. I haven’t seen Kendrick sitting in a pew for years.” Father Selwyn smiled as Keenan placed the tea and scone in front of him and then frowned as he looked up. “Incredibly sad for him, I would imagine. Tiffany was the last remaining relative in the family. The funeral is this Saturday.”
“Now that will be a big crowd.” Sister Agatha figured most of the village would be at Tiffany’s funeral.
“Bates Melanchthon making progress?” Father Selwyn asked, changing the subject.
“Not really. It’s hard to write about a fictional murder when a real murder has just taken place in your own parish hall.” She closed her laptop and filled him in on the dognapping, evidence collection, and follow-up conversation with Ben Holden.
“Poor Lucy. Is she packing up to leave, do you think?”
“Not at all. She’s made of sterner stuff. Welsh by birth, you know. Despite that red hair and being adopted by Americans. It makes a difference.”
“What does?”
“Being Welsh. We’re a strong people.”
“Oh, right. Of course.” Father Selwyn sat back. “Well, I hope she stays. She seems clever and resourceful. A good sort. Reminds me of someone I know. But I can’t put my finger on who.” He poured more tea and added sugar and cream to both cups.
“You know the young woman who works for the florist? She was in your office on Saturday.”
“Millicent Pritchard?”
“Right. Well, Lucy ran into her the other day. Apparently, they hit it off. I felt like the fact that she connected with a girl her own age who was also an artist has helped her feel more like staying, even with the whole dog thing happening.”
Father Selwyn took a sip of tea. He listened intently as Sister Agatha filled him in on the encounter between the two women. “Seriously? A painter? Didn’t she tell us specifically she wasn’t a painter. That’s odd.”
“What do you think it means?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she doesn’t think of herself as an artist. Just someone who does it as a hobby.”
“According to Lucy, she’s brilliant.”
“Yes, but I doubt Millicent thinks of herself as brilliant. However, that does point to a connection to Tiffany. Perhaps Tiffany gave her art lessons. Especially if she is painting birds like Tiffany did.”
Sister Agatha took a bite of her oatcake. “That doesn’t sound like Tiffany Reese. I’ll talk with Millicent.”
“What do you think of Ben Holden? He a tough old guy, but I can’t imagine any farmer doing that to a dog. Trapping it in a box? In a field in the middle of winter?” Father Selwyn shook his head.
“I mostly agree. But whoever did it used a packaging box from the abbey kitchen. I guess Sister Gwenydd gets kitchen supplies in them and, when she empties them, gives them to Ben.”
The bell over the door jangled and Sister Agatha looked up to see Bevan Penrose come in. He made his way toward them. Even from across the room Sister Agatha could sense that St. Anselm’s administrative assistant was
on a mission. He slid into the booth next to Father Selwyn. “I thought you would be here,” he said, nodding to Sister and frowning at Father Selwyn’s cranberry scone. He glanced down at the post-it notes in his hand. “Lewis Colwyn just called. He wants to know if they can use the kitchen for Winter Gardening.”
“Of course, but why does Winter Gardening need the kitchen?”
“They have refreshments halfway through, I guess. So, they want the kitchen.” Bevan pulled up the next post-it note. He hesitated.
“What?” Father Selwyn asked.
“Well, the constable called about the parking detail for the Reese funeral and said that if I saw Sister Agatha I should tell her …” Bevan’s voice trailed off. He looked down at the paper in his hand, “and … I’m quoting … ‘if you see the Sister, tell her that she can stop running around like she’s Jessica Fletcher on Midsomer Murders.’ ” Bevan looked up. “It’s gotten back to the constable that you’ve been asking around about Tiffany Reese.”
“Good heavens,” Sister Agatha said, opening her notebook. “Jessica Fletcher is on Murder She Wrote not Midsomer Murders. Doesn’t he know the difference between Angela Lansbury and John Nettles? No wonder he can’t solve the simplest murder.” She uncapped her Sharpie. “And anyway, I am so not Jessica Fletcher. She was old and a retired English teacher. I’m much younger and a nun. A world of difference.”
Bevan glanced at Father Selwyn and then they both studied the tabletop. Without looking up from her notebook, Sister Agatha continued. “And I still can’t believe that he didn’t do an autopsy with a tox screen. Anyone who has read a single Agatha Christie mystery would know that certain poisons can make it look like someone has had a heart attack.”
“Do you really think someone would kill Tiffany Reese?” Bevan asked.
“Someone? More like several someones,” Sister Agatha replied. She watched as Bevan reached out and took the last bite of cranberry scone off Father Selwyn’s plate.
“You know you’re not supposed to be eating these,” he said popping it in his mouth.
Father Selwyn fixed Bevan with a direct look. “Those of you who have not sinned cast the first stone.”
Bevan swallowed and grinned. “I’m not off all processed carbs. You are.”
Sister Agatha stood up and pulled her hat on. “You two can sit here and talk about scones all you want. I need to pay a visit to our local florist.”
* * *
Just-for-You Florist on Main Street sat directly across from Buy-the-Book bookstore and was only a few shops down from The Buttered Crust. Sister Agatha stepped through the door and immediately inhaled the wonderful fragrance of fresh flowers. Out on the sidewalk it was a brisk winter day, but here in the shop a lush tropical paradise. This was also how she felt when she walked into Sister Matilda’s greenhouse at the abbey. Which reminded her, she needed to track down several books at the public library for Sister Matilda and Lewis Colwyn’s winter gardening class. She looked around and saw Millicent through the door of the back room arranging a large vase of holly sprigs and red ribbons. Sister Agatha slipped past the counter and knocked on the frame of the open door. “Millicent?” she said. “Do you have a minute? Sorry to disturb you.”
Millicent turned toward her and smiled shyly, wiping her hands on a paper towel. “One sec. Do you mind waiting up front at the counter? My boss doesn’t really want customers back here.”
Sister Agatha had no choice but to retreat to the front of the store. She had hoped for a private word in the back. She thumped her heavy book bag down on the worn wooden counter and looked around. The shop was filled with Christmas-themed flowers, plants, and decorations. She shook her head. Was it only the religious world that recognized Advent? Millicent came out of the backroom and stepped behind the counter. “What can I do for you, Sister?”
If Millicent had the predisposition to kill someone, she certainly didn’t look like it. Her round face was flushed and smiling, her eyes bright. She seemed a bit more put together than that day in Father Selwyn’s office, although then she had just heard of Tiffany’s murder—enough to throw anyone off their game. Her green florist apron covered a new feat of layering: a white button-down shirt that looked like it had once belonged to a fairly rotund man on top of a fuchsia T-shirt. A brown ribbed corduroy skirt—Sister Agatha didn’t realize they still made those—and burgundy tights with hiking boots.
“Well, I wondered if you had a moment to talk with me about Tiffany Reese?” Millicent’s cheery demeanor faded, but only for an instant.
“Of course. That reminds me, I need to start working on the flowers for the funeral.”
“Well, I was just wondering … since you were there at the church so early to deliver wreaths on Saturday … and you had been there the night before …” Sister Agatha realized that she should have worked harder on her reason for why she was asking, “if you saw or heard anything?” Lame interrogation by any standards, but a start.
“No, why? Constable Barnes already asked me about it the day after Tiffany died.”
“Well, you know … in an investigation … one cannot be too thorough.” There, that sounded a little better.
“An investigation? Constable Barnes didn’t say he was investigating. He told me she died of natural causes—like a heart attack or something.”
“Yes, well. I’m just looking into a few things. You know, tying up any loose ends before the funeral.” Sister Agatha realized she had gotten way too comfortable with lying. Her scalp was barely tingling. Not good.
“Oh. Well. Sorry, but I didn’t see anything.”
“Did you hear anyone in the church kitchen?”
“No.” Millicent looked at her directly. “I was upstairs.” Eyes clear and her expression open. According to Inspector Rupert MacFarland, a lying suspect never maintains steady eye contact. Either Millicent Pritchard was telling the truth or she was a very good liar.
Sister Agatha decided to change tack. “Were you and Tiffany close friends?”
“No. Why?”
Sister Agatha noticed a tiny flicker of Millicent’s left eyebrow, and a red flush began just above the neckline of the fuchsia T-shirt. She was dying to whip out her Sharpie and make a note. “I was just thinking that you might have known why Tiffany was at the parish hall that night.”
“Because she was setting up for the art show?” Millicent said.
Millicent had regained all her composure and was now looking at her like she had two heads.
“Right, of course.” Sister Agatha smiled and tried her best to sound casual. “What did you think of Tiffany’s art?”
“I loved it.” Millicent glanced at the small clock sitting on the counter. “If you don’t mind, I have to get back to my Christmas arrangements.”
“One more thing. You said you weren’t an artist that day in Father Selwyn’s office. But you are, aren’t you? An artist.”
“I dabble. Nowhere as good as Tiffany Reese.” And with that, she turned and walked into the backroom, this time shutting the door firmly behind her.
* * *
George was indeed behind the desk at the library, but he was obviously busy. A tall, slender man in his mid-forties wearing an expensive gray suit stood talking with him. They seemed to be friends. Sister Agatha noticed that the expensive-suit guy carefully straightened things as he talked, squaring the blotter with the corners of the desk, absentmindedly lining up George’s pens and pencils in a perfect row, placing the pamphlets on reference books in a precise stack. George didn’t seem to notice. Their conversation had turned from laughter to library business—the new fund-raiser to add a wing in the children’s section. After a few moments, expensive-suit guy turned and, with a nod to Sister Agatha, hurried out the door. He seemed to be a person with a purpose, not like the usual Friday morning crowd of mothers and toddlers gathering for story hour or the seniors’ book group.
“Bore da, George,” Sister Agatha said. Good morning.
“Bore da, Sister,” he replie
d.
How could she draw George out without making him question her motives? She needed to ask if he had spied on his neighbors enough to know where Vonda had gone on the night of the murder. Was she at the church, or not? It was a little tough to launch gracefully into a question revealing one’s nosiness. How would Stephanie Plum handle this? Miss Marple? Her mind was a blank, and then suddenly George started talking.
“You know who that fellow is, don’t you?” he asked, nodding toward the library door. Without waiting for an answer, he told her. “Kendrick Geddings. The wealthiest man in Pryderi is my guess.”
“Really?” Sister Agatha said. Richest man in Pryderi really wasn’t saying that much, but George seemed impressed. Sister Agatha thought for a moment. The name rang a bell. Tiffany’s brother. Father Selwyn had mentioned that he was at morning prayer. He had left for Kenya on the morning Tiffany’s body was discovered. A phone call from Constable Barnes and he had turned around and flown back. Not too surprising that he was wealthy. Tiffany always looked as if she had money.
“On the library board.” George said, scanning a book. “Wanted my opinion he did. Not many of that kind who would care what the senior volunteer at the library thinks, but he does. A sharp businessman. With him on the library board, we might just get our new wing.”
“Oh? Well, I’m glad we have some interested citizens who care about the library.” The truth was the public library was always in a budget crisis.
“I would think so.” George pulled another book off the stack and, opening its back cover, scanned it. “There is a bit of gossip about his sister though. The one that died at the church.” George shook his head. “A sad business.”
Sister Agatha lifted her eyebrows but didn’t speak. Everyone knew that gossip was the bread and butter of village sleuthing. She didn’t want to interrupt him and miss whatever tidbit might be coming her way. George seemed to take her silence as encouragement to keep talking.
“Locked into a big estate fight with her, he is. The old battle-ax—not to speak ill of the dead. I heard she wanted everything. Even though the mother’s will named both siblings equally. Or so I’ve heard. You can’t trust everything you hear.”